"Mm." Oakley slid down, pulled the duvet to her chin. "Good night."
"Good night."
The switch clicked. Darkness rose, soft and whole, and took the room.
Grace's mind was still shivering with static.
From the pillow, Oakley spoke into the dark. "Grace."
"Mmm?"
"I like kissing you."
"Whether or not you're emotionally… capable. Whether or not you can promise me anything. I just like kissing you. I don't need you to be responsible for that." A breath. "If you mind, we can say it never happened."
Grace had shut her eyes. At that, they opened.
Emotionally incapable.
She'd never said those words to anyone. And yet Oakley—
Yes. She'd wondered. She functioned fine in daily life, but real connection had always felt like a door with a stubborn lock—even with her ex. Both of them guarded, both of them polite and knotted. No one naming the ache.
There was a stretch of time when Grace had considered that her ex might not have been wrong. Maybe Grace was the failure—incapable of giving what was asked, laying a kind of cold, invisible pressure that made the other woman withdraw in self-defense.
So she'd opted out. No more romance. A marriage of clear terms instead. Owe nothing; ask for nothing; change for no one.
Don't touch feelings, and you don't incur debts. But if bodies became involved, her plan would crack. In her head, physical closeness asked for a different weight: responsibility that rose from the heart. And she didn't know how to do "from the heart." She feared she'd be unequal to it—afraid of failing in ways that couldn't be repaired. So she stopped things before they could begin.
She hadn't expected Oakley to see all of that.
Oakley, who sometimes looked careless, who laughed things off and drifted past the world with light hands, had a wide field of view. She missed less than she let on.
When Grace turned her head, Oakley was already asleep, breath shallow and even.
Grace watched her for a while. Then, very softly, "Good night."
Morning.
When Oakley woke, it was already ten. She'd slept deep, dreamless, unbroken. Sun pressed at the curtains, making them glow white; the room was quiet enough to ring.
She stared a moment, then looked at the space beside her, now cool and empty. The memory of Grace's kiss—dark, intense—rose like heat and held behind her ribs. Oakley pressed her lips together.
She rolled her shoulder, slid her legs together, swung them over the side of the bed, slipped on her slippers. After a quick wash, she crossed to her own room and pulled on a tweed, Chanel-inspired fall set. At the vanity she opened a drawer, patted in toner against the mirror's gaze, and put on a full face.
In glass, the gentle girl sharpened into a woman who looked like she knew exactly what she saw.
A final check, head to toe, and she was out the door, driving toward the grillhouse she and Natalie Pierce had chosen.
Inside, she didn't register the décor; she scanned for Natalie instead.
Found her by the window: a woman in an olive-green silk dress with a vintage line, hair coiled high and fastened with a simple pin. Even from across the room, elegance announced itself like a scent.
Oakley lifted her little bag in greeting, clicked across the floor in heels, and drew out a chair. "Have you been waiting long?"
Natalie was pouring tea. At Oakley's voice, she looked up. "Just got here."
"Good." Oakley set her bag aside. "Traffic held me a bit—I worried I'd be late and make you sit."
Natalie smiled, slight and warm. "No trouble at all. What do you feel like? We can order first. I asked for the cups to be warmed."
Oakley looked down—sure enough, steam curled from porcelain. Thoughtful.
"Thanks." She lifted her phone and scanned the QR for the menu. "I'm too lazy to choose dish by dish. How about the two-person set? Works for me if it works for you."
Natalie nodded. "It does."
They sent the order. Oakley glanced up, grin unhidden. "You're really beautiful."
Natalie laughed under her breath. "You're not so bad yourself. In person, you're better than your pictures. Your selfies don't reach a tenth of you."
Oakley blinked and let out a disbelieving laugh. "No way. Seriously?"
"Seriously." Natalie paused. "You've posted some good ones lately, though. Feeding the gulls. And the cotton-candy one."
"Really?" Oakley propped her chin on her hand.
"Mmhmm."
"Grace took those," Oakley said, eyes bright.
Natalie nodded. "She has a good eye."
"Of course," Oakley said, a thread of pride slipping in. "I don't fall for people with bad taste."
Natalie smiled. "You admire her."
Oakley lifted a brow. "Can't help it. She hits every one of my weaknesses. Hard not to admire."
Natalie's gaze held steady. "Then I hope she's a good person."
"Don't worry. She's a good person," Oakley Ponciano said, turning the warm teacup in her hands. "Maybe even a little too good. If she ever snaps, it'll be because of that—push anything too far and it springs back."
Natalie Pierce lifted a brow. "Springs back how? From saint to sinner? That doesn't sound promising."
Oakley shrugged. "I mean more like… a collapse."
Natalie's smile flickered, sympathetic and faint.
A moment later the server arrived with their platters, the grill beginning to hiss as Oakley laid a few slices of marbled meat across the grate. "You've opened a clothing shop outright now, haven't you?"
Natalie nodded. "Front of house is retail. In the back I built a small studio—sets, lights, the works. On quiet days I dress up, shoot a series, and feed it to my channels. Content brings eyes; eyes bring customers."
"That's smart." Oakley nudged a piece of beef to keep it from scorching. "How's business? Feels like everything's uphill lately."
Natalie laughed softly. "Surprisingly decent. I've got one regular who drops in every other day and has spent a small fortune in a very short time. What's odd is her taste—she's clearly drawn to heritage silhouettes, but every time she comes she's dressed like a K-pop idol. Big, glossy, girl-crush styling."
Oakley grinned. "That is delightful."
"It is." Natalie's gaze warmed, as if remembering something. "Speaking of idols—your boy group, TX, dropped their comeback. Heard the new single?"
Oakley blinked. "Ah… not yet."
She hadn't really been tracking that world lately.
"Your favorite—Jay Park—changed his look," Natalie said. "People are saying it's a new peak. You seen it?"
Oakley shook her head. "Not yet."
"Check now?"
"All right." Oakley fished out her phone.
It took moments to find the new poster. Sure enough, Jay Park had traded his steady black hair for a sheet of silver-white. The face was still immaculate—clean lines, luminous skin, a posture that photographed better than ever.
Strangely, nothing moved inside her.
Natalie watched her scrolling. "Well? Does it work? Is he handsome?"
Oakley surfaced with a small smile. "He's… hmmm... fine."
Handsome? Sexy? Yes—objectively. But the admiration felt distant, like reading someone else's diary of love. Whether he changed his hair or retired tomorrow, it all felt unconnected to her. As if that whole beautiful universe had rotated a few degrees away.
Instead, Grace Barron's face rose again, bright as a struck match and just as hard to ignore. Last night's kiss—scalding and sure. Grace's breath against her shoulder, the restraint coiled tight beneath it. The hard hammer of Grace's heart. The way she said she never celebrated anything at all. Oakley's thoughts emptied out, swaying a little like a lantern in wind. She lifted her cup and drank, quieting the heat in her chest.
Once, she'd enjoyed the sport of consuming beauty—men lacquered like confections, easy to admire and easier to forget. Now even that tasted flat. Not unkindly—just… flavorless.
What was Grace doing right now? Had she eaten? Was she buried in work already?
Oakley set the phone face down and reached for the tongs, smiling at nothing. Her mind felt smaller than it used to be.
Small enough to hold one woman. And be full.