Grace Barron tasted the words on the screen again, eyes narrowing in puzzled amusement.
Cute?
All her life she'd been called anything but. In school and in the slow errands of ordinary days, people reached for calm, gentle, composed. At work the vocabulary sharpened: steady, unflappable, not to be trifled with. Born to lead, they said—the sort of person with borders no one crosses.
Labels layered upon labels until they fused, hard to peel off. She wore them like a well-cut coat. She'd grown used to being that woman.
And still—someone found her cute? Wasn't she the one who kept gawking at Oakley Ponciano and thinking, my God, adorable?
She turned and flipped on the bathroom light. The mirror caught her. In the instant of seeing herself she remembered last night, that school photo, Oakley calling her an idiot with a smile, and then—saying it was praise. Saying it meant cute.
Grace looked at her reflection for a long time and, inexplicably, smiled.
Cute. Cute.
Who would've thought? She hadn't been a "cute kid," and now fate was offering her the role of "cute adult."
Shaking her head at her own ridiculousness, she undressed and stepped beneath the shower. Fine spray, eyes closed, chin tipped up to the soft drum of water.
Later, hair dried and pajamas on, she went downstairs. They ate takeout together, talked about nothing, and then she returned to her room to pack properly.
Yesterday she'd only triaged outfits. The suitcase still yawned open like a quiet mouth.
She folded each piece, square and exact, slid them into place, then frowned. Winter wasn't summer. Summer clothes were feathers; winter clothes were bricks. A few choices and the suitcase was already full.
Back at the dressing table, deciding which skin-care bottles to take, she heard a gentle knock.
"Come in," she called.
The door opened a crack; Oakley slipped through, freshly washed.
"What is it?" Grace asked, turning.
"Nothing." Oakley's glance drifted to the open luggage, then she moved around it to Grace's side. "You're gone three days, right?"
"Mhm." Grace nodded.
"Wow…" Oakley folded her arms around her waist and made a sound—half sigh, half something else. "Three days…"
Grace had a jar of cream in hand. At that little sound, she turned her head.
Oakley's lips were pressed, cheeks puffed, eyes tilted toward the lineup of bottles. Maybe Grace was imagining it, but a veil of faint disappointment seemed to settle over Oakley's fine features. Like a salted fish that had forgotten how to sparkle.
Grace lowered her gaze, smiling. She stepped closer. "What is it? You'll miss me on this trip?"
Tall as she was, the nearness cast a small, soft shadow between them—just enough pressure to make the air behave differently.
Oakley startled, then looked up—and fell straight into those long, night-dark eyes.
Trouble. Those eyes were trouble.
"Who says I'll miss you?" Oakley rallied, hands smoothing up and down her own arms, performing a small lion's roar before shooting Grace a daggered look. "Please. Don't flatter yourself. I get the whole house to myself. I'm going to throw a party. A big one."
Bravado threaded through with something sweet. The mix didn't land as fierce. It landed as… cute.
"Okay…" Grace said mildly, then let a small hiss of thought leak out as she turned the little jar in her fingers. "Could be longer than three days."
"Longer?" Oakley's expression flipped like a stage mask—sudden, serious. "How long?"
"Not sure." Grace touched her lower lip with a fingertip, thinking. "Ten days? Two weeks?"
"Ten days to two weeks?!" Oakley's arms dropped. Her eyes went round. "That long? How does three turn into two weeks? Is this a business trip or a military campaign?"
Grace's laugh finally broke loose. She wrapped an arm around her waist, shoulders shaking; strands of hair slipped forward, skimming her collarbone.
Oakley stared, suspicious—and then it clicked.
She pointed at Grace. "Oh, I see. You're messing with me. You're lying, aren't you?"
"Today…" Grace could barely stop smiling. She didn't deny it. "Today you're very quick."
"I'm always quick. And you are lying!" Oakley's brow knit; she lifted a hand and swatted at Grace's shoulder. "You dare!"
But when she swung again, Grace caught her wrist with ease.
Oakley went perfectly still.
Grace tipped her head, eyes steady on hers. "Weren't you dying to have the place to yourself? If I were really leaving for two weeks, that would be ideal. Why the sudden panic?"
Oakley stalled in that gaze.
Right. Why?
Not long ago she was the queen of solitude, proud of the way her space sounded when it was quiet. One person meant freedom—slack and silence.
