Page 98 of Good Graces

“I know.”

I laugh, and suddenly, everything feels easier, like we’re slipping back into something familiar. I can sleep with Warren. Kiss him. Tease him. Flirt with him. But this casual talk about our lives, about our days, it’s a new sort of game. One I’m learning to play.

“Hey,” he says after a beat. “I’ve got a mock meet tomorrow. Was gonna swing by Sycamore before to grab my last paycheck. You want me to pick yours up, too?”

“Oh.” I blink, thrown off-balance. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“Cool.”

He said that like it’s nothing to him. Like this—being here, doing something small and considerate for me—is normal again.

I’d forgotten this part about Warren. How thoughtful he could be without making a big deal of it. How he’d pick up the slack before I even realized there was slack to pick up.

When I was sick, he’d grab my assignments without me asking. When I got a flat tire on my bike, he patched it up before I’d even noticed. When I spent days wallowing in my room after a shitty voicemail from my parents, Warren showed up with greasy fries and a six-pack and never asked why I wasn’t leaving my bed.

He just . . . handled things.

And now, he’s back to doing that. Back to taking care of me, even when I’m not sure I deserve it. For all intents and purposes, it seems he’s forgiven me. Maybe even trusts me again. But I can’t seem to extend that same grace to myself.

“This feels strange,” I blurt. “Us, I mean.”

“Strange how?”

I shift in my seat. “Like . . . I don’t know.” I shake my head, frustrated with myself. “Are we just pretending everything’s normal now? Like nothing happened? Like we didn’t break each other and then pretend the cracks weren’t still showing.”

He leans back against the couch, stretching one arm across the back of it. It’s like he’s giving me space but still wants to be close. Like he’s listening without trying to fix it.

“Does it feel normal to you?”

“No,” I admit. “But I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like.”

His gaze softens, and for a second, I can’t look at him. Because this is Warren—myWarren—and I’m still not sure what he sees when he looks at me now. If he’s still angry. If he still resents me.

Am I still his Quinn? Or am I the girl who stole from him that he can’t help but miss anyway?

“I didn’t . . .” I swallow hard, my voice quieter now. “God, Warren, I didn’t ruin your life, did I?”

His breath leaves him in a rush—half sigh, half laugh—and when I finally meet his eyes, there’s something softer there. Less sharp, less guarded. Like an ember that’s been smoldering all this time, just waiting for air.

“No,” he says, and his hand finds my knee, curling there like it belongs. “You sure as hell haunted me, but you didn’t ruin me.”

I blink hard. “I still feel like I should be apologizing every five minutes.”

“You don’t have to.” His fingers squeeze gently. “I mean, yeah, you pissed me off. Broke my heart a little.” He smiles wryly, like he’s teasing, but there’s an edge of truth there too. “But if I was still pissed at you, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “I guess that makes sense.”

“C’mere.”

He tugs on my knee. I shift closer, and suddenly, his arm is around me, pulling me into his side. His body is warm, solid. Familiar in a way that makes my breath catch. This time, when he holds me, it’s not about sex, or regret, or overthinking everything we’ve done wrong. It’s just him,us, the steady rhythm of his heart against my ear.

“I missed this,” I whisper. “You holding me like this.”

He stills, his breath catching against my skin.

I know I’m usually prickly Quinn, guarded Quinn. The girl who keeps people at arm’s length because it’s easier than letting them see the parts of me I don’t know how to explain. But with Warren, I can soften. Let my guard down without it feeling like a risk.

With him, I never had to explain. He just got it. Got me.

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