Give it some, give it some, give it some time, But I think we're supposed to be

Part Three.

On your one year anniversary, Charles asks you to move in with him. He takes you back to that hotel bar, wears a suit with the shirt unbuttoned to expose the freckle on his neck, and gives you a key to his apartment in a ring box. You fight him over it for a little bit—you could never afford to pay half the rent at his place, but you'd feel bad living there rent-free, the way he suggested—but it's only half-hearted, really. Moving in with Charles is the easiest decision you'll ever make. It feels like coming home late at night, after a long, long time away.

There's a precious domesticity to it that keeps you feeling warm and hazy throughout the weeks-long moving process: Charles coming over whenever he can, bandana holding his hair back and shirt sleeves rolled up, to help you pack books into boxes and clothes into suitcases. He carries the heavy things for you, effortless in his strong arms, and stacks them safely in the backseat of his mom's Range Rover—bigger than his Ferrari for moving, and with an interior he's less worried about messing up.

On your final night in your old apartment he fucks you on the kitchen counter, slow and gentle and reverent, and then uses his keys to carve both your initials into the base of the doorframe outside what had been your bedroom, marking the fact that you were here—that you fell in love here.

It's just you, Charles, one suitcase, and Buttons, then.

"I will leave you alone to say goodbye," Charles says, pressing a kiss to your temple. He takes your suitcase down to his car and you stand in your empty apartment, Buttons in your arms, and listen to the sound of his sneakers on the stairs getting further and further away.

Buttons meows, like he understands, and you blink back a tear. This is the only home Buttons has ever known, aside from the shelter, and it aches to know that you can't explain the situation to him, that he'd never understand if you tried. Still, you press a kiss to the top of his head, between his ears, and ask, "ready to go home, Buttons?"

He purrs under your lips, and you smile against his soft, black fur.

– –

Once Buttons is bundled up in his crate and you've dried your eyes, you take a few pictures of your empty apartment and close the door behind you for the final time. You find Charles outside, leaning against his Ferrari, distracted by his phone.

"Hi," you say, stepping into his personal space. "Can you give me a ride to my new apartment?"

Charles laughs, big green eyes squinting and nose scrunching with pleasure. The night is dark but you feel safe, light, warm in his presence. He touches your cheek gently, pressing his thumb to your lips. "I'll take you anywhere you want to go," he says.

"I wanna go home."

"Then let's go home," Charles leans forward for a kiss, then steps out of the way to open the passenger side door for you. You slide in easy, familiar, and place Buttons' crate on the floor between your legs. The Ferrari is spacious in the front, leather seats warm and comfortable, and the quiet hum of the engine when Charles fires it up is like a heat in your belly.

"I can't believe no one noticed you," you say, as Charles glances that the road is clear before pulling out. "Just standing out there leaning against your Ferrari like a billboard."

"Too dark," he says, settling back into his seat. His hand settles comfortably on your knee, pinky ring pressing into your skin. "No one was looking."

You find it impossible to believe that anyone would ever overlook Charles, no matter how dark it is outside. He's like a beacon, you could find him anywhere, in the dark, in the rain, in blinding sun or the middle of the night. You can't imagine living your life not knowing where you are in relation to Charles at all times, not knowing that he's next to you, across the room, sometimes on the other side of the world. But you always know. You could never not.