Oakley didn't know what broke inside her. She'd been holding together—more or less—until Grace said she'd bought "a lot of the meats you like." The words were simple, but they hit something soft and unguarded. A sting rose straight to her nose, thick and sudden, and sat there like a small, stubborn stone.
Hurt. And angry.
Her eyes went red; so did the tip of her nose. For a second she looked like she might cry and claw someone in the same breath.
Grace panicked anew. She wasn't practiced in comforting anyone; she'd never had to. Tonight she'd already spent everything she knew.
"I'm sorry," she said again—three plain words, offered like a bandage—as she pulled out a tissue and held it under Oakley's lashes, pressing back the tears with clumsy care. "I won't do that again."
Oakley sniffed hard, took the tissue, scrubbed at her eyes with little, rough swipes. Her voice came out thick. "As if I care what you do. Do whatever you want. I'm not—no one's trying to manage you…"
An eyelash stabbed the corner of her eye; she blinked too fast, the sting sharpening.
Grace watched her, mouth tight. "I'll manage myself," she murmured.
The gentleness of it made everything worse. Oakley's brow folded deeper; her gaze slid away. She pressed the tissue to her mouth and nose and refused to speak—slender and uncompromising as a winter poplar, willing to snap before she'd bend.
Grace gathered the tears into her own silence and felt more like a villain with each breath. At last, she tugged lightly at Oakley's sleeve: "Come on. Everything's set up downstairs. All we're missing is Her Majesty's presence."
"Not 'Your Majesty,'" Oakley muttered, balling the tissue and pitching it into the trash. She sent Grace a sideways, sulky look. "Call me a goddess. Don't age me up."
Grace pivoted without missing a beat. "Yes, Your Goddessness."
"I'm washing my face first," Oakley said, her breath steadying now.
"Go ahead."
Oakley brushed past, lips damp where she'd licked them, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Grace stayed outside the door, listening to the hush and hiss of water, and let her shoulders drop a fraction. When she'd come home to the marble-cold version of Oakley, she'd been sure she'd ruined everything. Only then had she realized, with a jolt, how much attention she paid to the slightest shift in Oakley's weather. Which meant—as much as she disliked the word—that she cared.
The water cut off. Oakley came out, tugged the hair band from her crown and tossed it aside. She headed for the door and, under her breath, began to grumble.
"Don't flatter yourself—I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for the barbecue." Step, step. "You know I'm terrified of being thrown away. You know I've been losing that battle my whole life… You know I can't stand it repeating." Step. "Don't think a few lines will fix it. I'm not that easy to sweet-talk; I have pride." Step. "If you piss me off again, I'll chop you up and feed you to the strays."
Once she started, she couldn't stop. It came out in a messy, cathartic stream, little thorns and all.
Grace trailed behind and took every barb without flinching. Oddly, none of it stung. If anything, she hoped Oakley would keep going, empty the whole drawer. Maybe then they'd be able to mend the seam for real.
They reached the table. Iris rose. "Ms. Barron. Ms. Ponciano."
Grace nodded. "Turn on the grill."
"On it," Iris said, flicking the switch.
Oakley finally got a good look at her. That face—model-pretty in a clean, elfin way, big eyes, neat bones.
When Grace had walked in with bags of groceries and a stranger at her shoulder, Oakley's stomach had dropped clean through the floor. After last night's pronouncement, to show up with a new woman and a sack of ingredients? Who wouldn't think the worst?
Grace drew a chair out for her. "Sit."
Oakley sat, still fighting something tight in her chest—but the sight of the table helped. Exactly as promised: all her favorites, even the vegetables. Every choice had her name written on it.
Across from them, Iris took charge like a veteran server, laying meat and mushrooms on the hotplate with quick, deft motions. The pan hissed. Raw crimson bled toward gold; beads of fat freckled and popped; a scent rose that went straight to the spine with its promise.
Oakley hadn't really eaten all day—fruit, bread, nothing with heat or heart. The smell alone made her stomach speak out loud.
When the edges crisped and the centers gleamed, she lost ceremony, dipped a slice through sauce, and slid it onto her tongue.
