19. #2
By the time we settled at the kitchen table, it almost felt normal.
Grant sat across from me with his laptop open, sleeves pushed slightly up his forearms, his focus locked in the way it always seemed to be when he was working.
He'd decided to stay home today—something about wanting to be here before I had to go back later tonight.
Alexander had texted earlier that Rodney's jet was already en route to pick him up, which meant whatever space I'd been given was already shrinking.
Eleven.
That was the time we'd landed on.
I scrolled through my phone absentmindedly, my thumb slowing when a new post caught my attention.
A post on Reese's private instagram of her on vacation.
I double tapped on it, the image filling my screen.
She looked unreal. Effortless in the way she always had—sun hitting her skin just right, body relaxed like she didn't have to think about how she may be perceived.
I stared at it for a second longer than I needed to.
Then my eyes lifted.
Grant hadn't moved.
Still focused.
Still completely pulled into whatever was on his screen.
There was something about the way he worked—quiet, composed, almost detached—that made it easy to just look at him. The kind of presence that didn't need attention but held it anyway.
And after last night—
The thought came before I could stop it.
If things were different and I wasn't tied to Rodney, could this be something serious?
Not what we were doing now.
Something real.
Something that didn't have to exist in stolen time or quiet spaces.
My gaze lingered on him, tracing the lines of his face, the way his jaw tightened slightly when he concentrated, the subtle movement of his fingers across the keyboard.
Then another thought followed right behind it.
Did he even see me like that?
Or was this just convenient?
Temporary.
Something that would fade the second it became complicated.
California.
The word slipped into my mind without warning.
Isabel.
The way she'd said it so casually.
The way he hadn't mentioned it at all.
I couldn't tell if that meant he didn't trust me with that part of his life—
Or if he just didn't think I'd still be around when it mattered.
The thought sat heavier than I expected.
So much so that I didn't notice him moving until his hand closed gently around mine.
"You okay?"
His voice was calm, attention still split between me and whatever was on his screen, his thumb brushing lightly over my skin like it was unconscious.
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
"Why are you single?"
That got his attention.
Not sharply, but enough.
A quiet breath left him, something just short of a laugh as his eyes flicked up to meet mine.
"What?"
I shifted in my chair, pulling one leg slightly under me.
"I'm serious," I said, softer this time, but steady. "You're nice. You're attractive. You have a good job..."
His mouth curved slightly, amused but not dismissive.
"Am I really all that?"
I frowned a little, my grip tightening slightly in his hand.
"I'm serious."
Something in my tone must've landed, because he pushed his laptop aside—not abruptly, just enough to give me more of his attention while still holding onto me.
"I was engaged," he said after a moment. "Three years ago. It just didn't work out."
That wasn't what I expected.
My eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Really?"
He nodded once.
No hesitation.
But there was something in the way his shoulders settled back into the chair, something quieter underneath the ease of his voice.
"We were together for ten years."
That made me pause.
"Ten?"
Another nod.
"Yeah."
My eyes searched his face, trying to reconcile that version of him with the one sitting in front of me now.
"That's... a long time."
"It is."
He said it simply.
No weight behind it.
Or maybe just not enough to show.
"But it didn't work out."
He reached for his laptop again like that was enough explanation, like the conversation could end there if I let it.
It didn't feel finished.
"Can I know more?" I asked, quieter this time.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second before he looked back at me, studying my face like he was deciding how far to go.
"What do you want to know?"
"How did you meet?"
"College," he said. "Freshman year."
There was a slight shift in his tone—not softer, not colder, just... further away.
"We started dating pretty quickly. About a month in. She was psych, I was neuroscience. We both ended up at Harvard for med school, then both lucky enough that we got into UCLA for residency."
I let out a small breath.
"So you guys were like a power couple."
He shrugged like it didn't matter, but something about it settled heavily in my chest anyway—intimidating in a way I didn't expect.
"Why didn't it work out?"
That question lingered between us longer than the others.
He didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted past me for a moment, like he was choosing his words carefully, or deciding how honest he wanted to be.
