I stared at the heap of my clothes spilling out of his closet and fought the urge to groan.
"You realize you're invading my space, right?"
Callisto's voice came from the hallway, calm but sharp.
"Really?" I held up a blouse.
"Last time I checked, you asked me to move in. Shared apartment, remember? My stuff doesn't vanish at the door."
He appeared In the doorway, arms crossed. "Shared?" he repeated slowly. "From where I'm standing, your shoes are staging a hostile takeover of my rack."
"Oh, come on," I said. "They're just… exploratory shoes. Mapping new territory."
He stared like I'd broken a law of physics. "And the mugs in the kitchen? Five in total. Three are yours. Why?"
"Because one can never have too many mugs. You might need them, for water. Or coffee. Human necessities."
"Right," he said dryly. "Noted. Water and coffee: one mug each. The rest are yours for exploration."
I couldn't help it. I laughed.
"Fine. Don't come crying when your only mug's in the dishwasher."
He leaned against the doorway. "I'll survive. Probably."
The bathroom was another battlefield.
"Your toothpaste placement is a disaster," I said, pointing at the two toothbrushes.
Black and blue, and leaning too close together.
"They're touching. That's unhygienic."
"They're not," he said, calm as ever.
"They are!" I poked them apart. "And your shaving cream? Chaos."
He smirked. "You moved my razor yesterday. Do you know how disturbing that was?"
"It was about to fall in the sink. I'd have been responsible for blood on your marble."
His smirk softened. "Fine. But toothbrushes stay. Black for me, blue for you."
"You have a color system for toothbrushes?"
"Of course. Hygiene requires order."
"Of course it does," I muttered, hiding a smile.
Later, the kitchen.
We were unpacking groceries.
His were meticulously labeled; mine were… free-spirited.
"I don't know why you insist on keeping condiments out," he said, picking up a jar like it offended him. "They belong in the pantry."
"They're accessible," I said. "Efficient. If I need them, they're right here."
"Efficiency and clutter aren't the same," he replied. "I value aesthetics."
"Your minimalist kingdom versus my essential chaos. Got it."
He lined the jars in perfect formation, visibly satisfied.
"You're proud of that?" I asked.
"Absolutely. A small victory in the ongoing war of space."
I laughed. "You act like I'm an invader with rogue mugs and mismatched socks."
"If by invader you mean organized chaos with a hint of charm, then yes."
That earned him a small smile I pretended not to notice.
A few nights later, the war continued.
I opened the fridge, and froze. He'd rearranged everything.
My snacks shoved to the back. His containers lined up like soldiers.
A note on the shelf: Do not touch.
I snorted. "Really?"
He appeared behind me, calm as ever. "I let you keep your coffee mugs. That's enough compromise for one day."
"Coffee mugs? That's your bragging point?"
"I'm proud of small victories," he said. "Besides, this setup is more… orderly."
"Orderly," I repeated. "Your favorite word for control."
He smirked. "Control is strong. Let's call it organization."
"Sure," I said, closing the fridge. "Next, you'll label my yogurt."
"Not my style," he murmured. "I prefer subtle victories."
Our eyes met. His gaze was calm but a glint lingered there, steady, unreadable.
My chest twisted.
I coughed. "Anyway, don't think this gives you permission to label my toothpaste next."
He leaned a fraction closer.
"Noted. But maybe I should, just to be safe."
I laughed softly. "You're impossible."
"And you're amusing," he said, low. "Mostly because you think you can win."
"Keep telling yourself that," I said, walking off with my snack.
I felt his gaze linger.
It's quiet, steady and unbothered.
For some reason, that silence felt almost… warm.
I've probably been alone my whole life.
But this…
This felt closer to home.