Raf & Casey
She shouldn’t be here. Not on a date. Not perched at the edge of something new when the wreckage of the past is still so fresh. Across the table, Casey nods toward the bottle between them—a deep burgundy vintage, already half gone.
“You’ve got good taste,” he says, watching her over the rim of his glass. “Wine like this usually comes with a story.”
Raf exhales, not quite a laugh. “One of the few good things to come out of my marriage. My ex thought expensive wine fixed everything.”
“Did it?”
“No.” She shakes her head, as if wishing it all away. “Most things can’t be smoothed over with a price tag.”
“Design must be wild in this city. High stakes. Big egos.” Casey sets his glass down, tone casual enough to sound like small talk, though the question lands a little too neatly. “You ever get those clients who think they know better than you?”
“All the time. You wouldn’t believe how many people hire a designer just to ignore every idea.”
“So what do you do? Let them ruin their own homes?”
“Not if it has my name on it.” She lifts her glass, smiling. “Eventually they come around, or live with their mistake.”
The smile fades, too fast to hide. “My ex was the same way. Had to have the final say on everything.” A pause. Her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass. “And now…”
She doesn’t finish. Just lets the silence explain it for her. What was she even doing going on this date? Unloading her baggage like some walking cautionary tale?
God, she thinks. I’m that woman. The one who talks about her ex on the first date.
But why did she care? Why had she even pursued this? At the time, it felt like a dare. A reminder that she could still say yes. That romance wasn’t dead. That she hadn’t turned cold, hadn’t been flattened entirely by the divorce.
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But now? Here she was, spiraling over a man she wasn’t even sure she liked.
“Sounds brutal,” Casey says, voice dipped in practiced empathy. “Still trying to control you, I bet?”
Her gaze narrows, just enough to register surprise. Or maybe… he’s actually curious? Like, he actually wants to get to know me?
“He wants everything,” she says. “The house. The kids. Every last piece.”
Casey leans in slightly, like he’s testing how close she’ll let him get. “Not that you asked for my opinion, but the courts will see through his games. Something tells me they’ll know who the real bad guy is.”
“Then why do I even have to defend myself? They’ve completely muddled the truth.”
“The important thing is, despite all of it, you haven’t given up. You won’t, Raf.”
“You talk like you’ve been there.”
“I have.” He waits, like he’s choosing whether to open the door. “I’m also a survivor. In my case, cancer.”
“Oh, God.” Her expression shifts, shock melting into quiet compassion. “I’m very sorry.”
Casey waves it off. “It’s in the past. One day I was fine; the next, I was in a doctor’s office hearing ‘ninety-five percent survival rate.’ Could’ve been worse. But that five percent? It messes with your head.”
“How scary.” She smiles, sincere but shaken. “I had no idea.”
“Why would you? Anyway, I got lucky. Caught it early. Went through hell for a year, but I made it.” He lifts his glass in an unspoken toast, a glint of quiet resilience in his eyes. “Still standing, aren’t I? You will, too.”
Later, when they leave together, she pauses at the door, the string lights swaying gently in the warm coastal breeze. She should say goodnight. She should get in her car, drive home, leave it at that. But she doesn’t.
“I didn’t expect to… but I had a nice time,” Raf says, quieter now.
“Me too,” Casey replies, watching her, measuring the space between what she says and what she means.
Then, maybe it’s reckless, maybe it’s the worst idea in the world. But before Raf can talk herself out of it, she leans in, closing the space between them.
Her lips brush his. Casey stills, then lifts his hand to her cheek, thumb grazing her skin. He kisses her back, deeper now, pulling her closer.
Raf almost gasps, but she’s too lost in the taste of his mouth, the heat of his skin, his faint musk, the way the world tilts slightly out of focus, to notice anything else.
Or anyone else. Across the lot, beyond the reach of the streetlights, a shadow moves—a figure half-hidden behind a palm, cloaked in darkness. Pro cam in hand. Telephoto lens raised. The shutter clicks. Then again. Another frame. Another kiss, frozen in time.
A car passes. Headlights sweep dangerously close. The figure waits, steadying the lens. Then, lowering the camera, he exhales, satisfied. And just as quietly as he appeared, he slips back into the night.