Page 105 of Good Graces

Warren drops his keys on the counter with a clatter. “Yeah, now don’t scare her off.”

She just shrugs. “I don’t know. It looks like she can handle herself.”

“She can,” Warren says, voice low enough that I feel it more than I hear it. “Quinn, you remember Liam. This is his girlfriend, Birdie. They’re . . . a lot when they’re together.”

Birdie’s already closing her sketchbook and shoving it into her bag. “Yeah, we’d love to stick around and get to know you better. But sadly, I was just telling Liam we should head out.”

Liam looks up, confused. “You were?”

“Yeah, we’ve been here for hours,” she says. “And you still haven’t shown me that thing you were talking about.”

“What thing?”

“You know.” She widens her eyes, tilting her head like she’s hoping he’ll catch on. “The thing,” she says more firmly. “The—” She pauses, then blurts out, “The pasta thing.”

Liam frowns. “I don’t know what you’re—”

Birdie grabs his arm, hauling him off the couch. “The pasta thing! Come on!”

“Oh.” Realization finally clicks. “The pasta thing.”

Warren just stares after them. No pasta thing. No exit strategy. Just Birdie being Birdie and Liam trailing after her like he’s meant to.

The door clicks shut behind them, and I laugh. It was sweet, in a weird, chaotic way—her attempt to give us some space. Thoughtful, even if the delivery needed work.

Warren snorts. “She’s real subtle.”

“I think I like her.”

“You would, actually. She’s pretty grumpy, too. A bit of a loner. She’s close with her roommate now, but Liam said she barely had any friends when they met.”

I scoff. “I have friends.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. We both know he’s right, but I’m not about to self-deprecate when we’re finally alone together.

He nudges me gently, then tips his head toward the hallway, guiding me down toward his room. It’s a quiet little corner at the end of the hall. Clean and well organized. He has a few textbooks stacked on his desk, mostly sports physiology and biomechanics.

His Dayton swim cap dangles from the lamp, and a battered paperback with a folded receipt marking the page sits on his nightstand. The walls are bare except for a corkboard cluttered with ticket stubs, old meet schedules, and Polaroids—Warren on the pool deck, arms around his teammates. A few of just him as a kid. One with his mom, grinning wide with a medal around his neck.

And the bed, though clearly well-used, is simple. White sheets, a soft blue duvet, and a worn-in blanket folded neatly at the end. A true picture of Warren in quiet, unshowy form.

I drop onto it without asking, stretching out like I own the place. “You’re very tidy, Mercer.”

“I’m averagely tidy,” he mutters, tugging his hoodie off and tossing it toward his desk chair. “But I do like my own space.”

I reach for the chain on the nightstand, letting it dangle between my fingers.

“Why aren’t you wearing it?”

He shrugs. “Took it off for practice. Haven’t been back to the house yet.”

“You should put it on.”

He hovers at the edge of the bed, just out of reach. “Now?”

“Yeah.” I sit up, looping the chain over his head and letting it fall against his chest. My fingers linger on the links, brushing his collarbone. “I like it on you. I want you to be wearing it when we have sex.”

“Oh,” he says, like he wasn’t expecting that. “Is that what we’re doing tonight?”

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