I take a slow breath, because my nervous system wants to treat this as dangerous and run.
I don’t.
“I’m not trying to pry,” I say. “I just…notice things about you that I normally wouldn’t with others.”
He huffs a rough breath that might’ve been a laugh if he had more room inside himself.
“You do,” he says.
He presses the back of his head to the wall and closes his eyes for a second, like he’s shutting down a memory.
“Tell me more about him.”
Grayson’s gaze lifts to mine so fast it’s almost a flinch.
“Harlow…” His voice is quiet—gentle, almost as if he’s asking if I’m sure.
“I’m sorry,” I say, even though my chest tightens. “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready or if this is a bad time. I just want to know you, and I have a feeling that means getting to know him a little too.”
His throat works. He looks past my shoulder down the hall at the donors leading back into the dinner area, and then he looks back at me, and something in his face eases, even if it’s just a fraction.
“Owen was…a lot,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts like the memory tries to be funny before it hurts. “In the most infuriating yet addicting way.”
My lips twitch. “Louder than Weston?”
A real sound comes out of him, full of surprise.
“Way louder,” he says immediately, like it’s muscle memory. “And that’s saying something.”
It shouldn’t make warmth bloom in my chest, but it does.
Grayson’s gaze drops to the floor again, like he’s choosing what he shares carefully. As if he’s handing me something hedoesn’t hand out often, that little shift where the room fades and it’s just us and the truth he’s letting me have.
His hands flex beside him, like he wants to touch me and is holding himself back, unsure of what I want in this situation.
I take a slow breath and let my actions speak for me.
I reach out, my fingertips brushing his hand gently, offering any sort of peace my touch can bring.
His fingers curl around mine, just like I expected. I knew he was waiting for permission.
His hand is warm. Solid. Rough in a way that speaks to the hard work and dedication he applies to his sport. I can feel his pulse hammering, so I step into him, wrapping my free arm around his waist and breathing him in.
Oh my God, he smells sogood.
He shifts his weight, letting go of my hand, only to bring both of his arms around me, and I can’t help but melt into him.
We stand like that for a few minutes, my head leaning against his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat as it finally calms down into a normal, calmer rhythm.
“This month…” he starts.
Then stops, like the rest of the sentence is too hard to even admit out loud.
I squeeze him a little tighter. “I know.”
His jaw flexes. “I don’t like that it still…gets me.”
“It would be weird if it didn’t,” I whisper against his chest. “It means you care, and caring is a good thing.”
