"It was the little things," Heaton Norris said, pressing her lips together as if to keep her smile from leaking. "I noticed he'd get shy when he looked at me. And sometimes… a bit neurotic."
"Neurotic?" Grace Barron tipped her head. "Meaning?"
Heaton scratched at her hair, embarrassed. "I had a guy friend I'd sometimes grab dinner with. One night my boyfriend saw us. He didn't sit. Didn't look happy either. That's when I thought—okay, he's jealous. If he didn't care, why would it bother him?"
Grace's brows rose a millimeter.
She couldn't help recalling the way Oakley Ponciano had bristled—out of nowhere—around Evelyn Luke.
"And I'm guessing," Grace added, "time together never felt like enough. Every goodbye was the wrong length."
"Exactly." Heaton nodded, laughing lightly. "After we got together he told me, even if we'd spent the whole day side by side, when night came he still hated to part. He'd walk me home by the longest route."
Grace thought of Oakley's face when she'd joked about a two-week trip.
Her fingers found her knuckles. The corner of her mouth curved, quiet and helpless.
—
Eight p.m., Skylark.
Dinner finished, Oakley sat blank-eyed at the table, overfull and oddly hollow. Winter solstice. She'd planned lamb hot pot with Natalie Pierce; a last-minute conflict had taken Natalie off the board. Oakley ate alone.
She rarely spent holidays solo. The night lost its ceremony; the house felt bigger, the silence wider.
She knotted the takeout bag, dropped it in the bin, patted her rounded stomach, and started upstairs—then remembered Grace wouldn't be home tonight. She went back to turn off the lights.
Darkness pooled at once. Oakley drifted in it, unfocused.
Most nights, Grace was home by now. If not inside, at least inbound. The sudden not-coming hollowed the space in a different key, as if a quiet thief had moved through her chest and carried everything off.
Habit is a dangerous animal. Break it and your whole body goes sore.
Maybe the place was simply too large. Big rooms punish solitude. Or maybe it was the way the day's plans had fallen apart—Oakley hated when that happened; life went thin at the edges.
She rubbed both arms and climbed.
In the bathroom she weighed shower against bath and chose heat and water that held you. Winter is for soaking.
Twenty minutes later she settled on the bed with her tablet. No work tonight. Play.
Passcode entered—pause. She bit a nail.
The tablet slid into the duvet. She reached for her phone instead.
apptalk, Grace's thread. The last message: I'm going to work. Talk later.Oakley's reply: Go.
And then nothing. Hours of it.
Still working?
She sighed and tossed the phone. Ridiculous. Later didn't mean tonight. What exactly was she waiting on?
She grabbed it again and flung it farther, onto the nightstand. Back to the center of the bed, a shake of the head, the show—play.
The phone buzzed.
She twisted, stretched, reached—and knocked a half glass of water off the table. It burst across the floor, one slipper swallowing cold.
She ignored the mess and unlocked the screen.
Not Grace. Amelia Hayes.
Oakley laughed at herself. Patient zero of her own illness.
Amelia exploded across the chat:"omg Po, who even understands—my man is TOO SWEET."
"How sweet?" Oakley typed, tamping down the tiny ache and pretending this was just for gossip. "Give."
Amelia:"My friend says she's hit the seven-year itch—her marriage feels like left hand holding right, no feeling. I got curious and asked my husband if he's worried we'll end up like that. He said no.""He said I'll always be his little princess. Seven years, a hundred years—still his princess.""Also he changed my contact name to 'Her Royal Highness.' I'm screaming."
"You two have too much flair," Oakley wrote, massaging her temples.
Jealous, she thought, and didn't type it.
Amelia:"He's just romance-brained, lol."
"Stop. You're giving me cavities."
Even through the screen, Amelia's joy was weather—warm air rolling in. Maybe this was what a real marriage felt like: sweet because it was rooted. On normal days the difference hid itself; on nights like this, it glowed.
Oakley screenshotted and posted to her feed:"I'm tagging this woman again—constant sugar pusher. Someone out there calls her 'princess'! : )"
She watched the post sit there a few seconds. Then she deleted it.
No grand reason. Only this: she was married now. Even if it was a contract, it was still a ring. Broadcasting someone else's sweet nothings felt off. Odd to be licking another couple's candy while wearing vows, however provisional.
Besides, she'd chosen this. Signed with eyes open. Expectation had terms.
She glanced at Grace's quiet chat box, exhaled, hugged a pillow, and pressed play.
