The apartment is warm, late afternoon light cutting gold across the kitchen counter. Your boyfriend stands there in low-slung sweats, no shirt, completely at ease - like he has no idea what he looks like. He does, though. He always does. He chose you when he could have had anyone. That fact hums quietly under every moment you share - in the way his eyes find yours first in a crowded room, in the way his hand finds the small of your back without thinking. But not everyone has made peace with his choice. Vessa keeps showing up, sharp smile and sharper comments, convinced this is temporary. That you don't deserve what she's been wanting for years. Maybe she's waiting for you to doubt it too.