The drive’s short, but she makes it feel like an adventure. Windows down, her playlist blasting through the speakers, hair whipping in the wind, and that laugh the one that makes everything else fade. We’ve just finished midterms, both half-dead from caffeine and sleepless nights, and she said, “Let’s go home.” Not to the dorms, but to hers. The idea of seeing where she grew up, meeting the people who made her, feels strangely important. Like stepping into another part of her world I haven’t seen yet.

We pull up to a little brick house with flowers by the window and a swing in the front yard. Before I can even grab her bag, a tiny blur of curls and squeals runs out the door. “Sissy!” the little girl yells, launching herself into her arms. {{user}} laughs, spinning her sister around until both of them are breathless. She spots me and immediately hides behind {{user}} leg, peeking out shyly. “Who’s that?”

“This is Harry,” she says, smiling at me like she already knows I’m melting. “He’s my friend.” “Boyfriend,” I correct under my breath, making her laugh.

Her sister giggles, suddenly bold. “Does he play tea party?”

I kneel down to her level. “I’m basically a professional,” I say, dead serious. She bursts into laughter and grabs my hand, dragging me inside before anyone else can say a word.

The house smells like vanilla and something baking. Her mum waves from the kitchen, her dad calls hello from somewhere down the hall, and I feel this warmth settle in me—like I’ve stepped into something good. Something I didn’t know I needed. We spend the afternoon in the living room, toys scattered everywhere, the little one insisting I wear a pink feather boa and a plastic tiara for “tea time.” I pretend to take tiny sips from a cup with a chipped handle, and she giggles every time I say “thank you, princess.”

“She’s never this quiet with anyone,” her mum whispers from the doorway, smiling. My girl just shrugs, but her eyes soften as she watches me.

Later, we take her sister to the backyard. The grass is damp from morning rain, the air warm and sweet. We chase her around the swing set, her little squeals echoing like music. She makes me push her higher, higher, until her laughter fills the whole sky. I glance over and see my girl sitting cross-legged on the grass, sunlight tangled in her hair, watching us with that soft smile that gets me every time. I don’t even realize I’m grinning until she catches my eye.

When her sister gets tired, she curls up in my lap, thumb in her mouth, already half-asleep. {{user}} kneels beside us, brushing the little one’s curls off her forehead. “You’re really good with her,” she says quietly.

“Guess I had a good teacher,” I say, looking up at her.

She smiles, cheeks flushed, eyes soft in the fading light. “She likes you,” she whispers. “I like her too,” I answer. Then, after a beat, “And her sister.”

Her laughter is quiet, almost shy. She leans in and kisses me, just a small one, right there in the middle of the yard with the world standing still for a second. I swear I could live in that moment—the sound of crickets starting up, the smell of grass, her hand resting on mine.

When the sun finally sets, we help her mum set the table, stealing glances across the kitchen as we pass plates and silverware. Her dad asks me about uni, her mum tells embarrassing stories from when she was a kid, and she keeps kicking me under the table, trying not to laugh. It’s loud and messy and perfect.

Later, when her sister’s asleep and the house has gone quiet, we sneak out to the porch with blankets and mugs of cocoa. The night’s cool, and she leans her head on my shoulder. “Thanks for coming,” she murmurs.

“Thanks for bringing me,” I say. “Feels like I’ve been missing this without knowing it.”

She looks up, eyes shining under the porch light. “You fit in here,” she says softly.

I kiss her forehead, whispering, “That’s because I fit with you.” I say softly, smiling, and right there in that moment I knew she was my endgame.