Chapter 1

Midnight

I prowl through the quiet corridors of our apartment building, my whiskers on high alert. Although, to be fair, my whiskers are always on high alert—I’m not your ordinary house cat. I’m Midnight: sleek, black-furred connoisseur of poorly lit hallways, reluctant witness to my human’s questionable choices, and self-appointed caretaker of her neglected love life.

Right now, I’m perched on the second-floor banister, observing the flicker of dull, yellow bulbs that pretend to illuminate this old building. The place smells like a mix of musty carpet and last night’s tacos, courtesy of our neighbors down the hall who have an obsession with overly spiced ground beef. Not exactly my idea of a five-star scent, but I’ve smelled worse.

My human, Camila, is inside Apartment 2C, presumably hunched over her laptop, muttering about romance plots that she refuses to live out in real life. Every day, I watch her type away, imagining improbable scenarios of star-crossed lovers who inevitably find happiness in each other’s arms. She has the nerve to call her manuscripts “pure fiction,” when she’s the biggest romantic I’ve ever encountered. The woman cries at vacuum commercials. Yet for all her lofty ideas about love, do I see any actual kissing or moonlit confessions in her day-to-day existence? Absolutely not.

Tonight, however, something interesting is happening. A moving truck is parked by the curb, and from my vantage point on the banister, I can see tall, looming shadows hauling boxes through the front door. Normally, I’d take one sniff and decide whether I approve. But this time, my ears perk up a little more. That figure passing under the dim overhead light has a distinct vibe, one that practically screams tortured poet—like he’s harboring secret verses inside all that muscle. I might be a cat, but I’m capable of reading a good brood when I see it.

I leap off the banister with the grace of a ballerina, land silently on my paws, and pad down the staircase to get a closer look. The new tenant has set a couple of boxes by the front door. He’s rummaging around inside the truck for another load, revealing broad shoulders under a faded black T-shirt. His biceps flex as he drags out what appears to be a box of books—maybe a small library. Good sign. Books suggest either an intellectual or a devoted collector of random nonsense.

He sets the box down on the ground and straightens, glancing around warily. The expression on his face suggests he’s not thrilled about moving. Or maybe he’s worried some city raccoon is going to rummage through his stuff. Spoiler alert: I’m the only one likely to rummage, but I prefer more refined targets, like an unguarded bowl of tuna.

I creep closer, careful to stay hidden behind a potted plant that’s seen better days. He places his hands on his lower back, stretching. An unintentional grunt slips out, like he’s definitely not used to lifting. Up until this moment, I didn’t think humans could be so entertaining while performing manual labor, but the way his shirt rides up hints at abdominal muscles that would make Camila’s eyes bulge if she ever bothered looking away from her Word doc.

He exhales heavily, picks the box up again, and trudges toward the door to the first-floor apartments. There’s a small gold nameplate on the mailbox reading “Walsh.” That must be him—Eli Walsh, the new occupant of 1C. From my vantage point, I can sense the swirl of frustration and hidden determination around him, almost like he came here hoping to rebuild or rediscover something. Whatever his personal drama might be, one thing is glaringly obvious to me: he’s exactly the type of person my lonely writer upstairs needs to meet.

A cold draft snakes through the foyer, ruffling my fur. I lick a paw, taking a moment to appreciate my reflection in the glass door. My fur is midnight black, hence my perfectly fitting name, and my green eyes practically glow with mischief. Camila sometimes jokes that I have a superiority complex. It’s not a joke. I am superior. I’ve got more sense than half the people in this building, and I have no qualms about using my feline intellect to orchestrate events.

I slink to the side entrance, peeking at the new neighbor. He glances up, and I dart behind a dusty coat rack because I’m not ready for a formal introduction just yet. The last time I introduced myself to a new resident, I ended up with a broom inches from my whiskers. People are weird about cats sneaking into their apartments. But if my plan is to succeed, I’ll need to know everything about Mr. “I look like I read haikus in the shower.”

He sets down the box again and runs a hand through his blond hair. It’s the color of old straw, but in a good way—like it might catch the sun if we ever got real daylight in this hallway. His shoulders are broad but tense, as if he’s carrying more than just cardboard. This is the sort of man who sighs deeply in the middle of the night while scribbling in a notebook, possibly about existential regret or the downfall of civilization. Camila wouldn’t be able to resist analyzing that, especially if those arms flex while he’s doing it.

With a final grunt, he pushes the door open to 1C and disappears inside. The hallway falls silent, leaving me alone with the flickering light and the near-empty truck outside. I sneak back up the stairs, slipping through the parted door to our place. It’s not locked because Camila thinks everyone in this building is basically family. Which is nonsense, of course—none of them bring us tuna. Family would bring tuna.

