“The crash had barely stopped echoing when my new roommate came flying down the stairs in bare feet. She crossed the space between us and wrapped both arms around me—not a polite hug, not the quick kind you give someone after they carry your mattress upstairs. She held on as if she’d spent the last five seconds imagining a world where I wasn’t standing there. I froze. Then her cheek pressed against my chest. My hand settled carefully against her back. And something inside me shifted so hard it made the crash seem quiet. She’d only moved in seven hours earlier—and I already knew she was going to be a serious problem.”

“The crash had barely stopped echoing when my new roommate came flying down the stairs in bare feet. She crossed the space between us and wrapped both arms around me—not a polite hug, not the quick kind you give someone after they carry your mattress upstairs. She held on as if she’d spent the last five seconds imagining a world where I wasn’t standing there. I froze. Then her cheek pressed against my chest. My hand settled carefully against her back. And something inside me shifted so hard it made the crash seem quiet. She’d only moved in seven hours earlier—and I already knew she was going to be a serious problem.”

The crash had barely stopped echoing when Paige came flying down the stairs in bare feet.

“Caleb.”

I stepped out of the dining room, still holding half of a broken curtain rod. “I’m fine. It just—”

She crossed the space between us and wrapped both arms around me. Not a polite hug. Not the quick, awkward kind you give someone after they help carry your mattress upstairs. Paige held on as if she’d spent the last five seconds imagining a world where I wasn’t standing there.

I froze. Then her cheek pressed against my chest. My hand settled carefully against her back. And something inside me shifted so hard it made the crash seem quiet.

That was the moment I realized my new roommate might become a serious problem.

And she’d only moved in seven hours earlier.

At 25, I had expected to be done with roommates. I worked from home editing audio for podcasts and small documentary projects, which paid well enough to cover groceries and almost enough to cover the mortgage on the old two-story house my grandfather had left me. Almost was the dangerous word.

My previous roommate had moved to Seattle with his fiancée, leaving me with an empty bedroom, a leaking upstairs faucet, and the uncomfortable discovery that adulthood was mostly invoices arriving with insulting confidence.

So my cousin Marissa sent me a message. “I know someone who needs a room. She’s normal mostly.”

That someone was Paige Bennett. Paige was 24, worked as an event coordinator at a botanical garden, and arrived in a dented silver hatchback with eight cardboard boxes, three plants, and a navy suitcase that looked heavy enough to contain either books or a body.

“You’re late,” I said from the porch.

She glanced at her phone. “I’m four minutes early.”

“I was trying to establish authority.”

“How did it feel?”

“Brief.”

Her smile caught me off guard. Marissa had shown me a picture, but pictures hadn’t warned me about Paige’s eyes. They were dark brown and observant, with a warmth that made you feel as if she’d noticed the thing you were trying not to say. Her chestnut hair was twisted into a loose knot, and she wore faded jeans, a white t-shirt, and a rust-colored overshirt with the sleeves rolled up. She looked practical, pretty, and entirely too amused by me.

I had promised myself I wouldn’t notice that last part. My last relationship had ended six months earlier with my girlfriend telling me I was easy to live with and difficult to know. She hadn’t been cruel about it. That almost made it worse.

Since then, I’d become very good at keeping my life orderly. Work downstairs, sleep upstairs, eat standing over the kitchen sink when no one was around to judge me. A roommate was supposed to help with the mortgage, not disrupt the system.

Then Paige opened the back of her car and pointed at the suitcase. “Lift with your legs,” she said.

“You packed it, and now you get to experience it.”

The suitcase contained books. I learned this halfway up the stairs when one wheel struck my shin and Paige started laughing behind me.

“You could help,” I grunted.

“I’m supervising. You’re doing excellent work.”

“I bring a lot to a household.”

At the top landing, I turned too quickly and nearly collided with her. Paige caught my forearm. I put a hand against the wall beside her to keep us both upright. For a second, neither of us moved. She was close enough that I could see a tiny pale line near her left eyebrow. Her laughter faded, but the smile stayed.

“You okay?” I asked.

Perfectly. Her fingers were still around my arm. I looked down at them. She followed my gaze and released me, clearing her throat.

“Good staircase,” she said.

“Thank you. I grew it myself.”

That got another laugh, but this one sounded slightly nervous. So it wasn’t only me. The realization was both encouraging and deeply inconvenient.

By six, we had most of her things upstairs. Paige arranged her plants on the windowsill and set a framed photograph on the dresser. It showed her with an older man who shared her eyes. They stood beside a lake, his arm around her shoulders, both of them laughing at something outside the frame.

I didn’t ask. She noticed me looking and touched the edge of the frame.

“My dad,” she said. “That was our last camping trip.”

The past tense had weight.

“He looks happy.”

“He was.” Her expression softened. “He would have liked this house. He believed old places had personalities.”

“This one complains whenever it rains.”

“Then they would have understood each other.”

I smiled, but she kept studying me. “What?” I asked.

“Marissa said you were quiet.”

“Marissa talks enough for both of us.”

