Page 6 of Make Me Mean It

I still can’t bring myself to get rid of it.

“It goes in the bedroom,” I say, flicking my eyes pointedly towards the label stretched clearly across the front of the box.

Theo cranes his head over it, a quiet grunt leaving him when he finally spots the label, and without arguing, he straightens and carries it down the hall.

I watch Theo disappear down the hall before turning back to the picture, nudging it slightly to the left, then back again, unable to decide which position looks right anymore. The dull thud of the box hitting the bedroom floor echoes towards me a moment later, pulling my attention briefly towards the hallway.

Marcus reappears with a smaller box balanced in his arms just as Theo comes back around the corner, their shoulders colliding when they pass. Theo staggers sideways towards me, now much closer than he was a second ago.

I catch him at the ribs, my palm grazing warm skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, but my eyes are already on the table beside us, checking that nothing in the neat row of knick-knacks has shifted out of place.

Everything is exactly where I left it, and the relief that settles through me lasts all of a second before a quiet breath of laughter comes from beside me.

I look back at Theo to find his eyes on the table, before they lift slowly to mine, amusement brightening them enough that I know he’s caught exactly what I was checking for. He lifts his hands in surrender and moves away, giving the table an exaggerated amount of space.

I press my lips together, refusing to give him the reaction he’s clearly waiting for.

“Alright,” Marcus calls, appearing in the doorway again. “I’m gonna grab the last box out the van, then I think we’re finally done.”

He claps his hands together, apparently as relieved by that as I am, before disappearing back out towards the van.

Theo rounds the corner a moment later with a sigh of relief, shoving a hand through his hair to push it away from his sweat-damp forehead.

“Finally.”

He sets the lamp down on the side table, and my eyes go straight to it.

It’s slightly off centre, barely enough that anyone else would notice, and I drag my gaze away before I can fixate on it. I can move it later. There’s no reason it needs to be done now.

Except I can still see it from the corner of my eye, sitting just far enough to the right that concentrating on anything else becomes increasingly difficult.

My fingers curl against my palms, nails pressing into the skin while I keep my eyes determinedly away from the table, refusing to give in to the urge to move it.

When I finally risk another glance towards the table, I catch Theo watching me instead. His eyes flick briefly towards the lamp before returning to mine, one brow lifting, and embarrassment warms my cheeks at the realisation that he’s noticed exactly what’s been bothering me.

I catch my bottom lip between my teeth, wishing for once that I could simply leave it where it is and pretend I hadn’t noticed. “Can you move it slightly to the left?”

Theo holds my gaze for another second, and I wait for whatever comment I’ve just handed him, but he only turns back to the lamp.

I wait for the laugh, or some comment about the boxes and everything else he’s already noticed, but Theo only shifts the lamp to the left, barely an inch, stopping exactly where I wanted it.

The discomfort beneath my skin eases, the tension slipping from my shoulders with a quiet breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.I’m so used to people questioning these things that Theo’s complete lack of reaction leaves me unsure what to make of him. He doesn’t ask for an explanation or point out how little he moved it, doesn’t make me justify why it matters when I’m not entirely sure I could.

He just moved it.

“You know,” he says, leaning his shoulder against the door jamb, “I’ve done everything you’ve asked me, right?”

I blink at him, thrown enough by the sudden change in conversation that I glance around the room as if the answer might be sitting somewhere between the boxes.

What?”

Theo pushes away from the wall, closing some of the distance between us.

“The box,” he says, ticking it off on his fingers as he walks towards me. “The table.”

Another finger lifts.

“The lamp.”