Once Grace Barron had gone upstairs, Oakley Ponciano and Iris Rowan didn't sit idle. They rose together, wordlessly falling into the rhythm of clearing the table.
After they'd piled everything by the sink, Iris paused and sighed to herself. "You know, this is… kind of unbelievable."
"Hm?" Oakley wasn't sure what prompted that kind of remark.
"I feel like today I unlocked a different version of Grace," Iris said.
"A different Grace?" The barbecue grease still clung to Oakley's throat; she grabbed a stray lettuce leaf and popped it into her mouth. "What do you mean?"
Iris gathered the chopsticks into one neat bundle and squared them against the counter. "Do you have any idea? At the company they call her the Ice Judge. The Iron Hand."
Oakley blinked. "She has that many nicknames? Is she… terrifying at work?"
The Grace she knew was gentle—gentle to a fault. When they'd traveled together, Oakley had pegged her as the kind of person who seemed to warm everyone equally, like centralized heating. Even last night, when Grace had said that long, knotty string of things, she'd said it softly, almost drowsily.
And on their way out of the hospital, even while Grace was bristling at her—hard-eyed, unwilling to spend extra words—she'd still taken the snack from Oakley's fumbling hands and quietly ripped it open for her.
"Mm." Iris slid bowls and plates into the dishwasher, then leaned her back to the counter. "She also goes by the Puma."
That did it—Oakley burst into laughter. "What on earth did she do to earn all that? Is she always blowing up at people? How does one person collect that many titles?"
It tugged a memory loose from school days—how everyone loved to gift the most unapproachable teachers with outrageous monikers. Every campus had at least one "Extinction."
"She doesn't actually lose her temper much," Iris said, crossing her arms, thinking it through. "Since I joined the company, I can't recall a real outburst. It's more that she rarely smiles. She's matter-of-fact, says only what's necessary, has a low tolerance for nonsense, and she's incorruptibly fair."
That did sound like someone you wouldn't pick a fight with.
Oakley couldn't help imagining: if Grace were like that in private life—unyielding, austere—she wouldn't have been able to live with it, let alone marry her.
"I guess she's… stronger at work," Iris summed up, "different vibe from how she is here."
Oakley yawned into the back of her hand and kneaded her shoulder with her fingers. "Makes sense. Work is work, home is home. Different rooms, different seasons. Most people keep a wall between the two."
Then again, plenty couldn't. People dragged the office home until the house soured and the air thinned. In that light, Grace had handled the boundary beautifully.
Oakley also realized—Grace hid things. She absorbed them. Endless little fires sparked at work, and somehow Grace managed to come home without a whiff of smoke.
"Exactly," Iris said, grateful. "That's why I said I feel like I unlocked a different Grace. At the company she doesn't feel… human."
"Not human?" Oakley nearly choked on a laugh.
"I mean—no, no, I'm not saying she's not a person," Iris stumbled, horrified at herself. "I mean she's built for big games. Not like regular folk. A little… untouchable. Nothing like how she is at home."
Seeing her panic, Oakley lifted a calming palm. "Got it. I know what you mean."
She wasn't that dense; she could follow the thread.
Relief loosened Iris's shoulders. Her mind tended to jump fences mid-sentence; people often mistook her meaning. For a second she thought she'd wrecked everything.
They fell quiet, working through the debris field.
When Oakley tied off the trash bag and lifted it from the bin, Iris finally surrendered to the small bonfire of gossip burning in her chest.
"Ms. Ponciano," Iris ventured, "are you and Grace truly just roommates?"
Oakley froze with the bag in her hand, then turned back.
With the question hanging there, what else could she say?
"No," she said, staring at the glossy black of the trash bag. "We're legally married."
Iris slapped a hand over her mouth. "So… you're Grace's wife?"
She'd thought, at most, they were dating. Who knew they'd skipped straight to the final form.
"Mm." Oakley nodded.
Iris looked genuinely rattled, as if the ceiling had tilted a few degrees. It took her a very long moment to catch up.
Oakley frowned, waved a hand before her eyes. "What? Is it that strange?"
"A little…" Iris said, then shook her head hard. "I don't mean it's strange that you're her wife. I just never imagined someone like Grace would have a wife. I mean—no, not that she doesn't deserve one, I'm saying—"
Oakley found her accidentally hilarious. She lifted her arm to pat Iris's shoulder. "Breathe. Try again."
God, tall people had such an advantage. As Oakley drew her hand back, envy flickered through her like a sigh.
Iris exhaled. "You know, at the office Grace isn't just fearsome—she's utterly hopeless at romance."
"How so?" Oakley was genuinely curious to meet the other face Grace wore when she wasn't looking.
Iris glanced toward the stairs to make sure Grace wouldn't materialize, then leaned in. "Between us, yes, she's scary—but she's also beautiful. Plenty of people like her. There are always the stubborn ones who think they can win her over. Guess what happens."
Oakley set the trash by her feet, all ears now.
Iris was already laughing. "There was this girl—let's call her C. She adored Grace. Everyone else had already been turned down with Grace's line about being cold, about not doing love, not wanting it—all that. But C didn't buy it."
"And?" Oakley asked, wishing she had sunflower seeds to crack while she listened.
"One Valentine's Day, C brought flowers to Grace and said, 'I really like you. I want to be with you.' Guess what Grace said." Iris winked.