“She also said you make terrible coffee.”

“That was a private family matter.”

“And that you pretend you don’t care about people while fixing their cars, shelves, laptops, and occasionally their lives.”

I leaned against the door frame. “Did she send you a roommate reference or an unauthorized biography?”

“A warning label.” There was teasing in her voice, but also interest. Paige wasn’t merely filling silence. She was trying to figure me out.

I should have changed the subject. Instead, I said, “What else did she tell you?”

“That you don’t date much.”

There it was. “Marissa is losing holiday privileges.”

Paige tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Was she wrong?”

“No.”

“Why?”

I looked toward the photograph of her father. “You ask direct questions.”

“You don’t give direct answers.”

“Maybe we’ll balance each other out.” Her eyes returned to mine. “Maybe,” she said quietly.

We ordered Thai food that evening because neither of us had the energy to cook. We ate at the kitchen counter, sharing noodles directly from the cartons while rain ticked against the windows. It felt more like a date than I wanted to admit.

Paige told me about a wedding she’d coordinated where the bride’s grandmother stole the microphone and announced that the groom had excellent shoulders but suspicious eyebrows.

I nearly choked on a pepper.

“She wasn’t wrong,” Paige said. “His eyebrows looked like they were keeping secrets.”

“I’m glad your standards are reasonable.”

She tilted her head, studying my face with exaggerated concentration. “What?”

“Your eyebrows seem honest.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Your mouth though.”

I set down my fork. “What about it?”

She smiled into her carton. “Undecided.”

The rain got harder. Paige’s knee brushed mine beneath the counter, and neither of us moved away immediately. There was no reason for that moment to feel as intimate as it did. We were surrounded by moving boxes, takeout containers, and a refrigerator that made a noise like a tired lawnmower. Still, something was happening. Something quiet, mutual, and much too early.

Paige finally pulled her knee back. “We should establish roommate rules,” she said.

“Good idea. No leaving dishes in the sink.”

“Agreed.”

“No stealing food without permission.”

“Reasonable.”

“No bringing dates home without warning.”

The question hiding inside that rule sat between us. I lifted an eyebrow. “Do you expect that to be an issue?”

Her gaze held mine. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

It sounded less like information and more like a choice.

Around ten, Paige went upstairs to finish unpacking. I stayed downstairs pretending to clean while thinking about her mouth forming the words, “Neither do I.” That was when I noticed the dining room curtain sagging at one end. The bracket had pulled loose from the plaster, so I dragged in a small ladder, found my toolbox, and made the classic homeowner mistake of believing a ten-minute repair would take ten minutes.

The entire rod came down. One end struck the ladder. The ladder hit a wooden chair. The chair toppled into a stack of empty boxes, and the sound rolled through the house like a car crash. I landed on my feet, still holding part of the rod.

Then Paige shouted my name. She appeared on the stairs in soft gray sleep shorts and an oversized burgundy sweatshirt. Her hair had come loose around her shoulders, and fear had drained the color from her face.

“I’m okay,” I called.

She didn’t slow down. The second she reached me, her arms went around my waist. For one startled heartbeat, I kept my hands in the air. Then I held her.

She was trembling.

“Hey,” I said softly. “I’m all right.”

“I heard the crash.”

“It was just the curtain rod.”

Her voice broke off. I rubbed one hand slowly between her shoulder blades. The scent of her shampoo, something faintly like vanilla and rain, made the room feel smaller.

“You thought what?”

Paige took a breath against my shirt. “My dad collapsed at home,” she whispered. “I was upstairs when it happened. I heard it, but I didn’t get to him in time.”

Every joking answer disappeared from my head. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded but didn’t let go. Neither did I. After a few seconds, the trembling stopped. What remained was different. Her body relaxed against mine, and her fingers tightened slightly at my back. She lifted her face. We were suddenly too close for this to be only comfort.

“You can let go now,” she murmured.

“I know.”

“But you’re not.”

“No.”

Her eyes dropped briefly to my mouth, then rose again. “Caleb, if you want me to move, I will.”

She searched my face as if the right answer mattered more than it should after seven hours. Then Paige slid one hand higher against my chest. “That’s the problem,” she said. “I don’t want you to.”

The way she said it nearly erased every sensible thought in my head. Her hand rested over my heart. My arm circled her waist. Her lips were inches from mine, parted on a quiet breath. I wanted to kiss her. She knew it, too.

But five minutes earlier, she had been terrified. If I kissed her now, I’d spend the rest of the night wondering whether she had wanted me or simply needed something solid to hold on to. So I eased my hand from her back. Paige’s expression changed.

“Oh,” she said.

“I want to,” I said.

“You have an unusual way of showing it.”

“I don’t want our first kiss to happen because a curtain rod gave you a panic attack.”

A little color returned to her cheeks. “You’ve already decided there’ll be a first kiss.”

“I’m optimistic.”

“You hit it well.”

I smiled. “If I kiss you, Paige, I want you thinking about me—not about something that happened to your dad.”

