The sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows at Quantum Nexus HQ, casting angled shadows across the hardwood. Elian sat curled into a couch in the executive lounge, feet tucked under him, breakfast half-eaten beside a blinking tablet. He stared at the screen but wasn't reading it.
Across from him, Jenna leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
"You realize you haven't gone home in four days."
Elian looked up. "You're the one who keeps dragging me into 2 a.m. debugging marathons."
"Sure," she said, walking toward him. "But three of those nights, you slept in my apartment. The other one, we fell asleep on the server room floor."
He blinked. "Didn't feel like the floor."
"That's because you used my jacket as a pillow, you parasite."
She dropped onto the couch next to him and nudged his thigh with her knee. He didn't move. She didn't either.
There was a long, warm pause between them — the kind that didn't demand breaking.
Then Jenna said, softly, "I was thinking. Maybe it's time we stop orbiting."
Elian turned to her, confused for a second. "Orbiting?"
"Each other's lives. Places. Logistics. We're not just coworkers or crash-space roommates. We haven't been for a while."
He didn't interrupt. She continued.
"I'm tired of watching you fall asleep sitting up. And of trying to remember where you left your second toothbrush."
"That's fair," Elian said. "I've also used your shampoo more times than I'm proud of."
She smiled faintly. "That stuff's expensive, by the way."
They fell silent again.
Then Elian tilted his head. "So you want to… officially move in?"
Jenna nodded. "Not because it's convenient. Because it's real. I like waking up and seeing your mess on my counters. I like the fact you write equations on napkins and tape them to the fridge."
He smiled slowly. "I like when you rearrange my sentences mid-paper because you think I'm too dramatic."
"You are," she said.
"But I let you."
"You do."
He reached for her hand without ceremony. "Then yeah. Let's find a place."
The first house was too sterile — an all-glass loft that looked like it had never been lived in, with automated voice lighting and floors that echoed like a parking garage.
"I feel like I'm not allowed to sit down," Jenna muttered.
Elian nodded. "Also, I think the couch costs more than our patent filings."
The second one had charm — creaky wood floors, skylights, a quirky sunroom that Elian loved — but no smart wiring, no fiber trunk line, and the HVAC dated back to the Cold War.
"I'd have to build a Faraday cage in the bedroom just to keep Muse from crashing," Elian said.
"Or you could sleep," Jenna said. "Like a human."
He blinked. "That... feels aggressive."
The third house had potential. Quiet neighborhood. Hillside view. Built-in smart grid. Dual office spaces, soundproofing, secure lab-grade ventilation. A garden in the back that someone once tried to grow something in. They toured it mid-morning. The light was perfect. The walls didn't feel like echoes.
Jenna walked through each room slowly, quietly, hands behind her back. She paused in the hallway — where two bedrooms sat across from each other, one with better sun, the other more private.
She turned. "This is it."
Elian looked up from the central hub room where he'd found a built-in server nook. "You're sure?"
She nodded. "It's not trying to impress anyone. It just works."
He smiled. "Like me."
She squinted at him. "No, you're full of chaos and overthinking. But this? This is the house that would wait up for you if you forgot your keys."
Elian considered that. Then tapped the nearest wall. "Let's make it ours."
By the end of the week, the paperwork was signed.
They didn't tell many people. Not yet. There was too much else going on. But late one evening, Jenna stood in the empty living room, arms crossed, watching the light fade across the hardwood floors. Elian came in carrying two mugs — her preferred ginger-honey tea and his unnervingly strong black coffee.
He handed her the tea and looked around the room.
"No furniture yet," he said. "But it already feels less temporary than anywhere I've ever lived."
She nodded. "Because this isn't the end of something. It's just the beginning."
Elian nudged her gently with his elbow. "You're not going to let me pick the furniture, are you?"
"Oh, absolutely not."
"Do I at least get to choose where the couch goes?"
She took a slow sip of tea and looked him dead in the eyes.
"No."
Elian grinned. "This is already perfect."
She smirked, but didn't disagree.
And outside, the quiet neighborhood faded into dusk, unaware that a new phase of history — private, quiet, and undeniably human — had just begun behind those softly lit windows.