“Oh,” I say, and my chest does something small and irritating. Disappointment again, which is stupid.
Grayson pauses like he caught the tone.
Then, softer, he says, “For what it’s worth…you look like you’re handling a lot.”
My throat tightens.
I stare at him. “You don’t know that.”
“No,” he says simply. “I don’t know your story.” A beat. “But I can see the effort. That counts.”
It lands better than a speech would have. Still kind. Less invasive.
I swallow hard and look away before my face betrays me.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
His mouth quirks again. “You’re welcome.”
He starts to turn, then adds, casually, “Weston says hi.”
My brows lift. “Why?”
Grayson’s grin widens. “Because Weston says hi to everyone. He also asked if you hated him yet.”
I snort. “I don’t hate him.”
“Give it time,” Grayson says, dead serious.
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. Grayson looks like he wants to savor that moment—like he’s pleased he got it out of me—but he doesn’t make it a thing. He just nods once, then finally heads for the door.
I watch him leave, and my brain immediately tries to dissect every second of that interaction like it’s evidence in a case file. Why did he talk to me? Why did it feel easy? Why did he make my chest feel warm in a way I don’t trust?
I don’t have answers. Only the annoying fact that I’m still watching the door after he’s gone.
“Next!” the barista calls.
I blink like I’m waking up from a dream and step forward.
By the time I have my coffee—iced, sweet, safe—I find a small table in the corner with my back to the wall.
My phone buzzes.
Kai’s name flashes on the screen.
Kai: you get breakfast?
My stomach tightens automatically.
I stare at the question like it isn’t simple even though it’s written simply.
I type back the least triggering truth I can manage.
Harlow: Grabbed coffee. Had a bagel earlier.
A pause.
Kai: good. thanks for telling me.
