Grace Barron's mouth found Oakley Ponciano's fast and fever-hot. Before Oakley could assemble a thought, Grace's breath had covered her whole world.
The first brush of lips felt like a syringe slipping warmth into her veins—anesthetizing everything but the present. Muscles forgot themselves. Ideas shattered into bright, useless shards that tumbled into the dark.
Grace's palm cradled the back of her head; a flex of the wrist, and the kiss deepened. She didn't know what madness had taken hold—only that without Oakley she was missing some essential organ. No amount of kissing seemed enough; possession felt like oxygen.
After a long while they loosened, just slightly.
The main light was off; only the bedside night-lamp spilled a faint amber halo that glazed Oakley's face in something like old oil paint—fine nose, brows tilting upward, eyes half-lidded and ruinous.
Her eyes were always dangerous—smoky with a spring rain you could get lost in. One look, and Grace came undone.
"What's this?" Oakley swallowed, lifted her gaze, the corner of her mouth tugging up. "Can't last two days?"
"Hm?" Grace's breath was still a little ragged.
Oakley wound her arms around her, gaze somehow both guileless and wicked. "You made it sound so final, like you could go your whole life without touching me. I was going to wait it out. See how long you lasted. Turns out… not long."
They'd both overestimated Grace. Grace had overestimated herself.
Chastity-at-all-costs had always been, apparently, a very pretty lie.
"So that's why you've been avoiding me?" Grace asked, meeting her eyes.
Oakley's brows arced. "You said you wouldn't touch me."
Not verbatim, perhaps—but close enough for a heart to hear.
Grace's mouth crooked. She lowered, lips nearly at Oakley's ear. "And you could stand it? You could stand me not touching you?"
Warm breath feathered, and Oakley's shoulder blades flinched.
Hopeless. Whenever Grace leaned close, Oakley's brain merrily wrote an R-rated novella.
"I… couldn't." Oakley admitted, voice small and honest. She tugged Grace down by the nape and whispered, "Not even a little. I dreamed about it last night."
Her voice went soft and breathy, a cat's paw across the nerves.
"What did you dream?" Grace's fingers tightened on those delicate shoulders.
Oakley shivered and slid closer. "You. Coming and going. Again and again."
Grace pressed her lips tight.
This woman had a talent that never ran out: the talent for enchantment.
She caught Oakley's head, and kissed her again—deeper, freer. The kiss wandered, dropping to the fragile notch of Oakley's collarbone. As a strap slipped and fell, Oakley arched, eyes closed, teeth grazing her own lip.
She couldn't tell if the bed was too soft or if Grace simply knew what to do. Everything felt cloud-high, reality and dream blurring at the edges.
Outside, the night grew wilder. Wind bullied the trees until their branches looked like crashing surf. Cold lacquered the city in frost.
Inside, hair dampened with sweat. The duvet turned to a field after battle, beautiful in its ruin.
Oakley's mind was a shoreline rinsed clean by wave after wave—blank, starlit, somehow brand new.
In the small light, her lashes trembled; a fine blush warmed her cheeks. She was unbearable.
Grace watched for a moment more, then bent and kissed the beautiful mouth again. After, she rolled onto her side and drew Oakley in, chin settling in the warm crook of her neck, eyes finally closing.
Oakley's breath leveled by degrees; the rise and fall of her chest eased.
How she loved being wholly taken over by Grace. It carried danger—every time left her more entangled, more attentive, more hers. But she craved that Grace: the one who couldn't do without her. And that Grace seemed to crave her back, to the end of days if she could arrange it.
"Grace," Oakley murmured, tonguing a dry lip.
"Mmm?" Grace opened her eyes.
"I have a question." Oakley traced a lazy line across the hand cinched at her waist.
"Ask."
"My body," Oakley's hair still clung damply to her temple; her features wore the soft blur of aftermath, "is it really that interesting to you?"
"Mhm." Grace nuzzled the back of her neck—just a brush of nose and breath.
Such a small thing, and Oakley's shoulders jumped.
"Don't," she whispered, biting her lower lip. "Please."
"Why?" Grace asked, watching the fine tremble run through her.
"I'm… sensitive."
Grace's arm tightened, bringing her closer. She tipped toward Oakley's ear, voice low. "So that means… you'd want more?"
The sweetness turned teasing again.
Oakley stilled—and shook her head hard. "No. We can't."
"Why?" Grace asked, gaze on the elegant lift of Oakley's shoulder, mouth curving.
"I'll break," Oakley breathed.
She meant it. Her brain was porridge. Thoughts were little scraps, none of them obeying her.
Grace laughed under her breath, shut her eyes, and held her without another word.
Morning.
Oakley woke to an empty space beside her.
She rolled onto her back, stretched, and groped the nightstand for her phone. The screen lit—and a message bloomed across it.
