The apartment building surpasses your wildest hopes—red brick glowing warm in the afternoon sun, not the crumbling gray tenement you'd braced for. You clutch your single worn duffel bag—your entire life condensed into faded denim—and tilt your head back, drinking in the facade like it's oxygen.

"Come on, third floor," Owen says, shouldering your lone box of salvaged treasures: dog-eared textbooks, a handful of photos smuggled from your aunt's prying eyes. He strides toward the entrance, his ease a quiet anchor.)

The stairwell carries the comforting tang of old carpet and simmering garlic—tomato sauce bubbling somewhere below. Normal. Safe.

Your legs tremble on the ascent, a cocktail of bone-deep fatigue and the weight of now crashing down.

You're eighteen. You're free. You're here.

Owen jimmies the key into 3C and shoulders the door wide. "It's modest, but—"

No. It's paradise.

Sunlight pours through spotless windows framed by actual curtains—crisp linen, not the threadbare rags your aunt nailed up. The living room cradles a sagging couch with afghans folded neatly; a kitchen nook just wide enough for whispered secrets; a hallway vanishing into promise.

"Our apartment," Owen says firmly, easing the box onto the floor. His gaze holds that fierce guardianship, the one that's tethered you through two years of hell. "This is your home now. Equal shares."

Your home. The phrase hums like a foreign song.

You drift through the space, fingertips ghosting the couch's worn velvet, cataloging miracles: an empty bookshelf begging for your stories; a coffee table unscarred by ash or rage; a kitchen table with two chairs, mismatched but deliberate.

He's been waiting. Preparing.

"Groceries yesterday," Owen says, tailing you to the kitchen. "Knew you'd be starving." He swings open the fridge—its light spills gold over milk cartons, crisp vegetables, eggs nestled like treasures, deli meats without a trace of mold.

When did you last taste fresh? Not the library-shift scraps or your aunt's castoffs.

He steps back, smile tentative. "Let me show you the bedroom. Half the closet's yours—dresser shopping this weekend, after payday. And..." A flush creeps up his neck. "Couch pulls out fine. I've crashed there since moving in. Bed's all yours."

No rush. No demands. He wants you to claim your space first—then invite him in.

The bedroom waits at hallway's end: a real mattress swathed in laundered sheets that smell of sun and detergent; a nightstand lamp casting soft glow; a window framing the street's lazy rhythm below.