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nova

P oppy is in town.

Question: Could this week get any better?!

Answer: Absolutely not.

There’s a half-eaten croissant on the plate between us, three iced coffees sweating on the table, and enough girl-coded gossip in the air to fuel a Taylor Swift stadium tour.

This is the life.

Poppy tips back in her chair with a smug little smirk and stretches her arms over her head, musing about her job interview.

I am all ears.

“Pretty sure it went great,” she brags, sliding her eyes closed as if basking in the glory of her own excellence, her gold earrings twinkling. Winking at me.

“Don’t lie--you crushed it,” I say, grinning as I peel the paper off the straw of my third coffee. “You knew you were going to.”

She wouldn’t have flown all this way if she wasn’t confident.

My best friend shrugs. “I mean…”

“Have they offered you the job?” I lean forward to better hang on her every word.

“Not officially,” she says, voice dripping with fake humility. “ But the human resources manager winked at me on my way out. So, like. If I’m not hired, I would be genuinely shocked.”

Poppy is the kind of friend who makes every boring day better and every good day hysterically unhinged. She’s terrifyingly competent when she chooses to be.

Like today, for example: she waltzed into an IT consulting firm in a pair of black high heels and walked out with a verbal almost-offer.

“If they offer you the job, you’d be crazy not to take it,” I say, sipping what’s left of my coffee. “The office is ten minutes from my apartment. We could get brunch every weekend! We can watch Luca try to fix the garbage disposal again.”

“Oh, just what I want to do, watch your boyfriend fix appliances.” Poppy hums. “It’s tempting. But I also got an offer from that firm in Denver…”

She is doing this on purpose to torture me!

“No.” I shake my head, pointing at her like a furious mother goose. “Absolutely not. You are not moving to a different time zone. I will chain you to my building.”

She laughs. “What if I like skiing?”

“You don’t.” I laugh. “You hate cold weather, and you get altitude sickness at high elevations.”

“Fine—you have a point. That last part is true.” Poppy pauses. “Remember Breckenridge?”

Everyone remembers Breck.

“You threw up in a gondola.”

“And still got hit on!” she says proudly. “Never let it be said that I‘m not a team player.”

I giggle at the memory. “You were crying.”

“Anyway—point is—I’m ready to be in one place. For real. If I get this job, I’m planting roots.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Complete with a lease?” In my building, perhaps?

She shrugs, then bites her lip like she’s not not thinking about all three. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve been nomadic for so long that I kind of want to try being domestic. Like you.”

Domestic = dating.

Awww. “You realize this means I get to give you unsolicited dating advice.” I sigh blissfully. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years .”

“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “If I so much as download a dating app, you’re going to build me a Pinterest board full of wedding ideas and interview every potential match like it’s your job.”

“Duh.” That’s what best friends are for. “First question I would ask: do you floss regularly? Second question: what’s your relationship with your mother? Third: how do you feel about me being around all the time?”

Only correct answers need apply.

“We’re entering our Wife Era.” She raises her plastic latte cup in a toast, eyes going dreamy. “If I meet someone hot, who’s emotionally stable and regularly changes the sheets on his bed, you’re going to be my maid of honor.”

“Obviously,” I say. “And I’m giving a speech at the wedding that includes the words ‘gondola vomit.’”

We laugh before slipping into a comfortable silence for a minute, sipping and nibbling and people-watching.

There’s a guy across the street walking a pink poodle while riding a skateboard, a young mother negotiating with a toddler who has clearly decided today is the perfect day to lay down in the middle of the sidewalk and throw a tantrum—and a pair of college girls debating over whether a guy named Kyle deserves a third chance.

“So. Enough about me.” Poppy twirls her straw like she’s about to stir up some shit. “How’s cohabitation?”

Ah. There it is.

I roll my eyes, even as a smile creeps up my face. “It’s good. Great, actually.”

He lets me rant .

He lets me cry.

He makes me coffee in the morning and leaves dumb sticky notes on the bathroom mirror. He scratches my back. He’s patient when I’m not. And more importantly—he never makes me feel like I’m too much—or not enough.

I feel wanted.

I feel chosen.

“What are you guys doing tonight?” Poppy asks.

“Unpacking. Bickering over where his hockey jersey collection should go. Making out on the couch.”

She sighs dramatically. “God. That’s the dream.”

Luca has moved into my space as if he’s always belonged there— without rearranging the furniture or leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. His shoes are usually kicked off haphazardly near the door, sure. And yes, he uses my fancy, expensive shampoo like it’s four-dollar Suave. But it makes my apartment feel more full.

Lived in.

Loved.

I love the sound of him brushing his teeth while I’m in the shower.

I love the way he hogs the throw blankets on the couch.

Every morning, he kisses me like he’s still surprised I’m his. And every night, he curls his big, warm body around mine. We’ve made space for each other in the little things—sharing closet space, obviously—and bathroom counters. Grocery lists and lazy Sunday afternoons.

“Let it be known that I do still take out my own trash.”

Poppy raises one unimpressed brow. “Puh-leez. You haven’t hauled a trash bag since he moved in.”

I lift a hand. “That’s not true! And I refill the water filter.”

She cackles, shaking her head. “Wow. So evolved.”

The little things matter. The small choices, the quiet moments, the shared space. Luca folds my laundry now—even though he does a terrible job. He restocks my snack drawer without asking. He lets me put my cold feet between his legs to warm them up.

Across from me, Poppy watches me with a soft little smile.

“You’re so gone,” she murmurs.

I don’t even deny it.

“Yep,” I say, chewing the corner of my straw. “I’m fully committed.”

“I’m fully jealous.”

I grin, tipping my head at her. “You should be. He does the dishes without being asked and voluntarily goes down on me. Like—he begs for it.”

Her eyes go wide. “Nova!”

“What?” I shrug. “You said you were jealous. I’m just giving you more reasons.”

“I want this,” Poppy says a minute later after more nibbling on the croissant. “The job. The apartment. A man who brings me coffee in bed and voluntarily gives me oral.”

“You will.” I nudge her foot under the table. “You’ve always been the kind of girl who writes her own damn story. This is just the start of your next chapter.”

“That sounds so damn cheesy, but yeah.” My best friend nods, then adds, “Do you think any of Luca’s teammates would be attracted to smart, mouthy women who could reprogram their TVs?”

I cackle.

And make a mental note to check the team group chat.

Let the matchmaking games begin…