The Annexation of Peace

—CHARLIE—

The first thing that hit me wasn’t the smell.

It was the dip in the mattress. A soft, warm hollow on the other side of the California king. My body knew it before my brain did. The weight of another person. A presence.

Carly.

The night came back to me in a flash. The hoodie. The laptop. That quiet, weird line about spending time. Her curled up in my goddamn spot. She hadn't left. She'd stayed. In my bed.

A hard, swift rule, broken.

A hard, swift rule, broken.

But the guard dog in my chest didn't even growl. It yawned, rolled over, and went back to sleep. It’s Carly. Stand down.

Then the smell came. Bacon. Coffee. Something buttery.

I opened my eyes. The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets tangled. The scent was coming from my kitchen. My kitchen, which hadn’t seen more than a blender and a coffee machine in six months.

I didn’t get up immediately. I lay there, listening. The low sizzle. The clink of a plate. A soft, off-key hum. It was the sound of an invasion that had already secured the beachhead.

With a grunt, I pushed myself up. A shower. I needed a shower to wash off the weird, domestic fog. I did my routine—cold water, ruthless efficiency—and pulled on clean jeans and a fresh t-shirt. The normalcy of it felt like a counterattack.

I followed the smell.

She was at the stove, her back to me. She was wearing a soft, worn-out white tee—my tee, the one I’d worn to the gym two days ago. It was huge on her, falling to mid-thigh. Her hair was piled in a messy bun, a few strands sticking to her neck.

The scene was so violently out of place in my stainless-steel, minimalist kitchen that I just stared for a second.

“Is that my shirt?” My voice was morning-rough.

She glanced over her shoulder, a smirk already in place. “Good morning to you too, Sunshine.” She turned back to flip a piece of bacon. “It was on the floor. I’m doing laundry later. Consider it a temporary loan.”

“You’re cooking. In my kitchen.”

“Astounding powers of observation, Charles. They promote you for that?”

“This kitchen is for show. It has a purity. You’re violating it with… grease.”

“I’m blessing it with sustenance,”she said, sliding eggs onto a plate. “Your fridge was a cry for help. Condiments and a sad-looking lime. It was an intervention.”

She moved to my espresso machine—my complicated, Italian espresso machine that I’d specifically bought because no one else knew how to use it. Her fingers flew over the controls, grinding beans, steaming milk with a practiced hiss. She set a perfect cappuccino on the island beside two loaded plates.

I walked over, slowly, like approaching a trap. The food looked… incredible. Crispy bacon, golden toast, eggs exactly how I liked them.

I slid onto a stool. “Who are you and what have you done with Carly Dorrington? She usually just steals my food.”

“That’s because you usually have food worth stealing.” She took the stool next to me, tucking one leg under her. “This was a mercy mission.”

We ate in silence for a minute. It was good. Disturbingly good. The coffee was better than I made it.

“So,” I said, breaking the comfortable quiet. “How long are you staying for?”

The question hung there, practical and blunt.

She took a sip of her juice, unfazed. “A month.”

I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth. “A month.”

“Or two.” She shrugged, chasing a piece of egg around her plate. “Who knows? Depends on when my dad stops being an insufferable tyrant about the merger.”

“Dorrington,” I said, my tone a warning.

“What?” She blinked up at me, all wide-eyed innocence. “You’re not going to make your best friend, who just had a traumatic family blowout, go find a hotel, are you? I have nowhere else to go.”

“Emilia,” I said, the name a flat, obvious solution.

“Her new boyfriend is…territorial. It’s a whole thing. I’m not intruding on that.”

“I’ll talk to Uncle Rob. Smooth things over.”

“And admit you kicked me out when I needed you?” She put a hand to her heart, a picture of wounded betrayal. “He’d never forgive you. Your dad would never let you hear the end of it.”

I stared at her. She had an answer for everything. A fortress of logic I hadn’t built.

She leaned in, her voice dropping to something sincere and lethal. “Besides, I’d do the same if you were in my shoes. You know I would.”

And that was it. The checkmate. She was right. If I’d been thrown out, she’d have moved heaven and earth to give me a place to land. It was the unspoken code. She’d just used my own rulebook to beat me.

I let out a long, slow sigh, the sound of surrender. “Fine. One month.”

“Two,” she said, not missing a beat.

“You don’t quit, do you?”

“Never.” Her grin was triumphant, bright, and utterly familiar. “Now eat. You’ve got that 9:30 with the German contractors. You need your protein to be stern in Deutsch.”

I shook my head, but a smirk tugged at my mouth. Annoying. Incredibly, predictably annoying.

We finished breakfast. She cleaned up with an efficiency that felt like a further annexation of my space. I gathered my keys, my wallet.

“Don’t forget your briefcase. It’s by the door,” she called from the sink.

“I know where my briefcase is,” I grumbled, picking it up.

“Just making sure! Have a good day, boss man!”

I closed the door behind me, the silence of the private elevator a sudden shock. The loft felt miles away already.

Walking to my car, the only thought in my head was a simple, persistent echo.

Two months.

Carly Dorrington. In my space. For two months.

My peace had officially been notified of its impending termination.