I didn't even know why I was in the parking lot.
Like—seriously, what was I doing there?
I wasn't parked.
I don't have a car.
I don't drive.
And yet there I was, in the basement of the condo, dressed in a cute butter-yellow cropped cardigan and a matching pleated skirt, my hair half-clipped with a pearl pin, looking like I had a purpose.
I did not.
Except maybe… to check if Cairo's mysterious, sleek, traitorous, black sports car had arrived.
That, apparently, was a purpose now.
"Is this stalker behavior?" I mumbled under my breath, tiptoeing between SUVs like I was on a secret mission.
My little white flats made these embarrassing squishy noises with every step, like they were judging me. "No, Elara. You're just… casually observing the ecosystem. Of parking lots. For research."
Right.
And I just happened to be in full makeup and my favorite Chanel sling bag because I totally had errands at 7:15 in the morning.
And then—SQUISH.
My entire body froze.
No.
No way.
That didn't just happen.
I slowly looked down.
And there it was.
The crime scene.
A massive, horrifying, absolutely rude brown pile right under my right foot.
It oozed around the sides of my white flats like it was personally offended I dared to exist.
I gasped.
One hand flew to my mouth.
The other clutched my bag like it was about to faint.
"Oh my god," I whispered, nearly gagging. "I stepped on a landmine. I stepped on a freaking landmine. Why is there poop here? Who allows their dog to defecate in a condo parking lot?! Do they think this is a forest?!"
I held my leg up like it was detached from the rest of my body.
I couldn't even scream.
My throat closed from the betrayal of it all.
Of course, I didn't have tissue.
Or alcohol.
Or—oh god, I didn't even bring wipes because I wasn't supposed to be here.
I looked around helplessly.
Not a soul.
Not a single witness to my demise.
"I am a victim," I muttered, hopping on one leg toward a random pillar. "This is a hate crime. This is personal. The universe is mad I was checking Cairo's parking spot."
Oh my gosh.
What if Nadine owns the dog? That would just make everything make sense.
All of it.
The mysterious poop.
The bad vibes.
The way her lip gloss shade yesterday made her look like she chewed crayons.
I squatted near the pillar like a wounded Disney princess and took off my shoe with two fingers—the kind of grip you'd use if someone told you it had a literal curse on it.
I was shaking.
Not from fear, but from injustice.
And then I heard it.
Footsteps.
No. No way.
Don't tell me—
"Elara?"
It was him.
The audacity of the universe.
The complete, shameless, utterly evil audacity.
I looked up and saw Cairo walking toward me.
Holding a coffee cup.
Wearing joggers and a black zip-up jacket, like he just came from a run.
Or a modeling shoot.
Or a commercial for heartbreak.
He froze when he saw me crouched beside the pillar, holding one poop-covered flat like I was mourning a fallen soldier.
"Are you… okay?"
I blinked at him. "Do I look okay to you?"
He tilted his head. "Are you crying?"
"No! I'm not crying," I sniffled. "I'm gagging. There's a difference."
He looked down at my shoe.
Then at my face.
Then back at the shoe.
"Oh," he said.
And that was it. "Oh."
As if I didn't just step on a cursed object that would haunt my dreams forever!
"Your face isn't even reacting!" I snapped. "Do you have emotions, Cairo? Or are you just permanently set to 'blank stare' mode?"
His lips twitched.
I swear it.
He was fighting a smile.
But he just took a slow sip of his coffee and said, "Stay there."
As if I was planning to waltz around barefoot on poop-smeared concrete like it was Fashion Week!
He disappeared for a minute while I dramatically sighed at the pillar.
And then—he came back.
Holding—oh my god—a whole roll of tissue, wet wipes, and a bottle of alcohol spray.
"Is this your emergency poop kit?" I asked, genuinely amazed.
"No," he replied. "But you looked like you were about to lose your mind, so I figured I should help before you passed out."
"Too late," I said. "My soul already left my body."
He crouched down next to me.
Not too close, but enough that I caught a whiff of his cologne again—the same one from the elevator.
Woodsy.
Clean.
Sinful.
"Give me your shoe," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"Your shoe. Come on."
"You're going to touch it?"
"I've held worse things."
"Like what? Your conscience?"
That earned me a soft exhale.
Which was his version of laughing, I guess.
He carefully wiped the sole of my flat like it was a science experiment.
I just stared at him.
Like, really stared.
Because what kind of man does this?
Cairo—the same guy who barely looked at me, barely talked to anyone, and barely opened his door for my detective-level neighbor interrogation—was now cleaning poop off my shoe like it was no big deal.
"Okay," he said after a minute. "All clean. But you owe me coffee."
I narrowed my eyes. "I don't drink coffee." (But of course, that was a lie).
"Then milktea. Or whatever it is that people like you drink."
"People like me?"
"Dramatic. Loud. Slightly unstable."
"Excuse me," I said, snatching my shoe back. "I am not unstable. I am animated. And you love it."
He stood up, offering me a hand.
I looked at it suspiciously. "If I take that, does this mean I'm marrying you or something?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to?"
I GASPED. "Cairo! That is harassment!"
"It was a question."
"You're so unfair. Just because you're tall and mysterious and clean up after poop doesn't mean you can emotionally damage people in the morning."
He said nothing.
Just smirked.
A real one.
Like, a full-on, lips-curving, eyes-twinkling, teeth-showing smirk. I almost screamed.
But I didn't, because I still had my dignity.
Sort of.
Kind of. Anyway.
We walked back toward the elevator, me limping a little because of the trauma, and him sipping his coffee like this was just a normal Tuesday.
It was not.
It was a sign.
The ship of Elara and Cairo was sailing.
And this poop incident? This was our origin story.