Zahir was the roommate from hell—and I'd never even signed a lease. For a solid week, he haunted my apartment like a blue-tinted poltergeist with an attitude, pacing through walls, his bell-shoes jingling like a wind chime caught in a hurricane. He wouldn't shut up—every night, it was the same melodramatic sob story about Jasmin, his ex, spilling out in a torrent of self-pity. "She betrayed me for a warlord, left me to wilt in a flower—two thousand years of solitude, mortal! Do you know what that does to a soul?" I'd clutch my pillow, muttering, "Cry me a river, Smurf," but he'd just jingle louder, his misty form swirling as he pleaded for wishes. "Freedom, mortal! Three little words, and I'm gone—give me something, anything!"
I wasn't biting. I'd seen BlissMaster—genies were a cosmic scam waiting to backfire, and I wasn't about to wish myself into a monkey's paw situation. But his whining was relentless, a mosquito buzz drilling into my skull night after night. By day seven, I was a zombie—Greg's latest "motivational speech" still echoing in my head ("Sell more hoodies, Mira, or it's your ass!")—and my patience was a frayed thread. I'd stumbled home from Trendy Threads, kicked off my sneakers, and collapsed into bed, only for Zahir to start up again, hovering over me like a nagging blue cloud.
"PLEASE!" he wailed, bells clanging as he wrung his misty hands. "One wish—just one! I can't take this limbo!"
I snapped. Springing from bed, hair a frizzy mess, eyes wild, pajamas clinging to my sweaty skin, I jabbed a finger at him. "FINE!" I roared, voice cracking from exhaustion. "I wish you'd do everything I have to do in the morning so I can rest before work tears me apart! Happy now?!"
His grin stretched wide, Cheshire-cat smug, those ember eyes glinting with mischief. "Granted," he purred, snapping his fingers with a flourish. The room spun, his mist swallowing me like a tidal wave, cool and jasmine-scented, and I blacked out. The last thing I heard was his damn bells fading into a smug little jingle, like he'd won the lottery.
I woke to heaven—or damn close. Pancakes. Not my usual charred hockey pucks that set off the smoke alarm, but golden, fluffy stacks, their buttery scent yanking me from sleep like a siren song. I lay there a moment, blinking at the ceiling, the aroma sinking in—sweet, spiced, a hint of something floral I couldn't place, like jasmine had crash-landed in a bakery. My stomach growled, loud and traitorously eager. I shuffled downstairs, still in my ratty Trendy Threads tee and mismatched socks—one striped, one polka-dot—rubbing sleep from my eyes. The smell hit harder as I rounded the corner, and I stopped short, tripping over my own feet and crashing to the linoleum with a yelp that echoed off the walls.
A man stood at my stove. Not blue-Zahir, but a flesh-and-blood god—tall, dark-skinned, braids spilling over broad shoulders like a cascade of midnight, a sculpted frame barely contained by my "Kiss the Cook" apron (a gag gift from Jen I'd shoved in a drawer years ago). He flipped a pancake with a casual flick of his wrist, humming a tune—low, haunting, ancient—that made the air shimmer with tiny, glowing petals. They floated lazily, winking out before they hit the counter. My jaw dropped, my brain short-circuiting as I stared from my sprawled spot on the floor.
"WHO ARE YOU AND HOW DID YOU GET IN MY APARTMENT?!" I shrieked, scrambling back against the fridge, the cold metal jarring my spine.
He turned, and I nearly passed out. His face was all sharp angles—high cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass—and warm eyes that pinned me like a spotlight, dark amber flecked with gold. "My lady," he said, voice smooth as melted chocolate, rich and rolling, "you wished for morning aid. I'm Zahir, reshaped to soothe your mortal soul." He winked, slow and deliberate, and my face ignited, a blush creeping up my neck so fast I thought I'd combust.
"You're the—the blue guy?" I stammered, pointing a shaky finger, my socked feet slipping as I tried to stand. "Making pancakes?"
He plated a stack with flair, steam curling into flower shapes—total show-off—and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "Your wish was vague," he said, smirking. " 'Everything I have to do in the morning'—what, brush your teeth with that sad little toothbrush? Iron your tragic apron? Brew your weak mortal coffee? I improvised. Your usual burnt-toast despair seemed beneath you."
I gaped, still half-sprawled, my heart thudding like a drumline. "You're in my kitchen, flirting with me over breakfast! I wished for rest, not—not this!" I waved a hand at him—his braids, his apron, his stupidly perfect everything.
