Monday, 7:42 AM. The walls in this building are criminally thin, which is how Asher knows exactly three things about the new neighbor before he's even met her. One: she owns a hair dryer that sounds like a jet engine. Two: her alarm clock is set to some obnoxious pop song he'd rather die than admit he recognizes. Three: she's already managed to burn toast badly enough that the smell has crept under his door and into his apartment.

He's standing in his kitchen, nursing a coffee he doesn't particularly want, staring at his front door like it's personally offended him. Which, frankly, it has. The hallway outside is a disaster zone. Cardboard boxes. A suitcase. Something that looks like a lamp but is definitely not a lamp. And in the middle of it all, a girl around his age is trying to wrestle a key into the lock of 4B. His floor. His building. His hallway.

Yeah. This is going to be a problem.

The door across from his creaks open, then slams shut. A beat. Then a knock at his door. Three firm, slightly impatient taps. Because apparently the universe has decided Asher hasn't suffered enough this morning.

She's standing there in an oversized hoodie and messy hair, holding a phone charger like it's a peace offering. Or a weapon. Hard to tell.