Oakley was still chattering, her words a tangle of nonsense that spilled out without care, when suddenly a figure appeared nearby—a passerby in a white jacket, a small backpack slung across their shoulders. Perhaps a student, perhaps someone just off from a long shift at work. Either way, at this late hour, it was unnerving to encounter someone in such a state.
What made it worse—terrifying, really—was that Oakley showed no intention of quieting down. On the contrary, after those wild, heaven-shaking declarations, she looked as though another round of unfiltered words was already forming on her lips.
Grace brow tightened. She moved first. Two fingers closed around Oakley's narrow forearm, and she brought her in—quick, decisive—into the shelter of her arms.
At the same time, her palm pressed over Oakley's mouth, her lips close enough to brush the shell of her ear as she whispered, low and urgent. "Not another word."
She wasn't exaggerating—this woman truly frightened her. Oakley's mouth was a dangerous thing, unpredictable, like an open flame near dry leaves.
Oakley, fogged by alcohol, not quite register what had just happened. Alcohol had dialled her intelligence down to a soft, flickering zero. She had no clarity left to parse the moment, only those wide, liquid eyes blinking up at Grace. Like a child caught mid-dream, she simply nodded, dazed, obedient.
Grace held her, Oakley's breath warm against the back of her hand, her lips yielding beneath her palm. That fragile heat spread through Grace's skin, setting tiny sparks racing over her body.
It was as if, beneath the cloak of night, a small flame had been struck—quivering, unsteady, yet alive enough to threaten her calm.
There was something about Oakley Ponciano, some indefinable power, that could so easily ignite a person. Grace usually fought to keep herself steady, but tonight—even she felt her mind slipping, blurring at the edges.
And in moments like this, to resist pure animal instinct… was almost impossible.
Grace forced herself to glance toward the passerby instead, shifting her focus with sheer will. Only after the white jacket vanished around the corner did Grace let herself exhale.
Turning back, her gaze locked on Oakley once more. "I should take you back to the car." Her voice was flat, steady—though inside, her pulse was still frayed.
She was, in truth, afraid of this woman.
Oakley shook her head, words slurring into a warm, thick ribbon. "No. I want to… go with you. With you."
Grace nearly laughed, though it came out as a sigh. In this state? Bringing Oakley into a bright convenience store was courting disaster. Who knew what thunderclap of a sentence she might unleash before strangers?
Just imagining it made Grace flush with second-hand embarrassment.
"No. Back to the car please." Grace's tone left no room for protest. She steadied Oakley, steered her across the pavement, and guided her into the back seat.
The door swung open, Oakley was gently but decisively pushed inside, and Grace slammed it shut with a sharp thunk.
For a moment Oakley sat blinking, then raised a hand to rap at the window—like a child begging to be let out.
Grace ignored her. She lifted the keys, locked the doors, and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her own head was spinning; she wasn't far from being drunk herself. Thoughts tangled in knots, stubbornly refusing order.
With a heavy sigh, she pulled out her phone, tapped through the screen, and booked a driver. Only then did she stride toward the glowing sign of the twenty-four-hour store across the street.
Halfway there, Oakley's words flashed back to her again, relentless as if they'd been glued inside her skull. Drunk talk was supposed to be truth stripped bare, wasn't it? If so… then Oakley had just cracked open an entirely new world for her.
That woman…
Grace closed her eyes and gave her head a small, vigorous shake, as if she could rattle loose the stray glitter of thought. Then she pushed through the sliding doors.
She drifted down the aisles without seeing much, grabbed two cartons of milk because she needed to hold something, and paid at the register. Outside again, she paused and looked across the lot to her car.
Was it just her, or had this marriage never been meant to be simple?
She let the thought melt away and walked on. When she reached the car, before she'd even put her hand on the handle, she caught sight of Oakley curled in the backseat, head bowed, fiddling with her fingers like a girl lost in her first hour of existence.
Grace lingered there, just watching, before finally opening the door.
The moment Oakley heard it, her head shot up, eyes shining. She shuffled forward on her knees, crossing her arms on the seat as she leaned closer. Her face, flushed and luminous, tilted up toward Grace as she cooed in a sing-song voice, "Wifey… you're back."
It flowed out of her like something she'd always said. Nothing about it seemed wrong to Oakley. Grace, hand braced on the door, went very still.
They were, yes, wives on paper. The law had said so. But hearing it like that—sudden, intimate—still managed to surprise.
This woman. Always pushing past her defences.
"Stay where you are," Grace managed, hand braced on the doorframe. "Move any closer and I'll have no room left. Scoot back."
"Oh..." Oakley had clearly been planning to spill further into the doorway, but at Grace's words she obediently reversed, inch by inch, like a well-trained pup.
Remarkably good. Disarmingly so.
Grace slid in, pulled the door shut, snapped the straw into one carton of milk, and held it out. "Here. Drink."
"Thanks, wifey~" Oakley crooned, cradling the carton as though it were some precious gift. She sipped with exaggerated delight.
Grace cast her a sidelong glance, then checked her phone for the driver's arrival. Even the words on the screen seemed to sway, her vision straining to hold them still. She set it down, lifted her own carton, and drank deeply.
But another worry crept in—would Oakley continue her nonsense once the driver arrived?
