Archive of Our Own

Steven never expected to share a house with a ghost.

It wasn’t in the listing, of course. Nowhere on the ad did it say, Charming two-bedroom with hardwood floors, natural light, and a haunting roommate slash spirit hanging around the whole place .

It just promised quiet, solitude, and rent low enough to make Steven suspicious. But he was pretty desperate already, and the place didn’t smell like death or mold—only lemon-scented polish and a faint trace of laundry detergent.

And so he moved in on a Thursday, with the sun just beginning to set behind the trees and the smell of rain thick in the air. The key slid easily into the lock, and the door opened like it had been waiting for him.

It was peaceful. Too peaceful. The kind of quiet that felt off. But he brushed it off as move-in nerves and sleep deprivation.

Little did he know that he was completely wrong.

***

It started with the floors. He hadn’t even unpacked the mop yet, but they were already spotless. Gleaming. Not a speck of dust in sight. And he knew— for sure —that he hadn’t cleaned anything.

Then it was the dishes. He left one bowl in the sink after a rushed breakfast. Then, when he came back from his grocery run, the bowl was clean. Dry. Stacked neatly on the dish rack.

By day three, his clothes were mysteriously folded and stacked on his bed.

It wasn’t until day five that he actually saw him.

He just came back from a grocery run, mumbling under his breath about how all the ramen was sold out again, when he stepped into the living room—and stopped.

He was there. The cause of the mysterious phenomenon that had been bugging him.

He was in the middle of a turn—spinning lazily, barefoot on the wood floors, as if gravity was just a soft suggestion. His body moved like music was stitched into his bones. No speakers. No phone. Just his voice, light and lilting, humming something familiar and sweet.

And fuck, he was beautiful.

Not just hot —though he was that too, in a “woke-up-like-this” kind of way, all soft angles and mussed-up hair and folded t-shirt sleeves. But beyond that... he looked like he belonged somewhere else. Somewhere softer. A painting come to life. The kind of pretty that a camera would never capture right. The kind of pretty you wanted to keep looking at just to believe it was real.

He was ethereal . He looked like a secret. Like a memory pressed between pages. Like something you weren’t supposed to touch, only witness. 

There was a faint glow to him, too—not creepy, not horror-movie—but the kind of shimmer you get when sunlight hits dust motes just right. He looked like he was made of golden hour and good dreams.

Steven froze in the doorway, keys still dangling from his fingers, the tips of his ears burning. He wasn't sure if he should breathe. Wasn't sure if breathing would somehow shatter the whole scene, like a ripple across a perfect mirror.

The ghost didn’t seem to notice him. Or maybe he did, because after a few turns, he paused, tilted his head curiously at Steven, then shrugged as if he didn’t care.

Once the ghost left to perhaps do another thing, Steven slumped on the couch and spent the next hour holding a soda can he forgot to open, wondering if he was finally losing it. 

Maybe the stress of moving had caught up to him, the solo living, or maybe the lack of sleep could explain why he saw a floating boy with a pretty face and graceful moves inside his new house.

But then the floor was still gleaming. His laundry was still folded. And somewhere down the hall, he swore he can hear him humming again.

That night, Steven slept with the lights on. 

Just in case.

***

The next morning, his socks were arranged in order of color. And his toothbrush had a fresh blob of toothpaste waiting on it.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he murmured, staring at it.

The air didn’t respond. But he felt it—the faint shift outside the restroom door, like someone snickering right behind the curtain of reality.

By day seven, he finally accepted that his roommate was very much dead, very much real, and very much... unaware that he could see him. He didn’t know why or how he could see him, but he was also the guy whose ghost folded his underwear, so he figured logic had left the chat long ago.

***

The days that followed were... strange. Gentle.

The ghost, as Steven noticed, was joyful. He wasn’t moaning through the halls or rattling chains or slamming doors like in movies. No, he just… lived . Like how ghosts weren’t supposed to be doing.

