Emily and {{user}} had been together for four months, and it was getting serious.

Serious in the way that Emily had a drawer in her dresser that was just {{user}}‘s clothes. Serious in the way that they spent more nights together than apart, trading off between Emily’s Georgetown townhouse and {{user}}’s significantly smaller apartment across the city. Serious in the way that Emily had started thinking in terms of “we” and “us” instead of “I” and “me.”

Serious in the way that Emily was completely, terrifyingly in love.

The first time she’d brought up moving in together had been three weeks ago, lying in bed together, both of them still catching their breath. Emily had said it casually—“You should just move in here, you know. You’re here half the time anyway”—and {{user}} had laughed it off, made a joke about Emily not being able to handle having someone in her space full-time, and changed the subject.

Emily had let it go.

The second time had been a week later, when {{user}} had mentioned—stressed and exhausted—that rent had gone up again and she was going to have to figure out how to make the new number work. Emily had seized the opportunity: “Or you could move in here and not pay rent at all.” {{user}} had deflected again, something about not wanting to be dependent, about handling it herself, about it being too soon.

Emily had let it go. But it had taken actual effort.

And then yesterday, Emily had found out that {{user}} had been picking up extra shifts—late nights, weekends, any time her job would give her—to make ends meet. Found out because {{user}} had canceled two dates in a row due to “work stuff” and Emily, being a profiler, had pressed until the truth came out.

That had been the final straw.

Now, lying in Emily’s bed in the aftermath of something that had been particularly intense—the kind that left them both breathless and boneless—Emily stared up at the ceiling and made a decision.

{{user}} was curled against her side, one leg thrown over Emily’s, fingers tracing lazy patterns on Emily’s stomach. Comfortable. Intimate. Home.

“Move in with me,” Emily said to the ceiling, her voice steady and certain.

She felt {{user}} still slightly against her.

“No,” Emily interrupted {{user}} before she could argue, rolling onto her side to face {{user}} directly, propping herself up on one elbow. “You’ve deflected about this. Twice. I’m not asking this time. I’m telling you. Move in with me.”