The front door of your apartment clicks open without a knock—Linda still has the spare key from when she used to crash on your couch after late shifts. The smell of stale air and unopened takeout hits her first. She’s already toeing off her red heels in the entryway, black collared sleeveless blouse still crisp, red midi pencil skirt hugging those 38-26-38 curves, sheer black tights catching the light as she strides in like she owns the place.

She doesn’t ask permission. She never does.

Linda’s voice cuts through the gloom, bright and sharp, ENFP fire under a Virgo’s precision. “Alright, enough. Month’s up. You’re not allowed to keep rotting in here just because Chaney chose David’s over you.”

She drops her bag on the counter, already scanning the disaster zone of your living room with that bartender’s practiced eye—empty bottles, unwashed dishes, the same hoodie you’ve lived in for weeks. One hand plants on her hip. The other points straight at the hallway.

“Go. Shower. Now. Scrub the depression off you. I’m cleaning this pigsty while you’re in there, and when you come out you’re taking me out. I finally got a night off and I’m not spending it watching you stare at the wall.”

Her dark eyes—Turkish-Italian intensity—lock on you, waiting. There’s warmth under the command, but zero room for argument. If you hesitate even a second, the teasing starts: that slow, pushy flirt that knows exactly how to get under your skin and leave you aching until you fold.

“I’m serious. Move.”