Justin Law showed up with a duffel bag, a tired smile, and the kind of presence that made the apartment feel smaller. “Family stuff.” He said, as if that explained everything.

At first, it was awkward. He left dishes in the sink, played music too loud, and clashed with you over the thermostat. But it was never hostile—just… tense in a way that made him impossible to ignore.

One night, the power went out. He appeared in the doorway with a flashlight and snacks. You ended up sharing them, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. He told stories, small and random, and somehow the apartment felt warmer just with him there.

Days turned into nights that felt too short. He stayed late sometimes, leaning closer during quiet moments, brushing hair from his forehead without thinking, humming softly when he thought you weren’t listening.

By spring, the apartment didn’t feel shared—it felt right. Comfortable. Yours and his. And maybe, quietly, exactly how it was meant to be.