♡ rentiss hell ♡

“I— I freed up some space,” he says, opening the third dresser drawer, which is indeed empty aside from a rogue purple sock and an old metro card.

You suppress a groan and instead let out a humorless laugh. “This doesn’t feel like I’m moving in. It feels like living out of a duffel bag for a perpetual sleepover. That’s not the same thing.”

Spencer goes very still, hand on the doorframe like he needs something to brace against. “I really tried,” he says quietly. “I donated. I threw out duplicates—”

“You still have an entire cabinet full of just mugs,” you interject, staring into the kitchen. “And all the storage in your bathroom is completely full.”

“It’s just… familiar to me,” he says, and the word lands between you like a defense and a confession.

“Exactly. It’s familiar to you. You live here. I’m trying to live here.”

Spencer swallows, gaze flicking over your boxes, your shoes by the door that look like they don’t belong. “Does this mean you don’t want to?”

The bottom drops out of your stomach. “No,” you say immediately, stepping toward him. “No, Spence. It means I really, really do. I said yes when you asked me to move in because I want this.”

He nods, once, twice — processing, recalibrating. Then: “Okay. Then I need to do it right.”

Before you know it, he’s moving with purpose. Books sort into donation boxes. The mug collection clears to a neat row of six. He pulls cardigans from hangers and folds half into an under-the-bed bin without ceremony. He opens the bathroom medicine cabinet and clears out 75% of the bottles.

“Top three dresser drawers,” he says, eyes steady on yours. “Yours. The closet—first twenty hangers are empty. Bathroom—your skincare collection should fit now, I think. Kitchen—this cabinet is for your stuff, and if your stuff needs more space, I’ll make it.” He bites the inside of his cheek before continuing. “I…I want it to look like you live here when I walk in the door every day.”

Somehow, that’s the part that undoes you.

You slide one of the dresser drawers open and drop in a stack of pajamas. You set your favorite candle on the coffee table and light it with a match, and Spencer watches the tiny flame find itself.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I was holding onto all the wrong things. Nothing is more important to make room for here than you.”

“I don’t need you to throw everything out,” you promise earnestly. “I love you. And your books. Even the six different copies of Crime and Punishment.”

“They’re each annotated differently,” he defends on reflex, then winces. “But… they can be annotated in storage.”

You shake your head. “Keep them here,” you say, moving closer. “But thank you.”

He tucks a loose lock of hair behind your ear with a gentle hand. “Tell me what else would make this place feel like home.”

You do: a framed photo of the two of you on the bookshelf, nicer throw pillows on the couch, your favorite blanket at the foot of the bed. He gives you all of it like it’s easy.

“You’re making that face,” you say after a while, watching him from the other side of the room as he arranges and rearranges your pillows for the fifth time.

“What face?”

“The one that means you’re thinking six steps ahead.”

“Only three,” he says, honest. “Dinner in our kitchen. You, asleep on our couch. This place—” He gestures vaguely at the apartment around you. “—being where we start the rest of our lives together.”

“Ours,” you whisper as you step into him. He meets you halfway, forehead to yours, sweaty and ridiculous and so happy he looks a little stunned.

“Hi, roommate,” you murmur.

“Hi,” he says, smiling a breath away from your lips. “Welcome home.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!