Night had deepened until sky and earth felt sewn together, the lamps and the moon blended into a single, gauzy sheen that gilded the buildings with a faint gold. Everything around them was very quiet, as if sound itself had gone to sleep.
Grace Barron stood half-turned in that light. The angles of her face were cut into halves—one lit, one shadowed. She was tall, spare, sure of her posture, and even when she did nothing, Oakley Ponciano found her singular and irresistible.
A witch meeting a half-saint, Oakley thought. One look into Grace's eyes and her heart trembled of its own accord.
If there's no dodging it, why try?
"What difference does wanting or not wanting make?" Oakley laced her fingers together and twisted them lightly, the pink bow of her mouth tightening and then softening. She raised her damp, lucid eyes from the dark to meet Grace's and said in a small voice, "I signed an agreement. If I fall in love now, wouldn't that be… marital infidelity?"
She couldn't tell whether Grace only wished to talk in circles about love, or whether there was something else smuggled beneath the words. Either way, Oakley hoped—quietly, recklessly—that Grace was hinting.
"Marital infidelity," Grace echoed, tasting the syllables, then let out a soft laugh. She lifted a thumb in mock salute. "Meticulous."
Oakley puffed out her cheeks, grinning as she slipped past her and strolled ahead. "Isn't it better to be precise? If I'm not, and you show up waving that contract to claim damages, what then?"
"So…" Grace walked behind her with hands clasped at her back. "You mean to find someone else—someone outside us—to date?"
The road was still and straight, lined with dense canopies. When the light wind threaded the leaves, a delicate rustle rose, a sound so clean it felt as if it dusted the spirit, leaving the mind swept and bright.
Oakley rose on tiptoe and plucked a small leaf dangling from a low branch. Rolling the stem between her fingers, she lifted her face toward Grace. "If I truly wanted to date, how could I do it without someone real? Should I try it with air?"
She had a point. It was, in fact, entirely logical. Grace walked beside her, head tipped back, laughing up at the clear, ink-blue mirror of sky where no cloud drifted.
"What?" Oakley shot her a glance.
"Nothing. Only that you're very…" Grace's smile thinned to something warm, and she nodded. "Very reasonable."
"What else would I be?" Oakley's gaze slid over the path ahead and then curved back. She turned fully, planting her feet, and faced Grace. "Or is it that…"
"Mm?" Grace lifted her brow.
"Or is it that I should date you?" Oakley brushed the leaf across Grace's shoulder, light and teasing, and smiled.
Grace's eyes followed the tiny motion of Oakley's hand upward until they reached her face. She said nothing. She only looked, and the look went deep and keen as if it might see right through Oakley to where the quick of her lived.
Their gazes touched; Oakley's bravado faltered. For all her playful provocation at the edges of boundaries, her heart gave a hard, startled thump.
She wet her lip with the tip of her tongue, guilty as a child. Before Grace could answer, she waved a hand. "I'm only joking."
She turned away, cheeks puffing again, lifting a palm to fan her face. She meant to leave. But the moment she took a step, fingers closed around her wrist.
A tug—firm, sudden—tilted her off balance. For a breath, the world spun, and she nearly fell into Grace's arms.
Catching herself just enough, Oakley tipped her chin up—and collided with Grace's gaze.
It felt like being in a small skiff on a restless river, lifted and lowered by waves. The wind ran through her thoughts, unruly, scattering calm. How could she possibly meet those eyes and remain steady?
"Actually," Grace said, holding Oakley's wrist, her gaze anchored in Oakley's, "it isn't impossible."
"Eh?" Oakley's heart kicked faster—wild, untidy.
"What… what does 'it isn't impossible' mean?" Blood leapt to her crown; words jammed. She could hardly manage a sentence.
"To date me," Grace said.
"What?" The floor of Oakley's chest seemed to vanish; her heartbeat sprinted so hard she thought it might vault out and run ahead of her.
Her throat went dry. Her lips went dry. Even her skin felt dry, like paper in warm air.
"You… you—" Oakley stammered harder, vowels tripping each other. At last, she scraped together a whisper. "You're not teasing me, are you?"
God alone knew how unreal it felt to hear those words from Grace. Her breath almost stopped.
"Of course not," Grace said, clean and brief. She lifted her lashes and, at a distance that let her see every small change in Oakley's face, let a crescent of a smile show. Then, crisp and even, "Will you date me?"
Her eyes were magnetic; Oakley's attention fell into them like a coin into deep water.
Her voice, too, was something to drink—warm, slow, like a liquor that didn't inflame so much as unwind the body into happy surrender. Everything about her drew the mind into a soft, willing blur.
Oakley could feel her pulse accelerating—too fast for command.
After a long, trembling beat, she raised her face and smiled, deliberately provoking: "Why should I?"
Her eyes glittered like a small lake ruffled by a tender breeze—charm with a thread of mischief, dangerously inviting.
Just as the very first time Grace had seen her. Alive in a way that made the air around her attentive. Place her anywhere and she'd pull every gaze.
Grace paused and met her, word by careful word: "I like you."
Oakley stared. "Eh?"
"What?" she asked again, hardly hearing herself.
"Oakley Ponciano," Grace said, "I like you."
The night made Grace look even more serious.
Oakley found no evidence for a joke. None.
Was this… a confession?
She clapped a palm over the lower half of her face. She was light-headed, almost floating; her heart didn't know how to stop.
While Oakley stood there like a statue, mind reduced to static, Grace spoke again. "If you're willing, be with me. Date me."