He didn’t haunt. He lingered.

He didn’t wail. He danced.

He didn’t ask for anything—not revenge, not freedom, not even attention. He was just… there. Like a melody stuck in the walls. Like the house itself decided to dream.

Steven watched him in certain moments. As he hummed and swept the floors. As he danced when he dusted the shelves. As he sprawled out on the old velvet couch to read books with cracked spines, kicking his legs lazily in the air and singing softly to the ceiling like he was serenading the stars.

Steven didn’t know his name. Didn’t know what kept him there at that house. But there was something sacred in the way he existed. Like the world had let him go, and he decided to stay anyway—rooted in warmth, in soft joy, in the tender hum of a song only he remembered.

***

The ghost didn’t know Steven can see him. He assumed, like any ghost would, that he was invisible.

And Steven made sure it stayed that way. Because if he knew — if he realized he was seen — maybe he’d leave. Maybe he’d vanish into the walls like a dream Steven had no right to be dreaming in the first place.

So Steven became an expert at pretending.

He learned to tiptoe around the house, to pause outside doorways and listen for the faint strains of the ghost’s humming before entering. He learned which floorboards to avoid. He learned to act like the warm laughter he heard from the living room wasn’t tugging smiles out of him at the most inappropriate moments.

It became their rhythm. Their secret waltz.

Steven cooked quietly in the kitchen while the ghost floated above him, dusting high shelves. He pretended to read while the ghost sprawled upside-down across the couch, flipping through a book with a grin that could level cities. He laid in bed at night, hands clasped over his chest, pretending to sleep as the ghost curled up lightly at the foot of the bed — not quite touching, but there , his presence as sure as breath.

Steven memorized him.

The slope of his neck.

The bounce of his curls.

The way he laughed — soft, surprised, like it caught him off-guard every time.

The way his eyes crinkled when he spun too fast and had to catch himself, arms flailing, mouth wide open in delighted horror before dissolving into giggles.

Some nights, Steven lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling, heart aching with the sweetness of it.

Why me?

How did I get to be the one who sees you?

Why does it feel like I've been waiting for you without even knowing it?

***

It happened one lazy afternoon. The kind where the house felt weightless, suspended in honeyed light, and time moved like a slow, drowsy river.

Steven sat curled up on the couch, pretending to scroll as he watched the ghost— his ghost—float around the living room.

He was humming under his breath, a quiet, wordless tune, as he rearranged the books on the dusty shelves. His body drifted in slow arcs, like he was carried by a current only he could feel.

The sunlight spilled through the cracked windows and broke apart into dust motes, shimmering around him like a crown. It clung to the wild sweep of his brown hair, traced the edges of his thin, white t-shirt, haloed the gentle curve of his cheekbone.

He looked... unreal. Like a daydream stitched out of soft gold and breathless longing.

Steven’s heart kicked hard against his ribs, wild and skittish.

Maybe it was the light. Maybe it was the way the ghost laughed so quietly at something he read in an old paperback, the sound blooming into the warm stillness like a secret. 

Maybe Steven had just gone stupid with loneliness.

Or maybe—maybe it was because he was so achingly, painfully kind. Kind in the way he carefully dusted the books Steven had abandoned. Kind in the way he always, always left small things—new toothpaste, folded socks, fixed lamps—without ever asking for thanks. Kind in a way Steven hadn’t realized he could miss until he had it.

The urge rose up in him like a tide, fierce and foolish.

He had to say something. Anything. He had to give something back.

His hands trembled as he tore a scrap of paper from his battered notebook, the sound of it ripping absurdly loud in the silence. He hunched over his knees, writing fast, scared he'd lose his nerve.

"thank you for the socks. and the toothpaste. :)"

Nothing heavy. Nothing that would trap either of them.

He placed the note carefully on the coffee table, heart hammering so hard he thought it might rattle the glass.

Then he flung himself back into the couch, fake-scrolling again, pretending— badly —that he hadn’t just plucked his whole heart on the table between them like a stupid, trembling offering.

