"Don't mention it," Grace said, voice as pale as milk.
She went back to her side of the kitchen and finished eating.
Oakley turned, set the cereal down on the island, and moved on autopilot: fridge door, a tub of yogurt, a bowl from the cabinet. Two spoonfuls into the bowl, a drift of fruit muesli, a scatter of almond slivers and chocolate beads. Her eyes never lifted; her hands were all craft and no heart, stirring it into a careless tangle.
The room was not quiet so much as hollow—only the clash of dishes pinged against the walls, as if they lived in the same square of air with a soundproof pane rising between them. It let them see, not touch. Breathe, not share.
When Grace stood and set her chopsticks down, Oakley had just finished assembling her bowl.
She put everything back in its rightful place, lifted her yogurt and a plate of fruit, and left without looking back.
Grace watched the stairs for a beat, then rinsed her plate, set it to dry, and stepped out the door.
Upstairs, Oakley curled at the little table by the balcony, spooned at her yogurt, and let Amelia Hayes's silly videos run in a bright stream on her phone. Halfway through a bit that should have made her laugh, an engine turned over below.
Her gaze slid off the screen and drifted to the window. She sat there until the car vanished. Only then did she look down at the bowl. Two-thirds gone. Suddenly inedible.
She dropped the spoon with a clink and drew her knees up, hugging them until her breath steadied.
Ellisa had sent another message. Oakley didn't answer.
She tossed the phone aside, opened her laptop, and tried to write a soft-focus column for the magazine—warmth, uplift, comfort. The words came in fits, then wandered off. Maybe the house was cursed for concentration.
Fine. Milk tea. Sugar as sedative. If a mood couldn't be fixed by food, you just hadn't ordered enough.
The day brightened toward noon. Sun slid out from its cloud-cave and warmed the winter-green of Skylark. From her office window, Grace watched the leaves gleam like new coins and felt nothing in particular.
She checked the time, shrugged into a jacket, and headed out for lunch. Habit chose for her—the same two dishes she'd been choosing so long the act felt like copying a copy. She took her usual seat by the window.
At the next table, two girls let their conversation spill.
"I think I like a girl," said A.
"That's good," said B. "Is she pretty?"
"She is. But I'm confused." A toyed with a piece of meat. "When I'm sad, she sends milk tea. She chats with me till I feel human. When someone messes with me, she takes my side. Last month I stayed over at her place…"
"Stayed over?" B leaned in. "Then?"
"Too much wine. Stupid talk. In bed she said I was cute and kissed me." A ducked her head. "And I… you know."
"Wow." B gaped. "Then what?"
"I started to chase her." A gave a soft, helpless laugh. "And two days ago she told me she's dating a guy. So what can I do? Nothing."
"That's a sad story," B sighed. "Straight girls are a mystery."
A let the subject drop and ate with small, steady bites.
Grace looked their way. And thought of Oakley.
Again—Oakley.
Why did every sound turn the lock of that name? Why did every ordinary thing tilt in her direction?
Grace mixed her tomatoes and eggs into the rice and ate without tasting, then stood and slid the tray onto the belt.
Back at the office she intended to lie down for ten minutes. Instead, like sleepwalking, she opened Oakley's social feed. The numbness from the night before had thinned through the morning; feeling crept back in. Memories sharpened. Oakley laughing as she fed gulls at Seagull Pier. Oakley's mock-fierce face arm-wrestling across a table. Oakley backing up, grinning, cotton candy a cloud in one hand. Oakley stepping up for her—no fanfare, just a sure, simple shield. Oakley kissing her like it was oxygen.
Oh, hell.
She closed her eyes and touched her temple, an ache blooming there. What had she said last night? Why had she said any of it?
By six she shut down her screen, capped her pen, and went out into Skylark's evening. The city had turned its face; neon came on like a pulse, and the wind had edge to it. Grace slid into the car, grateful for heat, and drove to a boutique market. The airport noodles had been an offense; if she wanted decent food, she'd better make it herself.
She filled a cart, self-checked, and rolled everything toward the car—when a figure in a hat and mask lurched into her path and grabbed her arm.
"Ms. Barron—help!"
The eyes were tilt-lidded, familiar.
"Iris Rowan?" Grace guessed.
"Yes." Iris bobbed a frantic nod.
Before Grace could ask more, a knot of women came pelting down the lane, faces twisted with the righteous hunger of a mob.
Grace jerked her chin toward the passenger door. "Get in."
"Thank you," Iris breathed, and tumbled inside.
Grace started the engine, snaked backward, swung the tail out, and slid into the night.
Iris was one of Devin's—an up-and-coming model. A kind of family, if you wanted to stretch the word.
"What happened?" Grace asked when the rearview mirror finally emptied. "Who were they?"
"Lu Weiwei's fans," Iris said, deflated.
Grace frowned. Lu Weiwei was a darling of the screen, loved hard by the public. Different world than Iris. How had their circles crashed?
Iris tugged off the mask and hat. "I lost my head," she muttered. "She got under my skin."
"How?"
"Today we wrapped a variety show. She kept jabbing at me. Calling me stupid. Saying only an idiot can't keep a man." Iris twisted her fingers. "Her current boyfriend is my ex. I snapped. We fought. Someone filmed it. It's online. And I just ran into her fans." She lifted her hands, empty. "I don't have a team yet. I can't fight them."
Grace tightened her grip on the wheel and allowed herself a crooked smile. "Remind me why you went into modeling?"
"Huh?" Iris blinked.
"I'm thinking your true stage might be a boxing ring," Grace said mildly.
"I'm sorry," Iris whispered.
Grace didn't scold. "When did you get to Skylark? Where are you staying? I'll take you home."
"The property manager says there's press camping outside."
Of course there was.
"ID on you?" Grace asked. "If yes, I'll put you in a hotel."
Iris shook her head, stricken. "I always carry it. Not today. Maybe that's fate."
"Friends in town?"
"One," Iris said, making a face. "She lives with her boyfriend. I've got PTSD around men."
Grace exhaled. "Alright."
"You'll stay at my place tonight," she said. "We'll figure the rest out after."
Relief washed over Iris so fast it made her small. "Thank you, Ms. Barron."
Grace only nodded.
Half an hour later, she pulled into her garage. "Out," she said, soft but brisk.
"Okay~"
Grace grabbed a tablet and a file folder, shut the car door with a thud, and walked to the house.
Inside, she opened the shoe cabinet, set a pair of slippers on the floor. "Wear these."
"Thanks, Ms. Barron." Iris slipped a foot in and then yelped.
"What?" Grace asked.
"Ghost!" Iris leapt behind her and pointed.
Grace looked up.
In the center of the room stood a specter in black-and-white panda pajamas, a black headband anchoring hair, a swamp-green mask smeared over her face, and a plate of grapes in hand—Oakley, eerie as a Halloween joke.
"Evening," Grace said, blinking once as if the universe were testing her. The word came out awkwardly polite.
Oakley stared at her a long beat, lifted a grape to her mouth without regard for the mask, and bit down. Her eyes flicked to Iris, then back. "Oh," she said.
Grace cleared her throat and glanced at Iris. "She's a model from my father's company. Something happened—she needs a place for the night."
A flicker of worry moved through her—ridiculous, that she cared what Oakley assumed. That she wanted to explain before the question formed.
Oakley's face didn't change. Then, very softly, she laughed through her nose and tugged at her mouth. "And why would that matter to me? You don't owe me the play-by-play."
She set a grape in her mouth, spoke around it, eyes cool. "We're… partners of convenience. Roommates. Right?"