The episode ran long—hour-sized, the kind you could get old inside. By the end, her eyelids were dueling.
Bed, she decided. End this plain, shapeless day by sleeping through it.
She slid under the duvet.
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She hesitated. "Hello?"
A young man: "Hi, Ms. Ponciano? Could you come down to sign for your delivery?"
"Delivery?" Oakley frowned. "I didn't order anything. Wrong address?"
"Nope. Maybe someone sent it. I'm in a rush—could you come down?"
"Sorry!" She shot out of bed, toes into damp slippers. "I'm coming now—don't go!"
Down the stairs. Door open.
A bouquet thrust into her arms—violet crepe wrap, extravagant and luminous: a profusion of pink roses, each pressed to the next, a choir of petals.
Oakley stopped breathing.
"This is…" she began.
"Signature?" the courier prompted.
She scribbled against the door, took the flowers, closed the door, and stood there, held up by the fragrance.
A card winked from the blooms, lavender stock, delicate perfume rising as she slid it out.
She opened it—and clapped a hand over her mouth.
Two lines, small and sure:
Princess, happy winter solstice.—Grace Barron
"What the—" Oakley whispered to the empty hall, and then she was laughing, hugging the flowers as if they might fly away.
Upstairs she set the bouquet aside, threw herself onto the bed, opened the card again. Her legs kicked in the air like she was twelve. The card pressed to her chest, she thumped the mattress once.
Grace didn't do holidays. Oakley had assumed the woman could forget the calendar for months at a time.
Turns out, Grace didn't keep them for herself—she kept them for Oakley.
She was searching for a vase when a video call pulsed on the screen.
Grace Barron.
Oakley dropped the flowers, smoothed her hair with the hand not holding the card, and curled into the couch.
"Hello?" she said, when it connected.
The other side was black—shaky, too. "Evening," Grace's voice said, and then the camera flipped. Her face edged into view, a little unsteady, a little wind-touched.
"I got the flowers!" Oakley blurted. "And the card!"
She wore white, soft cotton falling from her shoulders, hair a loose halo. The happiness on her face threatened to spill from her mouth and eyes both.
Grace's chest filled. "You like them?"
"Like them?" Oakley nearly laughed. "How could I not?"
"I worried about the color," Grace said, knuckles grazing her mouth—shy. "Took me a while to choose."
Oakley dragged the bouquet into frame and lifted her arm till it trembled. "They're beautiful."
"The video doesn't do them justice. They look like… something out of a fairy tale. Oh—there's a tiny light inside—look!" She flicked it on. Warm pinpricks of gold breathed through the petals; the whole thing went storybook at once.
Grace watched the flowers bob in the frame, listened to Oakley narrate her delight, and couldn't stop smiling.
Cotton-candy soft, she thought. How can one person be this sweet?
"Fairy-tale is right," Grace murmured. "A princess should hold fairy-tale flowers."
Oakley covered her mouth again, eyes bending to crescents. "What did you call me?"
"Princess," Grace said, eyebrow tipping up.
Some words were ordinary in most mouths. In Grace's, they acquired a low, private music.
"Ugh," Oakley said cheerfully through the heel of her hand. "You are too…"
Grace's smile answered for her.
"Why the flowers, though? And the card? Why now?" Oakley asked, the curiosity honest. Moments earlier she'd suspected a wrong address; only the signature had grounded her.
Grace shifted the phone as she walked, brushed windblown hair behind her ear. "I saw the feed post you deleted."
She'd tapped it once, refreshed, and then—gone.
"And I thought," Grace went on, eyes lowering as if reading the thought off the sidewalk, "everyone else's princesses get candy. Mine had none—only other people's sugar to look at. That's not right. So I bought out the whole sweet shop."
Mine, Oakley heard. Her own mind snagged there and stayed.
"Mine? How am I yours?" she asked, smiling so hard it hurt.
Grace tucked her hair behind her ear again, amused. "It's written on the certificate. Even if you white out your name, the fact won't change."
Oakley's nose stung, sudden and inexplicable. So fakes could be princesses too?
She'd thought the sensible thing was to stay small. Not to want. Not to expect.
"You're impossible," she muttered—happily.
"Where are you wandering at this hour?" she asked a moment later. "Why aren't you in the hotel?"
"Got a pocket of time," Grace said. "There's somewhere good to be."
It was cold—knifing cold. A few hundred meters in the Lucent wind were enough to redden the fingers that had to stay outside her coat.
"What kind of good?" Oakley asked, genuinely curious. Grace liked few places enough to go seeking them.
