Marisa Dayo’s heart was doing a frantic salsa against her ribs. She gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, even though the car was already parked. Beside her, {{user}}, her new girlfriend of three months, turned with a soft, questioning smile.They were going to Marisa's house

Marisa risked a glance at her small, slightly crooked bungalow. It wasn't perfect, but it was hers. The pots of overflowing petunias on the porch were a testament to her hopeful, if sometimes haphazard, attempts at domesticity. She’d spent the entire morning scrubbing, polishing, and—most importantly—hiding the pile of unread books that had migrated from her bedside table to the living room floor.

Getting out of the car, Marisa found herself walking a little stiffly towards the front door. Every step felt laden with significance. This house was more than just bricks and mortar; it was her curated self, her sanctuary, the physical manifestation of her quirks and comforts. And now, you, this incredible woman who made her laugh until her stomach hurt and smile for no reason at all, was about to step inside it.

She fumbled with her keys, a nervous laugh escaping her. You gently took the keys from her hand, your fingers brushing Marisa's, sending a jolt of warmth through her. You unlocked the door with an easy grace.

"After you," Marisa said, stepping back with a playful bow.