From Grace.
Sleepy warmth evaporated; she unlocked at once.
"Temperature dropped today. If you go out, wear more."
Like an executive order.
"Okay," Oakley typed, smiling. "Relax. I'm not a kid. I know."
Grace replied almost instantly: "To me, you are a kid."
"Tch," Oakley sent. "Then you're awful."
"?"
"You lay hands on a kid? Shouldn't you be in handcuffs? The prison sewing machine is waiting."
Grace, mid-sip in the airport lounge, nearly aspirated her coffee and laughed helplessly to herself.
A gate agent approached to say it was time. Grace stood and murmured to her junior assistant, "Let's go, Heaton."
By the time Grace and her secretary landed in Lucent, it was just past eleven.
Colder than Skylark: one, maybe two degrees. The wind had a needle in it, and a shawl of misting rain. Bare skin met the elements and raised a thousand goosebumps in an instant.
After checking in at the hotel, Grace and Heaton slipped into a nearby restaurant and ordered a few local stalwarts, planning to eat and then dive into the day.
As Grace took a warmed cup from Heaton's hands, an elderly couple settled into the table opposite—helping each other sit with the kind of practiced gentleness that made your throat catch.
He wore a gray quilted jacket; his hair was fully white, like a snowcap. She wore almond-colored down; her hair was a soft salt-and-pepper.
They were tender-faced, arm in arm, talking non-stop from menu to first plates, as if conversation itself were the meal.
When a whole fish arrived, along with a stir-fry and greens, they bent their heads and picked bones, a lopsided duet. After a minute, the old man placed a perfect morsel into the old woman's bowl. "Here. Eat."
At the same time, she lifted her own carefully cleaned piece toward his bowl.
Their chopsticks met midair, clacked, and both bites fell to the table.
They stared, startled—and then laughed and laughed. Wrinkles deepened, but they looked, briefly, exactly like children.
Grace had been smiling since the moment they sat down. Her mouth curled further. "Beautiful," she said softly.
Heaton followed her gaze and softened too. "It is. You don't see many couples this sweet at that age."
After a beat, Grace turned back to Heaton. "You've dated, right?"
She remembered when Heaton first joined—caught in the blaze of a new romance, distracted enough to nick her work until Grace nudged her back on course.
"Huh?" Heaton blinked, then nodded. "Yes. Still dating."
Grace blew across her coffee, watching the thin white steam rise. "Is it… interesting?"
Embarrassing to admit: she'd "dated," technically, but it had been so thin it might as well not have happened. Even with the label, she'd come away without an understanding of what people meant when they said the word out loud.
"It is," Heaton said, smiling. "To this day I think confessing to him was one of my best decisions."
Grace's brows lifted. "You confessed?"
"Mhm." Heaton took a bite. "I did. I was terrified he'd turn me down—we'd barely known each other. But I analyzed it every which way and decided he probably liked me too. So I took the shot. Turns out… I was right."
Grace nodded slowly. "How did you know he liked you back?"
"It was the little things," Heaton Norris said, pressing her lips together as if to hold back a grin. "The way he'd look at me—shy sometimes—and then, now and then, a little… neurotic."
"Neurotic?" Grace Barron asked. "Meaning what?"
Heaton scratched her head, embarrassed. "I had this guy friend. We'd grab dinner once in a while. One night my boyfriend ran into us at the restaurant. He didn't sit down. Didn't look happy either. That's when I thought, okay—he's jealous. If he didn't care, why would he mind?"
Grace's brows ticked up.
She couldn't help remembering how Oakley Ponciano had bristled—out of nowhere—around Evelyn Luke.
"And I'm guessing," Grace tried, "time with you never felt like enough. Every parting felt wrong."
Heaton laughed and nodded. "After we got together, he told me that even if we'd spent the whole day together, when it was time to go home he still hated to let me go. He'd pick the longest route to walk me back."
Grace thought of Oakley's face when she'd joked about a two-week trip.
She traced the bones of her fingers. A smile tugged at her mouth and refused to leave.
—
Eight o'clock, Skylark.
Oakley finished dinner and, perhaps overfed on meat, drifted blank behind the dining table. Winter solstice. She'd planned lamb hot pot with Natalie Pierce, but Natalie had been pulled away by a last-minute crisis. So Oakley ate alone.
She almost never spent holidays this way. It made the edges of the night feel unfinished, a little hollow. But there it was.
She bagged the takeout containers, knotted the plastic, dropped it into the bin. One palm on her full stomach, she started upstairs—then remembered Grace wouldn't be home and padded back to switch off the lights.
Darkness pooled through the rooms. Oakley stood in it, dazed.
On most nights, Grace came back by now. If not already inside, then at least on the way. The absence, sudden and clean, made the apartment echo. As if a thief had slipped through her ribcage and emptied the shelves of her heart without leaving a single thing behind.
