I hesitate. The hall outside is loud. Students passing. Doors slamming. The kind of chaotic morning energy that makes my head start hurting before I even get a chance to truly start my day.
I nod once. “Okay.”
We leave my room, and it’s weird how quickly the hallway noise sharpens my senses again. My shoulders rise, my steps get smaller, and Grayson adjusts without commenting. He moves slightly to the outside as we walk, putting himself between me and the biggest flow of people. A guy barrels out of a door too fast and nearly collides with me. Grayson’s hand lifts—not touching me, just hovering at my elbow like a guardrail. The guy mutterssorryand keeps going. Grayson’s hand drops immediately, like he knows the difference between helpful and hovering.
My stomach does that tight-warm thing again.
We make it outside, and the fresh air instantly has my shoulders relaxing.
“Better?” Grayson asks quietly.
I nod. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t say,Good girl.
He doesn’t say,Proud of you.
He just walks with me like this is normal. Which is the most dangerous kind of kindness.
At my building’s steps, he stops. He doesn’t crowd the doorway. Doesn’t come too close. He just looks at me like he’s taking a mental picture.
“Tonight,” he says, careful, “I want to take you out.”
My pulse stutters.
“Like a birthday dinner?” I ask.
He nods once. “If you want to. No surprise party or anything crazy like that.” He shrugs. “Just us.”
I can feel a smile on my lips. I love that he knows I wouldn’t want anything big or loud, that I’d truly prefer just doing something with him.
His mouth twitches, like he wants to smile wider but is holding himself back.
Then, softer, “It’s your day. It should be however you want it to be.”
And it makes my chest ache because my brain immediately responds with its old reflex.
Don’t be too much. Don’t take up too much space. Don’t say the wrong thing.
I look down at my coffee and force air into my lungs.
Clearing my throat, I meet his eyes again. “I better get to class.”
Grayson’s gaze stays on me like he can tell I’m fighting my own head.
He doesn’t push. He just smiles. “Definitely. Text me after you’re done for the day?”
I nod, agreeing, and he pulls me in for a hug, and I let myself breathe him in, even just for a moment. The mixture of his soap and the rhythm of his heartbeat are the most calming things I’ve ever found.
Breaking contact, he gives me one more small smile before heading in the opposite direction of where I need to go. I watch him walk down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, shoulders a little hunched, like he carries more than he shows. And I stand there for a second with a muffin in my stomach and coffee in my hand and the unfamiliar sensation of being cared for.
Not watched. Not worried over.
But cared for.
By the time I make it back to my dorm after my lab, I’m tired in the physicalandmental sense of the word. I want to crawl into bed and disappear. Instead, I go to the mirror and fix my hair because tonight is mine, even if I have to fight for it.
My phone buzzes.
