Grace let her palm fall from her brow, eyes half-lidded as she thought of the living room downstairs—still scattered with half-unpacked boxes, Oakley belongings spilling everywhere. She had only just arrived today, dumped her luggage open, and left it as chaos.
Grace drew in a breath and pushed herself to her feet. "I'll get it. I'll grab what you need."
"Mm…" Oakley managed a single syllable and then drifted quiet again.
At the stairwell, Grace paused, gripping the railing as if to steady her blurred senses, before descending. The living room hit her like a headache. Boxes yawning, clothes spilling, a scatter of small, homeless things. To Grace, the mess was an assault. It prickled at the ordered part of her mind, the one that liked straight lines and empty surfaces. But tonight, she had no energy to fix any of it.
She wove through the cardboard to one of the suitcases and crouched. A quick search, and—lucky—everything Oakley wanted was right there. No need to dig further. Grace lifted out a pair of underwear, then plucked a pearl-white slip, simple but delicate, and closed the case with a firm hand. Grace shut the case, stood, and carried them upstairs, placed them neatly in the bathroom basket, and turned on the bath. Warm water began to fill the tub, the surface rippling as she added a scoop of bath salts infused with calming oils.
She watched the water climb the enamel sides, then shut it off and sprinkled bath salts laced with something soothing—lavender and a calmer night. Back at the bed she said, "It's all in the bathroom—the clothes you'll change into. Go take a bath."
Oakley's head was fog, her limbs were string. She rolled, hugged the comforter between her knees, and mumbled into the sheets. "Why… a shower… why…"
She clearly didn't want to move.
Grace wasn't going to indulge it. She had no intention of sleeping in a cloud of stale alcohol; the thought alone made her skin crawl.
She took Oakley's wrist without hesitation and levered her half upright. "Go. The earlier you wash, the sooner you'll feel human."
Oakley's little face scrunched like a sulky child's, but she nodded faintly. Guided into her slippers, she wavered on her feet, leaning into Grace's arm until they reached the bathroom.
Grace pointed to the tub. "In you go. Careful—don't slip. There's a disposable cup and toothbrush on the counter. Use them.
"Mm." Oakley pressed her lips together and nodded once, small and solemn.
Grace closed the door behind her, leaned against it, and exhaling a long, relieved breath. After a moment she turned to her own dressing room, drew out fresh clean set of pajamas, and retreated into the other bathroom. Midnight had already arrived. The hour where tiredness and drink blended into something indistinct. She couldn't tell which weighed more on her—sleep or the remnants of wine moving slow through her blood.
At least tomorrow was free. She didn't have to worry about alarms or meetings or the world knocking.
She stepped out of her clothes and into the shower. Eyes closed, face lifted, she let the hot water write warmth back into her skin.
Relief came at once, as if the heat unstitched a seam that had been pulling tight all evening.
She slicked water from her face, turned off the spray, and squeezed body wash onto a loofah, working it to a soft froth. Muscles loosened under her hands.
Halfway through she thought of Oakley again, drunk as she was—could she finish the shower without trouble? Would she slip? Yes, there was a mat. But still—what if.
She hurried through the rest—soap, rinse, towel, hair dried, teeth brushed—then rushed back to the bedroom. The sound of water stopped just as she entered.
She tapped at the bathroom door. "Done?"
"Mm… yes. Dressing." Oakley's voice, soft and faraway.
"Good." Grace leaned a moment more, then returned to sit on the bed, waiting.
There was a long whisper of fabric and small sounds. Finally the latch clicked, and Oakley appeared, stepping out on a breath of steam, long hair wet and dripping, fog curling at her ankles.
Grace looked up. A fine, slender outline slid into view.
Oakley still wasn't steady. She moved by the wall, fingertip to paint, as if any step might tip her.
Grace rose at once to guide her to a chair, easing her down. She lifted strands of dripping hair from Oakley's shoulders, frowning. "You didn't towel this at all?"
The slip had only just touched her skin and already water had mapped it in dark patches.
Oakley tucked her legs on the cushion and folded into herself, tilting her small face up, confusion in her eyes. "Hm?"
"Your hair…" Grace started, then abandoned the scolding. Useless, tonight.
