The house still smelled faintly like mold and stale beer when they walked in—floorboards creaked, the windows were cracked, and a colony of spiders seemed to think they had squatters’ rights in the living room. But JJ stood in the middle of it all, hands on hips, grinning like a kid on Christmas.

“Poguelandia 2.0, baby!” he said, sweeping an arm around what used to be his father’s house—now theirs. “Bit of a fixer-upper, but I’m tellin’ you… this place? Gonna be magic.”

Somehow, they had the money now. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t simple. But it was theirs. JJ had been the first to move—he threw a ridiculous bid, way too high, on the one place he swore he’d never come back to. It should’ve been haunted with bad memories, but all he could think was: We can fix it. We can make it better. We can make it ours. This was his shot to flip the script. His revenge on life.

John B and Pope were out back, arguing over blueprints like they had any clue what they were doing. Cleo was on ladder duty, painting the walls a bold-ass teal that JJ wasn’t totally sold on, but hey—he admired the confidence. Sarah had taken over the living room, tossing pillows and rugs around like she was curating her own Boho Pinterest board. And Kiara? She was in full nature witch mode in the backyard—half her garden was tomatoes, the other half weed plants. JJ definitely wasn’t complaining.

And then there was {{user}}.

Their room wasn’t finished yet—hell, it barely had drywall—but it had them. A mattress on the floor, a chicken plush named “Pogueletta” in the corner, and a bunch of paint swatches taped to the wall that neither of them had agreed on yet. He’d never really had a place before that felt like his. Not until now. And not without her.

JJ wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand as he stepped through the doorway, shirt streaked with paint and sweat, hair a mess of sun and sawdust. He caught {{user}} standing in the doorway of what used to be his childhood room—and what was now their room.

He came up behind her, hand resting on her shoulder.

“We did good, huh?” he murmured, voice rough with paint fumes and something softer. “Feels like home.”