Maybe it was because Oakley's questions strayed too far beyond the syllabus of midnight, or maybe sleep is a better shield than people admit—either way, Grace Barron didn't answer. The room held only the rhythm of breath, the hush of two bodies breathing in and out. Silence, complete and easy.
So those scenes where people murmur their entire life story in their sleep—those belong to dramas, not to life.
"…All right." Oakley was buzzing with curiosity, her heart suspended like a weight on a thin string, but she still didn't dare nudge Grace fully awake. She lifted the duvet higher, pressed in closer to Grace's warmth, and whispered, "Good night."
Sigh.
Even with her eyes closed, Oakley couldn't keep the sigh from slipping out. Ellisa Cheney's words were a seed that had split open in her head, green tips breaking soil, refusing exile. She could not wave them away.
Drawing on her lifelong devotion to modern romance novels, she reached a firm conclusion: that "other girl" had to be one of those white moons lodged in the deep of Grace's soul—a first-love that never quite dulled. If Grace wouldn't speak her name to anyone, the woman must be something significant. Oakley's mind spun on: surely there had been an earthshaking, unforgettable history between them—one of those stories that, if you extracted a single thread and held it to the light, could become a sweeping, aching film without much embellishment at all.
Where was that white moon now? Dating? Married? Or not—free, dazzling in some exceptional field?
Because if one day the white moon came strolling back, tossing her hair, saying, I'm sorry—for all my wandering, I discovered no one can replace you, would Grace be able to stand steady?
Thinking like that, Oakley still lost the battle to sleep. Her lids grew heavy, her lashes stitched the dark shut, and she drifted.
Morning.
Grace woke first, yawning softly into her pillow. Seasonal weather, perhaps—that, or the new gravity of contentment. She had always owned a clockwork body, consistently up at the same hour, feet on the floor moments later. Lately, though she still woke on the dot, leaving the nest required lingering. The bed had acquired a magnetism it hadn't had before, as if the comfort had thickened into something persuasive, something that wanted to keep her.
When she finally opened her eyes, she realized Oakley was in her bed, curled small in front of her, breathing even and deep, sleep sweet and untroubled.
Grace brushed the stray hair off Oakley's face and watched her for a long, long minute. Her own lashes lowered in a gentle blink; a smile arrived without asking. When had this woman padded in and stolen half the mattress?
Last night she'd come back late, bone-thin on rest after too many long days. She'd dropped into sleep so fast it felt like falling through a trapdoor. And yet here they were—together. Easy as if they had always done it.
Grace almost forgot the barricades of that first reunion years ago, how Oakley had worn her wariness like a second skin. Where had that vigilant little guard dog gone?
She preferred this Oakley—unguarded, soft around the edges.
"Honestly…" Grace murmured, caught on the clarity of each of Oakley's lashes, and smiled again.
The smile jostled the covers. Oakley sensed something, frowned in the lightest, sleepiest way, then slid back under, unbothered.
Grace lifted the quilt, slipped from bed, tucked the blanket around Oakley's shoulders, and moved through her morning—washed, straightened, packed. Coffee ground to a hush, cup lidded and taken to go. Work was waiting; the day was a clean chalkboard.
Busy, but not that busy, as it turned out. The morning offered small pockets—enough time to stretch, to scroll through a few places that tugged at her. They'd promised a trip. She blocked off a rough window, shifted commitments forward like chess pieces, and started vetting destinations.
The crowded ones—overexposed, endlessly photographed—she crossed out. Too commercial, too predictable; mystery mattered. She kept a shortlist and weighed them, imagining Oakley's eyes in each backdrop. Wherever they went, Oakley would find a way to love it.
Noon crept up on the clock. Grace cleared her desk and headed out to lunch.
Meanwhile, at the Barron house, Oakley was face-down on her pillow, frowning in a shallow furrow, unable to surface. The dream had been vicious—so outlandish she doubted her choice of career path. If she'd gone into screenwriting, she'd probably be the darling of the industry by now.
In the dream, she had padded downstairs just in time to see a woman in a white lace dress and red high heels ease a Rolls into the courtyard. The woman stepped out like a line from a waltz, hips pouring elegance, pretty enough to make the flowers crane their necks.
At the door, the woman swept her arms up, pushed it open, and looked Oakley up and down. Then, as if it were the most natural thing, she slipped off her heels and handed them over for Oakley to hold.
Dream-Oakley, stripped of all her usual spark, accepted the shoes like a scolded assistant. In the waking world, not a chance. Who was she? The temper-firecracker turned to marshmallow? Absolutely not.
