Chapter Seven The Top Floor
The moving truck arrived at 9:17 AM on a Saturday.
Miu knew this because she was standing at her window, drinking coffee, watching a very expensive-looking mattress being carried up the narrow staircase of her very ordinary building.
The movers wore uniforms. The mattress was wrapped in plastic.
Everything about the operation screamed money, which was deeply out of place on a block where the laundromat had been advertising "new dryers" for three years.
She had known Lena was coming. Adrian had called yesterday—"Ms. Thomson will be moving into the unit above you. She requests that you not feel obligated to assist." The message had been polite, professional, and exactly the kind of thing that made Miu want to do the opposite of what was requested.
So she put on actual pants—not sweatpants, real pants with a zipper—and walked upstairs.
The door to the top floor unit was propped open with a cardboard box. Inside, the space was larger than Miu had expected. Hardwood floors. Fresh paint. A kitchen that had actual counter space instead of the two square feet she was working with downstairs.
Lena stood in the middle of the living room, holding a small plant and looking like she had never been in a building without an elevator in her life.
"You're here," Lena said.
"You said not to help. So I'm helping."
"That's not how logic works."
"That's how I work." Miu stepped inside. Looked around. "This is nice. Way nicer than my place."
"It's temporary."
"Everything's temporary." Miu picked up a box labeled KITCHEN - GLASSWARE. It was heavier than expected. "Where do you want this?"
Lena blinked. She was wearing jeans—actual jeans, not the tailored trousers from before—and a cream-colored sweater that made her look softer than Miu remembered.
Her hair was down. She looked, for the first time, like a person who might spill coffee on herself and not immediately replace the entire outfit.
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to. I want to. It's called being a good neighbor." Miu hoisted the box. "Kitchen?"
Lena pointed. Miu carried the box through the empty apartment, past a bedroom with a bed frame still in pieces, past a bathroom with towels that were already folded at perfect right angles, and into a kitchen that had exactly four boxes stacked on the counter.
She set the glassware down. Turned around.
Lena was standing in the doorway, watching her.
"What?" Miu asked.
"Nothing. I'm just not used to people helping me."
"That's sad."
"I prefer the term 'efficient.'"
Miu snorted. "You would."
---
The next two hours were a strange dance of cardboard and small talk. Miu carried boxes. Lena unpacked them. They worked around each other with the careful politeness of strangers who had been forced into proximity and hadn't yet figured out the rules.
Miu learned that Lena owned approximately seventeen coffee mugs, all white, all identical. She learned that Lena's books were organized by color, which was either artistic or unhinged. She learned that Lena did not own a television, which Miu found deeply suspicious.
"You don't watch TV?" Miu asked, holding up a framed photograph of a much younger Lena with a woman who had the same sharp cheekbones. Rosana, presumably.
"I read."
"Everyone reads. But also everyone watches TV. It's called being human."
"I'm human."
"Debatable."
Lena's mouth twitched. She took the photograph from Miu's hands and placed it on a shelf. "That's my mother and me. I was fourteen."
"You look miserable."
"I was fourteen."
"Fair point."
They worked in silence for a while. The apartment slowly transformed from empty to inhabited—still sparse, still controlled, but softer somehow. A blanket appeared on the couch. A cutting board on the counter. A small vase with a single branch of something green.
Miu found herself watching Lena when Lena wasn't looking.
The way she handled objects—carefully, deliberately, like each item mattered.
The way she smoothed a wrinkle from a tablecloth without seeming to notice she was doing it.
The way her hair fell across her forehead when she bent down to plug in a lamp.
She's not unattractive, Miu thought. Then immediately pushed the thought away. This was not that kind of situation. This was a pregnancy situation. A legal situation. A stranger's egg in my uterus situation. Attraction had nothing to do with it.
She did not notice that Lena had looked up at exactly that moment, and was now staring at the back of Miu's head with an expression that suggested attraction had everything to do with it.
---
By noon, most of the boxes were empty. The apartment looked like a home—a very tidy, very minimalist home, but a home nonetheless.
