The words hang between us. Not a request for pity, just a piece of himself, offered carefully.
"That must have been hard."
He nods. "It was tough on my mom after that. She…" He shakes his head.
"Grief changes everything," I say.
His eyes meet mine with a look that says he's grateful for the understanding, the space.
Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed by how attractive he is. It's not just his looks—though, God knows, he's devastatingly handsome—it's this vulnerability. The way he's sharing, carefully but genuinely. The depth behind his eyes. The careful tenderness I've seen in how he talks about Hazel, about Geneva.
Stop it, I tell myself, but the warning sounds weak, even in my own head.He's your boss, a single dad who's more than a decade older than you. Completely, absolutely OFF. LIMITS.
But the voice in my head sounds less convincing witheach passing moment. He doesn't feel off-limits right now. He feels achingly, dangerously present.
The way he's looking at me like I'm someone who might actually understand him makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with professional respect and everything to do with pure, inconvenient attraction. There's something in his gaze that's different tonight. Something heated. Something that makes me wonder if he's feeling what I'm feeling.
But my body isn't listening to my brain's very rational warnings.
"Dance with me," I say suddenly, standing up.
Grant blinks, clearly surprised. "What?"
I hold out my hand, surprising myself as much as him. "Dance with me. We're celebrating, there's music playing, and I want to dance."
For a moment, I think he'll refuse. The professional distance he's maintained since I moved into the guest house has been carefully and meticulously preserved. But then his hand slides into mine, warm and strong, and he lets me pull him to his feet.
The music shifts—because of course it does—to something slower, more intimate. Suddenly, we're swaying together under the string of lights, and every point of contact feels like a live wire.
His hand rests on my waist, keeping a respectable distance. Always so careful. Always so professional. But tonight, I don't want careful. I don't want professional.
I step closer, eliminating the space between us. His breath catches—a sharp, involuntary intake that sends electricity racing through me. He doesn't pull away.
"Sophia…" The way he says my name is a warning. And a prayer.
I don't know who moves first. Maybe we both do. Suddenly, we're breathing the same air, suspended in a moment that feels both infinite and impossibly fragile. My hand finds his cheek, and my thumb brushes across his skin. His eyes are dark, intense.
Our lips barely brush—the ghost of a kiss, electric and promising. Time suspends, crystallizes. The world narrows to just his fingers threading through my hair, the warmth of his breath against my lips, and the thundering of my heart. For one perfect, infinite moment, everything I've been trying not to want seems within reach.
Then Grant pulls back—not abruptly, but with a deliberate gentleness that somehow hurts more than if he'd jerked away. His hand lingers on my cheek for a heartbeat longer, his thumb brushing across my skin in what feels like an apology.
"We can't," he says. The roughness in his voice betrays how affected he is, and that knowledge sends a complicated ache through my chest. "This isn't—" He stops, collecting himself. "You're young, Sophia. You have your entire career ahead of you. The last thing you need is complications with…" He gestures vaguely between us, and I understand what he's not saying:With someone older. With your boss. With a single father.
The space between us feels vast now, though we've barely moved apart. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold on to some semblance of composure. He's right. Of course he's right. This would complicate everything. Themovie, our working relationship, and my temporary living situation in his guest house.
"We should get some sleep," he says, his voice gentle but firm. Professional. Like we hadn't just been swaying together under string lights. Like my skin isn't still tingling from his touch.
I manage a smile that I hope looks more collected than I feel. "You're right." My voice comes out steadier than expected. "Early meetings tomorrow too.”
As I take a step back, the wordsI don't regret itrise to my lips, but I swallow them back. He's set a boundary. The least I can do is respect it.
"Goodnight, Grant," I say instead, proud of how normal I sound.
Something complicated—longing, restraint, regret—flashes across his face. Then, with a tenderness that makes my chest ache, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Goodnight, Sophia."
The guest house feels cavernous and empty after the charged evening. I lean against the closed door, letting out a long, shaky breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. The ghost of his almost-kiss lingers on my lips. My skin still hums where he touched me.
