He takes my mouth with his, a hand grazing my throat like a warm, rough necklace.
"Touch me," he breathes onto my lips.
My hands slip under his shirt, over his abdomen, his muscles tight and warm against my fingertips. I touch the places on him I'...
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5:41 PM
Greyson is late.
By the time he strolls up to the Bell River Trail in his black jeans and a greasy white shirt, the sun has already begun its slow descent, smearing the sky in shades of orange and pink.
He throws me one of those boyish grins and says, "Sorry, Fluffy," and starts walking.
I shoot up from the bench and chase after him, laughing. "Hey! Wait!"
"Such a slow poke," he teases as I catch up, falling into step beside him.
The familiar path under our feet feels like the only steady thing in a world that spins too fast. We walk in silence for a while, robins and jays chirping above, saying hello to the summer sunset. Greyson's gaze is fixed ahead, lost in thoughts I wish he'd share.
A sudden stumble over a root, a muttered curse, and his hand flying to his side with a grimace—it all makes me flinch.
"What's happened?" I ask, staring at his palm on his ribs. "Greyson?"
"Just the shop," he admits after a pause, his voice so low I have to lean in to catch the words. "A tire... fell on me."
My heart sinks.
"Let me see," I say, reaching for the hem of his stained shirt. He hesitates, a silent struggle playing out in his gaze before he acquiesces, lifting his shirt just enough to reveal a bruise. It's a violent target of purple and red, spreading across his skin like an inner wound.
"It's nothing," he insists, pulling the fabric down. "Just an accident."
It's not nothing, but I'm not sure how to navigate it. Greyson is a resilient person, and I admire him for it, but this isn't resilience anymore.
"Aren't there better safety procedures in place? At the shop, I mean. How do tires just...fall?"
Greyson's response is an eye roll, a gesture that stings more than I expect. And when he moves my hands away from his waist and keeps walking, I crack a little. Of course, I trail after him.
We continue our walk in silence. Now and then, I steal glances at Greyson's face, noting the healing bruises that mar his skin. But it's his buried and healing jaw that catches my attention, looking somehow different. Those bruises are fresher than the rest.
"Grey," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He stops and turns, his expression tight. "What."
I take a step back from the sudden intensity in his eyes.
"Spit it out, Ember."
"Was there another fight? At work?"
"So what if there was?" His tongue is sharp, a snap that echoes in the quiet around us. "You can't do anything about it."