I find her sprawled on the couch, laptop perched on a stack of pillows. She’s typing furiously, probably rewriting a kissing scene for the eighteenth time. There’s a plate of half-eaten crackers on the coffee table. The neon-pink socks on her feet clash spectacularly with the polka-dot pajama shorts, and there’s a headscarf barely clinging to her voluminous curls. She looks like a hodgepodge of comfort and mild chaos, which sums up her entire life.

I hop onto the armrest, and she gives me a passing glance. “Hey, baby girl,” she says in a cooing voice that she uses whenever she’s either proud of me or desperate for companionship. “You hungry again?”

I tilt my head in a regal manner, as if to say, I am always open to chicken bits, but that’s not the point tonight. Instead, I hop down and walk in front of the screen, forcing her to take her hands off the keyboard. She sighs. “Midnight, do you mind? I’m working on a crucial chapter. This is the part where the hero confesses everything at sunset, and if I lose my groove now, I might never get it back.”

The hero confesses everything at sunset. Right. If only she could find a real hero in this building. I flick my tail, then give her an unimpressed stare. My claws tap lightly on the laptop’s edge. I want her to ask me why I’m so insistent, but she just scoots me aside and resumes typing with a flourish that results in about seven typos.

“We need to talk about your personal life,” I try to convey with an eloquent blink. She doesn’t get it. Humans rarely do.

She mutters something about deadlines and random online drama. Next thing I know, she’s reading out loud: “And then the hero, with a trembling heart, leaned in to whisper—” She stops abruptly. “Wait, that sounds too cliché. Ugh!” She hits the backspace key, cursing under her breath.

I give her leg a little nudge with my paw. She’s too lost in her imaginary world to realize there’s a flesh-and-blood potential hero living directly below us. Typical.

I jump down from the couch, weaving around her ankles, only to realize that she’s not going anywhere tonight. She’s got her stance—the “I’m about to stay awake until I finish this draft” posture. That means it’s up to me to take matters into my own capable paws. If I have to stage a casual run-in, I’ll do it. If I have to sabotage something, well, let’s just say I’m not above pulling the router cable if it leads to an awkward encounter in the hallway.

I pad to the door, slip out through the small gap, and tiptoe down the stairs again. The overhead light flickers once more. It’s so quiet I can hear a distant siren from the main road. It’s after midnight, the perfect hour for a cat like me to roam. Humans are at their most revealing in the late hours, when they’re tired but still restless. That’s when they show who they really are.

A faint glow seeps through the bottom of 1C’s door, which means he’s in there, possibly sorting out his belongings or writing cryptic poetry about the move. I press my ear—well, the side of my head—against the door, but all I detect is some shuffling, a quiet exhale, and maybe the thump of a box being dropped on the floor.

I consider slipping under the door, but I’d rather not risk scaring the new neighbor at this stage. First impressions matter, and a random cat appearing in his living room might be too bold. Still, I make a mental note that the threshold has a slight gap. Perfect for future infiltration. My plan is to do some reconnaissance tomorrow: let him catch a glimpse of me in a more neutral territory, perhaps the shared hallway. I’ll pretend to be lost or extra adorable, and he’ll have no choice but to pay attention. Then, if I’m lucky, Camila will pop down to retrieve me, and they’ll be forced to exchange pleasantries.

The mere thought of pushing them together fills me with a smug satisfaction. Camila’s been drifting for too long, burying her heart in these romance novels without letting herself enjoy a real connection. It’s my duty, as the wise and elegant feline in this household, to fix that.

And yes, I know what you’re thinking: Cats aren’t typically cast in the role of matchmaker. That’s usually a job for meddling grandmothers or well-meaning best friends. But I have a sharper eye for potential than any human. I can sense an interesting story here. My whiskers are practically vibrating with anticipation.

I stretch my front paws and yawn, letting my jaws part wide in a dramatic display. The corridor is chilly, and the lingering smell of that moving truck’s exhaust is unpleasant. It’s time to return to my domain upstairs. Camila might notice my absence and decide I’ve run off to rummage through the neighbor’s trash. Then she’ll call my name in that singsong voice, offering me a treat if I come back. If I’m feeling generous, I’ll answer her summons.

As I make my way back up the stairs, I pause by the half-broken window that looks out on the parking lot. The truck is still parked, but the main cabin light is off now. Eli must be done hauling boxes for the night. I wonder what’s in them. The intangible weight he carries seems heavier than mere household goods. There’s a tension in his face, a quiet determination. If he’s trying to hide from something, I’m sure Camila can coax it out of him. She’s incredibly empathetic once she drops the protective shield of sarcasm.

Pushing open the door to Apartment 2C again, I spot Camila rummaging in the kitchen. She opens the refrigerator, stares for a moment, then closes it with a sigh. “We have no groceries, Midnight,” she says, voice echoing across the small living space. “I guess I’ll just eat toast for dinner. Or is it breakfast by now?”

I hop onto a nearby stool and watch her rummage through cupboards. The overhead light flickers—this place is always flickering—and she groans. “Great. The bulbs are dying, and I forgot to buy spares. Guess I’ll do that tomorrow. Unless you can learn to place an Amazon order.”

