Page 5 of Catastrophically Yours
FOUR
WHEN ORDER MEETS CHAOS
The first thing that registered wasn't the sound of her alarm—it was the rich, complex aroma of coffee that had somehow achieved a perfection her precisely calibrated machine had never managed.
Piper's eyes opened to sunlight filtering through her bedroom curtains, and for a disorienting moment, she couldn't place what felt different about her morning routine.
Then reality settled: Drew. The musician currently occupying her couch, who had somehow infiltrated even her sleep with the promise of perfectly brewed coffee.
Piper slipped from bed, her bare feet finding the cool hardwood as she padded toward the kitchen. The apartment felt different—warmer, more alive—with traces of last night's tamales still lingering in the air alongside that impossibly good coffee smell.
She found Drew standing at the counter in an oversized vintage Fleetwood Mac t-shirt and sleep shorts, hair wrapped in a colorful silk scarf, humming softly while she poured coffee into two mugs. The sight sent an unexpected flutter of warmth through Piper.
"Morning," Drew said without turning around, as if she possessed some sixth sense for detecting Piper's presence. "Hope you don't mind—I borrowed your coffee setup. Promise I didn't break anything."
"How did you—" Piper stopped herself, accepting the offered mug. The first sip made her close her eyes involuntarily. Smooth, rich, with none of the bitter edge her machine usually produced. "This is better than anything I've ever made with that equipment."
Drew's smile could have powered the entire apartment building. "Secret's in the timing. And maybe talking to it nicely while it brews."
"You talk to coffee machines?"
"I talk to everything. Plants, appliances, Pickle..." Drew gestured toward the cat, who was currently investigating his food bowl with the focused intensity of a food critic. "World's more responsive when you're polite to it."
Piper found herself studying Drew's profile as she moved around the kitchen with unconscious grace, assembling what appeared to be an impromptu breakfast from Piper's admittedly sparse supplies.
The way morning light caught the warm undertones in her skin, how her hands moved with the same fluid confidence she'd shown while folding tamales?—
Her favorite mug sat in the sink, unwashed, next to a plate dusted with crumbs and a butter knife that definitely hadn't been there when she went to bed. The sight made Piper's eye twitch involuntarily, her internal organization system sending up mild alarms about disrupted patterns.
But the kitchen still smelled like those tamales—like cumin and comfort and something indefinably homey that her sterile space had never possessed. The contradiction left her uncertain which feeling to trust.
"Sorry about the mess," Drew said, following her gaze. "I'm not actually this disorganized usually. Well, okay, I totally am, but I was trying to be quiet and didn't want to run water and wake you up."
The thoughtfulness behind the mess surprised her. "It's... fine. I'm just particular about my morning routine."
"I noticed. Color-coded calendar, alphabetized spice rack, books arranged by genre and publication date." Drew's tone held no judgment, just gentle observation. "Bet your closet's organized by season and color."
Heat crept up Piper's neck. "Maybe."
"It's not a bad thing. I wish I had even ten percent of your organizational skills." Drew gestured vaguely toward her guitar case and the small explosion of belongings around the couch area. "My life's basically controlled chaos on a good day."
Before Piper could formulate a response that wouldn't sound condescending, her phone buzzed with an incoming call. The display showed her most demanding client's name, and tension immediately coiled in her shoulders.
"I need to take this," she said, already moving toward her makeshift home office setup at the dining table.
Twenty minutes later, she was deep in explaining quarterly projections when Drew's guitar practice began bleeding through the walls. Soft, melancholy melodies that seemed to wind around Piper's words about revenue streams and budget allocations, making her lose her train of thought mid-sentence.
"—and the third quarter numbers show a significant— Sorry, could you repeat that question?"
The music wasn't loud, wasn't intrusive, but something about the gentle fingerpicking pattern made concentration impossible. Each note seemed designed to pull her attention away from spreadsheets and toward something more immediate, more felt than calculated.
"Ms. Novak, are you still with us?"
"Yes, absolutely. Where were we?" Piper forced herself to focus on the computer screen, but the melody continued weaving through her thoughts, transforming dry financial data into something that felt almost... musical.