Char at the rim. Tender within. Juice, salt, smoke. The kind of bite that explains why people forgive the world.
A sigh slipped out. Her face softened.
Grace turned instinctively, caught the returning light in Oakley's eyes, and couldn't help the small tug of her mouth.
Oakley felt it and snapped her gaze over. "What are you looking at?"
Grace shook her head, the smile tucked away.
"Whatever." Oakley huffed and drained half a glass of water as if that might drown the warmth creeping up her throat.
Grace only refilled the glass, quiet as rain.
Oakley turned to Iris. "You're good at this. Tastes great."
Iris's grin was quick. "Ms. Barron knows where to shop. Good ingredients hardly need help."
"Eat some yourself," Oakley said, frowning. Iris had been feeding them like a machine and barely touched a bite.
"I have to watch my weight," Iris confessed, embarrassed. "Keep the lines."
Right—model. The dream Oakley had once held onto before height snatched it out of reach. For the first time, she was grateful she hadn't grown another inch; a life of lettuce and chicken breast was a life she'd sabotage within a week.
"By the way," she added, "Grace said you needed to crash here because something happened. What happened?"
Iris deflated. "I fought with Vivian Louis. It's trending."
Oakley blinked. She had seen the headline earlier, during a break, and swiped it away. She hadn't had room in her head for gossip.
"So that was you?" she said, startled—this gentle girl, at the center of the brawl.
Iris cringed. "She threw shade. Something in me just… flipped. I got hot and stupid."
Oakley understood that chemical snap too well. Still, it meant more work for Grace—more fires to put out. There'd be a team on it, of course, but Grace would be one of the hands on the hose.
Oakley turned to her. For once she asked first: "Is it going to be messy?"
Grace frowned a little. "A bit. But it gets done. It always gets done."
"And you'll have to work tonight?"
Grace nodded. "Mm."
She looked tired—tired at the bones.
Oakley compared their lives all at once. She shot videos and, by a strange luck of timing, had ridden a wave that still hadn't fully broken; even with competitors crowding in, she sat steady at the top. Money happened whether she wrestled or not. Meanwhile, Grace's work was a constant storm of contingencies and fallout. If they swapped roles, Oakley would probably fling herself into the river by Thursday.
She picked up another slice and dipped it. "So—office?"
"No," Grace said, checking the hour. "We can handle it online. If needed, I'll jump on a call."
Which didn't make it less exhausting. Throughout the meal her phone pulsed; she checked, replied, checked again. Appetite left the table; her plate stayed mostly full.
Oakley watched, chewing, feeling an ache that wasn't hunger. "Good," she muttered, a sigh tucked behind the word. "It's awful to drive back in this late. And your body's held together with string as it is. Shake it twice more and it'll fall apart."
Grace set the phone down and turned to look at her. Really look.
Oakley froze mid-bite and touched her cheek. "Do I have something on my face?"
Grace shook her head.
"Then why are you looking at me like that? You're weird."
Grace's smile was small and true. "I was thinking… it's nice. Being worried about." A breath. "It's… nice."
Oakley's hand stalled. Her mouth set. "No one's worried about you."
Grace let it pass with another quiet smile.
Oakley coughed and chased the words with water.
They finished at last.
Grace slipped away to the study with her phone. The group had found the full video—beginning to end. Vivian's tone was ugly, her words uglier. Now they needed to choose the right angle, the cleanest move, the path that would do the least harm and the most good. Strategy is a kind of surgery; you cut precisely or you make it worse.
Down the hall, the house breathed. In the kitchen, the grill had cooled to a dull metal moon. On the table, a glass still held water to the brim, condensation slipping like a slow tear.
Oakley leaned back in her chair and stared at that glass, at the overfull line. She wouldn't admit it out loud, but she could feel it in the room—the way Grace's attention had rearranged itself, the way her own temper had burned down to a coal instead of a wildfire.
She wouldn't admit it, but she felt it. Grace cared. And for tonight—only tonight—Oakley let the warmth of that settle, like meat resting on a board, juices redistributing until the bite would be better for it.