Chapter 15
A week after the leak incident, I woke up to find Chloe already in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of my old college hoodies over sleep shorts, standing in front of the coffee machine like she had every right in the world to be there.
She looked over her shoulder when she heard me.
“You’re out of beans.”
“We literally bought some three days ago.”
“You drink too much coffee.”
“You say that while making my coffee.”
“It’s our coffee now.”
That stopped me for a second.
She caught it immediately.
“Don’t make a face.”
“I’m not making a face.”
“You are always making a face.”
I walked over, leaned against the counter, and took the mug she handed me.
My mug, technically.
Her mug, emotionally.
Outside the window, the city was gray and noisy and still very much itself. The apartment still smelled faintly like old plaster and bad decisions. The bathroom ceiling had an ugly patch job. The hallway light still flickered whenever it rained.
Nothing about the place had become better.
And yet everything had.
Chloe took her coffee and stood beside me in the narrow strip of morning light coming through the cracked window. Not saying much. Not needing to.
That was another thing I’d learned about her.
With the right person, silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels like structure.
Like something you can lean on.
After a minute, she nudged my arm lightly.
“What are you thinking about?”
I looked at her over the rim of my cup.
“The same thing I always think about.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“It is.”
She narrowed her eyes.
I smiled into my coffee.
“The problem with beautiful things,” I said, “is that they’re distracting even when they’re not trying to be.”
Her expression changed. Softened.
Then she took a sip, looked away, and said in the calmest voice possible, “You’re still unbelievably annoying.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But I live here.”
She leaned against my shoulder for exactly two seconds before straightening again, like she had done something wildly reckless and needed to recover her reputation.
Then she walked back toward the hallway and called over her shoulder, “Don’t touch my mug.”
I looked down at the one in my hand and laughed.
Some stories begin with disasters.
Some begin with ghosts.
Mine began with a broken lock, a cheap apartment, and a woman who made everything harder before she made everything matter.
And somehow, against all logic, that turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.