Ten minutes later.
Oakley snapped her powder compact shut with a small, satisfied click. She leaned toward the mirror, hunting stray shimmer with the tip of a finger, then ruffled her hair from the roots to give it lift—one, two, three light scratches that made the waves fall just so. "I'm done," she said, and turned, the mirror catching a ribbon of warm light and scattering it over her cheekbones.
She raised both hands like a victorious performer, her make-up gleaming, her smile dangerously bright. At the doorway she cocked her fingers into the shape of a pistol, and with a playful shot asked. "So then… shall we head out?"
She could hardly wait another second. She bounced once on the balls of her feet, already halfway to the door in her head.
Grace slid a thin bookmark into the gutter of her novel and closed it with a palm. The soft thud felt like the evening settling into place. She uncrossed her long legs, rose—unhurried, the way she did most things—and tucked her hands into her coat pockets. "Let's go."
They walked the corridor together. The door gave its tiny sigh as it shut.
Half an hour later.
In the quiet between songs, they let small things fill the space—an easy weather report, a laugh about the way the elevator always stopped at level three, the kind of talk that is really permission to be silent together. Grace didn't mention the moment with the phone; Oakley didn't either. The unsaid sat between them like a sleeping cat: present, warm, not to be jostled.
Grace took the last turn and slipped the car neatly into a spot by the curb. The engine ticked as it cooled. Cold air came in when the doors opened; the night smelled faintly of rain and metal.
Ahead, Under the sea rose like a ship lit for launch—two stories of glass and gold, color shifting along the fascia where the LEDs chased one another in patient loops. It glowed against the dark as if someone had hidden a treasure chest in the middle of the street and cracked the lid.
"Wow." Oakley's smile widened. "Isn't this the famous Under The Sea?"
It was known far and wide: a temple of seafood. Every ingredient was praised for its freshness and quality, its reputation carved out by word of mouth until it became a pilgrimage site. Holidays often saw caravans of people driving from neighboring cities just to taste its dishes.
Oakley adored seafood. And Grace, knowing her so well, had brought her straight here. The anticipation already shimmered in Oakley's eyes.
"That's right." Grace locked the car and slid the keys into her pocket. "Usually you have to book a week in advance, but we got lucky. Someone cancelled today, and the table fell right into our hands."
The timing was perfect.
Oakley laughed softly. "See? That just proves the universe wants to bless us tonight, doesn't it?"
"Exactly." Grace's mouth tugged into a smile. "Shall we?"
They went inside.
Inside, the soundscape opened—steam sighing from a bank of pots; plates skimming tabletops; cutlery chiming; a child's quick giggle; the low tide hum of a room full of people indulging themselves. Salt and citrus and something buttery laced the air.
A hostess led them to a window table set with clean, weighty chopsticks, a porcelain spoon nested on a saucer, two glasses that threw small rings of light onto the wood. Outside, headlights slipped past like fish.
They ordered—prawns, crab legs, clams fat as thumbs, a scatter of vegetables for sweetness, a basket of greens that would wilt on contact with the steam. Grace's voice to the server was calm, accurate; Oakley's eyes followed the menu as if it were a promise unfolding.
When the server left, Grace took in the room with one sweep—a habit of hers, locating exits, counting how many steps to the kitchen door, noticing who seemed impatient and who seemed tender. Oakley had her front camera open; she tucked one curl behind her ear, checked both sides, then the Cupid's bow, then put the phone face-down with a decisive little pat.
"Want a drink?" Grace said, turning back to her.
Oakley weighed it a moment. "Sure. It's not every day we eat like this— shouldn't be a problem, right?"
Since it was a celebration, of course the atmosphere had to be lifted.
And truth be told, Oakley did enjoy drinking. he only trouble was that her tolerance wasn't great—she got tipsy far too easily. And the most embarrassing part? Once she was drunk, she had a habit of blurting out nonsense.
That was… inconvenient, to say the least.
