We both stop.
His gaze flicks over my face quickly—non-invasive—then softens by half a degree.
“Hey,” he says.
My throat tightens. “Hey.”
People shift around us. Someone bumps my shoulder, mutters sorry, keeps moving. Grayson steps half a pace to the side, creating space between us and the traffic like he’s done it a million times. It’s such a small thing.
It hits anyway.
“You…survived,” he says, his voice dry.
I blink. “The coffee shop?”
His mouth quirks. “The party.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I immediately want to say something sarcastic to cut the vulnerability.
Instead, the truth slips out.
“Barely.”
Grayson nods once, like he believes me. Like he saw.
He hesitates, then says, quieter, “You left fast.”
My chest tightens.
“I don’t like…” I search for words that don’t feel like surrender. “Noise.”
Grayson’s gaze holds mine for a beat. “Yeah. I figured.”
Not judgment. Not pity.
Just…observation.
That’s somehow worse than sympathy, because it makes me feel seen.
I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how hard I’m gripping my cup. Grayson’s eyes flick down to my hands, then back up. His voice stays light on purpose.
“You good now?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
It’s not entirely true. But it’s true enough. He accepts it like it’s allowed to be enough. Then his gaze shifts—past me, to the room, to the door—as if his body is doing that restless thing again. Like he’s torn between staying and leaving. Like he wants to keep talking and also knows he shouldn’t.
He clears his throat. “I should go. We’ve got an extra film day today since we have an away game coming up early in the week.”
My mouth twitches. “Of course you do.”
He gives me a look. “Don’t sound so thrilled for me.”
I shrug. “Film sounds…fun.”
Grayson snorts—brief, surprised—like I caught him off guard. Something warm moves in my chest. Then he shifts his coffee like he’s making a decision.
He says, sincerity in voice, “If Weston drags you to the rink again…you should go.”
