Saturday Morning - Siennah's Memorial Day, 11:47 AM
Apartment Building, 10th Floor
Mireille wiped the sweat from her forehead and surveyed the chaos of her new apartment.
Boxes. Everywhere. Mountains of them.
Moving was a special kind of hell, she'd decided. Especially when you insisted on doing most of it yourself because you were "perfectly capable, thank you very much" and didn't want to pay for full-service movers.
Her pride was expensive.
"Okay," she muttered to herself, hands on hips. "Last box. You can do this. One more trip down to the car and you're done."
She grabbed her keys and headed out into the corridor, mentally calculating whether she had the arm strength left to carry the final box or if she'd have to make two trips with the smaller items.
The elevator dinged.
Mireille stepped inside, pressed the ground floor button, and leaned against the wall, already exhausted.
Note to self: hire movers next time. Pride is overrated.
The lobby was quiet. Most people were either at work or attending weekend activities. Mireille grabbed the last box from where the movers had left it—her personal items she'd insisted on handling herself—and headed back toward the elevator.
The box wasn't particularly heavy, but it was bulky, and she couldn't see over the top of it.
"Just ten more feet," she muttered, shuffling forward. "Then elevator. Then apartment. Then collapse for twelve hours."
She rounded the corner toward the elevator bank—
And walked straight into a wall.
A warm, solid, human wall.
The box tilted dangerously. Strong hands caught it—and her—before everything went crashing to the floor.
A scent wafted into her space. Clean. Subtle cologne. Something woodsy and expensive.
Mireille looked up.
And her brain short-circuited.
No.
No no no no no
Standing in front of her, hands steadying her box, looking down at her with those cool, unreadable eyes, was—
"Tris—" Her voice came out as a squeak. She tried again. "Tristan?"
Tristan Mercier.
Rhys Castillon's executive assistant. The ice-cold professional she'd been harboring a ridiculous crush on since the convenience store. The man who'd systematically ignored every single one of her attempts to get his attention at the gallery event.
That Tristan.
Here.
In her new apartment building.
Looking annoyingly perfect in casual clothes—dark jeans and a simple gray sweater—like he'd just stepped out of a magazine spread for "Unattainably Handsome Men Who Don't Know You Exist."
Tristan's eyes flicked from her face to the box to the apartment numbers visible down the hall.
"Oh," he said, his tone perfectly neutral. Professionally cold. "You're the new neighbor. Welcome."
And then he just... stepped around her, walked past, and headed toward his apartment.
His apartment.
Which was, she now realized with growing horror, directly across the hall from hers.
Apartment 109.
Mireille stood frozen in the lobby, still holding her box, her mouth hanging open.
Tristan's door opened. Closed.
He was gone.
"No," Mireille whispered to the empty lobby. "No no no. This is not happening."
She looked around wildly, as if addressing an invisible audience.
"I am NOT stalking him!" she announced to no one. "Yes, I'm talking to you!" She gestured vaguely at the air. "This is a COINCIDENCE! A completely unplanned, absolutely random coincidence!"
A woman entering the building gave her a very wide berth.
Mireille didn't notice.
She was too busy having a crisis.
"Who even goes to work on a Saturday?!" she demanded of the universe. "I shouldn't have run into him! This wasn't supposed to—"
She stopped.
Took a breath.
A slow, delighted smile spread across her face.
"He's my neighbor," she whispered, the reality sinking in. "Tristan Mercier is my neighbor."
The smile grew wider.
"Oh, this is perfect."
Mireille stood outside apartment 109 at 9 AM sharp, holding a beautifully packaged cake box.
She'd woken up at 6 AM to bake it. Chocolate with raspberry filling. Fancy. Impressive.
This is normal neighbor behavior, she told herself. People bring welcome gifts. This is what good neighbors do.
The fact that he's unreasonably attractive is completely irrelevant.
She knocked.
Waited.
Knocked again.
The door opened.
Tristan stood there in pajama pants and a t-shirt, hair slightly mussed from sleep, looking like he'd just woken up.
Somehow still annoyingly perfect.
"Mireille," he said, his voice flat. "It's 9 AM on a Sunday."
"Good morning!" She thrust the cake box toward him with her brightest smile. "I made you a welcome cake! Well, technically I'm the new one, so I guess it's a 'welcome to having me as a neighbor' cake. But still! Cake!"
Tristan stared at the box.
Then at her.
Then back at the box.
"That's... not necessary," he said carefully.
"I know! But I wanted to!" Mireille pushed the box into his hands before he could refuse. "It's chocolate raspberry. Homemade. I woke up early to make it!"
Something flickered in Tristan's expression—surprise, maybe?—before the neutral mask returned.
"Thank you," he said with excessive politeness. "But really, you didn't need to go to this trouble."
"It's no trouble! We're neighbors now! Neighbors do nice things for each other!"
"Mm." Tristan held the cake box like it might explode. "Well. Thank you. I should—"
"Do you want to have coffee?" Mireille blurted out. "I just moved in and I'm still unpacking, but I have coffee! We could—"
"I have plans today."
"Oh! That's fine! Another time then—"
"Perhaps."
Which clearly meant "no."
