22.
By the time I turned onto Grant's street, the shaking in my hands had slowed—not completely, but enough that I didn't have to think about keeping the car steady anymore.
His message was still open at the top of my phone.
Reese had said the same thing once.
Yet still, my eyes flicked to the mirrors out of instinct, checking for something I couldn't name but couldn't ignore either. Headlights that stayed too long. A car that didn't pass. Anything that didn't belong.
There was nothing.
Just the empty stretch of road, the quiet of the neighborhood settling around me as I turned into his driveway.
By the time I cut the engine, the tension in my chest had shifted into something less frantic, more grounded. Not fear exactly. Not relief either.
The air was cool when I stepped out. I didn't rush, but I didn't hesitate either, making my way up the steps like my body had already decided for me.
I hadn't even lifted my hand to knock before the door opened.
Grant stood there since he'd been expecting me.
"Hey."
My steps slowed without me meaning them to.
For a second, I just looked at him.
He hadn't bothered putting on a shirt—just a pair of low-sitting sweats, his muscular chest bare, skin still carrying a faint warmth under the soft light spilling out behind him. His hair was slightly disheveled, pushed back in a way that suggested he'd left work a while ago.
It caught me off guard.
"Hi."
He didn't say anything else, just stepped to the side to let me in, his hand brushing lightly against my back as I passed him. The door closed behind us with a quiet click, and the sound settled into the space in a way that made everything else fall away.
It felt different in here.
Safer.
And the realization of that—how quickly my body responded to it—made something in me tighten instead of relax.
I turned slightly, watching him lock the door, my attention catching on the small, deliberate movement of it before he faced me again. The question came before I could filter it, before I could decide whether I even wanted to ask it yet.
"Why didn't you tell me she was married?"
It hung there between us.
His expression shifted almost immediately—confusion first, like he needed a second to place what I was referring to, before it softened into something quieter, touched with a hint of amusement when it clicked.
"I'm assuming you mean Blair."
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
The look I gave him was enough.
A small breath of a laugh left him, not dismissive, just understanding, as he stepped closer, closing the space between us without hesitation.
His hand came up almost instinctively, brushing lightly over the top of my head before settling at the back of it, guiding me forward until my cheek rested against his chest.
"Naomi."
My name sounded differently like that—low, steady, closer than it had any right to be.
For a second, I didn't move.
I just listened—to the even rhythm of his breathing, to the quiet way his hand moved through my hair.
His fingers shifted slightly, his thumb catching under my chin as he tilted my head back just enough for me to look at him.
"I don't want to have to read your mind," he said, his voice calm, even, without frustration. "Not when it's just you and I."
His hand moved again, slower now, grounding in a way that made it harder to pull away from what he was actually saying.
"If something in that conversation left you feeling uneasy," he continued, "or if you wanted to know more about my true feelings—I want you to ask me."
His hand slid down, resting lightly at my collarbone, steady.
"Do you get what I'm saying?"
I nodded, the movement small, automatic, before I forced myself to actually respond. "I do."
It came out quieter than I intended, but it felt more honest that way.
He watched me for a second, like he was making sure I meant it, before something in his expression softened—not relief exactly, just a quiet acknowledgment.
"When we talk," he added, "I don't want to guess what you're feeling. I want you to just tell me. You don't need to worry about If I'll take it the wrong way or get upset because of your curiosity."
"I'm not good at that," I admitted, the truth slipping out easier than I thought it would. "Communicating like that."
"I know," he said, just as simply.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then his hand shifted, finding mine without hesitation, his fingers threading through mine as he turned slightly toward the stairs.
"Come on."
It wasn't a question.
I followed him anyway.
Halfway up, he glanced back at me, a hint of something lighter slipping into his expression.
"You were planning on staying, right?"
I hesitated—not because I didn't know the answer, but because saying it felt like something more than it should have.
"Maybe."
He let out a quiet breath of a laugh.
"Maybe?"
His hand tightened slightly around mine, pulling me closer into his side as we reached the top of the stairs, the contact easy, familiar in a way that felt like it had already been established.