Her eyes softened. For a moment, I thought she might pull me back anyway. Instead, she stepped away and folded her arms over her sweatshirt. “Fine. Ask me tomorrow.”

I glanced at the clock. “Technically, it’s tomorrow in an hour and 47 minutes.”

“Good night, Caleb.”

She turned toward the stairs.

“Paige.”

She looked back.

“I am going to ask.”

The smile she tried to suppress followed her all the way upstairs.

I slept badly. My room was across the hall from hers, and an old house offered very little acoustic privacy. I heard a drawer close. Water ran through the pipes. Floorboards creaked beneath her steps. At some point, the house went silent. I stared at the ceiling and wondered how quickly attraction could turn a practical living arrangement into an emotional fire hazard.

My ex had been right about one thing. I kept people at a manageable distance. I preferred being useful to being vulnerable. Fixing someone’s shelf was simple. Telling them I wanted them to stay was not. Paige had been in the house less than a day, and already distance felt impossible.

At seven the next morning, I found her in the kitchen wearing leggings, a green sweater, and an expression of complete innocence. She poured coffee into two mugs.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

“No.”

“Unfamiliar noises?”

“Something like that.”

She handed me a mug. “I made the coffee.”

I took a cautious sip. It was excellent.

“This feels hostile.”

“You’re welcome.”

She moved around me to open the refrigerator. Her shoulder brushed my arm—though there was plenty of space. Definitely intentional.

I set down the mug. “Paige.”

“Yes.”

She leaned into the refrigerator as if the arrangement of yogurt demanded her full concentration.

“Come out of there.”

“I’m looking for breakfast.”

“You’re avoiding eye contact.”

“I’ve seen your face. It’s fine.”

“Last night, you told me to ask you something.”

She slowly straightened and closed the refrigerator. Her hair fell over one shoulder. She had no makeup on, and the faint scar near her eyebrow stood out in the morning light. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to learn every story she carried and every expression that came before her smile.

Paige rested her hip against the counter. “Did I?”

“You did.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Would you like me to recreate the scene? I can drop a chair.”

Her mouth twitched. I stepped closer, leaving enough space for her to decide what happened next.

“Can I kiss you?”

She looked down at my mouth, then back into my eyes. “No.”

The answer hit with embarrassing force. Paige picked up her coffee and walked past me.

I turned. “No?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re enjoying this more than I expected.”

She sat at the kitchen table and crossed one leg over the other. “You said if you kissed me, you wanted me thinking about you, right? At the moment, I’m thinking about unpacked boxes, the fact that we’re roommates, and whether you own a toaster.”

“It broke last month. Tragic.”

“So take me somewhere.”

I stared at her. Paige lifted her mug. “You’re optimistic, remember?”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“I’m telling you how to get a yes.”

That was better than a yes. It was Paige making a deliberate choice in daylight, without fear or grief deciding for her.

“What kind of date?” I asked.

“One involving breakfast and a hardware store, because your house tried to kill its curtains.”

“Breakfast and home repair. You have dangerous ideas about romance.”

“You grew that staircase yourself. I assumed you were handy.”

Twenty minutes later, we left the house. I took Paige to a small diner near the river, the kind with red vinyl booths and waitresses who called everyone honey. She ordered blueberry pancakes and stole two strips of bacon from my plate while insisting she didn’t like bacon enough to order her own.

“That’s theft,” I said.

“It’s a roommate tax.”

“This is a date. Different jurisdiction.”

Paige paused with the second strip halfway to her mouth. “So you’re calling it a date?”

“You asked to kiss me—which you converted into breakfast. I’m adapting.”

She bit into the bacon, watching me. “Then yes, it’s a date.”

Something warm settled in my chest. Not relief exactly. Relief was too passive. Paige wasn’t merely allowing this. She was meeting me halfway, then standing there with stolen bacon while waiting to see whether I had the nerve to continue.

“What?” she asked.

“I’m thinking about how complicated you’re going to make my life.”

Her expression softened. “Do you mind?”

“Ask me after pancakes.”

She kicked me lightly beneath the table.

At the hardware store, Paige insisted on pushing the cart, even though we needed only a bracket and screws. Somehow, the cart acquired paint samples, gardening gloves, two candles, and a ceramic frog.

She claimed the back porch required.

“You’ve lived with me for 19 hours,” I said. “You’re redecorating.”

“I’m improving morale.”

“The frog looks judgmental.”

“He’s concerned about your coffee.”

While I compared wall anchors, Paige stood close enough that her sleeve brushed mine.

“Caleb.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for last night.”

I set down the package. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I don’t mean for holding me.” She studied the shelves instead of looking at me. “I mean for stopping.”

That surprised me. She continued quietly. “After my dad died, people treated me like I was made of glass. They gave me whatever I asked for, even when it wasn’t good for me. You were the first person in a long time to ask what I’d want when I wasn’t afraid.”

I reached over and turned her gently toward me. “What do you want now?”

Her gaze lifted. “You,” she said. “Unfortunately.”

