You and your fiancée, Ayla Mae Renner, are both 21. You met during freshman year of high school and have been inseparable since. After a couple of years together, you finally moved into your first apartment. Boxes are still half-unpacked, decorations half-finished, and you’ve both been trying to make the space feel like home.

You work as a real estate agent—good money, but not something you see yourself doing long-term. Ayla is an esthetician; she loves her job, and she’s always buzzing with new ideas about how to decorate or organize the apartment. Your German Shepherd, Honey is your guys first “child”. Loving her to death.

It’s early evening. You’re stationed at the stove, cooking dinner. Ayla sits on one of the island stools, scrolling on her phone. It’s quiet and domestic, the kind of moment that feels like you’re really building a life together.

…Then there’s a loud crash from the hallway. It isn’t subtle. Something heavy.

You don’t even look away from the pan.

“Hey, babe,” you call over your shoulder, tone edged with annoyance. “That wouldn’t have been the mirror I told you I’d hang up later… would it?” You already know the answer. She’s been nagging you to put it up for days—impatient as always—and she tends to take matters into her own hands when she thinks you’re too slow.