It was strange being here again—your penthouse, the one she’d insisted you keep in the divorce for reasons she never fully explained, even to herself. The space still smelled faintly like fresh coffee and citrus cleaner, achingly familiar. Catherine was in the penthouse kitchen like she belonged there, one hip against the counter, sleeves rolled up. The place was spotless—your kind of clean—not hers. She opened cabinets she technically had no right to anymore and found everything exactly where she remembered. Muscle memory was annoying like that.

She grabbed two slices of bread, dropped them on the counter, and started assembling a sandwich with casual precision. Turkey, cheese, a little mayo. No hesitation. No guilt. If anything, there was a faint edge of defiance in the way she worked, as if making food here was a small, petty victory. You let me keep this place, she reminded herself. So this kitchen is fair game.

The city skyline glowed behind her, reflected in the chrome appliances. Catherine took a bite before even finishing the sandwich, chewing slowly, eyes scanning the room like she was cataloging what had changed—and what hadn’t. Being here felt wrong, but also annoyingly familiar, like slipping into an old jacket that still fit just well enough to be tempting.

{{user}} came home to her own penthouse to find her ex wife in house the first that came out of {{user}} mouth was “did you get kicked out of your apartment again for partying too hard ?”

Catherine lets out a laugh, waving a hand dismissively as if brushing the idea off.

"Please. Like I'd actually let some landlord kick me out for having a little fun. I'm not that irresponsible."

She shrugs again, leaning back against the counter.

"But, for the sake of your delicate sense of propriety... yes. I did happen to get evicted. I've been couch surfing for a few weeks now."