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KNIGHT WITH A SHINING IMPACT GUN

N ow that we’re back in Sunset Cay, Timmy takes the lead on properly setting up the apartment, and it is so cute.

Like my last apartment, the configuration is way better than what I would have come up with.

He’s once again thought about where is going to work best for me to write for the most inspiration.

The bed is in the corner, right by the window, so we can see the ocean at all times. The bed also serves as our couch and office. It faces the TV, which sits on a nice big stand with storage squares. We got cute little storage cubes to fit in each square.

He decorates the apartment with beautiful shells he’s picked himself, and he ties some ti leaf leis to the curtain rod, so they can sway in the breeze when the sliding door is open.

Because the mattresses are different sizes, there’s even a cute little ledge jutting out on the beach side that Sabre uses as his little cat bed.

He organizes a tackle box in the bathroom, placing my most frequently used cosmetics and toiletries so they’re easy to access. He puts up the shower curtain.

As I survey the area, I realize things are shaping up really nicely. This place is finally starting to feel like a home. Our home. Just Timmy, me, and sweet little Sabre.

My resentment toward having to go to Solvana starts to dissipate like a distant memory. This is our time now, to focus on each other and our work. To become a stronger couple, and to strengthen our ability to create and produce great books and clothing designs that people will love.

There are no more external stressors—no more court dates, no more mandatory trips to help friends, no bad influences, no extra worries weighing on our minds. Now, we just get to be us, and enjoy the life that we’ve both longed for.

I ask him to set up the kitchen cart, but he just doesn’t seem to want to.

It’s fine. He’s done a lot already. And I pride myself on being able to put together furniture, even though it’s not my strength.

So I kneel on the floor, the instruction booklet sprawled in front of me. Screws, hinges and wooden panels are scattered around me in relatively organized chaos. The kitchen cart idea seemed like a good one—a cute little addition to make our space more comfortable—but it’s definitely one of the more complicated furniture assemblies I’ve done, and now, with the cracked wooden top and the drawer stubbornly refusing to align, I think I’ve met my match.

Timmy sits on the bed, sipping on his beer, arms crossed, watching me with a faint smirk curling the corners of his mouth. He’s so handy, and probably could have done it much faster, but he’s set up the rest of the apartment, so I figure I can do this part.

“You’re really good at this, babe,” he says, lazily. “Never knew you were built for furniture assembly. It’s so hot watching you use my impact gun.” His voice drips with amusement—not quite a compliment, not quite an insult—something in the middle, sharp and smug.

I shoot him a glance, my lips pressing together, but I say nothing. I have no desire to argue about a kitchen cart. I’m determined to finish this myself, my stubborn Taurus nature kicking in. I’ve already come this far, and I’d prefer not to ask for help—not now, and especially not from him. He made it clear he had no interest in helping for whatever reason, maybe believing he’s already done enough around the apartment. The way he’s watching me, it’s as if he’s enjoying watching me struggle with something he could probably do in his sleep.

I struggle to slot a hinge into place, biting my lip in frustration as it wobbles under my fingers, first in perfect alignment, and then way off kilter. “Stupid thing,” I mutter under my breath, adjusting the screwdriver in my hand.

“What was that?” Timmy asks, smirking, even though I barely expressed any frustration. A strange expression flickers across his face. “You sure you don’t want a hand? It’s cute watching you try so hard.”

My grip tightens on the drill, my knuckles whitening. “I’ve got it,” I grit out, more to myself than him.

“Okay, okay,” he puts his hands up in mock surrender. “I just figured, you know, two hands are better than one, and all that. Just trying to be helpful.”

I’m starting to feel flustered now, like he’s goading me. This is taking much longer to put together than I anticipated, partially because I expected his help from the start. I didn’t think that was too much to ask. But it’s like he’s waiting, enjoying observing my frustration build, so he can swoop in at the last second and gloat about how he saved the day, and helpless little Margaux couldn’t put the cart together.

I resist the very strong urge to scream ‘then why didn’t you offer to help in the first place?’, and instead, I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the task. The drawer clicks almost into place, and I groan as I realize I’ve put one of the panels on backwards. “For fuck’s sake! Aaagh!” I say to myself, and he scoffs from the bed.

“Look at you getting all upset over a kitchen cart,” he smirks. “What’s that you say? Don’t get upset over small things? What a hypocrite. But let me know if you want my help.”

I turn around so my back is to him, mostly because it makes sense in terms of how I’m putting the cart together, but partially because I don’t want to see his smug smirk any more as he watches me, his presence proving to be more an obstacle than a source of comfort.

Another screw rolls off the panel I’m working on, and I stifle a curse. I know I’m being stubborn, but I can’t help it. Every time Timmy makes another backhanded compliment, it makes me more determined to finish it by myself.

“Margaux,” his voice is soft now, teasing. “It really looks like you’re about to cry over that thing.”

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, inhaling deeply through my nostrils and exhaling slowly through my mouth. Fine, just let him help. Just get it done.

I place the drill on the floor with a quiet clink, and I sit back on my heels, my arms crossed.

“Alright,” I say, hating how bitter the word tastes on my tongue. “You can help.”

Timmy’s smirk spreads into a wide grin, and he drops down beside me with an almost triumphant air, and gets to work.

He grabs the hinge and impact gun without hesitation, his movements quick and fluid, as if he’s done this a thousand times. Within minutes, he has the drawer aligned, and the screws tightened in place.

“There,” he says, his voice thick with satisfaction as he gives the drawer a little test pull. It slides smoothly, perfectly. He leans back on his heels, grinning at me. “Easy.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, my frustration simmering just beneath the surface. I hate that it took him five minutes when I just spent over an hour working on the drawer. I mean, it’s done, but he could have just helped me in the first place. It’s like he loved watching me struggle, and then being so capable of fixing it, rather than looking at our respective strengths and offering to do it from the get-go.

“See?” he says, brushing his hands off like a job well done. “We make a great team.” He punches me on the arm playfully, and I resist the urge to shrink away, even though both his punch and his words kind of hurt .

My stomach twists at the smugness in his tone, but I force a tight smile. “Thanks,” I manage to say, even though the word comes out heavy and bitter.

Timmy stands, stretching his hands over his head as if he’s just conquered Everest, not just partially helped to assemble a piece of DIY furniture from Amazon. “Told you I’d save the day. I’m your hero,” he says, proudly.

I stay on the floor for a moment longer, my pride stinging, willing the situation not to get to me more than it already has. I know I’m being ridiculous—he helped, and because of him, now it’s done. I have no reason to complain. Getting it finished is all that matters, right? But the lingering frustration gnaws at me.

Timmy leans down and gently kisses the top of my head. “Good teamwork,” he says, clearly pleased with himself. “You did most of it yourself. You only needed my help right at the end.”

I force a small, polite laugh, though it feels hollow. The cart is finished, but somehow that doesn’t feel like it was achieved by teamwork. Instead, it feels like a victory—his, not mine—and that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.