She'd lost interest in most people, or thought she had—until Oakley Ponciano, who arrived like a stray spark and made the dry grass hiss.
And it wasn't just her temperament that was singular. Oakley's looks were singular, too. Hard to file in any cabinet. A little imperious, a little wanton, but never overbearing—deliciously cute in the overlap.
"Unique, huh?" Oakley said. In her entire life, she'd only heard that word used as praise by Grace Barron.
Grace nodded. "Mm. Unique."
Pleased, Oakley smiled, parting her red mouth to ferry in a square of melon.
On the screen, the film proper unfurled.
They stopped talking. Let themselves be taken.
As the internet had promised, the film's eye was exquisite. It opened on a long, gliding shot—from a dark, breathing forest across a scatter of rooftops, down into a villa's white hall.
Childhood neighbors. A bookish boy. A girl so alive she outran her own shadow. At first they barely touched. Then—mysteriously, inevitably—they played together every day.
Later, grown, their lives diverged. They did not expect to meet again until, one day, they did—at a railway station, on a trip, when the world was busy being itself.
Now the girl was stunning; the boy, all clean lines and grace.
"Isn't that the actor… something-Guang?" Oakley whispered.
She remembered the face, the name hazy at the edges.
Grace nodded. "Lucian Tu."
He'd been everywhere lately, even to someone like Grace who didn't track actors. Colleagues said his name as if it were a season.
"So it is him." Oakley studied the screen, then frowned. "Weird. I remember him being… prettier. Now he looks different."
She used to be weak for his face. Any project with Lucian in the cast, and her expectations hopped a step higher. People swore every frame he touched looked better, as if he'd been carved for the camera.
But tonight—average. Symmetrical, yes. Handsome? Not decisively. She preferred watching the heroine.
She liked pretty women anyway.
"You don't think he's handsome anymore?" Grace said. "Everybody claims this is his peak—better than ever."
The feeds had been worshipful. Office polls too—Lucian drowning the competition in votes. Everyone echoing the same line: he was the blueprint, the manliest of the manly.
"Seriously?" Oakley looked genuinely startled.
"I'm not making it up," Grace said, amused. "Half my team joined his fan club this month. I haven't seen them this giddy over a star in ages."
They'd been high on him, honestly—like teenagers on borrowed glitter.
"Huh." Oakley rubbed her chin, baffled. "Then why do I think he's less beautiful than before?"
Lately she'd noticed these shifts in herself—quiet, subterranean changes she only discovered once they'd bloomed. By the time she looked up, she was already different.
"Maybe your taste moved," Grace said, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"Maybe." Oakley popped another cube of melon. "Boys I used to think looked clean now seem… not clean enough. Not delicate enough."
It wasn't that she'd grown mean. Her eyes simply refused to be charmed the old way. Same with a certain boy band: the spell no longer worked.
"Oh?" Grace said, with a small smile. "So you like them clean and delicate."
"Mm-hm." Oakley turned her head to look.
Grace was folded into the sofa, long legs crossed, a hand loose over one knee. Dark hair slipped forward across her chest; her profile was precise without harshness, a beauty assembled from breath and restraint.
Beyond the features, there was her air—an unstudied elegance that made people lean in without meaning to.
For Oakley, that alone was lethal.
She lifted a stray lock of Grace's hair and looped it around her finger, eyes gone glossy. "For example—your face."
Grace paused, then turned.
Oakley's skull was beautifully rounded, a spill of hair on her shoulder sharpening the line of her collarbones. Her mouth tipped up, eyes tilted sweetly at the corners—she looked like a cat that knew exactly which bird you were.
Grace watched the strand fall from Oakley's fingertips. "My face?"
"Mm." Oakley winked. "I'm approving you. You're welcome."
Grace's gaze dropped to her mouth, then rose to her eyes. "Then I'm… honored?"
Oakley chuckled and returned to the film. Grace faced forward again, swallowing once, small enough to be missed.