I laughed under my breath. “That does sound serious.”

“It might be.”

“You have honest eyebrows.”

I brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. Paige leaned into the touch. The hardware store wasn’t exactly where I’d pictured kissing her. A fluorescent light buzzed overhead, and somewhere nearby, a child was loudly objecting to light bulbs. Still, she was looking at me as if none of that mattered.

“Ask again,” she whispered.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

I bent toward her. At the last second, she put two fingers against my lips.

“Not here.”

I straightened. “You’re cruel.”

“I want a better first kiss story than aisle fourteen.”

“You’re the one who asked me to a hardware store.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Back at the house, we repaired the curtain rod together. Paige stood below the ladder, passing me screws and offering unhelpful commentary about my technique. When I climbed down, the afternoon sun was spilling through the newly secured curtains. Dust floated in the light. Paige stood beside the dining table, hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well, what?”

“I believe you were promised something.”

I crossed the room slowly. She stayed where she was. No panic, no grief, no convenient excuse. Just Paige choosing me. I slid one hand to her waist. She placed both palms against my chest and tipped her face up.

“Still thinking about unpacked boxes?” I asked.

“No.”

“The toaster?”

“Not even a little.”

“What are you thinking about?”

Her fingers curled into my shirt. “How long you’re going to make me wait.”

I kissed her. Paige made a soft sound against my mouth and pulled me closer. The kiss began gently, almost careful, but the restraint lasted only a few seconds. Her hand slid behind my neck. Mine tightened at her waist. She tasted faintly of coffee and blueberries.

When we finally parted, her forehead stayed against mine.

“That,” she whispered, “was significantly better than aisle fourteen.”

“I’m glad the venue met your standards.”

She smiled, then kissed me again. Shorter this time, but entirely her decision.

The front door opened. “Please tell me you bought the right anchors,” Marissa called.

Paige and I sprang apart. My cousin entered carrying a paper bag, stopped, and looked from Paige’s flushed face to my hand still resting on her waist. A slow grin appeared.

“Oh,” Marissa said. “Good. You figured it out.”

I frowned. “Figured what out?”

Paige closed her eyes. Marissa’s grin disappeared. “Wait, you didn’t tell him?”

“Tell me what?”

Paige looked at me, caught somewhere between guilt and amusement. Then she sighed. “That I’ve been asking Marissa about you for three months.”

I looked at Paige, then at Marissa, then back at Paige.

“Three months.”

Marissa set the paper bag on the table. “This feels like a conversation I should not be standing in the middle of.”

“You created the middle,” Paige said.

“I created an opportunity. What you did with it was your business.”

“What opportunity?”

Marissa pointed at Paige. “Winter lights.”

The words pulled up a memory. Three months earlier, Marissa had dragged me to a fundraiser at the botanical garden. A storm had knocked out power to half the event space, and I’d spent 20 minutes helping a staff member reroute cables for the sound system. She’d worn a green coat and a knitted hat pulled low over her ears. We had argued about whether extension cords were trustworthy.

“They’re domesticated snakes,” the woman had said. “You can cooperate with them, but never turn your back.”

I stared at Paige. She raised one hand. “Hello again.”

“That was you.”

“You really know how to make a woman feel memorable.”

“You had a hat and it was dark.”

“An airtight defense.”

Recognition rearranged her features. The scar near her eyebrow. The warmth in her eyes. That same amused smile when I’d held a flashlight between my teeth and nearly electrocuted a decorative reindeer. I remembered thinking she was beautiful. I also remembered Marissa pulling me toward the exit before I could ask for her name.

“You asked about me afterward,” I said.

Paige glanced toward my cousin. Marissa lifted both hands. “We’re leaving.”

“No,” Paige said. “You’re explaining your part first.”

“My part was minimal. You told me he was emotionally constipated but had potential.”

I turned to Marissa. “You have a gift for references.”

“I said other nice things.” She started backing toward the door. “You’re loyal, responsible, tall.”

“Tall isn’t a character trait.”

“It got her attention.” Paige’s cheeks reddened. Marissa reached the front door. “The bag has cinnamon rolls. Consider them an apology.”

“For what?”

She winced. “Probably several things.”

Then she escaped.

Silence settled over the dining room. Paige folded her arms. “I can explain.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Her expression tightened. “Are you angry?”

I considered the question. I wasn’t angry that she had noticed me months ago. The thought produced the opposite reaction, one I was trying not to enjoy too visibly. But Paige had moved into my house. We had signed a lease. She now knew where I kept my emergency cash and that I slept in old college t-shirts.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Fair.” She sat on the edge of the table, leaving several feet between us. “After winter lights, I asked Marissa who you were,” she said. “She told me. I may have asked whether you were single.”

“May have.”

“I definitely did.”

I tried not to smile. “Go on.”

“Nothing came of it. I thought about asking her for your number, but my dad had only been gone six months. I was barely sleeping, and the idea of dating anyone felt impossible.”

“So you waited?”

“I didn’t have a plan to wait. I just kept asking about you sometimes. For three months.”

