8. Grayson
8
GRAYSON
S he’s already awake when I reach for her. There’s no hesitation. No teasing smirk. Just the soft whiff of her breath and the way her fingers slide into my hair like they’ve been waiting. The room is still dark, dawn just a gray whisper at the window, but the heat between us is immediate, familiar, urgent.
I kiss her shoulder first, trailing a line of slow, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of her back. Her breath hitches. Her fingers thread tighter into my hair, pulling gently, like she needs more of me, closer, deeper, now. When I shift above her, she moves with me like it’s instinct. Her legs wrap around my waist, her body arching up to meet mine. Her skin is warm and bare beneath my hands, and when I slide my cock inside her juicy, wet pussy, her gasp cuts through the quiet morning like something holy.
We don’t speak, but everything is said. In the way I move inside her, slow at first, testing, teasing, until she rises to meet me with a quiet urgency that makes my control snap. Her nails rake lightly down my back. Her hips roll in time with mine. Her mouth finds mine, hungry, desperate, tasting like every fight we’ve had and every truce we’ve yet to make.
She moans against my lips, whispering my name, and I bury my face against her neck as we start to move faster, harder and deeper. My cock slides effortlessly in and out. The bed creaks beneath us. The world disappears. And when she finally shatters beneath me, I follow a moment later, because there’s no version of this where I let go without her. We collapse together, panting, sweat-slicked and tangled in the blankets, our bodies still pressed tight. I kiss her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth that’s trying to hold back a smile. She doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. Because there’s nothing left to prove in this moment. Only everything we haven’t said, spoken in the way we moved, touched, gave ourselves over.
“Don’t fall in love with me all over again,” I murmur.
“Not a chance,” she smirks.
***
I wake before Margot. She’s curled on her side, tangled in the sheet, one arm draped across the pillow that’s supposed to be mine. Her hair’s a wild mess against the flannel, her face softer than I ever get to see during daylight hours. For a moment, I don’t move. I just watch her and try to pretend we’re not hiding out in a cabin in the middle of nowhere trying to stop our company from burning down.
She’s curled on her side, tangled in the sheet, one arm draped across the pillow that’s supposed to be mine. Her hair’s a wild mess against the flannel, her face softer than I ever get to see during daylight hours. For a moment, I don’t move. I just watch her and try to pretend we’re not hiding out in a cabin in the middle of nowhere trying to stop our company from burning down.
But then the floor creaks under my step and she stirs. I make coffee because that’s how we survive and by the time she shuffles into the kitchen, half awake and already annoyed by how small the space is, I’ve got two mugs ready.
She blinks at the counter. “Did the kitchen shrink overnight?”
“Nope,” I say, handing her a cup. “You’re just used to espresso machines and imported tile.”
She narrows her eyes over the rim of her mug. “And you’re used to living like a raccoon?”
I grin. “Raccoons don’t make coffee.”
We settle into a rhythm, if you can call it that. Every drawer sticks. The hot water heater wheezes like it’s dying. There’s one bathroom door, and it doesn’t lock properly. By midmorning, we’ve tripped over each other three times and argued over whether canned beans count as a real meal. When she burns her hand on the cast iron skillet and mutters a string of curses in a voice just shy of a growl, I hand her a cold pack from the mini-fridge and try not to laugh.
“I’m not built for the woods,” she mutters.
“I could’ve told you that after watching you fight with the screen door.”
“It attacked me first, ” she adds.
“You pulled it off the hinge, ” I argue.
“It was loose.”
I lean against the counter, watching her struggle to bandage her thumb. “Want help?”
“I’ve got it.”
She doesn’t. I take the wrap from her, gently tugging her hand toward me.
“Don’t say anything,” she warns.
“I’m not.” I wrap her hand carefully, slowly. She watches me, quiet now. The kind of quiet that isn’t annoyed. Just still.
“You’re good at that,” she murmurs.
“First aid was part of the Grayson King Boy Scout trauma package.”
She tries to smile but it slips. “I hate being bad at things.”
I nod. “I know.”
She looks down at our hands. I don’t let go right away. We finish cleaning up the cabin together, Margot with a mop she doesn’t trust, me trying not to laugh every time she complains about dust being a “whole personality” here.
Later, we sit in front of the fireplace, cross-legged on opposite ends of the couch. She’s bundled in one of the throw blankets, her laptop balanced on her knees.
“I’ve been reviewing the patch logs,” she says. “There’s a pattern. A signature almost. Whoever sabotaged it, they were careful, but they weren’t perfect.”
I nod. “We’ll find them.”
She glances up. “You really believe that?”
“I believe in you.”
The silence that follows is warm and heavy, crackling like the fire between us. We’re still figuring out how to exist in this space—between enemies and lovers, coworkers and almost-somethings. And right now, we’re surviving on black coffee, bad plumbing, and whatever this strange, frustrating comfort is between us. And it’s working, barely.
After hours hunched over her laptop, Margot steps outside to clear her head. I hear the screen door creak and slam, followed by a sudden shriek.
“Grayson!”
I’m out of my chair before she finishes the second syllable. She’s on the porch, barefoot, one hand held up like she’s spotted a bear.
“It’s a raccoon,” she hisses, voice caught somewhere between alarm and disbelief. “It’s staring at me . Like it knows something.”
I step out beside her, blinking against the light. Sure enough, there it is, a fat raccoon perched regally on the porch railing, its nose twitching in lazy judgment, tail curled like it’s posing for a wilderness portrait. The damn thing looks like it pays rent.
“Maybe he thinks you’re trespassing,” I offer, biting back a grin.
Margot glares. “This isn’t funny. Do something.”
I grab the nearest object, a battered broom propped by the door, and brandish it like an ancient relic of war. “Shoo!”
The raccoon blinks once. Unimpressed. I lunge forward with theatrical menace. He doesn’t flinch, he yawns.
Behind me, Margot snorts. “Wow. So commanding. He looks positively terrified.”
I take one bold step closer, determined to salvage my dignity, and promptly slip on the damp edge of the porch. My feet shoot out from under me, and I land flat on my back in the cold grass with a dull oof. Above me, the raccoon finally rises, hops down with exaggerated grace, and strolls off like he’s had enough of our nonsense.
I groan, staring up at the cloudy sky. “I’m fine. Thanks for your concern.”
The raccoon, finally offended, hops off the railing and saunters away like he’s seen enough.
I groan. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
Margot’s laughing so hard she’s doubled over. “Oh my God. You just got owned by wildlife.”
“This place is cursed,” I mutter.
She reaches a hand down to help me up, still laughing. “No, this place is real . That’s the problem.”
We head back inside, both of us dripping with dew and dignity loss. But she’s still smiling, and weirdly, so am I.