Page 143 of Unmanageable

I turn around and there she is.

Her red hair is mussed from the wind, her suit jacket slung over one arm, and her clipboard tucked under the other like a temporarily disarmed weapon. Her gaze stops abruptly on the red flannel.

“The flannel, Cash? Already? It’s been twelve minutes.”

“It’s an anchor, Scottie. Every room needs one.”

“It’s a rag, O’Connell. It looks like it was attacked by a bear.”

We start unpacking, and it becomes immediately clear that we are not compatible in the traditional sense of “logistics.”

We argue over the couch. I want it angled toward the TV like a normal human who enjoys sports and sanity. She wants it positioned for “flow,” a concept she appears to have invented on the spot just to exert dominance over the living room.

“It disrupts the energy,” she says, dragging one end of the heavy furniture a few inches to the left.

“It blocks the outlet, Scottie. The outlet powers the TV. That is a requirement for my lifestyle.”

“The outlet is a suggestion. Energy is a mandate.”

“Energy doesn’t show me the highlights from the Western Conference.”

She tilts her head, challenging me. “You’re very brave for someone standing in my living room.”

“Our living room.”

“Semantics,” she mutters.

By the time we reach the kitchen, the chaos has multiplied. I’m holding a box of glasses while she’s inspecting the stove.

“Gas or electric?” she asks, crouching down to get a better look.

“I think it’s gas.”

She drops fully to the floor, peering into the oven, muttering about flame control and heat distribution.

I lean against the counter and simply watch her.

This is the part no one warns you about—the moment when love stops being the big, dramatic confessions and starts being this: someone in your space, making it theirs without asking, and somehow, that’s exactly where you want them to be.

I love the way she takes charge. I love the way she hums a low, distracted tune when she’s thinking too hard.

“The pilot light is fine,” she announces, standing up and brushing the dust off her knees. “But we are replacing the drawer pulls. These are… offensive.”

“Offensive? They’re just metal loops, Scottie.”

“They are hurting my soul, Finn. Don’t fight me on this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I mutter, reaching out and pulling her into my space.

“We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?” she whispers, her hands resting on my chest.

“Better than okay. We’re going to be a disaster. A beautiful, loud, disorganized disaster.”

She laughs, turning in my arms to face me. “I love you,” she says. “And don’t you forget it.”

I don’t answer with words. I kiss her until she stops talking about bookshelf vibes and floor plans, until the only thing that matters is the scorching heat between us and the quiet, expectant hum of an apartment that is finally, officially, home.

I trail my kisses down the sensitive line of her neck, and her breath hitches.