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After that talk with Jason, I felt an incredible sense of relief. Being able to open up about my feelings for Preston, even just to one person, lifted a weight off my shoulders. Jason, ever the supportive friend, didn't judge or question me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. Instead, he offered encouragement and hope—something I didn't even realize I needed so badly.
Inspired, I called in my secretary and asked him to get in touch with a real estate agent. It was time to take the next step. "Set up an appointment for tomorrow," I told him. "I'm looking for something cozy and homely. Not too big, not too small. And preferably with a garden."
The next day, I cleared my schedule as much as I could and met with the agent. As we drove to the first house, I couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and nerves. This wasn't just a house I was buying—it was our first home together. A place for me and Preston to call ours. It had to be perfect.
The first two houses we visited didn't feel right. One was too modern and sterile, the other too large and impersonal. I told the agent exactly what I was looking for: something with character, a peaceful atmosphere, and space for a garden where Preston could draw and escape into his quiet world.
By the time we got to the fourth house, I was starting to lose hope. Exhausted and slightly discouraged, I followed the agent through the gate—and then I saw it. A charming house nestled in a quiet neighborhood, surrounded by trees, with a small but vibrant garden already in place. The house had a warm, inviting feel, like it had been waiting for us all along.
"This is it," I said, barely able to contain my smile.
The agent beamed. "I thought you'd like this one. Shall we head inside?"
The interior was just as perfect as the exterior. The rooms were cozy and well-lit, with plenty of space for Preston to make his own. I could already picture him sitting by the window, sketchpad in hand, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"I'll take it," I said without hesitation, and by the end of the day, the deal was signed and sealed.
That night, as I lay in bed, I called Preston. Hearing his voice always made my day better.
"I have a surprise for you on your birthday," I teased.
"A surprise? What is it?" he asked eagerly.
"You'll just have to wait and see," I replied, smiling at the thought of his reaction. "But I promise it's something you'll love."
He laughed softly, his excitement palpable even through the phone. "I can't wait, Cay. You're full of surprises."
The next few days were a whirlwind of preparation. I hired an interior decorator to add the finishing touches to the house. I instructed them to make two rooms ready—one for Preston to use as his personal space and for storage. However, I made sure only the master bedroom had a mattress.
Call me cunning, but I wasn't about to miss the chance to cuddle with my boy. The thought of having him close, falling asleep beside me, felt like a long-overdue dream. He could use the other room for his stuff, sure—but his place would be with me, in my arms, where he belonged.
Every detail of the house was carefully considered, from the soft blue hues in the bedroom to the cozy corner in the living room where he could sit and sketch. As the days ticked by, my excitement grew. This house wasn't just a surprise for Preston—it was a promise. A promise of home, of love, of a future together. And I couldn't wait to share it with him.