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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5:36 PM
Newly liberated country—that's what stepping in the Scott's door feels like.
Steven's absence is beautifully palpable. The off-white walls are brighter than I remember. The wooden floors gleam under the evening sunlight from cleaner windows, and the air...I mean, it's like the house has exhaled, and all its pent-up dust and shadows blow away.
I tiptoe up the stairs, my heart thrumming with residual nerves.
At the top, I pause. The soft scratches of pen on paper guide me to Grey's room. The door is ajar, and I push it open with a gentle nudge of my elbow, my hands occupied with the book wrapped in brown paper.
Greyson sits at his desk, his bare back to the door, the cast on his wrist stark against the table's dark wood. He's hunched over, writing something, but pauses and turns as I enter.
Blue eyes find me, a hint of an old mischievous grin playing on his wide lips as he eyes the package in my hand.
"Early birthday?"
I smile, the tension easing from my shoulders at his tone—playful, warm.
"I'm starting a new tradition. Thursday Presents."
"Happy Thursday, then." He chuckles, his grin widening. "Gimme."
I step closer to the familiar scent of his cologne. He takes the gift, carefully peeling the paper away. I stand with clasped hands, rocking on my heels.
As he reveals the book, his eyes soften, an "Oh," escaping him.
"It's Yeats. You used to read to me in the school library... figured it's time you had your own copy."
Greyson flips through the pages, his fingers tracing the words, his expression thoughtful. "Books are the only places where things make sense." He glances up at me. "Books, and you."
We share a look, one of those deep, silent ones we've mastered over the years.
A gentle seriousness settles over his features. "Thank you, Fluffy."
The relief of seeing him like this washes over me again and again, gentle, crisp waves. It's like the first day of spring after a harsh winter—everything brightens and feels possible again. After he closed off like winter ice, here he is, thawing in the evening light. The real him, not shadowed by pain or his father's looming presence. The real us.
"You really like it?" My fingers nervously twist the hem of my yellow tee shirt.
"Of course," Greyson replies, his eyes on the book. He runs a thumb over the cover, a small smile playing on his lips. "It's perfect, Fluffy."
His gaze lifts to mine. "I'm going to call in sick tomorrow. I'm taking you to Goldwen, just the two of us."
My heart doesn't just skip; it bursts into a sprint. "Really? Are you serious?"