“Not constantly?”

“How often?”

“Enough that Marissa became unbearable.”

“That could mean once.”

Paige’s mouth curved, but the smile quickly faded. “Then my landlord decided to sell my apartment. Marissa said you needed a roommate. I said it was a bad idea.”

“Because you were interested in me?”

“Yes.”

The direct answer sent warmth through me. Paige looked down at her hands. “I visited three other rooms,” she continued. “One smelled like boiled cabbage. One had a bathroom door that didn’t close. The third came with a parrot that hated women.”

“And I had honest eyebrows.”

“You also had a door that closed. Luxury.”

She told me you weren’t dating. She promised she wouldn’t try to push us together. I needed somewhere affordable.” And Paige drew a breath. “I wanted to see you again.”

There was no manipulation in her voice, only vulnerability. I crossed the room. Paige watched me approach, but didn’t reach for me.

“If I had known before you moved in,” I said, “I might have said no.”

Pain flickered across her face. “Right.”

“Not because I wasn’t interested.” She searched my expression. I stopped in front of her. “Because the woman in the green coat stayed in my head for a week.”

Her lips parted. “I thought about going back to the garden,” I admitted. “I even looked up the event staff online. Your picture wasn’t there, and I decided showing up to ask for you would make me look unhinged.”

“Moderately unhinged.”

“That’s why I didn’t recognize you. I remembered the coat, the hat, and the dangerous snake theory.”

“I was hoping my face made an impression.”

“It did. I just thought you were two different beautiful women.”

Paige’s eyes softened. “That was smooth.”

“It sounded better before I said it.”

“No, keep struggling. I’m enjoying it.”

I stepped between her knees and rested my hands lightly at her waist. She touched my forearms. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“That I wish you’d told me.”

“I know.”

“And that I’m glad you chose my listing.”

Relief loosened her shoulders, even though this is objectively messy, especially then. I leaned closer, but stopped before kissing her. “We need one rule,” I said.

“We already have rules.”

“A new one. No games. If living together gets uncomfortable, we say so. If one of us changes our mind, we don’t hide it to protect the lease.”

Paige nodded. “Agreed. And Marissa doesn’t get credit for this.”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” She slid her hands up my arms and linked them behind my neck. “Can I add a rule?”

“Depends.”

“If we’re alone and you want to kiss me, you don’t have to submit a written request.”

“That seems open to abuse.”

“I’m willing to take the risk.”

So I kissed her. This time, there was no hesitation. Paige pulled me closer, and my hands moved from her waist to the small of her back. Her knees tightened gently around my hips. The kiss deepened. Then, Paige smiled against my mouth.

“What?” I murmured.

“I’m thinking about the frog.”

I drew back. “The ceramic frog.”

“He’s watching.”

I glanced toward the hardware store bag on the chair. The frog’s painted eyes did seem unusually judgmental. “I don’t perform under scrutiny,” I said.

Paige laughed, burying her face against my shoulder. I held her there, feeling the warmth of her breath through my shirt. It was strange how natural it felt. Not simple, not safe—natural.

That evening, Paige had to check preparations for a retirement dinner at the botanical garden. She invited me along, claiming she needed someone who understood the predatory nature of electrical cables. The public paths were closed by the time we finished. She led me through a glass conservatory where tropical plants climbed toward the roof and tiny lights glowed beneath broad green leaves. The air smelled of damp soil and jasmine.

“This is unfair,” I said.

“What is?”

“You control access to private gardens. How am I supposed to compete with this?”

“You could fix another curtain.”

“Romance at its highest form.”

Paige slipped her hand into mine. It was the first time she had done it. The simple gesture affected me more than either kiss. Holding hands wasn’t panic or chemistry taking over. It was quiet and visible and intentional.

She brought me to a small courtyard where a white camellia grew beside a stone bench. “My dad planted that,” she said. The garden had a memorial program.

I ran my thumb over her knuckles. “Do you come here often?”

“Whenever I miss him.”

“Does it help?”

“Sometimes.” She sat, pulling me down beside her. “Sometimes it just gives me a prettier place to be sad.”

I understood that more than I wanted to. “My grandfather left me the house,” I said. “Everyone acts like it was this incredible gift.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“It was. But some days it feels like a building full of reasons he’s gone. His dent is still in the couch cushion. There are pencil marks in the kitchen where he measured my height.”

Paige rested her head on my shoulder. “You could erase them,” she said.

“I know.”

“But you don’t want to.”

“No.”

Her fingers tightened around mine. “Then don’t.”

We sat beneath the garden lights until the silence stopped feeling empty. Eventually, Paige lifted her head. “What are we doing, Caleb?”

“Right now?”

“You know what I mean.”

I did. I could have offered the sensible answer. We were attracted to each other. We were exploring it. We didn’t need labels after one day. Instead, I looked at her and chose honesty.

“I don’t want this to be casual.”

Paige searched my face. “Neither do I.”

“We should probably move slowly.”

