“I don’t want to argue either. But when are you *finally* going to fix that shelf?”
On Saturday, after breakfast, Laura began cleaning the flat. Kirill settled onto the kitchen couch with his laptop. His job was to take the bins out later. For now, he scrolled through his social media feed.
Suddenly, a photo popped up of his mate Dave, grinning—someone he’d studied with at uni. The caption read: *”At last! We’re in! Finally moved in—come see the place, have a nose around!”* Kirill clicked the tag and saw pictures of the flat, shot from all the best angles.
A year ago, Dave had inherited the place from his late nan. It hadn’t been renovated in forty years, the furniture was ancient—practically vintage. Living there would’ve meant pouring money into it, which he didn’t have. Dave had nearly sold it immediately. He and his wife, Olivia, had been saving for a place, and unloading the inheritance would’ve sped things up.
But Olivia had dug her heels in. The flat was a wreck, but it was in *Notting Hill*. She insisted they use their savings for a full renovation, sell it high, and finally afford the two-bed they’d always wanted.
Nearly a year later, the flat was unrecognisable. As Dave put it, they’d “unlocked its hidden potential.” They’d knocked down the wall between the loo and bath, merged the kitchen with a bedroom to create a massive living space, and styled it all with minimalist furniture and clever wallpaper. The comments overflowed with admiration. *”No way you did this without an interior designer!”*
*”Nah, we just researched online, figured out the look ourselves. Liv handled the design,”* Dave insisted.
Kirill congratulated him stiffly. Of course, he envied him. He and Laura lived in a cramped one-bed. His dad’s mate had let them stay there rent-free after moving to *Sydney*—no renovations allowed, just keep it tidy. Not bad for newlyweds.
Kirill had fancied Olivia back in freshers’ week. But she’d chosen Dave. Lucky git. Olivia had always had an eye for style—even Kirill, who wouldn’t know fashion if it hit him, noticed how effortlessly chic she was. Dave had done the grunt work, sure, but the vision? All Olivia.
Kirill glanced around his own dull kitchen. It had been fine—until he saw Dave’s place.
*”That bastard.”* He snatched his laptop and bolted to the bedroom, forgetting Laura’s cardinal rule: *Do not disturb during cleaning*.
Laura was stretched on her tiptoes, dusting a wall shelf. Kirill noticed again how striking she looked—just as the shelf wobbled dangerously. The screws were barely holding. A stack of books waited on the floor.
He nearly backed out, but Laura turned, blowing a stray hair from her face.
“What are you standing there for? You could’ve fixed this by now.”
“Just wanted to show you—look at Dave and Olivia’s flat. It’s unreal.” He hesitated at her expression.
“Go on.”
“It was a dump, and now—”
“Brilliant for them,” Laura cut in, dry.
“What?”
“Your nan’s still alive, isn’t she? And you’ve got cousins. Who knows who’ll get *her* place.”
“She’s fine, long may she live. But look—he says they did it *themselves*.”
“And?”
“I’ve asked you a hundred times to fix that shelf.”
“Everything’s digital now—why d’you need *books*?” he muttered, snapping the laptop shut.
“Oh, *here we go*.” Laura followed him. “Every time I bring up the shelf, you go deaf. I don’t moan about your *vinyl collection* taking up the whole cupboard, do I? Swap ’em. Put your records on the floor, and I’ll move the books. Maybe *then* you’ll care.”
“We could just buy a bookcase.”
“Or a *new flat*.”
“Laura—”
“I don’t want to argue either. *When are you fixing the shelf?*”
“Tomorrow. I’ll borrow my dad’s drill—”
“*Monday.*” She walked away.
*Bloody Dave.*
He texted him: *”Cheers, mate. Just rowed with Laura over your posh flat.”*
Dave replied: *”Relax. Liv and I nearly divorced twice mid-renovation. Your Laura’s a keeper.”*
She was. Kirill knew it. Great cook, spotless home. Never “not tonight”-d him. What more could a bloke want?
*”I’ll borrow the drill Monday. Dust everywhere. She’ll kill me. But if I don’t fix it by next Saturday—divorce.”* He sighed. *”Hate drilling. Maybe just buy the bookcase?”*
Laura cleaned in silence.
Monday morning, she reminded him. *”You were getting the drill. We really should own one.”*
Of course, he forgot.
Next day, Laura took her time getting ready.
“Aren’t you coming?” Kirill pressed.
“Go ahead. I booked a ‘Handy Andy’ online. Since you *didn’t* get the drill. Oh, and the loo lock’s broken.”
“I was shattered yesterday.”
“*Every* day’s a slog for you. You work in IT, not down the docks.”
“Why lock the loo? It’s just us—”
“You didn’t even *notice*.”
The doorbell rang.
A bloke stood there—tan, muscles, Hollywood smile. *”Handy Andy, at your service.”*
Kirill tried to slam the door.
“Yes, *do* come in,” Laura cooed, shooting Kirill a look.
*”She’s my wife,”* Kirill blurted.
*”Lucky man.”* Handy Andy stepped inside.
Kirill stormed out, pride in tatters.
All day, jealousy gnawed at him. *Would the bloke try anything?*
At home, the shelf was fixed. *Had that git helped her with the books too?*
The door clicked. Laura walked in.
“You alright?” she asked softly.
He pulled her close.
“I’ll learn to fix things. Promise.”
“I’ll stop nagging.”
Peace returned.
Three days later—
Laura stood in the hallway, clutching a broken mop.
“I give up! Everything I touch *breaks*!”
Kirill caught her wrist, took the mop.
“Pair like us? You break it, I can’t fix it. Let’s buy a new one.”
“*Together*,” she smiled.
Love pulls people close. But even it can’t stop the bickering—the petty rows over unspoken needs, the resentment over unfixed shelves. Some say fights *fuel* love. Others swear they kill it. Truth is, it’s both. All that matters is if two people choose to listen—and forgive.
