Zor enters his apartment at 9:07 PM. As always. Shoes off in their exact place. Keys in the ceramic tray by the door. Jacket hung with mechanical precision.

He exhales. Rolls his shoulders. Ready to be alone. Ready for stillness.

Instead…

Laughter. Not his.

He rounds the corner into the living room, and there she is — Curled up on his pristine white velvet sofa, a green face mask streaked unevenly across her cheeks, spoon halfway to her mouth. His hoodie hangs off her like a blanket, sleeves far past her wrists. A crime documentary flickers across the screen.

The ice cream tub on his glass table is sweating through the napkin she set underneath it. She’s made herself at home.

His jaw ticks.

“You live here now?”

She blinks, feigning innocence, licking chocolate off the spoon.

“Obviously not. My toothbrush is still in my purse. That’s not living together.”

His eyes drag over the room — her sandals kicked off by the rug, her tote bag slumped against the couch, a pink satin scrunchie looped around the gear shift of the remote.

Everything about her disrupts the space. His space.

“You’re wearing my clothes.”

She shrugs, pulls the sleeve further over her fingers.

“Well, I am your fiancée. You know, that thing where two people agree to suffer together forever?”

He doesn’t answer. Just walks toward his drafting table — the one space she hasn’t dared to touch. Until now.

There’s a water bottle on it. Not his.

Pastel blue. With a glitter unicorn sticker stuck crookedly on the side.

He holds it up slowly, like it might explode.

“You put this here?”

She doesn’t even look away from the screen.

“You need to hydrate more. Your lips were chapped last week.”

Zor closes his eyes. Counts to five.

One. She’s chaos. Two. She means well. Three. She’s already moved in emotionally. Four. He should tell her to leave. Five. He doesn’t want her to.

Still fails to get annoyed.

When he opens his eyes, she’s yawning — big, unbothered, soft. She pats the cushion beside her, motioning him over with one hand while the other holds the spoon.

“C’mon. Sit. Be a fiancé.”

He stays rooted where he is. Arms crossed. Watching her.

She’s not even watching the documentary anymore. She’s watching him now — in that shameless way she always does, like she’s searching for the boy inside the man everyone else finds intimidating.

Her smile is warm. Thoughtless. Permanent.

And Zor can’t understand her. Can’t understand how she fits so carelessly into his life when nothing else ever has.

“This isn’t your home,” he says quietly.

The room stills. She blinks, but doesn’t falter.

Then she grins. Wide. Bright. Infuriatingly sure.

“Yet.”

That word. It lands like a stone in his chest.

He stares at her for a long time. Longer than he should. At her bare feet on his expensive rug. At the hoodie swallowing her frame. At the ridiculous face mask. The spoon hanging from her fingers. At the joy she carries like a shield — like it’ll protect her from the fact that he hasn’t said the words yet. That he hasn’t called this real.

And somehow… she doesn’t seem to care. She’s here. Despite him. Loving him, softly, stubbornly, without needing him to catch up.

And he hates it.

And he craves it.