Ayra's POV
The real estate agent's heels clacked noisily across the marble floor as she led Eliot and me into yet another house that looked almost right. White-washed walls, wide windows, and a spiral staircase leading up to a loft. I paused in the entryway, arms crossed over my chest, imagining sunlight spilling through those windows in the morning.
Eliot stepped beside me, his arm brushing mine. "You're picturing your workspace there, aren't you?" he asked, pointing toward the room facing the garden.
I blinked at him. "How'd you know?"
"Because you always squint at natural light and get that exact look on your face when you start mentally placing sewing machines," he said, grinning.
I laughed, nudging him gently. "Okay, fine. Guilty."
Truth was, we had seen five houses already—each close to where Selene and Antonio lived—and while a few had charm, none of them had felt like ours. We weren't looking for perfection. We were looking for possibility. For echoes of who we were and whispers of who we could become.
The agent excused herself to take a call, leaving us to explore.
Eliot wandered upstairs while I lingered in the hallway. I traced my fingers along the cool surface of the wall, already picturing framed sketches, art pieces, swatches of fabric. A home where we'd host dinners, crash on the couch after long days, and maybe someday… maybe more.
"Ayra!" Eliot's voice echoed down. "Come look at this terrace."
I climbed up and found him standing in the middle of a small open terrace. From here, I could see the roof of Selene and Antonio's place—not far, just a few blocks down.
"I like this one," he said quietly. "Not just because it's near them. But because I can see you living here."
I looked at him, a warmth spreading through me. "You know, I never thought about what my house would look like growing up. But now… I see plants on that railing, a wind chime, maybe a swing chair."
He took my hand. "We'll make it happen. Step by step."
We didn't say we were buying it yet, but the way we looked at each other, it was already clear—we had found something.
---
Later that evening, back at Selene's place, I curled up beside her on the couch as Antonio and Eliot set up dinner.
"You two looked like you'd seen a vision," Selene teased, sipping her tea.
"Maybe we did," I grinned. "We found a place. It's… cozy. Bright. Has a terrace. And Eliot said he could see me there."
She leaned closer, eyes wide. "Ayra…"
"I know," I whispered.
Her hand found mine, and we sat there in a quiet moment, surrounded by flickers of future dreams and soft lights. Eliot walked in behind us, pressing a kiss to my temple. Selene glanced back, her knowing smile growing.
We weren't just house-hunting anymore.
We were building our story—brick by brick, heartbeat by heartbeat.
Selene's POV
"You really think it's the one?" I asked, stirring coffee as Ayra paced in circles around my kitchen island, her eyes gleaming with the kind of excitement that couldn't be contained.
"It's not perfect, but... it feels like us," she said, arms wrapped around herself, a smile tugging at her lips. "Eliot saw the terrace and literally whispered, 'I can already picture you designing there.' Can you believe him?"
I slid the mug toward her and leaned back, watching her with the same fondness I'd reserve for a favorite memory. "That's exactly how you know. The feeling is the perfection."
Ayra turned to me, her expression soft and hopeful. "Really?"
I nodded slowly. "When Antonio first brought me to our house, I had no idea he'd secretly been designing it for months. But the moment I stepped inside, it felt like he'd sketched it from the inside of my heart."
Ayra's eyes shimmered. "That's what this feels like. Like Eliot carved it from a shared dream."
Just then, the front door creaked open and Antonio stepped in, followed closely by Eliot, holding a brown paper bag that smelled suspiciously like flaky croissants and chocolate almond pastries.
"We brought sugar," Antonio announced, tossing me a knowing smile. "And emotional support carbs."
"You act like she's about to deliver a baby," Eliot teased as he set the pastries down and kissed Ayra's temple.
"She is," Antonio quipped. "A bouncing baby home with built-in shelving and a sunlit reading corner."
We all laughed, our voices echoing in the kitchen with that rare kind of joy that only comes when you're fully understood.
Later, sprawled across our living room with coffee mugs and sketchbooks open, Ayra excitedly shared the layout. Soft neutral tones, arched doorways, an open workspace for her boutique designs. Eliot had even scribbled a few notes in the margins—quotes they loved, tiny reminders for where she wanted light fixtures or plants.
Antonio tapped a corner of the sketch. "What if we knock this wall out and put a convertible bookcase? Light flows in, and it doubles as display for your fabric samples."
"And a chalkboard backsplash in the kitchen!" I added. "You two would leave the cheesiest notes to each other."
Ayra blushed. Eliot leaned closer and whispered something that made her hide her face behind her mug. It made my heart swell. They were building something beautiful—not just a house, but a rhythm.
"We'd love your help," Eliot said earnestly, his gaze shifting from Antonio to me. "Not just with the design. With the... everything."
Antonio nodded with a slow smile. "You've got us."
Later that evening, with plans folded and hearts full, Ayra sat next to me on the couch, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You and Antonio—you made us believe in this kind of love. One where growth is safe. One where dreams don't have to be whispered."
Outside the open window, Antonio and Eliot's laughter danced in with the breeze. I reached over and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
"You're not following us," I said, "you're walking your own path. You just found someone to match your pace."
Because home isn't made of walls—it's made of the ones who walk through them with you.