57. Chapter 57
fifty-seven
I t was idyllic, those first few days.
Monroe spent the first day unpacking, slotting books onto the shelves Chloé had cleared, folding clothes into drawers just for her. The physical act of placing her belongings alongside Chloé’s felt symbolic—like the deliberate stitching together of two lives.
Chloé, for her part, spent long days at work handling meetings, deadlines, and phone calls. But each evening, she came home to something new: Monroe’s cooking filling the house with warmth, a bath already run, soft music playing in the background—a sanctuary waiting just for her…just for them.
They ate together.
Talked.
Laughed.
Touched
And they made love—slow, exploring, and unrushed—as though they were building something wordless between them, layering each moment with care and certainty.
It felt, for the first time in a long time, like life was unfolding exactly as it should.
And then they had their first argument.
Something mundane and pointless like Monroe hadn’t emptied the dishwasher, or Chloé had left the bathroom floor soaked after a shower. It didn’t matter. It started as a sigh, a sharp word, a defensive glance. And in the blink of an eye, it had escalated from nothing to everything.
Voices raised. Arms crossed. Words thrown like they weighed nothing, only to land like lead.
“You’re not even trying to fit in!” Chloé snapped, frustration lacing her voice.
Monroe’s mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”
“You cook dinner and light candles, and yes, that’s nice—but that’s not living here. That’s not…building a life.”
Monroe stepped back, jaw tight. “So now it’s not enough? I gave up everything. I moved countries for you.”
“For us,” Chloé corrected, softer now, but it was too late. The damage had already been done.
Silence settled between them like fog. Thick. Uncomfortable. Neither quite sure how they’d gotten there. Neither ready to be the first to retreat.
It wasn't about dishes or towels or routines. It was about change, and fear, and the fragile, clumsy merging of two lives that had been so independent before.
They stood in different corners of the same kitchen, hearts pounding, unsure what came next.
And then Monroe broke.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “That came out sharper than I meant. I think I’m just…overwhelmed.”
Chloé looked up, guilt washing across her face. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know how much you’ve given up— I do. I just… I guess we are both used to doing things our own way.”
Monroe took a slow breath, crossing the space between them. “This is all new. We’ve had weekends where none of that mattered. But this is life now. Real life.”
Chloé nodded, stepping in. “And in real life, people forget dishwashers and leave bathrooms messy.”
A small laugh broke between them.
“I don’t want us to snap at each other,” Monroe said. “That’s not who we are.”
“It isn’t,” Chloé agreed. “But it’s okay if we do sometimes. What matters is this part—this bit right here, where we figure it out.”
Monroe reached for her, sliding her hands around her waist. “I don’t want to fight. I want to learn how to live with you.”
“You are,” Chloé whispered, resting her forehead against Monroe’s. “We both are.”
“I love you,” Monroe said simply.
Chloé closed her eyes, smiling softly. “ Je t’aime. ”
They stood together for a while in the middle of the kitchen—barefoot, still a little raw, but more connected than before.
Love, it turned out, wasn’t all candlelight and kisses. Sometimes, it was cleaning up the mess afterwards. Together.
Monroe grinned, already picturing them somewhere else, with candles and wine, a little laughter, and no stress. “Let’s pretend we haven’t argued over towels.”
Chloé chuckled as she pulled on her coat. “You started that one.”
“I stand by my opinion,” Monroe called after her. “Towels belong on hooks, not the floor!”
Chloé popped her head back around the door, smirking. “At least we agree on wine.”
“That’s the foundation of any solid relationship.”
“I’ll book something,” Chloé said. “Something nice. Wear that dress I like.”
Monroe raised an eyebrow. “Which one is that?”
Chloé turned to her, face suddenly serious. “The one that hugs your backside, barely covers your legs, and has me drooling the second I see you in it.”
Monroe smirked back. “Oh, that one.”
She closed the space between them, palms pressed flat against Chloé’s chest as she leant in for a kiss. “Keep thinking like that,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “I really like it when you drool over me.”
Chloé’s hands found Monroe’s waist, holding her close for just a moment longer. “Can’t help it. You walk into a room in that dress and I forget how to breathe.”
Monroe grinned, brushing her lips just once more over Chloé’s. “Then I guess I’d better wear it.”
“You really, really should.” Chloé sighed dramatically, letting her hands linger as she stepped back. “I’ll see you tonight.”