Saturday evenings at his place had a rhythm.
Laundry humming softly in the background. Music low. The smell of whatever he had decided to experiment with in the kitchen drifting through the apartment.
That night he was unusually relaxed, stretched out on the couch while I rested against him, my legs tucked beneath mine like we had done this a hundred times before.
"My house will be done soon," he said casually, eyes still on the television.
I looked up. "The one in Spintex?"
"Yeah." He nodded. "Construction's almost finished."
"That's exciting."
He muted the television and turned slightly toward me. His arm slid behind my shoulders, resting there like it belonged.
"Once that's done, we won't have to keep rotating like this."
I smiled faintly. "Rotating?"
"You know what I mean. Your place. My place. Packing bags every weekend."
I did know.
There was something oddly comforting about the routine. My small overnight bag. His quiet satisfaction when I walked in. The unspoken agreement that we were choosing each other again every week.
"I don't mind rotating," I said.
He studied me for a second.
"I do," he replied softly. "I'm tired of temporary."
Temporary.
The word lingered longer than it should have.
"I'm serious," he continued. "You'll move in. Then we'll get married. We'll stop doing this back and forth."
He said it so easily.
Not like a proposal. Like a plan.
I laughed lightly. "You've mapped out my life already?"
"I've mapped out ours."
That distinction felt important.
"Don't you like your independence?" I asked.
"I do," he said. "But independence and stability aren't enemies."
I leaned my head against his chest. His cologne settled into my senses warm, familiar, grounding.
Safe.
That's what loving him felt like.
Safe enough to imagine permanence. Safe enough to picture my shoes in his hallway. Safe enough to see my name attached to his.
"You're not threatened by my work, are you?" I asked casually.
He didn't hesitate. "No. I like that you're ambitious."
"You say that now."
"I'll say it later too."
He smiled in that quiet way of his — controlled, confident, steady.
"I'm not competing with you," he added. "We build together."
Build.
That word fit him.
He wasn't flashy. He wasn't loud. He wasn't dramatic.
He was steady.
And steady felt adult. Steady felt intentional. Steady felt like something you could build a life on.
Later that night, standing on his balcony, the city lights flickering beneath us, he wrapped his arm loosely around my waist.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said quietly.
I didn't question it.
Why would I?
At the time, there was no reason to.