Cynthia Brooks had survived corporate tension, and one emotionally devastating couch—but her apartment?
Her apartment was the real threat.
She kicked the door shut behind her, dropped her bag on the floor, and leaned against the wall like a soldier returning from war.
"I'm home," she announced to no one. "I lived.
Her apartment responded by being aggressively silent.
It was small. Cozy, if you were generous. Slightly cluttered, if you were honest. And currently wearing the unmistakable scent of I-have-not-been-lived-in-properly-for-days.
Cynthia toed off her shoes and immediately stepped on something crunchy.
She froze.
Slowly, she looked down.
A cracker.
A single, abandoned cracker.
"…I don't even remember buying crackers," she whispered, offended.
She picked it up, stared at it like it had personally betrayed her, then tossed it into the trash.
Her phone buzzed.
She jumped.
"WHY am I so jumpy?" she muttered, grabbing it.
Julianne.
Julianne: You're alive.
Cynthia: yeah, fortunately.
Julianne: where were you yesterday!
Cynthia:invited for a dinner
Julianne: where?
Cynthia: Alexander voss house
Julianne: CYNTHIA!
Cynthia groaned and tossed the phone onto the couch—her couch, which squeaked in protest.
She wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
The fridge stared back at her.
Inside were:
Half a bottle of orange juice (expired)
One egg (lonely)
A suspicious container she refused to open
Condiments. So many condiments.
She closed the fridge.
"…I ate dinner at Alexander Voss's house," she said aloud. "And now I live like a raccoon."
She turned around, caught her reflection in the microwave door, and pointed at herself.
"Do not spiral"
Her mind betrayed her.
Alexander in a T-shirt.
Coffee.
Morning light.
That look he gave her like she was a secret he hadn't decided to keep.
She shook her head violently.
"Nope. No. Absolutely not."
She grabbed her pillow from the couch and screamed into it.
A muffled, dramatic scream.
She resurfaced, hair wild.
"This is why you don't sleep in penthouses," she lectured herself. "It ruins your brain chemistry."
Her phone buzzed again.
She eyed it suspiciously.
Unknown number.
She frowned. "…Nope."
She flipped the phone face-down.
Then it buzzed again.
She stared at it.
"…If this is a delivery service, I swear—"
She flipped it over.
Alexander Voss: Did you get home safely?
Her heart did a completely unnecessary flip.
She stared at the message.
Then typed.
Then erased.
Then typed again.
Cynthia: Yes. Apartment still standing. Cracker casualty, but I'll recover.
Three dots appeared.
She held her breath.
Alexander: I'm relieved. About you. Not the cracker.
She snorted out loud.
"Oh no," she whispered. "He's funny now."
She typed back.
Cynthia: You're developing a sense of humor. Should I alert the authorities?
Three dots.
Alexander: Only if it gets worse.
She smiled.
Then immediately panicked and threw the phone onto the bed like it might explode.
She paced.
"That's how rom-coms start."
Her stomach growled.
She glanced at the fridge again.
"…I should cook."
She shouldn't have said that out loud.
Thirty minutes later, Cynthia stood in the kitchen staring at a smoking pan.
"I followed the recipe," she argued with the smoke alarm.
The alarm screamed louder.
She waved a towel at it. "STOP BEING DRAMATIC."
The alarm disagreed.
She turned off the stove, opened every window, and collapsed into a chair.
Dinner was now cereal.
She sat on the floor, back against the couch, bowl in her lap.
"This," she said solemnly, "is balance."
Her phone buzzed again.
She peeked.
Julianne.
Julianne: So?
Cynthia: So what?
Julianne: DON'T PLAY DUMB.
Cynthia: com'on just a dinner
Julianne:you slept there too?
Cynthia groaned.
Cynthia: No
Julianne:what happened?
Cynthia:nothing happened
Julianne: Something always happens.
Cynthia: We talked. We laughed. We ate julianne: Romantic.
Cynthia: Stop encouraging me.
She finished the cereal and flopped backward onto the couch.
The ceiling fan hummed softly.
Her apartment felt safe. Familiar. Hers.
And yet…
She missed the quiet of his place.
The way everything felt intentional.
The way he looked at her like she mattered—even when he pretended not to care.
She sighed.
"This is dangerous," she whispered to the ceiling. "I'm developing feelings."
Her phone buzzed again.
She didn't look this time.
She closed her eyes.
"Tomorrow," she told herself. "Tomorrow I'll be normal."
The ceiling fan clicked.
Her phone buzzed once more.
She smiled despite herself.
"Liar," she told herself fondly.
And somewhere across the city, Alexander Voss was probably drinking coffee and pretending he wasn't thinking about a woman who screamed at smoke alarms and survived crackers.
Cynthia rolled onto her side, hugging a pillow.
Home had never felt so… complicated.
And somehow—
She didn't hate it.