"There's been… strange noises in my room," Grace Barron said. "If I had to guess—mice."
A woman who almost never lied, she wore the lie like a badly fitted coat. Every joint in her speech creaked like a rusted hinge. The excuse was flimsy, and she knew it. The awkwardness shone through every seam.
"Mice?" Oakley Ponciano let go of the doorframe and folded her arms, her expression full of private amusement.
She was one breath away from sticking a Post-it to her own forehead that read: I'm dying to see what you think you're up to. Oakley hadn't expected Grace to turn this tactic back on her so soon—or so adorably.
Grace pretended not to notice the mischief in Oakley's eyes. "Could I sleep here tonight?"
Oakley's mouth tilted, a smile that wasn't quite a smile, as if she were regarding a gorgeous, baffling alien. She didn't answer right away; she studied her instead.
Tonight Grace's hair fell like black water over her shoulders; her brows were fine, her eyes carrying their own quiet light. The silk robe laid clean against her, soft fabric tracing a slender frame. Her collarbones were all elegant edges, two shallow basins catching the room's lukewarm glow—beauty whittled to its line and plane.
Looked at closely, she resembled a woman from an old portrait—inked, serene, and a little unreal.
Oakley had to bite back a laugh. Wasn't it Grace who once complained she stayed too close, hovered too often? Oakley had finally taken the hint, granted her space, stopped brushing up against her simply for the pleasure of it—and now here was Grace, coming to her.
There it was, that trick of human nature. Some hearts ache for the bruise; the colder you are, the warmer they lean.
Oakley didn't call her out. She only rolled her clear eyes toward the ceiling and opened the door wider. "All right then. I can be a good Samaritan. Come in—can't just stand by and watch you get shredded by a platoon of mice, can I?"
"Thank you." Grace wasn't embarrassed in the least; she even dipped a playful bow. "I owe you, Ms. Ponciano. A debt of life and limb."
"Please." Oakley made an unimpressed noise, cinched her arms around her waist, and strode back into the room.
Grace watched her go, a small smile easing across her face. She ducked into her own room long enough to snag the phone off its charger, killed the light, and shut the door behind her before crossing the hall into Oakley's room.
As soon as the door clicked, she saw Oakley already back at her desk.
Grace's room was trim, nearly austere. Oakley's was… not. She'd kept the bones and then happily committed a hundred tiny crimes against restraint: dolls on shelves, a giant Pikachu slumped over the desk chair like an exhausted bodyguard. Minimalist Asia had given way to a kind of gentle chaos, half nursery, half carnival.
And somehow, it worked.
"Still not done?" Grace came closer. Music software pulsed in one window; a short-form video editor gleamed in another.
She'd assumed Oakley was asleep by now. Apparently not. Tonight Oakley was the one chasing midnight.
"Mm." Oakley lifted a pink-lilac Kuromi tumbler and stared at her desktop. "This brand is impossible. We approved the script at the start, they swore it was fine, and now—on the eve of posting—they've decided to be difficult. So here I am, revising at the last second."
She'd planned to wrap before dinner. But barbecue had happened, and everything slid.
Grace could feel the heat of Oakley's irritation, the static trapped between the lines. No wonder she'd kept asking if the copy was really, truly okay.
"How far along are you now?" Grace asked, glancing between the two screens.
"Close. And not close," Oakley deadpanned, then turned in her chair. "Go to sleep. I'll come over after I finish."
Grace didn't want to keep her from the work, so she simply nodded and moved to the bed.
Oakley's duvet set was food-themed: creamy background stamped with tumbling sushi, noodles, loaves of bread, slices of cake—like a block party under cotton. She'd added a mattress topper too, thick enough to sell a home-goods ad on sight.
It was the same house. And yet Oakley's room and Grace's felt like different countries, their styles as far apart as north and south.
Grace slipped off her shoes, half-reclined, and pulled the covers to her waist. The bed really was a cloud, gentle heat rising through the fabric within seconds.
She turned her head, watching Oakley's corner. The desk hosted a small republic of objects—dried plums, gum, a scalp massager—clutter that, strangely, arranged itself into order the longer you looked. It felt lived-in, alive, the way a life should look when nobody was staging it.
Grace's own surfaces were alphabetized and severe. Perfect, yes. But fun? Not particularly.
She dropped her gaze and unlocked her phone. She didn't feel like sleeping, and she definitely didn't feel like sleeping alone. So she scrolled through the social feeds to watch the narrative around Iris Rowan and the day's fiasco settle and shift.
Oakley glanced over and found Grace sitting up. "Not sleeping?"
"Monitoring the chatter about Iris."
Mostly, I'm waiting for you.
"Okay." Oakley took a sip of water, set both hands on the keyboard, and let the clatter begin.
The room fell under the hum of work—the small machine noise of keys and breath and thought.
Grace made herself quiet. So quiet that Oakley kept cutting her eyes over, checking if she'd fallen asleep. Or vanished.
