Page 120 of Good Graces

Something twists inside me, low and tight. It shouldn’t hit me this hard. Shouldn’t feel like this—a sudden, swelling ache in my chest. Relief and regret tangled up in one.

I step closer, feet scuffing the tile.

She finally looks up. “Hey, you,” she says quietly. “Everything okay?”

“Not really.”

She closes her notebook, tucking her pen inside before setting it aside. “Didn’t think so.”

“You’ve been here for hours.”

She shrugs. “Figured you might need someone.”

I should say something else. Something honest, something that explains the mess I’m still wading through. But I can’t. Not yet. Not tonight.

“I don’t really wanna talk,” I say instead, rough and tired.

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t push, either. Just watches me with that calm, steady look of hers.

I don’t know what I expected. For her to sigh and pack up her things, maybe, or offer some quiet reassurance before waving me off. Instead, she stands and steps down the bleachers, cutting across the empty pool deck until she’s right in front of me.

Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her skin. Close enough that I could lean forward and press my face into her hair.

I don’t. Instead, I reach for her waist, curling my fingers beneath the hem of her shirt.

She breathes in sharply. Her hands lift, palms warm against my chest. “Warren?”

I kiss her before she can ask what I’m doing. Before I can second-guess the part of me that’s still scared to need her.

Her breath stumbles, but then she’s kissing me back, her fingers sliding up to my shoulders. I drag her closer, pressing her back against the wall, one hand catching her jaw while the other slips lower, fingers digging into the curve of her hip.

The sound she makes—low and breathless—sinks into my skin.

I know how this should go. It should be slower. Sweeter. We’re still wading through too much. My dad. Our past. All the things we’ve barely started to untangle.

But I need her in a way that feels desperate, quietly breaking open under the surface.

She’s my something solid to hang on to. The steady point that grounds me when my thoughts won’t stop spinning.

She must know, must feel it, too, because she doesn’t hold back. Her fingers hook into the waistband of my sweats, pulling me flush against her. Her lips brush my throat, then lower, tracing a slow path across my neck.

I slide my hands beneath her shirt, palms dragging over her ribs, and she arches into my touch, pressing closer like she’s chasing the heat.

“Here?” she murmurs, breathless. “On the deck?”

“Yeah. I just . . . I need you.”

Her gaze flicks past me, toward the locker room doors. “Are you sure everyone’s gone?”

“Yeah, Quinny. I’m sure.”

“Good.”

Her fingers knot in my shirt, pulling me closer. It’s like she’s trying to hold me together, like she’s stitching the pieces back into place.

I press my mouth to her throat, feeling her shiver beneath me. Her skin’s still warm from the natatorium air, her pulse racing against my lips.

“Warren, baby.”

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