The seconds stretched long and aching. Steven almost bolted. He could already feel the flush burning up the back of his neck, mortification prickling under his skin.

But then—the ghost finally noticed it.

Steven watched, breath snagging, as he paused mid-air, head tilting in that curious, puppy-like way he does. He drifted down toward the table, bare feet hovering just above the floorboards, and plucked up the note between his fingers with a gentleness that made Steven’s throat ache.

He read it once.

And then again, slower, like he wanted to make sure he hadn’t imagined it.

Steven couldn't tear his eyes away.

And then, to Steven’s sheer, gut-wrenching amazement—the ghost smiled.

A real smile. Wide and warm, crinkling the corners of his eyes, blooming across his face like dawn. Like it mattered to him. Like it made him happy.

Steven bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, trying desperately not to crumple in on himself like paper.

He tucked his knees up to his chest and pretended not to look, even though every molecule of him was aching to stare.

He smiled, Steven thought, dazed. He smiled because of me.

***

The next morning, a folded piece of paper waited for Steven on his pillow.

It wasn’t there when he left the room to brush his teeth. It wasn’t there when he stumbled out to the kitchen, still half-asleep.

But when he returned—there it was.

Soft. Careful. Waiting.

His hands shook as he unfolded it.

"you're welcome. i like helping. :)"

Steven pressed the note to his chest, crumpling it a little, squeezing his eyes shut against the rush of feeling that rose up, thick and stinging behind his ribs.

It was so easy. So gentle. So good.

He collapsed onto his bed, starfish-sprawled, heart pounding wildly against his ribs like it didn’t know whether to break or burst.

He stayed like that for a long time, staring at the ceiling, grinning like an idiot, until the daylight faded from gold to gray.

***

He had to answer. Of course he had to answer.

Steven scribbled back quickly, the words tumbling out of him, clumsy but honest:

"you’re good at it.
(i’m steven, by the way.)"

No expectations. No demands. Just a name, like a hand reaching out.

The ghost replied with a note so hastily folded it looked like it had been crumpled between nervous fingers.

"hi steven. :)
i'm jl."

JL.

Steven read the name over and over again like a prayer. Short. Sweet. A little shy. A little boyish.

JL.
JL.
JL.

God, of course it fit him. Of course it did.

Steven tucked the note under his pillow that night.

***

After that, it became a quiet habit.

Steven started leaving little scraps of paper tucked into corners he knew JL would drift past—the sugar jar, the remote control, the windowsill that caught the softest morning light. Sometimes he stayed nearby, pretending to busy himself with some pointless task, just so he could watch JL find them.

He loved the way JL's face lit up, soft and shy, every time. The way he would glance around the room with that almost bashful smile, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to be as happy as he looked.

And JL always answered.

Always.

Tiny, clumsy handwriting scrawled onto receipts, sticky notes, and even the backs of old grocery lists.

"hope you slept okay. the rain was loud last night."

"found a mug that says ‘world’s okayest person.’ thought of you :)"

"beat your candy crush score btw. sorry not sorry."

Steven would find them like treasures scattered through his day. A folded note tucked inside the microwave. A scribbled smiley face under the TV remote. An impromptu doodle of a cat taped to his laptop.

It got to the point where he couldn't start his morning without hunting for a note first. His chest would tighten with this ridiculous, hopeful ache every time he turned a corner, peeking into the nooks and shelves where JL might've left something.

Steven lived for them. Breathed for them.

He couldn’t not smile whenever he found one. Couldn’t not respond, writing back like he was tethered to this boy—this ghost—by an invisible thread.

Some mornings, the absence of a note would leave him raw and twitchy, like he was missing a layer of skin. Other mornings, he'd find two—like JL knew he needed extra.

Sometimes the notes were silly—

"saw a cloud that looked like a butt. thought you should know."

Sometimes they were sweet—

"made you coffee. added extra sugar because you’re a gremlin in the mornings."

