I glance at the clock on my new office wall—5:02 p.m. The golden late-afternoon light is slanting through the windows, turning the city skyline into a soft watercolour.

I've spent the last few hours lost in Mrs. Sella's notes, cross-referencing protocols with my own psychology insights, jotting little sticky notes on how to weave in gentle reminders for Tommy's meals and breaks. 

My bag is already packed, blazer folded over my arm. I feel a quiet sense of accomplishment mixed with nervous excitement.

This is the first evening in my new apartment. Our first real evening together there.

I shut down my computer, smooth my blouse (thankfully dry now), and head for the elevator.

The ride down is quiet; most of the floor has already emptied out. When the doors open in the lobby, the space feels different—less corporate, more like the entrance to a home. 

I step out and scan the area. No sign of Tommy's black BMW in the visible parking area. He must have tucked it away in the basement garage, keeping things discreet as always.

Then I see her—the same receptionist from my first visit to the building. Today she's dressed modestly: a high-neck blouse and tailored slacks, hair neatly pinned. No topless display, no milk droplets. Just professional warmth. She gives me a small, knowing smile as I pass.

"Ms. Alzanna. Welcome home," she says softly. "Mr. Tommy is waiting for you by the elevators."

I nod, grateful for her discretion, and walk toward the private lift bank. There he is—sitting on one of the low leather sofas in the quiet waiting area near the elevators. 

He's changed out of his suit jacket, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened.

When he sees me, he stands immediately, that familiar half-smile tugging at his lips—the one that makes him look less like a CEO and more like the boy who once bumped his forehead on a conference table.

"Hey," he says, voice low and warm. "Ready to christen the new place?"

I laugh softly, stepping into his space. "More than ready. Lead the way, boss."

He presses the button for the 17th floor.

The ride up is silent except for the soft ding of the elevator and the brush of his fingers against mine.

When the doors open, the hallway smells faintly of new paint and fresh linen. He unlocks apartment 1701, pushes the door wide, and steps aside to let me enter first.

The space is breathtaking in daylight—floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the living room with warm gold, the skyline stretching out like a promise.

Boxes are already stacked neatly in the corners, courtesy of the moving crew. The air still has that faint new-apartment scent—clean wood, cardboard, possibility.

Tommy closes the door behind us, locks it, then turns to me with a grin that's equal parts mischief and affection. "Alright, beautiful. Let's unpack your life."

We start with the bookshelves—my psychology texts, novels, a few framed photos. He lifts one of the heavier boxes and pretends to stagger under the weight. "Jesus, Alzanna—did you smuggle bricks in here? Or is this just the weight of all your Harvard knowledge?"

I roll my eyes, laughing. "That's the trauma section. Careful, or it'll fall on your head and give you some of your own."

He sets it down dramatically, then sneaks behind me while I'm arranging books.

Suddenly his arms snake around my waist, and he nuzzles into my neck, voice a playful growl. "Found something even heavier than books."

I squeal—actually squeal—and twist in his hold, swatting his arm. "Tommy! We're supposed to be unpacking, not..."

"Not what?" he teases, spinning me gently until I'm facing him. "Not this?" He leans in and kisses the tip of my nose. "Or this?" Another kiss on my cheek. "Or definitely not this?" His lips find mine—slow, sweet, tasting faintly of the mint he must have popped in the elevator.

I melt into it for a moment, then pull back, breathless and grinning. "You're impossible. I thought you were all serious CEO."

"Oh, I am," he says solemnly, stepping back and folding his arms. "Very serious. Which is why I must now inspect this suspicious box labelled 'Fragile – Do Not Open Unless You Want to Die.'"

He lifts the lid of my "kitchen keepsakes" box and pulls out the cat-shaped teapot with exaggerated caution, holding it like it's a bomb. "Is this the murder weapon?" he asks, eyes wide in mock horror.

I snatch it from him, laughing so hard my sides hurt. "That's my lucky teapot! It's sacred."

"Sacred?" He raises an eyebrow. "Does it grant wishes? Because I wish you'd kiss me again." He puckers his lips ridiculously, leaning in. I pretend to consider it, then plant a quick peck on his cheek instead.

"Earn it, mister. Help me with the pillows first."

We keep going like that—teasing, bumping shoulders, stealing kisses between boxes.

He discovers my old college hoodie and immediately pulls it over his head, sleeves dangling past his hands.

"Look—I'm a Harvard girl now," he says in a terrible falsetto, twirling. "I'm very smart and I judge people silently."

I double over laughing. "You look ridiculous. And adorable."

"Adorable wins," he declares, and tackles me gently onto the couch amid a pile of throw pillows. We wrestle for a second—playful, breathless—until he pins my wrists above my head, grinning down at me.

"Truce?" he asks.

"Truce," I whisper, then lean up and kiss him properly slow, deep, full of everything we've been holding back all day. 

Eventually we finish unpacking the living room, kitchen, and bedroom.

The apartment already feels like ours—my books on the shelves, his energy bars now in the pantry next to my tea, our shoes lined up by the door.

The sun has dipped low, painting the room in soft oranges and pinks.

I head to the kitchen to make dinner—nothing fancy, just comforting, homey American comfort food: baked chicken breasts seasoned with garlic and herbs, mashed potatoes with butter and a little cream, steamed green beans with a squeeze of lemon, and a simple side salad with ranch dressing.

The smells fill the apartment—warm, savory, familiar.

Tommy wanders in, leaning against the doorframe, watching me with quiet wonder. "You are cooking," he says, almost reverently.

"I am," I reply, stirring the potatoes. "Is that surprising?"

"A little," he admits, stepping closer. "I knew you were brilliant. Harvard PhD, top of your class. But this..." He gestures at the stove, the simmering pots, the way I move around the kitchen like it's second nature. "This is magic. You're feeding me. Like...really feeding me. Not takeout. Not a protein bar. Actual food. Made with your hands."

I turn off the burner and face him, suddenly shy under his gaze. "It's just chicken and potatoes."

"It's not just anything," he says softly. He steps into my space, hands settling on my hips. "You're brilliant, yes. But you're also... home. You make things feel like home. And I haven't had that in... God, maybe ever."

My throat tightens. I reach up, cupping his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

"Then sit down, Tommy. Let me feed you tonight. And every night you want."

We eat at the small dining table—still surrounded by a few unpacked boxes, but it doesn't matter. He takes the first bite of chicken and closes his eyes, making an exaggerated moan of delight.

"Okay, wow. Marry me. Right now. This chicken is proposal-worthy."

I laugh, cheeks warming. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm serious," he says, pointing his fork at me. "Harvard degree, killer psychologist, can cook like this? I'm keeping you forever." 

We talk and laugh through the meal—him stealing bites from my plate, me swatting his hand, both of us stealing kisses between bites.

When the plates are cleared and the kitchen light is dimmed, he pulls me onto his lap on the couch, arms wrapped around me, chin resting on my shoulder.

"Thank you," he whispers against my neck. "For today. For this. For... everything."I turn in his arms, pressing my forehead to his.

"You're welcome, love. And thank you—for letting me in. For letting me take care of you."

We stay like that, wrapped in each other, the city lights twinkling outside, the apartment already feeling like home because we're in it together.