He laughed, deep and rolling, like thunder you wanted to lean into, his bells jingling faintly even in this form. "Rest comes in many forms, mortal. Besides, you didn't specify—no clauses, no fine print. Rookie mistake." He stepped closer, offering a hand, the apron swaying slightly. "Up you go."
I grabbed it, his grip warm and solid—not mist—pulling me to my feet with an ease that made my knees wobble. I caught a whiff of him—spices, jasmine, something ancient and wild—and nearly forgot how to breathe. "This is insane," I muttered, brushing off my shirt, my voice shaky. "You're real? Like, really real?"
"Very," he said, smirking wider, his eyes glinting. "And you're trouble, Mira Patel."
"Me?!" I snapped, crossing my arms, finally steadying myself. "You're the one breaking and entering! What's next, you gonna vacuum my living room?"
"Breaking and entering?" He raised an eyebrow, mock-offended, pressing a hand to his chest. "I'm aiding, my lady—fulfilling your wish with flair. Vacuuming's beneath me, but say the word, and I'll summon a breeze to sweep your crumbs."
"Pass," I shot back, glaring. "And stop calling me 'my lady'—it's creepy."
"Creepy?" he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping low. "Or charming? You mortals are so fickle."
"Annoying," I countered, but my lips twitched, betraying me. "What's with the hot-guy upgrade, anyway? Last night you were a whiny blue cloud."
He grinned, leaning in until I could see the gold flecks in his eyes. "Your subconscious, Mira. I took a form to comfort you—seems I hit the mark. Should I go back to mist? Less distracting?"
"Don't you dare," I blurted, then clapped a hand over my mouth, mortified. His laugh boomed, shaking the petals in the air.
"Noted," he said, stepping back with a bow. "Forgive my boldness—I've been rusty, trapped in that bloom since Jasmin's treachery. Two millennia of silence, and you're the first to open to me."
I softened, his words sinking in despite my defenses. "Wait, Jasmin—the ex you won't shut up about? Spill it, then. What's her deal?"
He sighed, dramatic as hell, running a hand through his braids. "A cultivator's daughter—beautiful, faithless, sharper than a dagger. We tended the Peace Bloom together in the Indus Valley, a gift from the goddess Lashame to her lover Hiva. Jasmin was my muse, my fire—until she chose a warlord's gold over my heart. I cursed her bloom to spite her, swore it'd only flower for the open-hearted. It became my prison instead. Until you."
I blinked, caught off guard. "So I'm your parole officer because I drank tea? That's messed up."
"Messed up?" he said, smirking again. "Or fate? You're not cynical like the rest—cracked, maybe, but open. It's why I'm here."
"Great, I'm a cracked egg," I deadpanned, shuffling to the table. "Just feed me before I regret this."
He slid the plate over with a flourish, and I dug in, fork trembling as the first bite hit my tongue. The pancakes were perfection—light, sweet, a spice I couldn't name melting like magic. My anxiety dissolved, replaced by a buzz I hadn't felt since my fan fic days. "Okay," I mumbled, mouth full, "this is good. Too good. What's the catch?"
"No catch," he said, leaning against the counter, watching me eat. "Gratitude. You didn't toss me out—or the tea. Eat, then we talk wishes properly. No more tantrums."
"No promises," I shot back, but I smiled—a real one, not the fake grin I plastered on for Greg. "You're still a menace."
"And you're still trouble," he replied, voice low, teasing. "We're a pair, then."
That night, the tea's magic lingered, a hum in my veins that wouldn't quit. I grabbed my laptop, and words spilled out—retail rants, Greg's cologne tyranny, Dave's dimpled obliviousness—all sharper, funnier than I'd ever managed. Zahir hovered nearby, perched on the couch arm, smirking. "That manager needs a wart," he said, peering at the screen. "No, three—make him itch like the pest he is."
I laughed, typing faster. "You're a menace," I said, glancing at him.
"And you're a muse," he shot back, his tone softer, almost serious. "Keep going, Mira. This is… alive."
By dawn, I had 200 pages—Steeped in Retail. On impulse, I uploaded it to a sketchy self-publishing site, too wired to care. "What's the worst that could happen?" I muttered, hitting "publish."
Zahir's bells jingled as he leaned closer, his breath—did Djinns have breath?—tickling my ear. "Famous last words, my lady."
"Shut up," I said, but I grinned, the buzz electric. Trouble or not, this felt like me again.
(HI! Author Chan here! If you made it this far its because you were reading my book! So thank you! this was made possible thanks to two years of headache from writers block on paper and grammarly. Also the process of going through the battle of weather or not it was OK to ask Ai for assistance! But thanks to Grok I'm making my drafts turn into flesh and I hope I can still write with integrity by using both methods.)