Page 61 of Mister St. James

I finish emptying the BOOKS—LIED box and start slotting my paperbacks onto the lowest shelf of his library wall. The built-ins are already full of philosophy texts, cryptography journals, and a single shelf of vintage hardbacks with library platelets. I squeeze my battered paperbacks into the bottom, no system at all, covers out and sideways, a deliberate act of rebellion.

He notices. “You know that’s going to drive me insane.”

“That’s the fun,” I say. “You have to be a little bit in love with a person to tolerate their shelf logic.”

He grins, and it’s the kind of grin you only get from someone who’s spent years rationing their expressions and finally, for once, is letting go.

By four p.m. we’ve conquered most of the boxes, the penthouse now a war zone of packing debris and joint custody. I drape my mango-colored throw over the back of the sofa, wedge another cactus onto the windowsill next to his espresso machine, and hang my favorite mug on the rack even though it doesn’t match the rest. He says nothing, just watches me do it.

The last box to tackle is the one I’m most anxious about. It’s labeled WALL ART (!!!) in a scrawl that’s two drinks into the night I packed it. Inside: a framed print, 18x24, a swirling mess of burnt orange, blue, and black. I found it at a street fair my first year in the city, and it’s the only thing I ever spent more than fifty dollars on that wasn’t rent or therapy.

I unbox it and hold it up to the wall, trying to imagine where it could possibly go. Every wall in here is already curated, a giant black-and-white photo of the city at dusk, an abstract in grayscale with a title so pretentious I forgot it instantly, a set of architectural blueprints that I suspect are the actual floor plans for this very penthouse.

My print doesn’t fit any of it. It’s too loud, too messy, too obviously not expensive.

I stand in the middle of the living room, the print held out in front of me, turning it left, then right, then straight on. I hear Aiden’s footsteps behind me, deliberate and unhurried.

He walks up, takes the frame from my hands without asking, and holds it against the largest blank wall. He steps back, holding it steady at eye level. “Here?”

I squint. “Too high.”

He lowers it four inches. “Now?”

I nod, surprised. “Yeah.”

He glances at the picture, then at the wall, then at the frame, and finally at me. “I’ll hang it.”

“You don’t have to,” I start, but he’s already moving, setting the frame aside and heading to the utility drawer. He comes back with a level, a tape measure, and a tiny pencil. I watch him work, he measures, marks, checks the level twice, and hangs the print with the same care I’ve seen him use with servers and code, and even with my body.

He steps back, arms crossed, assessing. “It’s good,” he says.

I look at the wall, the frame, the colors blazing out against the neutral background. “Yeah,” I say. “It is.”

He looks at me then, and something in his face softens, the last ice floe melting out.

“Thank you,” I say, but what I mean is thank you for making space.

He just smiles, small and private, and picks up the next box.

I file the moment away, in the folder where I keep all the reasons I love him.

By seven, the place is no longer his or mine but a patchwork. The mango throw bright against the dark sofa, my second cactus (technically a succulent, but I refuse to yield the point) sunbathing in the kitchen window, our books jostling for dominance on the lowest shelf like rival street gangs. There are still boxes, but they’re mostly empty, collapsed and stacked in the vestibule, cardboard skeletons waiting for recycling day.

We don’t order in. Instead, we hunt through the fridge and turn up pasta, garlic, a shockingly expensive wedge of cheese, and half a bag of spinach that died a day ago but isn’t yet aware of its fate. I let Aiden cook. He’s methodical, like he’s executing a firmware update, but tonight he lets me interfere, handing me the olive oil when I reach, letting me sample the sauce and not pretending my “suggestions” are anything less than sabotage. We eat at the counter, perched on the stools, feet knocking together underneath.

After, we migrate to the sofa, glasses of wine in hand, the last traces of sunset leaking down the windows. Aiden picks a movie at random, some moody noir with subtitles, and I don’t even pretend I’m going to pay attention. I stretch out, legs across his lap, my toes hooked behind his knee. His hand lands absentmindedly on my ankle, fingers tracing circles, not possessive but anchoring.

The wine makes me sentimental. Not the kind that spirals into drama, just the kind that wants to catalog and name every small comfort. I watch the screen for a while, then the reflection of us in the glass. The TV light paints his skin, makes the angles of his face gentler, less bulletproof.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. When he does, it’s out of nowhere: “Marcus texted.”

I grunt. “Still alive, then?”

He nods. “He wants us to meet him and…” He hesitates, the rare tell. “His new partner. This Friday.”

“Partner as in girlfriend, or as in accomplice?”

Aiden shrugs. “He was deliberately vague. Their name is Harper. I have no data beyond that, except he seemed pleased with himself.”