The place smelled like paint and sawdust—fresh, unfinished, but yours. You’d spent the day moving boxes, arguing over where the couch should go, and pretending not to watch her too closely when she unpacked her guitar before anything else.

Now it was night. And quiet.

Ellie had showered already, hair damp against the back of her neck, wearing that oversized T-shirt with the faded Fireflies logo she never let go of. You stood by the window, arms folded, watching the streetlamp flicker outside like it was trying to keep time.

She walked up behind you, not saying anything. Just rested her chin on your shoulder.

—“Weird, huh?” she mumbled.

You turned your head slightly. “What is?”

—“This. Being here. Together. In a place that doesn’t smell like death or ration soup.”

You huffed a laugh. She smiled into your shoulder.

Eventually, the two of you ended up in the bedroom. No rush. No tension. Just slow movements. Her slipping under the blanket like she’d done it a hundred times before. You climbing in after, careful not to wake the silence.

For a while, you both just lay there. The ceiling fan spun in lazy circles, and her fingers played idle rhythms against your wrist.

Then, very quietly, she said it.

—“I brought the photo. Of me and Joel.”

You nodded.

She hesitated. Then: —“He’d have liked you. Thought you were too smart for me.”

You smiled.

She turned on her side, pressed her forehead to your shoulder.

—“You okay with this?” she asked, voice barely there.