The apartment wasn't finished.
Boxes stacked in corners. Curtains still bundled on the floor. A flickering light in the hallway Leon hadn't gotten around to fixing yet.
But it had high ceilings, sun-washed windows, and a view of the Thames.
And it had them.
That made it feel like home—almost.
Aria stood barefoot in the middle of the kitchen, holding two mugs of coffee.
She wore one of Leon's T-shirts and a sleepy frown.
"Who designed this layout?" she muttered. "The fridge opens into a wall."
Leon, shirtless and half-awake, grunted from the living room. "British minimalism."
"This is British sabotage."
He walked over, took his mug, and kissed her forehead.
"I'll have someone remodel it."
She leaned back against the counter.
"No, don't. I want us to figure it out before we start changing it."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You want to suffer first?"
"I want it to feel like ours. Not just something handed over with polished marble and imported tiles."
Leon studied her.
Then nodded.
"Ours it is."
The first week was chaos.
Her equipment got stuck in customs.
His new office threw him into back-to-back meetings with international partners who didn't care about time zones or sleep.
They crossed paths in hallways at 2 AM, handed each other takeout containers between calls, and learned very quickly that they needed a better calendar system if they were going to function like two people sharing a life.
But at night—when the city fell quiet and their laptops closed—they found each other in the dark.
No pressure.
No grand plans.
Just breath and skin and soft murmurs that sounded like:
"We're here."
"We made it."
"We're okay."
On Thursday, Aria got lost trying to find a new client's studio.
The cab dropped her two blocks too far, and her phone died.
By the time she reached the building, soaked from a surprise drizzle and 20 minutes late, she was fuming.
But the moment she stepped into the lobby, the receptionist handed her a folded note.
From L. C."In case today tries to ruin you. It won't. I'm already waiting on the other side."
She read it three times.
And smiled the whole shoot.
Leon struggled too.
The new office had different expectations—more politics, less autonomy.
He wasn't used to being questioned.
He wasn't used to having to explain his choices.
But when he came home late one night, head throbbing, tie half-undone, he found Aria in the living room surrounded by prints and layout boards.
She looked up and smiled.
"Want to sit with me while I work?"
No demands.
No questions.
Just an invitation.
So he did.
He sat beside her, leaned his head on her shoulder, and let the pressure bleed out of his chest in silence.
"You're doing fine," she whispered.
He believed her.
They fought, too.
Over groceries.
Over laundry schedules.
Over how long was too long to leave a suitcase unpacked.
But every fight ended the same way: someone softening first. Someone reaching out.
Because what they had now wasn't about winning.
It was about staying.
Even when the flat was too small.
Even when the lights flickered.
Even when the rhythm was off.
Three weeks in, Aria stood by the window, looking out at the river.
Leon walked up behind her, arms slipping around her waist.
"This city's growing on me," she murmured.
He kissed her neck.
"Because of the view?"
She smiled.
"No. Because we're writing our story here, not just repeating an old one."
He pulled her closer.
"Then let's make this the chapter where we live out loud."
And she nodded.
Because they weren't perfect.
But they were together.
And for now, that was everything.