Page 64 of Well That Happened

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I shake my head no. “Does it ever get easier?”

“This job? This place? It’ll break your heart a thousand ways,” she says, voice soft. “But if it stops hitting you this hard?” She shakes her head. “That’swhen you should worry.”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

She rests a hand on my shoulder again. “Go home. Sleep. You’re human, Rilee. That’s not a flaw.”

I clock out an hour later, shoes dragging, eyes heavy. It’s still dark when I step outside. My keys feel foreign in my hand. My car hums as I start it. The drive home blurs.

By the time I get to the house, it’s nearly 5:00 a.m.

And I’m not okay.

The house is quiet.

Lights off, save for the soft glow under the kitchen door.

I slip inside like a ghost. Shoes in hand. Scrubs still on. I just want to shower, crawl into bed, and pretend I’m someone else for a few hours.

But then I see him.

Grayson.

Sitting at the kitchen table in sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt, one ankle propped on his knee, a sketchbook open beside a half-finished cup of something that’s definitely not water.

He looks up when I enter, his eyes shadowed but alert. Steady in the way that makes it hard to breathe.

“You’re home late,” he says, voice low.

“Rough shift,” I murmur.

He nods once. “You hungry?”

I shake my head.

“Thirsty?”

I hesitate.

Then shrug. “Maybe.”

He stands, moves with that quiet, purposeful ease that always makes it feel like he’s carrying a secret. Opens a cabinet, pulls down a mug.

“Sit,” he says.

And for some reason, I do.

The chair is cool beneath me. My limbs feel weightless and heavy all at once.

Grayson moves like he’s done this a thousand times—water, kettle, a bag of mint tea he found somewhere in the chaos of their pantry. He pours a splash of something amber into the mug before adding hot water.

I lift a brow. “Whiskey?”

“Just a little,” he says. “Call it medicinal.”

He places the mug in front of me. His fingers brush mine. Barely. But I feel it all the way down.

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