It was, in every sense, a frightening one long, dreadful minute. The room froze.
Grace Barron's eyes lingered on the words glowing across the phone screen. She didn't move at once—her lashes lowered, then lifted again, reading the line twice as if to test the truth of it. One brow tilted, not rushed, like a hawk settling its wings. Then she turned, sharp and soundless, toward Oakley Ponciano.
Oakley, caught mid-lunge, was petrified in motion: one leg still bent forward, hands hovering empty, as if a startled bird had been arrested mid-flight. Their eyes collided.
The moment their eyes met, the room seemed to hold its breath, strange and heavy. For a few seconds, there was nothing to do but look at each other and feel the oddness gather.
After a handful of awkward seconds, Grace cut the silence cleanly. Her tone calm, but the calm was worse than shouting. "So… who exactly did you feel like kissing?"
It was a strange thing to google out of nowhere. However you turned it over, it gleamed oddly in the hand.
Grace's face gave nothing away, but her eyes were hawk-sharp, the kind that pared a person to the bone. Oakley felt naked, as if the air had been stripped from her and the rest of her clothes with it.
But Oakley was not one to fold easily. She drew her leg back, rearranged herself into an easy, elegant glide, reached the sofa. With two fingers, she slid the phone from Grace's hand, her smile faint, her voice airy.
"Who said it was me wanting to kiss anyone?"
"Oh?" Grace didn't argue. She only watching her, those dusk-bright eyes waiting, narrowed to a patient gleam, as if peeling her apart without ever laying a hand.
Oakley glanced at the screen—those damning words still glowing—and with a quick flick, closed the page and returned to the home screen.
She smoothed a handful of thick hair behind one ear, then lied with a steady voice and a face that even God would have needed a second look at. "It was a friend. She messaged me today—panicked, confused—she said she suddenly wanted to kiss her female friend and didn't know what it meant. I figured I'd be a good Samaritan and look it up for her."
Every gesture, every note of her voice sounded practiced, convincing. One could almost believe her. Almost.
"I see," Grace said, tipping her chin in the way she did when she was thinking. The doubt in her gaze didn't drain; it simply sank deeper. She hadn't said another word, and still Oakley's felt her palms dampen, a tremor skimming under her skin.
The silence pressed again. Oakley knew If she dodged now, she'd be lost. So instead, Oakley forced herself to breathe as if nothing had happened. Tilted her head, met Grace's gaze with bold steadiness, and said lightly, "Right, Otherwise what? Did you think it was me? That I had some idea about you?"
At last, something shifted. Grace's gaze eased a fraction; she let it fall to the floorboards. "Wouldn't dare."
Oakley had no idea what was moving behind that calm. Not entirely. But she pressed on, refusing to betray herself.
As she walked toward the pantry, she tossed the question back, with a conversational brightness that tried a little too hard, "consulted" Grace: "So what do you think it means, then? If someone suddenly wants to kiss a friend of the same sex? Is it really like the internet says—that she likes women? That she likes her?"
She made it sound careless, detached. As if she were only humoring some distant friend's panic. As if the heat in her own throat wasn't burning her alive.
Grace did not answer right away. She leaned back, lashes lowered, as though she were weighing the question grain by grain. Oakley watched the quiet settle on her face, a kind of composed gravity that made every word she might say feel fated.
"Hard to say," Grace murmured finally. "Physical attraction doesn't always align with emotional love. If she wants to kiss another woman, it mostly means she's not opposed to women. Under certain hormone swings, she might react. She could be bi. She might like women. But that doesn't mean she's in love with the person."
The thought made an ordinary kind of sense. People do all sorts of things with their bodies that their hearts would never sign for. If sex and love were forever welded, how would the chronic hook-up artists of the world get anything done?
Oakley's brow twitched, almost invisible. So maybe she wasn't as straight as she'd always assumed. Heat sifted through her skull. For a second her mind became weather.
"So maybe she's not as straight as she thought," Oakley said, softer now, almost to herself. The thought made her chest clench, strange and sharp.
A pause. The silence between them thickened again. Grace tilted her head slightly, as if noticing the catch in her voice. "What is it?"
Oakley bit her lip. "Nothing." Then, unable to stop herself, she pressed on in a quieter tone. "Then real love… it's the emotional kind, right?"
Grace's expression shifted—subtle, unreadable. "People draw their lines differently," Grace's voice was low. "It's hard to decree what's 'real' and what isn't. Personally… yes. That's how I think."
Oakley hesitated. The words hooked something deep in her. She dared to ask, almost childlike: "And what does emotional liking feel like?"
