Their first home is small, with half a yard and no fence. The floor of the porch is worn and faded, and one of the bedroom doors won't close. And it's theirs.

Kurt starts collecting magazines filled with pictures of homes. Living rooms, kitchens, bedrooms. They don't have enough money yet, but he gets paint swatches anyway. Standing in the middle of the living room and holding them up, comparing. Picturing in his head how he wants it to look.

It starts with one yellow post-it, stuck to the cabinets in the kitchen. Cherry wood, it reads, Kurt's handwriting looping across the paper. Glass doors. Brushed silver hardware.

They multiply, and quickly. On the sink in the bathroom. The dresser of the guest room. On the dining room table.

He finds his old Polaroid camera and keeps it in his bag, pulling it out when he and Blaine go visiting or walk through the city. Snapping pictures of furniture and paintings, architecture and scenery Kurt says he'll use for inspiration later. Photographs soon go up next to the post-its, a description of what the image is written in marker across the bottom.

Kurt comes home from a visit to Ohio and finds a bright pink post-it note on the railing of the porch. He picks it up and reads Blaine's cramped writing, smiling. Mismatched rocking chairs. When he walks over to the door, he notices several photographs strewn on the floorboards. A dollhouse. A spilt pile of blocks. A hammock.

When he gets inside he drops his keys on the side table, next to a new photo of a vase of black-eyed Susans. In the living room his post-its are still up, but now the room is dotted with pink.

On the coffee table: Photo album of our trip to the keys. Staggered on the wall. School picture. Tacky family portrait taken at Sears. You and me at your parent's house. On the sofa: An afghan I crochet for you after I force you to learn with me.

Grinning now, Kurt walks through the house, past a photo of a worn baby grand in the living room, and another of a granite-topped table in the hallway. Then he opens the room to their bedroom and his breath catches in his throat.

For months he's had in his head what he hoped it would look like, but that was years down the road, and it doesn't come close to what he's seeing. The color of the paint, the throw rugs on the floor, the bedding. The art on the walls is new and the dressers are old but, god, it's perfect. There's a picture and pink post-it on the pillow, and Kurt climbs onto the bed.

The Polaroid is of him, and a spark of embarrassment flashes through his veins when he realizes he's asleep. Hair a mess and mouth slightly open. Jamming it under the pillows, a flush on his cheeks, he reads the note.

Waking up next to this for the rest of my life.

He buries his face in the pillows, trying to hide the grin spreading across his face. He feels it when Blaine climbs on behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist. "I wanted to get it all done before you got back, but I didn't know what carpeting you wanted, and I didn't save enough for the vanity."

Kurt rolls over and takes Blaine's face in his hands. "It's perfect," he whispers, pressing their lips together.