"Our bathroom," she corrects cheerfully. "Is it this way?"
She's already walking down the hallway, opening doors as she goes, exploring my private space without permission. I follow her, still holding the garment bag like an idiot, watching as she opens door after door. My office—she glances in and keeps moving. The guest room—a quick look, then on to the next. The linen closet—she barely pauses.
"Here it is!" She opens the door to my bedroom, my private sanctuary.
My bedroom. The most personal space in my entire apartment. With my bed, which suddenly seems very large and very present, dominating the room.
She walks right in like she owns the place, like she has every right to be here.
"Oh, this is nice. Very clean. Very minimalist." She opens the bathroom door, and I hear her sharp intake of breath."Perfect! This bathroom is huge. Plenty of room for my things alongside yours."
"Liana, you're not putting your things in my bathroom." I need to stop this now before it goes any further.
"Our bathroom," she corrects again, like the repetition will make it true. "And why not? Where else would I put them?"
"At your house. In your own bathroom. Where they belong."
"But I'll need them here eventually, won't I?" She walks back past me, presumably heading for her containers. "Unless you want me to pack a bag every single time I come over? That seems really inefficient. This is just practical planning."
"You're not coming over frequently enough to need your own bathroom supplies here."
"I'm not?" She reappears carrying two of the heavy containers, not even struggling under the weight. "We're getting married, Santo. I should probably spend time here. Get used to the space. Learn where everything is. Where did you say I should put these?"
"I didn't say anything about where to put them."
"Right, you didn't. Bathroom then." She walks past me again with determination.
I hear her opening cabinets in my bathroom, the sound of doors and drawers echoing through the apartment.
"You have so much space under here!" Her voice echoes from the bathroom. "This is perfect for my hair dryer and straightener. Do you mind if I plug them in? I'll need an outlet near the counter."
I walk to the bathroom doorway, leaning against the frame as I watch her. She's kneeling on my tile floor, unpacking containers of products. Bottles and jars and tubes emerge fromthe containers—hundreds of them, apparently, in every shape and size imaginable.
"What is all this?" I ask, gesturing at the growing collection.
"My skincare routine. Cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer, eye cream. That's just the basics." She's arranging everything on my counter. "Morning and night products. Plus, masks for special treatments. And my makeup collection." She looks up at me with innocent eyes. "I hope there's enough room. I might need a drawer or two."
"A drawer."
"For my makeup brushes and tools. You have drawers in here, right?" She starts opening them without waiting for permission. "Oh, these are mostly empty. Perfect! See, there's plenty of room."
"Those are my drawers."
"They were your drawers," she corrects with that infuriating smile. "Now they're our drawers. See? Plenty of room for both of us."
I watch in stunned silence as she continues unpacking, methodically transferring her entire beauty arsenal into my bathroom. My clean, organized, masculine bathroom is being systematically invaded by an army of beauty products in pink and gold packaging.
"There!" She stands, surveying her work with obvious satisfaction. "Much better. Oh, I'll need a spot for my toothbrush too. And my skincare fridge."
"Your what?" I can't have heard that correctly.
"Skincare fridge. It's mini, don't worry. Keeps my serums and eye creams fresh." She says this like it's completely normal,like everyone has a dedicated refrigerator for beauty products. "I left it in the car. I'll bring it up next time I come."
She walks past me back into the bedroom, heading for the closet now.
"No." I need to draw a line somewhere.
"No?" She pauses, hand on the closet door.
