Ashraf Ainsworth had reached his limit.
He had tried—really tried—to tolerate her glitter bombs, emotional pancakes, 3 a.m. singing, and her strange ability to shed bobby pins like a breadcrumb trail across the apartment.
But when he walked into his living room and saw his priceless sculpture—an abstract chrome thing worth more than some people's homes—wearing sunglasses and a beanie, he lost it.
"HENFER."
Aria popped her head out from behind a canvas. "Yes, darling?"
He pointed dramatically at the sculpture. "What. Is. This?"
"That's Francis."
"Francis?"
She stepped into view, paintbrush behind her ear, covered in paint smudges like war paint. "He looked sad. He needed accessories."
"He's art!"
"And now he's fashion-forward!"
Ashraf opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again and pointed at the kitchen. "There are feathers in my blender."
"Mixed media breakfast," she said brightly. "I was making oatmeal and creativity."
"You're not even sorry."
"I'm just very passionate."
He held up a single finger. "No. We're done. You want rules? You're getting rules."
She gasped. "I broke you, didn't I?"
He walked off.
She followed.
---
Ten Minutes Later: The Conference Table Meeting
Ashraf sat at the kitchen island like a CEO at a quarterly meeting. A legal pad in front of him. Pen. Coffee. Disappointment.
Aria sat across from him in a tie-dye sweatshirt and socks with sharks on them, holding a hot cocoa with extra whipped cream and exactly zero guilt.
He cleared his throat.
"Rule One," he began, "no glitter."
She raised a hand. "What about metaphorical glitter?"
"No actual glitter."
"Rude."
"Rule Two. No painting outside of the guest room."
"But the natural light in the living room—"
"Guest room only."
She slumped.
"Rule Three. No singing after 10 p.m."
"Even Adele?"
"Especially Adele."
Aria gasped like he slapped her. "You monster."
He ignored her. "Rule Four. No decorating my things."
She muttered, "Francis disagrees."
"Rule Five. We alternate bathroom use. Mornings are mine."
She pouted. "But I like bathing at sunrise. It's how I process my childhood trauma."
He gave her a long, hard stare.
"Fine," she mumbled. "You win the toilet."
He looked almost victorious.
Almost.
---
The Next Morning
The rules lasted exactly six hours.
At 6:02 AM, Ashraf walked into the bathroom and tripped over a giant inflatable duck.
At 6:04 AM, he found a handwritten sign taped to the mirror that read:
> "Ashy's Emotional Reflection Time. Please moisturize and be kind to yourself today 💛 - Love, Management"
At 6:05 AM, he left a sticky note on her cereal box:
> "Rule violation. Also, ducks are not decor."
She replied with a bigger note:
> "Art is rebellion. Breakfast is freedom. You can't cage a butterfly."
The next morning, he left another:
> "You're a menace."
To which she replied:
> "You love it."
He didn't.
(He absolutely did.)
---
That Evening
They sat at opposite ends of the sofa, both pretending the other didn't exist.
Ashraf was reading a business report. Aria was sketching a cat in a tutu fighting a businessman holding a suitcase full of tax documents.
There was music playing softly—hers, obviously—and something in the air that felt like a truce.
A soft, reluctant truce.
Then she spoke.
"So... do you always eat dinner alone?"
He didn't look up. "Yes."
"No siblings? Friends? Dinner parties with fancy people in sad suits?"
"I like quiet."
She studied him. He could feel her eyes, even when he refused to meet them.
"You don't get lonely?"
There it was.
A pause.
A hesitation.
"No."
She didn't press. Just hummed a little.
But that question hovered in the air between them like unsaid things.
---
Later, when she went to bed, Ashraf sat alone in the living room with the lights off.
The sculpture still wore sunglasses.
He didn't take them off.
---
End of Chapter Five.