Her thoughts broke when Oakley let out a dainty little "oh no."
Grace snapped her head toward her. "What now?"
Oakley pointed to her blouse with one hand, milk carton in the other. "Spilled… it's wet."
Grace followed the line of her finger. Sure enough, a coin-sized bloom of milk darkened the taut fabric over Oakley's right breast.
She looked away at once, pulling a tissue from the packet and passing it over. "Here."
"Mm…" Oakley nodded like a pecking bird and bent her head to dab with grave concentration.
Grace saw the carton tilt, saw catastrophe gathering, and slid a steadying hand beneath it.
Oakley glanced up at her, eyes soft, lips curved. "Thanks, wifey."
That voice—soft, soaked through with sweetness—seeped straight under Grace's skin.
The air in the car thickened, heat rising inexplicably. Grace tugged at her collar, unfastening a button in a bid for relief, as though the air itself had turned too close, too stifling.
And just then, a bright, cheerful face appeared at the window. A young woman, lively and fresh, leaned down to rap on the glass.
"Hi, are you Ms. Barron? I'm your driver for tonight—"
Grace lowered the window with composure she barely possessed.
"Yes. Please, get in.
The young driver gave a bright smile, her voice light as she answered, "Of course." She slipped around to the front, settled into the driver's seat, and clicked her seatbelt into place.
Grace Barron, meanwhile, leaned over and tugged the belt across Oakley Ponciano's body, fastening it with steady hands before drawing back.
A moment later, the car purred to life and rolled smoothly onto the road, heading toward Grace's home.
The ride stretched quiet, but Grace's nerves weren't at ease. Every so often she turned her head, half-expecting Oakley to blurt out another reckless line. Her guard stayed raised, but eventually she noticed Oakley had slumped against the seat, eyes shut, breathing even. Asleep at last.
Only then did Grace let herself breathe. She turned to the window, watching the nightscape slide away, streetlamps flickering past in gentle procession. Her eyelids lowered, heavy, until she drifted somewhere between rest and waking.
She didn't know how much time passed before the car slowed and stopped. The tug of inertia pulled her awake. She whispered her thanks to the driver, unbuckled, and stepped out. Circling around, she opened the door to Oakley's side.
She nudged Oakley gently. "We're here. Wake up."
Oakley slept hard. She stirred, a slow ripple through her body, but didn't woke up.
Grace shook her shoulder again and again, until finally Oakley's lashes lifted, her voice a long nasal murmur. "We… arrived?"
"We did." Grace's hands were already at the buckle, freeing her.
"Mm. Good." Oakley tried to push herself upright, but her limbs were heavy, her head heavier. She attempted several times, each one a brief launch and collapse, bouncing back into the seat with a frustrated breath. The effort looked clumsy, almost childlike.
Grace sighed, caught her arm, and coaxed patiently: "Start with your left leg. Swing it out first."
"Oh…" Oakley nodded, obedient as a schoolgirl, doing her best to follow.
It struck Grace, suddenly, that Oakley wasn't that nightmare kind of drunk. She scattered thoughts a little wider than usual, spoke bigger than she should—but her temperament held. No dramatics, no tears, no wild flailing. If anything, she was sweeter. Easier.
But still, a drunk was a drunk. Even with some awareness left, the body turns slow as syrup.
If Grace didn't hold her, Oakley might topple. If she did, Oakley's weight relaxed against her, trusting, a tide pressing to shore. And tonight, both of them were unsteady.
On a normal night it would be nothing. Grace could have slung her over a shoulder and climbed the stairs for sport. Not tonight. When Oakley's feet hit the ground, Grace had to step back twice to keep them both upright.
"Here, let me help you." The driver had noticed, her kindness immediate. She hurried over, catching Oakley's other arm and draping it over her shoulder.
Grace met her eyes and gave a weary nod. "Thank you. Really. I appreciate it."
"No trouble at all," the girl replied with a small shake of her head, smiling softly.
Together they managed to guide Oakley inside, then up the stairs, into Grace's bedroom. The guest room wasn't set up yet, and Grace had exactly zero energy for logistics. So they brought Oakley straight to Grace's bedroom, easing her down onto the bed.
Grace, out of courtesy, slipped some benjamin into the driver's palm.
Surprise lit her face, her smile curving into crescents. "Thank you, miss. Call me next time if you need me."
"Will do. Take care on your way back," Grace said gently, watching until the girl's steps faded and silence wrapped the house again.
She turned, arms folding at her waist, eyes falling on Oakley sprawled across the bed. Her gaze snagged briefly on the faint dampness staining her blouse, then shifted away. She crouched and touched her shoulder. "You should bathe before you sleep. You'll feel better."
Oakley groaned, flung an arm over her brow, body twisting languidly. Her voice was a muffled drizzle. "Mm… bath. A shower?"
She'd understood. She just didn't want to move.
"Yes." Grace sank onto the mattress beside her, palm pressing Oakley's warm forehead, pausing there as if grounding herself. Her own head was thick, heavy. Tonight she'd likely fall into sleep like a stone dropped in water.
"Oh…" Oakley finally lowered her arm, brows knitting delicately. She muttered in a hushed complaint: "My underwear… it's still… downstairs. No underwear… no shower."
The words slurred, yet each syllable struck clear enough to leave Grace staring at her in silence.