Week 1, Tuesday Evening - The Lockout
Mireille stood outside her apartment door, staring at it with theatrical dismay.
She had her keys.
Obviously she had her keys. They were in her pocket.
But Tristan didn't need to know that.
She knocked on his door—109—and waited..
Footsteps. The door opened.
Tristan stood there in casual clothes, clearly having just gotten home from work. He looked at her, then at her door across the hall, then back at her.
"Yes?"
"I locked myself out!" Mireille announced, gesturing helplessly at her door. "Can you believe it? I'm so stupid sometimes! I left my keys inside and—"
"Your keys are in your hand."
Mireille looked down.
Damn it. She was holding her apartment keys.
"These are... my car keys!" she improvised wildly. "Very similar! Easy mistake!"
Tristan's expression suggested he didn't believe her for a second.
"The locksmith is on the way," Mireille continued quickly. "But it'll be like thirty minutes and I really don't want to just stand in the hallway like a loser, so can I wait in your apartment? Please? I'll be super quiet! You won't even know I'm there!"
Tristan stared at her.
Sighed.
Stepped aside.
"Thank you!" Mireille beamed, slipping past him into the apartment.
She made herself comfortable on his couch—which was probably more expensive than her entire living room set—and pulled out her phone.
Tristan returned to whatever he'd been doing before she interrupted. Working on his laptop at the dining table, it looked like.
Five minutes of silence.
"So what are you working on?" Mireille asked.
"Work."
"What kind of work?"
"The kind that requires concentration."
"Sounds boring."
"It's riveting."
Ten more minutes.
"Do you want me to order dinner?" Mireille offered. "Since I'm here anyway? We could get Thai food. Or pizza. Do you like pizza? Everyone likes pizza."
"I ate already."
"Liar. I heard your stomach growl."
Tristan's fingers paused on the keyboard. "You have exceptional hearing."
"So that's a yes to pizza?"
"Mireille—"
"Pepperoni or supreme?"
Another sigh. "Supreme. No olives."
"See? Was that so hard?"
Tristan didn't answer, but his mouth twitched slightly.
The locksmith never showed up.
Because Mireille never called one.
Week 2, Saturday Morning - The Hammer
"Do you have a hammer?"
Tristan opened his door to find Mireille holding a picture frame and looking hopeful.
"A hammer," he repeated flatly.
"Yes! I need to hang this picture and I can't find mine anywhere. I think it's still packed in one of those boxes I haven't unpacked yet. Do you have one?"
"I have a hammer."
"Can I borrow it?"
Tristan disappeared into his apartment and returned with a hammer and a small container of picture-hanging hooks.
"Here. Use the hooks. They won't damage the wall as much."
"Aww, you're worried about my walls! That's so sweet!"
"I'm worried about the building's structural integrity."
"Same thing!" Mireille accepted the tools. "Thanks! I'll bring these right back!"
"Take your time."
Forty-five minutes later, Mireille knocked again.
Tristan opened the door.
"So," Mireille said sheepishly. "I can't get the hook to go in straight. It keeps tilting. Can you... help?"
Tristan looked like he was conducting an internal debate with himself.
"Please?" Mireille added. "I'll owe you one!"
"You already owe me several."
"Then one more won't hurt!"
Tristan grabbed the hammer and followed her across the hall.
Her apartment was the opposite of his—colorful, slightly chaotic, lived-in. Throw pillows everywhere. Plants on every surface. Art prints leaning against walls waiting to be hung.
"Where?" he asked.
Mireille pointed to a spot above her couch. "There. I want to hang this."
It was a photograph—black and white, artistic. A city street at night, rain-slicked pavement reflecting neon signs.
"Nice shot," Tristan said, examining it.
"You think so? I took it!"
He looked at her with genuine surprise. "You're a photographer?"
"Hobby. I like capturing moments." She smiled. "The beautiful chaos of everyday life."
Tristan studied the photograph again with new appreciation.
Then he hung it.
Perfectly level. First try.
"Show off," Mireille teased.
"It's called being competent."
"Can you teach me to be that competent?"
"I don't think you have the attention span."
Mireille gasped in mock offense. "Rude!"
Week 2, Wednesday Night - The Weird Noise
Mireille knocked at 10 PM.
Tristan opened the door in pajama pants and a t-shirt, clearly ready for bed.
"There's a weird noise in my apartment," Mireille said immediately. "Can you hear it from yours?"
"What kind of noise?"
"Like a... clicking? Or maybe a humming? I don't know, it's weird and it's freaking me out!"
Tristan listened.
Silence.
"I don't hear anything."
"It's intermittent! Come listen from my apartment! Maybe you'll hear it there!"
Tristan looked extremely skeptical.
