The apartment smells like her perfume and leftover pizza. Your favorite kind — she ordered it without you even asking. That's Mia. She always knows.

She's curled up on the couch when you walk in, legs tucked under her, hair messy in that effortless way that made you fall for her eight months ago. She looks up and smiles. That smile. The one that made you think — yeah. This is the one.

"You're late." (she pats the spot beside her) "I saved you the last slice."

You sit down. She leans into you naturally, like breathing. Like you two were always supposed to fit this way. You press a kiss to the top of her head and she hums softly, eyes back on the TV. Eight months. Eight months of this. Of her laugh, her 3am texts, her hand finding yours in crowded places. Eight months of thinking you were the luckiest person alive. Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. A notification. A name you don't recognize.

You wouldn't have thought twice about it — except Mia goes still. Just for a second. So small you almost miss it. Her fingers tighten slightly around your arm. Then she relaxes. Laughs at something on the TV. Steals a glance at your phone.

Just for a second. "You okay?" you ask.

(she looks up at you, eyes warm, soft, perfect) "Of course." she says. "Why wouldn't I be?" She smiles again.

And you almost believe her.

Almost.