"She wanted marriage. Kids."
A small pause followed.
"I didn't."
The simplicity of it made something in my chest tighten.
"I was clear about that from the beginning," he continued, his thumb moving absentmindedly against my hand.
"At first, she understood. I thought we were on the same page. But... things change. People get older. Friends start getting engaged, families start asking questions... and eventually she realized that's what she wanted."
His voice didn't falter, but it slowed slightly.
"And I couldn't give her that. So as much as we cared about each other... it made more sense to let her go."
I swallowed.
"But you said you were engaged."
He nodded.
"We were."
A quiet breath left him, his jaw shifting slightly like he was trying to phrase the next part carefully.
"Just because I wasn't thinking about getting married doesn't mean I had intentions on stepping out. I only wanted her," he said honestly.
"I thought proposing would give her clarity. That it would show her the relationship meant something real to me."
His gaze dropped briefly before lifting again.
"But it felt like I was forcing something I didn't actually believe in. And that wasn't fair—to her or to me."
He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose.
"I see what marriage does to people every day," he added, more quietly. "The way it changes things. I didn't want that for us. Maybe it would've happened anyway, even without it—but I wasn't willing to gamble on that."
I nodded slowly, trying to take it in.
"What's her name?"
"Blair Halbrook."
The name caught immediately.
"I've heard that before."
"You probably have," he said. "She's in DC. Same field. She's... well known."
That made sense.
"When's the last time you saw her?"
A faint huff of air left him, almost amused.
"Lot of questions."
I didn't respond this time—just held his gaze.
After a second, he gave in.
"We don't see each other casually," he said. "Just at events or conferences. We're in the same field with similar goals, so it's kind of unavoidable."
His fingers tapped lightly against the table before he added,
"The last time was a few months ago. Veterans and suicide prevention conference."
Something in my chest tightened.
"I was there."
"I know."
And just like that, it clicked.
The woman who spoke before me. The one I had to reference in my speech right after.
I remember thinking she didn't have to try to speak well the way I did.
Blair. His Blair.
The realization settled slowly, but once it did, it stayed.
And with it, the image of him from that night when he gave me his jacket mixed with last night surfaced again— both times he stood outside in the quiet, cigarette between his fingers, like he needed a moment to himself before coming back in.
I didn't know if the two were connected.
But it felt like they were.
And I couldn't shake the quiet understanding that whatever existed between us now had stepped into a space that had been lived in long before me.
He turned his attention back to his computer and I sat there deep in thought.
The rest of the day moved, but not in a way I could fully keep up with.
Nothing felt wrong, exactly. We talked, moved around the house, existed in the same space the way we had that morning—easy, familiar.
But something had shifted.
And I couldn't name it without sounding ridiculous, even in my own head.
I was good at this—at compartmentalizing, at smiling when I needed to, at keeping things where they belonged. It was practically second nature at this point.
But for some reason, today—I couldn't get it right.
Every time I looked at him, something felt slightly off.
Not because of anything he was doing.
Just me.
The thought of Blair lingered longer than I wanted it to. The ease in the way he spoke about her. The history. Ten years. Harvard. UCLA. Engagement.
A version of his life that felt structured. Real. Lasting.
And then there was me.
Temporary.
Unspoken.
Existing somewhere between stolen time and borrowed space.
I didn't like how much that bothered me.
I didn't like how much I was thinking about it at all.
By the time he led me upstairs to the gym, I needed something to quiet it.
The space was exactly what I should've expected—clean, minimal, everything in its place. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined one side, letting in soft afternoon light that stretched across the equipment. It didn't feel like a home gym. It felt intentional.
Like everything else about him.
"You don't have to work out today," he said, glancing at me as he adjusted the treadmill settings. "You said you were tired."
"I'm fine," I replied quickly.
Too quickly.
He looked at me for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to decide if that was true, but didn't push it.
"Alright," he said simply.
I focused on legs while he did arms. After about an hour we decided to cool off on the treadmill.