Page 142 of Unmanageable

Then I shrug.

“So what?”

Scottie blinks. “So what?” she repeats.

“Maybe it is fast,” I say, my thumb brushing across her knuckles. “Maybe if we’d met at a coffee shop and gone on three polite dates and spent six months pretending we weren’t obsessed with each other, I’d agree with you.”

A reluctant smile tugs at her mouth.

“But that’s not what happened,” I squeeze her hand. “I’ve seen you at your worst, Sharky. I’ve seen you angry, exhausted, scared, stubborn, impossible, and running on two hours of sleep and pure spite.”

“Pure spite is a renewable resource.”

“I know.” I grin. “And somehow, all of that just made me love you more.”

The playfulness fades from her expression, leaving only a terrifying sincerity.

“I’m not asking because it’s convenient, Scottie,” my voice softens. “I’m asking because every time something happens—good or bad—you’re already the person I want to come home to.”

For a second, she just looks at me. Then she lets out a shaky breath and shakes her head.

“You are unbelievably difficult to argue with when you’re sincere.”

“Is that a yes?”

She rolls her eyes, which is answer enough.

“God, you’re annoying.”

“Scottie-girl.”

Another sigh. Another eye roll. Then she leans forward and presses her forehead against mine.

“Fine,” she murmurs. “One home.”

***

Three weeks later, after one ruthless weekend of apartment viewings and exactly seventeen disagreements about natural light, parking, and whether a kitchen island counted as a “non-negotiable,” we signed the papers on a place that belonged to both of us.

Moving in together should be easy.

That is the lie everyone tells you.

We’re taught to believe that love, once it has been established and named and dragged into the daylight, naturally settles into something calm and manageable. We are led to think that combining two lives is merely a matter of logistics—boxes, keys, toothbrush placement, and deciding whose turn it is to buy the paper towels.

But of course, it isn’t easy. Because Scottie is involved. And when Scottie is involved, “easy” is a myth.

I arrive at the apartment first.

She’s late—not in the irresponsible sense, but in the specific, high-stakes Scottie way. That means she has likely solved three problems that weren’t hers to begin with, intimidated a GM into sudden competence, and only then realized she still had to physically exist somewhere else.

The apartment is quiet in that hollow, expectant way new spaces often are. Every footstep I take echoes against the floorboards, waiting to see what kind of people we are going to be inside these walls.

I’ve already started the process. My hockey bag is dumped in the corner. There’s a duffel of protein bars and recovery shakes leaning against the wall. I have one box labeled FLANNELS in aggressive black marker, which I intend to defend with my life.

I pull one out—the red and black one that feels like a second skin—and drape it over the back of the couch like a territorial flag.

I’m elbow-deep in a box of miscellaneous cables when the front door swings open.