Matilda stepped out in dress number thirteen, and if it wasn’t for the champagne, I thought I might have fallen asleep at around dress number seven.
I was keeping it together.
“It’s a no, isn’t it?” She cringed.
“I don’t want it to be.” I blubbered dramatically. “But…”
“It’s just not me, is it?”
“Not even close. I dunno who that dress is, but it’s not you.”
I would like to request that night in Amsterdam from the friends to lovers au thanks