I laugh despite myself. The tension in my chest eases slightly. “Mantel,” I say without hesitation. “Right next to the dragon figurine. So everyone can see it when they walk in.”
He nods. “Perfect,” he says. “Just like you.”
CHAPTER 14
tovek
Three days later, I watch from the bedroom doorway as Mei attacks my sock drawer with the kind of righteous fury usually reserved for war crimes and people who don’t return their shopping carts.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun that somehow makes her look both adorable and vaguely threatening, a few strands falling loose to curl against her neck as she bends over the open drawer. She’s muttering to herself about “systems” and “basic organization” and “how does anyone live like this?” in a tone that suggests she’s genuinely questioning my fitness as a human being.
Fair, honestly.
My chest does that stupid tightening thing. It’s been happening for seven months. The one that makes me feel like a romance novel hero having a feelings moment. Which is ridiculous because I’m standing in my own bedroom, watching my girlfriend move in, and panicking about where to hide an engagement ring.
Well. Not just the ring.
The golden whisk is in the box she’s currently unpacking. The trophy from the cook-off. Solid gold, engraved with our names, and surprisingly heavy. She wants to put it somewhere visible. Somewhere that says this is ours. That we built this together.
The ring is currently in my nightstand drawer, wrapped in a handkerchief and shoved under a stack of takeout menus I haven’t looked at in months.
I’m so fucked.
“This is a disaster,” she announces, holding up the whisk and looking around the bedroom like she’s trying to solve a spatial puzzle. “We need a proper display. Something that doesn’t look like we just shoved it on a shelf. This is a first-place trophy. It deserves respect.”
“Could put it on the mantel,” I offer helpfully.
She whips around to glare at me, and I’m struck by how unfairly attractive she is when she’s judging my interior design choices. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear you question my entire decorating philosophy.”
“You don’t have a decorating philosophy,” she corrects, turning back to the box with renewed determination. “You have a ‘put things wherever they fit’ approach. This is about intention. This is about creating a space that reflects who we are. Together.”
“Can’t I just be a guy with stuff?”
“Tovek.” She doesn’t even look at me, just pulls out a framed photo of us at the cook-off. “I’ve seen your spreadsheets. I know you can organize things. Which means this,” she gestures at the bedroom like it personally offended her, “is a choice. A bad choice.”
I should be annoyed. Should point out that I’ve been living here for years without her particular brand of micromanagement. Should maybe mention that my bedroom ismy business and if I want to live in minimalist chaos, that’s my right.
But there’s something about the way she gets completely absorbed in even the most mundane task. Like creating a home together is a personal mission from God. It makes my chest tight.
Also, she’s wearing those shorts. The ones that should be illegal.
I move into the room, coming up behind her to wrap my arms around her waist. “The mantel works,” I say against her ear, my mouth finding that spot just below her jaw that I know makes her brain short-circuit. “Right next to the dragon figurine. So everyone can see it when they walk in.”
She leans back into me despite herself, her hands stilling on the trophy. “That’s what I said three days ago. You’re just agreeing with me now to distract me.”
Shit. She’s right. Because three days ago I was too busy panicking about where to hide the ring to actually listen to her very reasonable suggestion about trophy placement.
“I’m a slow learner,” I say, which is both true and complete bullshit.
“You’re a disaster.” She turns in my arms, one eyebrow raised in that way that means she knows I’m full of it but hasn’t figured out the specifics yet. “But you’re my disaster now. Officially. My stuff is in your closet. Our closet.”
“Our closet,” I repeat, and the word does something complicated to my chest.
“You like that,” she observes, watching my face.
“I love it,” I correct. “You. Here. Your things mixed with mine. Building something permanent.”