If only she knew I can do much more than that. My meddling plan is set in motion, and by this time next week, I expect she’ll at least have a reason to put on real clothes or consider wearing lip gloss that isn’t half-dried.

She slices some bread, popping it into the toaster with a tired motion, then leans against the counter. “I’m stuck, kitty,” she confides, as if I’m her personal therapist. “I have this story in my head—best friends to lovers, fireworks at the midnight festival, all that—but I can’t quite feel it. My agent wants something fresh, and I… It’s hard to say if I believe in happy endings anymore.”

Her voice cracks just a little on that last sentence, and I tilt my head. She’s always so good at giving characters hope but never herself. It’s maddening. If I could speak, I’d tell her that there’s a new occupant downstairs who, at first glance, looks like a walking storm cloud, but storms bring rain, and rain can bring new growth, or something equally profound. She’d appreciate a good metaphor if she weren’t so hopelessly jaded.

The toast pops up, and she slathers it with butter before sinking her teeth in. Butter drips onto her pink sock, but she’s too tired to notice. With a groan, she staggers toward the couch. “I’ll try to write a few more lines, then maybe get a couple hours of sleep.”

I jump onto the couch beside her. She sets the toast on a chipped plate on the coffee table and cracks her knuckles before returning to the keyboard. She taps out something that seems emotionally charged, pausing every so often to scowl at the screen. That’s her usual routine: type, scowl, backspace, retype, scowl more. She’s convinced every line has to be perfect from the start. I’d roll my eyes if cats could.

My gaze shifts to the small window behind her, offering a sliver of moonlight. Tonight’s sky is dark, and the moon’s glow barely reaches in. Still, it’s enough to remind me that I am at my strongest after midnight. That’s when the world is quiet, and humans let their guard down. The perfect time to slip in, meddle, and slip out again.

I watch her type with fervor, shoulders hunched, the light of the screen reflecting in her tired eyes. She thinks she’s alone in her quest for a real, tangible spark—both on the page and in her life. But she’s not alone. I’m here, orchestrating destiny from the shadows, and I’ve just discovered our missing piece.

Yes, Eli Walsh, the brooding new neighbor with boxes of books and arms that would definitely make Camila do a double-take if she caught him mid-stretch. He’s the perfect candidate for her next adventure. Sure, they haven’t met yet—unless you count me seeing him from a distance—but that can be arranged. I already have a plan forming in my head: a series of small, carefully timed nudges that’ll bring them face to face until the tension reaches boiling point.

I lick my paw, smoothing down a bit of fur on my shoulder. My reflection in the dark TV screen shows my green eyes shining with anticipation. I feel a purr building in my throat, the kind that emerges when I’m particularly proud of a scheme. If I had the ability to rub my paws together like a movie villain, I’d be doing it right now.

Camila yawns and closes her laptop, massaging her temples. “Alright, that’s it for me tonight. Midnight, if you want to stay up, be my guest, but I’m passing out.” She stands, picks up her toast plate, and shuffles to her bedroom, flicking off lights along the way.

I remain on the couch, letting the glow of the screen fade as she disappears. Soon the apartment is dark except for the faint streetlamp glimmer through the blinds. My ears flick at the sound of her bedroom door clicking shut. That’s my cue.

Rising on all fours, I jump off the cushion and pad my way over to the window. Peering out, I see the reflection of my dark silhouette. Past that, the first floor is still quiet—Eli’s lights are off now. He’s either gone to sleep or busy fussing with the final arrangement of his furniture. Possibly he’s lost in thought, staring at a half-unpacked bookshelf, mentally rewriting the chapters of his own life. Humans love to complicate things.

I flick my tail and decide it’s time to rest. Tomorrow, I’ll put my plan into action. Subtle interference in Camila’s routines, carefully arranged opportunities for collision, a sprinkling of forced proximity. She can try to ignore it, but I doubt she’ll succeed. My human might be stubborn, but she’s also lonely, and loneliness can only be cured by taking a risk—preferably one with arms like Mr. Walsh’s.

Operation Mate My Human begins right now. Even if Camila doesn’t realize it, she’s on the verge of living out a story that might surpass any fictional romance she’s ever written. And I, Midnight, intend to be the brilliant puppet master that makes it happen.

With that thought, I saunter toward Camila’s bedroom, slip through the partially open door, and hop onto the foot of her bed. She’s already breathing softly, her laptop resting on the nightstand, half a piece of buttered toast abandoned there too. I curl up near her feet, tail twitching in satisfaction, and let out a content purr.

The night stretches before me, still and quiet, filled with possibility. In a few hours, the sun will rise, and with it, the chance to prod Camila into crossing paths with her new neighbor. I can’t wait to watch everything unfold.

I am Midnight, proud orchestrator of romance and chaos, and I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a glorious day.