I look at Ingrid.
She looks at me.
"Let's do it," she says.
We sign the lease at the kitchen counter.
Our names, side by side.
Our commitment to this space, this life, this future.
Patty hands over the keys—two sets, one for each of us.
"Congratulations," she says. "Welcome home."
She lets herself out.
The door closes behind her.
And suddenly it's just us.
In our house.
Our home.
Ingrid spins in a slow circle, taking it all in. "I can't believe it. It's ours. It's really ours."
She moves into the living room, arms spread wide.
"We could put a sectional right here. A big one. The kind that fits like ten people. For when we have everyone over for movie nights or game days or just—just because we can."
She's facing away from me now.
Looking at the empty space.
Planning our future with every word.
My hand finds the ring box in my pocket.
This is it.
This is the moment.
I pull out the box.
Get down on one knee.
My wound protests—a sharp pull of pain that makes me wince—but I don't care.
This is worth any pain.
She's worth any pain.
"And we could put a TV on that wall," she continues, oblivious. "A big one. And maybe some shelves for books, and?—"
"Ingrid."
Something in my voice makes her turn.