Cut to the living room: the woman spun alone in widening circles, a solo waltz. When Oakley was dizzy, Grace came down the stairs. The woman pitched forward beautifully, into Grace's arms. She looped her arms around Grace's neck and breathed, "Long time no see. I'm back. Jelly, do you still remember me? It's me—Peanut."
Grace caught her hand and kissed the back of it. "Of course I remember. I told you—this life, it could only ever be you."
Then the woman pointed straight at Oakley and pouted. "And who is that? Why is she here?"
Grace followed her finger, glanced at Oakley, and said coolly, "Expired jelly. Not worth keeping. I'll take care of it right now."
Dream-Oakley finally broke, eyes flooding. Pearls—diamonds—spilled from under her lashes, clattering in a ridiculous, sparkling rain.
Grace's gaze stayed arctic. She and the woman each took out little velvet pouches, chirping don't miss this bargain, step right up, as they crouched and scooped the pearls into the bags for resale.
Oakley ran and ran and could not wake up. When she finally tore free and sat upright in bed, her heart thudded once, twice—then almost forgot the third time.
She shoved the quilt aside, breathed deep, waited for the world to sharpen back into lines. It did, slowly.
Then she slid her feet into slippers, hurried to the window, ripped the curtains back, and unlatched the glass, leaning into the cold to look down.
No Rolls in the drive. No woman in red heels. No white lace and ghosts from nowhere.
Just a dream. Her mind throwing shapes. She pressed her hair behind her ear and released her jaw. A long breath out. The taut cords in her head loosened a notch.
Back at the bed's edge, she looked around the room and realized—with a belated little jolt—that she was in Grace's room. She'd meant to come ask about the white moon, and instead she'd fallen asleep in the bed of the woman whose past she was trying not to obsess over.
She tugged a handful of hair and made a face at herself in the mirror of her mind. Enough. Boredom breeds nonsense.
She returned to her own room, washed up, combed her hair, and padded down to the kitchen. She slid open the freezer drawer and set a few oversized buns in the steamer—care packages from Lucent, a housekeeper who'd noticed her delight and filled a bag for the road.
Next came strawberries—those perfect little hearts Grace had bought at a specialty shop. Shiny, ruby-bright, promising juice. Oakley washed and quartered them, tucking them around a mound of thick yogurt until it looked like roses against snow. She snapped a piece of chocolate and anchored it in the yogurt like a signpost. The bowl gained an instant, improbable glamour.
Buns plus yogurt wasn't a marriage anyone asked for, but Oakley wasn't in the mood to be precious. Eat what exists. East and West could share a table.
Only when she sat down did she learn that her optimism had outpaced reality. The flavors tripped over each other, a little off, as if the plate had opinions and wouldn't hush them. She couldn't keep her focus from skittering away.
Her thoughts drifted back to Ellisa. The nerve—dropping a half-formed bomb and then deleting her. What meaner, pettier exit strategy could there be?
Sigh.
After dishes and a quick video shot, she recognized another problem: she'd barely stepped outside for days. Mold needed damp, but idleness could do it, too.
At the vanity, she smoothed her hair, changed into something simple, and headed out to a café that had just opened.
It was called Left-Hand Side. Retro Hong Kong vibes: polished, weighty furniture; lighting with the warm haze of old film. A place tailor-made for either half-embarrassed confessions over small drinks or a lone figure watching snow catch and spill past the glass.
A server led her to a corner table by the window. She ordered a coffee, and because the light was flattering and her hands itched, she lifted her phone and opened the camera for a self-portrait.
That's when she heard it—familiar, low, composed: "All right. Let's do that."
Grace.
Oakley froze, the selfie forgotten. She lifted her head and scanned. Then she turned toward the sound.
There—in the diagonal row behind her—Grace sat with another woman, talking. Grace's back was to Oakley, so Oakley couldn't see her face. The other woman's expression, though, glowed; she looked like someone entirely pleased with her afternoon.
Oakley's hand drifted to her mouth.
Red heels. The woman was wearing red heels. The exact shade from the dream.
No. That was too on the nose. It couldn't be.
The server set down the coffee, and Oakley nodded her thanks. She picked up the tiny spoon and stirred, slow circles she didn't watch.
Their voices carried.
Grace: "After all these years, I'm surprised—you really haven't changed at all."
The woman smiled. "Neither have you. You look almost exactly the same. Still beautiful."
Grace: "How long has it been?"
The woman: "Nearly ten years, I think? It feels like we met yesterday, and then—blink—here we are."
Grace: "I still remember the first time I saw you. The whole scene."
Oakley's fingers tightened around the spoon. The coffee, unstirred, darkened. The room held its breath. And somewhere between the past and the present, her heart braced for a name.