Miu stood in the kitchen, exhausted and slightly sweaty, and realized she had not eaten breakfast.
"I'm hungry," she announced.
Lena looked up from arranging pens in a drawer. "There's a grocery store two blocks down."
"I know. I've lived here for two years."
"Right." Lena closed the drawer. "I could order something."
"Or," Miu said, "you could come to my place and I could make us lunch. As a thank-you for letting me help. Or as a welcome to the building. Or as a 'I'm tired and don't want to cook alone.' Take your pick."
Lena hesitated. Miu could see her calculating—the risks, the boundaries, the appropriate distance between an heiress and a stranger who was carrying her genetic material.
Then Lena said, "Okay."
Miu blinked. "Okay?"
"Okay. I'll come to your place. But only if you let me bring something."
"Bring what?"
Lena walked to the refrigerator—new, stainless steel, probably cost more than Miu's monthly rent—and pulled out a bottle. Green glass. Gold label. Champagne.
"You kept that?" Miu asked.
"I told you it could be arranged."
"That was weeks ago."
"I'm patient."
Miu stared at the bottle. Then at Lena. Then back at the bottle.
"You're insane," she said.
"Probably," Lena agreed. "But I'm also thirsty."
---
Miu's apartment was chaos.
Lena stepped inside and stopped. The space was small—a fraction of the size of her own place—but it was full. Books stacked on every surface. Dishes in the sink. A cat asleep on a pile of laundry. A laptop open on the coffee table with a document titled CAT_REVOLUTION_FINAL_FINAL_v3.doc.
"It's not much," Miu said, kicking a shoe out of the way.
"It's real."
"Is that a compliment?"
"I don't know yet."
Miu laughed. The sound filled the small space, bounced off the walls, made the cat open one eye in judgment.
"Okay," Miu said. "Lunch. I have eggs. I have bread. I have a questionable tomato that might still be good."
"I'll make omelets."
"You cook?"
"I'm not useless."
Miu raised an eyebrow. "Debatable."
Lena rolled up her sleeves—actually rolled them up, exposing her forearms—and walked to the tiny kitchen. She found a pan. Found a spatula. Found the eggs and the butter and the slightly sad tomato, which she examined, deemed acceptable, and began to chop with surgical precision.
Miu sat on the couch and watched her.
"You're very efficient," Miu said.
"I told you. I'm not useless."
"You said that. I'm still processing."
Lena cracked eggs into a bowl. Whisked them. Added salt and pepper without measuring. Her movements were economical, practiced—the movements of someone who had cooked for herself for a long time.
"You do this a lot?" Miu asked.
"Cook?"
"Cook for other people."
Lena's hands paused for a fraction of a second. "No. Not usually."
"Why not?"
"I don't usually have people over."
"That's sad."
"You said that before."
"It was true then too."
Lena didn't respond. She poured the eggs into the pan. The butter sizzled. The smell of cooking filled the apartment, warm and ordinary and suddenly, inexplicably, comforting.
---
The omelets were perfect.
Miu ate hers in three minutes flat, which made Lena's eye twitch slightly. "You're supposed to taste it," Lena said.
"I tasted it. It was delicious. Now I want more."
"There's only one tomato."
"Then I'll suffer."
They sat on opposite ends of the couch, the champagne bottle open on the coffee table between them. Miu had poured two glasses, even though it was noon and she was technically supposed to be careful about alcohol. One glass wouldn't hurt. Dr. Laurent had said moderation.
Lena held her glass but didn't drink. She was watching Miu again—not staring, exactly. Observing.
"So," Miu said. "You live above me now."
"I do."
"Above me. In my building. The building with the broken dishwasher and the landlord who never calls back."
"That's the one."
"You're going to hate it here."
"Probably."
"But you're staying anyway."
Lena finally took a sip of champagne. Her throat moved as she swallowed. Miu definitely did not notice.
"I'm staying anyway," Lena said.
"Why?"
The question hung in the air between them. Not accusatory. Just curious. Genuinely curious.
Lena set down her glass. Turned to face Miu fully. The couch was small—their knees were almost touching.