"What?"
"Grace smiled, soft as silk, and said—'What a coincidence. I really like me, too. I'm already with myself.'" Iris tossed her hair and clapped, laughing so hard she lost her breath. "You've no idea how long we laughed about it afterward."
C's face had gone thunder-dark. After the failed confession she was mortified, dodged Grace for a month, refused to walk past the scene of the crime.
Oakley doubled over, clutching her stomach. It actually hurt to laugh that hard.
She knew Grace's tongue could be sharp—like being raised on quicksilver—but she hadn't realized it could gleam like that.
So you could refuse people that way. So Grace had a whole repertoire for closing doors without slamming them.
"Which is why," Iris said, riding the gossip high, "it blows my mind that this Grace got married. You must be… pretty singular."
Oakley's laugh thinned. "Ha. I don't know about singular. I'm just… me."
If she hadn't posted that thread on the matchmaking forum, they probably would have stayed two strangers who occasionally shared a spreadsheet. Or maybe, by now, Grace would belong to someone else.
Oakley didn't pursue it. She lifted the trash again, pointed toward the hallway. "I'm going to take this out."
"Okay." Iris turned back to check the dishwasher as Oakley slipped out.
When Oakley returned, she remembered Iris was staying the night, so she led her upstairs to a guest room already made up for a friend.
After wishing her goodnight, Oakley stepped out and closed the door. She was headed for her own room when she stopped.
By Grace's study, a clean line of light bled beneath the door. Oakley stared at it, sighed. It looked like work, and work looked heavy.
Forget it. Not her business. Let her be.
She turned away, twisting her fingers together as she walked back to her room.
Grace didn't finish steering the storm until near eleven. Outside, the night was dense as ink that wouldn't dissolve.
Watching public opinion slowly right itself, she finally let herself ease back into the chair, one arm folded over her middle. Relief softened her face. Iris would still take a hit, but at least she wasn't ruined.
After hours of tautness, her shoulders ached. She rolled her neck, shut the laptop, and stood. She hit the light—click, darkness—and pulled the door to with a soft thud. Phone in hand, she turned toward her bedroom.
She'd barely lifted her gaze when she found a shadow lurking in the hall.
Oakley. Out of the panda onesie and into a slip nightdress, silk that caught the light. A V-neck edged with lace, the cut generous enough to cradle and flatter. She must have showered again to rid herself of the barbecue smoke.
She looked—there was no way around it—drop-dead sensual.
Grace blinked. "What are you doing out here?"
"I…" Oakley widened her eyes, taken off guard. "Nothing. I wasn't doing anything."
She had only come to look. She didn't even know why she'd come; her legs had elected to ignore her commands and carried her anyway.
"If you weren't doing anything, why are you prowling?" Grace asked, smiling.
Oakley pressed her lips together and shot her a glare. "To assassinate you. Satisfied?"
Grace paused, then laughed. "You've announced it. I'll be ready. How exactly are you going to pull it off now?"
"You—" Oakley's mind blanked, retorts scattering like marbles across the floor.
Grace took a step closer, dipped her head to murmur by Oakley's ear. "How about this—I won't lock my door tonight. I'll give you a chance."
"Ugh." Heat flared in Oakley's ears; color rose, fine and fast. "Who wants your chance? I've decided not to assassinate you. Saving a life is worth more than seven cathedrals. Amen."
With that, she spun and scampered down the hall to her room. Door open, door shut—boom. Silence dropped back into place.
Grace chuckled, paced a small circle, then headed for her own room.
After the usual routine—wash, rinse, dry—she set down the hair dryer and sat on the edge of the bed.
A thought tugged. She glanced at the door.
Usually Oakley found a reason to wander in. Tonight, steady as a rock. To be honest, Grace didn't quite know what to do with the absence.
She had barely finished wondering when there came a soft knock. Three, maybe four taps.
Grace startled, then said, "Come in."
The latch clicked.
Oakley poked her head in. "Shower done?"
"Mm." Grace nodded.
Oakley slipped in, walked straight to her, and lifted a hand. She set a large bottle—something that looked like supplements—into Grace's palm.
"What's this?" Grace read the long string of foreign words on the label.
"It's good for people who burn the midnight oil," Oakley said. "Eases heat and lifts the fog. Helps your eyes and mind settle."
She pulled her hand back.
Under the lamp, Grace twisted the cap and shook a capsule into her palm. The shell was smooth and glossy, catching the light like a pearl.
"Take one before bed," Oakley added after a beat. "Every night. Okay, that's all. Goodnight."
She turned and left as soon as she'd said it, all breezy exit and no lingering.
Grace had expected her to stay the way she usually did. But Oakley didn't linger, seemed to have come for this and only this.
Strange—Grace found she missed the usual dawdling.
She stared at the closed door for a long breath.
Then she tossed the capsule onto her tongue, raised a glass of water, swallowed. She set the bottle on the nightstand, braced her hands at the mattress edge, and didn't lie down.
After a while she rubbed her lower lip with her thumb, stood, paced a few steps, and decided something. She went to the door.
She opened it, crossed the hall, and knocked on Oakley's room.
Footsteps approached, quickening. Oakley opened the door in the black-and-white panda fleece again, one hand braced to the jamb as she looked Grace over. "What is it?"