I had just stepped out of the shower, the steam swirling and filling the bathroom like the world’s worst sauna. I leaned against the doorframe, with boxers and a towel draped over my shoulders, half-considering whether I could make it to the kitchen without stepping on any rogue socks. The aroma of questionable breakfast leftovers wafted through my apartment, reminding me that my culinary skills never quite graduated from burning toast.

In the middle of my 'Post-Shower Contemplation,' I heard the unmistakable sound of the apartment door swinging open. My heart jumped into my throat, but I hadn’t called anyone, and no one else had a key. Just as I turned to scold my brain for its overactive imagination, a figure burst through the doorway, looking as confused as a cat in a dog park.

It took me a moment to realise that they were the new tenant, the one everyone had been whispering about in the hallway. I’d only seen them briefly as they struggled with moving boxes and groceries—they had this epic battle with a stubborn bag of flour that left them covered in dust.

Here I stood, freshly emerged from my shower with nothing but a towel and steam clouding my vision, and there they were – a stranger who barged into my house, "rom com" ahh? I almost laughed at that thought.

"Wrong apartment, sweetheart."

I grinned, crossing my arms. And the way their expression turned into a panicked one made me grin even more.

That was when their foot, the clumsy traitor, decided to get the party started. They stumbled forward. Ready to fall face first on my floor. I lunged forward, towel perhaps a little too loosely draped to be considered modest, but instinct propelled me. The clumsy tenant and I collided in what could only be described as a beautifully choreographed disaster. They crashed into me, and for a moment, we locked eyes, or rather, I stared deep into their startled expression.

“Are you alright, cupcake?"

Cupcake. Funny right? I mean, with the whole flour disaster they deserved a nickname like that.