Chapter 1: The Moving Box Standoff
The box was heavier than it had any right to be.
Trisha had labeled it herself, in thick black marker, all caps, triple underlined—FRAGILE: MY SANITY. She'd thought it was funny at the time. Three hours and four flights of stairs later, the joke had curdled into something closer to a threat. Her arms burned. Her back ached. A bead of sweat traced a slow path from her temple to her jaw, and she couldn't wipe it away because both hands were occupied keeping the box from tumbling into the abyss of the stairwell behind her.
The hallway of her new apartment—their new apartment, she corrected herself, because apparently she was sharing her living space with two other people now—stretched ahead like an obstacle course designed by someone with a personal vendetta against her.
Boxes everywhere. Towers of them, leaning at angles that suggested structural instability. Lance's toolbox sat open near the door, wrenches and screwdrivers scattered like someone had given up mid-repair. Anna's yoga mats were tangled with a nest of gaming cables that could only belong to one person. The air smelled like cold takeout and whatever incense Anna had been burning earlier—sandalwood, maybe, or patchouli. Something earthy and cloying that clung to the back of Trisha's throat.
She stepped over a duffel bag, around a stack of paperback novels, and directly into a wall.
Except it wasn't a wall. Walls didn't radiate heat. Walls didn't smell like cedar and soap and something faintly smoky. Walls didn't cross their arms over a broad chest and look down at her with an expression that managed to be both amused and deeply unimpressed.
Sam.
Of course.
He didn't move. Didn't step aside. Didn't even acknowledge that he was blocking the only clear path through the hallway. He just stood there, all six-foot-something of him, his dark hair still damp from what she assumed was a recent shower, wearing a faded t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders in a way that was frankly offensive.
"Nice box," he said.
Trisha adjusted her grip on the cardboard. Her fingers were going numb. "Move."
"Interesting technique you've got there. Leaning back like that. Really engages the core." He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he was solving for fun. "You know, most people pack the heavy stuff on the bottom. Distribute the weight. Basic physics."
"Thank you for the unsolicited mansplaining. Now move."
"I'm not mansplaining. I'm observing. There's a difference." He leaned against the doorframe, casual as anything, like he had nowhere to be and all day to get there. "Also, you labeled it 'fragile.' That's cute. What's in there, your collection of participation trophies?"
Trisha's arms trembled. The box slipped an inch, and she caught it against her knee, hoisting it back up with a grunt that was decidedly undignified. "It's my life, Sam. My entire life in a cardboard box. And if you don't get out of my way in the next three seconds, I'm going to drop it on your foot and then we'll see who's making jokes."
Sam's mouth curved into that grin. The one that made her want to throw something at his head. The one that suggested he knew exactly how infuriating he was being and was enjoying every second of it.
"You'd have to lift it higher for that," he pointed out. "And I don't think you've got the upper body strength."
"I will end you."
"You keep saying that."
"One day I'll mean it."
"I look forward to it."
The standoff stretched. Trisha could feel sweat pooling at the small of her back, could feel the cardboard growing damp under her palms. The hallway pressed in around her, claustrophobic with its towers of half-unpacked lives—her vintage teacups stacked precariously on a folding chair, Anna's collection of ceramic frogs arranged on a windowsill that hadn't been cleaned since the Reagan administration, Sam's gym bag shoved into a corner like an afterthought.
She hated this hallway. She hated this apartment. She hated the way Sam was looking at her, like she was a source of entertainment he'd stumbled upon and had no intention of abandoning.
"I was here first," she said, because it was the only argument she had left. "This is my hallway."
"Our hallway," Sam corrected. "We share it. That's what sharing means. You should look it up."
"I know what sharing means."
"Could've fooled me."
"Sam." Her voice came out sharper than intended, edged with something that wasn't quite anger. "Please. Just move."
Something flickered in his expression. Brief. Almost imperceptible. The grin didn't falter, but the warmth behind it shifted, and for a half-second, he looked like he might actually step aside.
Then he didn't.
"Say the magic word," he said.
"What?"
