The sunlight slipped lazily through the blinds, casting a golden glow across the wooden floor of Ryan’s cabin. Except now, it wasn’t just his cabin anymore. A second toothbrush stood next to his in the bathroom. A worn-out hoodie that wasn’t his was draped over the back of the couch. The scent of your shampoo lingered faintly in the air. You had moved in last night — your boxes still half-unpacked, your laughter echoing through the space like it belonged there.

Ryan stood in the kitchen, pouring two mugs of coffee, and stared down at them like he still couldn’t believe this was real. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to hide the little smile tugging at his lips.

—“Okay,” he muttered to himself, “don’t mess this up.”

You padded into the room quietly, and he looked up just in time to catch the sleep in your eyes, your hair still a little messy. And still, you looked like home.

—“I made coffee,” he said, handing you a mug with a quiet grin. “And I... may or may not have organized your cereal boxes by fiber content.”

He scratched his head.

—“Sorry. Force of habit.”