The door clicked open with a soft hum, and Aria Henfer took one cautious step into the penthouse.
Then another.
And another.
Until she was fully inside and the door shut behind her with a very final-sounding click.
Her eyes widened.
"…Oh. Wow."
This wasn't an apartment.
This was a lifestyle.
Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a rain-soaked skyline, skyscrapers glinting under the moody clouds. The living room was all sleek lines and cool tones—black marble, grey velvet, brushed gold accents that whispered expensive.
Every piece of furniture looked like it belonged in a museum or a magazine. Or at the very least, had never been touched by human hands.
She stood in dripping sneakers, holding her canvas bag like it might offend the polished white rug beneath her.
Aria cleared her throat. "Okay, so don't touch anything. Don't breathe too hard. Don't even look at the couch the wrong way."
Ms. Penelope's voice echoed in her memory. "It's just temporary. A few weeks, tops. And no—he's not there. He's away on business. You'll have the place all to yourself. The company owns the unit. He won't mind."
Sure.
Totally believable.
She dropped her duffle by the door, tugged off her jacket, and toed off her soaked shoes. The silence in the penthouse was so loud she could hear her own heartbeat.
She wandered through the space—touching nothing—until she found the guest room.
It was nicer than any hotel she'd ever stayed in. Crisp linens, minimalist furniture, and a stunning city view. A long mirror leaned against one wall, and the en-suite bathroom had black tile and rainfall shower vibes written all over it.
"I could get used to this," she whispered.
---
Two Hours Later...
The silence had turned to comfort.
Aria had changed into leggings and a sleep shirt with a cartoon mushroom and the words Spore Loser printed across it. She was curled on the edge of the pristine couch (covered in a towel, thank you very much), sipping tea and sketching in her lap. One earbud in. Hair in a messy bun. Music playing softly.
This place was sterile, cold, intimidating—but she'd survive. Just for a while.
Just until she figured out what the hell she was going to do.
Then the door opened.
A low click. The sound of shoes on marble. A voice murmuring something to someone outside in a distinctly British accent.
Aria froze.
Then turned slowly—eyes wide.
No.
No, no, no.
It couldn't be.
But it was.
Ashraf Ainsworth.
Still grumpy. Still beautiful. Still 100% not supposed to be standing in the doorway of the penthouse with a gym bag slung over one shoulder and his hair damp from rain.
His gaze met hers—and stopped.
The moment stretched between them like a piece of elastic ready to snap.
Aria blinked. "Hi?"
His brow furrowed. "Why... are you here?"
She stood up too fast and knocked over her tea, which hit the towel and rolled dramatically off the couch onto the rug.
She stared at the growing stain in horror.
Then at him.
Then at the stain again.
"I can explain."
Ashraf dropped the gym bag slowly to the floor, like if he moved too fast, she'd explode.
"You're in my apartment."
"I thought you were out of town!"
"I was. Until two hours ago."
She winced. "Then this is just... a horrible, horrible coincidence."
He stepped inside, the door shutting behind him with a quiet click.
"I'm calling Penelope," he muttered, pulling out his phone.
"Okay, but like... can we both agree that this is her fault?"
He stopped. "You're in my home."
"In my defense," she said, lifting a finger, "you weren't supposed to be home home. You were supposed to be gone. It's very different if someone's gone."
"You've been here. Touching things."
"I only touched the tea!"
Ashraf's eyes scanned the apartment. "There's bubble wrap on the dining chairs."
Aria flushed. "That was preemptive caution."
"You moved your plants in."
"I needed emotional support!"
He looked at her like she was an alien. "You moved in. To my penthouse. Without permission."
"Penelope said it was fine!"
"Penelope doesn't live here."
"But she's scary and elegant and British, which usually means people listen to her!"
He pinched the bridge of his nose like she gave him physical pain. "This is a private residence."
"Well, it was until I showed up with trauma and a paintbrush."
His expression didn't shift. "You've been here two hours and I already want to move to another country."
She crossed her arms. "You're being a little dramatic."
"I am being very restrained."
There was a pause.
A tense, electrically silent pause where neither of them blinked.
Finally, Ashraf sighed. "You can stay. For now. Just until I get this sorted with Penelope."
Aria blinked. "Wait, really?"
He glared. "But I have rules."
"Of course you do."
"No singing in the kitchen."
She gasped. "That's oppression."
"No leaving wet towels anywhere."
"I don't even shower like a regular person. I float in baths and contemplate my life choices."
"No paint in the living room."
She narrowed her eyes. "I make magic, sir."
"Contain your magic."
"I will not be emotionally restrained by the likes of you."
Another pause.
A long, tense beat where they both looked like they wanted to throw something—and possibly kiss.
Ashraf turned and walked toward the hallway, muttering, "This is going to be hell."
Aria flopped onto the couch and called after him, "You're lucky hell comes with really good lighting!"