Strangers Made Perfect

Episode 9: Tagged

During lunch break, Raphael had leaned casually against the counter, scanning the rota pinned to the wall before glancing at her with that boyish grin. “Coffee in town after shift? We’re both on the 8-to-2 today—I checked. And you better say yes, because after today I’m off for two weeks—heading back to Germany for a little vacation.”



Paris had almost said no out of habit—but instead, the word “yes” slipped out before she could stop herself.

It wasn’t anything dramatic: just two colleagues on their day off, tucked into a cozy café in Belfast with rain tapping softly against the windowpanes. The smell of roasted beans and warm pastries wrapped around them, making the world outside feel far away.

Raphael was easy company—quick with jokes, generous with stories, attentive in ways that made Paris relax.

He told her about his first months as a carer. “I once tripped over a mop bucket right in front of the matron. Nearly knocked myself out cold. She told me if I couldn’t handle buckets, I’d never survive bedpans and commodes.”

Paris snorted, nearly spilling her latte. “You didn’t!”

“I did. And I stayed anyway. See? Dedication.”

She laughed more that afternoon than she had in weeks. He teased her about her hopeless sense of direction, promised to draw her a map, even admitted he’d once gotten so lost he ended up two miles from the care centre trying to find a bus stop.

Paris shook her head, laughter bubbling until her cheeks hurt. “See? That’s why I need a guide.”

Raphael leaned back, smirking. “Lucky for you, I happen to be excellent at tours. I can point out all the hidden gems—best coffee, best chips, even the quietest park benches when you want to avoid people.”

She lifted her cup, eyes narrowing playfully. “And what’s the catch? You’ll expect payment in flat whites and cake?”

“Exactly,” he said with mock solemnity. “I’m a cheap guide—just feed me caffeine and sugar, and I’ll never leave your side.”

Paris rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “Sounds dangerous. You might regret making that offer.”

“Maybe,” Raphael said, his voice softer now, less teasing. “But somehow, I don’t think I will.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she ducked her head, stirring her coffee even though it didn’t need stirring. “You’re too smooth.”

He chuckled. “No. Just honest.”

A silence fell—comfortable, not heavy. Paris found herself studying him: the strong line of his jaw, the easy way he carried himself, the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. He wasn’t prying, wasn’t pushing, just… present.

Raphael only smiled, eyes lingering. “Then let me be one. Tour guide, coffee expert… occasional rescuer.”

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t turn him aside. Maybe she did need this—something light, something safe.

Meanwhile, back at the care center, the corridors carried their familiar Friday rhythm: the low murmur of nurses exchanging handovers, the squeak of wheels on linoleum, the distant chime of a call buzzer.

From further down the hall, a burst of laughter drifted toward Lety’s room. Liam glanced over, noticing a small knot of carers and nurses huddled around a phone at the station, shoulders pressed close, giggles echoing against the sterile walls.

“Look at Raphael’s My Day,” one whispered, voice low but bubbling with excitement. “He and Paris went out for coffee. Don’t they look cute together?”

Another sighed. “Finally! Paris deserves someone decent. Just look at her—she’s glowing. She’s twenty-eight, but honestly? She could pass for twenty. Always looks younger than her age. And she’s still single, can you believe it? With a face like that? Honestly, someone’s bound to snatch her up sooner or later.”

A male domestic staff member threw his hands dramatically over his chest. “Well, that’s it then. There goes my chance. I’ve had a crush on Paris for months. Absolutely heartbroken. Raphael better treat her like royalty, or I’ll fight him myself.”

The others erupted in laughter, ribbing him. “Relax, Romeo. She probably doesn’t even know your name.”

Liam’s steps slowed as he approached Lety’s door. He leaned briefly against the frame, fingertips brushing the edge as though checking the hinges—anything to mask the hesitation. He hadn’t intended to listen. But the words pricked, sharp and unwelcome, settling under his skin.

For a moment, he stilled.

Then, as if on instinct, his phone was already in his hand, thumbs moving with controlled precision.

Heather, I need a favor. Contact HR for me. Can you check Raphael—staff at Malone Care Home and Intermediate Care Centre, South Belfast? What’s his surname?

The message marked delivered—then read.

Minutes later, Heather’s reply buzzed back:

Of course, Mr. O’Reilly. I’ve already sent HR a message and will call if they’re slow to respond. I’ll update you as soon as I know more.

Liam slid the phone back into his pocket, jaw tight. The minutes stretched, heavy. He stood by Lety’s bed, eyes skimming the chart, but his focus wasn’t on her vitals. Every few seconds his hand twitched back to his phone, checking, waiting. Each silence dragged, taut as wire.

Finally, the vibration came.

Raphael Hartmann. Care assistant. Started three years ago. That’s all HR had on record.

Enough.

Liam pulled up f*******:, typed the name, and within seconds Raphael’s profile appeared. Photos filled the screen—gym selfies, pints raised at pubs, grinning shots with friends. And then Liam’s gaze stopped cold.

The most recent post.

Raphael and Paris. Side by side, mugs lifted in a café selfie. Paris caught mid-laugh, cheeks flushed, eyes bright—alive in a way Liam hadn’t seen in years.

His hand tightened around the phone until the plastic creaked. His jaw worked, teeth grinding as his gaze burned into the screen. Paris’s laughter, frozen mid-frame beside Raphael, felt like a blade twisting in his gut. The muscles in his throat flexed as he swallowed hard, but it did nothing to cool the heat rising under his skin.

With a sharp breath, he locked the screen and shoved the phone back into his pocket—too forcefully, as though the device itself had betrayed him. But a moment later, he pulled it out again, thumb flicking the screen awake. He opened the photo once more, scanning every detail, and there it was—her name, tagged clean beneath the post. Paris Fajardo.

A flicker of grim satisfaction cut through the burn of jealousy. Foolish of Raphael to leave her so exposed, foolish of Paris to allow it. Now he had her trail. Now she was within reach again.

His lips curved—barely a smile, more a shadow of triumph—before he locked the screen for good and slid it back into his pocket.