When Grace Barron spoke Oakley Ponciano's name, she did it lazily, a ribbon of sound, the corners of her mouth tipped with the faintest, tenderest smile.
At the first syllable, Oakley went still—as if someone had pressed two fingers to a hidden nerve. From crown to heel, she froze. Grace hadn't done anything but look at her, but their gazes struck in midair and the neat arrangement of the moment fell softly apart.
In the quiet pool Oakley kept at the bottom of herself, a breeze went shivering over the surface; light rippled there, firefly-bright, until she hardly knew how to hold Grace's eyes.
Leah Ray recovered first. She turned in a small rush, dipped her head. "Ms. Barron."
As though afraid Grace might ask why she was downstairs making small talk instead of upstairs doing her job, Leah shrank her posture to near-invisible, praying for leniency.
Grace didn't scold. She merely looked her over, voice as even as always. "You're here? Come up."
That tone—calm, unreadable—was the kind that made subordinates nervous. The less you could hear, the more your heart ran.
"Of course." Leah nudged her glasses higher, wetted her lower lip, and, without another glance for Oakley, followed Grace up the stairs.
Only when their footsteps faded did Oakley thaw. Her mind replayed it: Grace had taken Leah's fumbling and completed it—said it for her—Her name is Oakley Ponciano.
It stunned her. She'd always believed she and Grace had been mortal enemies at university, oil and water on principle. Even after that curious forum thread about "marriage partners" led them to travel together, even after Grace denied disliking her, Oakley held to skepticism. Surely Grace had only thought her suitable—no better match pending—and smoothed Oakley with tact, keeping things convenient.
She had kept that lens polished for quite a while. And now—Grace had never hated her at all? The smoke on the battlefield had been staged by Oakley alone?
More than that—Grace had been watching over her.
God knew how bleak those years had felt. Oakley had moved through campus like a cursed satellite: if she wasn't colliding with trouble, she was in its orbit. People she'd given honesty to peeled off. People she'd never bothered rose up to push her down. Light thinned, meaning thinned with it. She'd gone from a girl who joked and laughed to a girl crowned with cloud.
For a while she believed she was the least likable creature walking. That her existence was a misplaced note. That, aside from her parents, no one could possibly like her.
If not for those inexplicable reprieves—dangers sidestepped, small surprises like a birthday cake appearing from nowhere—maybe she would have fallen clean through.
She had never imagined that in the worst of it, Grace had noticed. That those soft, secret mercies had been Grace's doing.
The shock of that—no words. Even with years between, warmth uncurled in her chest like steam.
So she had not been walking alone. She had not been as wretched as she'd believed. Across those long, forgettable seasons, someone had kept quiet watch.
Oakley glanced toward the stairs, bit down on a smile, then let it rise anyway—sweet as a ripe berry.
Then she remembered the meat in its bath of spices. Her eyebrows, which had been trying to float off her face, lowered obediently. She turned back to the kitchen, slid the marinating tray from the fridge, and handled it like a precious thing.
A black pan went on the flame; she seared each side in turn, sealing the juices. Foil lined the tray, the meat settled, the oven door closed on a slow heat.
When she stripped off the mitts and turned, she found Leah coming down, silent, a folder clutched in both hands.
"You okay?" Oakley asked, curious. "You look…not thrilled. Did you get chewed out?"
Probably. They'd been upstairs long enough for a reckoning. If Leah and Grace had been close, Leah wouldn't look like a plant that had missed the sun.
Leah shook her head, pushing her glasses again. "When you make a mistake, you deserve a talking-to."
Oakley didn't know the error, only the slump in Leah's shoulders. Comfort would sound hollow. "It's fine. No one goes without mistakes. Fix it next time."
"Mm." Leah pressed her lips together, nodded, then pointed vaguely toward the door. "I'll head out."
"Sure." Oakley wiped her hands with a cloth. "Take care."
Leah offered a thin smile and drifted out as if she'd left most of her spirit behind her.
Oakley shivered. Thank God she and Grace weren't boss and subordinate; that dynamic would have them sparring daily.
With the steak roasting, she raided the fridge for produce—simple sides she couldn't ruin. She kept her ambitions to salads and small plates. Sesame dressing, bright fruits and greens; a few quick pickles. Speed and color. Then a small pan: a ring of olive oil, the sizzle of minced onion, a button of butter melting down, potatoes turned until they softened and drank. This dish—new to her—had blown her mind recently. Grace adored potatoes in all possible forms; the math seemed obvious.
