When that warm breath and soft touch fell together across her lips, Oakley Ponciano short-circuited. Even after Grace Barron pulled away, she couldn't quite load a response.
It was strange.
Grace's kiss had been gentle today—light as a dragonfly skimming a pond—without anything complicated like heat or hunger. And yet Oakley's heartstring twanged, a small tremor, as if a curious seed inside her loosened the soil and shouldered its way up. It was young, that green. Tender. Skittish. The lightest breeze would set it trembling.
Familiar, she thought, and somehow new.
She'd felt things like this before, standing in front of Grace. But never this clear. And faced with the slender woman in front of her, Oakley panicked, just a little.
Grace blinked, startled too. "I'm sorry. That was out of line."
She had no idea what had come over her—some ghost took the wheel and drove her straight into a kiss. She must have been out of her mind.
"No," Oakley said quickly, heat streaking through her. "No, you weren't."
Then, muttering under her breath, "We've already done… that. What's left to offend…"
Grace: "Hm?"
Oakley shook her head. "Nothing."
"Ahem." Grace cleared her throat, refusing to tug on the thread any further. She turned back to the stove. "I should finish breakfast."
"Yeah." Oakley clasped her hands in front of her and worried at her fingertips.
She stood there for a while—breathing, collecting, hiding—before corralling that skittish little thought. "Let me help," she said, turning toward Grace, voice too bright.
Grace pressed her lips together, nodded. "Okay. Can you snip open the sausage?"
"Sure." Oakley took up the package and spun it in her hands, wandering the kitchen like someone pretending to be busy. In the end she fetched a pair of scissors from the knives drawer and followed the dotted line one deliberate millimeter at a time.
Every so often she looked sideways at Grace.
Grace's hands were slim, pale, now shaving the last tight curl from a head of broccoli. Oakley noticed the way everything Grace did carried a kind of exacting tenderness, a neatness that never felt cold. It reminded her of spring sunlight—the kind that coaxes the chill off your skin without ever scorching it.
This is hopeless, Oakley thought. I'm a lost cause. Watching her cook and I'm… mesmerized.
Breakfast went fast. Grace approached every task the way she approached life: efficient, unfussy, precise.
She set two brimming plates on the wooden table. They sat. Grace had just picked up her fork when Oakley lifted her phone. "Wait!"
Grace glanced up. "Mm?"
"Don't touch it yet. It's too pretty. Let me get a photo." Oakley slid Grace's plate into the center, nudged her own beside it, made them kiss.
Then she hovered, standing, sitting, biting her lip, fussing over the framing like the world depended on the angle of the toast. After a moment, Grace said, amused, "You really do love recording your life."
"Life deserves to be recorded." Oakley pushed Grace's plate back to her and set her phone down, taking up her knife and fork with a flourish. "And a breakfast this gorgeous? Not taking a picture would be criminal."
Her face was a weather vane—bright, quizzical, alive. Looking at her, Grace felt the tug of something she'd thought she'd mislaid after childhood.
Grace couldn't help it; she smiled, lashes lowering as she returned to her meal.
Halfway through, Oakley jerked as if tugged by a string. "Oh, right. Our flight back to your grandma's is the day after tomorrow, morning, correct?"
Grace nodded. "That's right."
Oakley pressed her lips together. "I almost forgot to ask—do you want to look at the gifts I picked for your family? I'm worried I got it wrong. If I did, there's still time to fix it. Especially that hat."
Grace didn't see a problem. "It's fine. They won't fuss over details. And your taste is good. I don't see you missing by a mile."
Oakley speared a floret, gaze lifting, frank. "Be honest."
Grace: "Mm?"
Oakley tucked the broccoli between her teeth. "Besides my mom, you're the only person who praises me this much."
It didn't happen often. At home, sure. But outside, she'd tripped so many times that there was a season where, no matter how her mom tried to lift her, the compliments bounced off. She'd wondered if her mother wore the softest filter a parent could wear.
