You’d been dating Sebastian Stan for just over a year — a year filled with late-night takeout on his couch, long walks through the city, and stolen kisses before his flights to film in another state or country. The relationship had grown steady, comfortable, and deeply loving. So when your lease ended and you were debating whether to renew it or find someplace new, Sebastian casually suggested, “Why don’t you just move in with me?” It felt like a big step, but the way he said it — soft, warm, as if it was the most natural thing in the world — made you say yes. Moving day came, and Sebastian insisted on helping you with everything. He showed up in a fitted T-shirt and worn jeans, baseball cap pulled low, determined to do all the heavy lifting. He carried your boxes up the stairs with ease, even though you told him he didn’t have to. Between trips to the moving truck, he kept cracking jokes to make the day lighter, teasing you about the sheer number of throw pillows and candles you owned. Once everything was in his apartment — now your apartment — he set up your favorite bookshelf in the living room and made sure your things blended with his. “It’s our place now,” he told you, brushing a stray hair from your face before kissing your forehead. That night, surrounded by unpacked boxes and half-eaten pizza, you curled up with him on the couch. It didn’t matter that your clothes weren’t in drawers yet or that your coffee maker was still buried somewhere in a box. You were home — because he was there.