Half an hour later, Oakley finally exhaled. The stone in her chest hit the floor with a knock she could almost hear. The wildfire inside calmed; the ash smelled clean.
If they managed to nitpick this version, she'd swear she was under a hex and book a fortune-teller for the morning.
She sent the video into Premiere's queue, then pushed back from the desk and stood, stretching toward the ceiling with a soft yawn. Her spine answered with a chorus of small clicks, a sound that made her wince.
"Done?" Grace asked, closing out of her app and turning to her.
"Mm…" Oakley shook out her arms, stamped a foot, tilted her head until it popped. A shadow of worry crossed her face. "Great. Now my neck feels stuck."
She really was worn out. Her shoulders ached under the skin; the tendons along her neck felt tight as bowstrings, drawn and held.
"Probably from sitting one way too long. And your phone posture is a crime scene," Grace said, patting the mattress beside her. "Come here. I'll work it out."
"You know how?" Oakley's eyes narrowed with playful suspicion.
Grace's smile tipped brighter. "I learn fast. The old-school chiropractor I see talked me through it enough times that I practically took notes. I should be fine."
Office life minted the same injuries in everyone; repeat patients become half-physicians by necessity.
"Okay." Oakley bent to shut the laptop; the screen dimmed to black. She crossed to the bed. "Do I lie on my stomach or sit?"
"Stomach." Grace wanted her to really let go.
Oakley nodded, flipped the duvet back, and stretched out.
Grace swept her hair aside—soft, untidy silk—and the line of Oakley's neck came clear: fine, pale, and slender enough to look breakable, a bell made of porcelain.
Grace sat at her side and lifted her hands, then set them down, warming to the skin at the nape. A few strands slipped with her movement and brushed Oakley's neck; that small touch of tickle rippled outward like rings in a pond. Oakley's shoulders drew up without permission.
Grace leaned closer. "What is it?"
Her breath, warm and close, fell into the hollow of Oakley's neck, mingled with the low sound of her voice, and raised a field of tiny bumps along Oakley's skin.
"N-nothing," Oakley said, catching the edge of her lower lip. "Just—keep going."
"Mm." Grace nodded, and her thumbs pressed, her fingers folded, half-press, half-roll, a steady, thoughtful rhythm.
Her hands ran warm. The pressure hit that impossible sweet spot—never too soft, never too much—and the knots that had felt welded began to loosen, thread by thread.
It was good. Suspiciously good. Oakley could have sworn she'd been ferried to a professional spa.
"You know," Oakley murmured, unable to help herself, "whatever you touch, you could turn into a business. Open a massage studio and you'd be booked out for months. People would insist on requesting you."
"Would they?" Grace's laugh came light.
"Oh, absolutely," Oakley said. "Some might even ask for… special services."
"Special?" Grace's brows rose. She bent to Oakley's ear, teasingly earnest. "What kind?"
Heat flared to life again, undoing all the unwinding Grace had just coaxed into being. Oakley bit down a sound. "Don't play innocent with me."
"I'm not playing anything. I don't know…" Grace's gaze flicked to the small, perfect pearl of Oakley's earlobe. "I'm just massaging you. You're the one inventing plotlines."
Color climbed Oakley's cheeks, and a thin current of heat ran up her spine. She balled a fist in the duvet. "Stop talking. Keep working. A good therapist is a quiet one."
Grace nearly said, You started it, then thought better and swallowed the line. She focused, kneading along the stubborn cables, patient and intent.
After a while she asked, "Any better?"
"Mm. A lot." Oakley shifted, sighing as ease slipped back into her body.
"Want me to do your back, too?" Grace asked.
Only a fool would refuse a gifted masseuse in her bed. Oakley nodded.
Grace set one palm between Oakley's shoulder blades, stacked her other hand atop it, and moved with gentle, deliberate pressure, inch by inch, from top to bottom.
Fabric skimmed under her touch, adding a layer of suggestion to the warmth between skin and skin. Even through the cotton, Grace could feel how smooth she was.
Oakley's fingers curled around the pillow. Her mouth pressed into a thin line she didn't quite understand.
Neither of them spoke. The room deepened into a softness so complete that a feather landing might have made a sound.
When Grace finally lifted her hands, she asked, "How does it feel now?"
"So much better," Oakley said, rolling onto her back and lifting herself to sit—
Too fast. The world tipped, and she pitched toward the headboard, eyes rounding in alarm.
Grace lunged, catching Oakley's forearm while her other hand slid behind Oakley's head, palm a shield. In the same breath, Oakley didn't hit the wood—but Grace did end up spilling forward, her whole body folding over Oakley's.
They met with a soft shock—warmth against warmth, a fit too exact to be anything but intimate. Their mouths stopped a breath apart.
Both hearts missed a beat. Their chests rose and fell, unruly.
Grace held her, mouth barely moving. "Did I scare you?"
Under the sweep of her lashes, her eyes were darker, unfocused at the edges, as if fog were rising off a lake at dawn.
Their breaths tangled. One inch more, and it would be a kiss. One inch less, and it would be nothing at all.