Chapter Three
Move In Day
Emmie
I own exactly six boxes worth of stuff. Six. That’s it.
Most of my furniture belonged to my old roommate, which means I’m moving into Crew Jensen’s apartment with a couple of suitcases of clothes, my kitchen equipment, a box of linens, three plants I’m determined not to kill, and a box of books I’ve already read twice.
I pull into the parking garage first, find a spot, and sit in my car for a moment staring at the building through the windshield.
This is fine. This is totally fine.
Gavin’s SUV rumbles into the spot next to me a minute later. He climbs out, walks around to the back, and just… stands there. Staring at the haul.
“This is it?” He looks at the pile, then at me. “Em, this is pathetic.”
“It’s minimalist.”
“It’s depressing.”
“I prefer to think of it as a fresh start.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and try to channel optimism I don’t entirely feel. “Besides, the room comes furnished. I just need to add some personality.”
Gavin’s got his Serious Big Brother face on—the one he’s been wearing since I told him I was moving in with a guy I met two days ago.
“I still don’t like this,” he says.
“You’ve mentioned that. Several times.”
“Because it bears repeating.” He turns to face me. “You don’t know this guy, Em. You met him once. For an hour.”
“He’s FBI, Gav.”
“So? FBI agents can be creeps too. Creeps with handcuffs.”
“He’s not a creep. He’s just…” I search for the right word. “Intense. But in a structured way. Like, he has a seventeen-page roommate agreement. With tabs.”
Gavin stares at me, his eyes wide. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Gav, he’s organized. Responsible. The opposite of Brad and his protein powder empire.”
The mention of my old roommate’s nightmare boyfriend does the trick. Gavin’s jaw tightens, but he stacks two boxes and lifts them. “Fine. But I’m coming up. And if I get even a hint of weird vibes—”
“You’ll make his life hell. I know.” I grab my suitcase and hip-check my door closed. “You’re very intimidating. It’s noted.”
The elevator ride to the tenth floor is tense.
Gavin keeps cracking his knuckles, which he only does when he’s anxious, and I keep telling myself this is going to be fine.
Great, even. Crew seemed nice. Well, not nice exactly.
More like… competent. Reliable. The sort of person who probably has a fire extinguisher and knows where the circuit breaker is.
That’s what I need right now. Competence. Stability. Someone who won’t let their boyfriend turn my living room into a CrossFit gym.
The door to 10B opens before I can knock.
And there’s Crew.
I’d forgotten how tall he is. Or maybe I’d blocked it out, because standing in front of him now, holding a box of kitchen utensils, I have to crane my neck just to meet his eyes.
He’s got to be at least six-three, with shoulders broad enough to fill the doorframe.
Dark hair cropped short. Steel-gray eyes that seem to take in everything all at once.
He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans, and I try not to notice the way the fabric stretches across his chest. Try and fail because wow. The man is built like he bench-presses cars for fun.
“Hey,” I say, eloquent as always.
“Hey.” His gaze flicks to Gavin behind me, and something shifts in his expression. A slight tension in his jaw. “You must be the brother.”
“Gavin.” My brother steps forward, doing that thing where he puffs up his chest to look bigger. It’s less effective when the other guy is already huge, but points for effort. “And you’re the stranger my sister is moving in with.”
“Crew Jensen.” He extends a hand. Gavin takes it, and I watch them do that masculine handshake thing where they’re definitely squeezing too hard. “Come in. I’ll help with the boxes.”
The next hour is an exercise in awkward small talk and heavy lifting.
Gavin interrogates Crew about his job, his background, his “intentions”—which, what intentions?
I’m his roommate, not his girlfriend—while Crew answers in short, clipped sentences that give away absolutely nothing. Holy awkward tension, Batman!
I learn that Crew has been with the FBI for six years, that he served in the military before that, and that he bought this apartment three years ago. That’s it. That’s all he offers, and Gavin’s clearly frustrated by the lack of ammunition.
My room is at the end of the hall, and when I first open the door, I understand why the rent is so reasonable.
It’s… sparse.
White walls, beige carpet, one window with plain blinds, a bed with a white mattress protector, a single nightstand, and a lamp. Nothing else. No art, no color, no sign that anyone has ever actually lived here.
“It’s very, um…” I search for something nice to say.
“Clean,” Gavin supplies. “Sterile. Like a hospital room.”
Crew appears in the doorway. “I keep it simple.”
“Simple is one word for it,” I mutter, but I’m already seeing the potential.
Fairy lights along the ceiling, my grandmother’s quilt on the bed, the plants on the windowsill—assuming I can keep them alive, and my colorful Persian rug to cover the boring carpet.
