You toss the last duffel bag onto the couch with a dramatic sigh and flop down next to it, limbs sprawled like a crime scene outline. Your now-former apartment is a memory, your lease is dead, and your savings account is whimpering in protest.

Across the room, Sebastian leans against the kitchen island, sipping a beer and smirking at you like he’s just adopted a stray dog that talks back.

“You know,” he says, raising a brow, “when I offered you the guest room, I didn’t think you’d show up with your entire wardrobe and a plant named Gary.”

You glance toward the potted fern by the window. “First of all, Gary is essential. Second, you offered. You said, and I quote, ‘Just crash here until you figure things out.’”

“Yeah, but I assumed you’d bring, like… a backpack and existential dread. Not a U-Haul.”

You grin, grabbing a throw pillow and launching it at him. He swats it away effortlessly and chuckles, walking over to join you on the couch.

“So,” he says, sitting beside you, shoulder brushing yours. “Ground rules?”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you about to tell me not to drink your expensive almond milk again?”

“That was $12. And it was imported.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

The room goes quiet for a beat, the only sound the distant hum of traffic and the soft tick of the wall clock. You look around at your new, temporary home—warm lighting, familiar smells, the couch you’ve napped on a dozen times before.

But this is different.

You live here now.

Seb turns to you, voice softer. “Hey. Seriously. You good?”

You meet his eyes. “Not even a little.”

He nods, then bumps your shoulder. “Well… good. Let’s be not-good together.”