And sometimes—rarely, but enough to make Steven's throat ache—they were quiet little lifelines .

"you’re doing good. even when you feel like you’re not. promise."

Steven kept them all.

At first he shoved them into a drawer, embarrassed at how greedy he felt about it. But after a while, he stopped pretending. He gathered every scrap, every scribbled half-smile, every clumsy doodle, and tucked them into an old, battered shoebox under his bed.

His shoebox of proof . 

Proof that JL was here. 

***

Steven didn’t mean to fall.

He really didn’t. He wasn’t that guy—the one who crushes on someone for folding his socks or dusting his shelves or leaving him dorky notes on napkins.

Except… apparently he was that guy.

It was easy to fall in love. Painfully, stupidly easy.

And he was careful. He was so careful. Because this boy — this miracle — had trusted him, unknowingly, with his presence.

Steven didn't want to break that. He didn't want to lose the only bit of magic he ever experienced.

Fuck, he inded was falling for JL.

Not in a funny, “haha oops” kind of way. Not in a fleeting, passing crush kind of way.

No.

He was falling in the slow, all-consuming kind of way. The kind that curled around his ribs and settled deep in his chest like a secret. The kind that made the world feel unbearable and beautiful all at once.

It was in the way he caught himself watching JL more and more. The way he started timing his errands so he’d be home when JL was humming around the living room. The way his breath hitched every time JL passed too close—close enough for Steven to feel the faint brush of something not-quite-there against his skin.

It was in the way he memorized JL’s patterns. The soft turn of his head when he read something funny. The way his lips moved when he mouthed along to a song. The way he danced barefoot across the kitchen tiles, oblivious to how much Steven’s heart could hurt from watching someone be so alive in their un-living.

It was in the way the house changed when JL was there.

The air felt warmer. Softer. Like everything was bathed in some kind of quiet light. Even the silence between them was gentler —not empty, but full of something unspoken. Like the walls were holding their breath, too.

And the thing was, Steven didn’t even know if JL was really a ghost.

He didn’t know the rules. Didn’t know why JL was here, or what he remembered, or why Steven could see him when no one else could.

But he knew this:

JL was here . He was funny and weird and impossibly graceful. He folded Steven’s laundry with way too much care. He stole his snacks and left sticky notes with little stars drawn in the corners. He made Steven laugh under his breath and feel like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as lonely as he thought.

And that mattered more than anything else.

So Steven held it in.

The ache. The want. The dizzy, terrifying what if of it all.

Because how do you fall in love with someone who might disappear the moment they know you see them?

How do you say stay when you’re not even sure they’re supposed to be here at all?

He didn’t know.

All he knew was that when JL smiled—when he laughed, when he left notes that said things like:

“saw a moth today. named him Harold. he says hi.”

—it made something flutter wildly in Steven’s chest.

And some nights, when the house was dark and still, and JL was a soft glow curled up in the armchair, humming a song that didn’t exist, Steven would stare at the ceiling and press his palms over his heart and whisper to the dark:

I think I love you.

I think I already do.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

***

It was a Thursday afternoon, the kind that smelled like rain and quiet sadness.

Outside, the sky hung low and gray, and fat drops of water drummed steady fingers against the kitchen window.

Steven stood by the stove, stirring a pot of instant noodles, the steam fogging up his glasses. He hummed under his breath—some half-remembered pop song—and let the warmth of the kitchen wrap around him like a second skin.

Behind him, there was a familiar flutter of movement.

JL.

Steven didn't even have to turn around to know it was him. He felt it—the way the air changed, lighter, like a room breathing out. Like something alive had stepped into the space.

He risked a glance over his shoulder.

And there he was.

JL floated into the kitchen, a bundle of laundry balanced precariously in his arms. He was humming too, their melodies tangling and weaving through each other in the small space.

Steven’s heart did a stupid, painful little skip .

