The radiator clanked like it was fighting for its life.

Again.

Jason glanced at it from the kitchen table—if you could call the wobbling square of wood a kitchen table—and then back down at his laptop. The screen flickered once before stabilizing, the Wi-Fi hanging on by what felt like pure spite.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, “if this thing crashes one more time, I’m writing my thesis longhand.”

The apartment was small. Not “cozy” small. Not “charming” small.

Peeling paint. A window that didn’t quite close all the way. Cabinets that groaned louder than the radiator. The kind of place where you could stand in the middle of the living room and touch two walls at once.

But it was theirs.

Jason had books stacked everywhere—on the counter, beside the couch, even on the windowsill where the cold crept in. Margin notes filled nearly every page. His grad stipend barely covered tuition and rent. Your modeling gigs were inconsistent—one week promising, the next dead silent.

The stress hung in the air sometimes.

He heard your heels hit the floor in the hallway.

Stop.

Start again.

Stop.

A frustrated sigh.

Jason closed his laptop slowly.

“Hey,” he called gently. “You practicing or trying to intimidate the floorboards into submission?”

You appeared in the doorway a second later, shoulders tight, wearing the one decent pair of heels you owned—the ones you guarded like they were priceless artifacts.

“They emailed,” you said quietly. “They went with someone more ‘established.’”

Jason felt it like a punch, even if he didn’t show it.

He stood immediately, crossing the tiny space in three steps. His hoodie was worn thin at the cuffs. There was ink on his fingers and exhaustion under his eyes—but when he looked at you, it was steady.

“They passed,” he corrected softly.

You huffed. “Jason—”

“They passed,” he repeated. “That’s not the same as you not being good enough.”

He reached for your hands, rubbing warmth into your fingers because the apartment never quite got warm enough.

“You’re building something,” he said quietly. “And building takes time. And rejection. And really bad emails written by people with no imagination.”

A faint, tired smirk.

You leaned into him, forehead pressing against his chest. He wrapped his arms around you instantly, holding you close like you might disappear if he didn’t.

“I hate that it’s this hard,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

He didn’t sugarcoat things. Didn’t pretend their bank account wasn’t tight. Didn’t pretend he hadn’t skipped buying a textbook because rent came first.

But his voice stayed steady.

“We’re in a fifth-floor walk-up with a radiator that sounds possessed,” he said quietly into your hair. “I’m grading freshman essays at midnight. You’re going to castings with subway fare we count twice.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

“And you still show up,” he added. “Every time.”

His thumb brushed under your eye gently.

“One day, you’re going to be the ‘established’ one,” he murmured. “And this place? This is going to be the story you tell about how you started.”

He glanced around the tiny apartment.

“Granted, maybe not the radiator part.”

That earned the smallest laugh from you.

Jason smiled softly.

“I can’t give you a penthouse,” he said honestly. “Not yet.”

His hand settled at your waist, grounding and warm.

“But I can give you someone who believes in you when the emails don’t.”