Grace had been about to say there were other rooms she could use—new mattresses, all set, just needed fresh sheets and a duvet. Then Oakley tossed out a breezy "too lazy to fuss with all that," and Grace swallowed her suggestion whole.
Fair point. Making a bed sounds simple until you're tugging corners and chasing a stubborn duvet into its cover. Given Oakley's temperament, not wanting to lift a finger at this hour was perfectly normal.
When Grace didn't answer at once, Oakley must have taken the silence for doubt. She pinched the hem of Grace's shirt, shameless as a little thief, and tugged her back to her own room. Pointing at the bed, delicate finger outstretched, she said, "See? Look. It's really a huge patch."
It hadn't started that large. But after she emptied an entire glass to "fix" the problem, the wet had spread like a dark country on a map.
One glance made it obvious: the middle was a soaked crater. Not sleepable. The move was pure audacity, and she knew it.
Grace flicked her a look and nodded. "I don't think you're lying."
Though something about it felt… off.
She hesitated, then gave way. "All right. Tonight you can sleep in my room."
They'd shared a bed before. And tonight, they were both sober, both in full possession of their minds. Surely neither of them would do anything foolish.
Permission granted, Oakley lit up, the triumph quietly sweet. She'd known Grace wouldn't make it hard.
Grinning, she pointed toward the nightstand. "One sec—need my charger."
"Okay." Grace pinched the bridge of her nose.
She had to admit, she was helpless around Oakley. It was odd. People always said Grace had hard lines and colder air—an aura that kept strangers at a respectful distance. Even if you got close, they said, she'd ease you back with a polite hand.
So why, when it was Oakley, did all of that fail? Why did she let her in, step by step, letting the borders blur without a single honest no? The feeling was unfamiliar, unruly.
Unfamiliar enough that it felt like she'd wandered into a world she didn't recognize.
Maybe Oakley was a kind of nemesis written into her life—only sweeter. How else to explain this strange new physics?
Oakley gathered the cord with a gentle tug, popped the plug free, wrapped it with her phone, and came to stand beside Grace. "Let's go then. Bedtime."
She floated out first. Grace watched the soft sway of her silhouette, nodded—pointlessly—to the empty room, then snapped the light off and followed, closing the door behind her.
When Grace stepped into her own bedroom, Oakley was already there, crouched at the bedside, plugging in. Now she stood, turning the phone in her hands, doing God knew what—checking, arranging, simply occupying the moment.
She wore the same nightdress as last night. Soft color. Softer cut. On her, it was gentleness made fabric, the line of shoulder to waist drawn with a quiet hand. The sight unlocked a buried sense memory in Grace—what it felt like to fold her into an embrace—spreading through her mind like warm water.
Grace shook herself free of the drift, shut the door, and studied her for a beat. "If you're sleepy, go ahead. I need a shower."
"I'm not sleepy," Oakley said, turning with the phone in her fingers. "I'll wait for you."
"Okay." Grace blinked. She'd thought the whole no-fussing-with-sheets thing meant exhaustion. Apparently not.
She didn't push it. She crossed into the walk-in, took a set of pajamas from the shelf, settled them in the crook of her arm, and rolled her neck until the muscles loosened.
When she stepped back out, she caught Oakley frowning down at her shoulder strap, tugging lightly.
"What's wrong?" Grace asked.
"Nothing, just…" Oakley pinched the strap and squinted. "Feels loose. The left one. I think the stitching's come undone. How is this brand so disappointing? I've worn it, what, twice?"
She had no idea why it was fraying, so she blamed the label.
Grace's mind tripped over last night. In the heat of kissing—tipsy, unwary—she'd hooked a finger there and pulled. She'd been too fogged to notice, and afterward hadn't given it a thought.
Now it landed with a muffled explosion. The strap wasn't faulty. She was.
For a second, her thoughts scattered like birds.
Oakley fussed with it and then gave up. Turning, she found Grace still standing there, dazed. She smiled. "What is it?"
Grace came back to herself and lifted the pajamas slightly. "Nothing. Shower."
What else could she say?
