That night, Grace slept with Oakley in her arms and never once loosened her hold.
Oddly, she didn't feel tired from it; nothing disturbed her. If anything, her sleep was better than usual. All night, she dreamed of nothing at all.
Normally, her body was an alarm clock—unfailingly precise. In bed by eleven, awake at six. Even if she went down at three in the morning, six o'clock still pulled her to the surface. No exceptions. No mercy.
But this time, somehow, she overslept. When she opened her eyes, daylight already poured across the windowsill. It was almost seven.
Oakley was still deeply asleep, her breathing quiet and even. Grace didn't wake her. She slipped from the bed in silence, dressed, and was about to leave the room when something tugged at her.
She stopped. Turned back.
Crossing to the bedside, Grace bent and hovered her hand above Oakley's face, pausing midair as if weighing a secret, then lowered her fingers gently to her cheek, tracing down to the delicate point of her chin.
Oakley's skin was fine as flower petals, warm and soft against Grace's fingertips.
Oakley sensed something and, without waking, nuzzled into Grace's palm. Then she drifted on, at peace, mouth parted in a sweet, unguarded sleep.
Morning light pooled in waves through the window, washing Oakley in a pale radiance, something both diaphanous and holy. An angel among ordinary things.
Grace watched her with her head tipped, a smile lifting the corner of her mouth without her knowing.
A glance at the clock. Then she straightened, stole out, eased the door shut, and padded downstairs.
Only when she reached the last step—certain she wouldn't disturb Oakley—did her body relax back into its natural looseness.
In the kitchen, she opened the fridge and pulled a frozen avocado sandwich from the bottom drawer.
She had made a batch a week ago—time was always scarce; it was easier to set aside half a day to prepare food for the week than to cook from scratch each time. She wasn't always that disciplined, of course. Some days she went slack, skipped the fuss and settled for a cup of black coffee, nothing more.
She slid the sandwich into the microwave, poured milk into a small saucepan and set it on the stove. While she waited, arms folded, she caught herself drifting and clicked her heels against the tile, pulling herself upright again.
A rustle on the stairs.
Grace cut the flame and turned. Oakley was coming down slowly, one hand on the railing.
She yawned as she went, eyes half-lidded. When the yawn dissolved, she raked a hand through her hair and looked over, voice dragging sweetly at the end of the words. "You're up already?"
"Mm." Grace nodded toward the counter. "Breakfast? Eat with me?"
Oakley nodded, smiling. "Gladly."
Perfect. She wouldn't have to order in. Delivery was always the same handful of choices—none half as good as Grace's cooking.
Grace had planned something simple. But with Oakley awake, she took out a head of broccoli, a box of cherry tomatoes, and a packet of sausages.
Oakley came to stand beside her, palms planted on the counter, head tilted as she watched Grace wash the tomatoes. Sleep slipped away, inch by inch.
They were close enough to feel it, not quite touching.
Grace was aware of her presence like warmth on the skin. Unbidden, last night flickered through her—the way Oakley had enticed her, the way she'd been accepted. Grace ran her tongue lightly across her lip.
They had only just crossed that threshold. The tiny shards of memory still glinted in her mind, and there was no way to pretend her heart was a calm sea. The air between them hummed. Silence only thickened it.
Oakley glanced at the finished plate set to one side—the sandwich, the warmed milk. Then turned, curious. "So you were only going to have a sandwich and milk, right?"
"I was," Grace said.
Oakley lifted her chin, playful. "Then why, when you decided to make breakfast for two, did it turn into more than heating another sandwich? Why all the extras?"
Grace's hands stilled for a beat. "Because two isn't the same as one. When it's just me, I don't bother. Dressing it up for an audience of one feels… pointless."
She said it as if it were obvious. It had always been obvious to her. She didn't hear what it gave away.
Arms folded across her chest, Oakley tilted her head, studying Grace. "Why don't you bother for yourself, but you will for someone else?"
Grace lifted her eyes to the sink and, for a moment, it was as if her mind powered down.
Why indeed? She'd never really asked. She'd simply let the habit run.
Oakley smiled, then asked softly, "Grace, do you want to love yourself?"
Grace bit her lower lip and released it. "Why ask that now?"
Oakley took a breath, then explained, "If you loved yourself, then even if you were the only person in the room, you would never, ever, cut corners. The idea that being alone means you can throw something together… that tells me your feelings aren't first in line."
Grace frowned slightly. "I thought that was normal. If it's just me, simple is fine. Fewer dishes. If I cook elaborately, it means more chopping, more washing. It feels… unnecessary."
"But why unnecessary?" Oakley's view was different. "If you truly love yourself, even if there's only you in the world, you still keep the good things and time for you. Because you believe you're worth the trouble. If I had your talent in the kitchen, I'd spoil myself every day—new recipes, no repeats—feed myself silly."
She said it almost solemnly, then continued, "We should live well with someone. So we must live well alone, too. Because, most of the time on this earth, the only person who can love you without withholding anything is… you."
