"I love your mess. I love you." I caught his hands. "Move in with me. Properly. Bring your stuff. Make my place ours."
"That's a big step."
"I know. And if you're not ready, I'll wait. I'll give you time. But I wanted you to know—I'm ready. I want this. Want you. Want us to build something permanent."
Valentino stared at me, processing. "You're serious."
"Completely serious."
"Your penthouse is too nice for me."
"It's just a place. It means nothing without you in it."
"I'll make it messy."
"Good. It needs to be lived in instead of looking like a showroom."
"I'm still going to keep this apartment. At least for a while. Just in case."
The words stung but I understood. "Okay. That's fair. Keep your safety net."
"Not a safety net. A backup plan. In case—" He stopped. "In case the FBI thing goes badly. In case I need somewhere that's not connected to you."
The practicality of it hurt but I couldn't argue with the logic. "Okay. Keep the apartment. But still move in. Make my place your primary home."
"Our place," he corrected. "If I'm moving in, it's ours."
Hope bloomed in my chest. "Does that mean yes?"
"It means yes." He pulled me into a kiss. "I'll move in. Properly. Make it official."
Relief flooded through me so intensely I almost couldn't breathe. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. This is probably the worst decision I've ever made." But he was smiling. "Moving in with my mob boss boyfriend while under FBI investigation. What could go wrong?"
"Everything. Absolutely everything." I kissed him again. "But we'll deal with it together."
"Together," he agreed.
We spent the afternoon going through his apartment, figuring out what to bring immediately and what could wait. His clothes, his books, his research materials. The essentials that would make the penthouse feel like his space too.
"What about furniture?" I asked, looking at the futon that served as both couch and bed.
"The futon stays. Your place has actual furniture." He was packing books into boxes. "Besides, this way I have somewhere to sleep if I need to stay here sometimes."
"You can stay here whenever you want. As long as you come home after."
"Home." He tested the word. "Your penthouse is home now."
"Our penthouse," I corrected. "And yes. It's home."
By evening we had three boxes packed and ready to transport. I called a car while Valentino did one final sweep of the apartment.
"I feel like I'm abandoning it," he said, looking around the small studio.
"You're not abandoning it. You're moving forward." I took one of the boxes. "Come on. Let's go home."
***