But he followed her anyway.
They stood in her living room in silence.
Waiting.
"There!" Mireille whispered. "Did you hear that?"
"That was your refrigerator."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"But it sounded weird—"
"Refrigerators make sounds. It's normal."
"What if it's dying?"
"Is your food cold?"
"...Yes."
"Then it's fine."
Mireille bit her lip. "But what if—"
"Mireille." Tristan turned to face her directly. "Your refrigerator is fine. There is no weird noise. Did you actually hear something or did you just want company?"
She looked caught.
"I mean... I did hear the clicking..."
"Mm-hmm."
"But also maybe I was bored and you're right across the hall and—" She stopped. "Okay fine. I wanted company. Sue me."
"I should."
"But you won't."
"No," Tristan admitted. "I won't."
They stood there for a moment.
"Do you want tea?" Mireille offered. "Since you're here anyway?"
"What kind of tea?" he asked instead.
Mireille's face lit up. "I have like fifteen kinds! Come see!"
Week 3, Sunday Afternoon - The Taste Tester
"I'm testing a new recipe!"
Tristan didn't even look surprised anymore when he opened his door to find Mireille holding a plate of something.
"What is it this time?"
"Lemon bars! But I tried a new technique and I need an objective opinion. You're very objective."
"You mean critical."
"Objective," Mireille insisted. "So will you try one?"
Tristan accepted the plate and took a bite.
The lemon bar was perfect. Tart but not too tart. Sweet but not cloying. The crust was buttery and crumbly in exactly the right way.
"Well?" Mireille asked eagerly.
"It's acceptable."
"ACCEPTABLE?!" Mireille looked genuinely offended. "That's it?!"
"The crust could be slightly thinner."
"The crust is PERFECT!"
"If you want my objective opinion—"
"I want your HONEST opinion!"
"That is my honest opinion."
"Your honest opinion is wrong!"
Tristan's mouth curved into something that was almost, almost a smile. "Then why did you ask?"
"Because I thought you'd— wait." Mireille narrowed her eyes. "Are you messing with me?"
"I don't mess with people."
"You're messing with me right now!"
"Am I?"
"You are! You think they're good and you're just being difficult!"
"I think the crust—"
"The crust is PERFECT and you KNOW IT!"
Tristan took another bite. Chewed thoughtfully. "They're very good, Mireille."
"HA! I knew it!"
"The crust is still too thick."
"TRISTAN!"
He was definitely smiling now.
Week 3, Thursday Evening - The Pattern
Tristan sat in his apartment, working on his laptop, when he heard Mireille's door open and close across the hall.
He checked his watch. 7:47 PM.
She was home from work.
Any minute now, she'd find some excuse to knock on his door.
He waited.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Fifteen.
No knock.
Tristan frowned at his laptop screen, his concentration broken.
She always knocked.
Always had some excuse. Some reason to interrupt his evening.
So where—
He stood up abruptly, walked to his door, and opened it.
Mireille's door across the hall was closed.
Silence.
This is good, he told himself. This is what you wanted. Peace and quiet. Your normal routine.
He went back to his laptop.
Tried to focus.
Couldn't.
With an annoyed sigh at himself, Tristan stood up, walked back to his door, opened it, and knocked on apartment 119.
Mireille opened it, looking surprised. "Tristan? Everything okay?"
"Do you want dinner?" he asked before he could talk himself out of it.
Her whole face brightened. "Really?"
"I'm ordering Thai food. You said you liked Thai food."
"I love Thai food!"
"Then come over in twenty minutes."
He turned and walked back to his apartment before she could see his expression.
Behind him, Mireille stood in her doorway, grinning like she'd just won the lottery.
Week 4, Late Night
Mireille had stopped making excuses.
She just knocked.
And Tristan just let her in.
They'd watch terrible reality TV that Mireille loved and Tristan pretended to hate.
Or she'd read while he worked, both of them existing in comfortable silence.
Or they'd cook dinner together, Mireille chattering about her day while Tristan chopped vegetables with precise, methodical movements.
"You know," Mireille said one evening, sprawled on his couch while some cooking competition played on TV, "you're way less scary than you pretend to be."
"I'm not pretending anything."
"You're pretending you don't like having me around."
Tristan didn't answer.
"But you do," Mireille continued confidently. "Otherwise you'd have told me to leave by now."
"Maybe I'm just too polite."
"You're the least polite person I know. You told your boss's client their proposal was 'embarrassingly inadequate' last week."
"It was."
"See? Not polite." She grinned at him. "You like me, Tristan Mercier. Admit it."
"I tolerate you."
"Same thing."
"It's absolutely not—"
"Do you want popcorn? I'm making popcorn."
"Mireille—"