Hand propped against her mouth, she exhaled and tried to focus.
Was this Oakley's sorcery—her uncanny way of flipping a switch inside you—or was Grace's mind truly misbehaving lately? Alone, she was fine. At work, even better—nothing spare in her head for nonsense. But leave her with Oakley for five minutes and some inner mechanism clicked alive, humming with strange energy.
She forked a piece of melon and chewed slowly.
Time jumped. The film slipped into its last third.
At last the leads confessed themselves. Kisses followed. A bed.
Grace's brow tightened; this part rarely held her. Oakley, meanwhile, watched wide-eyed.
Odd. Once upon a time, these scenes had been Oakley's favorite. Now even here her reactions lagged, like a signal in the rain. She found herself fixating on a pimple along the hero's jawline.
Her gaze drifted to the heroine—flawless skin, a swan's neck. And still Oakley's mind insisted: if the hand at the girl's jaw were slender rather than blunt, wouldn't it be better? Easier to inhabit?
Easier to inhabit? She caught herself, startled, and turned to look at Grace.
She traced the line of Grace's body up to her face. Stopped at that face.
Her mouth went a little dry. She wet her lips, toyed with the pendant at her throat, eyes flicking quick and bright.
The credits arrived like a tide.
As the end song began, Grace asked, "How'd it land?"
Oakley returned from wherever she'd been. "It was… fine?"
Blunt as a gavel.
"And you?" she asked.
"I liked it," Grace said. "The direction's beautiful."
To her eyes, the film had set a table and fed her properly.
Oakley nodded. "True."
Grace shut off the projector and glanced down at the plate.
Once a crowded garden of fruit, now a few lonely seeds and a single strawberry.
"One left," she said. "Eat it and I'll clean up."
Oakley lifted the berry, then shook her head. "I'm full."
Grace had barely eaten during the movie; most of the plate was Oakley's doing. But capacity was capacity. One more bite and she'd burst.
"Then I will," Grace said, reaching.
"Go on." Oakley held the strawberry to Grace's mouth herself, tipped her chin, and waited. "Here."
Grace had meant to take it with her fingers, but refusing the offer now would be theater. She leaned in and bit.
It was a good berry—more sweet than sharp, juice bright as a note.
Her teeth grazed Oakley's fingers.
Heat radiated across Oakley's fingertip. Something inside her stuttered. She hadn't planned on this—hadn't planned on anything, really—and now her gaze refused to leave Grace.
Grace didn't notice; she finished the bite and said, easy, "You pick fruit well."
Oakley relaxed her jaw and smiled. "Obviously. I'm me. I'm a little genius."
She was never shy about praising herself.
Grace agreed. "A little genius, yes. Tonight was… good."
"Really?" Oakley asked.
"Really." Grace laced her fingers, kneading lightly. "I haven't felt this relaxed in a long time."
Oakley watched the length of her throat, felt a restless wind rise under her skin.
Her mouth softened into a secret. "If I did that well… do I get a reward?"
"A reward?" Grace tasted the word, one brow lifting. "What kind of reward are we talking about?"
"I," Oakley said, licking her lips once, not greedy, not at all greedy, "am easily satisfied."
"Mm?"
She braced a hand on the sofa and slid closer by degrees—her chest, her perfume, the small gravity of her.
They were nearly touching.
Grace turned, and there Oakley was: a slim collarbone, a cloud of featherlight curls, almond eyes set on her with unblinking attention. The face was a study in proportions—clean brow, fine nose, a mouth so red it looked wet. Clever and sensual at once, a fox who knew every path through the trees.
Lovely. And dangerous.
The room's air warmed a degree. Grace's hands tightened on her knees; her gaze darkened, aware.
Oakley tipped her chin, eyes half-lidded. "I…"
"A French kiss."
Oakley Ponciano had barely breathed the words when Grace Barron's arm curved around her neck and pulled—swift, sure, no space left for second thoughts.
