Page 58 of Heroes & Hitmen (Windy City Wolfpack #1)

Moving day, as it turns out, is less about logistics and more about emotional warfare.

Sure, there are boxes and labels and a rental van, but mostly it’s an extended exercise in wrestling with the ghosts of every pizza-fueled movie night, every midnight meltdown on the kitchen floor, every stupid fight that started in the living room and ended in the bedroom– one way or another.

The place is in ruins.

Miley’s in the bedroom waging war with her closet, trying to fit five seasons of fashion into four sad wardrobe boxes. I’m in the living room, surrounded by bubble wrap and existential dread, staring at the dent in the drywall where she once threw a hardcover at my head during an argument .

Last November.

Cold night, hot tempers.

Great makeup sex.

I run my thumb along the crater in the plaster and can’t help but grin. That was the night we learned whipped cream is a legitimate conflict resolution strategy.

I should probably patch the wall, but I’m sentimental. I want the next person who lives here to wonder what kind of story left the mark.

A knock at the door drags me back from my trip down memory lane, and I answer it to find the lobby security guy on the other side, balancing a stack of food delivery boxes.

“Appreciate it, man,” I say, taking the stack and kicking the door shut behind me. Carrying it into the kitchen, I set everything down on the counter before calling out to Miley.

“Lunch is here!” I yell, stealing the top box from the pile and hiding it behind my back.

She appears a few seconds later, hair in a messy bun, expression somewhere between hungry and homicidal. She eyes the stack on the counter with instant suspicion, already squinting at the health food logo.

“What’d you order?” she asks, wrinkling her nose like she’s bracing for quinoa.

I whip the contraband out from behind my back– a glossy white box from the cupcake shop near campus.

Her eyes go wide and she lunges, snatching it from my hands and clutching it to her chest.

“Oh my god, you’re the best,” she groans, already peeling the lid back.

“Damn right,” I say, chest puffing with pride.

“I meant the cupcakes,” she scoffs without missing a beat. “But you’re alright, too.”

I lunge for her with a growl, almost knocking the cupcakes out of her hands as I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her in for a kiss.

Her lashes flutter when I let her go and step back, grabbing the box with the kale-based salad from the pile.

Meanwhile, she climbs onto the counter and digs into frosting like it’s her personal religion.

“So,” I ask, mouth half full of lettuce. “What’s the worst thing you found while packing? ”

She doesn’t even have to think about it. “Your emergency jar of peanut butter in the nightstand.”

I nod, solemn. “That got me through a lot of existential crises.”

She snorts. “You have the emotional maturity of a Labrador.”

“I take that as a compliment,” I say, pointing my plastic fork in her direction. “Loyal, energetic, loves snacks…”

She grins, pink frosting smudged on the corner of her mouth. “Don’t forget easily distracted.”

“Ooh, food,” I say, glancing down at my salad like I just realized it’s there.

She throws her head back laughing, and for a moment, I almost forget we’re leaving. It’s like the walls aren’t bare, the boxes aren’t taped shut, and this place isn’t echoing around us like it’s already someone else’s.

The rest of the afternoon is a montage of minor disasters.

Miley shatters a glass and blames the ‘packing gods’.

I drop a box on my foot and try to play it cool, only for her to swoop in and insist on performing emergency first aid– which I don’t argue with since I’ll take any excuse to have her hands on me.

By the time we’re finished, the apartment is down to its bones.

The art is off the walls, the fridge is empty, the bookshelves are naked.

The echo in the room is strange and unfamiliar.

As I glance around, I feel the weight of every memory embedded in these walls. The first time I made her breakfast in the kitchen, the morning we made our bond real. The fights, the quiet victories. This place was never just four walls. It was the beginning.

I’ve got a surprise waiting for Miley in Stillwater, though, and knowing what’s coming softens the sting of this goodbye.

She wanders into the living room looking tired, but happy. Or maybe just tired. I can’t tell, so I go with happy.

I flop onto the couch with a sigh and pat the cushion beside me. She sits, tucks her legs up, and leans into my side. I wrap my arms around her and for a while, we just sit, soaking in the last seconds of the life we made here together.

“You’re sure about Stillwater?” I ask, even though I already have a hundred times. I just want to hear her say it again.

She nods. “Absolutely. I’m excited to spend real time with your family, not just weekends.”

“You’re gonna love it,” I promise. “I mean, I might be biased, but there’s nowhere better in the world. ”

She rests her head against my shoulder, voice quiet. “What if I miss the city? What if I want to try New York next year or… I don’t know, Tokyo.”

“Then I’ll follow you anywhere, babe,” I tell her.

She looks up, eyes searching mine for any trace of a lie. She doesn’t find one. “Good answer,” she murmurs, leaning in to steal a kiss.

Eventually, we peel ourselves off the couch and do the final sweep. Load the van, double-check the closets. Miley triple-checks them, because she’s nothing if not thorough. Then we do one last lap. Miley grabs her potted plant off the windowsill, tucking it under her arm, and we head for the door.

After I pull it open, the two of us turn back, standing shoulder to shoulder and staring at what’s left of our apartment.

“You ready?” I ask.

She hesitates, then grabs my hand and squeezes it. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

We step into the hallway, make our way toward the elevator, and get in. The door closes behind us, and with it, the last chapter of our lives in the city. I look at her, she looks at me, and neither of us says a word.

We don’t have to.

Because the story’s not over.

We’ve still got forever to go.