After Everything I’ve Done For You (Part Two)

The apartment was tiny, but to Darcy and Cole, it was a kingdom.

Darcy had already picked out the corner by the sealed fireplace for her yoga routines. There, the light pooled golden for thirty minutes before slinking into shadows. She pictured a bamboo mat, maybe a fiddle-leaf fig, maybe an Instagram post tagged #GratitudeFromTheWestVillage.

She would expand her coaching brand, Positive Lifestyle Architect, from this very corner. Manhattan was her launchpad. All she needed was space to breathe.

Cole had humbler ambitions: write something. Anything. He planned to perch at the wobbly kitchen counter, punching out articles, maybe even starting the novel he kept re-editing in his mind. He had a shelf of exactly seven books—one of them a tattered Great Gatsby inscribed by his father: Never let them tell you what success is.

His father had been a failed writer who'd succeeded once. Cole wasn't even that.

The bedroom barely fit their queen-sized bed. The door scraped the mattress when it opened, turning entry into a slow dance of hip-and-pivot. A single grated window caught just enough moonlight to make the claustrophobia seem romantic.

They fell asleep that first night tangled together, breathing in sync for once.

Outside, the trees rustled gently.

Inside, the toilet murmured like a man remembering a war.

They almost believed they were safe.

Then the key turned in the lock.

Cole sat up. “Did you hear that?”

Darcy, half-asleep, swatted him in the chest and rolled over. “If this isn’t life or death, you just destroyed my circadian rhythm.”

“Darcy. Wake up. Someone’s in our apartment.”

“Maybe it’s the building settling.”

“The building is not settling into our apartment.”

A faint breath—slow, deliberate.

Then click. Buzz. The kitchen light flicked on.

Darcy bolted upright. “Is that… a grinder?”

Cole crouched behind the half-unpacked couch. “Are we getting robbed?”

“No one robs with a conical burr grinder. This is either murder or very expensive coffee.”

They peeked around the corner.

Omar.

Omar from After Everything I’ve Done For You Realty. Wearing sweatpants, a button-down shirt, and an expression like this was all deeply inconvenient for him.

Sparks flew from the grinder—a faint smell of scorched metal.

“OMAR?!” they shouted.

“Good evening,” he said calmly, not looking up.

“I apologize for waking you. Small error in paperwork. You must move out by six.”

“Six... A.M.?” Darcy squawked.

“Yes, yes. Very sorry. But new tenants are coming. I am preparing keys.”

“We have a lease,” Cole said.

Omar gave a diplomatic shrug. “New lease has been issued. Unfortunate miscommunication. Opportunity for you. Fresh start!”

He unplugged the grinder with care, smoothing invisible dust off the counter.

“This is old rule,” he explained gently. “Obscure. Subchapter Three, Clause 44B. In case of administrative error, occupancy reverts to—how you say?—best and final offer.”

Darcy’s jaw dropped. “That’s not a thing.”

“In New York,” Omar said with a smile, “everything is a thing.”

Cole stepped forward. “You can’t break into people’s homes at three a.m.”

Omar looked wounded. “My friend. Where I come from? Fifteen people sleep in one room. Sometimes sixteen if cousin visits. Goats too. Very cozy.”

He gestured fondly around the apartment. “This? This is luxury. And what is luxury if not to be shared with others who love it more?”

Darcy, twitching. “Y