"Really. Want to look at them?"
"Now?"
"No time like the present. Unless you need to decompress first. We can?—"
"No." I take his hand, squeeze it. "Let's look at apartments. Let's plan our future. Let's do something that isn't about my toxic ex-roommates or the shit they said."
"You sure?"
"Positive. I want to think about good things right now. About us. About what comes next."
Gunnar smiles.
It's the smile that makes my heart flip.
The one that says I'm his and he's mine and nothing else matters.
"Then let's go find our home."
An hour later, we're curled up in Gunnar's bed—our bed—laptop balanced between us, scrolling through rental listings.
I've told him everything.
Every word they said.
Every insult they threw.
The mimosa, the grab, the shove.
He listened without interrupting.
Let me get it all out.
And when I was done, he just held me tighter and said, "I'm glad you never have to see them again."
Simple.
Supportive.
Exactly what I needed.
"What about this one?" He points to a listing on the screen. "Two bedrooms, one bath, five minutes from the clubhouse. Looks decent."
"The kitchen's tiny."
"You cook?"
"I could learn. For the right kitchen."
He laughs, scrolls to the next one. "This one's got a bigger kitchen. And a yard."
"A yard?" I peer at the photos. "That's not a yard. That's a patch of dirt with delusions of grandeur."
"Okay, fair point." More scrolling. "What about... this?"
I look at the listing.
Two bedrooms, one and a half baths.