She sighed, went for the dryer, plugged it in, and began to work through Oakley's dark waves, careful not to let her clumsy hands near the device.
The warm air lifted the strands, smoothed them, turned them light again. Grace kept going, sweeping the heat along the fabric too, coaxing the damp from the slip.
Under the dryer's hush Oakley's clothes rippled like wind-stirred water over pale, fine skin. The wet shine faded, giving way to warmth.
Grace's eyes drifted from fabric to skin without her permission.
Oakley's shoulders held a clean, quiet curve. Her chin was small, the line of her neck slim as a stem that might snap with careless hands.
Perfect. Precise.
When everything was finally dry—hair fluffed, slip warmed—Grace shut off the noise, wrapped the cord, and put the dryer away.
Oakley didn't move. She sat, as if the power had been pulled from her muscles too.
"Alright," Grace said, tipping her head toward the bed. "Don't just sit there. Go sleep."
"Oh. Okay…" Oakley uncurled, sliding one pale leg to the floor, finding her slippers, rising slowly. Her hand drifted, almost idly, through the ends of her hair as she walked to the bed.
At the edge she let her hair fall like a curtain, slipped out of the slippers, and climbed up—a knee first, then the second, everything unhurried. She was about to lie down when she paused, turned, and looked at Grace. "I'm thirsty," she whispered.
It was true of drinking—once it bit, it left the mouth burning and the chest a little raw.
Grace gestured. "One second."
She came back with a full glass and held it out. "Here."
Oakley reached to take it.
Seeing the wobble in her hands, Grace angled the glass away at the last second, out of reach.
Bewilderment clouded Oakley's face. Was the water for her or not?
"I'll give it to you," Grace said, thinking it through. "Open your mouth."
"Oh…" Oakley tipped up her chin.
Grace brought the rim to her lips, tilted just so.
Oakley's palms cupped Grace's hand around the glass. She sipped—small sips, careful—and then not so careful. Thirst turned to greed. The water went down fast, too fast, and she choked on a swallow, coughing twice, body hitching.
The cough pressed Grace's hand downward. The surface broke and the water skipped the rim, spattering out, cold and bright, over Grace's skin.
"Ah… it spilled…" Oakley said, surprised and contrite once her coughs quieted.
"It's fine," Grace murmured, eyes flicking toward the tissues on the nightstand. "We'll wipe it."
But before she could move, Oakley voice chimed in, playful, sing-song sweet, "I'll clean it for you~."
Before Grace could processed the words, something warm, wet, unbearably soft pressed against her hand. Oakley's tongue grazed her skin.
She went still, all the way through. What was Oakley doing?
Oakley didn't seem to notice Grace's sudden stillness. She leaned in and—again—let the tip of her tongue graze over damp skin, a brief, unthinking stroke.
Breath, warm and scented with steam and salt, skimmed Grace's knuckles like a spark. Heat raced out from that small point and ran up her arm, quick and ungovernable.
Grace pressed her lips together, jaw tight, almost biting down.
The slip Oakley wore was nothing but basics—pearl-white, thin straps, no flourishes. On her, it was indecently beautiful.
Small-boned frame. Flat, even shoulders. Sharp collarbones. And then the contradiction of her chest: full, rounded, unapologetic. Her waist narrow to a whisper. The whole shape luminous beneath the satin, like petals opening at first light, trembling, lush, impossible not to look at.
It awoke, with ease, a sense of danger in Grace—the urge to drag the flower down, to own it, to feel the weight of it in her palm.
Something in her stirred, someone she barely recognized. A shadow-self stretching awake.
She shut her eyes; it didn't help. Thought didn't gather. It scattered, thin and bright, impossible to herd.
When Oakley's tongue flicked across Grace's fingertip again, the last of Grace's reason slipped its leash. The dark water inside her rose and rose, and there was no banking it.
Her eyes opened. Her fingers found Oakley's chin and held it, gentle and sure, lifting her face.
Oakley's throat arched—long, delicate, swanlike. Her gaze, fog-sweet, climbed to meet Grace's. Her chest lifted once, then again. "Gra—"
The name had barely left her lips when Grace bent low, breath unsteady, and captured her mouth.