"No closet space. You're not moving in."
"I'm not moving in now," she agrees easily. "But eventually I will, after we're married, right? We might as well prepare." She opens my closet despite my objection, and I hear her gasp. "Oh wow, this closet is huge! You have so much room! Have you ever considered organizing by color instead of type? It's much more efficient and visually appealing."
"My closet is already organized. Perfectly organized."
"By type, sure. Suits together, shirts together, pants together. But color organization is better for finding things quickly. I’ll fix it for you. You’ll love it!" She's running her hands along my suits, examining the fabrics. "These are beautiful, by the way. Armani?"
"Some of them." I'm gritting my teeth now.
"Very nice. Quality fabrics." She pulls out several empty hangers, measuring space with her eyes. "I'll need about this much space for my things. Maybe a bit more. For dresses and blouses and coats. Where should I put my shoes?"
"At your house. Your shoes should stay at your house."
"Eventually they'll need to be here though." She's examining the closet floor now, clearly planning the logistics. "This space is good. I can fit maybe twenty pairs here. The rest can go in the guest room closet for now until we figure out a better system."
"There is no 'for now.' You're not moving your shoes in. You're not moving anything in yet."
"Not yet," she agrees cheerfully, completely unfazed by my protests. "But soon! So we might as well prepare and plan ahead, right? That's what smart couples do." She walks back out to the hallway. "I should bring in my garment bag. Where did you put it?"
I'm still holding it, I realize. Like a complete idiot, I've been standing here holding her garment bag while she systematically takes over my apartment.
She takes it from my hand, walks back to the closet, and hangs it up among my suits like it belongs there.
"There. See? Looks good already." She steps back, admiring the effect of her garment bag hanging next to my tailored suits. "We blend well together. Our styles complement each other."
"Liana." I need to regain control of this situation.
"Hmm?" She turns to face me, all innocence.
"You need to take all of this and go home. Right now."
"But you invited me for dinner," she protests. "I came all this way."
"For dinner. Not to move in. There's a significant difference."
"I'm not moving in! I keep telling you that. When I actually move in, you’ll know it." She walks past me again, heading back toward the kitchen now. "I'm just bringing a few things for convenience. For future visits. What are you making? It smells absolutely amazing."
I follow her. "Osso buco."
"Oh, fancy! I love osso buco." She's already in my kitchen, lifting pot lids without asking, examining my cooking. "How much longer until it's ready?"
"Don't touch those—" I start to protest.
"Is this the risotto? My Nonna used to make risotto every Sunday." She picks up my wooden spoon, the one I've been using to stir carefully. "She stirs it constantly, like this. Are you supposed to stir it constantly? I can never remember the technique."
"I know how to make risotto. I've been making it correctly."
"I'm just trying to help! Learn your methods." She stirs vigorously, breaking up the creamy texture I've been carefully developing.
"More gently," I say, trying not to snap. "The technique requires gentle stirring."
"Like this?" She stirs again, still too aggressive, still wrong.
"Here." I take the spoon from her hand, my fingers brushing hers. "Like this. Gentle circles. You're coaxing the starch out, not beating it into submission."
"That's what I was doing." She sounds genuinely confused.
It absolutely was not what she was doing.
