Falling for the Mr. Mafia

Living together had been an easy transition, or so we thought. It wasn't that we weren't prepared—it was just that there's a difference between casually spending hours together and sharing a space for the long haul.

At first, it felt natural. We'd been so used to each other's presence, so it only made sense that we'd take the next step. Our mornings started with coffee in the kitchen, both of us trading off who would make it each day. I'd grumble when he beat me to the coffee pot, and he'd tease me when I took too long getting ready. We'd fall into the routine of running errands together, cooking dinner, watching shows late into the night. It was perfect, easy even, the way two people who'd once been best friends could coexist.

But as the days went by, things started to shift.

There were moments when the space felt too small. When his everything—the way he hummed absentmindedly while making breakfast, or the way he left his clothes scattered around the apartment—got under my skin in a way that hadn't happened before. It wasn't anything he did on purpose, of course, but it was the accumulation of little things. The way he would always leave the fridge door open when he was searching for something, or how he'd forget to replace the toilet paper roll—something so simple, yet so... irritating. I found myself gritting my teeth more often than I cared to admit.

On his side, Xander had always been easygoing. But even he had his moments. He'd joke about my "organizational chaos" when I'd scatter my things around the house, leaving my books and notebooks in haphazard piles. Or, he'd groan when I asked him to be quieter when he got back from his late-night runs—he didn't realize how loudly he walked until I pointed it out more times than I should've. And then there was that one time I spent half the evening rearranging everything in the living room just because I couldn't stand how "off" it felt.

It was a strange combination of closeness and distance.

"You're really rearranging the couch again?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

I paused, glancing at him from where I knelt in front of the sofa, trying to move it into a "better" spot. "It's just… I can't stand how it looks like this. You're not the one who has to live in it, okay?"

Xander raised an eyebrow. "But I'm the one who has to live with you while you do it." His voice was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of something else—something a little less patient.

I snapped back, maybe a little too quickly, "Well, you're the one who always leaves your stuff everywhere!"

We stood there, a beat of silence stretching between us, before Xander let out a sigh and dropped his arms to his sides. "Look, I didn't say anything when you rearranged the couch for the third time last week, and I didn't complain when you left the kitchen a mess this morning. But this?" He motioned toward the living room. "This is getting ridiculous."

I froze. He wasn't wrong. It was ridiculous. But something about his tone, his frustration, caught me off guard. I thought we'd gotten past this—whatever this was.

"Maybe we're just… getting too much of each other," I muttered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

He didn't respond immediately, but when he did, his voice was quieter, thoughtful. "I've been thinking the same thing, actually. We spend all of our time together, and I guess we've forgotten that it's okay to need space, too."

I stood up slowly, realizing how much tension had been building. "I don't want to make this hard, Xander. I really don't. But it's like… you're everywhere. I'm everywhere. And we've been together so much that I'm not sure where you end and I begin anymore."

He gave a rueful smile. "Yeah. I get that. It's like we've crossed a line, but I'm not sure what that line even is."

"Maybe we need a break?" I offered cautiously.

Xander's smile faltered, his gaze shifting toward the window. "Not a break from each other, but a break from… all this. From being in each other's space all the time. You know?"

I nodded, the weight of his words sinking in. "Yeah. I think I need to figure out where I end sometimes."

There was a long pause before he finally stepped forward, his hand brushing against mine. "I'm not going anywhere, Maya. But maybe… we could find a way to make this work. Balance it out. Without all the pressure."

I exhaled a long breath, my chest loosening just a little. "I think I'd like that."

And so we started again. Slowly. Taking more time apart when we needed it—an afternoon at a café for me, a solo project for him. A walk alone instead of together. It wasn't that we stopped spending time together—far from it. It was just… a little space for us to breathe, for the things that had gotten tangled in the proximity to untangle themselves.

But even in those moments apart, I never felt far from him. And when we came back together, whether it was over a cup of coffee or sprawled across the couch, the connection between us remained steady, stronger even, because we knew how to give each other the space to grow.