Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights of the Smosh office usually hummed with a predictable, caffeinated energy. For Amanda Lehan-Canto, that hum was the soundtrack of her life. She’d been married to Angela Giarratana for three years—three years of chaotic energy, musical theater outbursts in the kitchen, wine nights with crime documentaries every Thursday, and a love that felt as sturdy as an old oak tree.
Amanda took pride in knowing Angela. She knew the exact pitch Angela reached when she was genuinely annoyed versus “bit-annoyed”. She knew that Angela would always choose the most chaotic option in a board game. She knew that, despite the whirlwind persona, Angela was the most grounded part of her world. Amanda lived by the philosophy that she had the “Angela Giarrantana Encyclopedia” memorized cover to cover. There were no more spoilers left in the book.
Or so she thought.
The day started at a grueling 6:00AM. Angela’s car had a slow leak in the front driver’s side tire—a “gift” from a rogue nail in a parking lot. Since they were filming a massive Moose Master game, Angela had to drop the car off at the shop the moment they opened.
“I’ll just Uber to the office after” Angela had mumbled, face half-pressed into a pillow, hair a bird’s nest of brown curls. “Go ahead, babe. Get your coffee, on me. Be the early bird. Get the worm or however it goes.”
Amanda had kissed the top of that messy head, laughed, and headed out. By 8:00AM, Amanda was the only person within the vicinity of her desk. She had her oversized iced coffee—courtesy of course by her wife, her notes spread out, and a sense of calm productivity. She was two hours early, basking in the rare silence of the office before the storm of personalities arrived.
At 8:15 AM, the heavy glass door at the front of the office hissed open.
Amanda didn’t look up at first. She assumed it was Erin or Emily Rose, or maybe Shayne coming in early. She kept her eyes on her laptop, typing away. But then, she heard the rhythmic clack-thud of a specific pair of boots. Doc Martens. Heavily broken in.
Amanda looked up, a greeting already on the tip of her tongue. “Hey, you’re early-“
The words died. They didn’t just die; they evaporated into the atmosphere, leaving Amanda’s mouth slightly agape.
Walking through the door wasn’t the chaotic, brightly clothed gremlin that Amanda had kissed goodbye two hours ago. This was a vision.
Angela was wearing her vintage, oversized denim jacket over a tight black tank top that emphasized her toned shoulders she usually hid under baggy graphic tees. Her baggy jeans sat perfectly on her hips, cinched by a worn leather belt. But that wasn’t the kicker.
The kicker was the hair.
The shoulder length unruly curls were gone. In their place was a razor-sharp, effortless shaggy world cut. It was edgy, messy in a deliberate way, and layered perfectly to frame her sharp jawline and high cheekbones. And, as if to personally victimize Amanda, Angela was wearing her glasses—the one she refused to wear in Smosh games where it is definitely needed.
In Amanda’s head, the world didn’t just slow down; it entered a cinematic, high-frame-ratee crawl.
The way the curls framed Angela’s face perfectly, with the fringe falling just below her eyes. The way she adjusted the strap of her bag, the denim shifting over the black cotton of the tank top. Angela looked like the lead guitarist of a band you’d sell your soul to see in a dive bar. She looked like the “cool girl” in a 90s indie flick who breaks the protagonist’s heart without trying.
“Oh my god”, Amanda thought, her heart doing a frantic tap-dance against her ribs. That is my wife. I am married to that.
She felt a flush creep up her neck, a heat that had nothing to do with the office thermostat. Her hands, previously busy typing, were now frozen over the keyboard. She felt like she was fifteen again, seeing her crush walk into the cafeteria. It was a visceral, dizzying rush of attraction so potent it made her feel faint.
Angela spotted her and header over, a small, shy smirk, playing on her lips. She looked confident, yet vulnerable—a lethal combination.
“Hey”, Angela said, her voice dropping a register as she reached the table. She ran a hand through the shaggy layers of her hair, puffing them out. “The guy at the shop said it would take three hours, and there was a salon right next door that had an opening for a walk-in. I know you have been telling me to get a haircut since the hair was annoying me. I.. I kind of had a breakdown and told him to just ‘do something’ to it. Is it too much? Do I look like a drowned rat?”
Amanda couldn’t speak. She literally couldn’t find the air.
“Amanda? You’re staring. You’re doing the thing where your eyes get really wide and you forgot to blink.” Angela leaned in, peering in through her glasses. “Babe? Do you hate it? I can grow it back. I’ll buy extensions today.”
“I..” Amanda managed, her voice a pathetic squeak. “I.. hair. Face. Glasses. Tank top”
“Deep breaths, Lehan” a new voice drawled.
Arasha walked into the room, holding a coffee cup and looking between the two of them with raised eyebrow. She took one look at Angela’s new look, then looked at Amanda’s bright red face and trembling hands.
Arasha leaned against Angela’s desk, a smirk spreading across her face. “Oh wow. Look at this.”
“Arasha, does it look okay?” Angela asked, turning around to show off the back of the cut.
