The silence had changed.
It wasn't tense like before. It felt as though both of us were waiting for the other to move, breathe, break.
Grayson sat on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, head bowed, hands clasped so tight his knuckles had gone white. The rise and fall of his shoulders told me everything—he was breaking apart.
I sat on the opposite edge, staring at the back of his neck. The muscles there were tight, strained. He looked like a man trying not to shatter.
A minute passed.
Maybe two.
Maybe a lifetime.
My chest squeezed. The distance between us felt unbearable.
I forced down a lump in my throat and reached out—just my fingers, trembling a little—touching the back of his hand.
He flinched.
But he didn’t pull away.
“Grayson,” I whispered.
His head lif
