He discovers an argument

Seth stirred from his haze of exhaustion, every inch of him screaming in protest—thighs on fire from overuse, back locked up tight, and a pounding ache drilling into his skull that blurred the edges of his vision as he pushed himself upright. The sheets stuck to his clammy skin, twisted around his ankles, but Schulz remained out cold next to him, her long red hair fanned across the pillow, breaths deep and even. He pressed his palms to his temples, grimacing through the pain, then eased his legs over the bed's edge, the hardwood floor cold under his feet as he steadied himself.

His scattered clothes mocked him from the floor—jeans piled by the footboard, shirt slung over the treadmill arm, boxers wedged beneath the nightstand. He moved deliberately, pulling on the boxers first, wincing as the waistband dragged over tender hips, then yanking up the jeans, the zipper's scrape echoing in the silence. The shirt followed, hauled over his head with a yank that jarred his shoulders, material bunching awkwardly until he smoothed it down. Bending for his sneakers, his fingers grazed the pocket's contents—the remote, solid and unaltered, a subtle anchor amid the morning's fog.

A rustle from the bed snapped his attention back; Schulz shifted, eyes fluttering open, stretching with a low hum before sitting up, her hair tumbling wild over her shoulders. She flashed him a sleepy grin, leaned in for a quick peck on his cheek, then swung out of bed, grabbing a robe from the chair and slipping it on loosely. "Gonna grab some water—back in a sec," she murmured, padding barefoot to the door and stepping into the hall, leaving it ajar behind her.

Voices rose almost immediately from outside, not vague murmurs but pointed back-and-forth that sharpened as Seth finished tying his laces. Curiosity pulled him closer, ear to the crack, the dialogue crystallizing: Schulz's words, steady but laced with irritation, bouncing off another woman's—Rita, the landlady, her delivery packed with that usual mix of bossy lectures from past rent chases and lobby gripes.

"You think I don't notice Lina?" Rita pressed, giving you Schulz’s ne nameher steps clipping back and forth on the hallway floor. "That kid's been glued to your side for months—in and out of your apartment, the works. It's crossing lines, dating a tenant like that. You're my niece, and he's just scraping by on student loans. What message does that send to everyone else here?"

"Aunt Rita, Seth and I are serious lovers, not some casual hookup. It's our life, not yours to police. You can't keep sticking your nose in every time he crashes here." Lina countered without missing a beat, her stance audible in the firm plant of her feet.

Seth's hand stilled on the knob, the conversation unfolding like a puzzle snapping together—the remote hadn't merely reshaped Schulz; it had woven her into a full-blown relationship in this twisted reality, complete with shared history he hadn't earned, memories teasing at the edges of his mind like echoes. Rita pushed harder, voice pitching up. "Lovers, Lina? He's barely out of college, and I've watched you two act like newlyweds. It's reckless, rushing into this. Lina, need I remind you that you’re twice his age, As your aunt and the owner of this building, I can't ignore it. Cool it off, or I'll have to make adjustments—for him, at least."

The argument swelled outside, words tumbling over each other in rapid clips—Rita's accusations slicing through Schulz's defences, her aunt's voice pitching higher with each retort, footsteps stomping in tight circles on the hallway floor. Seth pressed his ear closer to the door crack, catching fragments that hit like puzzle pieces slotting in: Rita mentioning a cozy dinner at the corner bistro last week, one Seth had no memory of attending, yet a faint image flickered—candlelight, Schulz's green eyes laughing over wine glasses.

Then came a pet name, "my firecracker," tossed casually by Rita in mockery, and it landed oddly familiar, as if he'd heard Schulz whisper it in his ear during moments that never happened, the remote's alterations weaving false threads into his life, making them a pair with shared weekends, late-night texts, and inside rituals baked into this new world.

He shifted his weight, the floor creaking faintly under him, and slipped the remote deeper into his pocket, fingers lingering on its buttons as the implications sank in—whole conversations, touches, arguments now etched as real history, rippling out to touch family ties and daily routines he hadn't scripted.

Rita's tone sharpened then, her words cutting through the door like a warning shot: "That boy's on a month-to-month lease, and if you keep this up, I'll make sure he finds somewhere else to play house. I own this building, and I won't have my niece shacking up with some transient student—it's bad for business, bad for you."

That caused Seth’s stomach twist, a series of cold knots forming as he registered the leverage in her voice, her role as landlady twisting into a weapon, dangling eviction over his head not for late rent or noise, but purely because she scorned their ‘relationship,’ her disapproval wielding his housing stability like a club to smash what the remote had built.