The apartment was small.
Just one bedroom, a narrow kitchen, and a view of the street that offered more honking than scenery. The walls were bare, save for a single framed print of a lighthouse and some sticky notes near the light switches Raka's doing.
But to Nayla, it felt like a possibility.
They weren't moving in together.
Not yet.
But today, they were building something together. A shared space. One that would still let her breathe, even when he filled the room with his oversized laughter and overflowing playlists.
"I got you a drawer," Raka said proudly, opening the rickety nightstand next to his bed.
Nayla blinked. "A drawer."
"For your stuff. Toothbrush. Hair ties. The mysterious lip balm you always lose."
She smiled. "I thought you didn't believe in small gestures."
"I do when they involve making you feel like you belong."
Her smile softened, and she placed her small pouch of essentials into the drawer. Slowly. Like marking territory. Gently. Like not wanting to jinx anything.
They had talked about it. This new stage. Where she'd spend more nights at his place, where the coffee mugs might start mixing, where her books might show up on his shelf next to his messily stacked comic novels.
They were careful.
But they were ready.
That evening, they made dinner together. Raka chopped with dramatic flair. Nayla measured rice with her precise fingers. It wasn't smooth; they bumped into each other, spilled soy sauce, and burned the first batch of eggs.
But they laughed.
And that was new.
Not the laughter, but how easy it came.
After dinner, they lay on the couch. Her head was on his chest, rising and falling with each breath. His hand rested on her back, tracing soft circles without meaning to.
"Do you ever get scared of how good this feels?" she asked.
"All the time," he replied.
"And yet…"
"And yet I stay," he finished. "Because you're not a risk, Nayla. You're a choice."
She let that settle in her chest like warmth spreading through winter skin.
In the silence that followed, he reached under the couch and pulled out a small, wrapped package.
"What's this?" she asked, sitting up.
"Open it."
Inside was a notebook.
The cover was soft brown leather, the kind that creased gently with touch. On the first page, in his messy, unmistakable handwriting, was a note:
"For all the thoughts you don't text. For all the feelings that deserve to be written. For all the ways you're learning to show up—loud or quiet. I'll read every page. Even the ones you don't share."
Her throat closed.
She didn't cry.
But she felt something break and rebuild inside her, all at once.
"I don't deserve you," she whispered.
He smiled. "Then it's a good thing I'm not here to be deserved. I'm here to stay."
She clutched the notebook to her chest.
This wasn't the end of their story.
Not even close.
It was just one of the rooms they'd fill. One of the drawers. One of the dinners they'd half-burn and still eat anyway.
It was her first real step into we.
And she wasn't scared anymore.
Because this time, she had a room of her own.
And he was in it.