Page 8 of Catastrophically Yours
"Medical equipment with expensive taste in bedding," Piper observed dryly, earning a grateful laugh from Drew.
They settled into comfortable quiet, the television providing background noise while both women pretended to focus on some cooking competition instead of cataloging the warmth of shared space, shared food, shared responsibility for the orange furball currently sprawled between them like a living bridge.
Drew found herself stealing glances at Piper's profile, noting how the tension around her eyes had softened since morning, how her shoulders had dropped from their usual military straightness. Without her work armor and professional distance, she looked almost approachable. Human in a way that made Drew's stomach flutter with something she absolutely could not afford to examine too closely.
This was temporary. One week, maybe two if she was lucky. Getting attached to this version of Piper—relaxed and laughing over tamale assembly, patient with Pickle's attention-seeking—would only make leaving harder when the time came.
But as Pickle's purring filled the space between them and Piper absently stroked his fur while half-watching television, Drew couldn't quite convince herself to rebuild the walls that had been crumbling since that first morning phone call.
Just for tonight, she let herself sink into the illusion of belonging somewhere warm and safe, with someone who folded tamales like she was born to it and didn't mind orange cat hairon her expensive furniture. Someone whose cat had simply done what cats do—explore their new territory and find the best spots to claim.
Just for tonight.
FOUR
WHEN ORDER MEETS CHAOS
The first thing that registered wasn't the sound of her alarm—it was the rich, complex aroma of coffee that had somehow achieved a perfection her precisely calibrated machine had never managed. Piper's eyes opened to sunlight filtering through her bedroom curtains, and for a disorienting moment, she couldn't place what felt different about her morning routine.
Then reality settled: Drew. The musician currently occupying her couch, who had somehow infiltrated even her sleep with the promise of perfectly brewed coffee.
Piper slipped from bed, her bare feet finding the cool hardwood as she padded toward the kitchen. The apartment felt different—warmer, more alive—with traces of last night's tamales still lingering in the air alongside that impossibly good coffee smell.
She found Drew standing at the counter in an oversized vintage Fleetwood Mac t-shirt and sleep shorts, hair wrapped in a colorful silk scarf, humming softly while she poured coffee into two mugs. The sight sent an unexpected flutter of warmth through Piper.
"Morning," Drew said without turning around, as if she possessed some sixth sense for detecting Piper's presence."Hope you don't mind—I borrowed your coffee setup. Promise I didn't break anything."
"How did you—" Piper stopped herself, accepting the offered mug. The first sip made her close her eyes involuntarily. Smooth, rich, with none of the bitter edge her machine usually produced. "This is better than anything I've ever made with that equipment."
Drew's smile could have powered the entire apartment building. "Secret's in the timing. And maybe talking to it nicely while it brews."
"You talk to coffee machines?"
"I talk to everything. Plants, appliances, Pickle..." Drew gestured toward the cat, who was currently investigating his food bowl with the focused intensity of a food critic. "World's more responsive when you're polite to it."
Piper found herself studying Drew's profile as she moved around the kitchen with unconscious grace, assembling what appeared to be an impromptu breakfast from Piper's admittedly sparse supplies. The way morning light caught the warm undertones in her skin, how her hands moved with the same fluid confidence she'd shown while folding tamales?—
Her favorite mug sat in the sink, unwashed, next to a plate dusted with crumbs and a butter knife that definitely hadn't been there when she went to bed. The sight made Piper's eye twitch involuntarily, her internal organization system sending up mild alarms about disrupted patterns.
But the kitchen still smelled like those tamales—like cumin and comfort and something indefinably homey that her sterile space had never possessed. The contradiction left her uncertain which feeling to trust.
"Sorry about the mess," Drew said, following her gaze. "I'm not actually this disorganized usually. Well, okay, I totally am,but I was trying to be quiet and didn't want to run water and wake you up."
The thoughtfulness behind the mess surprised her. "It's... fine. I'm just particular about my morning routine."
"I noticed. Color-coded calendar, alphabetized spice rack, books arranged by genre and publication date." Drew's tone held no judgment, just gentle observation. "Bet your closet's organized by season and color."
Heat crept up Piper's neck. "Maybe."
"It's not a bad thing. I wish I had even ten percent of your organizational skills." Drew gestured vaguely toward her guitar case and the small explosion of belongings around the couch area. "My life's basically controlled chaos on a good day."
Before Piper could formulate a response that wouldn't sound condescending, her phone buzzed with an incoming call. The display showed her most demanding client's name, and tension immediately coiled in her shoulders.
"I need to take this," she said, already moving toward her makeshift home office setup at the dining table.
Twenty minutes later, she was deep in explaining quarterly projections when Drew's guitar practice began bleeding through the walls. Soft, melancholy melodies that seemed to wind around Piper's words about revenue streams and budget allocations, making her lose her train of thought mid-sentence.
"—and the third quarter numbers show a significant— Sorry, could you repeat that question?"
