Naomi's bag is by the door.
It's a small thing—just a duffel bag, nothing dramatic—but it feels significant somehow. A marker of ending, even though it's a good ending.
She's in the kitchen saying goodbye to Dylan, her voice lighter than it was when she first arrived. Not forced-bright, not performative. Just... genuine.
I lean against the hallway wall, watching from a distance, and feel something warm settle in my chest.
She looks different.
Not physically—though she is smiling more naturally, her shoulders less tense, her hands no longer constantly fidgeting.
But there's something in her eyes that wasn't there before.
Hope, maybe.
Or just the absence of that hollow exhaustion that had clung to her like a shadow.
"You sure you don't want to stay longer?" Dylan is asking. "You're always welcome here."
"I know." Naomi's smile is soft and real. "And I might take you up on that sometime. But I think I need to try going back. See if I can hold onto this feeling in my own space."
"And if you can't?" Keith appears from the living room, his expression serious despite his casual tone. "If it gets bad again?"
"Then I'll call." Naomi looks between them. "Or I'll show up at your door at two AM demanding pancakes and a Titanic marathon."
Keith grins. "Deal. Though I'm warning you now, I will cry."
"I'm counting on it."
I push off the wall and move into the kitchen properly. Naomi turns when she sees me, and something passes between us—understanding, recognition, shared experience.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For that first morning. For seeing through the smile."
"Thank you for trusting me enough to drop it," I reply.
She crosses the kitchen and pulls me into a hug. Not the desperate, breaking-apart hug from that first morning. This one is steady. Grateful. The kind of hug that says I'm okay now instead of please help me.
"You're going to be okay," I murmur against her shoulder.
"Yeah." She pulls back, and her eyes are bright but not with tears. With something lighter. "Yeah, I think I am."
Keith and Dylan both hug her too—Keith dramatic and tight, Dylan quieter but just as sincere.
And then she's picking up her bag, heading for the door, turning back one last time with a wave and a smile that reaches her eyes.
"See you guys soon," she says.
"You better," Keith replies.
The door closes behind her, and the apartment falls into a different kind of quiet.
Not empty. Not heavy.
Just... peaceful.
Keith stretches, his shirt riding up slightly, and Dylan immediately reaches over to tug it back down with a casual familiarity that makes something warm settle in my chest.
When did we all start doing that?
"Well," Keith says, flopping onto the couch with his usual grace—which is to say, none at all. "That was a good week."
"She seemed better," Dylan agrees, settling beside him.
And I notice—really notice—how we've all changed over these past weeks.
The way Keith's hand finds Dylan's shoulder without looking. The way Dylan's fingers absently play with the hem of Keith's shirt. The way they both turn to look at me with identical expressions of warmth and invitation.
The way Keith pats the space between them without even asking if I want to join.
The way Dylan's arm automatically comes around my shoulders when I settle in the middle.
The way Keith leans his head on my shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world, while his legs tangle with Dylan's on the other side.
We've always been tactile with each other. That's nothing new.
But something's different now.
More comfortable, maybe. More unconscious.
Like we've stopped thinking about the boundaries between our personal spaces and just... exist together.
Dylan's thumb traces absent circles on my shoulder. Keith's hand rests on my knee, warm and grounding. And I find myself leaning into both touches, my own hand coming up to rest on Keith's where it sits on my leg.
Three separate people learning to exist as something more.
Not losing ourselves. Just... fitting together in ways that feel increasingly inevitable.
"You're thinking loud again," Dylan murmurs, his breath warm against my hair.
"Sorry."
"Don't be." Keith shifts, pressing closer. "What are you thinking about?"
How to explain this? This feeling of belonging so completely that the spaces between us have started to dissolve?
"Just... this," I say finally. "Us. How different it feels from a few weeks ago."
"Good different?" Keith asks, and there's something vulnerable in the question.
"Yeah," I say softly. "Really good different."
Dylan's arm tightens around me, and Keith's hand squeezes my knee, and we stay like that—tangled together on the couch, three people learning to be something more.
"We should do something tonight," Keith announces after a while. "Celebrate Naomi leveling up."
"Leveling up?" I ask.
"You know. Character development. Main character energy." He waves a hand vaguely. "She came here stuck in a bad place and left with the tools to handle it. That's growth. That deserves celebration."
"What did you have in mind?" Dylan asks.
Keith considers this. "Movie night? Order in? Nothing too elaborate. Just us."
"Sounds good," Dylan says, but he's looking at me. "Cecil?"
"Yeah. That sounds nice."
We settle into planning—Keith insisting we need to order from at least three different restaurants, Dylan trying to instill some sense of reason, me occasionally offering suggestions that get immediately overruled.
It's comfortable. Easy. Home in a way I'm still getting used to but learning to trust.
---
Later, after dinner—which did indeed come from three different restaurants—and after a movie that Keith chose specifically because "it has a happy ending and we all deserve happy endings," Dylan stretches and yawns.
"I'm exhausted," he announces.
Keith perks up. "Sleepover?"
"We literally live together," I point out. "Every night is technically a sleepover."
"You know what I mean." Keith is already standing, clearly prepared to migrate to someone's room for the night.
Dylan catches his arm. "My room this time."
Keith blinks. "Really?"
"Really. If you're both okay with that."
