The morning sun shone through the curtains, painting the small apartment in a warm golden light.
Boxes still lined the corners of the living room, half-opened, some spilling clothes and books onto the wooden floor.
Anabelle stood by the window, holding a cup of coffee in her hand. The steam rose softly, brushing against her face as she smiled to herself.
It finally felt real—her own place, her own space.
She walked slowly through the apartment, touching the smooth surface of the table Fred had helped her assemble the day before.
“It’s not perfect,” he had said, laughing as one leg wobbled slightly. “But it stands. Like us.”
The memory made her laugh again.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. It was a text from Fred.
> Morning, Belle. Hope you slept well. Need me to bring anythin
