Grace Barron paused for a heartbeat, then laughed without warning. "Fair. When you put it like that, it's… not wrong."
Oakley Ponciano added, almost as an afterthought, "It's just that I see too much. So I opt out."
Grace arched a brow. "Maybe. Who knows."
What she did know: when she was with Oakley, everything unclenched. She could drop the armor all the way to the floor and simply be—no fevered planning, no mental rehearsals. Just breath.
They walked without destination, and Oakley tipped her face toward the night like someone tasting rain. "Wandering like this is dangerous," she sighed, smile creeping in. "It's too comfortable. Suddenly I remember school—how we'd roam the campus after dinner because there was nothing to do, circling for the sake of circling."
Everything made her nostalgic; she couldn't help it. A scent, a shadow, a certain color of wind.
Grace said, "I used to see you with your friends. Always in a pack."
Oakley's sigh thinned to a ribbon. "Yeah. And look at me now—who'd have thought the only person walking with me would be you."
God knew, back then she and those same friends had clasped arms and roasted Grace behind her back. Oakley had believed, with the clean certainty of youth, that she would hate Grace for the rest of her life. That some distances were permanent. That some knots never loosened.
Her life, it turned out, was a never-ending tour of eating her own words—either mid-bite or right before the plate arrived.
Grace glanced over, amused. "Maybe that's the point of life. You never really know what's coming. It's all guesswork. Which… makes it kind of fun?"
Oakley studied her, then snorted. "You make too much sense."
Talking like that, they drifted to the edge of a small plaza that had bloomed overnight. String lights. Handmade signs. The cheerful chaos of pop-up stalls. Skylark had relaxed its rules lately, and the town responded like a field after rain—everywhere, color: flower crowns, fresh bunches of daisies, squeaky balloons, tin toy cars, greasy paper boats of fries, funnel cakes shaken with sugar, corn dogs blistered and golden. The air was sweet and salty and happy.
Where there are stalls, there are children; where there are children, there is drama. A few little ones dug in their heels and refused to move until a parent purchased some tiny miracle. Pouts bloomed like evening primrose.
Oakley's gaze snagged, caught by a man spinning sugar into shapes. A cotton-candy artist. He was finishing a big-eared puppy—white cloud body, pale blue ears—a mother and her son waiting like supplicants. The boy was practically vibrating. His eyes, dark and bright, kept flashing to the paper cone in the vendor's hands; his fingers worried the air by his sides as if practicing the catch.
Oakley wasn't much better. "It's adorable."
Grace followed her line of sight. Cotton candy had never been her thing, but Oakley's softness undid her small preferences one by one. "Want one?"
Oakley's smile broke open. "Yes."
They joined the queue just as the boy was awarded his prize. Grace scanned the taped display photos—different designs, all a little ridiculous, all slightly perfect—and nudged Oakley's sleeve. "Pick one?"
Oakley bent, studying too hard for what was essentially sugar and air. "They're all cute. I can't decide."
Grace stepped back a few paces, framing Oakley with her eyes the way a photographer frames a landscape, taking in the coat, the hair, the warm streetlight. Considering.
"What?" Oakley looked down at herself, baffled. "Do I have something on me?"
Grace turned to the vendor and tapped a picture. "The white-and-blue big-eared puppy. It suits you."
Oakley straightened, put a hand to her hip, and gave a mock-offended glare. "Are you calling me a dog?"
"Where," Grace laughed, palm to her forehead. "I mean the photos. You're going to take pictures, right? The blue ears will match your coat."
Oakley glanced at the pale blue trench she'd thrown on. "Oh. That. You're right—you're reliable."
She told the vendor, "One big-eared puppy, please."
"Sure thing," he said. "Twenty-five."
Oakley reached for her phone, but Grace had already scanned the code, head tipped, face calm in the glow of the screen.
"You?" Oakley asked. "Don't you want anything?"
Grace thought, then shook her head. "I'm good."
She didn't wrestle much with appetites—hers tended to be slender, precise, and private.
"Fine," Oakley said, trying not to pout. She watched the vendor's hands with grave attention as the candy swelled from a knot of floss to a creature, the speed of it faster than she'd imagined. A minute later, she accepted the puppy like a living thing, turning it gently. "Isn't it sweet?"
"It is." Grace scanned the plaza and pointed at a bench under a streetlamp. "Light's clean there. Go stand—I'll take a few."
Oakley obeyed at once, lifting the cotton candy with a grin that made passerby grin too. Grace found an angle where the light slid over skin rather than flattened it, and took shot after shot—then, thinking, "Want to switch it up? Different poses. Then you'll have choices."
Oakley nodded, happy to be directed. A hand over her mouth as if hiding laughter. A quick peace sign, shameless. Eyes closed, cheeks in her palms. Moving with ease, entirely herself.
"Got them." Grace lowered the phone. "I'll send them now."
"Wait!" Oakley's forehead furrowed.
Grace met her eyes. "Mm?"
Oakley jogged over and hooked a hand through Grace's arm. "Let's take one together. Just me is boring."
Grace barely had time to register the request before Oakley had lifted her phone—panda case and all—camera flipped, the two of them suddenly held in a bright rectangle.