"Go," Oakley said, easy.
Grace slipped into the bathroom, started the tap for the tub, and stood there awhile in the steam and white noise. Then she tipped her face up, took a steadying breath, and unbuttoned, one by one. Something about all of this felt a degree off. Or maybe she was simply thinking too much.
She tossed the clothes into the hamper, stepped under the rain of water and let it drum her face until thought cooled. After, she slid into the tub and closed her eyes.
Out in the room, the faint splash and hum made Oakley smile. She set the phone down and, at last, gave the space her attention.
She hadn't looked properly before. It was beautiful. Green plants placed with intent, each corner inviting the mind to quiet down.
The style was nothing like hers. Oakley's apartment lived in a lighter palette—an airy, Pinterest-prettiness, the sort of Scandi-chic you see all over a Sunday scroll. Cozy, yes, and a touch small in spirit.
Grace's room was different: modern-craftsman bones and warm walnut, linen and stone, pieces with weight and care. A faint ribbon of sandalwood from a candle on the dresser. Somehow, without leaning on black-white-gray, it still read as cool, restrained.
Just like Grace. Soft at first glance, but every gesture carrying a fine thread of control. The longer you looked, the deeper the water felt.
Oakley wandered, fingertips grazing surfaces, then perched at the small round table by the balcony. Outside, the night was a deep, unbroken blue. Nothing to see. She tugged the curtains shut.
A small stack of books lay on the table. Curious, she sifted through them: a marketing title, a twisty thriller, and—delightfully—a fat wellness encyclopedia.
"Unbelievable," she muttered, amused. So young, already reading this? But when she opened it, it wasn't for show. Lines were underlined, notes in the margins. Winter broths and infusions. Summer fruits to cool the body. Evening routines for better sleep.
Oakley pictured Grace with a pen, head bowed, wholly sincere. The image put a smile in the corner of her mouth.
No wonder Grace knew so many odd, practical things. Oakley collected wellness posts sometimes, too—saved them with vague good intentions, then forgot about them like shells in a drawer.
Maybe she should learn from Grace here. She really was… lazy.
Looking closer, she noticed most of the flagged sections were about calming the mind, settling the heart. Odd. Grace didn't look like someone besieged by nerves. Why the fixation?
She read a while longer, lips pressed as if she were keeping a secret, then closed the book and set it back. She lifted her arms in an unselfconscious stretch, bones and silk. Time to wait on the bed.
Kicking off her slippers, she half-reclined and tugged the duvet up over her legs. Right then the phone buzzed.
She unlocked it. A message from Natalie Pierce: "By the way, where are we eating in a couple of days?"
Oh—right. Dinner. The long-promised first meet-up with the friend she'd been chatting with for ages. Just thinking about it made her a little breathless.
Where should they go?
Oakley Ponciano rubbed her lower lip with the pad of her index finger, blinked toward the far wall, and—pop—an idea lit. "Do you like barbecue?"
Natalie Pierce: "I could. Honestly? I haven't had it in ages. It's awkward to go alone."
That was the trouble with that kind of place: order too little and it felt pointless; order too much and you drowned in leftovers. Two people at one table, though—that was the sweet, sizzling equilibrium.
Oakley opened a review app, pulled up a place she'd saved, and sent the link. "How about this one?"
Natalie: "Looks great. Reviews say it's amazing. Lunch or dinner?"
Oakley pinched her chin, thinking. "Lunch."
Perfect timing—Grace would be out during the day, and Oakley would be left to orbit the apartment alone. No filming on the schedule either; she'd been batch-posting for days to keep up through the move, and there were still videos queued and waiting.
Natalie: "Perfect. See you then."
Oakley bit her thumb as she stared at the bubbles, sat with the silence, and finally typed, "Hey, Natalie—can I ask you something?"
Some things, left to her own mind, never seemed to come into focus.
Natalie: "Sure. Go ahead."
Oakley couldn't keep it down any longer. "Have you ever really, really liked someone?"
The moment she hit send, her heart leapt and thudded, wild as it had been the summer grades were posted. She didn't know why this felt so huge. It just did.