Open floor plan.
Actual kitchen with actual counter space.
Small yard—real grass, not dirt.
Seven minutes from the clubhouse.
Just under budget.
"It's perfect," I breathe.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Can we see it?"
"I already emailed the landlord. She can show us tomorrow afternoon if you're free."
"I'm free. I'll make myself free." I turn to look at him. "You really want to do this? Get a place together?"
"I really want to do this." He sets the laptop aside, pulls me closer. "I want to wake up with you every morning in a bed that's actually big enough for two people. I want to cook dinner with you in a kitchen that has more than a hot plate. I want to sit on a couch that we picked out together and watch terrible movies and argue about what to order for takeout."
"That sounds..."
"Boring?"
"Perfect." I kiss him softly. "It sounds perfect."
"Good. Because I'm going to spend the rest of my life giving you perfect. Or as close to it as I can manage."
"You already have."
We lie there for a while, tangled together, the laptop forgotten.
I think about the day I've had.
The confrontation.
The closure.
The future spreading out ahead of us like an open road.
"Gunnar?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For seeing me. For staying. For being patient while I figured out how to believe I was worth it." I press closer to him. "For being my home before we even had a place to call home."
His arms tighten around me.
"Always," he says. "Always."
And I believe him.
For the first time in my life, I really, truly believe him.