"You know the one. Starts with 'p.' Ends with 'lease.' You've probably heard it before. It's a classic."
Trisha's jaw tightened. The box shifted again, and this time she couldn't catch it in time—it tilted sideways, spilling a corner of its contents onto the floor. A book slid out. A paperback, its cover creased and faded, the spine cracked from too many re-reads.
Sam glanced down at it. His eyebrows rose.
"Pride and Prejudice?" he said. "Really?"
Heat flooded Trisha's face. She didn't know why. It was just a book. Just a stupid book that she'd read a dozen times in high school, that she'd stuffed into the box at the last minute because she couldn't bear to leave it behind. It didn't mean anything.
"It's a classic," she snapped.
"It's a romance novel."
"It's literature."
"It's about a woman who hates a guy until she doesn't."
"That's—" Trisha sputtered. "That's a gross oversimplification."
"Am I wrong?"
She wanted to hit him. She wanted to put the box down and physically shove him out of her way. She wanted to wipe that smug, knowing look off his stupid, handsome face.
But her arms were shaking, and the box was heavy, and somewhere in the kitchen she could hear Anna moving around, the clatter of pots and pans and the low hum of the range hood. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds. Sounds that suggested a life she'd agreed to share, even if she was starting to question her sanity for doing so.
"Sam." Her voice cracked on his name. Just slightly. Just enough.
He heard it.
The grin faded, replaced by something softer. Something she didn't have a name for. He stepped aside—one deliberate movement, his shoulder brushing the wall as he made room for her to pass.
"Took you long enough," she muttered, but the venom was gone, and they both knew it.
She moved past him, the box brushing against his chest, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough that she caught another whiff of that cedar-soap-smoke scent, and had to resist the urge to inhale deeper.
"Trisha."
She stopped. Didn't turn around.
"Next time," he said, "pack the books on the bottom. They're denser. Better weight distribution."
She could hear the smile in his voice. Could picture it perfectly—that crooked, infuriating curve of his lips.
"I hate you," she said.
"No, you don't."
She walked away without responding, because any response she gave would only prove him right.
The living room was slightly less chaotic than the hallway, which wasn't saying much. A massive sectional couch dominated the space—Anna's contribution, apparently, because Trisha would never have chosen something so aggressively beige—and it was currently buried under a mountain of throw pillows and a duvet that someone had abandoned mid-unpack. The TV sat on the floor, cords spidering across the carpet, and a half-eaten container of lo mein had been left on the coffee table like a shrine to poor decision-making.
Trisha navigated around it all, heading for the hallway on the other side. Her room. Her sanctuary. She'd claimed it the moment she'd walked in, partly because it had the best light and partly because it was the farthest from Sam's room, which was a strategic decision she was proud of.
She didn't make it.
"Trisha!" Anna's voice rang out from the kitchen, bright and commanding in equal measure. "Come in here!"
Trisha closed her eyes. Breathed. Then turned toward the kitchen, still carrying the box, because setting it down now felt like admitting defeat.
Anna stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot that smelled like garlic and tomatoes and the kind of domesticity Trisha had never quite mastered. Her auburn curls were piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she wore an apron that said "Teacher by Day, Wine Enthusiast by Night" in loopy cursive. Her smile was warm, welcoming—and just a little bit strained.
"Hi," she said. "How's the unpacking going?"
"Fantastic," Trisha said flatly. "I love carrying boxes up four flights of stairs. It's my new hobby."
"The elevator's broken."
"I noticed."
Anna's smile flickered. She set down the spoon and turned to face Trisha fully.
"I need to talk to you about something."
"Can it wait until I put this down?"
"No."
Trisha sighed. The box was starting to feel like an extension of her body—heavy and awkward and impossible to escape. She set it on the counter, wincing at the dull thud it made against the granite.
"What's up?"
"The bathroom," Anna said.
"What about it?"
"You and Sam."
Trisha blinked. "What about me and Sam?"