Grace smiled. "Knowing the worst in people makes the good glow brighter. Trust me."
Oakley chewed slowly and looked up at her, as if from the dark corner of a cupboard—a child lifting her face toward a skylight, fingertips grazing a strip of sun.
She sniffed, once, took a gulp of milk, and nodded hard like she was pinning something down.
After.
Oakley scooped up the dishes and took them to the sink. Grace slipped out the door.
Sliding the car from the garage, Grace glanced back at the house. The window was just a square of brightness, curtain swaying, empty.
She didn't see the way Oakley, who had ducked behind the curtain a second earlier, held her breath as if waves were crashing inside her chest.
Grace faced forward again, shook her head, and drove to the office.
The day came for her full tilt. Manuscript edits. Calls with authors. Then a meeting with a client from her father's firm. She moved from one thing to the next like beads on a tight string.
It felt familiar. Unremarkable, even. And yet, if she listened closely, something was different today.
What? The difference was so small it almost didn't exist. Maybe it was this: when the client left and she walked him out, the world had color again. Trees weren't just green; they were a cleaner, livelier green, like someone had washed the dust off them. Sensation was back in the world, and some of it in her.
She plucked a leaf and held it to the light, studying the miniature rivers of its veins. Then she opened her phone and tapped open her apptalk feed.
Sure enough, Oakley had posted. Two hours ago.
"Today's breakfast check-in," she'd written. "Ridiculously pretty—looks good, tastes better. Too bad you can't try it, ha. Because my wife made it. Try not to drool."
Two plates of breakfast under a warm-tinted filter—domestic sun bottled in a square.
Grace's mouth tilted up again.
Then her brows pinched in lightly. She raised a finger to the corner of her lips, surprised by the curve she found there.
I'm… smiling?
Across town, Oakley had just wrapped the video she wanted to upload tomorrow. Which meant she was now a hopeless lump. She needed frequent pit stops; she wasn't built for Grace's brand of sustained intensity.
She opened a takeout bag, eased out the delicate sweets, and arranged the tiny cakes on a white tiered stand. She brewed herself a cup of black tea.
The sun was generous today and winter is stingy with such gifts. Oakley carried everything into the small garden and set it on the round table. She loved sunlight. Loved the way it felt like permission.
When she lifted the cup, the amber inside tipped, sending a perfect ring outward. In the light, the ripple looked like etched glass. She snapped a picture before the moment passed.
She bit into a canelé—crisp shell, custard heart—set it down, and began dressing the photo with filters.
When she opened apptalk to post, she noticed Grace's like beneath her last entry. And a pattern: Grace rarely commented. She simply… liked. Quietly. Consistently.
Oakley thought of what Grace had said that morning.
She was right. Oakley didn't love herself well.
People who truly understand love know how to give and how to receive. Oakley had exiled the second half. She trusted no one, not really.
Underneath, she carried a loose fist of fear. Whether or not she admitted it didn't change the weight.
Her mind drifted back to the kiss. The unannounced press of Grace's mouth. The shock that blazed through her. She hadn't moved. Hadn't planned. Grace had just—wanted—and done it.
Insane. Lethal.
Hours later, thinking of it now, the small lake at the center of her chest rippled like the tea in her cup.
The feeling was too lush. Witchcraft, almost, like someone had tucked a charm under her tongue.
She was about to sip when she caught herself laughing, alone at a round table in the sun, nearly snorting tea through her nose.
Grace kept appearing in her mind, again, again, again, like a song on loop. Oakley loved it, and she was terrified by it, and she didn't know which side to choose.
Her phone buzzed: a message from Natalie Pierce. "Oakley, are you free next Wednesday?"
Oakley came back from orbit. "I am."
Natalie: "Bad timing—my assistant and the weekend girl are both out. I have to place orders, refresh the boutique, and still greet customers. I'll be swamped. If you're free, can you come lend a hand?"