There's something in his voice—not quite hesitant, but careful. Like this matters somehow.
"I've literally never seen your room," Keith says, his eyes lighting up with curiosity. "You never let anyone in there."
"I'm aware." Dylan's expression is hard to read. "That's why I'm offering now."
Keith looks at me, eyebrows raised in question.
And I realize—this is significant. Dylan doesn't let people into his space. Ever. His room has been this mysterious, off-limits territory since I moved in.
But he's offering now.
To both of us.
"Yeah," I say, standing. "Yeah, okay."
Dylan's shoulders relax slightly, like he'd been genuinely worried we'd say no.
We follow him down the hallway, past my room, past Keith's room, to the door at the end that's always been closed.
Dylan pauses with his hand on the knob, taking a breath like he's steadying himself.
Then he opens the door and steps aside.
"Welcome to my disaster," he says dryly.
Except it's not a disaster at all.
The room is... unexpectedly Dylan.
Dark walls—deep blue, almost navy. A large bed with plain black sheets, meticulously made. A desk that's organized with military precision—books stacked by size, papers in neat folders, pens lined up parallel to each other.
But there are unexpected soft touches too.
Fairy lights strung along one wall, casting a warm glow. A collection of plants on the windowsill, thriving despite Dylan claiming he's "not a plant person." Photographs pinned to a corkboard—some of people I don't recognize, some of Keith, a few that look like they might be from the celestial realm.
And books. So many books. Lining shelves, stacked on the nightstand, a few scattered on the floor near the bed like he'd been reading before sleep.
"Wow," Keith says, moving into the room like he's exploring a museum. "This is so you."
"What does that mean?"
"Organized chaos. But like, the chaos is hidden behind really good organization." Keith picks up a book from the nightstand. "You're reading three books at once?"
"Four, actually. There's one in the living room."
I move to the corkboard, studying the photographs. There's one of Keith laughing, his head thrown back, completely unguarded. Another of what looks like Dylan and Keith as kids—or younger, anyway—standing in what might be the celestial realm based on the ethereal quality of the light.
"When was this taken?" I ask, pointing to the childhood photo.
Dylan moves to stand beside me. "About fifty years ago. We were young idiots who were always running around."
"As opposed to now, when we're mature idiots," Keith adds from where he's examining the plants.
"Speak for yourself."
"I am. That's literally what I just did."
I smile, still studying the photos. There are none of me. Which makes sense—I've only been here a few weeks. But somehow the absence feels deliberate, like Dylan's waiting for the right moment to add me to this collection of important things.
"So," Keith says, turning from the window. "Sleeping arrangements?"
Dylan's bed is bigger than mine or Keith's—a queen, easily enough for three people if we don't mind being close.
Which, based on the past few weeks, none of us seem to mind.
"However you want," Dylan says, but there's something uncertain in his voice. Like he's offered us access to his private space and now doesn't quite know what to do with us here.
Keith catches it too. He crosses the room and takes Dylan's hand, squeezing once. "Thank you. For letting us in here."
Dylan's expression softens. "You're welcome. Both of you."
There's a moment—just a brief moment—where something passes between them. Some private understanding or acknowledgment.
Then Keith is pulling Dylan toward the bed, complaining about being tired even though it's barely ten PM.
I follow more slowly, taking in this new space, this new level of trust.
Dylan's room. His private sanctuary. And he's letting us in.
We settle on the bed—Dylan in the middle this time, Keith on one side, me on the other. It's different from when we sleep in my room, where I'm usually the one in the middle. Different from Keith's room where he sprawls across both of us with his chaotic sleeping habits.
Here, in Dylan's space, he's the anchor.
Keith immediately burrows against his side, and Dylan's arm comes around him automatically. Natural. Unconscious.
I stay slightly separate for a moment, giving them that space.
Then Dylan's other arm extends toward me—an invitation.
"Come here," he says quietly.
I shift closer, and Dylan pulls me against his other side, his arm solid and warm around my shoulders.
And we lie there in the soft glow of the fairy lights, in Dylan's carefully curated space, and it feels like something has shifted.
Not broken. Not changed dramatically.
Just... deepened.
Like we've moved into a new room in the house we're building together, and it fits just as perfectly as all the others.
Keith's breathing evens out first—he always falls asleep the fastest.
Dylan's heartbeat is steady against my ear, his thumb tracing absent patterns on my shoulder.
"Thank you," I murmur. "For this."
"For what?"
"Letting us in. Literally and figuratively."
Dylan is quiet for a moment. "You've both let me into your spaces. Your rooms. Your lives. Your pain." His voice is soft in the darkness. "Seemed only fair to return the favor."
"It's not a transaction," I say.
"I know." His arm tightens slightly. "But I wanted to. Wanted you both to know that you're..." He pauses, searching for words. "That you're home. That this is home. All of it. Including this room."
Something warm blooms in my chest.
Home.
Not a place. Not four walls.
These people. These moments. This feeling of being held and accepted and chosen.
"Yeah," I whisper. "Home."
Dylan's breathing slows, evening out into the rhythm of sleep.
And I lie there between them—Keith on one side, Dylan on the other—and feel safer than I've felt in my entire life.
Naomi left today, stronger than when she arrived.
And we're here, the three of us, growing stronger together.
Building something that doesn't have a name yet but feels solid and real and ours.