I blink. “Why?”
Grayson’s mouth quirks, but the answer is quieter than his tone.
“Because you look better there,” he says. “Like your shoulders aren’t trying to crawl into your ears.”
My stomach flips.
Better.
Not fixed. Not cured.
Just…better.
He said it like it was normal. Like it was allowed.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, because that’s my favorite answer to anything that feels like a commitment.
Grayson nods once. “Okay.”
He takes a step back like he’s forcing himself to give space, not just physically.
Then, before he can walk away, I hear myself say too quickly, “Thanks.”
Grayson pauses. His gaze flicks to mine.
“For what?” he asks, like he genuinely doesn’t know. There are too many answers. For noticing. For giving me air without asking for a performance. For being quiet in a world that feels too loud.
I pick the smallest truth.
“For last night.”
Grayson holds my gaze for a beat, and something shifts in his expression—like he wants to say more and doesn’t. Like he’s being pulled in two directions and forcing himself to pick the one that won’t blow up.
He nods once.
“Yeah,” he says. “Anytime.”
And then he leaves, blending into the crowd with an ease that feels unfair. I stand there for a second longer, staring at the spot where he was, my heart doing that thing again, where it’s almost giving itself a squeeze as if I’m about to go down a roller coaster. Then I force myself to move. Because if I stand still, my brain starts building connections.
And connections are dangerous.
Pulling out my phone, I send Wren a message, telling her we need to set up a FaceTime date ASAP. There’s only so much you can talk to with boys and your brother, and I need a girl-to-girl debrief on everything I’m feeling in regard to a certain roommate of my brother’s.
Knowing she’s asleep for the night, I flip my phone over and grab my book instead, because I refuse to let my brain turn this into a math problem. Two pages. Three. The words blur. But my chest is quieter than it’s been in days, and for now, that counts.
I’m starting to suspect the scariest part isn’t that I’m too much.
It’s that I might be allowed to be exactly enough.
15
GRAYSON
Early evening at the rink feels like stepping into a different set of laws.
The lobby is colder than campus, and the air is sharp enough to wake you up even if you’re feeling a lot more like a sloth than a human. Through the glass, the ice glows under the lights—white and clean and unforgiving, like the world’s most expensive coping mechanism.
Which is fine.
