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“You are lucky you didn’t break your neck.” I walk around to the fallen boxes, clocking the concrete floor that does not look like it would cushion any fall.

“Here.” I attempt to restack the pile. “Let me see if I can get you unstuck.”

I do my best, but I, too, lack structural engineering skills. Even when I put them back in their proper place, there’s still a notable gap between the top of them and the bottom of Mackenzie.

“Koko,” Mackenzie calls once I’m done. “Catch!” He leans forward and drops the box from his lap into Koko’s awaiting arms. Once she steps out of the way, he flips onto his stomach and lowers himself slowly, treating us both to a display of his flexing biceps and a view of his abs as his shirt snags on a sliver of wood, lifting his hem like a slow striptease.

Koko catches me watching him and clears her throat. My face immediately turns from what I assume was a red shade before to one that I’m sure is deep maroon. However, that feeling is immediately replaced with an icy bolt of fear as Mackenzie drops from the rafter with a “Look out below.”

I hold my breath until he lands perfectly balanced on the top of the boxes.

Koko lets out a sharp but appreciative wolf whistle and then clasps her hands under her chin and, in an exaggerated southern drawl, calls out, “My hero.”

Mackenzie bows and then jumps from the boxes to the floor.

“You are better than a Boy Scout.” She hands him back the box and turns her attention to me.

“You look nice. Big plans for tonight?”

I stare down at my casual Friday outfit, not remembering what I put on this morning and realizing she’s referring to my jeans and plain white tee.

“My plans are to go upstairs, put on my sweatpants, and order enough takeout that they send two forks. What are you guys up to?”

Koko pulls off her sweater to reveal a tight black leather crop top underneath. “I have a date with a very hot wannabe rock star who finally has a night off.” Her eyes meet Mackenzie’s, and she winks.

“Oh.” I feel a sudden coldness grip my body as I look from Koko to Mackenzie.

“Her date is with Zee,” Mackenzie cuts in, and I feel the muscles in my back immediately relax.

“Of course it is,” Koko says, “who else would I be talking abou—oooohhhh.” She waves me off with a dramatic swipe of her arm. “Don’t even sweat. This one is far too functional for my tastes. I only date men with glaring red flags…or men who own boats, which, in its own way, is also a red flag but super fun when they let you drive them in the summer.”

She laughs, picks up the cardboard box, and disappears somewhere into the back of the store.

I stare at my feet, wondering if I should explain that I wasn’t sweating. He can date whomever he likes and I’m good with it, actually, I’m great with it. But when my cheeks finally feel cool enough to look up, I simply say, “I think I’m going to head upstairs.”

I don’t wait for Mackenzie to respond before I beeline for the front door and practically throw myself out onto the sidewalk. I am acutely aware that there are no sounds of footsteps or door slams or anything else to indicate Mackenzie is on his way up to the apartment, too, as I climb the steps, let myself inside, and throw myself onto my bed with the kind of force that makes me applaud the strength of my IKEA bed frame. I lie there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, until I eventually hear the door open and close and a series of creaky footsteps cross the hardwood, followed by a knock.

“Hey.” Mackenzie’s voice is soft. “You in there?”

“One sec.” I roll to my feet, straightening out the wrinkles in my blouse and fluffing my hair with my fingers before opening the door.

“What’s up?”

Mackenzie stands cradling a bottle of Diet Coke in his hands as if it were an expensive champagne. “Well, I also happen to have the night off, and I was wondering if there was room on the couch for two tonight?” He holds out the Diet Coke as if it were a peace offering. “We could order chili chicken from that place you like. Or get something else if you’re not into—”

“No,” I interrupt. “Chili chicken would be great.” My stomach does a double flip, which I tell myself is a response to the chicken and not the man proposing it.

Our doorbell rings thirty-five minutes later. Three minutes after that, we’re sitting side by side on the couch, plates filled with delicious Hakka food next to two wineglasses of Diet Coke.

“Cheers.” Mackenzie holds out his glass.

“To making it through the week.” I pick up my glass and clink it against his.

“To being exactly where we should be.” He brings his to his lips and takes a long sip.

As I tip my head back and drink, I dwell on that thought. Am I where I should be?

Metaphorically speaking, I am in a good place. I am weeks away from starting a PhD—a goal I’ve been working toward for years. My life plan is playing out to the exact schedule I set when I was nineteen: finish my undergrad, then complete a master’s degree, followed by two to four more years of work until I accumulate enough experience to get into a top PhD program and enough money to support my way through it. Everything is exactly as it should be.