Epilogue
Moving in together turns out to be forty percent unpacking and sixty percent arguing about where things belong.
The first few days are a blur of cardboard, half-empty coffee cups, and Benji discovering—over and over—that I label everything. Pantry shelves. Closet sections. Tool drawers. At one point, I catch him peeling a sticker off a box just to see how long it takes me to notice.
(It takes six minutes.)
We settle into something easy, something comfortable. Shared breakfasts. Shared showers. Shared evenings curled together on the couch, critiquing bad reality television and HOA emails with equal fervor.
For a brief, miraculous window of time, Morningwood Estates is calm.
Which, in hindsight, should have been our first warning.
"Benji," I call down the hallway, "for the love of God, stop hiding my antique teapot collection in the closet!"
"You don’t even drink tea!" he shouts back. "What are we, the Golden Girls?"
"They were icons."
"Shut up, Rose," he mutters just loud enough for me to hear.
I finally find the last box wedged behind a stack of mismatched throw pillows and slam the hall closet door shut in triumph.
There’s a deep, bone-satisfying sense of completion that comes with knowing everything has a place. Even Benji’s chaos has begun to settle into something recognizable—colorful, loud, but ours all the same.
For a rare, perfect moment, the house is quiet. Then something catches my eye through the front window.
"Benji, come here. Hurry up," I call from the living room, voice pitched somewhere between intrigue and impending disaster. "You’re going to want to see this."
He appears beside me instantly, curiosity fully activated.
"Who are we spying on?" he asks, already pulling up the Morningwood Minute group chat. "Oh. Ohhh. That must be Eunice’s nephew."
A truck idles across the street as a tall, broad-shouldered man hops out, stretching as if he’s being filmed for a very specific audience. His shirt rides up, revealing a flash of toned abs before he tugs it back down.
Benji inhales sharply. "He looked right at us."
"Can he see us?"
Across the street, the man glances toward our window and smirks.
Benji gasps. "He saw us."
We stare as he kicks the post of the For Sale sign until he can pull it out of the ground. He tosses it near the front curb.
"That’s a violation," I murmur.
When he bends down, all I can think is how good his ass looks in those worn blue jeans.
"He better be straight," Benji says darkly.
"Why?" It’s hard to mask the amusement in my tone.
"Because I cannot compete with that." Benji folds his arms and scowls. "I am emotionally fragile."
I laugh, sliding an arm around his waist. "Relax. You’re irreplaceable."
He leans into me, eyes still glued to the window.
"Tell the truth. When I moved in, were you crouched in front of this window thinking the same thing about me?"
Benji scoffs. "No."
I side-eye him knowingly, and he caves in an instant.
"Yes," he admits reluctantly.
"I knew it! You sprayed me with that hose on purpose."
"Did not!" Benji defends hotly. "It was an accident. Did you miss the part where I practically drowned myself?"
"Par for the course."
Outside, Eunice emerges with her clipboard like a general reporting for duty. She pulls the man into a fierce hug, then points decisively at the sign lying on the curb.
"Told you."
As if on cue, the man bends, muscles flexing obscenely, and hoists the sign upright with irritating ease.
Benji groans. "I hate him already."
"He hasn’t even spoken."
"He doesn’t need to. His biceps are doing all the talking."
Benji watches for another second, then sighs dramatically. "Well. We can’t just lurk at the window like weird neighborhood watch fanatics hoping for a real-life true crime documentary."
"I resent that. I was being subtle."
"You were pressing your face to the glass."
"Details."
I grab my coat from the hook beside the door and toss him his. "Come on. Let’s go be welcoming. Or at least confusing."
We step outside together into the late afternoon; the street buzzing with that familiar Morningwood energy. Eunice is already mid-orientation, pointing out invisible violations with terrifying precision.
"And that bush is dangerously close to three feet. It can’t reach four under any circumstances. I was lenient with Mr. Reed, but I expect better from you."
Lenient? Hardly.
"There’s nothing I appreciate more than a well-trimmed bush, Auntie," the man mocks.
Eunice stabs her finger in the air with conviction. "—and trash cans must be returned from the curb no later than sunset, unless there’s a federal holiday, in which case—"
Her nephew stands there nodding politely, posture relaxed, eyes faintly glazed, as if he’s being held hostage by civic enthusiasm. He turns as we approach, and for a split second, his grin widens.
"Ah," Eunice says, swiveling sharply. "Perfect timing. Carter, Benji, this is my nephew, Trevor. He just moved into your old place, Carter."
"Welcome to Morningwood." I step forward and offer my hand.
He grips it firmly. "Thanks. I’m starting to think I should’ve brought a notebook."
"Or sedatives," Benji adds under his breath.
Trevor laughs, then glances between us. "You guys live together?"
Benji opens his mouth, but I beat him to it. "We do."
The word lands solidly. Comfortable. Certain. Something warm settles in my chest.
Benji shoots me a quick look—pleased, and just a little undone—before turning his attention back to Trevor with a dazzling smile.