The world tipped. A hot, insistent kiss landed on Oakley's mouth. Her mind went white at the edges, an empty room where sound echoed. Her heart galloped; instinct rose and she clutched back, as if a tide had reached for her and she'd chosen to go under.
Heat moved like magma under the skin.
Just as Grace's hand, acting on its own, began to travel, Oakley caught it.
Grace paused, eyes opening on a low, ragged breath—pupils wine-dark, restraint and hunger braided in her voice. "No?"
Oakley smiled, cupping Grace's cheek with her thumb. "Hungry?"
The question had a single meaning; even a saint would get it.
Grace's voice dropped. "Is that… not allowed?"
"Too late," Oakley murmured. "We have an early morning. Put it on my tab—I'll feed you next time. Properly."
It really was late; midnight had crept into the room and made itself at home.
Grace shut her eyes, stood in that pause until the ache softened into something she could carry, and nodded. "Okay."
Oakley tipped Grace's chin up with two fingers. "Disappointed?"
Grace shook her head, stood, and lifted the fruit plate from the table. "Then… good night?"
Oakley sat forward on the sofa, smoothing her hair, a mermaid stretching on a warm rock. "Mm. See you tomorrow."
Grace didn't trust herself to add more. She stepped out.
Oakley closed her eyes. She could sleep anywhere, want anything—too much, sometimes. If they unraveled the evening now, there'd be no energy left for meeting the family tomorrow.
Still. Grace seemed to be wanting her more often. That thought made Oakley's mouth curve before she checked the clock and swore under her breath. Late. Too late.
In the kitchen, Grace rinsed the plate, slid it into the cabinet, and went upstairs.
She shut her bedroom door and leaned her back to it, fingers at her collar, eyes closed as she steadied the sea inside. After a long exhale she crossed to the bathroom, turned on the shower.
Water stitched calm across her skin. The blaze lowered, the room inside cleared.
Halfway through, Grace finally felt human—whatever fever had climbed in her bones was doused to embers, her head cooler, her breath no longer running.
She didn't know what to do with this new body—how it kept reaching, how it wanted to fuse with Oakley until there was no seam left to find.
Madness.
—
Morning.
Grace woke, checked the clock, washed, dressed.
Skylark had light but not brightness yet; winter hung a gray veil over the sky, thin and sticky. She cracked the window, and a blade of cold skated along the curve of her neck like a knife's whisper. She shut it again, wheeled her suitcase to the hall, and rapped on Oakley's door. "Awake?"
Silence. Grace set the suitcase down, turned the handle, and stepped in.
From the doorway, she saw a cocoon on the bed—a girl swaddled like a chrysalis.
"Oakley." Grace patted the comforter. "Time."
Oakley wriggled and surfaced. "Up… I'm up."
Her voice was husky, sleep still covering it like a blanket. A few strands of hair stuck to her cheek; she looked deeply, unfairly content.
"If we don't move we'll miss the plane," Grace said, glancing at the time.
"Right." Oakley yawned and dragged herself upright, fingers pressing at her brow.
"Bags packed?" Grace asked, scanning the room.
Oakley pointed at the wardrobe. "Packed. Suitcase's inside."
"Good. Go wash."
"M'kay." Oakley stretched—a slow cat unfurling—and the room felt warmer for it.
Grace turned her face aside and sat on the beanbag by the wall. "I'll wait."
"Sorry," Oakley said, shuffling toward the bathroom. "No idea how I murdered every alarm."
"You were wiped," Grace said. "Winter makes it easy to ignore the sun."
"You ignore it too?" Oakley slipped her feet into slippers.
"Of course. But habit's a tyrant. My body clock drags me up regardless."
Oakley giggled. "I aspire. Okay, no more talking—teeth time."
Grace scrolled through messages and email while Oakley brushed. Oakley reemerged, opened the wardrobe, fished out a camel puffer, then a black and a cream knit dress.