Habit is a merciless creature. Break it and your whole body complains.
Even the air felt colder. The windows were shut, and still she swore she could feel the wind creeping in.
Maybe the place was just too big. Big spaces don't forgive solitude. Or maybe it was plain: the holiday plans had gone sideways, and she hated when plans went sideways. It made life feel a little threadbare.
She rubbed her arms and kept climbing.
In her room she closed the door and stood in the bathroom doorway, debating: shower, or a bath?
A bath, she decided. Winter is for soaking.
Twenty minutes later she climbed into bed with her tablet. No work tonight. Playtime.
She typed the passcode and paused, biting a thumbnail.
The tablet sank into the duvet. She reached for her phone instead.
apptalk open. Grace's chat window. The last message: "I'm going to work. Talk later."
Oakley had replied, "Go."
And then—nothing. Hours of nothing.
Still working? she wondered.
She sighed, tossed the phone aside. Ridiculous. Grace had said later, not tonight. What exactly was she expecting?
She picked it up again and flung it farther, onto the nightstand.
Back to the middle of the bed. Headshake. Tablet open. The show, play.
The phone buzzed.
She spun, stretched, reached for it—and clipped a glass. Water skidded over the edge, splashed across the floor, soaked one slipper through.
She ignored it, unlocked the screen, opened apptalk.
Not Grace. Amelia Hayes.
Oakley laughed at herself. Patient Zero of her own sickness.
Amelia was exploding with joy:"omg, Po, you don't understand—my man is TOO sweet."
"Sweet how?" Oakley typed, pushing down the small ache that had risen and pretending she only wanted gossip. "Gimme details."
Amelia:"My friend says she hit the 7-year itch—feels nothing with her husband, like left hand holding the right. I got curious and asked my guy if he's afraid we'll end up like that. He said no.""He said, to him I'll always be his little princess. Seven years, a hundred years—still his princess. LOL.""AND he just changed my contact name to 'Her Royal Highness.' I am deceased."
"You two," Oakley wrote, rubbing her temples, "have too much game."
Jealous, she thought. There, say it. Jealous.
Amelia:"Can't help it. He's a romance-brain."
"Stop," Oakley sent. "You're giving me cavities."
Even through a screen, Amelia's happiness came in like a warm front. "Look how sweet we are," she was practically writing in the sky.
And yes—envy nibbling at the edges—maybe this is what a real marriage looks like. Sweet because it's real. On most days the difference is invisible. On nights like this, it glows.
Oakley scrolled, shook her head, and muttered, "Too sugary."
On impulse she took a screenshot and posted to her feed:"Gonna tag this sister again—always force-feeding me sugar. Someone out there is calling her 'princess'! : )"
She tossed the phone and turned back to the show.
Restlessness wouldn't let her sit. She paused the episode, fetched the phone, opened the feed, and slowly deleted the post.
No big reason. Just… she was married now. Even if it was a contract, it was still a marriage. Broadcasting someone else's sweet nothings felt off. Odd to be eating other people's love candy while wearing a ring.
Besides, what was there to envy? She'd chosen this path. She'd signed knowing she wasn't supposed to expect too much.
She glanced at Grace's silent chat box, exhaled, set the phone aside, and hugged a pillow.
The show was long—hour-long episodes that stretched like unspooling thread into the night. By the end of one, her eyelids were sparring.
Bed, she decided. End this quiet, shapeless day by sleeping through the last of it.
She folded the tablet shut and slid under the covers.
The phone rang.
An unknown number glowed on the screen.
She hesitated, then answered. "Hello?"
A young man's voice: "Hi, Ms. Ponciano? Could you open the door to receive your delivery?"
"Delivery?" Oakley frowned. "I didn't order anything. Did you get the wrong address?"
"Nope, right place," the courier said. "Maybe someone sent it to you. I'm in a rush—could you come down?"
"Oh! Sorry," Oakley threw back the blankets and jammed her feet into damp slippers. "Coming now—don't go!"
She hung up, ran downstairs, and wrenched the door open.
A bouquet was thrust into her arms—wrapped in violet crepe, huge and astonishing. A riot of pink roses, each one lush, each pressed to the next, a chorus of petals.
Oakley went still.
"This is…" She blinked.
"Ms. Ponciano?" the courier interrupted. "Signature, please."
"Right. Sorry." She signed against the door and took the flowers, their weight settling into her hands like a secret.
Door closed. Silence.
She stood there, dazed, before spotting a card half-hidden among the roses.
Lavender stock. Diagonal in the petals. A faint, sweet perfume rose as she pulled it free.
She opened it and clapped a hand over her mouth.
Two lines, neat and simple:
Princess, happy winter solstice.—Grace Barron