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“Underwear drawer,” Lynsie corrects. “He’s too soft to be sock-core. That’s more Boone.”

“Oh, Boone totally has a sock drawer with like two actual socks and the rest is protein bars,” I say, snorting.

Gisele laughs. “Boone is one spilled shaker bottle away from a mental breakdown. But I’d still trust him over Shep.”

We all look at Lynsie.

She widens her eyes. “What?”

“Girl,” I say. “Shep?”

“I don’t like him,” she insists way too quickly. “He’s annoying and loud and basically lives in a frat boy meme.”

“And yet...” Gisele drawls.

“I SAID I DON’T LIKE HIM,” Lynsie practically yells.

We all stare. Silence stretches.

Gisele clicks her tongue. “Deny it all you want, but if Shep ever figures out how to read social cues—and stops yellingWoooo!in public—you’ll be doomed.”

Lynsie crosses her arms. “Never gonna happen.”

I hold up my glass. “To never gonna happens and Shep’s legendary third leg.”

We clink.

“And Bennett?” I ask cautiously.

Gisele tilts her head. “Most likely to secretly run an underground matchmaking service... while telling everyone he hates feelings.”

I grin. “He’s like the fairy godmother of doom.”

The laughter dies down a little, the air warmer now, even though the world outside is freezing. My heart feels lighter than it has in days.

This—right here—is why I’m not entirely unraveling.

Because even if I’m in love with a hockey player who doesn’t know I’m the one painting the town with his name, I’ve got these two.

Lynsie’s phone buzzes with a message from Shep—probably another “Woooooo!” gif or a blurry selfie of him flexing in a bathroom mirror. She makes a dramatic gagging sound, says she’s out before she starts simping, and disappears out the front door like her boots are on fire.

I stay behind.

Mostly because I want to but also because Gisele gives me that look. The one where she cocks one perfectly arched brow, crosses her long legs, and folds her arms like she’s about to lead an intervention.

“Joely,” she says, voice gentle but firm. “You’ve been in love with Brogan Foster since we were all wearing eyeliner that made us look like raccoons and listening to Avril Lavigne on repeat. Don’t play dumb.”

I sink into the armchair like I’ve just been hit by a freight train made of truth.

“Okay, yeah,” I murmur. “I know. It’s just—now that he finally sees me, really sees me, I don’t know what to do with it. I keep waiting for the moment it all falls apart.”

Gisele’s eyes soften. “Babe. Love doesn’t fall apart when it’s real. It just changes shape.”

“Great,” I say, scrubbing a hand over my face. “So I just have to figure out if this shape is permanent or temporary?”

“Nope,” she says. “You just have to keep showing up for it. Stop worrying about whether he’s ready. Ask ifyouare.”

I stare at her.