With the clay mask drying to a swampy green, Oakley's face was unreadable. Only her tone betrayed her—light and mocking, edged with the very words Grace had given her the night before and now returned, intact, like a mirror.
The person who'd said them found her own throat locking. Grace couldn't locate the next sentence.
Realizing the "ghost" was flesh and blood, Iris crept from behind Grace's shoulder and peered, careful as a child around a doorframe. "Ms. Barron, this is…?"
She was struck by the incongruity. In the company, everyone called Grace the ice judge—precise to the point of cruelty, her words always finding the tender, unprotected spot. Yet with the woman in the mask, the angles of her posture softened, the steel sheathed.
"Oh," Grace said, thawing by inches. "She's my—"
"Roommate," Oakley cut in, and slipped a grape beneath the green. Efficient little grape grinder.
Iris looked from one to the other, baffled. Something crackled faintly in the air, a smoke you couldn't see but could taste.
Still, names were names. She stuck out a hand. "Hi. I'm Iris Rowan. I model for Mr. Barron's company."
Diverted, Oakley finally shifted her gaze. She took Iris's hand warmly. "Oakley Ponciano."
They parted their fingers. Oakley's eyes fell to the grocery sacks in Grace's grasp. "I'm heading back to my room," she said evenly. "Deadline. Just tying up the last bit."
It wasn't an excuse; a few lines left did itch if she didn't finish them. Even the reigning queen of procrastination had the occasional sprint in her.
"Okay," Grace answered.
Oakley turned—coat of pride buttoned all the way up—and vanished upstairs.
Grace watched the empty stairwell a moment, set the bags on the table, and called the office. The team was already moving, canvassing for full footage of the incident. If anyone had captured the part where the starlet needled Iris, they might yet right the narrative. If not—careers ended on thinner ice.
She hung up, tossed the phone aside, and said to Iris, "Next time, breathe. Decide what you want more—release, or a future."
"Yes," Iris murmured, properly chastened.
Grace said nothing more. Her attention drifted ceiling-ward. Oakley had been cold all day—and different. She'd always looked happy, really happy, her smile the easiest thing in the room. Today she carried weather.
Grace's stare rested on the sacks again and emptied out.
A buzz from the office chat tugged her back. She sighed, opened the bags, and nodded at the sink. "Help me rinse these."
"Yes, Ms. Barron." Even half-crippled, Iris would have rolled up her sleeves. She'd brought trouble to the door; the least she could do was make herself useful.
Most of the haul was meat, well-marbled and clean. There were roots and mushrooms to wash, to trim.
They worked side by side, sleeves up. Grace kept drifting—like a radio slipping off station. Twice, she dropped pristine vegetables in the trash and saved the spoiled ones for the bowl. An old woman's absentmindedness in a young woman's body.
Iris had never seen her like this. Bosses weren't supposed to misplace themselves.
"Ms. Barron," she ventured at last, soft as gauze, "are you okay?"
Grace blinked, surfaced. "I'm fine."
Iris didn't buy it, but she looked upstairs and kept the rest to herself. The feeling in her bones said these two were not simple. Lovers? She nearly laughed at the thought; Grace had turned down every confession Iris had watched happen. A perennial monk. And yet—here was a woman who could bend her.
Upstairs, Oakley closed her door and the pride fell off her like a cape. The lioness melted into a corner kitten.
She leaned her back to the wood, breathed once, twice, then set the grapes on the cabinet. Somewhere in her skull the dusty machinery of thought, long unused, shuddered to life.
Why had Grace explained anything just now? Weren't last night's orders clear—live separately, report nothing? By that logic, explanations weren't required.
Unless she regretted it.
Or she was truly unwell, mind sliding in and out like a tide—no, no. Don't hex her. Grace might be a little unorthodox, but she wasn't that far gone. Be kind, Oakley. Don't curse.
She patted her own cheeks—and winced at the tacky film. Ugh.
She scrubbed the mask away, patted in layers of comfort on damp skin, and carried the grapes to her desk chair—the soft one that hugged her. One by one, grape to mouth, eyes falling to a small opened box: DIY keychain tools. She'd planned to attach that feral black pig-cat charm for Grace's keys. Life, of course, had other ideas.
She kept eating until her elbow nudged the mouse and woke the screen. Right. Work. She'd come up here for work.
She shook herself, typed in her password, and finished the piece—only a few hundred words left. Period. Done.
Shoulders pinched, she stretched until her spine sang. Then the silence let last night replay: Grace's polished, surgical distance. "Non-interference." Which, in Oakley's dictionary, meant break.
But tonight in the hall—Grace explaining Iris as if the words might matter to her. Maybe it had been anger talking last night. Or maybe habit—people took time to unlearn.
Stop spiraling, Oakley. Enough.
She yawned.
Downstairs, Grace stared at the cleared table and felt the absence like a scoop taken from her side. At home, eating meant Oakley. Without her, something in the air went slack.
She made up her mind.
"Be right back," she told Iris.
Iris nodded, curious but discreet.
Grace climbed the stairs, crossed to her room, opened the wardrobe, and pulled out the bottom drawer. A small white paper bag lay there.
She weighed it. Then she took it and went to Oakley's door.
A pause. Then her knuckles made three small, certain sounds.
Oakley was mid-stretch, arms overhead, when the knock clipped her still. Her ears pricked; her eyes slid to the door.
Who else would it be?
She cleared her throat. "Come in."
The latch clicked. Grace stepped in and closed the door again. She didn't stand straight, exactly—leaned on the wall, a fraction looser than usual, the light laying an extra softness on her frame.
"Did you come to chase my draft?" Oakley asked, rolling her wrists. Deadline was real. Maybe Grace had filed it away—come to check.
