(Andrew POV)
I'm slouched on Sophie's couch. Her living room is a mess of coffee cups and takeout boxes from last night's celebration. Her ring is still glinting, catching the morning light. My phone's warm in my hand. Julia's latest text stares back: "Please, it's not about work." I haven't answered. She's been at me since yesterday, persistent and sharp, and it's gnawing at me, but Sophie's laugh from the kitchen pulls me back. I shove the phone into my pocket. Later, I'll deal with it later.
Sophie bounces in, barefoot, her hair up, carrying a stack of venue brochures thicker than my arm. "Got these from Tara at work," she says, dropping them onto the coffee table with a thud. The cups rattle, cold coffee sloshing. She's buzzing, her eyes bright, her grin wide, and she flops beside me
