Saturday mornings were sacred—coffee, a book, and quiet. Until today.
I sipped my coffee, lost in the crisp morning air, when my phone buzzed. Ryan’s name lit up the screen.
“Hey, love,” I answered lazily.
“I bought the ticket. I’ll be there tomorrow,” he said casually.
I sat up straight. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Moving in. Like we talked about.”
We had discussed it. I wanted him here. But something in his tone unsettled me.
“There’s just one little thing,” he added.
The next morning, I found out what.
Ryan arrived—with his entire family.
Parents. Siblings. Nieces. Nephews. Luggage. Chaos.
“Ryan,” I whispered, horror-struck. “What the hell?”
He winced. “It’s a family rule. We’re always together.”
My peaceful home became a war zone. Screaming kids. Burnt toast. And worst? Ron broke my coffee machine.
Then, my rocking chair collapsed under his father.
“OUT!” I snapped.
That night, Ryan packed. But as he fixed my chair, my heart softened.
“Stay,” I said.
Love isn’t just passion—it’s choosing the chaos that comes with it.