And now, with the prospect of a stretch of nights alone, something inside her felt off-balance. As if a small, crucial object had gone missing from the pocket of her heart, leaving it empty and a little cold.
"Tch." She tugged her wrist free and looked away. "It's just… sudden. I'm not used to it, that's all."
Grace nodded and said nothing, simply watched her.
Silence came down like a light blanket. Not heavy. Not comfortable either.
"Ugh. I'm done with you." Oakley cleared her throat and pivoted toward the door. "I need my beauty sleep."
Her hand reached for the knob, hovered there, didn't close.
"Oakley," Grace said.
Her name drew her back. Oakley turned, confused and a little wary.
Grace set the cream aside and leaned lightly against the dressing table. She lifted her eyes.
"Stay," she said softly. "Tonight. Sleep with me."
Oakley met that gaze, bit her lip, and—before she could stop herself—blurted, "What, you'll miss me?"
"Mmm?" Grace tilted her head.
Oakley's ears went hot. She coughed. "Fine. Yes."
Grace watched the color climb, and a smile slipped free.
"Don't know what you're laughing at." Oakley glared, then marched for the bed, kicked off her shoes, and slid beneath the duvet like a small, indignant cat. "Ridiculous."
To Grace, it was ruinously endearing.
She breathed out a laugh, turned back to finish the small things—this in a pouch, that in a box—then Tetris'd everything neatly into the suitcase. Clicked the lock. Done.
She set it aside, drank a glass of water, rolled her shoulders, then sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the long, thin charging cable. Phone plugged in.
The mattress dipped. Oakley, sensing it, glanced over at the slim outline in the dim. When Grace slipped fully under the covers, Oakley snapped her face back toward the wall—mysteriously shy, as if the shape Grace made in her mind had grown somehow brighter, more… dangerous.
"Anything else? If not, I'll turn the light off," Grace said, tugging the quilt up, voice a low question.
"Nothing. Lights," Oakley replied, head tipping against the pillow.
Grace half-rose, clicked the switch. Darkness tucked them in.
About half a meter of space lay between them, the duvet caving slightly in the middle.
No words. Only the faint hiss of wind outside the glass, sifted and softened by the pane. Skylark had dropped a few degrees again; you could imagine the bite of air on anyone still walking out there.
"Wind's up," Grace murmured, breath even.
"Mhm…" Oakley laced her fingers over her stomach and idly worked them against each other.
A pause, then Grace's voice again, quieter. "Are you scared?"
It was the sound of water in a mountain creek, finding every hollow, slipping straight into the heart.
Oakley shifted her fingers, rolled to face away, curled her hands beneath her cheek. "Afraid… and what of it?"
Grace didn't answer right away. A minute passed. Then another. She rolled too, and in the dark reached an arm across the small gulf, looped it around Oakley's waist, and pulled—firm, sure.
Oakley's mind lurched, weightless; her body went with the motion. By the time she registered the change, her back had met a field of warmth.
A voice came with a ribbon of heat at her ear. "How about like this?"
Oakley went rigid from crown to heel, nerves drawn tight like string.
"Good," she managed, suddenly stammering. She wet her lips. "Much better."
Outside was colder by the second. Inside, the fine skin of her back grew damp.
"Is it?" Grace breathed.
"It is." Oakley nodded, the crown of her head tucked neatly beneath Grace's chin. Strands of hair skittered against Grace's skin, making something low inside her itch in the softest way.
"Strange," Grace murmured, breath tracing the edge of Oakley's ear. "You feel nervous."
"No…" Oakley licked her lower lip. Her shoulders ticked. "Grace. Your breathing is… really loud."
"It is," Grace said, tightening her arm, closing every seam between them. "Very loud."
Too intimate. The kind of closeness that said things out loud without words.
A single accidental spark, and Oakley was covered in gooseflesh, every wire inside her humming.
They didn't speak.
Then, all at once, Grace rolled and brought Oakley with her, a smooth motion that set Oakley flat against the mattress.
Dizziness swept Oakley's head clean. Her heart thudded like a door someone kept knocking.
Fingers found her chin, held it gently but without asking permission. Before she could think—before she could do anything at all—Grace came down to her, heat and breath and the sound of a soft, impossible yes, and kissed her. Without hedging. Without defense.
As if true love could be a decision and a gravity at the same time.