Alex had been shut up in the study all morning.
I took that as my signal.
By the afternoon, the house didn't look like some fancy showroom anymore, all perfect and untouched, waiting for a buyer. It looked… different. In a good way.
The awful black-and-gray rug was gone. Now there was this soft, cream-colored carpet with gold threads that shimmered when you walked on it. A low, curved sofa had replaced the stiff leather one, upholstered in a sandy color that actually looked inviting.
On the walls, the minimalist emptiness was gone, replaced with framed art—warm abstracts, soft landscapes, touches of amber and sage that just softened the whole space.
A tall ceramic pot sat near the window, holding a leafy plant that was spilling over the edge. It felt alive, you know?
And the lighting—
I'd changed the lighting.
Soft pendant lights. Warm bulbs. Not that harsh white glow that used to make everything feel so sterile and cold.
When I finally stepped back, hands on my hips, I let out a breath.
It felt like someone actually lived here now.
The study door opened.
I turned automatically.
Alex walked out, a file in hand, already mid-sentence—
—and then he stopped.
His eyes lifted.
Slowly.
The silence was thick between us.
He scanned the room.
Once.
Then twice.
His gaze moved over the carpet, the sofa, the walls, the plant, the lights—taking it all in, like he was trying to memorize every detail.
"This…" he started, then stopped.
My stomach did a flip. "Too much?"
He took a step, sort of nudging the new carpet with his shoe, like he was checking to see if it was real.
"Not really my thing," he said.
My shoulders kind of slumped before I could stop them.
"But," he went on, looking around again, more carefully this time, "it's… surprisingly good."
I blinked. "Really? I didn't think you'd even notice stuff like this."
A small smile touched his lips. "I notice things."
His eyes went to the pictures on the wall.
"These, they changed everything," he said. "The walls don't feel… so empty anymore."
I felt myself relax, a little smile creeping in. "I was worried you'd hate the colors."
"I don't hate it."
His gaze moved to the plant near the window. He walked over and gently touched one of the leaves.
"This is perfect," he murmured.
I nodded, happy. "That's exactly what I thought."
Then he looked up at the lights.
"They're beautiful," he said. "It'll look even better at night."
"It will," I agreed quickly.
"The whole place will feel warmer. Softer."
He looked at me then.
Not at the furniture.
At me.
"And this sofa?" he added, sitting down. "It makes the room feel… lived-in."
I laughed a little. "You finally noticed. I spent forever picking that one out."
He pressed his hand into the cushion, testing the softness.
"It shows."
Silence fell between us again, but this time, it wasn't the awkward kind.
He stood up slowly and turned around, looking at everything again.
"This doesn't feel like my house anymore," he said.
My heart did a little flip.
"Is that bad?"
He shook his head.
"It feels…" He paused, like he was trying to find the right word.
"...like a home."
The air shifted, and I almost missed it.
I looked away first.
"I just thought," I said quietly, "when you get home from work, it shouldn't feel empty."
He looked at me for a long time.
"Thanks to you," he said, his voice softer, "it isn't."
A beat.
"You have good taste, Lily."
It wasn't about the furniture anymore.
We both knew that.
The doorbell rang.
We both froze.
I blinked first. "Are you expecting someone?"
Alex frowned a little. "No."
I crossed my arms, tilting my head.
"Well… it's your house. You've lived here way longer than me. If anyone should have surprise visitors, it should be you."
A small laugh escaped him. "Fair point."
He started for the door.
When he opened it—
His face went blank.