Page 6 of Catastrophically Yours
"That was six hours ago." Drew's concern felt genuine, uncomplicated by judgment. "Want me to make something? I'm pretty good at improvising with whatever's around."
"I should finish these reports?—"
"The reports aren't going anywhere. You need to eat." Drew's smile held gentle insistence. "Besides, I was thinking about suggesting a movie night. If you're interested."
Movie night. The suggestion sent anxiety spiraling through her thoughts—not because the idea was unwelcome, but because of how much she wanted to say yes. How the prospect of spending an evening on her couch with Drew felt both terrifying and inevitable.
"I don't really do movie nights," she heard herself saying, even as part of her mind catalogued all the reasons that statement was foolish.
"Neither do I, usually. But it's been a long day, and sometimes it's nice to just... exist in the same space without thinking too hard about anything."
The description hit something deep in Piper's bones. When had she last simply existed anywhere without calculating next steps or analyzing outcomes? When had she last let herself want something without immediately constructing barriers against disappointment?
"What kind of movies do you like?" The question escaped before her better judgment could intervene.
Drew's smile transformed her entire face. "I'm embarrassingly fond of romantic comedies. The more predictable, the better. Sometimes you want to know everything's going to work out okay."
Forty minutes later, they'd settled on the couch with what Drew cheerfully called "optimal movie-watching distance"—close enough to share the blanket Piper had retrieved from her bedroom, far enough apart to maintain the pretense that this was purely practical arrangement.
Pickle, apparently interpreting their careful positioning as a challenge, immediately sprawled across both their laps with the satisfied air of a cat who'd successfully engineered exactly the outcome he desired.
The weight and warmth of him forced Piper's thigh against Drew's, their bodies connecting from hip to knee beneath his purring bulk.
"Sorry," Drew murmured, starting to shift away. "I can move?—"
"It's fine." The words came out too quickly, betraying how much she didn't want Drew to move. "He's comfortable."
The romantic comedy's opening credits rolled across her television screen, but Piper found herself hyperaware of everything except the plot.
Drew's laugh, warm and delighted at the movie's silly jokes.
The way she absently stroked Pickle's fur, her thumb occasionally brushing against Piper's leg through the blanket.
The faint scent of her shampoo, something floral and subtle that made Piper want to lean closer.
Drew commented softly on the characters' questionable choices, her observations witty and surprisingly insightful. She celebrated small moments—a particularly good line, a beautiful shot, the inevitable meet-cute that would drive the story forward.
"Oh, she's definitely going to end up with the coffee shop guy," Drew said during the first act. "Look how he remembers her order without being asked."
"That's not necessarily romantic. Could just be good customer service."
Drew turned to look at her, eyebrows raised. "When someone remembers exactly how you like your coffee without writing it down, that's not customer service. That's attention."
The observation settled somewhere uncomfortable in Piper's stomach.
As if Drew might be talking about more than fictional characters.
As if small gestures of attention—perfect coffee, thoughtful snacks, chamomile tea appearing at exactly the right moment—might mean something more than casual kindness.
She tried to refocus on the screen, but Drew's presence beside her made concentration impossible.
The way she laughed during funny scenes, head tilting back slightly, the sound genuine and infectious.
How she unconsciously mirrored the actors' emotional beats, her face reflecting joy and concern and hope in perfect sympathy.
The protagonist's romantic crisis played out in predictable beats—misunderstanding, separation, grand gesture, reconciliation—but Drew watched with the engaged attention of someone experiencing it for the first time.
"I know it's formulaic," Drew said during a particularly cheesy declaration scene. "But sometimes formulas work because they're true, you know? Sometimes the predictable happy ending is exactly what everyone deserves."
Her voice carried wistful longing that made Piper wonder what endings Drew had hoped for in her own life. What formulas had failed her, what predictable happiness had remained just out of reach.
As the credits rolled, Piper realized Drew had gone quiet. Her breathing had deepened, evened out, and the warm weight against Piper's shoulder announced that she'd fallen asleep.
Piper froze, afraid any movement would break whatever spell had created this moment. Drew's face in the television's glow looked younger, peaceful, free from the careful optimism she wore during waking hours. Her usual animated energy had settled into something softer, more vulnerable.
This close, Piper could study details she'd only caught in glimpses. The way Drew's eyelashes cast tiny shadows on her cheeks. The small scar near her temple, probably from childhood. How her lips curved slightly upward even in sleep, as if her dreams defaulted to contentment.
The trust implicit in falling asleep against her shoulder made Piper's throat feel suddenly tight. When had anyone felt safe enough in her presence to simply let go? When had she provided the kind of comfort that invited such unconscious vulnerability?
Minutes passed. The television's sleep timer dimmed the screen to black, leaving them in darkness broken only by streetlight filtering through her curtains. Drew's breathing remained steady, her weight warm and solid against Piper's side.
Finally, moving with careful precision, Piper extracted herself from the couch and retrieved the blanket they'd shared. She draped it over Drew's sleeping form, tucking the edges gently around her shoulders.
In her own bedroom, surrounded by the familiar order of her carefully controlled space, Piper lay awake processing how completely Drew's presence had infiltrated every corner of her routine.
The coffee that tasted better than anything she'd ever made.
Sticky notes that transformed her refrigerator into something cheerful and welcoming.
Guitar music that made financial spreadsheets feel less important than beauty.
And how much she didn't want any of it to stop.
The realization should have terrified her.
Her entire adult life had been constructed around maintaining independence, controlling variables, protecting herself from the chaos other people inevitably brought.
She'd built systems specifically designed to prevent the kind of disruption Drew represented.
Instead, staring at her ceiling in the darkness, Piper found herself calculating how many days remained before Drew would find alternative housing.
How many more mornings might begin with perfect coffee and gentle chaos.
How many more evenings might end with someone trusting her enough to fall asleep against her shoulder.
The math felt depressing in ways that had nothing to do with numbers and everything to do with the growing certainty that temporary had already become something far more complicated.
Something she wasn't ready to lose.