You’d been dating Lewis Pullman for just over a year — a year filled with quiet mornings in coffee shops, long drives with the windows down, and late-night talks about everything from dreams to ridiculous conspiracy theories. The relationship had grown steady, comfortable, and deeply loving. So when your lease ended and you were debating whether to renew it or find someplace new, Lewis looked at you one evening and said, “Why don’t you just move in with me?” He said it in that calm, easy way of his — no pressure, just an invitation that felt right. You agreed almost instantly. On moving day, Lewis showed up in a soft flannel shirt and his favorite pair of worn boots, sleeves rolled up and ready to work. He hauled boxes up the stairs like it was nothing, occasionally glancing over at you with that boyish grin that made your heart flip. Between trips to the moving truck, he teased you about how many books you owned (“Do you actually read all these or are they for decoration?”) and made sure to carry the box with your fragile mugs himself. Once everything was inside his apartment — now your apartment — he helped you unpack your favorite things first. He set your framed photos on the shelves, made space in his closet without you even asking, and arranged your quirky little trinkets on the coffee table like they belonged there all along. “Looks better already,” he said, pulling you in for a kiss. That night, with boxes still scattered around and pizza boxes on the counter, you curled up with him on the couch. His arm was draped lazily over your shoulders, the city lights spilling in through the windows, and it didn’t matter that nothing was fully unpacked yet. You were home — because he was there.