Oakley had just handed Ellisa a photo of a chubby Shiba on her phone when a shadow tipped gently across them.
A cool, clear voice brushed her ear. "What are you two looking at—smiling like that?"
Like oars splitting a still lake, both women lifted their faces toward the sound.
Under the night, Grace Barron stood in black from throat to ankle, a bowl of steaming pudding in her hands. Tall, clean-lined, self-contained—a presence that didn't quite belong to the homely bustle and grease-scented warmth of the street fair around them.
Ellisa's gaze slid up and down Grace with open curiosity before she smiled, lively and sweet. "Nothing special. Oakley wants a dog, but she likes everything with four paws and a wag, so she asked what breed I'd pick."
Grace's lashes lifted. She studied Ellisa—the harmless face, the wide eyes—then let her gaze drop to the hand still curled around Oakley's waist.
She said nothing. Just looked. Long enough for Ellisa to feel the weight of it. Even so, Ellisa didn't loosen her arm; if anything, she tightened it, chin lifting with a hint of challenge.
Right then a man barreled past with a handcart stacked with fruit, calling, "Heads up, heads up!" The cart rushed toward them. Ellisa's body locked for a beat, and instinct broke her hold; she stepped aside.
Grace moved at once and drew Oakley neatly into her orbit.
Oakley stumbled a half step, almost folding into Grace's chest.
The soft warning—"Careful"—brushed her hair. Something tripped in Oakley's chest. She tucked a strand behind her ear. "Mm."
When Grace let her go, her eyes fell to Oakley's phone where a gallery of dog pictures glittered on the screen. "You want a dog?"
Oakley hadn't said as much before.
"Mhm." She kept scrolling, eyes elsewhere, thumb dragging through more floppy ears and silly grins. "Are you allergic? Is it… not allowed?"
The words were short, quick. Almost neutral, but not quite.
Grace shook her head. "It's fine. I'm not allergic to cats or dogs."
Oakley slid the phone away and tucked it into the soft pocket of her coat.
She glanced from Grace to Evelyn Luke, who had drifted to Grace's side, then out at the braided line ahead. "Why is this queue endless? It's long enough to kill the appetite."
She stamped once, an impatient, pretty little thud.
The shoes didn't help—chunky heels, still heels. Stand long enough in those and your bones mutter.
Grace scanned the tables. One had begun to empty; a pair were fixing their hair in the mirror of a phone, already half turned to go.
"Take that one," Grace said, tugging Oakley's sleeve and tipping her chin toward it. "I'll stand in line."
"Deal." Oakley made a fast calculation and nodded. "Get me two cabbage skewers, one rice cake, one garlic sausage—everything else, surprise me."
"Okay." Grace noticed two other diners eyeing the same open spot and murmured, "Go now—before someone snags it."
Oakley nodded once, then jogged off, the bag of oranges thumping against her thigh. She dropped the fruit on the table and sat.
Only then did Grace turn fully to Ellisa.
For someone small and slight, dressed in British-college tweed with a round-cheeked, doll-soft face, Ellisa looked younger than she was—like she'd wandered out of a nearby campus.
But when Oakley left, Ellisa's sunshine flipped to shade. She slid into her phone, shoulders closed, her sweetness iced over to a cool, don't-come-close. The contrast was almost theatrical.
What are you, really? Grace thought. What shape are you when no one's looking?
She broke the quiet herself. "You've known Oakley since you were kids?"
"Yep." Ellisa finally lifted her eyes—flat, pale, unbothered.
The look said: I don't owe you warmth.
Grace's fingers pressed together lightly behind her back. "When did you move here?"
"Last year." Ellisa's gaze fell to her screen again, words clipped, frugal.
The temperature dropped. It was easy to imagine the girl laughing into Oakley's shoulder was a different Ellisa entirely.
Evelyn stepped in, eyes bright, a smile like a peace offering. "Love your coat. Looks great."
At the sound of her voice, Ellisa thawed, smile dimpled and easy. "You think so?"
"Where'd you get it?" Evelyn asked, curious and friendly.
"Online. A shop called 'Three Paintings.'"
"Oh, very nice," Evelyn said, lashes curved. "I'll check it out."
"You should," Ellisa chimed, pleased. "Their cuts are gorgeous. I always recommend them."
…
Back-and-forth like that, energetic and light, told Grace what she needed: Ellisa's frost wasn't for strangers. It was for her. Which meant the problem wasn't general. It was personal.
They'd only met today. There was no history to justify the edge. That left one reason for Ellisa's dislike—Oakley.
