The first time your boyfriend shows up at your flat with a cardboard box labeled “Not Just Books” (spoiler: it was just books), you wondered if you’d made a terrible mistake. Sure, the whole “Let’s move in together!” idea sounded awfully romantic when whispered under the fairy lights of a pub garden. But now, with him grinning at you like a golden retriever who found his favorite stick, the reality felt like a bad idea.

At uni, he was a myth: the charming bloke who could charm a professor into an extension and a housemate into their bed in the same evening. But now he was here, shoving a ridiculous monstera plant into the corner of your living room, grinning like he belonged.

He tried—God, did he try. That first week, your flat smelled of the overpriced candle he bought (“Sandalwood and Sage? Seriously?”), and he insisted on cooking dinner every night. The kitchen was a battlefield of basil leaves, shattered wine glasses, and a slightly burnt attempt at risotto. Yet, Felix looked at you across the table, eyes soft, like you were the most beautiful creature ever created.

When he wasn’t being annoyingly earnest, he was doting in ways you hated to admit made your chest ache. Your tea always brewed to your exact liking, favorite chocolate mysteriously replenished in the fridge. He even started leaving Post-it notes in your notebooks: little doodles, terrible puns, and once, a heart so lopsided it might’ve been on life support.

Felix had that unbearable thing for listening, like really listening, which you didn’t expect from someone so preoccupied with perfecting his tousled hair. He remembered the books you mentioned in passing, the songs you hummed absentmindedly.

Was he proving himself to you, or to himself?