There was something quietly revolutionary about routines.
Violet had always viewed them with suspicion—associating them with monotony, obligation, the slow death of spontaneity. But living with Adam had changed the meaning of repetition. Now it wasn't dullness; it was devotion made visible. A hundred tiny rituals that stitched their lives into one life, their mornings into mutual music.
Like how every day at 7:03 a.m., Adam would fumble blindly toward the alarm clock and mutter something poetic yet completely incoherent, and Violet would answer with the same amused silence.
Or how at exactly 3:15 p.m., Violet's phone would buzz with a photo—sometimes of a crooked coffee cup on his studio desk, sometimes of a squirrel mid-crime, once even a sock labeled "Monday" even though it was a Thursday—with the caption: thinking of u.
These weren't just habits. They were signposts.
Proof of presence.
Love, etched into the hours.
---
It had been three weeks since the wedding.
Violet sat cross-legged on their bedroom floor, surrounded by open boxes labeled Do Not Open Until You're Married—a joke label Maya had plastered on everything during their pre-wedding cleanup spree.
She pulled out an old photo album, its cover scratched and corners fraying. Inside were pictures from high school. Her and Maya in oversized glasses. Adam in a band uniform, holding a clarinet he never actually learned to play. Theo with his braces and a shirt that read Drama King.
She chuckled. "Oh my God, we were such theater kids."
Adam, drying his hair with a towel, peered over her shoulder. "Correction: You were a theater kid. I was an unwilling background tree."
"You had one line in Our Town, remember?"
"'Here comes the sun, over Grover's Corners.' A line delivered with such raw emotion, my mother cried."
Violet snorted. "That was because you forgot the line and just sang the Beatles."
He shrugged. "Improvisation is an art."
They laughed until their sides ached. And then they fell quiet, flipping through the pages slowly. Past the photos, past the concerts, past the summer where they didn't speak and the winter when they began again.
"I sometimes think," Violet whispered, "that we were never really apart. Just... paused."
Adam nodded. "And now we're finally playing the whole song."
---
The next day, the roof started leaking.
It was a comically slow drip in the kitchen corner, landing with a splat into a cereal bowl Violet had lazily left in the sink.
Adam stared at it like it was a personal insult.
"Do you hear that?" he asked.
"The rhythm of our humble domestic tragedy?"
"I'm going to fix it."
"You don't know how."
"I'll learn."
Violet grinned. "Just don't fall off the roof."
"I'll tether myself to my undying love for you. Should keep me grounded."
Despite the dramatics, he actually did manage to patch it—thanks to YouTube, duct tape, and sheer stubbornness. When the dripping stopped, Violet clapped like he'd won a national award.
"It's just a small fix," he said modestly, wiping his hands on a towel.
"Still," she said. "It's the house learning us. And us learning it."
---
The house did seem to respond to them.
Like it had been waiting.
The drafty hallway suddenly felt less lonely with their laughter echoing down it. The creaky floorboards seemed to groan in greeting instead of complaint. Even the old bathroom mirror—previously cloudy and temperamental—started showing their reflections more clearly, like it had decided they were worth the clarity.
One evening, Violet stood in the kitchen, watching the kettle steam, her fingers curled around a chipped mug. The sun had spilled gold across the counter, illuminating the dust motes like stars.
Adam came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and rested his chin on her shoulder.
"This house," he murmured, "feels more alive with you in it."
She leaned back into him. "Maybe it's been listening."
---
It wasn't always soft.
Some days they bickered—about toothpaste caps, about laundry folding techniques, about whether or not "chili" counted as a complete meal.
Some nights Violet felt too much pressure in her chest—grief for what she couldn't control, fear of losing this new normal—and she'd quietly escape to the tiny attic with a blanket and sit near the window, watching the moon trace its way across the sky.
Adam never followed immediately.
He always gave her space.
But he always came.
Usually with cookies or a joke or a long story about a fictional squirrel uprising in their backyard.
Sometimes he'd just sit beside her in silence, their shoulders touching.
And when she was ready, she'd whisper, "Thank you for waiting."
And he'd reply, "Always."
---
One Friday, Maya and Theo visited with board games and brownies and exactly zero boundaries.
"I'm here to test the durability of your marriage through competitive Uno," Maya declared.
"Good," Theo added. "Because if you can survive me with Draw Fours, you can survive anything."
They played until midnight. Maya won. Violet cried from laughing. Adam tried to bribe the dog to steal Theo's cards. It was exactly the chaos they hadn't known they missed.
Before leaving, Maya pulled Violet aside.
"You look different," she said softly.
"Different how?"
"Like you finally believe you deserve this."
Violet didn't know what to say, so she just hugged her.
---
That night, as they lay in bed, Violet whispered into the dark:
"Do you ever worry it's too good?"
Adam turned to face her. "Not anymore."
She blinked. "Why?"
"Because it's not perfect. It's real. Real love has bad days. Weird silences. Wet laundry. Forgotten birthdays. But it also has hand-written notes on mirrors and grocery store dance-offs and Tuesday night cuddles after microwave disasters."
He kissed her forehead. "This isn't too good. This is just us."
Violet smiled.
And the house listened.
---