When Grace was picky, she could humble gods. When she wasn't, she was pure mercy. Potatoes, any shape, any method—yes.
The sauce burbled thicker. Oakley taste-tested; her eyes lit. Velvet-soft potato, glossy broth, a salt-bright savor. Confidence returned like a sunbreak. Genius, she told herself, I am a kitchen genius, however fleetingly.
She drew the steak from the oven—surface a deep mahogany, inside still blushing. One slice. She tasted. Her expression bloomed like a court lady after her first lychee of summer.
The kitchen set to rights, the plates ready, and still no Grace. Oakley went to fetch her.
At the study door she knocked. "Come in," came the answer, low and even.
Oakley cracked the door and peered. Grace was typing the last line in a Word file—the crisp clatter filling the room, oddly soothing. Focus sharpened Grace's edges; the glasses deepened the effect; combined with her natural cool, she radiated a do not trespass aura that would bind devils at the threshold. Even without meaning to, she could look like a boundary drawn in ink.
The final key tapped. Grace interlaced her fingers, looked up. "What is it?"
"Dinner." Oakley drifted a fingertip along the seam between spines on the nearest shelf. "It's ready."
Grace checked the time and started slightly—later than she'd noticed. She took off her glasses, flexed her fingers, sighed. "Perfect timing. I just finished."
She stretched, shut the laptop, and crossed to Oakley. "Shall we?"
The heat in the house made coats unnecessary. Grace's shirt collar sat open, a slim line of collarbone catching light. It was a small thing and inexcusably distracting.
Grace noticed Oakley's gaze and glanced down, then up. Their eyes snagged again.
"Something on me?" Grace asked.
Her eyes carried a hush of light in them, a moving ring. In shadow, they were magnetic.
"No," Oakley muttered, looking away, a little breathless. "Just thinking you're unfairly good-looking."
She retreated, a rabbit bounding for stairs. "Come on, come on."
Grace watched the spring in her step and nearly laughed aloud. How did Oakley do that—improve a person's mood by simply existing within frame?
Downstairs, the table was a small festival—color blocks arranged like a painter's first pass. Winter sharpened Appetite's teeth; even the sight of the potato stew promised comfort swallowed warm.
The prettiest plate was the steak, fanned in thin slices over lettuce, a secretive dipping sauce waiting at the side. The plating was artful enough to pick a fight with any hotel chef.
"This looks…lavish," Grace said, unable to resist taking a few photos. The colors needed no filter; the truth of them was already generous.
"Lavish?" Oakley glanced over, faintly worried she'd half-assed too much that wasn't the steak or the soup.
"Mhm," Grace said. "Meat, vegetables, fruit—and beautiful."
Praise sent light through Oakley. She pulled out a chair. "Sit. Eat."
They tasted everything. Grace was honestly impressed. In no time at all, Oakley had cooked like someone who belonged in a kitchen. The awkwardness of her first attempt had vanished. With training, she could collect medals.
Oakley watched Grace's chopsticks move—satisfaction filling her like steam.
But Leah's words scratched at her ribs. Grace had only come down long enough to say Her name is Oakley Ponciano. After that, they'd let the subject go. Oakley's heart felt tickled by a blade of grass—impossible to ignore.
Half a bowl of potato stew later, her stomach warmed enough to be brave. "So… in college—what else did you do?" Oakley asked, casual as she could manage. "I'm… curious."
She was a little animal rooting for fruit in her own melon patch.
Grace thought. "Not much. Once, in the supermarket, I overheard you telling your roommate you wanted a particular soda cracker. There was only one box left, in my hand. I realized if I bought it, you'd be out of luck. So I put it back."
A trivial thing. A small blue box that, on that day, had nearly sold out.
"And then?" Oakley's eyes gleamed.
"Then I walked away to look at something else. Heard you say, 'Last one and I got it—heaven's being kind to me today,' and watched you carry it to the register."
Oakley had no memory of the incident, but her mind staged it instantly, projecting like a film. How many times had her life contained such invisible pivots? She listened, engrossed.
"And—what else did you do… behind my back?" she asked, tilting her head, hungry for more.