“We’ve kissed twice and bought a frog together. Practically married.”

She smiled, but emotion brightened her eyes. “So we try?” she asked. “For real?”

“For real.”

I kissed her beneath the camellia tree, one hand cupping her face while hers rested over my heart. When we parted, she didn’t smile. Her gaze dropped to our joined hands.

“What?” I asked.

Paige drew a slow breath. “I got an email this afternoon.”

The worry in her voice tightened my chest. “The Chicago Botanic Garden offered me a job,” she said. “The one I applied for before Dad died.”

I went still. “They want me to start in six weeks.” She looked up at me. “And I have until Monday to decide.”

For several seconds, I heard only the conservatory’s ventilation system and water dripping somewhere among the leaves. Six weeks. Paige had been in my house for barely a day, yet six weeks suddenly felt cruelly short.

“That’s a great garden,” I said.

Her eyebrows drew together. “You’ve been there?”

“No. But it’s famous, right?”

She slipped her hand from mine. I immediately missed it.

“What would the job be?” I asked.

“Senior event manager. Bigger programs, better pay, a team of six.”

“That sounds like what you want.”

“It was.”

The past tense mattered. I looked at the camellia her father had planted. Staying meant remaining near this tree, her memories, and whatever support system she had built here. Leaving meant accepting something she’d wanted before grief changed the shape of her life. Neither choice was simple.

“You should take it,” I said.

Paige looked at me. The instant the words left my mouth, I knew they were wrong. Not necessarily the advice, but the certainty with which I’d offered it. Still, I kept going.

“You applied for a reason. We’ve known each other for one day. You shouldn’t turn down a major opportunity because we kissed.”

Her face became very still. “I didn’t say I was going to.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Trying not to make this harder.”

“You’re succeeding.”

She stood. “Paige—”

“I need to lock up.”

The walk back through the garden was quiet. I tried twice to start a conversation. She answered politely, which was worse than if she’d snapped at me. In the car, she watched the dark streets pass outside her window. When we pulled into the driveway, the porch light illuminated the ceramic frog sitting beside the door. Paige had placed it there before we left.

“He still looks judgmental,” I said.

“Maybe he has a reason.”

She went upstairs without kissing me goodnight. I stayed in the kitchen, staring at two mugs in the drying rack. My instinct had been to clear her path, make myself easy to leave, offer no demand she might resent. It was the same instinct my ex had mistaken for not caring. Maybe it hadn’t been a mistake.

The next morning, I found Paige kneeling in front of the refrigerator with a screwdriver.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Trying to stop this thing from impersonating lawn equipment.”

“You coordinate weddings.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Her voice was light, but she didn’t look at me. I crouched beside her. “I’m sorry.”

“Hand me the flashlight.”

Paige held out her palm. I gave her the flashlight, then unplugged the refrigerator. That got her attention.

“I was using that.”

“And now you’re not.”

“You’re very controlling around appliances.”

“I don’t want to talk to the back of your head.”

She sat on the floor and folded her legs. I did the same, our knees almost touching.

“I handled last night badly,” I said.

“Yes.”

“I thought telling you to take the job was the selfless answer.”

“It was certainly efficient.”

“I don’t want you to go.” Her expression shifted, but she remained guarded. I forced myself not to soften the truth. “The idea of you leaving in six weeks makes me feel like someone just took a wall out of the house,” I continued. “And I realize that sounds absurd after two days.”

“A little.”

“It’s still true.”

Paige turned the screwdriver between her fingers. “Then why did you act like it didn’t matter?”

“Because I don’t want to become the reason you give up something important.”

“That isn’t your decision.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” She leaned forward. “You made my choice for me last night. You decided our relationship was too new to matter, and then you politely removed yourself from consideration.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

The words landed cleanly. Paige’s eyes shone, but her voice stayed steady. “I don’t need you to tell me to stay,” she said. “I need you to trust me enough to admit that you want me to.”

I looked down at our knees, separated by less than an inch. Wanting had always felt dangerously close to asking too much. My grandfather had raised me to be dependable, to solve the problem without becoming one. Somewhere along the way, I’d learned to make my needs invisible.

But Paige wasn’t asking for invisible.

“I want you to stay,” I said. “I want to hear you coming down the stairs. I want your plants taking over the windows and your food stealing shelf space in the refrigerator. I want to take you on dates that don’t involve wall anchors.”

Her mouth trembled toward a smile. I kept going. “I want more than six weeks. And if you choose Chicago, I’m still going to want that.”

The screwdriver slipped from her fingers onto the floor. “What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means I don’t get to choose your job. But I do get to choose whether I fight for us.”

Paige closed the space between our knees. “And will you?”

“Yes.” The answer came without fear. “Yes, I will.”

She touched my face with both hands and kissed me. It wasn’t a careful kiss. Paige climbed into my lap, and I wrapped my arms around her as her mouth moved over mine with a mixture of relief and anger. When she drew back, we were both breathing hard.

“You’re infuriating,” she whispered.

“I’ve been told I have potential.”