"Because this is not a situation I can manage from a distance," Lena said. "Because you're carrying something that matters to me, whether either of us asked for it. Because my mother was right about proximity, even if she was wrong about everything else."
Miu nodded slowly. "That's a very corporate answer."
"It's the truth."
"Then tell me the non-corporate version."
Lena was quiet for a long moment. The cat jumped off the laundry pile and padded over, sniffing at Lena's shoes. Lena reached down, hesitated, then very carefully scratched behind the cat's ears. Som Tam purred.
"The non-corporate version," Lena said, "is that I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be... present. But I'm trying. And trying means showing up."
Miu looked at her. Really looked. At the tension in her jaw, the uncertainty behind her eyes, the way she was petting a cat like she had never touched an animal before and wasn't sure if she was doing it correctly.
"You're not what I expected," Miu said.
"Neither are you."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
They both laughed. Not the awkward, polite laugh of strangers.
A real one. The champagne helped. The absurdity helped.
The fact that they were sitting on a broken couch in a tiny apartment above a laundromat, drinking expensive champagne at noon on a Saturday, discussing the accidental pregnancy that had upended both their lives.
It was ridiculous.
And for the first time, it felt okay.
---
Miu set down her glass. The laughter faded. The room grew quiet again, but not uncomfortable.
"I made a decision," she said.
Lena's hand stilled on the cat's back. "About the pregnancy."
"Yes."
"Okay."
Miu took a breath. The words had been sitting in her chest for days, waiting for the right moment. This wasn't the right moment. But there was no right moment. There was only now.
"I'm keeping it," Miu said. "I'm going to have the baby."
Lena's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind her eyes. A release of tension. A breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"Okay," Lena said again.
"That's all you have to say?"
"I'm processing."
"Process faster. I have conditions."
Lena straightened. "Conditions."
"I'm keeping the baby, but I'm not keeping it from you." Miu's voice was steady, firmer than she felt. "I'm not going to take the baby and disappear. I'm not going to raise this child alone and pretend you don't exist. That's not fair to you, and it's not fair to the kid."
Lena nodded slowly. "You want to co-parent."
"I want to co-parent. Together. Equally. I don't know what that looks like yet—I don't know how this works when the baby was an accident and we're basically strangers—but I'm willing to figure it out. If you are."
The cat chose that moment to jump off Lena's lap and wander away, uninterested in the emotional weight of the conversation. Neither woman noticed.
Lena was looking at Miu like she was seeing her for the first time. Not the woman who wore cat hoodies and forgot to buy forks. Not the problem to be solved or the variable to be managed. Just Miu. Just the woman who had decided, against all logic, to say yes.
"I'm willing," Lena said. Her voice was quieter than usual. Rougher. "I'm more than willing."
"Then we have a deal."
Miu held out her hand.
Lena looked at it. Then she took it—not for a handshake, but just held it. Her palm was warm. Her fingers were steady.
"Thank you," Lena said.
"For what?"
"For not running away."
Miu squeezed her hand once, then let go. Picked up her champagne glass.
"I thought about it," she admitted. "Ran through the bus schedule and everything. But my mom said something. About hard things being worth doing."
"Your mom sounds wise."
"She's terrifying. Like yours, but with more fish sauce."
Lena almost smiled. Almost. "I'd like to meet her sometime."
"Let's get through the pregnancy first. One impossible thing at a time."
They drank the rest of the champagne. The cat returned and demanded attention. The afternoon sun slanted through Miu's dusty windows, and somewhere downstairs, someone started playing music—something old, something soft, something that made the whole building feel like a home.
Lena stayed until the bottle was empty.
She stayed until Miu fell asleep on the couch, exhausted from moving boxes and making decisions and being brave.
And when she left, she covered Miu with a blanket—not the cat-hair one, but a new one she found folded on the arm of the couch. Soft. Cream-colored. Completely out of place in Miu's chaotic apartment.
She left it there.
The top floor apartment was still mostly unpacked. But for the first time, it didn't feel empty.
And downstairs, Miu slept through the afternoon, one hand resting on her stomach, dreaming of nothing at all.