By the time she finished the call, her carefully structured morning had dissolved into something unrecognizable. Papers scattered when Pickle had decided her printer made an excellent observation perch, client files mixed with Drew's sticky note system, her mental schedule completely derailed.
She should have felt frustrated. Instead, searching for her documents while that beautiful guitar music continued in the background, she felt oddly energized.
Lunchtime brought another small disruption to her routine. Opening the refrigerator revealed Drew's handiwork: leftover containers labeled with cheerful sticky notes in purple ink. "Drew's experimental quinoa situation," read one. "Leftover tamales (the good stuff!)" proclaimed another.
At the bottom of the stack, a single tamale in a small container bore a note that made warmth spread through her ribs: "For Piper's emergency snack stash—because everyone needs backup food."
The consideration behind such a simple gesture caught her off guard. How long had it been since someone anticipated her needs? Since someone considered what might make her day slightly easier?
She ate the tamale standing at her kitchen counter, tasting not just the complex spices Drew had so carefully balanced, but something else entirely. Care, maybe. The kind of casual consideration that felt both foreign and deeply welcome.
The afternoon brought its own negotiations with her disrupted routine.
Grocery shopping took twice as long as usual—partly because she found herself considering Drew's dietary preferences without being asked, partly because she kept catching herself selecting items that might surprise or delight her temporary roommate.
Drew liked fresh fruit, she'd noticed. Had mentioned missing good bread since money got tight. And coffee—clearly the woman appreciated quality coffee.
Returning home with bags full of groceries she'd never normally buy, Piper climbed the three flights to her apartment wondering when her careful budgeting had evolved to include another person's happiness.
She found Drew teaching Pickle to high-five on her pristine coffee table.
"Come on, buddy, you almost had it," Drew was saying, holding a small treat just above the cat's reach. "Just lift that paw a little higher?—"
Pickle, apparently deciding direct action was more efficient than following instructions, lunged for the treat and scattered crumbs across Piper's carefully maintained surface.
"Pickle, no!" Drew laughed, the sound bright and genuinely delighted despite the mess. "You're supposed to earn the snack, not steal it."
Piper stood in her doorway, grocery bags still in hand, watching this scene of complete domestic chaos unfold on her furniture.
She should have been irritated. Should have pointed out that the coffee table wasn't designed for cat training, that crumbs would leave stains, that her entire careful system was being undermined by treats and paw prints.
Instead, Drew's genuine laughter made every concern evaporate. The pure joy in her voice, the way she celebrated Pickle's small victories even while gently correcting his technique—it transformed the mess from disorder into something approaching magic.
"How's the high-five training progressing?" Piper asked, setting her bags on the kitchen counter.
"Pickle's more of a 'take what you want and apologize later' kind of student," Drew admitted, scratching behind the cat's ears. "But we're making progress. Aren't we, buddy?"
Pickle purred agreement while stalking another treat.
"I brought groceries." The words felt inadequate for the careful consideration she'd put into each selection, but Drew's face lit up as if she'd announced something wonderful.
"You didn't have to do that. I can contribute?—"
"It's fine." The dismissal came out sharper than Piper intended, reflexive protection against acknowledgment of financial disparities. "I mean, it's easier to shop for two. More efficient."
Drew studied her for a moment, something knowing and gentle in her expression. "Well, thank you. For the efficiency."
The work day stretched longer than usual, client deadlines converging with the particular intensity that marked month-end financial reconciliations.
Piper remained at her dining table as afternoon faded to evening, laptop screen casting blue light across scattered papers, calculator clicking rhythmically beneath her fingers.
She'd forgotten about dinner entirely until a mug appeared at her elbow—chamomile tea in her favorite ceramic cup, steam rising in delicate spirals.
"Thought you might need a break," Drew said softly, her fingers brushing Piper's during the handoff.
The contact lasted barely a second, but electricity shot up Piper's arm and made her skin suddenly hypersensitive. Drew's hands were warm, slightly callused from guitar strings, and the brief touch left Piper acutely aware of the space between their bodies.
"Thank you." The words came out more breathless than she intended.
"You've been working for hours. When's the last time you ate something?"
Piper tried to remember, came up blank. "I had that tamale at lunch."