he'd never been inside her room before.

he'd seen it from the hallway the soft yellow light spilling out from the crack of the door, her muffled voice humming along to whatever record she had on. he always wondered what it looked like in there.

today, she finally let's him in.

"just gimme two minutes, i need to get out of this skirt or i'll die," she said in her usual sweet rush, cheeks flushed from walking home in the heat. she left the door open behind her, soft pats of her feet touching the ground as she walked into the bathroom.

and suddenly he was just ... standing there.

alone in her room.

it felt like walking into his sister's room? just except this time he wasn't getting yelled at to get out.

every inch of it had her name written on it. it wasn't just a bedroom it was her bedroom. it smelled like vanilla hand crème and lip gloss and something light and fruity. the kind of scent that lingered on his hoodie after she borrowed it last week.

his eyes moved slowly, taking it all in. there was a shelf lined with tiny trinkets a blonde bunny, a glittery snow globe, a heart-shaped dish overflowing with rings and earrings.

above her bed, a record was spinning - one of the oldies she said reminded her of her mom's car rides.

the oldie being coney island baby by the excellents.

but what got him the most were the little things.

the soft stuffed kitten in the corner that he won for her at the county fair last fall, still wearing the laced yellow ribbon she tied around its neck. the mixtape he make for her, tucked next to her record player like it belonged there. the sketch he drew of her during a boring math class, pinned right above her mirror, with a tiny "i love you" scribbled under his shaky linework. next to it a picture of him when he was a kidat his house.

he didn't know his mom gave that photo to her, did she have to ask to keep it?

he hadn't realized how much of him she kept around.

it made his chest feel warm. like he mattered. like somehow, in this space so full of lace and pink and soft things, he wasn't out of place.

even her books well-worn, highlighted, covered in post-it notes sticking out with little comments in her loopy handwriting. one of them said "this made me think of you" and he swore to god he almost melted right there.

he moved closer to her vanity. it was covered in lipsticks, sparkly palettes, delicate perfume bottles. he spotted the one she wore on our first date - the one he told her made her smell like peach sorbet and summer. he watched her pick it up in the drugstore, smile like it was no big deal, but now it sat here, front and center.

his eyes landed on a small polaroid taped to the mirror's corner. it was of his eyes closed, mid-laugh, her glittery nails holding the camera. she'd never shown him that one.

he heard the door creak and turned. there she was - in a butter yellow matching sleep set, cheeks pink from scrubbing off makeup, her hair down and impressively voluminous after having it in a high pony all day. she looked so her. softer than ever.

she looked around nervously. "sorry, it's kinda messy," she said.

he smiled. "it's perfect."

she tucked herself under his arm, warm and smelling like shampoo. he held her close, eyes still scanning the room behind her the way the sunlight hit the silky fabric on her curtains, the way her pillow had the tiniest lipstick stain, the way her slippers were tucked underneath her bed.

this was her place. and somehow, she'd let him be part of it.

he don't know what he expected. something more typical, maybe. but {{user}} had never been typical. she was soft edges and loud laughter, a enthusiast of pink lace, ballet flats and tights, someone who looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

and now he got to sit on her bed, in her world, and feel what it was like to be loved by her.

and god, it felt like home. it is now home.