Grace considered. "I might have interrupted when people spoke badly about you. Nothing dramatic. Honestly, nothing that matters much."
It had been a long time. Small acts sink without names.
"Don't call them that," Oakley said, suddenly solemn. "Not 'nothing that matters.'"
Grace lifted her gaze and waited.
"If I weren't me," Oakley said, smiling cleanly, "would you have done any of it? For a stranger?"
Grace shook her head. She'd have to be out of her mind.
"There you go." Oakley speared a slice of steak, pleased as a cat. "So they mattered. To me, they're singular."
She would not let the word trivial stand.
After another bite, a thought rose. "And—you weren't just… glancing more, were you?"
Back then, they'd brushed the topic. Grace had said she noticed Oakley—looked twice. Clearly, looking twice had been the shallowest edge of a deeper tide.
Grace hadn't expected the question. "At first, it was only that—seeing you and looking again. After a while, it wasn't."
"Why?" Oakley leaned in.
"Because the more I saw, the more I knew what kind of girl you were," Grace said. "And then I couldn't stand to watch you take the hits."
Oakley sat there, struck all over again by the luck of this lifetime. She had already pared back her expectations of understanding, decided to walk light and alone. And then Grace—who didn't bow to rumor—had planted herself, steady as a tree, on Oakley's side.
Some days she felt certain she'd done something saintly in a previous life to earn this.
Greedy for every strand in Grace's words, she tightened her grip on her chopsticks. "Why couldn't you stand it?"
"I don't know…" Grace frowned faintly, paging through old rooms. "I just… did things. Maybe it was a kind of affinity. A look that landed right."
Oakley knew she was vain, in small, ridiculous ways. Grace had said affinity, but Oakley's mind nudged the idea further—what if there had been a crush Grace hadn't recognized? Grace's emotional engine didn't run at full power every minute; maybe it had sputtered then.
Because otherwise—why the extras? Why not stop at the second look?
The possibility that Grace had once been a little in love with her made Oakley's neurons fizz like soda. She felt shamelessly, youthfully happy.
"Strange," she said, cheeks warm. "Did you never think—maybe—of introducing yourself?"
Grace laughed. "You wouldn't have bothered with me then."
"Fair." Oakley had to mourn, briefly, for her younger, thornier self.
Grace's smile curved. She reached for her phone, opened a saved post, and slid it across the table. "Found a lesser-known place today. Looks good. Tell me what you think."
Oakley set down her chopsticks and cradled the phone. The first photo knocked breath from her: a beach at dusk, the whole sea dyed incandescent orange by a sky on fire. A couple stood on the soft sand, wind catching their clothes, the tableau like an oil painting that had decided to move.
One such picture in a lifetime would be enough, she thought.
She scrolled, hungrily. The town unfolded—angles and vistas that tugged the eyes forward. Her heart already leaned that way.
"I love it," she said, her smile brighter than the sunset on the screen. "Let's go there."
"Good." Grace nodded, running the calendar in her head. "Next Friday night, then? We can have Saturday and Sunday."
That window would open; others were jammed shut. If they missed it, spring might be the next chance. Grace had no patience for waiting on joy.
"Yes." Oakley kept scrolling, pausing at a hand-drawn lovers' itinerary. "I can't wait."
"Me either," Grace said softly. "Truly."
"They say it's perfect for couples," Oakley mused at the big block letters. Her mouth turned up, teasing. "They mean real couples, I know—but we're married on paper. So these are our must-sees, right?"
Grace listened to her gentle ramble, glanced at her face, and the smallest smile returned. "Of course."
Her fingers tapped once on her thigh, then again—a private metronome. On her composed features, the gesture looked like strategy.
Oakley saw it and grinned. "You look like a Boss plotting something grand."
Grace withdrew her hand, laughing. "Do I?"
Oakley nodded earnestly. "Absolutely."
"Well," Grace said, eyes skimming the future, "I am making a very big plan."
"For real?" Oakley put on a comic shiver. "You're not planning to sell me for parts, are you?"
"How could I?" Grace's smile deepened.
"Then what is it?" Oakley cupped a hand to her ear, playfully conspiratorial. "Whisper."
"No," Grace said, studying her for a long, amused second. Then her mouth softened. "You'll know when it's time."