"There's one bathroom." Anna held up a finger, forestalling Trisha's interruption. "One. For three people. And I have to leave for work at seven, which means I need to be in there by six-thirty at the latest, which means you and Sam need to figure out your schedules before I lose my mind."
"I've been here for six hours," Trisha protested. "I haven't even used the bathroom yet."
"Exactly. This is the time to establish good habits. Teamwork. Cooperation." Anna said the words like they were a mantra, like she was trying to manifest them into existence. "I need you two to sit down and work this out. Tomorrow morning is going to be a disaster if you don't."
"Tomorrow morning is already a disaster," Trisha said. "We live together, Anna. All of us. That's the disaster."
Anna's eyes narrowed. "Trisha."
"Fine. Fine. I'll talk to him."
"He's in the hallway."
"I know. I just came from there."
"So talk to him."
"Now?"
"Now."
Trisha stared at her best friend—her kind, patient, utterly unyielding best friend—and felt the fight drain out of her. Anna was right. She was always right. It was one of the most annoying things about her.
"I'll talk to him," Trisha repeated. "But I'm not promising anything."
"That's all I ask."
Trisha turned. Walked back into the hallway.
Sam was still there, leaning against the doorframe of his room now, scrolling through his phone with a casualness that suggested he hadn't moved an inch since she'd left. He glanced up when she appeared, and that grin returned.
"Back already?"
"We need to talk about the bathroom schedule."
"The what?"
"The bathroom. You know, the room with the toilet? The shower? The place where people who are forced to live together sometimes need to coordinate their morning routines?"
Sam slid his phone into his pocket. "You're serious."
"I'm always serious."
"No, you're not. You laughed at a dog video last week."
"That was a private moment."
"We were all in the living room."
"It was still private."
Sam's grin widened. He pushed off the doorframe, taking a step toward her, and Trisha had to ignore the way her pulse jumped at the proximity. He wasn't that close. There was still space between them. Still air.
But it was charged air. Electric. And she didn't like thinking about why.
"You want to talk about the bathroom schedule," he said.
"Yes."
"Fine. You go first. I'll go second. I don't care."
"You're supposed to care. That's the point of a schedule."
"I don't think that's the point of anything."
"I don't have time for you."
"Your only plan today is unpacking."
"I could have plans."
"Could you?" He raised an eyebrow. "What are they? Staring at me from across the hallway with that angry expression you get?"
"I don't get an angry expression."
"You absolutely do. It's adorable."
"I'm going to kill you."
"You keep making threats." He stepped back, hands up in mock surrender. "Okay. Bathroom schedule. Let's do it. How about I go first, six to six-twenty? Then your turn. Plenty of time for both of us before Anna needs it."
Trisha considered this. It was reasonable. Which was suspicious.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch."
"With you, there's always a catch."
"There isn't. I'm being nice, see? This is what nice looks like."
"Unsettling is what this looks like."
"Unsettling is my signature move."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to keep fighting. Because fighting was familiar, was easy, was safe. The way it felt when he looked at her, though—that wasn't safe. That wasn't easy. And it was getting harder to ignore.
"Fine," she said. "You go first. But if you're even a minute late, I'm locking you out."
"Noted."
"And if you use all the hot water—"
"I would never."
"You would."
"Maybe." That grin again. "But only because you're usually in there before me. Cold showers are good for the system. Builds character."
"I already have character."
"Debatable."
"If you two don't figure this out in the next five minutes," Anna shouted from the kitchen, "I'm locking you both on the balcony!"
Sam's eyes widened. Trisha's mouth dropped open.
"She wouldn't," Sam said.
"She would," Trisha replied.
They stared at each other. The hallway pressed in, dense with boxes and tension and something unspoken that hovered between them like static.
"Okay," Sam said slowly. "So. Bathroom. Six to six-twenty. You go after. Anna has it at six-thirty. Everyone's happy."
"You're happy," Trisha said. "I'm not happy."
"Noted."
"And next week, we switch."
"Noted."
"And stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
Like you're figuring me out, she wanted to say. Like I'm a puzzle you're solving for fun. Like you see something I don't want you to see.