The silence stretches just long enough to edge into uneasy. I clear my throat. “Appreciate the space. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
Her eyes soften for a heartbeat before she masks it. “Just follow the rules and we’ll be fine.”
Rules. I can work with rules.
I nod once, slow, deliberate. “Quiet. Clean. No chaos.”
For some reason, that earns me a smile—small, real, and dangerous.
She disappears down the hall, her door clicking shut. For a second, I just stand there, duffel strap biting into my shoulder. The apartment hums with the faint echo of city noise and her footsteps fading away. I unpack in silence, counting the beats until the place stops feeling borrowed.One month,I remind myself. Keep it clean. Keep it quiet. Control what you can.
Chapter 3
Terms & Conditions
Sage
I slapthe neon Post-it on the fridge like I’m posting a cease-and-desist. BOUNDARIES, I write in thick Sharpie. Under it, bullet points: Quiet hours 10 p.m.–6 a.m. Shelf assignments labeled. Shoes by the door. Towels hung, not draped. And then, in bold, underlined twice:DO NOT TOUCH MY KNIVES.
Leo stands a careful distance away, coffee in hand, watching me like I’m a storm he can outskate. He’s shower-fresh and aggravatingly composed, which makes me want to underline the knives line a third time just to feel better.
“House rules,” I announce, capping the marker with a snap. “You break them, you sleep in the stairwell.”
His mouth almost curves. Almost. “Is that a legally enforceable penalty?”
“Comes with management approval,” I say, nodding toward the ceiling like Mrs. Patel is God.
He studies the Post-it, then the kitchen. I can feel him cataloging everything again—the labeled bins, the color-codedtape on the containers, the rows of spices organized exactly how I like them. Mine.
Leo sets his mug down and steps closer to the counter. Too close. He picks up the marker, flips it between his fingers, and adds a tidy little box next to Quiet hours. “I’m up by five. I’ll be quiet.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re annotating my boundaries?”
“Clarifying,” he says, deadpan. “Terms and conditions.”
Of course he’s a fine print guy. I take the marker back and draw a tiny skull next to DO NOT TOUCH MY KNIVES. Petty, yes. Satisfying, also yes.
He glances toward the second bedroom—the studio—then back to me. “You sleep okay?”
“Like a rock,” I lie. “You?”
“Couch is short. I’m longer.” He shrugs like it’s not a complaint. It sounds like one anyway, and guilt pricks me for half a second before self-preservation slams the door. The studio stays the studio. My dreams don’t make room for anyone.
To prove the point, I tug open the pantry and grab a jar of turmeric, a lemon, whole peppercorns. My hands find their rhythm—zest, slice, crack the mill—until the kitchen smells like sunshine and heat. Control tastes like citrus.
Leo leans on the far side of the island, arms crossed, silent. His attention lands on my knife roll, the matte-black handles lined like a choir. He doesn’t touch. Smart man.
“Why the knives rule?” he asks finally.
“Because they’re sharp," I say, then hesitate. It’s easier to joke than admit the truth—that these blades are the only thing I trust to stay exactly where I left them,” I say. “And because they’re mine.”
He nods like he understands both answers. “Noted.”
I tape a second neon square to the freezer: LABEL EVERYTHING. Underneath it, I add smaller text because I’m petty before caffeine:Even if you think it’s obvious.
He huffs out a breath that’s dangerously close to a laugh. “You always this… organized?”
“I’m always this employed,” I say, reaching for a stockpot. “Systems keep small lives from falling apart.”
