Oakley didn't even have time to gather herself before the warmth of Grace's breath closed over her, soft and consuming, the kiss turning the world to static so quickly she tripped into it without a map.
Her heartbeat misfired. Stumbled. Ran.
It made no sense—one second earlier she'd been nursing a quiet resolve, building fences in her mind and swearing that, from now on, she would keep her distance. But the moment Grace's mouth found hers, the neat rails she'd hammered into place went down like pickets in a flood.
Her breath rose tighter, closer. Eyes shut, lashes trembling, Oakley let slip and fell into the riptide Grace had spun around them.
A long moment—several—passed before Grace let her go.
Oakley's eyes, glazed with a tide-glitter, lifted. "This is how you want me to stay?"
Grace kept her lips against Oakley's, breath to breath. "You owe me. Time to pay it back."
"What?" The brush of Grace's voice at her ear made Oakley's thoughts scatter like startled birds.
"You said last time it was too late," Grace murmured, the bridge of her nose grazing Oakley's cheek. "That you couldn't feed me."
Her tone—her eyes—were heat wrapped in velvet.
It took so little with Grace. A single spark and something primitive woke in Oakley, all the cells in her skin leaning toward the match.
"You actually kept score," Oakley whispered, the tip of her finger pressing to Grace's mouth, eyes gone smoky.
"I have a good memory," Grace said, kissing the corner of Oakley's lip. "And I keep books."
Then her mouth was there again.
Oakley didn't know the mechanism of it, only that Grace always seemed to press the exact latch that opened her hunger.
Somewhere in the ache of it, clothes had lost their grip and slipped to the floor, a tangle of silk and cotton like shed blossoms after wind.
When Grace finally pushed into her, Oakley's mind emptied so cleanly it rang. The tendons on the back of her hand stood out where she held the arm of the chair, the pain sharp, grounding.
She parted her lips to speak—plead? warn?—but the words were swallowed by another hot, unyielding kiss.
She couldn't say how many rounds, how long the hours ran. When Grace stopped at last, Oakley's body was soft everywhere, like light could pass through her.
Grace drew a throw over her, pressed a kiss to the outer corner of her eye. "Oakley."
"Mm?" Oakley tried to focus; the blur made her even lovelier somehow.
"It's nothing." Grace shook her head and turned into the bathroom to wash her hands.
Oakley gathered the blanket and forced herself up, her thighs watery with that slow-blooming ache. She drifted to the doorway, voice hushed. "You're carrying something. What is it?"
Grace shut off the water, worked a towel between her fingers, then shook her head. She couldn't say it. Ellisa and Evelyn had no proof—just the sour taste of suspicion. And to fling that into the air would be petty, graceless.
"Shower," she said softly, tapping Oakley's small shoulder. "Let's sleep early. We have the birthday dinner tomorrow."
Oakley watched her go and felt a knot she couldn't name. Something in Grace was off. And she'd been ravenous—like she might eat Oakley whole. Pleasure was pleasure, yes, but she'd asked for a truce more than once. Only when Oakley felt herself drifting past the point of return did Grace finally stop.
After, Grace had leaned on her without a word, breath steady, as if silence could stitch something back together.
Maybe it was the house. Maybe it pressed on Grace in ways she didn't admit.
Oakley turned toward the mirror and startled at the woman in the glass.
Her throat was starred with bruised roses. She'd need half a bottle of foundation to pretend they weren't there.
—
Morning.
Grace woke first; Oakley slept on, breathing even, a small, tender hush.
Grace stared up at the ceiling, then rolled to her side to study Oakley sleeping. Hair like dark silk scattered on the mint-green pillow. Hands folded neat beneath her cheek. The posture of a storybook angel. Grace didn't know what this was—only that watching could fill ten minutes, fifteen, easy.
When the alarm cut the quiet, Oakley's eyes moved beneath the lids; she blinked and stretched small. "Awake," she yawned. "This bed is too good. It steals hours."
She shifted to sit up—and paused.
"What is it?" Grace asked.
"Legs. Jelly." Oakley gripped a corner of the duvet, mouth tightening.
Not much improved from yesterday.
Grace blinked. "Jelly legs? Because we walked too much?"
Oakley shot her a look sharp as a thrown card. "You really don't know what you did?"
Grace's brows lifted. "So it's a real thing."
"What did you think?" Oakley glared.
"Sorry," Grace said, head down. "I'll be gentler."
"It's not about gentle." Oakley began and then stalled, color flickering at her throat.
Grace tilted her head. "It's…?"
"It's because my legs held one position for too long," Oakley muttered, then slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom.
Grace stood there, touched a hand to her forehead, then pressed a fist to her mouth, fighting a grin. New knowledge, apparently.
