We walk slowly through the night, the city winding down around us. Julia hooks her arm over my shoulder like she always does, loose and easy, like we've done this a hundred times before. Our footsteps echo on the pavement, her heels clicking rhythmically next to the scuff of my sneakers.
"You know," she says, bumping her hip into mine, "tonight was peak sitcom energy. Like, if our lives were a show? That dinner would've been the mid-season feel-good episode."
"You mean the kind where nothing traumatic happens and everyone just laughs and has good hair?"
"Exactly," she grins. "Also, you totally have good hair tonight."
"It's probably thanks to Felix ruffling it into a mess."
Julia snorts. "He's like a golden retriever. One with a motorcycle and commitment issues."
I laugh, leaning into her. "You're so mean."
"I'm honest," she declares. "And maybe a little dramatic. But you love it."