Oakley sprang up, gestured like a cheery usher. "Please. Have a seat. Read away."
Grace had come for something else. Some things couldn't be left to ferment; some words needed the air. But Oakley had already vacated the chair, so she sat and let the mouse fly, skimming.
A minute later: "It's good."
"You're sure?" Oakley frowned. "That fast?"
She wasn't keen on being told yes tonight and "actually" tomorrow.
"I read quickly," Grace said. "Structure's clean. Angle works. The story's strong."
She'd always been able to take in a page like a breath and remember it whole. School had been a game.
"Oh." Oakley nodded, and the words ran out again. Her fingers found a peel of skin by her nail and worried at it.
The air turned odd between them, thin and sparkly like cold.
"Anything else?" Oakley asked.
Grace lifted the white bag and held it out. "This. I never gave it to you."
"What is it?"
"Open it."
Oakley peered inside—and her brows leapt. A rabbit coin-purse with a strap long enough to wear crossbody. A handful of little brooches crocheted into rabbit ears. A bunny barrette. A tiny bear clip. Each piece was sweet and a touch surreal, exactly her taste—and nothing like the aesthetic Grace usually chose.
"You—bought these for me?"
"The other night. At the night market."
"…And why did you buy them?" Oakley turned the rabbit, pressed it lightly against her chest. She'd assumed she was a background character in Grace's mind.
"I saw them and thought you'd like them," Grace said simply. "So I bought them."
To Grace, these lived in the same species as felted wool—only prettier. Oakley loved felting; surely she'd love these, too.
Oakley's mouth curled. "Didn't know you had an eye."
The palettes were right; they'd go with half her closet.
Grace dropped her gaze. "Evelyn helped choose."
Oakley froze. "What?"
"She said you'd like these. That they suited you."
Oakley hadn't expected that—Evelyn Luke standing in a night market, nudging Grace toward small, soft gifts for her. Maybe Oakley had been wrong about her.
Grace went on, "She really hopes we get along, the two of us. And about Ellisa—she was the one who warned me first. Otherwise I might've missed it. That's why I said she isn't the type to play ugly."
Oakley went still, the little rabbit warm in her hand. Understanding came like light—why Grace had been so sure, so angry. They'd both been running on steam and smoke, never sitting down long enough to sort the facts from the feelings. When they did try, they were either mad or wounded and the words came out sideways.
Grace looked up. "About last night—I wasn't in a good state. Hospital. Plane. Car. My brain went numb, and numbness makes me think in straight lines—too straight. I was afraid that next time something like that happened I'd lose the reins and do something extreme. Something that would hurt you."
"For me… strangers aren't attached to me. The closer someone is, the more they can trigger me, and the more likely I am to cut them by accident. I thought if I kept some distance from you—maybe nothing would happen."
"So it wasn't you," she finished quietly. "And it wasn't that I hated you. I just didn't trust myself. I don't want to hurt anyone. I just… didn't know how to talk. Or what to do."
It rang true, plain and unadorned.
Oakley lowered her eyes. She'd truly believed Grace had formed a hard opinion of her. Hearing those tidy sentences last night had been like being shoved out of a warm room into snow.
Grace wasn't wrong—privacy mattered; boundaries mattered. But to emphasize "no intimacy" felt like "stay away." Which is how you tell someone you don't like them, isn't it? That they interfere. That they harm.
"Really?" Oakley murmured at last, kneading the rabbit between her fingers.
"Really." Grace's voice steadied. "If you don't believe me, I'll swear."
"What?" Oakley blinked. Swear what?
Grace lifted her hand, fingers together, solemn as a child. "Heaven above, earth below—let them witness. I, Grace Barron, walk straight and sit true and don't lie. If I'm lying, let me choke on food, cough on water, trip on—"
It was all she had, a ridiculous, earnest offering.
Wound like a toy, Grace kept going. Oakley's face drained. "Stop! Don't say curses like that."
Grace continued, eyes on Oakley, intent: "If I'm lying, may lightning strike me when I step out, may—"
"Grace!" Oakley snapped, truly rattled.
Grace paused, brow furrowing. "And also—"
"I'm counting to three," Oakley said, hands on hips now, voice dropping into command.
Grace's mouth closed. "Okay. I'll stop."
She watched Oakley, thoughtful, the room suddenly too quiet.
Oakley turned her head away, flushed by the attention, then back. Grace drew a breath and asked—careful, almost shy, "Then… can we make up?"
Oakley bit her lip, clutching the little trove in her palm. Absurd. She'd spent the morning drafting a plan to rinse Grace out of her mind—new friends, more sun, hobbies by the dozen. She had been ready for "non-interference."
And now this woman stood here rearranging her furniture.
Spineless, Oakley told herself. With a spine she'd have thrown her out on her icing-slick manners and shut the door on the apology.
Grace waited, then, softly, "Oakley?"
"You think you can just say 'make up' and we make up?" Oakley exhaled, brows knitting.
Grace blinked. "Then what should I do?"
"How would I know?" Oakley shot her a side-eye and squeezed the bag tighter, a lopsided laugh escaping. "You think a handful of trinkets can bribe me?"
She'd cried herself puffy last night. Slunk down to press ice to her eyes at three a.m. She'd fantasized about storming Grace's room with a machine gun, murdering her metaphorically, then turning herself in to the police of good taste.
Grace stood there a moment, absorbing the ridiculousness and the truth of it.
Then: "Come downstairs and eat grilled meat with me," she said. She reached up and tucked a stray strand behind Oakley's ear with a touch too careful to be casual. "I bought a lot. All your favorites."