Home was Thunder Bay—rough, cold, stubborn, and ours.
Epilogue - Hog
The box said YARN (DO NOT CRUSH) in Rhett's careful block letters, which was rich considering he'd stacked it under two boxes of hockey gear.
I hefted it out of the truck bed, testing the weight. Still intact. The cardboard gave slightly where my thumbs pressed—soft contents, nothing broken. Inside were three months of projects: half-finished scarves, a family of knitted pigs Margaret kept threatening to sell at the shop, and Gram's project bag.
"Pretty sure that's half your personality in there," Rhett called from the porch. He had sawdust in his hair from the morning's work—final trim on the upstairs closet.
"You say that like it's not the good half."
He grinned, stepping aside so I could shoulder through the door. The house smelled like coffee grounds, wood shavings, and the mustiness of old houses in September when you opened all the windows to let summer drain out before winter sealed you in.
Home. Our home.
I set the box down in what we called the living room, though it was just the space where we'd shoved the couch between stacks of unpacked boxes. A Storm banner hung crooked above the fireplace. I'd gotten one corner up before Rhett insisted we needed to find the level. Three hours later, it was still sitting on the mantel, buried under takeout menus and a roll of packing tape.
Rhett's order met my chaos, head-on, in real time.
"You gonna stand there all day?" Rhett asked, hip-checking me as he passed with his own box. "Or help me figure out where the hell we're supposed to put seventeen coffee mugs?"
"Seventeen's not that many."
"You own four. I own four. That's eight." He set the box on the kitchen counter with a thunk. "The other nine are a mystery I'm not equipped to solve before noon."
"Bedroom closet's done," he said, pulling mugs from the box and lining them up on the counter. "Left you the big one."
I stopped. "The walk-in?"
"You've got more clothes than I do. And the yarn." He didn't look up, busy arranging mugs by size. "Figured you'd need the space."
It was a vast, quiet gesture. He'd taken the smaller closet—the one that barely fit his work clothes—and given me the one with built-in shelves and room to spread out.
Rhett had measured twice and updated a home where I didn't have to make myself smaller.
"You didn't have to—"
"I know. Wanted to."
"Thanks," I managed.
"You're welcome." He handed me a mug—the one with the cartoon bear that had been in my apartment since juniors. "Now make yourself useful and help me figure out the coffee situation before I lose my mind."
We worked through the afternoon. I unpacked books while Rhett assembled our bed frame, both calling out discoveries.
"Found your sock collection," I yelled. "Why do you own eight pairs of the same gray socks?"
"They're different grays!"
"They're identical!"
"You're wrong, and I can prove it!"
By evening, we'd made enough progress that the house looked almost intentional. The couch faced the TV. The kitchen had dishes. The bedroom had a bed—even if we'd buried it under four bags of linens we hadn't sorted yet.
We ate Thai food on the living room floor, backs against the couch, boxes forming walls around us like a cardboard fort.
Rhett's shoulder pressed against mine. He'd showered again after assembling furniture, and his hair stuck up in the back where he'd missed a spot with the towel. I resisted the urge to smooth it down.