"Yes," Oakley typed, without a blink. "Absolutely."
She loved any excuse to leave the house. An invitation was happiness in a paper cup. Helping out? Easy.
Natalie: "Perfect. And you mentioned wanting to try some heritage-inspired outfits—come by and play dress-up. If you fall in love with something, it's yours."
Oakley grinned, light pooling in her eyes. "Deal."
Then, after a pause, she typed, "By the way, Natalie. I have a question."
Natalie: "?"
Oakley chewed her lip, thinking, fingers moving again. "In what kind of situation would you offer someone unconditional presence and care? Do you think that's actually… reliable?"
Natalie: "Well…"
Oakley: "Mm?"
Natalie: "Either love. Or responsibility. Sometimes both."
Oakley bit down on the inside of her lip. "So, people like that really exist."
Natalie: "Of course they do. Don't you?"
"Me?" Oakley gave a watery laugh. "I keep my heart on a short leash so I don't drown when things break. Doesn't that make me a coward? Cowards don't get to talk about responsibility."
Natalie came back fast: "Think about the women you've supported in your outreach. Which of them did you abandon first? You stood there bleeding and stayed until they walked away from you. If that isn't responsibility, what is? Irresponsible is swearing you're a soulmate while knowing you're a storm—marrying someone only to hand them your chores and go pick flowers in someone else's yard."
Oakley went still.
But that proves nothing, she wanted to argue. Natalie is Natalie, I am me, and Grace is—Grace.
"Got it," she typed, not sure she did, and let the thread go slack.
Forget it. Why am I thinking like this?
We already signed the agreement.
She sighed and turned back to apptalk.
Grace had posted too, a few minutes earlier.
A single leaf. No caption.
Oakley tapped a like, opened the photo, and lingered. Her gaze drifted to the hand holding the leaf.
Grace's hands were so beautiful. So deft.
Oakley's thoughts veered. What had Grace been thinking last night, when they'd made love?
She didn't know how it happened. One minute she was finishing a cake, the next she couldn't keep her brain from flying off in seven scandalous directions. Hormones, she thought. My whole mind has been replaced by Grace-shaped hormones.
Another ping from Natalie. "Wait. I just realized."
Oakley: "?"
Natalie: "You were talking about Grace, weren't you?"
Oakley almost choked on her pastry, thumping her sternum, coughing until her eyes watered.
After a long breath, she shut her eyes and typed the truth. "Yes."
Who else would it be?
Natalie: "Ha! Who was it that swore she would never fall for Grace Barron? And how long did that vow last?"
Natalie could really paint a picture—arms folded, leaning against a doorway, watching Oakley walk toward her own punchline.
Oakley flushed head to ear. "Did I say I liked her?"
Natalie: "You didn't. But every line you send smells like it."
Oakley pressed her mouth shut until it hurt. "I don't know. Tell me, Natalie—does physical attraction and… emotional attraction count as the same thing? Or is it only love when both show up?"
She wanted one last loophole. They had an agreement. Do not fall.
Natalie: "How to say this… usually if two people are good in bed, even if they didn't like each other at first, it grows. That's why people swear they're not into relationships, go for casual, and then fall for the 'casual' they keep seeing. The reverse is true too—if you adore someone but you can't find a rhythm together, time wears the shine off."
Oakley stared at the screen, slipstreaming into outer space again. Then her jaw softened, and she typed, "Well, then I'm doomed. By that logic… I might actually like her."
Natalie: "Explain."
Oakley frowned at the garden, at the crisp plate of light on the tabletop. "It's not just her. I'm obsessed with her, yes. But I'm also obsessed with her… technique."
Natalie: "Hold on—technique? Are you saying you two…?"
Oakley typed, slow and pink-cheeked: "Yes. She's incredible. I don't know how she's that incredible. Nothing hurt. All I remember is how good it was. My brain went white."
Natalie was silent, stunned into static.
Oakley added, reckless now, "I wouldn't mind if she ruined me."