Page 126 of Heroes & Hitmen
“Then let’s make the most of it while we can,” she muses, those pretty eyes sparkling.
No complaints here.
I force her to pose for a couple pictures so I can send them to my family group chat and brag about how smart my mate is, then we walk to the parking lot hand in hand. Miley navigates the chaos of the crowd with calm precision, while I just feel lucky to get to walk beside her.
I drive us home with the windows down so the breeze can do its thing with her hair. She laughs when her tassel gets caught in her mouth, and I laugh too, because this is our life now– messy, loud, uncontainable– and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
When we get back to the apartment, we crash through the door like we’ve got hours to burn and no rules to follow. We bump into boxes and trip over shoes before I tackle her onto the couch, and suddenly nothing else matters.
Not the past. Not what comes next. Just the two of us tangled together, exactly where we belong.
Moving day,as it turns out, is less about logistics and more about emotional warfare. Sure, there are boxes and labels and a rental van, but mostly it’s an extended exercise in wrestling with the ghosts of every pizza-fueled movie night, every midnight meltdown on the kitchen floor, every stupid fight that started in the living room and ended in the bedroom– one way or another.
The place is in ruins.
Miley’s in the bedroom waging war with her closet, trying to fit five seasons of fashion into four sad wardrobe boxes. I’m in the living room, surrounded by bubble wrap and existential dread, staring at the dent in the drywall where she once threw a hardcover at my head during an argument.
Last November.
Cold night, hot tempers.
Greatmakeup sex.
I run my thumb along the crater in the plaster and can’t help but grin. That was the night we learned whipped cream is a legitimate conflict resolution strategy.
I should probably patch the wall, but I’m sentimental. I want the next person who lives here to wonder what kind of story left the mark.
A knock at the door drags me back from my trip down memory lane, and I answer it to find the lobby security guy on the other side, balancing a stack of food delivery boxes.
“Appreciate it, man,” I say, taking the stack and kicking the door shut behind me. Carrying it into the kitchen, I set everything down on the counter before calling out to Miley.
“Lunch is here!” I yell, stealing the top box from the pile and hiding it behind my back.
She appears a few seconds later, hair in a messy bun, expression somewhere between hungry and homicidal. She eyes the stack on the counter with instant suspicion, already squinting at the health food logo.
“What’d you order?” she asks, wrinkling her nose like she’s bracing for quinoa.
I whip the contraband out from behind my back– a glossy white box from the cupcake shop near campus.
Her eyes go wide and she lunges, snatching it from my hands and clutching it to her chest.
“Oh my god, you’re the best,” she groans, already peeling the lid back.
“Damn right,” I say, chest puffing with pride.
“I meant the cupcakes,” she scoffs without missing a beat. “But you’re alright, too.”
I lunge for her with a growl, almost knocking the cupcakes out of her hands as I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her in for a kiss. Her lashes flutter when I let her go and step back, grabbing the box with the kale-based salad from the pile. Meanwhile, she climbs onto the counter and digs into frosting like it’s her personal religion.
“So,” I ask, mouth half full of lettuce. “What’s the worst thing you found while packing?”
She doesn’t even have to think about it. “Your emergency jar of peanut butter in the nightstand.”
I nod, solemn. “That got me through a lot of existential crises.”
She snorts. “You have the emotional maturity of a Labrador.”
“I take that as a compliment,” I say, pointing my plastic fork in her direction. “Loyal, energetic, loves snacks…”