JL twirled midair, almost dropping a sock, catching it at the last second with a triumphant laugh. His hair flopped into his eyes, soft and unruly, and he blew at it without using his hands, making a silly face.

Steven bit back a smile. He tried— really tried —to look away, to focus on his noodles.

But he couldn't.

How could he, when JL looked like that? Like every piece of sunlight Steven had ever missed, packed into one impossible, floating boy?

JL swayed closer, absently kicking his feet in the air, setting the laundry basket on the counter with a soft thud .

He stretched out flat on his back midair, hands folded behind his head, humming contentedly.

Steven’s chest ached.

And before he could stop himself, he heard himself say, voice warm and stupidly fond:

"You're way too cute for a ghost, you know that?"

The words hit the air and froze there.

Steven stiffened, horror crashing through him like a rogue wave.

The chopsticks he was holding slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the tile floor with a sound that felt too loud , too final .

He stared down at them. Then looked back up.

And saw JL staring right back.

Frozen.

Blinking.

The silence was deafening.

The rain outside sounded like a roar now.

For a heartbeat, two, three, nothing moved.

Then—

Slowly, a grin curled at the corners of JL’s mouth.

A grin that spelled trouble in the sweetest handwriting Steven had ever seen.

"You can see me," JL said, voice bright with something between horror and delighted glee .

Steven opened his mouth. Closed it. And opened it again.

No words came out.

Only a mortified, strangled little noise that might've been an apology in some forgotten language.

JL floated closer, a wicked sparkle lighting up his eyes.

"You’ve been able to see me," he accused, pointing an extremely dramatic finger at Steven like he was putting him on trial. "You liar."

Steven could feel the heat rising up his neck, could feel his ears burning.

"I—" He scrubbed a hand down his face, wanting to crawl into the nearest cupboard and stay there forever. "I didn’t— I mean— I didn't want you to disappear!"

"Disappear?" JL echoed, floating a slow, lazy circle around him. 

"That’s what happens in movies," Steven muttered miserably, still hiding behind his hands. "When ghosts know they're seen. They move on. Or—or get angry. Or... something."

JL burst out laughing. Not a polite laugh—a real, full-bellied laugh that filled the whole kitchen with warmth.

"You watch way too many movies, Steven," he teased, flipping upside down midair so he was eye-level with Steven, only inverted. He was grinning at him from a ridiculous angle.

Steven peeked through his fingers.

JL’s grin softened.

He floated upright again, until he was so close Steven could almost feel a warmth radiating from him—impossible, but real.

He reached out and tapped Steven lightly on the forehead, a barely-there touch that sent sparks down Steven’s spine.

"I’m not going anywhere," JL said, soft, sure.

Steven’s breath hitched.

"Really?" he asked, voice small and raw and aching, like he didn’t dare believe it.

JL’s expression turned achingly tender. Like he could see right through Steven—see the loneliness stitched into his skin, the fear clinging to the edges of every smile.

"Really," he whispered.

***

The rain had gentled into a soft drizzle by the time Steven dared to lower his hands.

JL was still floating there, practically glowing with mischief, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted in a way that made him look way too pleased with himself.

"So..." JL drawled, twirling midair, his toes brushing the ceiling. " Cute , huh?"

Steven groaned, dragging both hands down his face in pure agony.

"If you value your un-life," he muttered, "you will pretend you never heard that."

JL laughed—a bright, musical sound that made Steven’s heart do a ridiculous little somersault.

"Nope," JL said cheerfully, popping the 'p.'

"That's the kind of thing you frame on a wall. Or get printed on a T-shirt. Or maybe a mug—" He made a show of tapping his chin, pretending to think very hard. " World's Cutest Ghost, featuring yours truly."

Steven gave him a long, pained look. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," JL sing-songed, spinning a lazy somersault midair, limbs flailing. "You think I'm adorable ."

Steven opened his mouth to argue—and then closed it.

Because, really. How could he?