"You'll see," Grace said, and quickened her stride. The video jittered.
A minute later, she stopped. "Switching the camera. Look."
The frame turned, and a street exploded into color. Flower sculptures under strings of tiny lights. Cartoon animals rimmed in gold. Vendors selling food and trinkets and hand-stitched sachets and postcards beneath small tents, each a different pocket universe.
It was the kind of night scene you usually only see after special effects do their miracles.
Grace walked, and the image kept offering more—a corridor of pinks and violets and glittering drift. Despite the hour, the place buzzed.
"Well?" Grace said softly.
She'd stumbled across a clip online—"prettiest night market," the comments had gushed. She'd looked at the photos and thought: Oakley would love this.
"It's gorgeous," Oakley breathed, eyes shining. "Is there an event?"
"Night market anyway," Grace said, panning left and right. "The city leaned in, polished the edges. Tourism push."
"It's working. I want to travel now," Oakley groaned, the wanderer in her waking at once. "If only I could hop over."
Grace smiled and left it there.
After showing her the sweep of it, she turned the camera back on herself. Even from odd angles, her face held. Some people were simply twelve good angles pretending to be infinite.
Oakley studied her for a moment, then teased, "So. You like these now? Up past your bedtime, walking through glitter?"
She remembered the last night market with Grace—how she'd strolled with a tourist's politeness, eating almost nothing, interested in very little. This wasn't her flavor. And yet here she was.
Grace looked straight into the lens. "Because you would like it."
Oakley blinked. "Because… I would?"
"So," Oakley's voice thinned, breath catching just a little, "you're calling me to show me this, because—because I'd like it?"
"Yes," Grace said, walking slowly. "To take you with me."
Oakley covered her mouth again. Light lit her pupils from within; she looked blown glass. She couldn't explain the happiness. She didn't have to.
If she could have teleported, she would have.
"Didn't expect this," she said finally, pulling a plush toy into her lap and mauling it gently. "Turns out you're nice."
"Does it feel like you won something?" Grace's mouth kept trying to smile.
"Please." Oakley squeezed the toy. "The self-love. It's terminal."
Grace laughed until the video shook.
The market wound down soon after; stalls folded, lights dimmed. Lucent turned in early. By eleven, it was mostly hush.
"Everyone's packing up. I'll head back. Hang up?" Grace asked.
"Okay." Oakley pretended to pinch her cheek through the screen. "Good night."
"Good night," Grace said, and the call ended.
The river cities kept their chill in the bones. The cold in Lucent had teeth, and the wind whetted them.
Still, Grace smiled the whole way back.
At the hotel she let the warm light soak into her eyes. Fatigue arrived an instant later, like a wave breaking after the tide has changed. A day of planes and errands, spinning like a top, had finally registered.
She showered, dried her hair, set the dryer back exactly where it belonged. In the mirror she patted in her products; the hotel lighting smoothed everything to honey.
Left profile. A small, private smile.
She cinched her robe tighter, turned off the bathroom light, poured a glass of water, and slid into bed. The hour was late. Sleep gathered.
Her phone lit. Sabrina Myers.
What now? Grace unlocked it.
Sabrina sent a drooping sticker and wrote:"Grace, real talk, I can't take it anymore. Not even a little."
Grace considered."Then maybe… start trying—right now?"
Sabrina:"Want me to fly over there and slap you? Left cheek."
Grace laughed silently, pushed stray hair behind her ear, and texted:"What's the problem, exactly?"
Sabrina:"I want to pursue the boutique owner."
The hanfu shop she haunted. Grace knew the saga by heart.
"Progress?" Grace asked.
Typing. Deleting. Silence. Grace waited, lashes lowering, a yawn threatening.
Finally:"Kind of."
"Define kind of."
"She gave me a box of dumplings she made at lunch."
Grace's brow arched."Promising."
At the very least, you weren't just a customer anymore. You were a person with a name.
Sabrina:"That's what I thought. But maybe it's just because I shop there so much—keeping a loyal customer sweet?"
Grace studied her neat nails, then typed:"Don't mind what she's thinking."
"?"
"No one is the parasite inside another person's thoughts. You can't know her mind. The only mind you can know is your own. If you like her, go after her. Let the outcome be tomorrow's problem."
Sabrina:"That's… actually good."
Silence again.
Grace put the phone down, opened a pill box, took her dose, followed with water. The phone buzzed.
Sabrina:"Wait—why do you sound different? More… optimistic? You used to be worse than me about this stuff."
