hapter 7: Living Together After six months of marriage, our penthouse finally began to feel like a home. At least to me. When I'd first moved in, the space had been a showcase of minimalist luxury-all chrome, glass, and white leather, with abstract art in muted tones adorning the walls. Beautiful but sterile, like a high-end hotel suite rather than a place where people actually lived. It started with small changes. A cashmere throw for the sofa in a rich burgundy. Hand-blown glass vases from a local artisan filled with fresh flowers. Framed black-and-white photographs from my travels replacing some of the impersonal artwork. When Lucas didn't object, I grew bolder. I redecorated my bedroom completely, filling it with plush pillows, vintage lamps, and colorful textiles I'd collected over the years. The transformation was so dramatic that when Lucas first saw it, he raised an eyebrow and remarked, "Didn't peg you for someone who loves to fuss over things." I just shrugged. "I like being surrounded by beautiful things." As weeks passed, my "nesting" expanded beyond my bedroom. The guest bathroom gained hammered copper accessories and handmade soaps. The kitchen shelves filled with mismatched ceramic mugs and plates I'd picked up at various farmers' markets and craft fairs. I half-expected Lucas to complain about the clutter, but he never did. If anything, he seemed intrigued by the gradual transformation of his pristine space. One evening, I was arranging a collection of vintage hardcover books on the built-in shelves in the living room when Lucas came home early from work. He stood watching me for a moment, his briefcase still in hand. "What are those?" he asked. I glanced over my shoulder. "First editions of classic American novels. I found them at an estate sale last weekend." He set his briefcase down and came closer, examining the spines. His fingers brushed over a leather-bound copy of "The Great Gatsby." "This was my favorite in high school," he said, surprise coloring his voice. I smiled. "I know. You did your senior thesis on Fitzgerald." Lucas looked at me sharply. "How did you remember that?" I busied myself rearranging the books. "Good memory, I guess." He pulled the book from the shelf, opening it carefully. "My mother had a collection like this. My father gave her one every anniversary." His voice softened. "They were lost in the move after... after they died." I hesitated, then said quietly, "This one's yours, if you want it." Lucas stared at the book for a long moment, then carefully placed it back on the shelf. "No, it looks good here." He cleared his throat. "This place... it's starting to look more like a home." Coming from Lucas, it was high praise. After that, he seemed to pay more attention to the changes I made, occasionally offering suggestions or bringing home small items he thought might "fit" with what I was doing. A hand-carved wooden bowl from a business trip to Vermont. A set of vintage cocktail glasses he spotted in an antique store window. Our evening routines shifted as well. Instead of retreating to our separate spaces after dinner, we began to linger in the living room. I'd curl up on the sofa with a magazine while a movie played in the background. At first, Lucas would just pass through, glancing at the TV with a furrowed brow. "Are you actually reading the magazine or watching the movie?" he asked once. I looked up, surprised by his interest. "Both, sort of. It's background noise." He shook his head, bemused. "I don't understand how you can focus on either." But gradually, he began to pause longer, eventually sitting down to watch the end of whatever was playing. Then one evening, he arrived home just as I was starting "The Godfather." "You've never seen this?" he asked, genuinely shocked when I shook my head. "Never had the time." Lucas loosened his tie and sat beside me. "Well, you can't just half-watch this one. It's a masterpiece." That night, he stayed for the entire film, occasionally explaining the significance of certain scenes or bits of mafia terminology. I found myself watching him more than the movie, fascinated by the animation in his typically stoic face when discussing something he clearly loved. It became a ritual of sorts. Every Friday, we'd choose a film-usually one of his favorites that I hadn't seen, or occasionally one of mine that he'd missed. We'd order takeout, open a bottle of wine, and spend the evening together on the sofa, the space between us gradually shrinking week by week. I learned that Lucas, despite his sophisticated image, had a secret love for old Westerns. He discovered my weakness for cheesy romantic comedies, which he tolerated with minimal eye-rolling. He realized that though I might seem reserved, I actually loved bustling energy-street fairs, fireworks, anything vibrant and alive. This revelation came after I dragged him to a summer festival downtown, where he watched with amusement as I delighted in everything from street performers to artisanal food stalls. "You're full of surprises, Autumn Shepherd," he said that night, as we watched fireworks explode over the harbor. I turned to find him looking at me instead of the display overhead, his expression thoughtful in the flashing lights. In the kitchen, he learned that I didn't eat seafood, preferred light flavors, and had an incorrigible sweet tooth. I discovered he drank his coffee black in the morning but with a splash of cream in the afternoon, that he secretly loved the chocolate chip cookies I baked but would only ever eat one at a time, and that he was particular about his scotch but surprisingly unpretentious about wine. Small details. Mundane even. But each one a stitch in the fabric of a shared life, binding us together in ways neither of us had anticipated. One Sunday morning, I was making pancakes when Lucas wandered into the kitchen, hair tousled from sleep, wearing only pajama bottoms. He yawned, stretching his arms overhead, muscles rippling across his bare chest and abdomen. I quickly looked away, focusing intently on the batter. "Smells good," he said, reaching around me for a mug. His chest brushed against my back, and I felt heat rise in my cheeks. "Blueberry pancakes," I managed. "They'll be ready in a few minutes." He poured himself coffee, then leaned against the counter beside me, watching as I flipped a pancake with practiced ease. "Where did you learn to cook?" he asked. "My mom taught me. She worked long hours, but Sunday mornings were sacred. We'd make breakfast together, just the two of us." Lucas was quiet for a moment. "You don't talk about her much." "Neither do you. About your parents, I mean." He sipped his coffee. "It was a long time ago." "Doesn't make it easier, though, does it?" His eyes met mine, something unspoken passing between us-the shared understanding of what it meant to lose a parent too soon. "No," he said softly. "It doesn't." I handed him a plate stacked with pancakes. "Here. Extra blueberries, just how you like them." Lucas looked surprised. "How did you know?" I shrugged. "I pay attention." He took the plate, his fingers lingering against mine for a fraction longer than necessary. "Thank you." That simple domestic moment-making breakfast in our shared kitchen on a lazy Sunday morning-felt more intimate than anything we'd experienced before. It wasn't romance, exactly, but something almost as powerful: familiarity. Comfort. The unspoken ease of two people who had begun to find their rhythm together. We were building something that, while perhaps not the marriage either of us had envisioned, had its own quiet value. A friendship, tentative but growing stronger each day. But even as we settled into this unexpected companionship, I couldn't forget the truth that underlay everything: Lucas's heart still belonged to Phoebe Graham. And in less than eighteen months, our agreement would come to an end. For now, though, I chose to live in the moment-to enjoy the simple pleasure of watching Lucas Bailey devour the pancakes I'd made, a drop of maple syrup clinging to his lower lip that I desperately wanted to reach out and wipe away. Instead, I turned back to the stove, hiding my expression as I poured more batter into the pan. Some desires were better left unacknowledged.