Page 37 of Well That Happened

A faint glow slipping from Grayson’s room. The door’s cracked an inch, soft yellow light spilling out, warm and quiet. Like a secret.

I hesitate—just for a second—then knock lightly and push it open.

He’s at his desk, shirtless, back to me, bent over something with a pencil in hand. There’s music playing low, something acoustic and wordless. A small desk lamp casts gold over his shoulders, and his tattoos shift when he moves, like they’re breathing with him.

He turns slightly, sees me in the doorway. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak.

Just nods once.

I step inside, suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing. “Couldn’t sleep,” I say.

He gestures to the empty side of the bed without looking up. “Join the club.”

I cross the room and sit, watching him work for a second. “What are you drawing?”

He tears the page out and hands it to me without a word.

It’s me.

Sitting on the stairs, hoodie half-off one shoulder, hair wild, a cereal bowl in my lap. Head tilted, eyes distant—like I’m thinking about something I don’t want to say out loud.

And he caught it. All of it.

My breath catches. “This is…”

“I drew it the night you moved in.”

I glance up. He’s watching me now, pencil forgotten in his fingers.

“Why?” I ask, softer than before.

Grayson shrugs. “You looked like someone trying not to fall apart.”

There’s no pity in his voice. Just fact.

And understanding.

I stare at the sketch again. “You really see people, don’t you?”

He leans back in his chair, head tilting. “You make it easy.”

The silence stretches—comfortable, electric.

And then he stands.

Moves toward me, slow and steady, until he’s right in front of me. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Close enough that I stop breathing.

“You always walk into people’s rooms uninvited?” he murmurs.

“You always draw people without asking?”

He smirks. “Touché.”

He reaches up, brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers graze my cheek—light, almost hesitant.

And then he kisses me.

No warning. No question.