She laughed, pressing her forehead to mine. “I want you, too,” she said. “That’s why this is difficult.”

I held her more tightly. “We don’t have to solve it on the kitchen floor.”

“Good. The tile is cold.”

“We could move to the couch.”

“Is that your professional recommendation?”

“It’s warmer.”

Paige rose and held out her hand.

We spent Saturday together without pretending it was casual. We fixed the refrigerator, bought groceries, and argued over whether her three plants constituted an invasion. At lunch, she stole food from my plate again. That evening, we cooked pasta, danced badly to an old soul playlist, and kissed in the kitchen until the sauce nearly burned.

Nothing about the day made Monday disappear. But it gave us something real to place against it.

After dinner, rain began tapping against the windows. Paige sat curled against me on the couch, her feet tucked beneath my leg. “What would long distance actually look like?” she asked.

The question hurt, but it was better than silence. “I work remotely,” I said. “I could visit.”

“How often?”

“Every few weeks, maybe. More if I stopped buying ceramic frogs.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I’d never sacrifice him.”

She smiled. “And you could come back,” I continued. “Your dad’s tree is here. Marissa’s here. Your parrot-free room is here.”

“My room?”

“I’m trying not to be presumptuous.”

Paige traced the seam of my shirt. “What about your house?” she asked. “Could you ever leave it?”

I looked around the living room. My grandfather’s books filled one shelf. His old clock hung above the mantle. The place carried him in a hundred small details. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I don’t want the house to become an excuse for never going anywhere.”

She studied me. “I could spend a month in Chicago,” I said. “Help you settle in. Work from there. A month, if you want me.”

“I do.”

The answer was immediate. Paige kissed me softly, then rested her head beneath my chin.

Later, at the foot of the stairs, she stopped with her hand on the banister. “Caleb.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

There was vulnerability in her face, but no uncertainty. I went to her. “Are you sure?”

She took my hand. “I’m not afraid. I’m choosing.”

Upstairs, we moved slowly, giving each other time to change our minds. Neither of us did. Paige kissed the hollow beneath my throat. I traced the small scar at her eyebrow and learned it came from falling off her first bicycle. She laughed when I admitted I still owned the blanket I’d had at twelve. The rest belonged only to us.

When I woke before dawn, Paige was asleep against my chest, one hand spread over my heart. I stared at the ceiling and understood something that should have frightened me. I wasn’t falling because circumstances had forced us close. I was falling because every time Paige had a choice, she reached for me.

Sunday evening, we sat at the dining table with two sheets of paper. On hers, Paige had written “Chicago.” On mine, “Stay.” We listed salaries, rent, travel costs, career prospects, and every practical consequence we could imagine. Neither list offered a perfect answer.

At the bottom of mine, Paige added one final line: “What life do I want?”

She stared at it for a long time. “I don’t know yet,” she said.

I took her hand. “Then I’ll be here when you do.”

Monday arrived too quickly. Paige left for work without telling me her decision. She kissed me at the door and promised we’d talk that evening. At 5:40, I heard her car in the driveway. At 5:42, she entered the kitchen, still wearing her staff badge. One look at her face told me she had decided. My pulse thudded.

“Well?” I asked.

Paige put her bag on the counter. “I accepted Chicago.”

The words hollowed out the room. Then she walked straight to me and took both my hands. “But I told them I needed eight weeks,” she said. “And before I sign a lease there, I need an answer from you.”

“To what?”

Her fingers tightened around mine. “Whether you meant it when you said you’d fight for us.”

“I meant it,” I said. “Even now?”

“Especially now.”

She released a breath, but the uncertainty remained in her eyes. I drew her closer. “I won’t pretend I’m happy you’re leaving,” I said. “I’m going to hate the empty room. I’m going to hate that Chicago gets your terrible opinions about extension cords.”

“They’re informed opinions.”

“But taking the job doesn’t mean you’re leaving me.”

“It might get hard.”

“It will get hard.”

“You’ll have to travel.”

“I work from a laptop.”

“You hate flying.”

“I hate turbulence. Flying itself has done nothing to offend me.”

That earned a small smile. I touched her cheek. “I’ll spend the first month there. After that, we alternate visits. We put dates on the calendar, not vague promises. And if something isn’t working, we say it before resentment says it for us.”

“You’ve thought about this since Saturday.”

Paige’s eyes filled. “I was afraid you’d hear Chicago and decide I’d already chosen against you,” she admitted.

“You chose your future.”

“What if you’re not in it?”

I rested my forehead against hers. “That’s my choice to make. And I’m choosing you.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. I brushed it away with my thumb. “You’ve known me for four days,” she whispered.

“I noticed you three months ago.”

“You thought I was two women.”

“Both beautiful.”

“Still not as smooth as you think.”

“I’m working under pressure.”

She laughed through her tears, then kissed me. Her arms went around my neck, and I lifted her off the floor. The kiss tasted of relief, possibility, and all the fear neither of us could eliminate. When I sat her down, she kept holding me.