"I can't choose," she said, holding them up. "Which?"
Grace glanced over. "Cream. Softer read with the coat."
"Done." Oakley shoved the black back, then—without ceremony—unbuttoned her sleep top where she stood.
Fabric slid from her shoulders; the bare line of her back and the clean, long lines of her legs lit into view.
Grace startled, then dutifully lowered her gaze back to her phone.
When Oakley had finished dressing—tugging her hair free from the collar—Grace stood. "Ready?"
"Mm." Oakley tugged out a pale green suitcase—macaron-pretty—and they headed for the car.
Oakley had dreamed all night in fragments and woke early; exhaustion smudged her edges. She dozed in the passenger seat, head tipping toward the window, and Grace drove through the thin morning traffic without complaint.
Check-in, baggage, breakfast, boarding. By the time they landed, it was close to eleven.
The birthday banquet was tomorrow. Today they'd go straight to Grace's grandmother's house.
A white house waited at the end of a wide garden. Even in winter, with the plants gone yellow and the edges tired, the place had its own quiet radiance.
"So pretty," Oakley said, turning in a slow circle. "All these trees. It's like an oil painting."
"My grandmother loves this stuff," Grace said. "So she planted plenty."
"Woman knows how to live."
Grace laughed, lifting bags from the trunk. A black car rolled in behind them and parked. Oakley and Grace paused as the door opened and a girl climbed out—brown coat, long black hair, a small black shoulder bag. Student-aged, slight.
She saw them and stopped.
"Who's that?" Oakley asked.
Grace hesitated, then made introductions. "Hazel—this is my wife, Oakley Ponciano. Oakley, my sister, Hazel Barron."
Ah. The family's little princess.
Grace didn't share much about Hazel's personality, but Oakley was partisan by nature; if Grace had been forced to yield ground at home, Oakley had already formed an opinion. Still, she smiled and lifted a hand. "Hi there."
Hazel lifted her eyes, gave Oakley a flat glance. "Oh. Hi."
Oakley's brow tipped up as she lowered her hand. Her appetite for conversation dropped to zero.
Hazel turned to Grace. "You're back."
"Mm," Grace said.
"Okay, I'm going in," Hazel replied, and walked past without a change in temperature.
Oakley couldn't hold it. "Is she always that rude?"
Grace exhaled. "She's… like that. Spoiled since birth. I'm used to it."
"I think it's genetic malfunction," Oakley muttered. "I was spoiled too; I don't treat people like something on my shoe. She really thinks she's the household deity? Can't even say 'sis' when she sees you?"
She'd spent weeks wondering if she was as bad as online strangers insisted. Meeting Hazel clarified things.
Grace didn't argue. "Let's go in."
"Fine." Oakley pressed her lips together and followed her up the path.
Inside, Hazel was leaning on the entry bench, swapping shoes, while asking a housekeeper, "Where are my parents?"
"Upstairs," the woman said, smiling. "I'll call them down."
"Mm. Do that." Hazel slipped her phone from her pocket and dipped into her screen.
Grace and Oakley had just finished changing shoes when footsteps sounded on the stair.
A couple descended—he tall and broad, features cut like stone; she pale and composed, a light blue knit under a beige coat, hair coiled, pearls at her throat. Beautiful and careful.
"Honey, you're home!" Hannah Barron's face bloomed at the sight of Hazel.
"Yep!" Hazel tucked her phone away and went to her.
Hannah bent a little, patting Hazel's cheek. "Oh my, have you lost weight? Are you eating properly at school? I told you to stay here; you insist on being difficult."
Hazel frowned. "Isn't thinner better? I don't want to be fat."
Beside them, Devin Barron glanced at his daughter's coat. "Aren't you cold dressed like that?"
Hazel's frown deepened. "No. Of course I'm not cold. I'm not stupid."
Oakley's jaw ticked.
Grace's hand, at her side, brushed Oakley's knuckles once—no words, just a small pressure, a warning and a promise.