The morning sunlight spilled through the small kitchen window, painting everything in a soft golden glow. The scent of freshly toasted bread and brewed coffee lingered in the air — a rare moment of calm in the Kelley household.
Allie sat at the table, phone propped up against her juice glass, scrolling furiously through self-improvement blogs while chewing on a piece of toast.
Across from her, Raffi was already suspicious. She leaned in to peek at the screen. "Self-improvement?" she said with exaggerated disbelief. "What's next, meditation retreats and vision boards?"
Allie pushed her away with her elbow. "Hey! No snooping during breakfast."
Raffi smirked and shot their mom a look.
"Yeah, Mom. Apparently, our girl's leveling up now. Maybe this'll finally help her figure out why she's still single."
"Raffi!" Allie snapped, eyes wide.
Their mom chuckled softly, her frail hands wrapping around her mug. "Stop teasing your sister," she said gently, then turned to Allie with that warm, knowing smile. "Honey, I don't know what this is about, but please don't overwork yourself, okay? You've already got so much on your plate."
"I won't, Mom." Allie's voice softened as she reached across the table and squeezed her mother's hand.
Her mom's smile dimmed into quiet concern. "I trust you, sweetheart. You've always had a good heart — and good instincts. Just… promise me you'll take care of yourself too."
Allie nodded. "I promise."
A quick glance at the clock made her jump. "Oh no—Clarisse! I'm late!"
She stood, gathering her things in a blur — brushing crumbs from her shirt, grabbing her keys, and pressing quick kisses to both Raffi and her mom's cheeks.
"Aunt Leila's still coming by, right?" she asked, half turned toward the door.
"Yes, yes," her mom said, waving her hand with mock impatience. "Now go. You're worse than a storm when you rush."
"Love you both!" Allie called out as she disappeared through the door.
Later that morning, the yoga studio smelled faintly of eucalyptus and calm. Clarisse and Allie lay on their mats, both glistening with post-class sweat, sipping water and catching their breath.
"So," Clarisse said between gulps, "about that text you sent last night — something about a new job?"
Allie grinned, eyes sparkling. "Yup. I got hired to be a life coach. Well… sort of."
Clarisse sat up slowly, one brow raised. "By who? A company?"
Allie shook her head. "Nope. A regular from the café. He asked me to help him be more sociable — you know, like… talk to people. Be normal."
Clarisse almost spit out her water. "Wait, what? A random customer hired you to fix his social life? Allie, please tell me this guy isn't some creep pretending to be awkward."
Allie laughed, waving her hands. "Cla, calm down! He's not like that. He's actually… nice. A little intense, but sincere. You know me — my creep radar is top-tier. I wouldn't say yes if I didn't feel safe."
Clarisse studied her for a moment, then sighed. "Okay, fine. But still, this is wild. You've officially entered the 'quirky rom-com' era of your life."
Allie chuckled. "Oh, please. It's not like that. It's just a job."
"A job where you teach a guy how to socialize," Clarisse teased, arching a brow. "You sure you didn't sign up for a Netflix series?"
Allie rolled her eyes but smiled. "He's serious, Cla. He even made me sign a mini contract and everything. It's totally legit."
Clarisse shook her head, still grinning. "You kill me. So, what's the catch? What if you fail to turn him into Mr. Congeniality?"
"There's no catch," Allie said confidently.
"He guaranteed I'm not responsible if it doesn't work. I just… guide him, that's all."
Clarisse leaned back on her palms, still half-skeptical but warming up to the idea. "Well, just be careful, okay? Boundaries. Don't let him drain your time or energy. If this gets weird, I'll come rescue you — and maybe throw a latte at him."
Allie laughed so hard she almost dropped her water bottle. "Deal."
Clarisse smirked. "You seem pretty confident about this, though. Got a plan for how to make him Mr. Social Butterfly?"
Allie grinned and pulled out her phone. "I'm working on it. And we will succeed." She typed quickly, thumbs flying across the screen, and hit send.
Clarisse tilted her head. "And why is that?"
Allie slipped the phone back into her bag, the screen fading to black. Then she looked straight at Clarisse with a smile.
"Because," she said softly, her voice warm with quiet conviction, "he already made the first step."
••••
Morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Curtis Harper's apartment, catching the edges of glass and steel. His place was spotless, almost sterile — the kind of space that looked more curated than lived in.
He sat at the small dining table with a mug of coffee in hand, the scent rich and bitter. The financial report open on his laptop blurred before his eyes; he'd read the same paragraph four times without absorbing a word.
Then his phone buzzed.
He glanced down, expecting a market alert — but it wasn't that.
Allie: "Hey, hope this isn't too sudden, but I was thinking it might help if I dropped by sometime soon — just to get to know you better before we start. :)"
Curtis froze mid-sip.
Coffee nearly went down the wrong way. He coughed, set the mug down carefully, and read the message again.
Then again.
She wanted to come over.
To his place.
He felt his pulse spike — the kind of reaction he normally reserved for market crashes or unexpected audits. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the phone like it had just delivered a subpoena.
She was coming here.
His home. His safe, quiet, carefully controlled space.
The idea should've filled him with dread. And yet… somewhere under the panic was a flicker of something unfamiliar.
Excitement.
He stood, restless, scanning the apartment as if seeing it through someone else's eyes for the first time. Everything was precise — the books aligned by height, the couch pillows perfectly symmetrical, his desk spotless. Too spotless.
Would she think it was weird? Cold?Unlivable?
He reached out, nudged one pillow slightly askew, then frowned and straightened it again. "Ridiculous," he muttered under his breath.
He paced once, twice, then stopped by the window. The city outside was waking up — cars crawling through the intersections, sunlight glinting off distant buildings.
He looked down at his reflection faintly mirrored in the glass — crisp T-shirt, tousled hair, the faint shadows under his eyes from too many late nights reading self-help articles he barely understood.
This is part of the process, he reminded himself. This is progress.
Curtis grabbed his phone again and began typing — carefully, as if every word were being reviewed for approval.
Curtis: "That sounds like a good idea. Tomorrow morning works if that's fine with you. I'll text you the address."
He stared at it for a long second, then hit send. The message whooshed away, and for the first time all morning, the silence in his apartment didn't feel empty — it felt charged, alive, as though the space itself were anticipating something.
Curtis exhaled, running a hand through his hair, and allowed a rare smile to tug at the corner of his lips.
Maybe this was what change felt like — terrifying, uncertain, but finally moving.
And for once, he didn't want to stop it.