“I’m choosing you, too,” she said. “Not instead of Chicago. Alongside it.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

“I love you.”

The word stopped me. Paige’s eyes widened as if she had surprised herself, too. “I know it’s fast,” she said. “You don’t have to—”

“I love you, too.”

She stared at me. “You do?”

“I think I started falling for you when you called extension cords domesticated snakes.”

“That was my most attractive moment.”

“Then you moved into my house and destroyed whatever chance I had of recovering.”

Paige pressed her face against my chest. I felt her smile through my shirt.

The next eight weeks passed with painful speed. We packed her boxes, this time labeling them properly. We went on real dates—to restaurants, a street festival, and a terrible outdoor movie where it rained halfway through, and Paige insisted we stay because she had brought waterproof mascara. She met my friends. I met her mother, who looked at me over dinner and asked whether my remote job was real employment. Paige nearly kicked me under the table when I replied that it was more of an elaborate financial misunderstanding.

We also fought once about travel costs. Once because Paige started packing without telling me, and I interpreted it as her pulling away. Once because I tried to repair her car instead of admitting I was afraid to watch her drive it 600 miles. But we kept our rule. No games. No silence disguised as protection.

The night before the move, we sat on the bedroom floor among sealed boxes. Paige leaned against me while I traced circles over her hand. “Do you regret renting me the room?” she asked.

“The background check was clearly inadequate.”

“Be serious.”

I kissed the top of her head. “No.”

“Do you regret choosing it?”

“Ask me tomorrow.”

“You’ve been saving that for eight weeks.”

The next morning, we loaded her belongings into a moving truck. The plants rode in my car, secured with enough straps to survive re-entry from space. The ceramic frog sat on the dashboard. Marissa came to help and cried before Paige did.

“I knew this would work,” she said, hugging us both.

“You also called me emotionally constipated,” I reminded her.

“And now look at you. Regular as sunrise.”

Paige laughed so hard she had to sit on the porch step.

We spent our first month in Chicago in a furnished apartment four blocks from the garden. Paige worked long days learning names, systems, and which conference room had the unreliable projector. I edited audio at a tiny table beside the window and learned to make dinner without setting off the smoke alarm. At night, we explored the city. We ate deep dish pizza, got lost on the train, and kissed beside the lake while wind tried to remove our coats.

Then I returned home.

Long distance was worse than we expected. Video calls froze at important moments. Flights were delayed. Paige missed one visit when a charity gala fell apart three hours before the doors opened. I missed another when a pipe burst in the upstairs bathroom. There were nights when loving each other felt less like romance and more like scheduling. Still, every morning began with a message. Every visit ended with the next one already booked. And every time one of us became afraid, we said it.

Six months after she moved, I stood in the kitchen of my grandfather’s house and looked at the pencil marks on the wall. For years, I had believed leaving would mean abandoning him. But memories weren’t nails. They didn’t belong to the walls holding them.

I photographed every mark. I packed his clock, his books, and the old blanket Paige had made fun of. Then I hired a local couple to manage the house as a rental. I didn’t sell it. I wasn’t ready for that. But I stopped letting it decide where I was allowed to build a life.

When I showed up at Paige’s Chicago apartment with three suitcases, a laptop, and the ceramic frog, she stood in the doorway without speaking.

“I thought your flight was tomorrow,” she finally said.

“It was.”

“And those are all your clothes.”

“Most of them. Marissa claimed my gray sweatshirt.”

Her eyes moved to the frog beneath my arm. “Caleb.”

“I rented the house.”

She covered her mouth. “I’m not giving it up,” I said. “We can go back whenever we want. But I don’t want to keep visiting my own life.”

Paige launched herself at me. I dropped one suitcase and caught her as she wrapped her arms around my neck.

“You’re here,” she whispered.

“I’m here.”

“For how long?”

I smiled against her hair. “If you’ll have me—permanently.”

She kissed me in the hallway while one of our new neighbors stepped around the suitcases and pretended not to watch.

A year after the crash that first brought Paige running downstairs, we moved into a narrow brick house near the garden. It was old enough to complain in cold weather, with uneven floors, stubborn windows, and a dining room that needed new curtains.

On our first evening, I attempted to install the rod. It came down. The ladder struck a chair. A box of kitchen utensils hit the floor, producing a crash loud enough to wake the neighborhood.

“Caleb,” Paige called from upstairs.

“I’m fine.”

She appeared on the landing, took in the wreckage, and slowly folded her arms. “Did you do that on purpose for nostalgia?”

“I resent the accusation.”

She came downstairs and inspected me. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Perfectly.”

Paige wrapped her arms around my waist anyway. There was no trembling this time, no panic—only love. I held her beneath the crooked curtain while evening light poured through the window. Her engagement ring—given to her two weeks earlier under the camellia her father had planted—pressed lightly against my back.

“Good house,” she murmured.

“Thank you. I grew it myself.”

She laughed into my chest, and I understood that home had never been the place I was afraid to leave. It was the woman who heard a crash, came running, and chose to stay in my arms.