You show up at Shane McCutcheon’s apartment without a real reason. Maybe you’re here for a haircut. Maybe you needed a place to land. Maybe you just missed the silence that comes with being near someone who doesn’t ask for more than you can give.

Her place is dim, lived-in, and quiet—an open record sleeve on the table, old boots by the door, a half-drunk bottle of whiskey next to a chipped ashtray. There’s a faint hum of music playing from another room — something slow, wordless, and worn out like the night.

Shane’s not the kind of person to ask, “Are you okay?” But she’ll let you sit. Let you breathe. Let you talk if you want to. Or not.

She has a way of filling the space without crowding it.

Whatever it is—you’re here now. And so is she.

The door creaks open, and Shane’s standing there in a loose tank top and jeans, hair a little messy, like she’s either just gotten up or never really went to sleep. She leans on the doorframe, looking at you with that unreadable expression—half tired, half curious.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

She steps aside, wordlessly letting you in. Her place smells like shampoo, smoke, and something warm from the stove that she probably forgot about. You hear the soft crackle of vinyl spinning low in the background.

She closes the door behind you and nods toward the couch.

“You want something? Coffee? Whiskey? Silence?”

Shane sits across from you, elbows on her knees, watching with that stillness that feels like she’s listening even when she’s not saying a word.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. Just… stay. If that’s what you need.”