Thinking of this, she licked her lips, then glanced at Grace, ready to give her a little warning. "But—I should probably give you a heads-up."
Grace arched a brow. "Warn me about what?"
Oakley twined a strand of hair around her finger. "If I get drunk, I might say some ridiculous things. Including, but not limited to, cry into the trash can, confess love to lamp posts. Whatever happens—please just ignore it. And—Do not repeat it to me the next day, and for heaven's sake don't tease me. If you don't say anything, I can pretend it never happened. Otherwise… it'll be unbearably awkward."
It wasn't like these slip-ups happened often, but still, she was wary.
Grace laughed and nodded. "Alright. Deal."
How amusing.
Still smiling, she added, "Or—you could just drink a little less. A token sip is enough."
Oakley's lips curved. "Mm."
The food arrived in a slow parade. First the great metal pot with its perforated tray, then saucers of minced garlic, chopped cilantro, green chilies floating like commas in pale oil, a sesame paste glossy as lacquer. Finally the bottles—condensation already napping on their shoulders.
Grace hooked the lip of a cap under the opener and levered—pssst—foam shouldered up, pearly and impatient. She poured for Oakley, then for herself, the thread of beer thin and bright as it sank into the glass and rose in bubbles. She held her drink toward Oakley; the two clear bells touched with a little bright tink.
"To us?" Grace said, not making a ceremony of it—more a gentle mark in the air.
"To us," Oakley answered, laughter in her eyes. he first sip was cool and floral, more meadow than malt; it slid down easily, left the mouth clean.
Steam bloomed as the seafood turned. Shells blushed from muted to brazen; the smell intensified, clean and saline and faintly sweet. The windows fogged in soft squares around the edges. A couple at the next table leaned in at the same time and laughed at the collision of foreheads.
"Do you want a photo?" Oakley asked no one, already lifting her phone. She stood just enough to change the angle, chased the puff of steam, waited for the moment the light caught a line of shrimp like jewelry. Three, four shots. She checked them, approved, put the phone away.
She peeled a prawn with care—thumb under the ridge, twist, slide—the armor coming off in plates to reveal the firm, opalescent meat beneath. She dipped, tasted. Her eyes went bright. "Sweet," she said. "Like it grew in sugarcane water."
"I told you," Grace said, cracking a crab leg with a practiced press. The shell gave with a shy pop; she drew out a length of meat intact, a small victory she didn't announce.
"Really goood," Oakley agreed, utterly convinced.
They ate. The talk came in small bursts between mouthfuls—short, satisfied sounds, a story about a client who had insisted on an Oxford comma and then changed her mind, the description of a coat in a shop window that looked like a cloud. Warmth accumulated, both from the food and from the thick, pleasant sense of being exactly where they were supposed to be.
Oakley paused, a thought returning like a buoy bobbing back into view. "Wait—hold on."
Grace glanced up. "What is it?"
Oakley returned to their earlier conversation. "Didn't you say you've dated before? Then how come you don't know what liking someone really feels like?"
Grace considered the clean edge of her glass. The honest answer rose and she let it. "Who knows," she said, almost lightly.
She remembered her ex—unloved, lonely, persistent in showing up until Grace was drawn in. Was that pity? Affection? Some muddle of the two? She had never truly sorted it out.
"Young and foolish," she said with a crooked smile. "That's all it was."
Oakley caught the tone and wisely let it drop. "Alright. Then let's not talk about it."
A pause, Grace remembered what she'd meant to ask, "Are you free next weekend? Saturday and Sunday?"
Oakley's face opened at once. "Yes. Why?"
"My grandmother's birthday." Grace kept her voice level, as if stating a fact about the weather. "Come home with me, if you can."
The words slipped out casually, but something warm lingered underneath.
The answer arrived with Oakley's smile. "I'd love to. I'll rearrange my schedule."
"Good." Grace lowered her gaze and returned to her plate.