Page 85 of Freestyle
But it comes out in the way my fingers brush Gray’s when he passes me a coffee, lingering longer than necessary, like maybe I forgot how to let go. It’s in the way I angle my body toward Phoenix when we sit too close on the couch, like his warmth is gravity and I’m just tired of fighting orbit.
They don’t call me on it.
They notice—of course they notice—but neither of them push. They just... let me be. Let me want something without demanding I name it.
I catch Gray watching me sometimes. Not protective. Not predatory. Just quiet, searching, like he’s trying to memorize every version of me in case this one slips away too.
And Phoenix, he’s gentler now. Not softer, because there’s nothing soft about the way he looks at me when I’m notpaying attention, but he moves quieter. Like if he’s patient enough, I’ll fall right into his hands.
God help me, part of me wants to.
But I can’t say it, I can’t admit that I feel safer in their chaos than I ever did in anyone else’s calm.
So I keep it buried. Half-glimpsed in passing glances, in the way I laugh a little easier when they’re near, in the way I’ve started sleeping through the night again and haven’t dared ask myself why.
If love lives anywhere in this mess, it’s in the things I don’t say.
And that silence?
It’s starting to sound an awful lot like hope.
It’s strange how fast comfort becomes its own kind of tether.
The week looms ahead, lectures, lab deadlines, the daily churn of campus life but it all feels distant, like background noise under the hum of their presence. I should be panicking. There’s a stalker out there, a name clawed into the edges of every fear I’ve tried to bury.
But instead of spiraling, I’m slipping into their orbit.
I didn’t argue when they told me I was staying. I didn’t list reasons, didn’t dig for independence like I always do because being wrapped up in Gray’s warmth and the quiet steadiness of Phoenix’s gaze has started to feel like something I’ve never had.
A home thatbreathes.
There’s coffee on the table. Gray’s voice murmuring something in the kitchen. Phoenix pacing near the window, glancing out every few seconds like the shadows might try something if he looks away.
They haven’t said it, not in words, but I feel it in everything they do.
They’re not just guarding me.
They’rechoosing me.
And I’m starting to realize; maybe I’ve spent my whole life surviving, just waiting for the moment someone looked at me not as a responsibility, but as something worthfighting for.
Gray slides the mug across the table like it’s a peace offering, or a ritual.
The smell hits before I even touch it; dark roast, a splash of oat milk, the way I like it but always pretend not to care about. He doesn’t say anything when I curl my hands around it, just watches until I take the first sip.
Thenhe leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, and says, “Let’s talk about today.”
I blink. “Today?”
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Your schedule. We’re walking you to and from class.”
Across the room, Phoenix doesn’t look up from where he’s lacing his boots, but I feel the weight of his attention shift immediately.
“Gray—”
He lifts a hand, silencing the protest before I can finish it.
“I know you don’t want a detail. This isn’t that.” His gaze softens, just a fraction. “You’re not going alone. Not after what we found.”
