"Not too far from work," Hannah had said softly.
"Not too cramped," I'd added.
"Not too loud or too quiet."
We'd looked at each other and said it at the same time: "Just right."
Six months ago, we'd been standing outside in the snow, freezing and fighting and trying to figure out if we could make this work.
Now we were here.
I grabbed my notebook from the bag by the door and flipped pastIf Hannah Doesn't Get the JobandHow to Survive Long Distanceuntil I found the page I wanted. Our apartment requirements, written in both our handwriting:
? 2 bedrooms (one for us, one for guests)
? Kitchen large enough for small dinner parties
? Living room that fits Mom's couch
? Laundry in building (not negotiable - Connor)
? Dishwasher (not negotiable - Hannah)
? Close to subway
? NOT in Manhattan (too expensive)
? Somewhere that feels like home
"Second bedroom for guests," Hannah said, reading over my shoulder. "So Teresa doesn't have to sleep on the couch when she visits."
"Is she still planning to come up next month?"
"Already booked her train ticket. Something about Brooklyn brunch spots she needs to investigate." I flipped forward a few pages and handed over the notebook. "You made a list of Brooklyn restaurants?"
"I know how much your sister loves bacon and avocado."
She kept flipping. "Date Night Ideas? Connor, you have like forty entries here."
"We take turns picking. It's fair."
"It's adorable." She landed on a page near the back and went quiet. "Things That Make Hannah Smile."
I felt my neck heat. "I just... started writing them down when I noticed."
She read in silence:Coffee with two sugars. Broadway musicals. Her sister's laugh. When I cook her breakfast. The way Ruby says 'Uncle Connor.' The bridge view at sunset. When she laughs at my Big Lebowski quotes.
"Connor." Her voice was soft.
"I'm still making lists," I said. "Just better ones."
She kissed me, and I tasted coffee and something sweeter—the future, maybe. All the date nights and dinners and quiet mornings we'd have in this place.
"We still need a dining table and chairs," she said when we broke apart.
"IKEA tomorrow?" I suggested.
She turned to me slowly. "Can you handle IKEA without a color-coded spreadsheet?"
