Grace
Maria does not believe in easing into situations.
She barrels straight through the moment like it’s a door that has been left unlocked, boots crunching over the snow as she closes the distance between us in record time. Her coat is bright against the gray afternoon, scarf half-unwound at her throat, curls bouncing with every step like she physically cannot contain herself.
“Wow,” she says, drawing the word out as her eyes flick between Dawson and me, lingering pointedly on the space we very clearly did not bother to put back between us. “Don’t you two look… cozy.”
Heat rushes to my face, and I open my mouth, then close it again, because I genuinely have no idea what to say. That doesn’t sound like an admission. When she called the other day demanding to know what was going on wit
