It started with something small.  

It always does.

A misplaced coffee mug. A forgotten text. A tone too sharp, a word too quick.  

They’d been living together—well, “coexisting” was the word Emily preferred—for three weeks. Enough time for habits to collide.

Ryan liked order: clean counters, aligned picture frames, groceries labeled like a spreadsheet.  

Emily liked chaos: takeout boxes, music at odd hours, clothes existing wherever gravity allowed.  

At first, it was cute. Then it was… less cute.

“Did you move my laptop charger?” Ryan asked one morning, searching the kitchen.  

“I borrowed it,” Emily said. “For, you know, laptop things.”  

“Where is it now?”  

She frowned. “In… the emotional sense, or physically?”  

“Emily.”  

“Relax, it’s around.”  

He sighed, muttering something about entropy and relationships. She rolled her eyes, but when she found the charger later under a pile of magazines, guilt hit her like caffeine—sudden and jittery.  

She brought it to him with a peace offering: coffee.  

“Here,” she said, setting both down. “One lost charger and one apology in liquid form.”  

He smiled without looking up. “You’re impossible.”  

“I know. But you like that about me.”  

“I’m reconsidering.”  

“Liar.”  

She kissed his cheek before he could respond, and just like that, tension dissolved—at least for the moment.  

But small things have a way of stacking up.  

Later that week, Ryan stayed late at work. Emily waited, dinner cooling, patience thinning.  

When he finally walked in, tired and distracted, she asked, “You couldn’t text?”  

“I was in a meeting.”  

“For five hours?”  

“Emily, I can’t always—”  

“—let me know when you disappear? Yeah, I noticed.”  

He froze. “You’re mad because I didn’t text?”  

“I’m mad because you don’t *get* it.”  

“Get what?”  

“That I’m trying here,” she said, voice sharper now. “You’re here but you’re not *with* me. There’s a difference.”  

The air cracked.  

He dropped his bag. “I didn’t come back to fight.”  

“Neither did I. But here we are.”  

Silence filled the room, heavy and fragile.  

He looked at her, and for a moment, neither of them recognized the other.  

Later that night, he slept on the couch. Not because she asked him to, but because neither of them could figure out how to bridge the space between apology and pride.  

She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking how love felt easier when it was far away—when missing someone was the only problem.  

Now it was real, messy, human.  

Now it was two people trying to fit into the same frame without cutting off parts of themselves.  

She turned over, frustrated with the quiet.  

“Damn it,” she muttered, grabbing her phone.  

In the morning, Ryan woke to the smell of pancakes and the sound of something burning.  

He found her in the kitchen, wearing his hoodie, flipping a suspiciously blackened pancake.  

“Breakfast?” she said, overly bright.  

“You’re trying to kill me.”  

“Only emotionally.”  

He stared at her for a beat, then cracked a smile. “We’re really bad at fighting.”  

“Maybe we just need more practice.”  

“I’d rather not.”  

She set a plate in front of him. “Truce?”  

He hesitated, then nodded. “Truce. Conditional on you never cooking again.”  

“Unfair terms.”  

“Reasonable ones.”  

They ate in silence, a peaceful one this time. The kind that comes after surviving your first storm.  

Later that day, they decided to leave the apartment—neutral territory.  

The weather was perfect for pretending life made sense: crisp air, blue sky, the smell of roasted chestnuts from a street cart.  

They walked through the park, shoulders brushing occasionally. She tossed crumbs at pigeons; he gave her that look—the one halfway between judgment and affection.  

“Don’t start,” she warned.  

“I didn’t say anything.”  

“You were *thinking* something.”  

“Statistically likely.”  

She laughed, bumping his shoulder. “God, you’re such a nerd.”  

“And yet, here you are.”  

“Here I am,” she said, softer now.  

They sat by the fountain, the same one where she’d once danced barefoot after too many drinks.  

Ryan watched her face—sunlight catching on her lashes, wind tugging at her hair—and thought, *this is what staying looks like.* Not perfect, not calm, but real.  

“Hey,” she said, breaking the moment. “You know that argument last night?”  

“Hard to forget.”  

“I don’t want that to become our thing.”  

“It won’t.”  

“Promise?”  

“I’m an engineer. I don’t make promises I can’t test.”  

She smirked. “So test this one.”  

He leaned over, kissed her, slow and steady, like he was rebuilding something piece by piece.  

That evening, back at the apartment, they danced in the kitchen while waiting for takeout.  

No music, no choreography, just movement.  

He stepped on her foot. She cursed, then laughed.  

“Terrible dancer,” she said.  

“Excellent kisser,” he replied.  

“Debatable.”  

“Prove me wrong.”  

She did.  

Later, tangled on the couch, Emily whispered, “You know, we’re probably gonna fight again.”  

“Definitely.”  

“And make up again.”  

“Statistically proven.”  

She smiled. “Guess we’re getting good at it.”  

He brushed his thumb along her jaw. “That’s love, right?”  

“Messy?”  

“Yeah.”  

“Then yeah,” she said, closing her eyes. “That’s love.”