Grace looked at the message for a long second and wrote:"Perspective shifts. Good night."
She set the phone aside, lay back, drew the blanket high.
Oakley's face came, uninvited and entirely welcome. The way she'd lifted the bouquet to the camera like a prize. The way she'd beamed when Grace said princess.
How can one person be that adorable? And how did I get lucky enough to find her?
Warmth bloomed just thinking the thought. Strange, how a face could be a small, steady lamp.
She turned off the light and slept like someone who'd found a cloud with her name on it.
—
Two days of the usual—a faster treadmill than most trips, this time—Heaton flagging by each sunset, bribing herself awake with tea and sugar, while Grace kept moving, clear-eyed as ever.
Busy has its mercy: the clock stops dragging.
On day three, after the last meeting, they exhaled in tandem and ducked into a century-old noodle shop beside a small square. Dark wood, porcelain with pale blue vines, the easy mood of a set from an old-time drama.
Two orders of crab roe noodles. Tea poured.
Oakley's message landed as Grace lifted her cup:"Are you back at 10:30 tonight?"
Grace's brow ticked up."Did you… misremember?"
She hadn't promised that. Tonight's return would have meant a scramble. She'd booked the morning flight before they left.
A long pause, then:"Ah?"
Grace could picture the error and typed, smiling:"I said 10:30 tomorrow morning. Not tonight."
"…I guess I really did get it wrong," came back.
As the bowls arrived—one with noodles, one with glossy, golden roe, small dishes of pickles—Grace slid the cups aside, made room, and wrote:"Tonight would be too tight. I'd be wrecked. Morning was smarter."
"Okay... I was going to wait up for late-night snacks. Rest well."
The ellipses stretched a country mile. The air between letters felt thin and cold.
Oakley had collapsed inside the message like a flower in frost. She'd spent the day front-loading work, shampooed, spritzed perfume, set out snacks—for nothing. She'd dreamed of "tonight" and woken into "tomorrow."
It was only twelve hours, really. It felt like winter.
Grace looked at the roe, then at her phone, then at Heaton.
Heaton slurped noodles, dabbed her mouth, and squinted. "Ms. Barron? Not hungry?"
Grace stirred the noodles once, twice. "Heaton, can you check if we can change our flight?"
Heaton blinked. "To when?"
Grace calculated. "Earliest after eight."
Heaton stared, then put her chopsticks down and reached for her phone. "Emergency in Skylark?"
Grace watched the sheen on the roe glint and let her smile show. "Important."
"Oh!" Heaton sped up at once.
Minutes later: "Done. Eight thirty-five. If we finish by seven-ish, we'll make it."
"Good." Grace lowered her head and ate.
Afterward they packed, headed for the airport, swapped boarding passes. Grace, in all black, moved like a line drawn in ink, long-legged and efficient. Heaton half-walked, half-jogged to keep up, thinking—not without admiration—that some people are simply built for momentum.
Skylark's lights were a black velvet studded with cold fire when they landed at ten fifty. The highway unspooled ahead like a luminous ribbon.
Grace watched the dark; watched her watch. Forty-five minutes, maybe fifty.
At the gate she saw the lamps still burning. A smile appeared without being summoned.
Through the little courtyard, suitcase rolling softly, she opened the door, glanced at the familiar order of the room, and headed upstairs.
A door opened above. Then a voice—trembling. "Who's there?!"
Grace paused and set the suitcase on a stair.
"I—I'm warning you," the voice wobbled higher. "Don't come closer! I have a knife!"
Grace covered her eyes for a second with her palm and laughed soundlessly. She put her hand on the suitcase handle again.
Oakley's footsteps turned—retreat, lock, call the police.
"Don't call," Grace said, finally.
"—What?" Oakley's voice leapt eight notes.
Grace sighed, took the last steps up, and stopped on the landing.
There she was in the doorway—rabbit-print loungewear, knees bent, one hand on the frame, mid-crouch like a cartoon burglar, halfway between flight and fight.
"It's me," Grace said, smiling.
Oakley's pupils widened like a camera's. "Grace?!"
"Mhm." One hand in her pocket, Grace dipped her chin.
Oakley looked from Grace to her phone's clock, as if reality needed a second witness. She pinched the inside of her arm, winced, and only then edged forward, astonishment frank on her face. "Why are you here? Weren't you going to rest tonight and fly in the morning?"
"That was the plan," Grace admitted. She let a breath catch, then let the truth out, small and bright. "But what can I do? I wanted to come home and eat late-night snacks with you more than I wanted sleep."