Be Our Guest, Be Our Guest (But Pay Rent)

Apartment 4B has notes.

Wendell liked things a certain way.

White shirts ironed on Sundays. Breakfast at 7:15. Coffee, two creams, stirred clockwise. A sock drawer organized by season and hue. He was the kind of man who used coasters on granite countertops.

Which made it all the more unnerving when he opened the door to Apartment 4B, his new home.

“You’re late,” a voice said crisply. “I browned myself waiting out of sheer boredom.”

Wendell yelped and dropped his box of emotional support stemware. Glass crunched against the hardwood.

“Hello?” he called from the narrow entryway. He had a good view of the small kitchen, living room, and short hall to the bedroom.

Silence.

He stepped forward. Maybe it had been in his head. Stress. Sleep deprivation. The impatient echo of his ex: “You're emotionally constipated, Wendell.”

And then he saw it.

The toaster, perched neatly on the retro mint-green counter, angled toward him with the indignation of someone who’d just been stood up for brunch.

“Well?” it said. “In or out? I’d rather not let all the summer humidity in. I’m sensitive to moisture.”

Wendell backed out of the apartment, pulling the door shut with a loud click. He stood in the hall, motionless. He must be going mad. Or his ex was right about his penchant for high drama. “Honestly, why do you have such a flair for dramatics? Overreacting is your love language.”

Slowly, he reopened the door.

The toaster started talking again; Wendell slammed the door, cutting it off.

From somewhere inside, a deep, velvety British voice called, “Do be a dear and unpack a wine opener. The red’s breathing, and frankly, I’m tired of watching it.”

Wendell cracked open the door. Peered across the apartment at the kitchen.

The toaster shook in irritation. An espresso machine’s portafilter jiggled, pointing at the bottle of red wine beside it. A blender winked at him without eyes. The fridge door opened, giving a moody sigh.

He looked down at the key clutched in his hand. Had he misunderstood the apartment listing? Furnished one-bedroom with character, the ad had said. He hadn’t realized character meant actual personalities.

The fridge grumbled. “You’re not our usual type.”

“Too much starch in the collar,” the toaster agreed.

Wendell edged inside and cleared his throat. “Is this…some kind of immersive theatre thing?”

“No, darling,” purred the blender. “This is your life now.”

The apartment itself was ordinary enough—if by “ordinary” you meant 1970s parquet flooring, clawfoot tub in the corner of the bedroom, and a peculiar smell that hovered somewhere between lemon Pledge and emotional damage.

“I’ll call the landlord,” Wendell muttered.

The microwave giggled, its digital numbers flickering. “Good luck with that. He only communicates through haikus.”

“That can’t be—”

A small printer on the windowsill whirred to life and spat out a slip of paper:

New tenant, take care.
Your blender flirts. ‘Ware the ice.
Grow or get evicted.

Wendell blinked. “What kind of psychological warfare is this?”

“The whimsical kind,” said the espresso machine. “We adore whimsy.”

---

The first few days were rocky.

The appliances had opinions. The coffee machine refused to make decaf on principle. The fridge had a passive-aggressive, and potentially homicidal, ice maker. The kettle sang opera. Loudly, off-key, and exclusively between 3:00 and 4:00 AM.

Wendell tried everything: ignoring them, scolding them, Googling “mental break” and “haunted kitchen.” Nothing gave him a magic answer. They were simply…themselves.

He’d just come off a breakup—ten years, gone in ten minutes over gnocchi and emotional avoidance—and had chosen the surprisingly affordable apartment in a fit of forced optimism.

“Fresh start.” He’d smiled at his reflection in the mirror until his cheeks hurt. “New me.”

Instead, he got a blender that called him “pet,” an oven that encouraged spontaneous karaoke, and an ice maker that spat ice cubes in what he suspected was attempted tenant-cide.

Still. Something softened on day seven.

He burned his toast. Again. Not because of distraction, but because the toaster, mid-browning, began reciting slam poetry about loss and grief. And Wendell, utterly against his will, listened.

“…and the crumbs she left behind / still stick to my tray, even now.”

The toast was inedible. Wendell cried anyway.

By week three, he’d developed a habit of arguing with the espresso machine about Camus, exchanging romantic advice with the kettle, and confessing his childhood fears to the recalcitrant fridge.

“Do you think it’s sad,” he asked one night, “that I don’t know who I am without someone else?”

The freezer hummed sympathetically. “Self-discovery is best served cold,” it said.

Wendell laughed for the first time in months.

---

The apartment began to feel like something he’d never expected: home. It didn’t judge. It didn’t ask him to be anything other than a slightly uptight man in recovery from heartbreak and a decade of pretending everything was fine.

He still ironed his shirts. But now, sometimes, he let the oven pick his music.

On the two-month anniversary of his moving day, the printer spit out another haiku:

Growth detected. Hm.
Should we warn him what comes next?
No. Let him enjoy.

Wendell, mid-sip of his espresso, raised an eyebrow. “What comes next?”

The appliances fell silent.

Then the toaster snorted.

The oven chuckled.

The fridge sighed. “You’ll see.”

Tink-tink.

Two small, sharp sounds, like a pair of pebbles hitting glass.

Wendell turned toward the window beside the fire escape. Nothing. No one. Just the city humming below, traffic like distant waves. The windowpane intact.

Yet he felt new eyes on him. A watchful awareness, just out of sight, that expected to be invited inside.

A low, encouraging whistle came from the kettle. The espresso machine let out a coy puff of steam. The blender revved supportively.

Wendell stared at the glass. Slowly, he set down his cup and stood up. Whatever it was, whoever it was, it hadn’t banged. It had tapped—light as hope, soft as a teasing question.

And maybe, just maybe, Wendell had an answer ready.