Emma took a deep breath as she sipped her morning tea, the steam curling in the crisp London air. Across the small kitchen table, James spread marmalade thickly on his toast, casual as ever.
“I’ve been thinking, love,” he said between bites. “This year, we ought to throw a proper Christmas bash. Go all out.”
Emma smiled faintly, pouring herself another cup. “Funny, I wanted to talk about that too. Our first holiday together…”
“Brilliant!” James grinned. “I’ve decided—Mum and Dad are coming, along with my sister, her husband, and the twins. Family’s what makes Christmas special, right?”
The mug froze halfway to her lips. A heavy silence settled between them.
“Wait… ‘Coming’? We agreed it’d just be us this year.”
“Oh, come off it,” James waved a hand. “Who spends Christmas alone? They’ve already booked their train tickets—it’s sorted.”
“You invited six people into *my* flat without asking?” Her voice was steady, but frostier than the December wind.
“We *live* together. What’s the big deal?”
“James, you’ve been here *two weeks*. Temporarily. Because your place ‘needed repairs’—which, surprise, it doesn’t. We never discussed moving in, and now you’re turning my home into a bloody holiday inn?”
He rolled his eyes with a theatrical sigh. “Don’t start with the ‘boundaries’ rubbish. Proper couples don’t keep score. Family’s family.”
“Exactly. Which is why you *ask first*. Where do you think we’ll fit six extra bodies in a two-bedroom flat?”
“Well… Mum and Dad take the sofa, sis and her bloke in your room. We’ll manage with the air mattress—I’ve already ordered one.”
“Already *ordered*—? Without even *mentioning* it to me?”
“Why wait? You’d have said yes anyway.”
Emma stood, her grip tight on the counter. Memories flashed—saving for years to buy this flat, painting the walls late into the night, choosing every piece of furniture with care. And now this man, whom she’d known three months, was treating it like a budget hostel.
“You think I’m being petty. But I’m just done being *convenient*. This is *my* home. I won’t let you turn it into a free-for-all.”
“So I’m just a *temp*? Say it straight!”
“You *know* the arrangement. You asked to stay ‘while the plumbers worked’—except there *are* no plumbers. You *let* your flat out and moved in rent-free.”
He spun around. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“Saw the listing online. Your address, your photos.”
James paled, then spat, “So what? Wanted to be closer to you. That’s normal.”
“No, James. *Lying* isn’t normal. You weaselled in, pay *nothing*, invite guests, and drop it on me like a bombshell. *That’s* your idea of a ‘proper relationship’?”
He flushed crimson. “You’re just frigid. Can’t even—”
“And you’re no gentleman. You didn’t even *pay* for your family’s tickets. Saw the text from your sister.”
He recoiled. “You’re *snooping*?”
“They *pop up* on your lockscreen, James. You’re rubbish at hiding things. Worse at *lying*.”
The doorbell rang.
“That’ll be the air mattress,” he muttered.
“Don’t answer it,” Emma said calmly. “I’m refusing the delivery. And James? Pack your things.”
“*What*?”
“You heard. Get out. Relationships where one person steamrolls the other? Not for me.”
“You’re *mad*!” he shouted. “Kicking me out over *nothing*?”
“It’s not ‘nothing’. It’s *who you are*. You leech off people and call it ‘normal’.”
She yanked his suitcase from the cupboard and started stuffing his clothes inside.
“Leave the keys in the postbox. Your Uber’s outside.”
“I’m *not going*!”
“You are. You’ve no choice here anymore.”
He lunged for the suitcase, but Emma gritted her teeth.
“Get. Out. Or I *will* call the police.”
The doorbell rang again. The courier waited. Emma swung the door open.
“Delivery for James?”
“We don’t want it. Return it.”
“Won’t get a refund—”
“*His* problem.”
The door shut. James stood by the coat rack, ashen.
“You’re really torching this? Over *Christmas*?”
“No. I’m torching the *lie*. Thanks for the wake-up call.”
He slammed the door on his way out. Half an hour later, Emma checked the postbox. The keys glinted at the bottom. And for the first time in months—she breathed easy.