Scarlett had been living in Eliot's apartment for 72 hours.
In that time, she had:
Reorganized his spice rack alphabetically and by emotional intensity.
Thrown away every mismatched sock she could find.
Installed blackout curtains that made the living room feel like a haunted velvet coffin.
And worst of all—established rules.
They were posted on the fridge, printed in cursive on pink cardstock, with a wax seal that smelled faintly like passive aggression and Chanel No. 5.
Eliot stared at the list over his cereal. "Scarlett. What is this?"
She didn't look up from the couch where she was doing yoga in silk pajamas.
"That," she said, "is how we survive each other."
He read the rules again. Out loud.
Rule #1: My half of the couch is sacred. Do not sit on it. Even if I'm not home. It's spiritual now.
Rule #2: No weak coffee. You brew like someone's grandma died in 2003 and left behind disappointment. Fix it.
Rule #3: Emotional breakdowns must be scheduled 24 hours in advance unless they're sexy.
Eliot blinked. "What does that even mean?"
Scarlett turned her head upside-down in a yoga pose and smirked. "It means don't cry near me unless your tears come with plot twists."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. "Scarlett, this is my apartment."
"No," she said flatly. "This is our shared trauma safehouse. And until the internet stops hating me or I marry rich, I'm running point."
He groaned, sitting down on the wrong half of the couch on purpose. "You can't just come in here and declare rule of law."
Scarlett sat up straight, cracking her neck like a queen preparing for war.
"Oh honey," she said, deadly calm, "I'm not declaring. I'm enforcing."
Then came the knock.
Eliot's soul left his body.
It was Dahlia.
Holding takeout. In heels. And a look that said "I do not come in peace."
Scarlett stood gracefully, voice too smooth. "Well, well. And here I thought today was going to be boring."
Dahlia smiled, dangerous. "Just returning Eliot's charger."
She stepped inside. Paused.
Saw the rules. The candles. The sheer Scarlett-ness of it all.
Then looked at Eliot.
"So you've been... domesticated?"
Eliot, whose fight-or-flight response was on permanent overtime, stood like a hostage. "Please no one throw anything."
Scarlett twirled a strand of hair. "Wouldn't dream of it. Unless she breaks rule six."
Dahlia narrowed her eyes. "Which is?"
Scarlett turned and pointed dramatically at the fridge.
Rule #6: If you're Eliot's ex, future ex, or "emotionally ambiguous entanglement," you don't get to judge me.
Dahlia crossed her arms. "I see you're healing in reverse."
Scarlett smiled. "I see you're still showing up to places you weren't invited."
Eliot clapped once. "Okay! This has been fun. Who wants takeout and not war crimes?"
They both ignored him.
Scarlett: "Enjoy your charger, Dahlia."
Dahlia: "Enjoy playing house. It doesn't last."
And with a click of her heels, she was gone.
Eliot collapsed onto the couch. "Scarlett. Please. For one day. Can you not act like you're orchestrating a Cold War in my living room?"
Scarlett reclined dramatically. "If I don't dominate the narrative, darling, someone else will."