The Chaos

Thomas's shoes scuffing softly against the floor as he moved back. Watching the lady that had just engulfed his entire space with her petite body.

The air shifted, filling with her scent of paint, canvas, and citrus. It didn’t ask permission. It spread. His chest constricted. He fisted a hand, fingers pressing into his palm. The scent was terrifying, he felt the frustration creeping in.

He already disliked her. She was a walking mass of chaos. And chaotic people brought germs everywhere they entered.

She stood still, eyes wide, drinking in the room. Her gaze moved slowly across marble floors, high ceilings, and glass walls. She shifted her weight, then stilled again, as if reminding herself not to touch anything.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson,” she finally greeted, soft and warm, almost cheerful.

Thomas didn’t answer immediately. He watched her bag slump slightly, brushes poking out at odd angles. His eyes scanned her quickly, loose thread on her sleeve, the slight tilt of her head, the weight she shifted between feet. Each detail sharpened the knot in his chest.

“Call me Thomas.” He pointed at the bag, voice clipped. “That goes to the mudroom. It needs decontaminating. That scent is not permitted.”

Piper followed the gesture, eyes flicking to the glitter drops on her bag, then back to his rigid posture. A tight smile returned to her lips.

“Right. The rules,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. I stopped by my studio before here.” She hesitated. “I know the rules, Thomas. I’ll do better.”

“These terms are non-negotiable,” he said firmly. “You live here. You perform publicly. You get my permission to go anywhere. When the contract ends, you leave.”

His air of authority pressed outward, subtle but unmistakable.

Piper pressed her lips, nodding slightly. “I know,” she replied, quietly. “Where do I sign?"

He showed her and she signed.

The bag on her shoulder was overpacked and breaking her bones, with brushes poking out like tiny flags. She tried to balance it, but one arm of the bag slipped forcefully from her shoulder and the bag zipper ripped apart.

“Oh no,” she whispered, breath catching, but too late.

Brushes tumbled across the floor, a canvas slid halfway before stopping. Thomas froze, muscles taut, hands twitching at his sides.

A tin of yellow paint slipped off the bag, tipped halfway and ran toward the rug, dripping yellow paints on its trail. He flinched.

Piper bent quickly, trying to scoop everything up, her face red, lips pressed in a thin line, but another brush flicked up and hit the crystal vase. It wobbled on the table… and crashed to the ground.

Thomas’s eyes widened. His hands shot up instinctively, but he couldn’t move fast enough. “What the hell—?” He barked, then froze, staring at the mess, chest tightening, breath shallow.

Piper slapped a hand to her forehead, eyes wide, her body bending in a small, frantic arc. “I… I—am so sorry, Thomas.”

Thomas’s veins stood out in his temples, jaw clenched, chest heaving. His eyes were popping with dread when he fired back, “Sorry doesn’t fix this!” Pointing at the chaos. He swung his arms, trying to clear his air space, but only knocked against the edge of the bag, and more items scattered around the room.

He flailed, took several frantic steps backward to avoid the paint smear, but he tripped over a brush, tried to grab the edge of the table and landed heavily to the floor, paint smears decorating his sleeve.

"What the hell!"

Piper bit her lip, speechless in the middle of her own storm, embarrassment washed over her as she stood, unable to figure out what the hell just happened.

Thomas lay there, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling. “I… I am paying this woman to give me a heart attack!”