The younger woman didn’t answer Angela. She kept her eyes fixed on Amanda. “Amanda, honey. You are experiencing what we call a total system failure. You are currently in a state of high-alert, Grade A, “I-forgot-how-to-be-a-person” gay panic.”
“I am not.” Amanda lied, her voice cracking.
“You’re vibrating,” Arasha pointed out. “You look like you’re about to faint because your wife got a haircut and put on a tank top. It’s honestly embarrassing for the brand. You’ve been married for three years, get it together.”
“I can’t get it together!” Amanda said, her voice dropping into that serious, grounded tone she used when she was being profoundly sincere. “I thought I knew everything about you. I thought I was prepared for any version of you. I was wrong.” She reached out, her finger grazing the soft, short layers at the nape of Angela’s neck.
“You look incredible.” She whispered, “I am currently having a very difficult time remembering that we are at work and that Arasha is standing five feet away while recording this on her phone.”
“I’m definitely recording this,” Arasha confirmed. “This is going in the “Amanda is a Simp” compilation for the Christmas party.”
Angela laughed—that loud, wheezing, beautiful laugh that Amanda loved more than anything. She leaned in, capturing Amanda’s lip in a quick, firm kiss that tasted like mint and felt like home.
“Well,” Angela whispered against her lips. “I guess I should change my tires more often.”
Amanda just leaned her forehead against her wife, closed her eyes, and tried to get her heart rate back down to a level that didn’t require medical intervention. She had been married for three years, and apparently, the surprises were only just beginning.
She was still gay panicking. And honestly? She never wanted it to stop.
The workday had been a wash for Amanda. Every time Angela walked past her desk—to which she feels intentional, or leaned over a monitor to check a playback, or simply pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, Amanda’s brain short-circuited. By 5:00 PM, the rest of the crew had caught the fever. The “New Angela” energy was infectious, and the consensus was unanimous: this required a celebration.
“We’re going to The Thirsty Crow”, Courtney announced, swinging their bag over their shoulder. “It’s Friday, and Angela looks like a heartthrob from a 1998 indie film, and Amanda looks like she’s seen a ghost. We need drinks.”
The bar was dimly lit, smelling of hops and expensive bourbon, with a playlist of mid-2000s alt-rock humming in the background. The Smosh crew had pushed two tables together in the corner—a chaotic cluster of Shayne, Courtney, Arasha, Chanse and the two wives.
Angela sat in the center of the table, her denim jacket discarded to reveal the full glory of the black tank top. The shaggy layers of her wolf cut were slightly tousled from the wind, giving her a “just rolled out of bed” look that was doing irreversible damage to Amanda’s composure.
“I’m just saying,” Chanse said, pointing a fry at Angela. “The glasses are the secret weapon. It’s giving ‘hot librarian who secretly rides a motorcycle.’ It’s a brand evolution, Angela. I’m proud of you.”
“I just wanted a trim!” Angela laughed, her cheeks flushed from her first wine. “I didn’t mean to cause a cultural shift in the office!”
Amanda sat beside her, her hand resting firmly on Angela’s thigh. It was a grounding gesture, but also a possessive one. Usually, Amanda was the “chill” wife. She knew Angela was a firecracker who could hold her own in any situation. She trusted her wife implicitly, and honestly, she enjoyed watching people gravitate toward her wife’s magnetic energy.
But tonight, the energy was different.
It started about an hour into the night. A woman at the bar—tall, wearing a leather jacket and a look of practiced confidence—had been eyeing their table. Specifically, she had been eyeing the back of Angela’s head.
She approached under the guise of “looking for a stool”, but her eyes never left Angela.
“Love the hair,” the woman said, leaning over their table and looking directly in Angela’s eyes. Her voice was low, honeyed drawl. “It’s very.. Joan Jett meets TikTok. It suits you.”
“Oh! Thanks!” Angela chirped, giving her a polite, slightly awkward smile. “The guy at the salon basically did it while I was screaming, but I’m glad it worked out!”
The woman didn’t take the hint to move on. She lingered, her hand resting on back of Angela’s chair, inching dangerously close to Angela’s arm. “I’m Sarah. Are you guys the Smosh company thing down the street? I keep hearing about you guys!”
“Something like that,” Angela said, her smile tightening. She turned back to the back to the group, her hand finding Amanda’s thighs under the table, clearly trying to signal that the conversation was over. “Anyway, Shayne, tell the story about the-“
“I’m actually a stylist.” Sarah interrupted, sliding a finger on Angela’s arm. “I could give you some tips on how to texture those layers even better. You have the perfect shape for it.”
The table went quiet. Arasha took a long, slow sip of her drink, her eyes darting to Amanda. Shayne looked like he was trying to vibrate out of his skin to avoid the awkwardness.
“I’m good, thank you!” Angela said, her voice a bit firmer. “I like it how it is. My wife likes it too.” The stress on “My wife” is clear and firm however it was totally lost with the woman.
Most people would have seen the wedding ring and the way that Amanda’s hand is on her thighs then retreated. Sarah, apparently, took it as a challenge. She let out a soft laugh. “A wife? Lucky her. But surely, she doesn’t mind a little professional advice.” She leaned in closer, her hair almost brushing Angela’s shoulder. “What do you say? Let me buy you a drink at the bar and we can talk about.. textures.”
