Still nothing. No reaction whatsoever.
"Oh, there. Got it." She puts the plates away. "You should label your cabinets. Would make things much easier for anyone using the kitchen. I’ll bring my label maker next time."
"I know where everything is. That's sufficient."
"But I don't. Not yet anyway." She closes the cabinet and turns, forcing me to step back. "When I move in, I'll need to learn your system. Or maybe we can create a new system together. One that makes sense for both of us."
She walks past me, back toward the living room. "Do you have a vacuum? I should clean up before I leave."
"Clean up what? Nothing is messy. Everything is clean."
"Still, it’s good to know where it is. For when I'm here regularly and need to help maintain the place."
She's wandering through my apartment now, opening closets, checking rooms, exploring without permission.
"This could be my office," she says, standing in my guest room. "Or a nursery eventually. We haven't talked about kids yet. Do you want kids?"
"Liana—" I start to protest.
"I think I want two. Maybe three. Not right away, obviously. But eventually, in a few years." She turns to face me, completely serious. "What about you? Have you thought about how many children you want?"
I'm not discussing children with her while she's actively reorganizing my life without permission.
"We should talk about this later. Much later."
"Why? These are important questions that engaged couples should discuss."
"Because right now, you're trying to move into my house without actually asking permission first."
"I asked!" she protests.
"No. You showed up with containers and started unpacking. That's not asking."
"Same thing. Implied consent." She walks past me yet again, still exploring. "Where's your washer and dryer? I'll need to know for doing laundry when I stay over."
"Liana." I catch her arm, stopping her mid-stride. "Stop. Just stop."
She looks up at me with those dark eyes. "Stop what?"
"All of this. The unpacking. The questions about living arrangements. The planning our entire future." I'm still holding her arm, aware of how soft her skin is. "What are you actually doing?"
"I told you. I'm preparing for our marriage."
"This isn't preparing. This is something else entirely."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. That's what I'm trying to figure out."
She looks at my hand on her arm, then back at my face, her expression unreadable.
"You're very tense," she observes calmly.
"I'm frustrated," I admit.
"Why?"
"Because you're—" I stop, struggling to articulate what she's doing to me.