She plucked a round, glossy tomato from the plate and popped it into her mouth—bit down, blinked, nearly choked on the sudden spray of juice. She clapped a hand over her lips and coughed, watery-eyed, until she could breathe again.
So reckless. Grace couldn't help laughing.
At the same time, she noticed something else. Oakley spoke with such earnest, tidy logic. There was real wisdom in it, a hint of hard-won ease—the kind of words you can't say without weathering a storm or two. She wasn't naïve at all. She knew. She saw. She simply chose to remove what was ugly for the sake of living more purely.
It made her seem like a small, serious grown-up.
But becoming this way—didn't it cost something? Could anyone lay down their pain so cleanly? Grace's brow knit. Something felt off.
"The only one who can love you without reserve is you…" Grace softened, voice a shade lower. "Is that because, in the end, you stopped believing anyone else could give without asking, could be kind without terms? Is that why you care for yourself like this?"
"Mm." Oakley nodded, slipping another tomato between her teeth.
Grace smiled. "Then you don't quite love yourself enough."
Oakley swung her gaze over, blinking. "Huh?"
Grace took up a knife, trimming the broccoli. "You've been betrayed too many times. That leaves shadows."
Oakley rolled a cherry tomato along her fingertips. "I… think I'm okay? If I only rely on myself, being alone can be pretty happy."
Grace nodded. "But to truly love yourself—isn't it both? Loving yourself, and also believing there are others who might love you as you do?"
Oakley pressed her lips together.
Grace went on gently, "You want—don't you?—someone in the world who sees you. Who understands you. Who gives without aiming to profit. Friendship, romance—either way."
This wasn't guesswork. In the beginning, when they first added each other, their messages were scattershot—here and there, when the mood struck. Then one day Grace read her a bit too well, and Oakley's interest sharpened. Oakley needed to be understood—and directly. That was how she treated others; it was also how she wanted to be treated. Only, after so many disappointments, she'd stopped expecting anything.
If Grace had to bet, Oakley was often lonely. But because she still cared for herself, she wouldn't let loneliness show; instead, she learned to play alone, to make her own weather.
Still—a coping strategy is a kind of defeat, too.
Oakley teased Grace for her guard, and yes, Grace's guard was high. But Grace could see it now: Oakley's was not so different. Otherwise she wouldn't have agreed to this marriage-as-arrangement, to the safe distance it promised.
What Oakley didn't see was how this posture isolated her, convincing others she was fine—serene, unshakeable—until they overlooked the simple truth: she needed care, too.
Even Grace had nearly been fooled by the brightness of that mask.
Two women, then. One unsure if she still possessed the ability to love at all—only stubbornly convinced it must exist, somewhere. The other certain she would never be loved again. In their own ways, they had arrived at the same gate.
Oakley went still when Grace's question landed. As if some pressure point had been touched.
After a long breath, she said, very quietly, "So you believe there are people who'll stay—unconditionally—by someone's side? Always?"
She didn't ask whether someone might love her unconditionally. She replaced "love" with "stay."
Grace answered without a blink. "Of course."
"Why?" Oakley whispered.
Grace let her lashes fall and smiled. "Because I am such a person. How could I not believe?"
Oakley turned to her, throat tight.
It was true. In her way, Grace had always believed love persisted. She was only lost around its edges.
Oakley, on the other hand, had drifted too far from shore.
She could share a bed and tell Grace it was fine, no strings attached—because she had already chosen a pessimistic ending for herself, the one where she wasn't worthy of being properly chosen. She assumed Grace would never love her. So she separated the body from the heart. Sex in one box, love in another. That way, she wouldn't fall—wouldn't let herself.
Oakley looked into Grace's eyes—dark, steady, and kind—and hesitated.
She wanted to argue. But for some reason, no argument came. They could both see clearly into each other's blind angles, it seemed, yet neither could see herself.
Then—she didn't know how—it rose in her. A sting at the bridge of her nose, a swelling ache behind the eyes. The feeling was greedy, inexorable. Within moments, it filled her head.
She wanted to cry. Couldn't even say why. Just—cry. How strange, when she should have processed the old hurt long ago. Why now?
And yet crying felt shameful.
Helpless, she dropped her gaze like a scolded child and worried at her fingers.
She failed to hold it back. Her eyes flushed hot; mist gathered until the room blurred. Her nose went pink. A tear fell to the back of her hand, startling her into swiping at her eyes.
Grace let out a slow breath. "Tell me… are you afraid of being left?"
Oakley nodded, then shook her head, then twisted her fingers again—undone and contradictory.
Grace lifted Oakley's chin with a fingertip. "Believe me or don't—but I will stay with you for a lifetime. I am a woman who keeps her word."
Oakley's lips trembled; she stared at her through the sheen of tears.
Grace didn't say more. She only tilted her head, leaned in, and pressed a careful kiss to Oakley's mouth.