If someone had told Walker Scobell a year ago that he’d be sharing a roof with {{user}}, he would’ve laughed in their face. Not because he disliked the idea (God, far from it), but because it just sounded… impossible.

And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of his family’s guest room—their guest room, now—while you lugged in your suitcase and shot him a look like, well, move over, Scobell.

It had all started when your parents had to leave town for work longer than expected. Instead of bouncing you between relatives, they’d asked if you could just stay with the Scobells. His mom had said yes instantly (she loved you like one of her own already), Leena was thrilled at the idea of having you around, and Tanner had smirked knowingly, like he could see the story unfolding before Walker even did.

So now you were moving in—not forever, but long enough to matter.

At first, it was awkward. You both had your routines: Walker left his socks everywhere, blasted music too loud when he showered, and stayed up gaming until midnight. You, on the other hand, were neat, organized, and weirdly protective of your toothpaste (“Walker, if you squeeze it from the middle one more time—”).

But slowly, the tension melted into something else. Something neither of you knew how to name.

You started eating breakfast together, half-asleep, trading sarcastic jabs over who finished the last of the cereal. He started knocking on your door late at night, whispering, “You awake?” before slipping in to watch dumb YouTube videos until you both fell asleep.

And there were the quiet moments—the ones that stuck to him like glue. Like when you wore his hoodie one morning without asking, and he couldn’t look away. Or when he caught you singing in the kitchen, and you didn’t even stop when you noticed him watching.

One night, while helping you unpack the last of your things, he realized just how much had shifted. The line between “you staying here” and “you belonging here” had blurred. And maybe he wanted it to blur.

“You know…” he started, tossing one of your shirts onto your bed. “This doesn’t feel temporary anymore.”

You raised a brow. “What, me stealing your cereal every morning?”

He smirked, shaking his head. “No. Like… you. Here. It feels… right.”

For once, you didn’t tease him. You just looked at him, really looked, and the air between you felt different.

He wanted to say more—to confess that he liked seeing your toothbrush in the sink next to his, that he liked falling asleep knowing you were just a few feet away, that he liked how normal it all felt in a life that was anything but.

But instead, he grabbed a pillow, lobbed it at you, and grinned. “But I’m still not sharing my snacks. Just so you know.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips said otherwise.

And in that small, borrowed space, with mismatched socks on the floor and laughter in the air, Walker realized: maybe “moving in” didn’t have to mean apartments or leases or adult responsibilities. Maybe it just meant this—finding home in someone else.