Chapter 12
Lilah
Moving in with Marcus is exactly as chaotic and perfect as expected.
He tries to organize everything. I strategically chaos everything he organizes. We compromise by giving him the kitchen and office while I claim the studio and bedroom decorating rights.
"Why are there throw pillows on every surface?" he asks two weeks into cohabitation.
"Because they're cozy and aesthetically pleasing."
"There are seventeen throw pillows in the living room alone."
"And?"
"We only have one couch."
"Your point?"
He kisses me instead of arguing. I count it as a win.
Summer passes in a blur of gallery shows and consulting projects. Marcus travels for work, Chicago, New York, Boston and I miss him desperately every time. But he always comes home. Always calls. Always shows up.
In August, we host a dinner party. Isla and Sebastian, Lennox and Carter, Ivy and Ethan. Our found family crammed into our small apartment, laughing and drinking and celebrating.
"To Marcus," Sebastian toasts, "for finally pulling his head out of his ass and admitting he was in love."
"To Lilah," Isla adds, "for putting up with all of us."
"To found family," Lennox says. "Because blood doesn't mean shit if they can't support who you really are."
We drink to that.
Later, after everyone leaves, Marcus and I clean up together. He washes, I dry. Domestic and simple and everything I never knew I wanted.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Deliriously. You?"
"More than I thought possible." He pulls me close, soapy hands and all. "Thank you."
My heart does something complicated in my chest—a rhythm that’s become familiar over these weeks, these months. It’s the feeling of walls coming down, of control slipping away, of allowing myself to want something I can’t calculate or predict.
"For what?"
"For being chaos. For pushing me to feel instead of calculate. For loving me even when I was an idiot who avoided you for three years."
"Well, you're making up for lost time now."
"I plan to spend the rest of my life making up for lost time."
"The rest of your life? That's a long time, Marcus Chen."
"Not long enough." He kisses me, slow and deep and perfect. "Never long enough with you."
That night, wrapped in sheets and each other, I realize something.
I spent years looking for stability. For someone who would stay. For proof that I was worth the mess.
And I found it in the last person I expected.
The organized boy who fell for chaos.
The calculated boy who took a risk.
The perfect boy who learned that perfect is boring, and messy is beautiful.
"I love you," I whisper into the darkness.
"I love you too," he whispers back. "My perfectly imperfect disaster."
"Your disaster forever."
"Forever sounds perfect."
And it is.