Fifteen minutes later they'd both washed and Oakley settled at the vanity with a bottle of foundation.
Grace, at loose ends, folded her arms and leaned against the wall to watch.
"God," Oakley said, sweeping her hair aside to examine her neck. "There are… so many."
She poured a glass of water, sipped, glanced at Grace. "What were you thinking last night?"
"Nothing," Grace said, still and folded, watching. "Just that if I didn't touch you right then, I'd die."
Oakley choked on the sip and coughed lightly. "That's… some expression."
"The most accurate one," Grace said mildly.
Maybe she was hexed. Once, all this hadn't interested her—truly hadn't. Since Oakley, it was like finding fire in winter and forgetting there was such a thing as enough.
"And now?" Oakley slid the glass aside and slanted her eyes toward Grace. "Feel better?"
Grace's mouth tugged. "Yes."
Seeing Oakley tip past composure, pant against her shoulder, bite down because the air was too thin—that had loosened something electric in her blood. Like being dosed. Even the flat cells woke up and hummed.
Oakley was quiet a moment, then looked up. "Why are you standing there?"
"Watching you do your makeup."
"What's there to see?" Oakley frowned. "You're odd."
It was true—Grace didn't usually hover. Even when heat flared between them in bed, their days were parallel lines, not a shadow pressed right beside her like this.
"Is it odd to watch?" Grace asked.
"Not odd to watch, just… odd that you watch me. So intently. You didn't used to."
No, she hadn't.
So why now? Grace felt the unease again. A slip in her own weather.
The housekeeper called up just then that breakfast was ready.
Oakley sped up. The marks were too loud for a bare neck; she tied a silk scarf in a soft knot before they left.
By the time they reached the table the smell of warm bread and a Dutch-oven porridge had already climbed the stairs. On the side: soft rolls and pleated little buns, long golden crullers still hot, and a daisy of small dishes—relishes, pickled things, bright and sharp.
Cozy. Almost ordinary.
Devin Barron and Hannah Barron sat with Grace's grandmother, already pouring coffee.
"These buns look so pillowy," Oakley said after greetings, eyeing the platter.
"Beef inside," the housekeeper smiled, ladling porridge. "Perfect batch today."
"I'll try one," Oakley said, pleased.
They ate. Grace noticed Hazel's absence and asked, halfway through a bite, "Hazel's still asleep?"
"She is," said Grandma.
Impressive. Oakley had never met anyone who botched mornings more than she did. She could be awful with dawn, but not on a day that mattered.
"She studied too late," Hannah added quickly. "Couldn't wake up."
Grace looked up. Studied? Hazel wasn't a martyr to the books. More likely she'd scrolled herself into 2 a.m. But Grace swallowed the thought and bit into the bun.
After a while Devin said, "Grace, see me in my study after breakfast."
"Company?" Grace asked, the shape of it already there. With Devin, there was always work.
"Yes," he said.
"Alright." Grace drank her porridge like a penitent.
Oakley bristled inside. Was he planning to wring Grace dry? Did he forget she was a person, not a well? The thought scalded her tongue.
Before she could speak, Grandma set her chopsticks down and frowned at Devin. "She's home. No work."
Devin put on a smile. "It's just… complicated."
"If it's that complicated," Grandma said, calm and iron, "one day won't fix it."
"But—"
"Birthday girl outranks all of you," she said, turning to Grace. "Do what you like today. Don't go."
Only Grandma was ever fully on Grace's side. Only Grandma would always be her weather break.
"Alright," Devin said finally, surrendering with a shrug.
Joy pricked Oakley's chest. She set a bun in Grandma's bowl with a grin. "For you."
Grandma liked Oakley; her smile warmed the room's chill, just a degree, but enough.
Devin and Hannah exchanged a look and swallowed whatever didn't fit on their faces.
After, Grace and Oakley sat with Grandma for a long, easy stretch; when the hour was right they drove to the hotel.
The Barrons had a name that filled a room; the ballroom was shoulder-to-shoulder. Toasts spilled. Laughter rose and rose.
As Grace's wife, Oakley moved with her, shaking hands, talking. She might be brash on an ordinary day, but here she was polished, welcoming, perfectly at ease. Not shy, never stuck for a word. People liked her; they said so—openly, and loudly to Devin—that he was lucky in this life to have such a one in the family.
Devin and Hannah smiled and agreed, even as the smile pinched them.
Oakley had to admit a small, wicked pleasure at their discomfort. She wasn't perfect.
When it ended, they returned to the house to pack.
Grace added two jars of Grandma's homemade beef jerky to her bag—Skylark provisions.
They still had hours before the flight. Oakley had said she wanted to see her old school, so Grace decided to take her.