This time, Grace's answer came blunt, cutting the air clean. "I don't know."
Oakley blinked, starled. "What?"
Not the answer she'd expected. She had thought Grace would know. She had thought Grace, of all people, would be able to explain.
Forget it. The conversation was taking on a strange taste in her mouth anyway.
She opened the pantry.
Shelves of food looked back at her—variety, abundance, a neatness that bordered on tender. After a slow survey, she picked at them until her fingers settled on a loaf of whole-grain bread.
Holding it up, she asked, "Do you want some?"
Grace shook her head. "No. I don't feel hungry." Lately hunger rarely arrived at full volume. If she were a heifer, she'd be a breeder's dream—minimum feed, maximum work.
Oakley shrugged. "All right then." She was just about to cut the bread when she looked back, curious. "Wait. You said a snack—does that mean we're going out for something better later?"
If there was a feast in the wings, she had no intention of wasting precious stomach real estate.
Grace's lips curved. "Of course. We're married now, We should celebrate, shouldn't we?"
It was late. She didn't know if Oakley would want the fanfare. But the instinct to mark the day—that felt right.
"Celebrate?" Oakley looked honestly surprised. "We have a whole… celebration chapter?"
"Why wouldn't it be?" Grace's tone softened, almost tender. "It may not be a conventional marriage, but it deserves respect. We're choosing to build a life together. That should be honored."
Something warm stirred in Oakley's chest. She smiled, eyes bright. "Then what are we eating?"
"I've already decided." Grace's answer was steady, sure. "I'm certain you'll like it."
"Perfect." Oakley had the sudden, buoyant sense of how easy this could be. With Grace, the things she thought of—Grace had thought of. The things she didn't think to want—Grace still had covered. Who said you needed an earthshaking love to walk into a marriage? This kind could be its own kind of good. She caught herself thinking: Marrying Grace might be one of the few unambiguously right decisions I've made.
Her gaze flicked to the bread in her hands, suddenly dull and plain. She shoved it back onto the shelf.
Grace raised a brow. "Not eating? Weren't you hungry?"
"I am. But—" Oakley lifted her chin, her smile blooming. "I'm not about to waste the appetite. Limited space in here. I'm saving it for the good stuff."
Grace found herself quietly charmed. "All right. Then shall we head out now?"
"Give me a sec," Oakley said, already trotting to a suitcase and crouching to twirl the lock. "I want to put on some makeup. If we're celebrating, we should do it properly."
"Take your time." Grace sank onto the sofa with a book, flipping it open with calm ease.
"Mm." Oakley called back, already rummaging in her makeup kit, "Ten minutes. That's all I need." She winked at her, mischievous.
Grace's lips curved into the smallest of smiles. "I'll wait."
At the dining table, Oakley propped a mirror, scattering brushes and glassy pots like a miniature arsenal. She leaned in close, lips pursed, the tip of her tongue caught at the corner of her mouth as she drew the liner in a practiced sweep.
But haste betrayed her tonight. The flick shot too far, a sharp wing that belonged to another face. "Damn it," she muttered under her breath, reaching for a cotton swab.
On the sofa, Grace turned a page but didn't take in the words. Her eyes had already lifted. She watched Oakley bent over the mirror, the lamplight threading through her hair, catching on the fine edge of her cheek. There was an intensity to the small act, the way she frowned at herself, delicate and absurdly human, that tugged something loose in Grace's chest.
"You'll ruin it more if you rush," Grace said, and her voice came gentler than she'd meant.
Oakley didn't look up, still scrubbing at the mistake. "Tonight, I'm going out looking unforgettable. Gorgeous enough to turn heads."
Grace almost laughed—almost. If only Oakley knew. If only she knew how little paint mattered. Even like this, half-done and grumbling, she carried a brilliance that made Grace's throat tighten. Makeup was just decoration. Oakley herself was the spectacle.
She tilted her head, eyes tracing the curve of Oakley's profile in the mirror. The thought came uninvited, dangerous: She doesn't even realize. She'll walk into a room and undo me without trying.
Grace shut the thought down, snapping her gaze back to the book. She forced her hands still against the page, though her lips curved despite her will.
Oakley blew out a frustrated sigh and glanced sideways, catching the faint curve of Grace's mouth. "What?" she demanded. "What's so funny?"
Grace shook her head, too quickly. "Nothing. Just… slow down. There's no rush."
Oakley's eyes narrowed, suspicious, but she grinned anyway, a small spark of triumph at having made Grace betray a smile.
Grace pressed her book higher, hiding her face. But her pulse still ran a little too fast, her chest a little too warm.