Evelyn's earlier warning rang a little louder in Grace's head.
Whether or not Evelyn had mistaken a face she once saw on a city sidewalk, one thing stood: Ellisa's feelings for Oakley weren't sitting squarely in the friendship box.
The line finally brought them to the front.
Grace picked out vegetables and meat on skewers and lifted the basket for the vendor. Ellisa slipped in two lotus sandwiches at the last second. "Add these too. Oakley loves them. She must've forgotten."
Grace paused, then passed the basket over and stepped aside to clear space for the next customer.
A stray wind stirred. As a few strands of hair feathered across her cheek, Grace looked at the ground and said, almost lazily, "You keep my wife's favorites very straight, Ms. Cheney."
Ellisa tilted her head and smiled without warmth. "Of course. How could I not? She spent her whole adolescence with me. I spent mine with her. You know how it is—nothing in life is as precious as the heart when you're fifteen."
Her gaze sharpened. "Don't you know what she likes?"
Each word puffed with a delicate bravado. A little flag planted on contested land.
Grace's mouth bent, elegant and cool. "I don't know everything. But people change—what they crave, who they sit beside, who they are. The past is the past. The present is the present. You might know what she loved then; I know what she reaches for now."
She lifted her eyes. "So I don't rank time periods. The heart doesn't give medals to one year and not another."
Their gazes locked. The air tasted faintly of iron.
Ellisa's lips pressed thin as she reassessed. Grace might look restrained, but she was not a soft fruit to be thumbed and bruised.
Polite on the surface. Hard to move underneath.
Ellisa laughed lightly and glanced around the booths. "You'd be great at debate, Ms. Barron."
"Not really," Grace said, honest as glass. "Just stating facts. No tricks."
Ellisa's nose tipped up, a small, stubborn angle, like a girl who hadn't learned to come to heel.
Grace didn't love circles. She stepped straight in. "You're in love with Oakley, aren't you?"
Ellisa blinked—then looked back at her, smile pinned on, brows knotted. "Why would you ask that?"
"Because someone saw you with your ex," Grace said, unhurried. "A woman. You're a woman. So you're not straight. And knowing that, you're still holding my wife, cheek to cheek. Does that feel appropriate to you?"
A flicker—surprise, quick and small—moved in Ellisa's eyes. "Who saw me?"
"You don't need that name," Grace said softly.
"Oh?" Ellisa's expression smoothed; her voice curled with faint boredom. "So you met me and started investigating me? Do you have proof? Pictures? Video? Anything to prove that girl was me?"
She stacked the questions tidily, unruffled, so even doubt began to doubt itself. Annoyingly deft.
"No," Grace said.
"Then," Ellisa sighed, rubbing her temple, smiling as if to soothe a skittish child, "don't you think your accusation's a bit rough? A little… hasty?"
She lifted a shoulder. "Oakley might be your wife now, but she's still her own person. She chose you; that doesn't mean you get to suspect every normal friendship she has. Is that… good for either of you?"
Grace's mouth pulled at one corner. She didn't answer.
Evelyn ran a tired hand through her hair. Fair. Memory was slippery; faces blurred under streetlights. Without proof, what did they really have?
Advantage: not here.
Ellisa let it drop and folded back into cool reserve.
They carried the food to Oakley and gathered around the table.
While they ate, Ellisa barely paused for breath, talking with Oakley from classroom gossip to the odd joys of late trains and unexpected sunsets. They sparked, and the sparks caught, like old paper taking light.
And still Ellisa never glanced at Grace.
Grace didn't eat. Not a skewer. Not the pudding. She sat quiet, hands composed, gaze dark and still as a pond under midnight.
Evelyn looked from the talkers to Grace, back and forth, and said nothing. When Grace's car keys sagged too near the pocket edge, Evelyn leaned in to warn her, then made a little conversation for cover.
After the last bite and another lazy loop through the fair, the hour tugged everyone toward their own tomorrows. They drifted apart and went home.
In the car, Oakley buckled in, smoothed her hair, and her phone buzzed.
She checked it. Ellisa: "Tonight was so fun!"
A trail of cute-faced emojis. Girlish, thoughtless, completely Ellisa.
Oakley smiled, small and private, and her manicured fingers danced. "Me too. I thought we'd never meet again, but somehow we did. Fate? So… what have you been up to these years…"
Grace watched her mirrors and eased the car out of the slot.
The buildings slid forward, dipped, then streaked backward in a smooth, unbroken rush. Tires hummed the road; wind stitched their silence together. Outside, the city smeared to a luminous watercolor.
