The Seattle apartment wasn't much.
One bedroom. Crooked floorboards. A kitchen window that rattled in the wind. The water pressure was moody, and the building smelled faintly of old books and burnt toast.
But when Talia stepped inside with the last of their boxes, she couldn't stop smiling.
Because it was theirs.
Ezra followed behind her, arms full of pots and pans wrapped in mismatched towels. "Why do we have five spatulas?"
Talia raised an eyebrow. "Because I plan to burn at least three of them trying to cook?"
Ezra laughed, dropping the box onto the counter. "Remind me to teach you how to make something other than cereal."
"I make great cereal."
"You make chaos in a bowl."
She swatted him with a dishtowel and he caught it mid-air, pulling her close by the waist. They stood there, breathing the same quiet air, surrounded by cardboard and hope.
"This is real," she whispered.
Ezra kissed her temple. "It always was. Even before we knew it."
Unpacking took days. Ezra meticulously organized his books by subject and color. Talia tossed hers into stacks that made zero sense, then spent the evening making Ezra guess the logic behind them. ("Psych books are under 'P,' but also under 'R' for 'Run when you're stressed.'")
They argued over whether to keep his Star Wars posters. He insisted. She compromised. They ended up framing her favorite one and hanging it in the hallway.
Talia claimed the left side of the bed. Ezra never fought her for it.
And somehow, between orientation and new schedules, late-night ramen, and mismatched mugs, a rhythm began to form.
A life, built from laughter, compromise, and quiet companionship.
One Sunday morning, three weeks into their new routine, Talia woke to find Ezra gone.
At first, panic tugged at her chest—the ghost of old wounds whispering he'd left again.
But then she found the note on the fridge:
At the farmer's market. Be back with strawberries and secrets. Don't burn the coffee.
She smiled, pulling on a hoodie and curling up on their worn couch, flipping through a textbook she barely registered. When he returned, he carried sunflowers in one hand and a paper bag of pastries in the other.
"Peace offering for leaving before coffee," he said.
"You know the rules."
"No caffeine crimes. I know, I know."
They ate on the fire escape, cross-legged, sharing sugar-dusted croissants while the city buzzed around them.
Between bites, Talia glanced sideways at him. "You ever think we'd get here?"
Ezra took a sip of her coffee. "Not like this. Not so... soft."
"Soft's not a bad thing."
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
That night, they sat side by side at the kitchen table, each scribbling notes, surrounded by open books and too many highlighters. Rain tapped at the windows. Ezra had one earbud in, sharing his playlist with her.
Halfway through a pharmacology chart, Talia turned to him. "Do you ever worry we'll mess this up?"
Ezra paused. "All the time."
Her throat tightened. "Me too."
"But that doesn't mean we will," he added. "We mess up, and we fix it. That's what love is, right?"
She watched him—this boy with messy curls, ink-stained fingers, and eyes that had always looked at her like she was more than her mistakes.
"Yeah," she said softly. "That's what love is."
Later that night, long after the lights were off and the world outside their window had quieted, Ezra reached for her hand beneath the covers.
"Can I tell you something?"
"You can tell me anything."
He turned to her, eyes wide open in the dark. "This—this life with you—it feels like the first thing I didn't have to chase or earn. It just… happened. And it's the only thing I've ever been sure about."
Talia blinked against the tears that crept in, unexpected.
She squeezed his hand. "You're the only thing that's ever felt safe."
They kissed, not out of urgency, but certainty.
And when they fell asleep, tangled in each other, it wasn't dramatic or cinematic.
It was simply home.