JL was floating upside-down again, hair sticking out in every direction, grinning like an idiot.

Steven let out a weak, helpless laugh, scrubbing the back of his neck.

"You are infuriating ," he mumbled, but the words were fond, too fond.

JL opened his mouth—probably to make another ridiculous joke—but then he froze. Midair. Halfway through another spin.

Steven blinked.

"JL?"

JL’s grin faltered, just a little. Not in a bad way. In a way that made him look shy , almost. Like he had just realized something big and stupid and terrifying all at once.

His cheeks—were they flushing? Could ghosts even blush ? 

He floated closer again, hovering just a few inches off the ground this time, wringing his hands together.

"You really think I'm..." he trailed off, voice dropping softer, unsure, "Cute?"

Steven felt his stomach drop . Not in a bad way. In the way it does when you realize you’re standing on the edge of something huge .

He swallowed hard.

And then—very, very quietly—he nodded.

JL stared at him, wide-eyed.

The rain whispered against the windows. The whole kitchen smelled like warm broth and laundry detergent and the sharp, new scent of something about to happen.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then JL made a tiny, startled sound—somewhere between a laugh and a gasp—and buried his face in his hands.

"Oh my god," he groaned into his palms, voice muffled, "this is so embarrassing. I can't—people could say that I'm literally haunting you and you're out here calling me cute —"

Steven’s heart twisted into a pretzel.

"You are ," he said stubbornly, surprising himself with how steady he sounded. "You're... you're kind of the best part of my day."

JL froze again.

Slowly, his fingers parted just enough for one wide, startled eye to peek through.

"You mean that?"

Steven nodded again, cheeks burning but heart steady.

"I mean it."

For one breathless, impossible second, JL just stared at him.

And then, with a shy, brilliant smile that made Steven feel like he could float too—

JL drifted forward, until he was close enough that Steven could feel the imaginary warmth of him crowding into his space.

And very, very carefully—

JL pressed a feather-light kiss to Steven’s forehead.

Steven’s breath caught.

When he opened his eyes again, JL was floating back, grinning stupidly, hair even messier than before.

"You're not so bad yourself," JL said, voice soft, a little breathless.

Steven laughed—real and full and a little disbelieving.

Outside, the rain finally stopped.

Inside, something new began to bloom between them—messy and bright and unbearably, beautifully alive .

***

The next few days were absolute torture .

Because JL—JL was relentless .

He floated into the kitchen every morning with an exaggerated hair flip, sighing dramatically like he was some tragic romantic hero.

"Oh, good morning, my devoted admirer, " he’d say, swooping low until he was practically lying across the counter like a lovesick starlet. "Tell me again how cute you think I am."

Steven, who just wanted to make his cereal in peace, would groan and cover his face with his hands. 

Every. Single. Time.

"You’re the worst," he grumbled one morning, trying—and failing—to hide the ridiculous smile tugging at his mouth.

JL only beamed wider, swinging his legs idly in the air like a kid on a swing set.

"The worst," Steven repeated for good measure.

JL clutched his chest, pretending to swoon. " The cutest worst, " he corrected sweetly.

Steven threw a dish towel at him. He managed to avoid it, yelping and ducking dramatically, laughing so hard he nearly floated through the ceiling.

It wasn’t just the teasing, though.

It was the way JL kept hovering closer now—literally and figuratively.

Steven would be curled up on the couch, book in hand, when he’d feel the familiar dip in the cushions—softer than weight, more like a memory of someone sitting beside him. 

He'd glance over and find JL there, chin propped in his hand, watching him with an open, quiet wonder.

Other times, Steven would catch him folding laundry like he always did—but now he hummed louder, silly love songs he clearly made up on the spot, throwing in Steven’s name like he was the main character of some corny 90s ballad.

"Steven, Steven, with the sleepy hair... cutest boy who ever lived anywhere..."

"Shut up," Steven said once, cheeks burning.

"You love it," JL teased, tossing a perfectly folded sweater into the air like confetti.