“I can work with this,” I say, mostly to myself.
Gavin helps me unload the last of the boxes, and then he pulls Crew aside in the hallway. He thinks he’s being subtle. He’s not.
“Hey. A word.”
I watch them from my doorway, pretending to organize my books. Gavin’s got his arms crossed, chin lifted, full intimidation mode. Crew just stands there, expression unreadable.
“You hurt my sister,” Gavin says, voice low, “and I will make your life hell. We clear?”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Crew says, “Crystal.” That’s it. One word. No defensiveness, no posturing. Just acknowledgment.
Gavin seems thrown by the lack of pushback. He nods once, stiffly, then turns to find me watching.
“I’m heading out.” He crosses to give me a hug, squeezing too tight. “You sure about this, Em? Living with some guy you just met?”
“We’ve been over this, Gav. I literally couldn’t be safer.”
“That’s not—” He sighs. “Just call me if anything feels off, okay? Anything.”
“I will.”
He gives Crew one last look—somewhere between warning and reluctant acceptance—and then he’s gone.
The apartment feels different without Gavin’s anxious energy filling it up. Quieter. Calmer, maybe.
Crew is standing by the kitchen counter, hands in his pockets. “I’ll let you get settled.”
“Thanks.” I hesitate. “And thanks for, um, not punching my brother. I know he can be a lot.”
Something flickers across Crew’s face. Almost a smile, but not quite. “He cares about you. Can’t fault him for that.”
And then he disappears into his room, and I’m alone with six boxes and a blank canvas of a bedroom.
Time to make this place mine.
* * *
Three hours later, my room looks like me.
Fairy lights strung along the ceiling, casting everything in a warm, cheerful glow.
My grandmother’s quilt draped over the bed, all patchwork colors and soft cotton.
The plants lined up on the windowsill—a snake plant, and a succulent I’ve named Harold.
My books stacked on the nightstand because I haven’t figured out shelving yet.
The muted pink and mint colors of Persian rug softening the floor.
It’s not perfect. But it’s mine.
I step back to admire my work and nearly trip over a box I haven’t unpacked yet. Typical.
“You, um…”
I spin around. Crew is standing in my doorway, and there’s an expression on his face I can’t quite read. His eyes move slowly across the room—the lights, the colors, the controlled chaos I’ve created—and I swear I see his left eye twitch.
“Too much?” I ask.
“No.” The word comes out slightly strangled. “It’s… a lot.”
“Is that bad?”
He’s quiet for a moment, still taking it all in. “It’s different.”
I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or a criticism, so I just smile. “Different is good, right? Keeps things interesting.”
He doesn’t answer that. Just nods once and disappears again.
Okay then.
I spend the rest of the afternoon unpacking my kitchen stuff, which is really the important stuff.
My stand mixer. My collection of wooden spoons, each one worn smooth from years of use.
The cast iron skillet my mom gave me when I published my first cookbook.
My grandmother’s recipe box, held together with tape and hope.
By the time I’m done, the sun is setting, and I’m starving.
I make a mug of tea first. I take a sip and then set it on the counter while I dig through the fridge to see what I’m working with.
The answer is: not much. Crew’s refrigerator is terrifyingly organized—everything in clear containers, labels facing out, arranged by category—but it’s mostly protein shakes, eggs, and vegetables that look like they’ve never known joy. I’ll have to fix that.
My few contributions from this afternoon’s grocery run sit on the bottom shelf looking out of place: butter, cream, a block of parmesan, some fresh herbs. The basics to get me through until I can do a real shop.
For now, I grab the pasta I brought, and I start cooking. Garlic in the pan, the sizzle and smell filling the kitchen. Parmesan, butter, a splash of wine. The pasta water boiling, steam rising toward the ceiling.
This is my happy place. Cooking. Creating. Feeding people.
“Something smells good.”
I turn to find Crew leaning against the counter, arms crossed. He’s changed into a different black t-shirt—does he own any other colors?—and his hair is slightly damp, like he just showered.
I try not to think about that.
“Pasta,” I say. “Nothing fancy, just something I threw together. You want some?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got my—” He gestures vaguely toward the fridge.
“Your protein shakes?”
“It’s got everything I need. Nutritionally.”
I watch him pull out one of those sad little bottles, already pre-mixed, and something in my chest hurts. “That’s not food. That’s punishment.”
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s depressing.” I stir the sauce, trying not to judge, and failing. “When’s the last time you had an actual meal? Like, sitting down, enjoying the flavors, not just consuming calories?”