She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, lit her small candle, and padded barefoot to the door of her chamber. She opened it, then squealed in a tiny, high-pitched squeak that shot out of her before she could swallow it down.
Greyson was standing right in front of her chamber door, with his hand raised as if frozen mid-knock. A moment later, she noticed a stack of books tucked under his other arm, but as soon as she slapped both her hands over her mouth, the books tumbled from his grasp and scattered across the carpet.
“I…” He blinked hard, as though unable to process the situation. “You made a noise.”
Hazel pressed a hand to her racing heart. “You frightened me! What are you doing lurking outside my chamber?”
“I was not lurking,” Greyson said, looking affronted for a moment. “I was knocking… or attempting to. Before you,” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “squeaked at me.”
Hazel narrowed her eyes. “It was not a squeak.”
“It was absolutely a squeak.”
She gasped. “Greyson.”
Greyson bent to gather the fallen books so swiftly she had no opportunity to object. Hazel dropped to her knees beside him, reaching for one. Their hands brushed. She snatched hers back instantly, feeling that familiar heat blooming up her arms. Greyson froze as well, as if the brief touch had sent a shock straight through him.
He cleared his throat. “I… could not sleep.”
Hazel swallowed. “Neither could I.”
They both knelt there in the soft glow of her candle, surrounded by scattered books, looking at one another with something too new and too tender to name. They gathered the fallen books and rose.
“I brought these,” she heard him say, “from the west wing.”
Hazel blinked incredulously. “For your mother?”
“For her, yes.” His gaze dropped briefly to the spines. “They are ones she used to enjoy…before.”
Hazel’s chest warmed. He hid it so carefully she suspected he barely knew he was doing it, but behind every clipped word was tenderness.
“That was thoughtful,” Hazel said gently. “She will love them.”
He gave a single stiff nod, almost defensive in its brevity.
Hazel hesitated, then softened her voice. “You could take them to her yourself, you know.”
Greyson went absolutely still. He seemed as though a painful memory had taken hold of him and refused to let go.
Hazel’s breath caught. “Greyson?”
He did not look at her. His eyes remained fixed on the books, as if he could find steadiness in the neatness of their bindings.
After a moment, he said quietly, “No. I will… bring her some other ones.”
Hazel felt the truth land. He could not bear to take these to her, not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much.
“That day… in the west wing, I… didn’t mean to pry,” she murmured.
“I know.” His voice was steadier now, but she could hear the strain beneath it. “I simply… cannot give herthese.”
“Because they are special to her?” Hazel asked gently.
His jaw tightened. “Because they were special to both of us.”
Her heart squeezed. He finally lifted his gaze to hers, and in the candle’s warm glow, Hazel saw the grief he never let surface, the quiet fear of a son who had lost his entire family, and the tenderness of a man who had spent years refusing to soften.
Hazel stepped closer, not touching him, but close enough that her presence wrapped around the moment like a shawl.
