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The rain was doing that thing again, the kind of miserable, persistent drizzle that seeps into the window frames and makes the whole world feel damp and grey. It was the perfect backdrop for the blinking cursor on my screen, a tiny, rhythmic heartbeat mocking my total lack of inspiration. Another deadline was looming, another invoice was late, and another month's rent was casting a long shadow over our bank account.

I loved this apartment. I loved the way the morning light hit the worn wooden floors, the way the crooked bookshelf held the story of our lives together, the way it always smelled faintly of Chloe's vanilla-scented candles. But lately, I'd started to see the cracks. Not just the hairline fracture in the plaster above the doorway, but the bigger ones. The drip from the kitchen faucet was a constant, maddening metronome counting down the dollars we didn't have for a plumber. The peeling paint in the corner was a quiet testament to a security deposit we'd probably never see again. This home, our sanctuary, was starting to feel like a cage I'd built around us, and I was losing the fight to keep it from closing in.

"Hey."

Her voice cut through my spiral of anxiety like a warm knife. I turned in my chair and there she was, a splash of vibrant color in our muted little world. Chloe stood in the doorway of my office, her face flushed from the cold, her honey-blonde hair escaping in wisps from the messy bun atop her head. She was still in her yoga gear, a thin, long-sleeved top that hugged her torso and black leggings that showcased the lean, powerful lines of her legs and the perfect, heart-stopping curve of her ass. She was grace and light and everything good, and seeing her made the knot in my stomach tighten with a familiar, aching guilt.

Chloe, at 28, possesses a beauty that is both stunning and completely natural. As a yoga instructor, her body is a testament to her discipline and passion. She is lithe and toned, moving with a supple, dancer's poise. She isn't just "in shape"; she's a study in lean muscle and graceful flexibility. Her legs are long and sculpted, leading up to a high, round, and perfectly shaped ass that even her loosest yoga pants can't conceal. She has a flat, taut stomach and full, natural breasts that are perfectly proportioned to her slender frame.

Her skin seems to glow with health, and her honey-blonde hair is most often pulled back into a messy but elegant bun, with stray strands framing her face. Her eyes are a bright, expressive green, capable of conveying immense warmth and empathy. Her smile is infectious, and her full, soft lips are her most inviting feature. She radiates a vibrant, positive energy that feels like sunshine.

"Long day?" she asked, her voice soft. She glided over to me, her movements fluid and silent, and her cool hands began to work the tension from my shoulders. Her touch was magic. It always was.

"The usual," I mumbled, leaning my head back to look up at her. Her green eyes were full of a genuine concern that I felt I didn't deserve. "Client's ghosting me on last month's payment. This new piece feels like pulling teeth."

"You'll figure it out, Mark. You always do," she whispered, leaning down to kiss the top of my head. Her support was unwavering, a fact that only made me feel worse. She deserved a husband who could provide more than just unwavering anxiety.

She straightened up, her hands still resting on my shoulders. "Guess who I saw snooping around the third-floor landing when I came in?"

I didn't have to guess. A sour taste filled my mouth. "Henderson."

"The one and only," she said, her tone light but unable to hide the note of distaste. "He gave me that creepy little smile of his. Asked if our 'pipes were still working right.' I think he was just trying to get a look inside as I unlocked the door."

My hands clenched into fists under the desk. Mr. Henderson. Our new landlord, a man who had inherited the building a few months ago and seemed to view its tenants as his personal fiefdom. The thought of him

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