By the time we stepped into the bedroom, the door closed behind us.
I barely had time to take in the room before he was in front of me again.
There was no rush in it.
Just the absence of distance.
His hands found me first—steady, certain—before his mouth followed, the kiss somewhere between careful and inevitable. It wasn't something we had to ease into. It felt like picking something back up that had only been paused.
My hands came up instinctively, gripping onto his shoulders as the space between us disappeared completely when he lifted me.
The bed met us a second later, the weight shifting as he leaned back, settling against the headboard while I stayed exactly where I was, close enough to feel everything I hadn't let myself think about on the drive over.
"I missed you." He broke the kiss off long enough to whisper those two words to me.
The kiss softened for a moment, then deepened again, slower now, more deliberate, like neither of us was trying to get anywhere—just staying in it.
His mouth moved along my neck, unhurried, and I felt my breath shift before I could steady it, my body responding in ways that felt new and familiar at the same time.
"I missed you too." It came out soft and breathier than I meant.
Honest in a way I hadn't planned.
His hands rested easily on my hips, steady and warm.
He shifted slightly beneath me, the movement drawing me closer until I could feel the firm line of him against my center.
The layers of fabric between us should have dulled the sensation, but instead, it only made me more aware—stirring something inside me I couldn't ignore.
My hands moved without much thought after that, guiding his hands lower to cup my ass. He followed without hesitation, adjusting to me instead of leading, and something in that—shifted the feeling in my chest entirely.
His lips were warm against my neck—before I pull back just enough to look at him.
"I'm sorry," I say, "For not communicating with you."
His hands gave my butt an easy squeeze, like it was nothing—like he'd never been bothered at all. "It's okay," he said softly. "No hard feelings."
I search his face, trying to see if he means it. "Are you sure?"
But there's something shifting in me now. A quiet kind of confidence. I move against him slowly, testing it, feeling the way his hand tightens just a little in response.
"I'm sure," he says, his voice lower this time, rougher.
That's all I need.
I lean in and kiss him again—slow, letting it linger before I pull away just enough to trail my lips along his jaw, then down his neck. I feel the way he tilts his head for me, like he's giving me more space, more access.
He murmurs, a sound barely there, and it makes something in me settle.
I take my time.
My lips move lower, softer, dragging the moment out on purpose.
My hands follow, tracing down his chest like I'm memorizing it.
I take my time lowering myself, letting my back arch slightly as I kiss down his chest—knowing he's watching, feeling it in the way his hands tighten on the back of my neck.
I stop right at his V-line, right where the band of his sweats sits, my lips hovering there for a second longer than necessary.
I can feel him through the fabric. Solid. Waiting.
I don't stay there long.
I lift myself back up slowly, pulling him into another kiss—deeper this time, messier. My hand trails down his chest, until it moves over him through his sweats.
I feel the way he reacts to it.
The way his breath catches. The way his grip tightens just slightly.
And I like it more than I should.
It feeds something in me—something quiet and a little dangerous. The fact that I'm the one doing this. The fact that I can feel him starting to lose that composure he's been holding onto.
A soft sound slips out of me without thinking, barely there, swallowed by his mouth.
I'm not even the one being touched.
But it still feels like control.
My hand shifts, fingers brushing along the waistband of his sweats, testing it before slipping just slightly beneath.
I pull back just enough to look at him, my voice lower now.
"Can I make you feel good too?"
For a second, he just looks at me.
Then his hand comes up, sliding along my jaw, thumb pressing lightly against my bottom lip like he's thinking—like he's trying to hold onto something.
"Yeah..." he says, voice rough, a little less put together than before.
A pause.
"Go ahead."
I don't hesitate.
The second he says it, my hands move—fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats, pulling them down just enough to spring his erect member free.
I pause.
My breath catches a little, subtle enough that I almost miss it myself.
He notices.
Of course he does.
There's a flicker of something in his expression—something a little too knowing, a little too pleased with himself.
"Hey," he murmurs. "Take that off."
My eyes flick up to his. "What?"