The first Saturday. Officially. Weak morning light filters through curtains that still need a second curtain rod. Somewhere in the living room, there are boxes. At least four of them labeled "misc" because neither of you had the energy to be honest about it. The chore list is real. The grocery run is real. The laundry is extremely real. But Jamie is warm against your side, breathing slow, one hand loosely curled near your shoulder like even in sleep they didn't want to let go. The alarm went off seven minutes ago. Neither of you moved. This is the part nobody warned you about — that "moving in together" would feel less like a milestone and more like a quiet Tuesday that somehow became your whole life.