When Tyler asked me to move in, it felt like a milestone. After two years of dating and practically living at his place already, it made sense. He lived in a spacious apartment gifted by his parents, while I shared a cramped place with two roommates and no air conditioning.
One night, we were curled up watching the sunset when he turned to me and said, “You basically live here already. Why not just make it official?”
My heart swelled. I’d been waiting for a moment like that — a sign we were building a future together. I said yes without hesitation, already imagining late-night takeout, joint laundry days, and maybe even a shared Christmas tree someday.
Moving weekend was a blur of boxes, laughter, and sweat. My brother helped with the heavy lifting, my best friend Mia brought snacks, and Tyler and I bought a new sofa together. I nested quickly, arranging my plants near the windows, filling shelves with my books, and setting up a cozy reading nook. Tyler smiled and said, “It finally feels like home.”
For a while, it was wonderful. I cooked, I cleaned, I folded his towels the way he liked, and I adapted to his daily routine with ease. It felt like the start of something solid.
Then came week six.
That morning, I opened the fridge to grab orange juice and saw an envelope taped to the carton. My first thought? Concert tickets. Maybe a sweet note.
Inside was an invoice.
Typed. Itemized.
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