Se-Ri's POV
Moving Day
The doorbell rang five minutes earlier than expected.
Typical Leo. Always precise — even when moving in with nothing but two suitcases and a beat-up cardboard box labeled Stuff in black marker.
I opened the door to find him standing there in a dark crewneck, hair slightly tousled from the wind, holding his entire life like it weighed nothing.
"This is it?" I asked.
He glanced at the bags. "Everything I want is already here."
Behind him, Amisha pushed past with a dramatic sigh. "I'm here to supervise the cohabitation of two emotionally constipated CEOs."
"Emotional development in progress," Leo muttered under his breath.
Rhea followed next, glowing and very pregnant, cradling a tray of snacks like peace offerings. "We brought carbs. And judgment."
Leo gave a faint smile. "Perfect combo."
Amisha dropped her tote with a thud. "Where's the kitchen? I plan to stand there looking helpful while doing absolutely nothing."
"Second door on the left," I said, stepping aside to let chaos enter.
The next hour was part moving montage, part sitcom.
Leo unpacked with quiet precision, his few belongings sliding seamlessly into the spaces I'd cleared for him.
Watching it happen — his toothbrush beside mine, his books lining up beside mine, his jackets tucked between my oversized blazers — felt more intimate than kissing.
It wasn't romantic.
It was real.
Ren arrived half an hour late with a roll of bubble wrap and a loaf of bread.
"I thought this might be useful," he said earnestly.
"You're a disaster," Amisha said without even looking up.
But when I glanced across the room — to Leo, crouched in front of the bookshelf, reordering my literary chaos into clean rows — my chest squeezed tight.
He looked up at me. "This okay?"
And somehow, it was.
First Night Living Together
That night, everything felt… different.
It wasn't just the extra toothbrush or the new pair of shoes by the door.
It was the quiet.
Not empty anymore — just soft. Settled.
Leo had finished arranging the bookshelf his way: categories, spacing, clean corners.
But he'd left one stack untouched — the chaotic pile of poetry books I always left crooked.
"That feels like you," he'd said.
Now, he was in the kitchen, boiling water for tea. I watched him from the couch, barefoot, knees tucked to my chest.
"You're really here," I said.
He turned, tea mug in hand. "You didn't believe it until I brewed chamomile, did you?"
I smiled. "It's surreal. You, in this space. Our space."
He sat beside me, close enough to feel the warmth of his body.
"I've never done this before," he said.
"Me neither."
We sat in companionable silence. The city murmured outside. A siren passed. Distant laughter rose from the street.
"I'm scared," I said finally. "Not of you. Of… doing this wrong. Of rushing, or not knowing the right pace."
Leo leaned his head back against the couch. "Can I tell you something kind of dumb?"
"Always."
"I brought my mom's old rice cooker."
I blinked.
"It barely works. She hated most things, but she kept that one. It's the only thing she never threw at me."
My chest ached. I reached for his hand. Held it gently between both of mine.
"Then we'll make rice in it," I said softly.
He looked at me with that same Leo softness — quiet eyes, hesitant smile, like maybe this time, he believed it could last.
He nodded.
That night, we slept curled into each other — no grand declarations, no promises.
Just quiet breath and shared warmth.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was honest.
And for the first time, home didn't feel like a place I came back to.
It felt like something we were building — piece by imperfect piece.