Page 60 of Mister St. James

Her hand is in mine, warm, alive, impossible to mistake for anything but real. I glance at us in the mirrored wall as we exit and can’t help but acknowledge, this is love.

Chapter twenty-six

Unbound

Catalina

Moving day is a street fight conducted in cardboard and neon packing tape.

I’ve already got the first tower of boxes balanced against my hip, elevator chugging up the twenty-four floors, before Aiden can finish his opening statement about the statistical risks of amateur moving. His case is airtight but irrelevant, as are most of his cases when I’ve already made up my mind. The building’s freight elevator is barely bigger than a walk-in closet, and I’ve filled it with a fractal of Target bins and lopsided U-Haul relics. My labels, in fat Sharpie: KITCHEN, NIGHTMARE DRAWER, SHOES (!!!), BOOKS—READ, BOOKS—LIED. The edges dig into my forearms as the elevator creaks upward, a bruise blooming already under the tape on my left wrist.

He’s waiting for me at the penthouse vestibule, holding a box cutter in one hand and a wireless drill in the other, like he’s prepping for a hostage extraction. His expression when the doors open, mixed horror and awe.

“That’s…all you?” he says, as if I’m smuggling in a body count.

“Statistically, ninety percent me, ten percent ‘joint assets,’” I say, tapping the top bin for emphasis. “Unless you want to count the artisanal bath salts you keep using and then denying.”

He shakes his head, the beginnings of an argument curling on his lips. “We could have—”

“Hired movers, I know,” I cut in, pivoting the stack into the hallway. “But then we’d owe some minimum-wage stranger for knowing about your military-grade encryption server and my body pillow collection, and I’d rather die.”

He does the mouth-closed exhale that says I’ve won. We both know it’s not the last round.

He grabs the next load, heavier than mine, and hauls it with the ease of a man who does everything as if being scored on form. He’s ditched the suit jacket, rolled the cuffs of his blue Oxford shirt up to mid-forearm, and swapped his shoes for battered sneakers. The incongruity of it is almost pornographic. At least it is to me.

We settle into a rhythm. I shuttle boxes from the elevator, he intercepts them at the threshold, and together we angle each new stack around the corners of the entryway. My tape colors, pink, orange, a green so loud it hurts, pop against the monochrome of his space. Everything here is stone, glass, or brushed steel. It’s all sharp lines and controlled negative space, like the floor plan was dictated by an algorithm that doesn’t believe in leisure. The only softness is the view, a horizon-wide sprawl of city skyline, the windows so clean they seem to erase the air itself.

Each time I ferry another load in, the contrast slaps me fresh. My boxes are loud and ugly, each one a micro-disaster of thrift store finds and post-college clutter. I keep waiting for Aiden to wince, or to direct me to a corner, or to quietly ask if we “really need” all of this. Instead, he just keeps clearing space on the counters, emptying drawers, methodically making room. He works without commentary, which is itself commentary, and for that I’m grateful.

After forty minutes, we’ve filled the foyer with a low wall of my life’s detritus. He pauses, hands on hips, sweat blooming at his temples. I take the moment to scope the main room, imagining the future fights we’ll have over throw pillows and shelf real estate.

He follows my gaze, then nods toward the kitchen. “Food break?”

“God, yes,” I say, and flop onto the barstool like I’m being decommissioned.

He’s already got the protein bars and cold brew on the counter, uncannily predicting my needs. I open the bar and take a savage bite.

He leans against the counter, looking at me over the rim of his glass. “You didn’t have to move everything today,” he says. His tone is light, but there’s a splinter of concern under it.

I finish chewing before answering. “You gave me a key. You know what happens when you give a raccoon access to a shiny new habitat?”

He almost laughs. “You move in with maximal chaos and minimum warning.”

“Exactly.” I tip the bar in a toast. “Besides, I’ve moved myself a dozen times. I like it. It’s the only time you get to see your whole life in one place, ugly and honest.”

He considers this, then shrugs. “I respect it.”

“Good,” I say. “Because I’m about to test your limit for ugly and honest.”

We kill the next hour on the logistics of merging our stuff. He takes the heavier boxes without comment, makes room in the closets for my “hoodie hoard,” and doesn’t blink at the number of half-used candles I own. The only moment he hesitates is over a bin labeled MISC SENTIMENTAL, which contains, among other things, every birthday card my grandmother ever sent, a six-year-old perfume bottle shaped like a stiletto, and a VHS tape of me at age nine singing “Como la flor” at a talent show.

He lifts the tape, squints at it, then slides it back into the bin. “We don’t own a VHS player.”

“I know,” I say, “but I keep it so I can threaten people with it.”

He nods. “Effective deterrent.”

The way we move around each other is efficient, almost elegant. There’s no tripping, no raised voices, only the dull thud of boxes and the rustle of packing paper. Every few minutes, I look up and catch him watching me with a look that isn’t evaluative, but grateful, like he can’t believe I showed up and am actually staying.