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“Are you serious?” Sage sat up straighter against the couch cushions, eyes wide. “Are you fucking serious?”

“So serious,” Isabelle said, grinning. “Like, if serious was a sport, I’d be in the Super Bowl of serious.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m—”

“Shut up!”

“Sage, I was there⁠—”

Sage grabbed a handful of popcorn and hurled it at her. Isabelle caught one piece perfectly in her mouth by pure accident and immediately claimed it as a personal victory, lifting her chin with mock dignity.

Outside the windows of Mary Sue’s apartment, snow fell in slow, unhurried curtains across the dark Montana street. Inside, the fireplace crackled cheerfully, filling the room with the deep, comforting scent of woodsmoke, fresh-baked cookies, and that unmistakable winter coziness Isabelle swore she’d chased across every five-star hotel in the world and never quite found until now.

Mary Sue sat at the other end of the couch, knitting — actual knitting — like a woman who had decided decades ago that she would do exactly as she pleased and the world could simply catch up. She was following every word of the conversation with the focused attention of someone who was absolutely, definitely, for sure not listening.

Sage was tucked warmly against Mary Sue’s side… God, I’m happy, she thought, the feeling so big and bright it almost scared her. Like stupid, can’t-believe-this-is-real happy. She glanced sideways and caught Isabelle watching her with that soft, knowing little smile. Sage quickly tugged the neckline of Cal's hoodie back down from where she'd pulled it over her nose, cheeks warming as she pretended she hadn’t just been caught breathing in his scent like it was oxygen.

“Okay,” Sage said, waving her hands, still half in disbelief. “Okay, okay… paint me the picture. Cal—Cal—in a boardroom.”

Isabelle, freshly showered and looking ridiculously adorable in her “My Neighbor Totoro” pajamas, glasses, and a purple sheet mask, leaned forward with a grin. “Flannel shirt. Jeans. Work boots… with actual mud on them.”

Sage pressed both hands over her mouth, bright blue eyes sparkling in the firelight. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed this hard or felt this… light with other women. It was addictive.

“Michael had just finished the full Q3 presentation,” Isabelle continued, settling deeper into the armchair with her root beer. “Sage, you gotta understand—Michael Barrington looks like he just wandered out of an anime convention full of Pac-Man memorabilia and Pokémon cards.”

Sage stared at her. “But… he runs a big company and⁠—”

“I know!” Isabelle laughed. “He’s brilliant. He took that company from struggling to thriving in less than a year. Just ridiculously smart.” Her voice softened as she glanced toward the fire. “He’s also really nice. And kind. Sweet, once you get past all the Star Wars quotes.”

Sage and Mary Sue exchanged a look. Mary Sue’s knitting needles kept moving, but her mouth twitched.

“Izzy?” Sage teased. “Earth to Izzy?”

“What? What was I saying?” Isabelle blinked, then blushed when she realized she’d drifted. “Right. So they do the whole forty-minute thing—slides, projections, the works. And the board chair—this guy in a very expensive suit with very important hair—turns to Bear and says, ‘Mr. Meridian, do you think oil futures are an appropriate focus for Q3?’”

Isabelle paused for dramatic effect.

Sage was already vibrating with anticipation.

“Bear looked at him,” Isabelle said, barely holding it together. “Then he looked around the entire table. Very slow. Very calm.” She clutched her sides, eyes watering with laughter. “And he said—I am quoting directly—‘Oil’s like war. Goes up when folks start shootin’, comes down when they stop. Right now? Folks still shootin’. Buy more.’”

Sage lost it. She laughed so hard she slid sideways off Mary Sue’s shoulder, clutching her stomach. Mary Sue’s knitting needles paused for just a second, the corner of her mouth twitching upward before she immediately schooled her expression back into grandmotherly neutrality.

“Stop,” Sage gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. “Oh my God, please stop⁠—”

“And Michael—” Isabelle wiped her eyes, still laughing “—Michael, sitting at the head of the table like he owned the place, just looks at Bear completely straight-faced and says, ‘You’re right,’ then turns to the entire board and goes, ‘Let’s move focus away from bonds and into oil futures.’”

“He didn’t,” Sage gasped.

“He absolutely did.”

“Isabelle!”

“Sage! They planned it! I don’t know exactly how, but they do this.” Isabelle leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “When everyone else had cleared out and it was just me gathering up the paperwork, Michael turns to Bear and says, all deadpan, ‘Seriously? When folks start shooting?’ And Bear just gives him this half-smile and says, ‘What? I was trying to be in character.’”

Isabelle was cracking up again. “Then Michael starts laughing and says, ‘What character? You sounded like you were in a John Wayne film.’ Bear looks away for a second, grunts, and mutters, ‘Cool. I like John Wayne.’”