1:45 AM - Mireille's Apartment Building (Or So She Thought)
The driver pulled up to the sleek modern apartment complex, glancing nervously in the rearview mirror at his passenger who'd been talking nonstop for the entire fifteen-minute drive about everything from fabric suppliers to the injustice of morning meetings to whether penguins had knees.
"We've arrived, Miss," he said carefully.
Mireille sat up, blinking at the building. "Oh! Already? You're very fast. Like a... a fast car. Because you drive cars. That's your job."
"Yes, Miss. Would you like assistance getting inside?"
"Pshhh, no! I'm perfecfly—perfectly—fine." She grabbed her purse, fumbled with the door handle for a solid ten seconds, then basically fell out of the car with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.
"Miss, are you sure—"
"I GOT MYSELF!" Mireille announced loudly, giving him an exaggerated thumbs up. "You are... you are excused. Dis-MISSED. Free to go!"
The driver hesitated, clearly torn between his duty and his desire to not deal with this anymore.
Mireille waved him away enthusiastically. "Go! I'm a grown woman! I can apartment!"
Against his better judgment, the driver pulled away.
Mireille stood on the sidewalk for a moment, swaying slightly, before marching toward the building with determined—if somewhat zigzagging—steps.
Mireille jabbed the elevator button approximately seven times before it lit up.
"Finally! So rude making me wait," she muttered.
The elevator arrived. She stumbled inside and stared at the button panel like it was written in ancient hieroglyphics.
"Floor... floor... what floor do I live on?" She squinted. "Ten. No. Eleven? Definitely starts with a one..."
She pressed 10.
The elevator rose smoothly while Mireille leaned against the wall, humming tunelessly.
When the doors opened, she lurched out into the corridor, using the wall for support as she made her way down the hall.
"109... 109... where is—THERE!" She pointed triumphantly at a door. "There you are, you sneaky apartment!"
She dug through her purse, pulling out her keys, and approached the keypad lock.
Pressed in her code.
BEEP. ACCESS DENIED.
"What?" Mireille frowned and tried again.
BEEP. ACCESS DENIED.
"This is MY apartment! I KNOW my code!" She tried a third time, pressing each number with exaggerated care.
BEEP. ACCESS DENIED.
"Oh, you wanna FIGHT?!" Mireille glared at the keypad. "I'll show you—"
She kept trying, pressing different combinations, getting increasingly frustrated and vocal about it.
"Stupid door! Stupid keypad! Stupid technology! Back in my day we used KEYS! Actual KEYS!"
"Back in your day?" a voice in her head questioned. You're twenty-eight.
"SHUT UP, brain!"
Inside Apartment 109
Tristan Mercier had been having a perfectly peaceful sleep when some kind of commotion started outside his door.
At first, he'd tried to ignore it.
Then the beeping started. Over and over and over.
Followed by increasingly creative cursing.
With a groan of defeat, he rolled out of bed, pulled on a robe over his pajamas, and stumbled toward the door.
He checked the security screen.
A woman stood at his door, clearly drunk, aggressively jabbing at the keypad while swaying on her feet.
Wait.
He knew that face.
Tristan's still-sleepy brain took a moment to process.
Mireille.
Why is she at my door at 2 AM?
Another frustrated shout from outside made the decision for him.
If he didn't open the door, she'd wake up the entire floor.
Tristan unlocked it and pulled it open.
Mireille looked up, surprised, her finger still hovering over the keypad.
"This is not your apartment," Tristan said flatly, his voice rough from sleep. "It's there." He pointed down the hall. "Apartment 119."
Mireille squinted at him. "Huh? What do you mean?"
"You're at 109. You live at 119."
"No I don't! I know my apartment number and this is 109, right?" She gestured at the numbers on his door as if they proved her point.
"Yes. This is 109. Which is MY apartment. You live at 119. Down the hall."
"You're the one intruding in MY house!" Mireille declared indignantly. "Get out of the way, Tristan!"
She took a stumbling step forward.
Tristan blocked the doorway with his arm. "Mireille, you're drunk. Your apartment is—"
"Or," Mireille interrupted, her expression shifting from aggressive to bizarrely flirtatious, "you're welcome to stay, darling."
And then—before Tristan could process what was happening—she pushed him.
Actually physically pushed him out of his own doorway.
He stumbled backward into the hallway, too surprised to resist.
Mireille marched into his apartment and slammed the door in his face.
Tristan stood in the corridor, staring at his closed door.
Did that just happen?
He tried the handle.
Locked.
She'd locked him out of his own apartment.
"MIREILLE!" He pounded on the door. "Open the door! This is MY apartment!"
No response.
"I'm calling security!"
Still nothing.
Tristan pressed his forehead against the door, contemplating his life choices.
Then he remembered: he had a spare keycard in his robe pocket. He always kept one there after locking himself out once during a late-night snack run.
With a deep breath and a prayer for patience, he unlocked the door and stepped back inside his own apartment.
The living room was empty.
"Mireille?" Tristan called out, closing the door behind him.
He heard water running.
From his bathroom.
Oh no.
He walked quickly toward his bedroom and found the bathroom door wide open, steam billowing out.
Inside, Mireille had somehow managed to start the shower and was attempting to undress while still mostly clothed, tangled in her own shirt.
"Help! I'm stuck!" she announced dramatically.
"You're not stuck, you're drunk," Tristan said, averting his eyes. "And this is MY bathroom!"
"Your bathroom is very nice! I like the tiles!"
"MIREILLE—"
But she'd already freed herself from the shirt—Tristan very deliberately looked at the ceiling—and apparently decided a shower was happening whether he approved or not.
Tristan gave up.
He was too tired for this.
With a groan of absolute defeat, he stumbled back to his bed and collapsed face-first into his pillow.
She'll figure it out. She's an adult. Probably.
He was asleep within minutes.
Twenty Minutes Later
The shower eventually turned off.
Tristan, in that half-awake state, vaguely registered movement in his room.
Footsteps.
The sound of his closet opening.
Hangers sliding.
Drawers being opened and closed.
He was too exhausted to care.
Then the bed dipped.
Someone crawled in beside him.
Warm body. Wet hair. The scent of his own body wash.
An arm draped over his torso.
A leg hooked over his.
"Mmmm," Mireille hummed contentedly, snuggling closer. "Such a fluffy and rigid teddy bear."
Tristan's eyes shot open.
He was very awake now.
Mireille had pressed herself against his back, cuddling him like he was, indeed, an oversized stuffed animal.
And she was wearing his clothes.
He could feel the fabric of his shorts and one of his shirts against his back.
His brain screamed at him to move. To get up. To exile himself to the couch and reclaim his bed in the morning.
But...
It was his bed.
His expensive, custom-mattress, perfectly-broken-in bed that he'd spent a fortune on.
And she was the intruder.
Why should he have to sleep on the couch in his own apartment?
Tristan lay there, rigid as an actual board, staring into the darkness.
Mireille's breathing had already evened out. She was asleep, completely oblivious to his internal crisis.
Her arm tightened around him slightly.
This is fine, he told himself. This is completely normal. This happens to people all the time. Drunk acquaintances break into your apartment, shower, steal your clothes, and use you as a body pillow. Totally standard Tuesday night. Wednesday morning. Whatever day it is.
He could just... stay very still. Not move.
Pretend he was actually a teddy bear and incapable of independent thought.
In the morning, she'd wake up horrified and leave.
Probably.
Hopefully.
How did we end up like this?