The key hung around Nayla's neck for three days before she said anything about it.
She wore it under her shirt like a secret. Not hidden out of shame but protected, like something she hadn't quite figured out how to hold.
Every time she caught her reflection, she saw the way it glinted under the fabric.
A promise.
An invitation.
Not just to a shared space, but to a shared life.
On the fourth day, she showed up at Raka's door with a small suitcase and a tote bag filled with books, her favorite mug, and a worn hoodie that smelled like lavender detergent.
Raka opened the door wearing a paint-stained t-shirt and socks with little pizza slices on them.
"You came," he said, blinking.
"I said I would think about it," she replied.
"And?"
"I thought."
He stepped aside without another word, letting her in like he always did. No dramatic gasp. No sweeping embrace.
Just Raka, steady, open, grinning like someone who had quietly been hoping this would happen all along.
Nayla stepped inside.
Everything smelled familiar.
Coffee and cinnamon. Dust and sunlight. The faintest trace of his cologne.
Her favorite book was still on the shelf where she'd left it.
And on the kitchen counter was a note, scribbled in Raka's handwriting:
"Clear a drawer for you in the bathroom. The bedside table on the left is yours, too. Snacks are labeled, but you'll still eat mine. That's okay."
She laughed softly as she read it.
When she turned to face him, he looked nervous.
"Still want your room sometimes?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I put together a little reading corner in the spare room. Figured you might need quiet now and then."
That made her heart ache in the best way.
He wasn't just making space for her stuff.
He was making space for her.
All of her.
"I haven't lived with anyone before," she said, her voice softer now. "This is new for me."
"For me too," he replied. "But I like new. Especially with you."
They unpacked together that afternoon.
Folded shirts.
Hung jackets.
Debated where the coffee grinder should go.
It wasn't perfect. Raka knocked over a plant trying to hang one of her prints, but it was theirs.
Later that night, she curled up next to him on the couch, blanket over their legs, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her arm.
"This feels… good," she murmured.
"It feels like us," he said.
And she realized then that "moving in" didn't have to mean losing her solitude, or her rhythm, or her quiet.
It just meant sharing them with someone who never asked her to change the tempo.
She looked at him and whispered, "This is my yes."
He kissed her temple, content.
Sometimes love didn't arrive with fireworks.
Sometimes it was just a key on a necklace.
A suitcase by the door.
And a quiet yes, spoken in the language they'd built together.