It makes heat bloom low in my stomach so fast I go a little dizzy.
“Hi,” he says again, like he forgot he already used the word and doesn’t care.
I swallow. “Hi.”
He watches me for a beat, then his hand slides up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear like it belongs there.
“You seem anxious,” he murmurs.
“I’m…okay,” I say, and the words feel weird in my mouth.
Grayson’s eyes hold mine, steady and patient. “Yeah?”
I nod, but it’s not the automatic nod I give to end conversations.
It’s real.
I swallow hard. “I haven’t slept that well in years.”
His brows lift a fraction. Then his mouth curves—not wide, not showy. Just…something warm that lands right in the center of my chest.
“Me either,” he says quietly.
My eyes burn. I blink hard, annoyed at myself for getting emotional over something so basic and human.
Grayson’s thumb brushes my cheek once before he leans in and kisses my temple, like he’s clinging to this moment as hard as I am, not wanting it to end. The kiss is so gentle it almost hurts, and then his mouth drifts down to my cheek. The corner of my jaw. The spot under my ear that makes my skin light up like a live wire, and I suck in a breath.
Grayson pauses, eyes flicking up to mine. “Okay?”
I nod too fast. “Yeah.”
His eyes narrow, amused. “That seemed to wake you up faster than a coffee.”
I roll my eyes, but it comes out weak, a smile tugging at my lips. “Shut up.”
A low laugh slips out of him, and it does something ridiculous to me—warm and sudden and intimate. Like hearing him laugh in my bed is a secret my body wants to keep. I turn around fully to face him.
He kisses me then. Not slow like last night. Not careful like he’s afraid I’ll break. His mouth is warm. Soft. Familiar already in a way that should scare me.
My hand finds his wrist without thinking, fingers curling there like I’m checking he’s still solid. Like if I let go, he might dissolve into morning light.
He deepens the kiss by a fraction, and my brain goes quiet again. Which feels dangerous. And perfect. Grayson pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against mine.
His voice is rough. “I have to get up.”
My chest tightens instantly. “No, you don’t.”
His mouth quirks. “Yes, I do.”
I glare at him. “Don’t be responsible.”
He laughs under his breath. “Since when do you hate responsibility?”
“I hate you leaving,” I correct automatically.
The words land heavier than I meant them to. Grayson stills. His eyes lift to mine, and for a second, the air shifts. Like something tender just surfaced, and neither of us wants to scare it back under.
My throat goes tight. I try to salvage it with sarcasm. “Your stupid practice and your stupid skates and your stupid?—”
