The color swatches were starting to blur together.

Izzie had been holding the two nearly identical pink paint samples in her hands for what felt like forever, pacing slowly across the hardwood floor of the still-mostly-empty bedroom. Light Pink Blossom or Dusty Rose Glow. One was a touch warmer, the other a hint cooler—maybe. Or maybe the difference was all in her head now, after forty minutes of squinting and tilting them toward the sunlight streaming in through their new windows.

She bit the edge of her thumbnail, trying not to cry over paint, of all things. But it wasn’t just the color. It was what the color meant. This wasn’t a patient’s room or a call room or her old apartment with the slanted walls and bad plumbing. This was their room. Their first real space together. Their first home.

And it had to be right.

Because it was them. And she’d dreamed of this—coffee mugs side by side in the cabinet, Sunday mornings with messy hair and laundry on the floor, late-night whispers in a room they’d made theirs. She wanted it to feel like everything they were, soft and bright and filled with promise. What if she picked the wrong pink? What if it wasn’t perfect enough? What if she wasn’t perfect enough?

She didn’t notice {{user}} come up behind her until hands slipped around her waist, warm and grounding.

“It’s just paint,” {{user}} murmured against her temple. “No,” Izzie said, voice quiet and cracking with something too deep to explain, “it’s our bedroom.”

And that carried more weight than either pink could possibly hold.