But Mireille's smile didn't falter.
"Great! Well, enjoy the cake! Let me know if you need anything! We're neighbors now, so—"
"Yes. You mentioned. Several times." Tristan took a small step backward. "I need to get ready. Excuse me."
The door closed.
Mireille had learned Tristan's schedule with embarrassing speed.
He left for work at 7:15 AM. Returned around 7:00 PM. Sometimes later.
So when she "happened" to be getting her mail at 7:05 PM, and "happened" to need the elevator at the exact moment his car pulled into the garage, it was purely coincidental.
Obviously.
The elevator doors opened.
Tristan stepped out, briefcase in hand, looking tired.
"Oh! Tristan! Hi!" Mireille said with theatrical surprise.
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Mireille."
"Crazy running into you here! Where we both live! What are the odds!"
"Astronomical," Tristan said dryly.
They stepped into the elevator together.
Mireille pressed 10.
Silence.
"So," Mireille said brightly. "How was work?"
"Fine."
"That's good! I had a crazy day at the office too. We're working on this new fabric line and—"
"Mm."
More silence.
Mireille tried again. "Did you try the cake?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"It was adequate."
Adequate. She'd woken up at 6 AM for adequate.
But his ears had turned slightly pink when he said it.
He liked it, Mireille realized with delight. He's just too stubborn to admit it.
The elevator dinged.
Floor 10.
They both stepped out.
Walked to their respective doors.
"Well, good night!" Mireille called cheerfully.
"Good night," Tristan replied, already unlocking his door.
"Sweet dreams!"
Mireille knocked on Tristan's door at 7:00 AM.
She knew he'd be awake. She could hear movement inside.
The door opened.
Tristan, dressed for work but clearly in the middle of his morning routine, looked at her with barely concealed weariness.
"Yes?"
"My coffee maker broke!" Mireille announced, holding up her empty travel mug. "Do you have coffee? I'm desperate! I can't function without coffee!"
"There's a café downstairs."
"But it doesn't open until 7:30 and I have an early meeting and—"
Tristan sighed.
Stepped aside.
"Come in."
Victory.
Mireille tried not to look too triumphant as she entered his apartment for the first time.
It was... exactly what she'd expected.
Minimalist. Immaculate. Everything in its place. Blacks, grays, whites. Clean lines. No clutter.
It looked like a hotel room occupied by someone who didn't believe in personal possessions.
"Nice place!" she said.
"It's functional."
"Very... clean."
"I prefer order."
Tristan moved to his kitchen—which was spotless, naturally—and poured coffee from a French press into her travel mug.
"Cream? Sugar?" he asked.
"Both, please!"
He added them with precise measurements, like he was conducting a chemistry experiment.
Handed her the mug.
"Thank you so much! You're a lifesaver!" Mireille beamed at him.
"Your coffee maker isn't actually broken, is it?" Tristan asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer.
"What? Of course it is! Why would I—"
"Mireille."
She wilted slightly under his knowing gaze.
"Okay, fine. It works. I just wanted to try your coffee. You seem like someone who'd have really good coffee."
"I see."
"Was I right?"
Despite himself—and she saw it, that tiny crack in his armor—Tristan's mouth twitched.
"You tell me."
Mireille took a sip.
Her eyes widened. "Oh my God. What is this? This is amazing."
"French roast. Single origin. I order it from a supplier in Lyon."
"You order coffee from France?"
"I like quality coffee."
"This is liquid gold! Can I—"
"No, you cannot have my supplier's information."
"But—"
"Mireille. You should go. Your 'early meeting.'"
"Right! Yes! Meeting!" She clutched her travel mug like precious treasure. "Thank you for the coffee! You're the best neighbor ever!"
"I'm your only neighbor."
"Still the best!"
She practically skipped out of his apartment.
Tristan closed the door, leaned against it, and allowed himself the smallest smile.
She's exhausting.
Why don't I mind as much as I should?
"I made too much pasta!" Mireille announced when Tristan opened his door at 8 PM. "Way too much! I can't possibly eat all of it! Would you like some?"
Tristan looked at the Tupperware container she was holding.
Then at her.
"You 'accidentally' made enough pasta for four people?"
"I'm bad at portion control!"
"Mireille—"
"Please? It'll just go to waste otherwise! And it's really good! I promise I'm a good cook!"
Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose.
He should say no.
He absolutely should say no.
"Come in," he said instead.
Why do I keep doing this?
Twenty Minutes Later
They sat at Tristan's small dining table—which he probably never used, Mireille suspected—eating pasta carbonara.
It was, objectively, very good.
"This is actually excellent," Tristan admitted.
"See? I told you!" Mireille grinned. "My grandmother's recipe. She was Italian. Well, half-Italian. Okay, she visited Italy once and got really into pasta. But still!"
Despite himself, Tristan smiled. A real one.
Mireille's heart did a little flip.
"You should smile more," she said without thinking. "It's nice."
The smile vanished immediately.
"I smile an appropriate amount."
"You smile like someone's holding you at gunpoint and forcing you to look pleasant."
"That's—" He stopped. "That's actually accurate for most business meetings."
Mireille laughed.