Raf
She stands in the middle of Shane’s apartment, still not entirely sure if this is a job… or the beginning of something messier. What started as a favor—some sketches, a mockup—has evolved into weekly consultations and late-night texts about the distinction between modern and contemporary. Somewhere between paint swatches and rug samples, the lines had blurred.
Shane flirts like it’s second nature, always toeing the edge, never quite crossing it—and she still hasn’t decided if she wants him to.
The bigger issue? The apartment itself. It’s offensively bachelor. A couch that looks and smells like it barely survived undergrad. Those hideous rugs. Not a lamp in sight, except for that one sad standing piece from God knows where. Raf tries to picture herself spending a night here. Or having a morning coffee. Even Ethan, for all his cheating and manipulations and years of gaslighting she mistook for charm… at least he had taste. Say what you want about narcissists: they knew their finishes, at least.
Shane, on the other hand…
He turns slowly, surveying the room like he’s seeing it for the first time. “So what you’re saying is, my place needs a woman’s touch?”
Raf lifts a brow, amused. “Did I say that? I’m saying you need something that doesn’t look like it was dragged off a curb during rush week.”
“Hey, easy now. That couch has character.”
“That couch has stains,” she says with mock disgust, then slides her iPad across the island. “Picture this: warmer tones, texture, lighting. A leather sectional instead of… whatever that is.”
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Shane studies the mockup, nodding. “I like it. What else you got?”
She swipes again. “Lighting. Right now, your place screams underground fight club.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Your space should reflect who you are, Shane. Or at least who you want to be.”
He meets her gaze, quietly searching. “And who’s that? The man I want to be?”
“Just trust me. I’ve got this,” she says, stepping closer, her hand resting lightly on his chest. It lingers a beat too long. She smiles and checks her watch.
“Shit. I should go.” She pulls her hand back.
“More important clients?” Shane asks, not quite ready for her to leave.
“Not exactly.” She tosses the bag over her shoulder, already moving. “Just therapy.”
Now she sits across from Alexander in a room that couldn’t feel further from Shane’s apartment. Here, being noticed feels different.
“You’ve been distracted, Raf. Something on your mind?”
She hesitates, then meets his gaze. “I’ve been spending more time with him. The man I mentioned.”
“Ah. Shane.”
Raf blinks. “How do you know—?”
“I notice things. He’s my neighbor. I’ve seen you coming and going. Seems like you’re moving quickly.”
“It’s nothing serious. He’s still technically a client. It hasn’t gone anywhere.”
“Yet,” Alexander corrects softly. “It hasn’t gone anywhere yet.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Well, as an outside observer, and your therapist, I think it’s ill-advised.”
“Because he’s my client? Or because he’s your neighbor?”
“Because you’ve been through so much. A man like Shane, someone who makes you feel seen? It’s easy to mistake comfort for connection.”
She pauses, unsure why she even needs to defend this. “That’s not what this is.”
“You need boundaries. Jumping into something like this? With a client? He’s a player, Raf.”
She says nothing. Part of her wants to defend Shane. Part of her isn’t sure she can. Because it does feel too easy. And after, when she steps into the quiet courtyard, afternoon sun warm on her skin, she tells herself Alexander is wrong. Except now she’s looking for warning signs she hadn’t noticed before. Were they even there? Or is she scared of missing something?