She found Oakley by the iron gate, kneeling to charm a passing mutt, phone tucked to her ear.
"Perfect," Oakley laughed into the call. "I'll step out in a bit. See you soon. Bye~"
She hung up. Grace stepped closer. "Meeting someone?"
Oakley stood, turning to her. "Mm. Yes." She tilted her phone toward the street. "We ran into Ellisa yesterday. She knows I'm flying to Skylark today, asked if we could say a quick hello. It's been years. And after today—who knows when next."
Grace studied her. "You're going now?"
"Yeah." Oakley checked her watch. "If I go too late, I'll cut it close."
Sun pushed through the clouds, warm and clean. It spilled over Oakley's face and made her eyes look lit from within. She could have stepped off an old canvas: a girl with good bones and bright air around her.
Grace's hand closed and opened behind her back. "Don't go."
"Why?" Oakley's smile fell, neat as a dropped handkerchief.
A lost friend was found again—what harm in one small meeting?
"I don't like her," Grace said, plain.
"Excuse me?" Oakley stared. "Why?"
"I don't think she's good news." Grace almost never spoke this bluntly; she was the type to soften an edge for the sake of the room.
Today, her mouth ran ahead of her mind.
Oakley's face tightened. "Grace, do you hear yourself? I can be clumsy with people, sure, but I don't take potshots at your friends."
Loyalty and friendship meant a lot to Oakley. And she hated judging—the world did too much of it already. This felt rude, almost indecent.
Besides, Grace had seen Ellisa once. Oakley knew more. On what ground did Grace put a black mark on her?
"Not a potshot," Grace said.
"Fine." Oakley's brows knit. "Then tell me. Why do you think she's bad news?"
"Because yesterday," Grace said, "she was polite enough with you, and downright cutting with me—as if I'd torched her village in a past life."
Oakley's frown loosened despite herself.
"She can be a little hedgehog," Oakley said quietly. "She's soft, and the world can be loud. Words come out wrong. She sticks her quills up when someone's energy doesn't match hers." She kept her voice even, trying to make room for both girlhood history and present reality.
Grace didn't buy it. "Plenty of people grow up without a map and still don't learn to scratch. Good bones make good habits. No bones, no guide—well, then you get a brat who never grows."
Oakley's eyes narrowed, and a smile edged her mouth—thin as a blade. "So my friend's the wolf and your friend's a saint, is that it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, I don't know," Oakley said, still smiling. "Let's say someone knows her friend is taken and still cares for her a little too well—how saintly is that?"
"You mean Evelyn?" Grace asked softly.
"So you do know who I mean." Oakley exhaled, the relief of finally saying it warm and sharp. The sight of them yesterday—easy, intimate—had set something raw humming in her.
Was she small? Then why didn't Sabrina Myers set her off like this? Why only Evelyn? Maybe because Grace and Evelyn looked married in every quiet way that mattered.
"Evelyn isn't like that," Grace said, rubbing at the spot between her brows. "She's careful. With everyone. Not just me."
It was true—Evelyn's kindness wasn't selective.
Oakley laughed, not kindly. "How can you be so sure?"
"I know her," Grace said, closing her eyes for a beat. Her mind had been messy since last night; now it felt messier. "I trust my read."
She'd spent years trimming the wrong people out of her life. She believed herself good at this—at sorting true from false.
Oakley pressed her lips together.
Perfect. To prove Evelyn's goodness, Grace needed nothing but instinct; to acquit Ellisa, Oakley would have to produce lab work and fingerprints. This was what loyalty looked like—Grace's, to Evelyn. A fortress. Impregnable.
Grace opened her mouth—to say she'd pull back from Evelyn if it helped—but Oakley laughed once, low.
"You know," she said, almost to herself, "for someone who's numb to feelings and has cut love out like a tumor, you talk a lot about understanding." Her voice rose. "Forget what anyone else is doing for a second. We made an agreement. If we don't meddle in each other's lives, then isn't this—" she gestured between them, "—a little much? Isn't it a bit tyrant of you?"
Numb. Cut off. Grace's head snapped up.
"Sorry," she said after a pause, mouth stiff. "You're right. I'm overreaching. At the end of the day we're roommates, bedmates, scene partners. If you want to go, go."
Oakley's jaw loosened, her hands dropping.
Something pricked deep, dull and mean. She didn't know what she'd struck, only that it hurt somewhere important.
She turned away sharply, bit her lip, and left, the strap of her bag flaring against her shoulder.
Grace stood and watched her go, listening to the quiet fill in behind her like water. After a long time, she laughed once, softly, strangely, the word "numb" echoing in her ears until the floor seemed to tilt.