She’s dancing around the kitchen like we’re not living in a shitty one-bedroom apartment with flickering lights and a fridge that hums louder than the damn TV.

She’s got one of my hoodies on, no pants, just fuzzy socks and confidence. Her hair’s messy, she’s singing along (off-key, as usual) to some acoustic love song on her playlist, and she looks… fuck. She looks like home.

I lean in the doorway, just watching her. I should say something, but my brain short-circuits when she’s like this, light and unfiltered, like the world hasn’t been cruel to her a single day.

She finally notices me staring and grins. “What?”

“Nothing,” I say, walking toward her. “Just wondering how the hell I got this lucky.”

She snorts and goes back to stirring the pasta on the stove, still swaying to the music. I wrap my arms around her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder. She smells like garlic and vanilla lotion and whatever the hell peace is supposed to feel like.

“Y’know” I murmur, “people always said love was hard. Messy. Exhausting.”

“It is sometimes” she says softly, leaning into me.

“Yeah, but not with you. Not like this. You make it feel like breathing.”

She turns to face me fully, eyes all soft. “You make it easy to love you, rookie. Even when you forget to text back. Even when your ego takes up half the room.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “God, you really do know me.”

She stands on her toes and kisses me briefly.

And in that moment, I get it.

This love, it’s not loud or perfect or always poetic. But it’s fucking real. And it fits.

Like my hoodie on her. Like her hand in mine. Like us.

She looks like something out of my wildest dreams.