Seeing herself caught like that, unprepared, Grace froze. The surprise was pure and small. But the resistance she expected… didn't arrive. Something inside stepped aside.
"You're too far," Oakley said, angling the phone. "Closer."
Grace checked the screen. They were both drifting at the edges, stretched weirdly by the lens. Unflattering. She closed the gap by a careful step and tipped her eyes toward the camera. "Better?"
"Perfect." Oakley balanced puppy in one hand, phone in the other, and nodded like a bobbing bird.
Click. The moment sealed.
She zoomed in to inspect their faces, her mouth tugging upward. "First time I've met someone with a smaller face than mine. I concede defeat."
Grace leaned in. "Do you? It's an illusion. Your features are softened; mine are sharper. Look at the overall area—we're about the same."
Oakley blinked, then laughed, eyes folding. "You're funny when you don't try to be, and impossible when you do. Do you live with a compass in your pocket?"
Grace narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "Possibly. Probably. Maybe."
Oakley shot her a look and scrolled through the pictures again. "They're beautiful."
"I told you," Grace said simply. "You're beautiful."
Oakley lowered the phone. "I meant you. You're beautiful."
She took a bite of sugar cloud, patted Grace's shoulder, and sauntered ahead. "We should take more. A face like yours shouldn't go to waste. If you won't, I will. I'll post them just to brag."
"Brag about what?" Grace asked, mouth pulling sideways as she fell in step.
"That I've got a gorgeous wife," Oakley tossed back, walking backward for a few steps, eyes dancing. "Are we not allowed a little vanity? Honestly. You know nothing. Dummy."
A wind moved through, gentle as a hand smoothing the dark. It made the night feel lighter, almost translucent. Oakley's hair lifted and skimmed her cheek; her eyes were clear as wet stone. Lovely. Unreasonably lovely.
Grace curled her fingers behind her back, dropped her gaze to hide the smile, and walked toward her.
By the time they returned home, it was late. Goodnights were exchanged like gifts, and each disappeared into her room.
Grace, practical as ever, opened her laptop on the couch to answer a final email. When she shut it and reached for her phone, she found that Oakley had already sent their selfie. The image filled the screen, and something unasked for softened in her face.
She backed out and noticed the little unread dot on her apptalk feed. A tap, and there it was—Oakley's day, stitched into four frames and a paragraph:
"Second day after getting our marriage license. Had chicken soup (shockingly good—go try it), soaked in a hot spring (the pool design is exactly my thing—comfort on top of comfort), took a walk (made me think of my college crew—where are you guys now?), and bought cotton candy (people are so relentless these days; every trade's a competition, sheesh). In short, I'm very happy. Lastly, my wife is too beautiful. I'm in love."
Photos: dinner, the steaming pool, a slice of night, the cotton-candy picture with both of them half-in and gleaming.
Grace smiled, helplessly fond, and tapped a like.
Then she went back to their selfie in the messages. She held it for a long time, as if warmth might seep through the glass. On impulse—an unfamiliar itch—she opened her own apptalk feed. It was a bare hallway; this would be the first picture. She uploaded the image and typed, after a pause, "had some cotton candy." Sent.
In the other room, Oakley fell into bed like a swimmer into a warm lake. "God, this is unfairly comfortable…"
Was there anything better than roaming for hours and landing, at last, in a soft bed? Probably not.
She rolled, hugging the fresh duvet, breathing deep like it was a field. Everything slackened.
After a while she reached for her phone and opened apptalk. A handful of notifications waited. She tapped through, saw Grace's like on her post, and then—shock of shocks—Grace's own update.
Grace. Posting. And not just anything: their selfie.
Oakley liked it on instinct, then opened the photo to savor it, then walked herself into Grace's whole empty feed. There, stark and singular, was the only selfie—and the only picture with another person. With her.
She couldn't say why that knowledge brightened the room, but it did. Her mood turned buoyant, almost fizzy. She thought of Grace's calm face, the way seriousness suited her the way late light suits glass. The more composed Grace was, the more Oakley wanted to lean into her shoulder like a cat.
Maybe she was odd in that way. Fine. Let it be odd.
She set the phone down and reached for a glass of water on the nightstand. As she tipped it, her hand trembled, a careless tremor, and water leapt over the rim. It sheeted across the fresh sheet, sinking into the mattress, a darkening shape. Too late for rescue.
"Great," she muttered. Last thing she wanted was to strip a bed at this hour.
She stared another second, then her eyes sharpened with mischief. If a small mess was a problem, why not make it a bigger one—the kind that demanded a different solution? She emptied the rest of the glass onto the same spot until the sheet was honestly, irredeemably wet.
A guilty child, she set the glass down carefully, slid her feet into slippers, and slipped out. She padded down the hall, heart pattering, and rapped on Grace's door.
Footsteps inside, coming closer. The latch turned. The door opened on Grace's question. "What's wrong?"
Oakley leaned into the doorjamb, all soft angles and staged innocence. "I spilled water. On the bed."
Grace tilted her head.
"The mattress, too," Oakley went on, lips pressed like she was trying not to laugh. "It's a whole patch. Not sleepable."
Grace hadn't even finished her inhale before Oakley looked up through her lashes and asked, sweet as a sin, "It's late and I don't want to wrestle with sheets. Can I sleep with you tonight?"