Oakley Ponciano hadn't expected to be pinned. Her heart dropped, thudded, then stuttered back into a gallop; breath snagged, pupils narrowing as she stared up at the woman above her—those dark, fathomless eyes—and found no words, only the fierce rise and fall of her chest and a mind stripped nearly white.
Grace Barron held her there for a long beat, then leaned in, voice low against her cheek. "Don't provoke me."
There were a thousand weather systems bottled inside that tone. She was trying to cork them. The effort trembled.
And still, Oakley saw through it. Through the polish, through the restraint, to the rawest want.
She knew Grace was saying one thing and meaning another. She knew Grace wanted her. Very, very much.
Oakley swallowed. "Oh?" Her voice chimed like a wind-bell brushed by air. "Then tell me—how exactly did I provoke you?"
Grace said nothing, mouth set, gaze tight.
Oakley made no move to fight the grip. She let her arms stay captured above her head and smiled, the look slow and layered. "I only leaned closer, that's all."
"Just me, closing the space a little… and you wanted to kiss me. How is that my fault?"
Her eyes glimmered, a lake folded with mist, intent and steady, the sort of look that could tug a soul out by its seams.
Grace's brow pinched. She closed her eyes, turned her head away. "You did it on purpose. Didn't you."
"Yes," Oakley said lightly. "I did. What then?"
If Grace were truly above it—if she were some saint of self-denial—would a single touch unspool her this fast? Desire is emptiness; emptiness, desire. The body tells the truth.
Grace opened her eyes again, and calm was gone.
"Anyway," Oakley went on, soft as a secret, "you kissed me the other night and I barely remember it. I still don't know what it feels like. Awake."
Her breath warmed, thickened. "Is that fair?"
Grace watched her, then slid a thumb under Oakley's small chin, tipping it up, voice gone rough. "You want to know—properly?"
It felt like standing at the lip of a cliff. One step, and she would fall all the way down.
Oakley's mouth lifted, breath quickening. "Clause Six of the agreement: for the sake of harmony, both parties should try to meet each other's needs." She met Grace's eyes. "Your words."
The line Grace had guarded so fiercely finally gave. She didn't argue. She bent and found that mouth that had taunted and teased and reddened like a berry, and kissed her.
At contact, Oakley's heartbeat veered off the road. The warm, wet slide of it sent everything flooding her skull; her scalp prickled as if waking.
She caught Grace around the shoulders and answered back, greedy for air she wasn't interested in.
Breath braided with breath. Grace felt herself go; falling, and choosing not to stop. Something hungry and half-wild rose and demanded more—more of this woman, more to pack into the hollow places.
Heat climbed. Sound blurred. It was all pulse and mouth and the unlearning of restraint.
Eventually Grace lifted away, fingers under Oakley's jaw, both of them breathing like they'd run.
"So," Oakley whispered, smile unsteady, "you bury it deep."
Grace shut her eyes, trying to even out the rhythm. Being pressed together like this was like lying down on lava—each second another degree toward ash.
Oakley hooked an arm behind Grace's neck and drew her back in, kissing her first this time.
Again, Grace went heady, as if downing one hard drink after another, thoughts breaking apart like foam. When she surfaced, it was to find Oakley's hand guiding hers, pressing her palm over warm fullness.
The rush of sensation was exquisite—exquisite enough to frighten. Her nerves lit like struck tinder; clarity snapped back into place.
Grace tore herself free, tucking her face into the curve of Oakley's shoulder, fingers clenched.
No further.
Oakley blinked, then stroked her back, a hush in her mouth. "We can't?"
Eyes closed, Grace said, "We shouldn't."
She was chaos inside, unable to name what she was doing, where she ended. Dangerous. She had only meant to warn Oakley, to spook her a little, send her back across the line. How had it become this?
Oakley smoothed a hand through Grace's hair. "You—" her voice was a murmur "—you're so contained."
Grace said nothing.
"In everything," Oakley went on, gentle and relentless, "you keep the bar too high. Isn't that a little… hazardous?"
