Grayson glances down the path leading away from the main bustle. “Ready?”
I nod, and we start walking.
The quiet between us feels chosen, not empty. The path takes us away from the busiest part of campus, toward a stretch lined with trees just beginning to turn. Early November in California isn’t drastically different, but there’s still a crispness at night, a faint bite that makes hoodies feel slightly more necessary.
Our shoulders brush once when the sidewalk narrows, and my entire body reacts. Heat blooms low in my stomach, and I hear Grayson’s breath change. His hands flex once, then settle again like he’s actively choosing stillness instead of reaching out for mine.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“Yeah,” I say, and it comes out steadier than I feel.
He nods and doesn’t push. It’s strange how safe that feels—how rare it is to have someone let my answer be enough.
We pass the library, its glass windows glowing warmly, and for a second, I catch our reflections—two figures side by side, matching pace, matching quiet. The sight feels intimate, like seeing something I’m not ready to name.
Grayson’s gaze lingers on my face. “You were really quiet the other night,” he says.
“At movie night?” I ask.
He nods.
“I didn’t know what to do with it,” I admit. “With…being there.”
“You did fine,” he says without hesitation.
“Did it feel like I was being weird?” The question slips out, and I hate myself a little for needing reassurance.
Grayson exhales slowly as he stops, then gently grabs my hand, bringing me to a stop in front of him. “Harlow, I don’t think you’re weird. Ever.”
My throat squeezes as I meet his gaze.
“I think you’re careful,” he continues, his voice gentle. “And I get it. But you don’t have to be careful with me.”
“Why?” I ask, searching his eyes for any hint that he doesn’t actually mean the words he’s saying. But that’s one thing I know I can count on—him saying what he means and meaning what he says.
Grayson’s expression softens. “Because I don’t want anything from you that you don’t want to give,” he says. “And I’m not interested in being another person who makes you feel like you have to earn safety.”
Walking a few more feet, we sit on a bench near the edge where it’s quieter. There’s space between us at first, small but intentional. Enough that I can breathe. Enough that I can decide.
Grayson leans forward, elbows on his knees, letting the moment settle around us.
“You really liked the game,” he says.
“I did,” I admit.
He smiles faintly. “You looked like you were having fun.”
“I was.”
“I’m glad.” The way he says it makes my chest ache.
“You looked different out there,” I say. “Focused.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Sometimes it’s the only place I don’t feel like I’m failing at being a person.”
Instead of pushing, I place my hand on the bench between us. Open. Waiting. Grayson looks at it, then at me, and slowlycovers it with his hand, weaving our fingers together. My hand fits perfectly in his, and I don’t think I ever want him to let go.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs.