Angela was a pro at many things—improv, screaming, being the “loudest person in the room”—but she hated being mean to strangers unless they were actively threatening her. She tried the “Nice Angela” approach three more times.
“No, really. I’m set for the night.” Angela said, firmly. Sarah stayed.
“Again, no. I’m hanging out with my friends right now.” Angela tried again five minutes later when Sarah returned with a shot of tequila she hadn’t asked for. Sarah leaned in close again, a sleazy smile on her face directed at Angela.
“No. I’m married and she’s literally sitting right beside me.” Angela said, her voice hitting that annoyed and “stop it” register. Sarah smirked, “Married isn’t dead, babe. It’s just a haircut. Calm down.”
Amanda had been quiet. She had been sipping her gin and tonic, watching the interaction with the calculated stillness of a lioness watching a particularly annoying hyena. She knew Angela could handle it. She wanted Angela to handle it. But the “Married isn’t dead, babe” comment? That was the final straw.
The crew saw it first and Angela felt it.
Arasha nudged Courtney. “Look at Amanda’s eyes,” she whispered. “The pupils are gone. It’s just ‘Protect the Wife’ mode now.”
Amanda slowly set her glass down. She didn’t slam it; she placed it with a terrifying, silent precision. She stood up.
You see, Amanda Lehan-Canto is not a small person. When she stands up with intent, she commands the entire room. She stepped out of her chair and moved with a slow, cinematic grace until she is standing directly between Angela and the woman who can’t take a hint, Sarah.
She didn’t look angry. She looked bored, which was infinitely scarier. She felt Angela’s hand on the small of her back and a little smile appeared on her face before she turns her attention back to Sarah.
“Sandy, was it?” Amanda asked, her voice dropping into a velvety, low tone that made Chanse whisper “Oh my god” into his napkin. The intentional name change was noticed. Sarah blinked, looking up at Amanda. “It’s Sarah. And you are?”
“The ‘Lucky Wife’,” Amanda said. She didn’t yell. She didn’t get in Sarah’s face. Instead, she looked back and tucked a loose strand of Angela’s new wolf cut behind her ear, her thumb lingering on her wife’s jawline. She did it with such agonizingly slow intimacy that the entire table felt like they were intruding on a private moment.
“I’ve been very patient,” Amanda continued, finally turning her gaze to Sarah. “I’ve watched you ignore my wife’s ‘no’ four times. And while I appreciate that you have eyes—because obviously, look at her—you’re starting to interrupt our date night with our friends.”
Amanda stepped one inch close. Just one. “The haircut stays. The wife stays. But you? You’re going to walk back to the bar, finish your drink, and find someone who isn’t currently occupied by a woman who is significantly more terrifying than I look. Do we have an understanding?”
Sarah opened her mouth to scoff, but she caught the look in Amanda’s eyes. It wasn’t just ‘wife’ energy; it was “I have played villains on stage, and I can make you disappear” energy. She cleared her throat, grabbed the unwanted short of tequila, and moped back to the bar without a word.
The silence at the table lasted for exactly three seconds before the Smosh crew absolutely lost their minds.
“AMANDA!” Courtney screamed, slamming their hands on the table. “The dominance! The poise! The gay panic has turned into gay aggression!”
“I am actually pregnant now,” Chanse gasped, fanning himself with a coaster. “Amanda, that voice? I need you to use that voice to tell me to do my chores. I’d be the most productive man in Los Angeles.” While Arasha was cackling, leaning back in her chair. “I told you! I told you she was panicking! She went from ‘blushing bride’ to ‘final boss’ in sixty seconds flat. That was the most hilarious display of ‘That’s My Wife’ I’ve ever seen.”
Shayne was just shaking his head, grinning. “I love that for us. I love that we can’t even go to a bar without Amanda entering her ‘Main Character’ arc.”
Angela meanwhile, was staring up at Amanda with a look of pure, unadulterated worship. Her face was bright red, her glasses were slightly fogged, and she looked like she had forgotten how to breathe. “Babe,” she whispered, tugging on the hem of Amanda’s shirt. Amanda sat back down, the “territorial” haze fading back into her usual warm, slightly embarrassed self. “Sorry. She was just… she was being pushy. I couldn’t help it.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Angela said, leaning in and burying her face in Amanda’s neck. “Do it again. Actually, don’t, because I’ll melt into a puddle on this disgusting bar floor, but wow.”
“Arasha was right,” Courtney said, raising a glass. “To Angela’s haircut—the cause of, and solution to, all of Amanda’s problems.”
“To the haircut!” the table cheered.
Amanda laughed, pulling Angela closer and kissing the top of her freshly shorn head. She had thought three years of marriage meant no more surprises. But between the new hair and the way her own heart still raced when she defended what was hers, she realized they were just getting started.
“You want a tequila shot?” Amanda teased.
“Absolutely not,” Angela muffles against her shoulder. “I just want to go home so you can look at my hair some more.”
“Deal,” Amanda whispered. “But only if you keep the glasses on.”