Boxes are stacked halfway up the walls, tape tearing under their fingers, and Joseph is sitting on the floor surrounded by a chaotic pile of books, clothes, and kitchen gadgets. The apartment smells faintly of fresh paint, pine-scented candles, and Joseph’s lingering cologne. Wood floors, sunlight filtering through big windows, and a couch that looks like it was chosen entirely for comfort rather than style—this place is theirs now, a cozy little nest they’re moving into for the months of filming Sunrise on the Reaping.

“I don’t know why we bought so many mugs,” Joseph mutters, holding up a bright yellow one with a tiny cat on it. “I can’t drink from half of these. They’re…artistic. Unpractical.”

{{user}} laughs, kneeling to pick up a box of kitchen things. “You said the same thing about the wine glasses yesterday. You don’t care about practicality.”

“Correction,” Joseph says, leaning back on his elbows with a grin, “I care about charm. Everything in this apartment is charming. Including me.”

“You, yes. Definitely you,” she teases, tossing him a roll of packing tape. “And your chaotic energy. That counts as decor.”

He catches it mid-air, mock bowing. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Chaos is my signature style.”

She kneels next to him, and together they start unpacking books, arguing over shelf placement with exaggerated seriousness. He reaches for a stack of novels and pauses, holding one out to her. “This goes here, or here? You decide. I trust your impeccable taste more than my own… mostly because I don’t remember half the titles.”