No words. Just the faint rise and fall of a gentle song, like someone breathing slowly in the dark.
At a red light, Grace stopped beside the crosswalk, allowed herself a breath, then looked over.
Oakley was still hunched over her screen, cheeks tipped with the glow. Texting. Still.
Grace heard herself ask, "Ellisa?"
Oakley didn't look up. "Mm-hm." She tilted her head, thumbs flying.
Immersed. Absorbed enough to forget time and place. The focus was almost admirable.
When the light changed, Grace said nothing more and drove.
Twenty-some minutes later, they reached the Barron house.
Grace parked; Oakley grabbed her bag and was out of the car first. Grace locked up, keys biting her palm, then walked beside her into the quiet, tasteful warmth of home.
Up the stairs. Into the bedroom. A cool, mint-tinged perfume rose to meet them; everything was restful, orderly. Walls washed in pale sea-green, like the memory of summer; bedding white and thick and cloud-soft; furniture pared down to essentials. White and green together, clean as a dream.
Oakley set down her bag and the oranges. The coat on her shoulders tugged, too heavy at the end of a long night. She wanted a shower and the hush that came after. She gathered pajamas and slipped into the bathroom.
Grace wandered, paused before a framed print without seeing it, then settled into the single chair by the window. She scrolled nowhere, reading nothing. The internet burning bright and empty as ever—click in, click out, and at the end you can't say what you held in your hands.
Time-killing. Nothing more.
Ten minutes. Maybe more. The water stilled. Cotton whispered. The door opened.
Oakley stepped out in a short slip. She was, simply, breath-stealing—long legs, a narrow waist, the perfect curve of hip and breast.
There are moments, Grace thought, when God gets precise.
Oakley's phone buzzed again.
She darted over, laughing under her breath, and typed. A pale, private smile ghosted her mouth.
Passing behind her, Grace glanced without meaning to. The contact name at the top of the thread read: "Ellisa, who grew up on Cute."
Long. Particular. Fitting, perhaps, for a friend who guarded the treasure of adolescence like a locket under a blouse.
Oakley flicked back to the contact list. In that blink, Grace caught the way she herself was saved: simply, plainly, "Grace Barron."
Plain is good, Grace told herself. Plain is steady.
She laid her phone on the table and pulled a set of pajamas from the wardrobe. "I'm going to shower."
Oakley didn't look up, only flashed an absent little sign with her fingers. "O-K-K."
Her head bowed again. The sound of thumbs on glass.
Grace tilted her head. When she'd been obsessed with games years ago, had she ever looked this… consumed?
She walked past without a word and closed the bathroom door behind her.
The feeling spreading through her had no clean edges. It wasn't a square, or a circle. It was the kind of heat that seeped under doors and through hairline cracks, a slow invasion that didn't announce itself until it was everywhere.
She stood under the water until the steam ran cold and still couldn't rinse it away.
She'd trained herself for years—keep the tone level, keep the world steady. Because beneath her calm, she knew, there was magma.
Now, a fissure. Tiny, but real. Through it came something greedy, something wanting. It grew in the dark.
Outside, Oakley tucked a leg up and sank into the cloud-soft chair, hair damp at the ends, texting Ellisa about broken years and new tricks cities play on a person you think you already are. There was so much to tell, enough for three nights and a sunrise. It was good to pour attention somewhere else. Easier not to aim it at Grace and find the silence waiting.
The bathroom door opened. Grace came out. Oakley was still typing.
Grace glanced over, crossed to the table, drank a glass of water in one long pull. She looked down into the empty glass, then set it down carefully and stood for a moment, very still.
Then she walked to Oakley.
Oakley lounged, legs bare to the knee, the satin strap of her slip slouched off one round shoulder so her skin looked even whiter. Her lips were a soft cherry-stain, sweet and wicked at once.
She sensed Grace and lifted her head to ask—what? But the words weren't allowed to form. Grace's eyes flickered, her hand lifted—and the phone snapped from Oakley's fingers, flipped once, and vanished into the corner of the chair.
Oakley blinked. "What are you doing?"
She reached for it.
Grace didn't look at the phone. She leaned down and caught Oakley's hand against the cushion, the other hand braced beside her. Her eyes came up, gathering a pressure that filled the air like weather. "Nothing," she said, a thin smile breaking sideways. "Just… losing it a little."
"Losing—what?"
"Don't text her anymore."
"…What?"
"Stay with me."
The next second Oakley had no time to argue. Grace's hand found her chin—firm, sure—and that wanting that had been growing all night finally found its mouth.
The kiss landed, dense with possession, and would not be refused.