Ashraf woke at precisely 6:00 AM, the way he always did.
He made his bed with military precision. Pulled on black workout gear. Brushed his teeth for two minutes exactly. Then went straight to the gym in the building's lower level, where silence, air-conditioning, and structure awaited.
Everything was normal.
Until he returned to not normal.
Because as soon as the elevator doors opened, he heard it.
Music.
Loud music.
From inside his penthouse.
He paused, frowning.
He didn't listen to music in the mornings. He didn't even listen to music in the evenings. Mornings were for espresso, cold showers, and strategic planning—not for... whatever the hell was happening in his living room.
He stepped inside.
And froze.
The smell hit first. Sweet. Like sugar and cinnamon and something slightly burned.
Then he heard the voice.
Off-key. Loud. Happy.
He turned the corner.
And saw her.
Aria Henfer. Dancing barefoot in pajama pants that looked like they were made from rejected children's wallpaper. Her curls were flying loose. One headphone was dangling from her ear. She was holding a spatula and flipping something that looked like a pancake with confidence not backed up by skill.
She didn't notice him at first.
She was mid-spin, mumbling lyrics into a spoon.
Ashraf blinked.
The entire apartment was different.
There was a towel on the couch.
A cup on the bookshelf.
Shoes—muddy shoes—by the window.
A painting on the kitchen counter, half-finished, with vibrant blues and peach streaks swirling across the canvas like an emotional hurricane.
He took a slow, murderous breath.
"Henfer."
She shrieked and spun, dropping the spatula. "Holy—! Do you sneak up on people for fun or are you just naturally ominous?"
"What is this?" he asked, gesturing vaguely to the entire situation.
"Pancakes?"
"This isn't a breakfast. It's an act of war."
She shrugged. "It's not my fault you've never met joy before."
"Why is there a painting in my kitchen?"
"Because the light is good here."
"You have a room."
"The walls in there are too stiff."
He rubbed his temples.
This was not how mornings were supposed to go. Mornings were for solitude, not glitter on the table and paintbrushes in the sink and the smell of—
"Is that cinnamon?"
"Yes," she said, slightly defensive. "You live like a robot. I'm trying to give your apartment a soul."
"I liked it soulless."
"Well, I don't."
They stared at each other.
Then she turned around, like that was the end of the conversation, and resumed humming as she flipped the next pancake.
Ashraf watched the pan tilt dangerously and immediately reached over to turn down the heat.
She slapped his hand away. "Don't touch my fire!"
"You'll set off the sprinklers."
"That's why I put a plate on top of the smoke detector."
"You—what?!"
She turned back and grinned, holding up a plate taped to the ceiling.
He stared.
Then turned around, walked to his espresso machine, and muttered under his breath, "This is how villains are made."
---
Later That Day...
Ashraf tried to work from home.
Tried.
He sat at his sleek black desk in the office, fingers poised over his laptop.
The building was quiet.
Except for the living room, where Aria was now loudly FaceTiming someone and laughing like a human sunbeam.
Every laugh felt like it stabbed him directly in the frontal lobe.
She had set up an easel in front of the window. A whole workspace. Paints, water cups, paper towels, snacks. There were snacks next to the Monet print.
Ashraf stared at her over the rim of his coffee cup like she was a particularly persistent hallucination.
She didn't even notice.
She was painting barefoot again, wearing a new sweatshirt that said "Sorry I'm Late, I Didn't Want to Come."
He went back to his laptop.
Two minutes later, she sneezed.
Loud.
And he jumped.
Ashraf closed the laptop with a snap.
He had lost. His peace was dead. His sanity was clinging to life.
---
That Night…
She left the bathroom door open.
Not fully open. But just enough that steam wafted into the hallway like a scented warning.
He passed by, heading to his own room, and paused.
Towel on the floor.
Lavender shampoo.
Somewhere in the steam, she was humming again. Not singing. Just a low, soft sound, barely audible.
He walked faster.
His brain did not need that detail.
---
By the time Ashraf crawled into bed that night, he was exhausted.
Not from work.
From her.
The chaos. The color. The humming.
She was a one-woman revolution against everything he'd spent his life building: structure, stillness, solitude.
And for some awful reason... it didn't feel temporary anymore.