The pink fluffy dressing gown.
Still on.
Still very much on.
Over leggings and a bra with one rebellious strap doing its own walk of shame.
I must look like Miss Piggy if she panic-packed for the Met Gala.
My face ignites.
Tyler’s lips twitch, just a little. Not mocking. Just… pleased. Like he’s genuinely happy to see me like this.
Which is somehow so much worse.
I smooth the fluff, lift my chin, and start walking toward him, mentally drafting something witty, casual, and definitely not humiliating.
But as I pass my door…
A sound.
A sob.
Desperate enough, heart-pulling enough, to sever the moment.
I freeze. Tyler’s brow furrows, his gaze snapping to my open door.
“Did you he?—?”
“I think someone’s in my room,” I cut in, already turning the handle.
“Please don’t be a ghost,” I mutter, shoving the door open.
Not a ghost.
Lily.
Curled in a puddle of white tulle and bridal despair on my floor. Her eyes are red, mascara smeared halfway to tragic opera, and her hair…
Oh God.
It’s bad.
Startled poodle meets Edward Scissorhands bad.
Lily looks up at me, eyes huge, utterly panicked. “I can’t get married like this!”
I blink. “Lily, what…”
“I told them to curl the ends!” she wails. “Now I look like I’ve been electrocuted, and I’m terrified someone’s going to use my head to open a bottle of wine!”
Even mid-meltdown, my best friend is comedy gold. I bite back a grin, drop the dress, kneel beside her, and squeeze her hand.
“We’ve got this,” I promise.
Tyler appears in the doorway, takes one look at Lily’s hair, and mutters, “Holy fuck. Tell me you’ve got something that can fix this?”
“Like what? A time machine?!”
