We don’t touch, but we stand close enough that our shoulders nearly brush, close enough that I’m aware of his presence in a way that has nothing to do with proximity.
The realtor—Angela—introduces herself with a firm handshake and an efficient smile once we’re in the building’sfoyer. She runs through logistics as she leads us inside the elevator, her voice calm and practiced. “Secure entry, twenty-four-hour doorman, assigned parking,” she says. “It’s popular with professionals who want privacy without isolation.”
I glance at Rafe. He gives a subtle nod, like he’s filing that away.
The elevator ride up is smooth and quiet. No mirrors to stare into, which honestly always make me feel uncomfortable, and there’s no awkward small talk. The doors open directly into a short, carpeted hallway, and Angela unlocks the apartment with a flourish that feels ceremonial.
The space opens up in front of us.
Light pours in through floor-to-ceiling windows, the city stretching out below in clean lines and muted color. The living area is open without feeling exposed, the kind of layout that invites you to exist in it rather than tiptoe around it. The kitchen is modern and functional, all clean surfaces and storage that makes sense.
“This is—” Rafe starts, then stops himself, glancing at Angela. “—nice.”
I bite back a smile.
She walks us through the space, pointing out features and finishes, her voice fading in and out as my attention shifts. I picture furniture without meaning to. A couch that isn’t borrowed. A table that gets scratched and dented over time. Evidence of living.
The bedroom is large enough that I don’t feel boxed in. The closet is generous. The bathroom is clean and bright and blessedly private.
“One bedroom,” Angela says. “But it’s been popular with people who want a primary residence rather than something transitional.”
That word hits me square in the chest.
Primary.
“This unit becomes available in two weeks,” she continues. “You’d need to move quickly, but it sounds like the timing might work in your favor.”
Two weeks. I glance at Rafe again. His expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes are bright. He’s already here in his head. I can see it.
Angela checks her phone. “If you don’t mind, I need to take a quick call from another client. Feel free to take a look around. I’ll be just outside.” She steps out, the door clicking shut behind her.
The silence that follows is charged.
Rafe exhales first. “Okay.”
I laugh quietly, nerves buzzing under my skin. “Okay what?”
“Okay,” he repeats, turning slowly in a circle. “This is… really perfect.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s close to the arena. About twenty minutes. A little farther for you to get to the studio, but?—”
“I don’t care,” he cuts in, then softens. “I mean, I care, but not enough for it to matter.”
Something warm spreads through my chest. “We’d need furniture,” I say, suddenly practical. “I don’t have anything that belongs to me.”
“That feels like a solvable problem,” he says lightly.
I step closer without thinking, lowering my voice. “I can see us here.”
The words echo something he said earlier, and the look he gives me is open and unguarded.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
The distance between us shrinks. I know we shouldn’t. I know exactly how thin the walls are, how close the door is, how easily everything we’re trying to build could unravel with one careless moment. But he’s right here, familiar and steady.
I kiss him.
It’s instinctive and brief, lips brushing, then lingering just enough to remind me how much I’ve missed this version of us—unrushed, unhidden. His hands find my waist, grounding, like he’s holding on to something solid.
