“I don’t want to argue either. But when are you finally going to fix that shelf?”
On Saturday after breakfast, Laura started cleaning the flat. Kyle settled onto the kitchen sofa with his laptop. His job was to take the bins out later, but for now, he was scrolling through the newsfeed on social media.
Suddenly, a photo popped up of his old uni mate, Harry, grinning ear to ear. The caption read: *“Finally! Moved in! Come over and celebrate—check it out, folks!”* Kyle clicked the link and saw pictures of the flat from every flattering angle.
A flat Harry had inherited from his late gran a year ago. The place hadn’t been touched in forty years—Soviet-era furniture and all. Living there would’ve cost a fortune, which Harry didn’t have. His first instinct was to sell it straightaway. He and his wife, Olivia, had been saving for a place, and selling the inheritance would’ve sped things up.
But Olivia dug her heels in. The flat was a wreck, sure, but it was in central London—prime location. She suggested using their savings to renovate and flip it for a hefty profit. Then they could afford a proper two-bed, just like they’d always wanted.
A year of renovations later, the place was unrecognisable. Harry bragged about “hidden potential” they’d uncovered—knocking down walls between the bathroom and loo, merging the kitchen with one of the bedrooms to create a spacious living area. They’d gone for minimalist furniture, clever colour schemes, and now the flat looked like something out of a magazine.
The comments were full of admiration. Some praised the work, others quietly seethed with envy. Most assumed they’d hired a professional designer.
*“Nah, just did our research online. Liv handled the decor.”*
Kyle congratulated Harry, though he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of jealousy. He and Laura lived in a one-bed. His dad’s mate had gone to live with his son in the States after his wife passed, letting them stay rent-free—on the condition they didn’t redecorate. Not a bad deal, really.
Kyle had fancied Olivia back in uni, but she’d chosen Harry. Lucky sod. Olivia had always had an eye for style—even Kyle, who couldn’t tell designer from Primark, noticed how effortlessly chic she was.
Harry did the grunt work, sure, but the vision was all Olivia’s. And it worked. Kyle glanced around his own kitchen. Perfectly fine, until he saw Harry’s place.
Bloody Harry. Kyle grabbed his laptop and dashed into the bedroom, forgetting Laura’s cardinal rule—never disturb her during cleaning.
Laura was on tiptoe, stretching to dust a wobbly wall shelf. Kyle couldn’t help noticing how great she looked—right as the shelf tilted precariously. The screws were barely holding on. A stack of books sat on the floor.
He tried to sneak off, but Laura turned, blowing a strand of hair from her face.
“Just standing there? You could’ve fixed this by now.”
“Wanted to show you something. Look what Harry and Olivia did with his gran’s flat. Wouldn’t mind a place like that…” He trailed off, catching her expression.
“Let me see,” Laura said flatly.
Kyle eagerly turned the laptop toward her. “See? The place was a dump, but now—”
“Nice. Good for them.” Her tone was icy. “What?”
“My gran’s still kicking, and even if she weren’t, I’ve got cousins.”
“I’m not wishing your gran dead. Harry says *he* did all the work. Olivia just ‘had ideas.’”
“Yeah, well.”
“Still not getting it? I’ve asked you a hundred times to fix this shelf! The books have been gathering dust for weeks. We’ve lived here a year, and every day something’s falling apart. Should I hire someone else to do it? Would that embarrass you? Or would you only lift a finger if Olivia asked?”
“Here we go,” Kyle sighed. “Who even buys physical books anymore?” He snapped the laptop shut and stalked back to the kitchen.
“Wait.” Laura followed. “Every time I mention the shelf, you go deaf. I don’t complain about your bloody CD collection taking up the whole cabinet. I don’t say a word—even though you could stream everything online. So how about this? You move your CDs to the floor, and I’ll put my books in the cabinet. Maybe then you’ll fix the shelf.”
“Or we could buy a bookcase?” Kyle offered weakly.
“Or a whole new flat—one we actually own, where we can do whatever we want?”
“Laura, I don’t want to fight. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“I don’t either. But *when* are you fixing that shelf?”
“I’ll borrow my dad’s drill tomorrow— Oh. They’re at the cottage all weekend. Monday, I promise.”
“Yeah. Heard that before.” Laura waved him off and disappeared into the bedroom.
*Why did I mention the flat?* Kyle cursed inwardly, texting Harry: *Cheers, mate. Just had a row because of you.*
Harry replied: *Relax. You think Liv and I didn’t fight? Nearly divorced three times mid-reno. She even filed once. Laura’s brilliant—you’re lucky.*
Kyle knew that. Laura was amazing—great cook, kept the place spotless, never pulled the “headache” excuse. What more could a bloke want?
*I’ll borrow the drill Monday. Dust everywhere, she’ll moan… but I’ll fix it before next weekend, or we’ll be filing for divorce too. Bloody Harry.*
Laura cleaned in silence. On Monday morning, she reminded Kyle about the drill.
Of course, he forgot.
The next day, Laura lingered over breakfast.
“You going in?” Kyle nudged.
“Taking the morning off. Booked a ‘handyman’ online—since you couldn’t be bothered. Oh, and the shower door’s broken.”
“I had a long day yesterday—”
“Every day’s ‘long’ for you. You’re not hauling crates at the docks.”
“Who needs a lock? It’s just us.”
“What if your mum visits? The handyman can fix it. Be ashamed.”
“*You* should be ashamed—hiring some stranger when your husband’s *right here*—” The doorbell cut him off.
A tanned, muscled bloke stood there, drill slung over one shoulder, flashing a brilliant smile.
“Handyman, yeah?” His voice was smooth, like an actor’s.
Kyle tried to shut the door. Laura stepped in. “Yes, come in.” She shot Kyle a look. “Off you go—don’t be late.”
Kyle didn’t move. Laura looked *good* today. Was that for him?
“She’s my wife,” Kyle blurted.
“Lucky man.” The handyman grinned wider, stepping inside.
Kyle suddenly felt small. Forcing himself to leave, he stewed all day—jealous, resentful. He nearly called Laura a dozen times but stopped himself. *Pathetic.*
When he got home, Laura wasn’t there. The shelf was fixed. *Did* he *help her with the books?* The thought made his chest burn.
The door clicked open.
“You’re back early,” Laura said.
Kyle stared, vowing never to let her hire a handyman again.
*“Are you okay?”* She stepped closer, searching his face. “Sorry. I was being daft. You were jealous?”
He pulled her in. “*I’m* sorry. I’ll learn how to fix things. Promise.”
“And I’ll stop nagging.”
Truce.
Three days later, Laura cursed from the bathroom, holding a snapped mop.
“Everything I touch breaks!”
Kyle caught her wrist before she could hurl it.
“Perfect pair, aren’t we? You break, I can’t fix.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ll buy a new one.”
“We’ll go together.”
Love draws people close, but it doesn’t stop the bickering. Suddenly, two people who adore each other can’t hear a word the other says. Petty squabbles pile up—over shelves, mops, forgotten errands. Some say arguments keep love alive; others swear they’re the beginning of the end. Both are right. It all depends on the people—whether they’re willing to listen, forgive, and learn.