Oakley could feel it: Grace lived inside rules. Step beyond them and the compass spun. Oakley was different—rules were tools, not masters. If her wants changed, she changed the frame.
Grace's answer was a frayed whisper. "I shouldn't have."
Something in her long-held map had cracked.
Oakley patted her back. "Hey. I don't mind. I was the one who asked. Why punish yourself for answering me?"
The words worked like heat on stiff muscle. Grace's body slowly softened in her arms; her breath began to settle.
Oakley shifted, as if offering the quiet a hand. "Oh—are you free on the twenty-fourth?"
Grace paged through her mental calendar. "I don't think so. I'm booked solid."
"Okay…" Oakley nodded against the pillow.
Grace heard the unsaid and asked, "What is it?"
"It's nothing," Oakley said. "It's just—first day of winter. I thought if you were free we could get a big lamb stew somewhere. Warm up properly."
"First day of winter," Grace echoed into her shoulder. "I didn't even notice. I'm not very… tuned to those days."
Oakley drew the heavy silk of Grace's hair forward over her own chest, combing it idly with her fingers. "Little seasonal markers are easy to miss. They're not New Year's or anything."
A pause. Grace said, "I'm not tuned to the big ones either."
"Huh?" Oakley lifted her head, took a second to process. "You don't… celebrate?"
Grace eased back, sensing Oakley adjust her strap, and pushed up to sit. "It's not really my thing."
Days were days to her—do what you do. Go out if you feel like it, stay home if you don't, eat when you're hungry, skip it if you aren't. She seldom set up festivities simply because the calendar said so.
Oakley tugged the fallen strap back onto her shoulder, raked her fingers through her hair, and sat up beside her. "Even birthdays?"
Grace's tone was flat, not unkind. "Even birthdays."
"Doesn't it feel like something's missing?" Oakley asked carefully. "Lonely, maybe. Or just… thin."
Oakley grew up marking time with lights and cake and calls. Even if she forgot, her family didn't; they'd fly in when they could, or at least video-chat for an hour so the day felt anchored. Imagining Grace without any of that—it made her chest ache.
Grace looked down, retied the belt that had loosened without her noticing. "Maybe it matters more to some people. I don't feel much about it."
She didn't see the appeal of ceremony. Not really. As a child, her grandmother had made certain days feel warm; that warmth had faded when Grandma moved away and her little sister arrived. Devin and Hannah poured themselves into the new baby and left Grace to the quiet. The holidays thinned. Later, if Sabrina Myers was free, they'd grab dinner; if not, it was fine. She didn't expect company. Didn't expect presents.
She never bought herself a cake. At some point it had started to feel… needy. A little too much wanting on display.
She didn't examine it now. She only said, mild, "Maybe I just never built the habit."
"Okay." Oakley Ponciano still couldn't quite understand.
She wasn't built like Grace—couldn't live a whole day walking around in Grace's shoes, seeing from every angle, swapping lenses at will. But she could choose respect. So she did.
Worried she might be disappointed, Grace added, "I really can't make it this time—the twenty-fourth is packed. But if there's a holiday you want to celebrate, tell me ahead. If I can move things, I will. I'll make the time to be with you."
Oakley nodded and watched her in profile.
Grace looked cool as the inner face of a shell, yet from the slightness of her frame Oakley thought she could feel a faint, nearly invisible loneliness, like a draft under a door. Maybe she was being soft again. She had a way of barreling through life unbothered, only to turn tender in the exact places someone else might hide a bruise.
Still—her instincts rarely lied. Children who grow up inside narrow walls often come out sensitive and underloved. At least, that's what she'd seen in other girls she'd known.
Grace presented as fine. Which only meant she'd learned to stow her feelings, press down the sparks, lock the uneasy parts away. Perhaps that was the wall Oakley kept sensing—there, but untouchable.
Oakley covered a yawn with the back of her hand. "I think I'm getting sleepy."
Grace turned, gaze tracing from the neat ridge of Oakley's nose to her small, naked shoulder before she looked away. "Then sleep. I'll turn off the lights."