CHAPTER ONE - REGULAR DELIVERY
By the time I realized I was timing my route around her building, it was already too late.
At first, it had felt harmless.
Just one of those stupid little things that make a miserable job less miserable.
You ring enough strangers’ doorbells, climb enough staircases that all smell faintly of detergent and old cooking oil, smile at enough people who barely look at your face while grabbing whatever overpriced nonsense they ordered at two in the morning, and eventually your brain starts clinging to whatever small reward it can find.
Mine had blue eyes.
And blonde hair.
And the kind of smile that made you think she actually meant it.
Apartment 4C.
Miu.
I didn’t know if that was her real name.
Could’ve been Mia. Michelle. Something longer and foreign and elegant.
But on the delivery notes it always said Miu Tanaka, so in my head, that was her.
Miu.
Even her name felt soft.
The first time I delivered to her, she answered in an oversized sweatshirt and fuzzy socks, hair a complete mess, looking like I’d woken her up.
She blinked at me.
Looked at the bag.
Looked back at me.
Then laughed.
“God, I forgot I ordered this.”
And I, because apparently my IQ drops to single digits around pretty women, said:
“Glad I could reunite you.”
She laughed harder.
Not polite laughter.
Real laughter.
That was the beginning.
After that, it became a thing.
Not immediately.
Just little moments.
A joke about how often she ordered bubble tea.
Her accusing me of judging her grocery choices when I delivered three family-sized packs of instant ramen and enough chocolate to kill a horse.
Me pretending I absolutely was.
Her rolling her eyes.
One evening, she opened the door wearing tiny shorts and one of those loose sweaters that slipped off one shoulder just enough to make a man believe in religion.
I forgot my own name.
“You okay?” she asked.
I cleared my throat.
“Long shift.”
She smiled in a way that suggested she knew exactly what was happening.
Dangerous.
But kind.
That was the problem.
If she’d just been hot, I could’ve dealt with that.
Hot women exist.
You move on.
But she was sweet.
She remembered my name.
Who does that?
Delivery guys are basically infrastructure.
We’re like elevators.
Functional.
Invisible.
Yet one rainy Thursday she opened the door holding an umbrella and said:
“Paul, you’re soaked.”
Like she cared.
As if my existence extended beyond handing over parcels.
I fell a little in love right there.
Pathetic.
I know.
Maybe not love.
Maybe projection wearing a cute outfit.
Same difference.
“Wait.”
She disappeared into the apartment.
Came back with a towel.
An actual towel.
“Here.”
I stared at it.
Then at her.
“You’ll need it more than I do,” I said.
She shrugged.
“I have more towels.”
I took it.
Our fingers touched.
Tiny thing.
Meaningless, probably.
I thought about it for three days.
That’s the level of loser we’re dealing with here.
By week three, I knew what floorboards creaked outside her apartment.
By week four, I was checking package assignments hoping I’d get her route.
By week six, my coworkers had noticed.
“Blonde girl?”
“Shut up.”
“Blue eyes?”
“Shut up.”
“Apartment 4C?”
“Die.”
One of them laughed.
“Ask her out already.”
Simple.
Obvious.
Impossible.
Because what if I’d imagined all of it?
What if she was just nice?
What if she laughed with everyone?
What if I was just some delivery idiot who built a whole relationship out of exchanged receipts and dopamine?
Then Tuesday happened.
Small parcel.
Apartment 4C.
I stood outside her building holding the box like it contained state secrets.
Today, I decided.
No more weird pining.
No more fantasy boyfriend bullshit.
Just a question.
Coffee.
Drink.
Anything.
If she said no, fine.
Humiliating, but survivable.
I climbed the stairs rehearsing increasingly terrible versions of Hey, I was wondering if maybe—
I stopped outside her door.
Smoothed my shirt.
Knocked.
Footsteps.
My heart pounding hard enough to be embarrassing.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
And the woman standing there was not Miu.
She was tall.
Taller than me in bare feet.
Dark hair falling over one shoulder.
A fitted black dress that looked less like clothing and more like a deliberate act of violence.
Full lips.
Sharp eyes.
Curves that made my brain temporarily shut down.
She leaned against the doorway like she’d been expecting me.
Then looked me up and down slowly enough that I actually felt it.
“Oh,” she said.
A faint smile.
“Well.”
I swallowed.
“Uh. Delivery for Miu.”
Her expression changed in a way I couldn’t quite read.
Amusement, maybe.
“Of course.”
Her gaze lingered on my face.
Then lower.
Then back up.
“Come in.”