And honestly? Steven kind of did.

***

At night, it was worse.

Or better.

Depending on how you looked at it.

Because now, instead of curling up at the foot of Steven’s bed like before, JL had started drifting closer .

Some nights Steven would wake up and find him hovering just a breath away—curled small, almost tentative, like he was afraid of being too much.

Steven never said anything. He just shifted a little, making space.

And slowly—so slowly it made Steven’s heart ache—JL would inch closer until his forehead almost brushed Steven’s shoulder, until Steven could feel the phantom warmth of him soaking into his skin.

It became their new rhythm.

The teasing. The hovering. The unspoken, impossible want crackling between them like static electricity.

Steven was drowning in it. In him .

And if he was honest... he never wanted to come up for air.

One rainy afternoon, Steven caught JL staring at him again. Not in a teasing way. Not in a smug "you think I'm cute" kind of way.

In a quiet, breaking kind of way.

Steven set down his mug of tea.

"What?" he asked softly, heart already thudding too hard.

JL floated a little closer, biting his bottom lip. His voice was barely a whisper.

"I just..." He swallowed. "I’m really glad you see me."

Steven blinked, throat tightening.

"I’m really glad you stayed," he said back, just as soft.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other.

And in that tiny kitchen, with the laundry folded neatly and the floor still gleaming, Steven realized something big and terrifying and beautiful:

He hadn't just found a house to live in. He had found a home .

And somehow—against every rule of life and death and reason—that home had a name.

JL.

***

BONUS 

Steven woke up to the smell of pancakes.

He blinked blearily at the sunlight pouring into the bedroom, soft and golden and just a little too bright, like the whole house had decided today was a day worth celebrating.

For a second, he thought he was dreaming.

Then he heard humming from the kitchen—the low, happy kind of humming that made his heart trip over itself—and he smiled so wide it hurt.

JL was making pancakes. Or at least, trying .

When Steven shuffled out of the bedroom, he was met with a sight that was both chaotic and ridiculously adorable.

JL was floating a few inches off the ground, his hair a mess, wearing one of Steven’s hoodies, which hung huge and baggy on him, concentrating very seriously on flipping a pancake in a too-small pan.

There was flour on his nose. And syrup dripping on the counter. And JL looked so proud of himself anyway.

Steven leaned against the doorway, watching, heart practically singing.

"You're getting better," he said, voice still rough with sleep.

JL turned, grinning so brightly it could've lit up the whole street. "You’re awake!"

"Hard not to be, with all this..." Steven gestured vaguely at the kitchen carnage, "culinary excellence happening."

JL floated over, setting the pan down with a dramatic flourish. He hovered just in front of Steven, close enough that Steven could see the way his lashes curled, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

"You know," JL said, poking Steven lightly in the chest, "most people say thank you when breakfast is made for them."

Steven caught his hand without thinking—threading their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe because, for them, it was.

"Thank you," Steven said, squeezing his hand gently. "For the pancakes. For... everything."

JL’s smile softened into something a little shyer, a little more wonderstruck.

"I like being here," he said, quiet but certain. "I like being with you."

Steven's throat tightened, but in the best way.

He tugged JL closer until their foreheads bumped, a soft press of skin against skin.

"I like being with you, too," Steven whispered. "So stay. As long as you want."

JL laughed—a bright, bubbling sound—and nodded so hard their noses bumped.

"I’m not going anywhere," he said. "You’re stuck with me now."

"Good," Steven murmured, grinning. "Because I don't want anyone else."

And if they ended up sitting there for another hour, legs tangled under the table, talking about everything and nothing while the pancakes got cold—well, that was okay.

They had time now.

They had each other.

And the house, once so quiet and lonely, hummed with it—with the sound of laughter, of life, of love too big to be contained in four small walls.

Steven does not know what the future will hold for the both of them, but he's sure of one thing:

He never regretted moving into this place when it brought him home.

-fin-