9. #3
I glance at the clock again. "We only have ten minutes left."
"That's fine," he says. "We don't have to fill them."
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks. "Do you think you can handle going back home tonight?"
I look up at him and nod. "I'm going to my mother's first. Rodney should be at the White House."
Grant nods, but he doesn't move away. His eyes stay on my face, searching.
Then his hand lifts.
I flinch before I can stop myself.
He freezes immediately.
"It's okay," he says softly, more reassurance than question.
His hand shifts course, landing gently against my cheek instead.
The touch is light—barely there—but my breath still catches. I realize then why he noticed.
There must be a mark.
From earlier.
I hadn't felt it anymore. Not really.
I don't say anything.
I don't explain.
I just look down, stepping back before the moment can stretch into something else. I suddenly find the edge of the desk very interesting. The bookshelf. The rug. Anything but him.
"I—I have your jacket," I say, too quickly. "I left it in the car."
Grant lowers his hand without comment.
"I can follow you outside and grab it," he says evenly.
I nod, grateful for the escape, and move toward the door before either of us can say something we're not ready to mean.
The lady at the front desk isn't there anymore when we step out of his office.
I pause, glancing around. "Where's Isabel?"
"On a ski trip," Grant says easily. "With friends."
I nod, absorbing it without really thinking.
Outside, the air feels cooler. There's no black SUV idling at the curb. No second car lingering just far enough back to be invisible.
The absence is almost dizzying.
It feels like breathing without permission.
We walk toward my car side by side, the sound of our footsteps too loud in the stillness.
Grant glances at the Porsche and lifts a brow. "Late-night drive car?"
I smile despite myself. "No. This is just the everyday."
He hums softly, like he's cataloging it.
I open the passenger door and retrieve his jacket, folded neatly where I left it. I hold it out to him.
I hand him the jacket.
Our fingers brush.
It's nothing. Barely a touch. The kind that shouldn't mean anything.
Except neither of us pulls away right away.
"Thank you," I say again.
He nods, but he doesn't step back. He just stays. Close enough that I can smell him — clean, faintly smoky, something warm underneath it that makes my chest tighten for reasons I don't want to examine.
"You don't have to thank me," he says quietly.
"I do," I reply.
He watches my face, like he's deciding something.
Grant's gaze drops — not to my mouth, not obviously — just enough that I feel suddenly, acutely aware of how close we're standing.
I cross my arms without meaning to.
He notices.
"Are you cold?" he asks.
"I'm fine," I say again, too quickly.
He hesitates.
It's small, but I see it — the pause before he moves, the restraint in the way his shoulders shift like he's holding himself still.
"Naomi," he says, and my name sounds different in his voice out here. Less clinical. Less careful.
"Yes?"
"I hope you know," he starts, then stops. He exhales softly through his nose. "You don't have to do this alone. I'm not trying to pass my place and I'm not trying to make you feel uncomfortable, but you can talk to me about what's really going on."
Something in my chest pulls tight.
"I know," I say. "Thank you for everything"
The space between us feels charged now.
He lifts his hand — slowly — like he's giving me time to pull away.
I don't.
His fingers hover near my jaw, not touching yet, waiting for permission I don't know how to give out loud.
I should step back.
I don't.
The moment stretches — fragile, suspended — until it feels like holding my breath too long.
Grant leans in without quite realizing it.
So do I.
The kiss happens before either of us can stop it.
Quick. Soft. Almost tentative.
Then I pull back immediately..
"I—" I start, then stop. "I can't—We shouldn't."
"I—" Grant says, already stepping away. "I'm sorry."
The apology hits harder than the kiss.
I don't know what to say.
My thoughts scatter, my chest tight in a way I don't recognize—too sharp to be panic, too warm to be calm.
"It's okay," I say, though my voice doesn't quite believe it. "I should— I should go."
Grant nods, once. His jaw tightens, then relaxes, like he's forcing himself to stand down from something.
"Drive safe," he says.
It sounds like a boundary.
I get into the car before either of us can change our minds.
The door closes with a solid, final click that feels louder than it should.
I sit there for a second, hands on the wheel, heart still misbehaving.
When I pull away, I glance at the mirror without meaning to.
He's still standing there.
Not moving. Not waving.
Just watching until the car disappears from view.
My lips still tingle.
And the worst part is—
I don't feel reckless.
I don't feel ashamed.
And I don't know if that makes me lighter—
Or more trapped than ever.