"I’m Benji. Neighborhood Watch captain, unofficial HOA translator, and professional Morningwood gossip coordinator."
Trevor beams. "Nice to meet you."
His gaze lingers a half-second too long. Benji stiffens. Not much, just a subtle shift, but I feel it.
"And I’m Carter," I add smoothly. "Benji’s live-in reality check."
Benji scoffs. "That is a blatant lie. I am pure intuition and instinct."
"Which is why you once tried to microwave a Pop-Tart in its foil wrapper."
"It was late. I was tired. Science is confusing."
Trevor laughs again, eyes crinkling. "You two are… entertaining."
"That’s one word for it," Eunice says briskly. "Now, Trevor, I was explaining our holiday decorating guidelines—"
Benji groans softly. "Here we go."
"—and as you can see," Eunice continues, flipping her clipboard, "there are very clear parameters around inflatable displays."
Trevor blinks. "There are… rules about excessive inflation?"
Benji stills.
It’s subtle. Just a fraction of a pause. But I know him well enough now to feel the moment his brain catches on something sharp and familiar.
Benji’s eyes take on an unholy glint. "Yep. Very specific rules."
Trevor grimaces. "That one got away from me."
Benji shoots me a look. I frown back. Got away from me?
I nudge Benji with my elbow. "Behave."
Trevor glances between us, clearly amused. "You guys seem solid."
Benji’s jealousy flickers, then fades into something quieter.
"We are," I say simply.
This time, Benji doesn’t tease. He just leans closer, shoulder brushing mine.
Eunice claps her hands. "Excellent. I’ll let you all get acquainted. But remember—no more than six inflatables per yard. Incurring a violation in your first week is no way to welcome you to the neighborhood."
She strides off, clipboard raised like a banner of authority.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Trevor exhales. "Would it surprise you to know she’s always been this way?"
"No," Benji says. "But I am surprised you used the phrase excessive inflation."
Trevor blinks. "Did I?"
I can tell Benji isn’t buying his act.
"Also noted was your appreciation for well-trimmed bushes. How do you feel about dangerous gaping holes in your yard?"
Trevor’s expression turns mock-serious. "All holes must be filled.
A gaping hole is an accident waiting to happen.
" His dark eyes spark with mischief. "There better not be any loose nuts lying around, either.
No Nut November gave everyone a chance to squirrel away their nuts and clean up their yards. "
Benji’s jaw drops. "Oh my God."
I look between them. "What?"
Benji turns to me, eyes wide with disbelief. "Carter."
"Yes?"
"This man—" he points at Trevor, "—is the author of The Morningwood Monthly!"
Trevor rubs a hand over his face. "So you read it?"
"Religiously. It’s my favorite unintentional comedy serial."
Trevor winces. "Okay. When you say it like that, it sounds worse."
"You are an icon."
"I’m a lot of things, but I haven’t reached icon status yet. My aunt asked if I could help out, and I couldn’t resist putting my personal touch on it. I hadn’t planned on falling in love with this neighborhood through a computer screen."
"I already love him," Benji announces.
Trevor laughs. "I’m glad someone does."
I slip an arm around Benji’s waist. "Welcome to Morningwood. We would have greeted you with a flock of flamingos—"
"A flamboyance," Benji corrects.
"—right, but they’re currently enlisted to pull Santa’s sleigh."
Trevor’s gaze follows the roofline of our house, where glittering madness reigns. His laugh is loud and genuine. "I love what you’ve done with the place."
Benji arches a perfectly plucked brow. "Your aunt does not."
"Even better," Trevor says. "It must drive her insane, seeing it from across the street."
"Oh, she sees it," I assure him. "Daily. Sometimes binoculars are involved."
"Worth it," Benji says smugly.
Trevor shakes his head, grinning. "This is exactly the kind of ridiculous energy I was hoping for."
Benji’s eyes light up. "How do you feel about day drinking? Because the girls and I—"
His invitation is cut off by the sudden appearance of the Ladies of Morningwood, descending like a storm system, arms loaded with containers of cookies, baskets of muffins, and at least one suspiciously uncorked bottle of wine.
"Well, well, well," Candace croons, her gaze flicking between us before falling on the rainbow flag sticker on Trevor's tailgate. "Another S.A.G. There must be something in the water around here."
"You better hope your husband doesn’t drink it. He can’t compete with this." Benji gives a little shimmy, hands skimming down his torso before flashing a wink.
Candace snorts. "Lord, give me strength."
Trevor laughs, shaking his head. "I think I’m going to like it here."
And just like that, Morningwood has its next scandal.
Benji leans into me, pressing his cheek to mine. Across the street, Eunice lifts her clipboard like a warning shot.
"We’re doomed," I murmur.
"Completely," Benji agrees, squeezing my hand.
I look around at our ridiculous house, our ridiculous neighbors, and the ridiculous life we’ve somehow built, and breathe a sigh of contentment.
Doomed feels exactly like home.