Every email was flattering. Every inquiry felt surreal.
She was thrilled. Mostly.
But still—when she packed up that evening, when she stepped out into the drizzle and saw the couples walking hand in hand, she felt something hollow open in her chest.
At home, the house was quiet. The living room still held traces of him. His extension plans spread out on the side table where she’d been looking over them again.
She set down her bag and switched on a lamp. The soft glow reached the corner where her craft supplies had begun to creep down from the attic—fabric, ribbon, sketches for new commissions.
Her future.
Her independence.
Everything she’d built from the ashes of that awful Christmas.
And yet?—
Lauren touched her ring finger.
She thought about Tom, the look in his eyes when he’d left her door last week—the quiet determination.
The rain pattered harder against the window.
Valentine’s Day was tomorrow. The most romantic day of the year.
She reached for her sketchbook, the familiar object grounding her.
She didn’t know what she’d make yet. Something bold. Something defiant. Not anything for a client tonight. She wanted something for herself.
She’d toldherself she was only going to sketch.
But the sketch had turned into cutting, then layering, then stitching. Her hands knew what they wanted before her brain did.
The dining table was a chaos of fabric and ribbon and half-finished ideas. Scissors, paintbrushes, the faint smell of glue. Her favorite kind of mess.
The piece wasn’t about clients or commissions or hashtags. It was for her.
A heart, yes—but not perfect. Not symmetrical or polished or safe.
This one was patchwork. Torn edges. Visible seams.
Real.
As she worked, the emotions ran through her like waves: frustration, sorrow. And underneath it all. Anger.
She thought of that Christmas. And then she thought of now.
Of Tom.
She jabbed the needle through the fabric, sharp and certain.
Staid, solid, boring Tom Barrett.
Except—he wasn’t boring anymore.
She thought of the lace boxer briefs and felt the heat rising in her cheeks.
It had been a look that shouldn’t have worked on him but somehow did. The bravery of it. The vulnerability. It had been ridiculous at first—and then it hadn’t.
