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Fuck, I love her. I chuckle, my forehead falling into her shoulder. “Come here,” I murmur. “Let’s get you cleaned up before we scare the bananas out of their peels.”

I’ve tried to pay Casper back several times for the money he gave me, but he refuses. So instead, I’ve decided to spend money on him in the form of gifts. This multilevel marketplace is home to several architectural firms and interior design showrooms—as well as stores and boutiques selling furniture and decor. The one I’m currently shopping in is the latter, and has the aroma of citrus and springtime despite it being December.

The chic furniture arrangements are staged to perfection, as if they have been plucked right out of Architectural Digest and dropped into the building. Perfect living rooms for people with perfect lives. They all look lived in—and that’s my mission this evening. To give Casper a sense of home—somewhere he belongs.

His place lacks comfort. Not only is it sparse, but everything he owns seems to only serve function and not aesthetics.

When I first started at Kucera Housing, I assisted with the grand openings of new locations—adding amenities to the properties and making them more comfortable for residents. Those little details are important in recovery.

Those projects inspired me to do the same—create an environment that reflected who I was becoming. I surrounded myself with items that reflected my sense of self and the future I desired. I craved a home that echoed what I was feeling on the inside. Organization and comfort. It wasn’t just about the transformation I was going through in my body and soul—it was about where I lived too.

I needed a sanctuary—and so does Casper. From what he’s told me about his childhood—and his reaction to the welcome mat—he’s never had that, and the quiet tenderness of it catches me off guard. I’m not decorating his house, I’m trying to give him familiar comfort—something he hasn’t had enough of. Introduce him to the concept of home.

My chest aches recalling when he told me about spending time in closets as a child. Shutting the door and cozying into the corner where he wasn’t seen or heard. Drawing pictures on the walls that were illuminated with a flashlight. I imagine a young Casper snuggling his stuffed animals—that he eventually had to leave behind—and my heart breaks.

I don’t mind him spending extra time at my apartment, but everyone deserves a home. I want to create that for him. I wrap my fingers tighter around my notepad and think about what would make him feel safe.

The first showroom is all glass and steel. Overpriced minimalist decor that’s designed to look drab and uninspired. I move through this area quickly—it’s definitely not Casper.

He hasn’t ever confessed what kind of home he would like, but he shows it in small ways, with the things he gravitates toward and things he avoids. Clutter seems to put him on edge, so the space needs to be inviting but not overwhelming. Low lighting, clean lines, and I’ll try to throw in some sentimentality where I can.

The next room has more texture, furniture made using a variety of lighter wood and dense fabrics. Stylish decor complements the pieces, but they’re void of personality. I don’t think he wants anything this bright. It’s closer—but not quite.

I take an escalator up and the floor opens into a darker palette. Rich woods, black metal, leather . . . It reminds me of the Cutlass. The lighting is just low enough to make the masculine space feel intimate. The wall art is creative and more inspired. I could do something similar with the award-winning pieces he’s tattooed. I’m sure someone at Black Rabbit could help me retrieve the original sketches. I wonder if they could help me paint too . . . I add a reminder to my phone to give the shop a call on my way home and have a chat with Kelly. We had a talk at her wedding and I bet she would be willing to get the guys to help.

Nearby, a shelved wall contains a variety of random items that coordinate, and are meant to be taken out and tested in the showroom. Some are functional, like dishware, trays, and lighting; others are purely decorative—small sculptures, accent pieces, and books selected for their color palette rather than reading. From what I can tell, most of the figures appear to be made by artisans—that’s more his style. He doesn’t need perfection, he needs real.

I drift into another showroom; each room is independently curated and harmonized so well that it’s easy to miss the transition. On the other side of one of the dividers is a bedroom. I sigh because his bedroom is . . . woof. A mattress on a frame, sheets. One blanket. One pillow. I’ve seen jail cells more inviting. For him, it’s just somewhere to sleep when his body forces him to. He doesn’t spend time there, and I don’t blame him. However, he very much enjoys being in my bed. I take a few pictures with my phone and jot down more notes.

A matte-black lamp I think he’d like pools light on one of the nightstands—the man hasn’t one lamp in his whole house, yet I’ve caught him turning off overhead lighting at my apartment several times in preference of a cozier ambiance. We’re alike in that way. This particular style isn’t exactly my first choice, but I could enjoy spending a decent amount of time in it.

Whoa.

My feet are glued to the floor when the realization hits. I can see myself in his space, not in a “hey, come over and hang out with me and Deb” way, but something actually permanent—will I move in with him at some point? The thought picks up speed and my brain stutters when I consider if we might get married eventually—holy shit . . . Am I decorating his house or . . . ours?

Black Rabbit after hours is a different animal . . . so to speak. The buzz is gone—no machines or customers, but it’s as if there’s a residual tinnitus that lives in the walls. Even in silence you can hear the hum of clients and tattoo machines, like an old refrigerator that continues to purr in the background.

The break room door is propped open with a brick, and the card table is still scarred with ink stains and burn marks that go all the way back to the days when Black Rabbit’s original owner, Clyde, had it. Three chairs are set around the four sides; Thor and Logan sit across from each other bullshitting and eating whatever leftover junk food we have stashed in the break room. My last appointment went a little long so I’m last to show.

I beeline for the fridge, finally getting my hands on the meal I was supposed to eat at lunch but didn’t get time. I grab a chair, kick out my boots, and groan, prying the lid off the glass container of fruit, vegetables, and cheese.

Thor shakes potato chips into his open palm and lifts his chin at me. “What are you eating?”

I tilt the container toward them as if showcasing the spectrum of colors. They both lean in to peek.

“Anna made it for me,” I say with a smug smile.

Grape tomatoes, sweet peppers, and cucumber slices are arranged opposite fat green grapes, raspberries, and blueberries. Between the two, Anna’s nestled some sharp cheddar slices and fresh mozzarella. I’ve been wanting to bust into this motherfucker all day. Mostly because of that cucumber.

“Made you a little lunchbox, did she?” Logan asks, grinning.

“It’s not a lunchbox, it’s meal prep.” They can give me a hard time about it, I don’t give a fuck. I’m the one with a rainbow of deliciousness while they shovel stale broken chips into their mouths from the bottom of a greasy bag.

Thor snorts. “Did you bring enough for the class?”

“Hell no.” I simper at him, popping a tomato in my mouth and biting down, the sweet and acidic zing of juice exploding on my tongue.

“Did she pack you a note in there?”