A few days ago, she called.

The conversation was brutally simple. "I'm moving in today."

No discussion. No negotiation. Just a statement of fact that left me reeling.

Before I could even process what the hell just happened, the doorbell rang.

I checked the intercom, and there was Allison, standing at my door like some kind of beautiful, terrifying inevitability.

And just like that, my life became a managed existence.

---

Living with Allison meant my sleep-until-noon lifestyle died a swift death.

She was already locked and loaded for productivity before I even stumbled out of bed.

When I dragged myself to the living room, there was coffee waiting on my desk—not out of kindness, but efficiency. She was already deep into work mode, fingers flying across her laptop keyboard.

The moment she sensed my presence, she spoke without even looking up.

You're up, writer.

Her eyes stayed glued to the screen as she delivered the morning's marching orders.

Three days left on your deadline. I expect you to actually hit it this time.

Pure business. Nothing more, nothing less.