She reached into her coat pocket and drew out an envelope.
Oakley bit her lip. Was that—written to her?
Grace unsealed it, slid out a sheet, and glanced once at Oakley before reading:
"Dear Oakley Ponciano—hello. I'm afraid you might not remember me clearly, so I'll introduce myself again.
"My name is Grace Barron. I'm twenty-seven. Virgo. I love tomatoes with eggs, quiet places where I can hike and move, unhurried music, art-house films and essays. I drink tea. I read. I play chess.
"My colors are black, white, and gray. When I'm stressed, I cook. The person I like is named Oakley Ponciano—that's you. You are very pretty, very dear, and entirely captivating—your hair even smells good. Call my experience narrow if you must; I have never met anyone more beautiful or more singular than you.
"I don't remember when I started liking you. When I finally noticed, your shadow was already in every corner of my world. You were like sunlight shattered and folded into air, and with every breath, you moved further into me. At this point, removing you is no longer possible.
"If I can, I want us to share one umbrella in the rain, and one view when it clears. I want us to do so many things together, for the rest of what we're given.
"Because I like you."
When she finished, Grace lifted her eyes from the page to Oakley.
Oakley still had both hands cupped to her face. Her eyes held a soft sheen, and not a single word came out.
After a while, the hinge of her jaw loosened; she reached and took the letter.
Powder-blue paper. When she opened it, a faint scent rose like a secret.
The ink curled with a sure hand, elegant and easy, strokes flowing like water over stone. It felt like Grace herself—unforced, confident, unmistakable.
She read it once, then again, and a thin tide of heat climbed through her eyes.
"What do you mean you were 'afraid I wouldn't remember you clearly'?" Oakley demanded, looking up to glare and laugh in the same breath.
Grace smiled. "You once said I felt like a riddle—that you couldn't tell what I was. So tonight I introduced myself properly."
"Honestly." Oakley wanted to laugh at the seriousness in that face—and the more she smiled, the wetter her eyes grew. "Thinking you were a riddle was before. Later I learned."
Grace nodded.
Oakley read on. At the line about even her hair smelling good, and about never having met anyone more beautiful or unique, she lifted a strand and sniffed it, half-scandalized, half-pleased. "Am I really that unique to you?"
"Yes." Grace didn't know how to lie; praise from her had the ring of the thing itself.
"Sweet talker," Oakley muttered, still smiling.
"Even if it's sweet talk," Grace mused, head tipped, "not everyone gets to hear it from me."
"Oh God…" Oakley pressed the paper to her cheeks, grinning into it, then reached out and pushed lightly at Grace's shoulder. "You are so…"
"So what?" Grace caught her wrist.
Suddenly there was less air between them.
"Nothing," Oakley coughed, tugging her hand back and giving the letter a little shake. Color pooled in her face. "Don't interrupt me. I'm still reading."
Once was not enough. Hearing it aloud was not enough. She wanted the words in her eyes, on her skin.
Grace smiled again, content to stand by while Oakley savored the lines.
"One umbrella, one view," Oakley murmured, eyes curving like a sliver of moon caught on a branch.
She wondered if someone had injected her with something ridiculous. Her smile had been running since a moment ago and showed no signs of tiring.
Her mind—ever quick to make pictures—turned the sentences into scenes. It proved the old saying: the imagining alone is beautiful.
"Hey," she said at last, tucking the letter back into its envelope and giving it a small, proud wave. "When did you write this?"
"Before we traveled here," Grace said, eyes flicking from paper to Oakley's face.
Oakley blinked, surprised into a soft laugh. "So you planned this all along?"
Grace dipped her chin. "Mm."
"So your 'plan' wasn't just the fireworks…" Oakley felt like she'd missed a stair, fallen through, and landed not on fear but on a pile of candy and wrapped gifts.
"Mm," Grace said. "Originally, I meant to tell you at sunrise."
She'd researched the dawn here before they came. It was supposed to be breathtaking.
"Then why now?" Oakley asked. "Why change it?"
By all rights, sunrise was an excellent plan.
Grace laughed quietly. "I couldn't wait."
"Ah?"
Oakley's brows lifted. The light lacquered her features, giving her that soft, low-resolution glamour of an early-2000s poster—cinematic, a little unreal.
"You're too adorable," Grace said. "I wanted to start sooner. Even a little later felt wrong."
Oakley's eyes widened.
"So," Grace asked again, smiling, "will you date me?"
Oakley realized she'd never actually answered.
She clasped the letter behind her back, lips pressed tight, her almond eyes misting with stars.
She looked at Grace for a long time, then slapped a hand over her mouth as her eyes went hot all over again.
God knew how long she'd been dreaming of this moment. Dreaming was one thing. Hearing Grace say it herself was another kind of impossible.
Without warning, she threw her arms around Grace and held on—hard.
Grace's hands came up around her, steadying the sudden flight into her arms. She rocked them once, barely, then found her balance and smiled against Oakley's hair. "What's this…"
"I thought you could go a whole lifetime without saying it," Oakley said, lifting her face from Grace's chest, eyes wet and bright.
"No chance," Grace answered, drawing her closer by the waist and dipping her head, studying Oakley from dangerous proximity. "I rarely want anything. But I told you—when I do, I want it completely."
Her gaze was unwavering, and under it lay something primal, a clean, unashamed possessiveness.
Oakley's breath curled where it met Grace's; a shiver ran through her skin. Then she smiled, easy and sure.
"Then take me," she said. "All of me."