Casey & Raf
He shouldn’t be here. Every nerve in his body tells him to leave, to back out, drive south, disappear.
But he stays. He has to. A few doors down, her porch light flickers in the early morning haze.
He hears Alexander’s voice: You’ll do this, Casey. Because you don’t have a choice.
Then the front door opens. The redhead steps outside, sunglasses already on, keys jangling in one hand. She looks so normal. So painfully unaware.
As she pulls out of the driveway, Casey hesitates. One last useless flash of conscience. Then he starts driving.
He follows. Three cars behind. Just enough distance to seem invisible. Not enough to feel clean. She parks outside a sleepy corner café. He kills the engine, palms sweaty against the wheel, watching her go inside.
This is insane, he thinks, slamming the car door and crossing the lot. Inside, the café is quiet, reggae humming low over the speakers, a few regulars scattered at tables, half-lost in routine.
Casey glances around, forcing composure. Then he sees her. The redhead. She’s at a corner table. Alone. Head bent over a folder stuffed with documents. He notes the taut line of her mouth. The nervous bounce of her knee. She’s vulnerable.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
One step. Then another. He bumps the table just hard enough—papers scatter, coffee sloshes. “Shit, sorry!” he scoffs, flashing a sheepish grin.
Raf flinches from the spill, swiping napkins across the mess. She barely looks at him.
“I should probably keep my distance before I ruin your whole day,” he says.
“No permanent damage,” she replies, gaze lingering. Casey hesitates just long enough for it to show, then he goes for it.
“Still. Let me make it up to you. Another coffee? My treat?”
Ugh, not today, she thinks.
“Sure,” she says, her smile tight enough to crack. “Why not?”
He returns with two fresh coffees, sliding one across before taking the extra chair. “So,” he says, nodding at the documents, “you look like someone deep in something serious. Anything worth a distraction?”
“Is that your opening line?”
“Depends. Is it working?”
Raf gives him a look, barely glancing over, half amused, half not. “Honestly? I’ve heard worse.”
“That’s encouraging. I’m Casey, by the way.”
He instantly regrets it. He should’ve used a fake name. Braden. Liam. Steve. Anything.
“Thanks for the coffee, Casey. But I’ve got a lot going on right now.”
He catches it: the quick shift in her expression. Don’t force it. Don’t try too hard. “Of course,” he says, like he’s not disappointed. “Just wanted to make up for the mess.”
“You did,” she says, tone unreadable, but her eyes hold just a second too long.
He pulls out his phone, sliding it across the table. “In case you ever want that distraction?”
To his surprise, she takes it. Types in her number. Hands it back. “Don’t make me regret that,” she says, already returning to her work.