Page 86 of Freestyle
My throat tightens. The pony, the notes, the soft scratch of an A still echoing in my head.
“I’ve got Econ at nine,” I mutter. “Then Sociology at noon. Break till two, then lab.”
“I’ll take the morning,” Gray says smoothly, already reaching for his keys. “Nix will cover the afternoon.”
Phoenix finally stands, adjusting the chain around his wrist. “I’ll meet you outside the lab. Walk you back.”
“You guys don’t have to—”
“We want to,” Gray interrupts, calm but firm. “Row, this isn’t about you being weak. It’s about us giving a damn.”
Phoenix shrugs. “Plus, walking you around campus gives us the perfect excuse to stare down anyone who looks at you wrong. It’s a win-win.”
I smirk into my mug, but inside, something shifts.
I finish getting dressed and head back downstairs. Gray’s leaning against the banister at the foot of the stairs when I spot him, backpack slung effortlessly over one shoulder, sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he just rolled out of a crime of fashion. The morning light filters in behind him, catching in the messy edges of his hair and painting him in gold like a damn oil painting that forgot it wasn’t supposed to smirk.
Grayson Ford isn’t just handsome.
He’s ruin-you-with-a-look hot. Dangerous-in-a-library hot. The kind of hot that makes you forget your own name and what year it is.
He’s wearing all black, of course. Black jeans, black Henley shirt clinging to broad shoulders and forearms like sin. The veins in his forearms are visible where he’s gripping the strap of his bag, and I hate that I notice, but not enough to stop looking.
His gaze lifts as I hit the bottom stair.
And then hesmiles.
Not the smug one he uses on people who underestimate him. The other one, the rare one. Soft, crooked, a little tired. Just for me.
My stomach flips so hard that I feel it in my throat.
I barely manage to keep walking because it hits me, like a sucker punch wrapped in heat; He’s here. Waiting for me. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe the scariest part is how easy it is to want that, to let that become real.
His fingers lace through mine like it’s second nature, like we’ve been doing this for years.
The walk to class isn’t far. Campus is drowsy with Monday fatigue, low voices, the rustle of backpacks, coffee cups clutched like lifelines. And yet somehow, it feels like every pair of eyes finds us.
Or maybe just me.
I hear the murmurs as we pass.
Is that Grayson Ford?
Since when does he hold hands with anyone?
I want to shrink from it. The whispers, the heat crawling up the back of my neck. But Gray’s thumb brushes a slow, grounding stroke across the back of my hand.
“Ignore them,” he murmurs, voice low enough to be just for me. “They’re not even looking at you. They’re looking at me, wondering how I got so lucky.”
I almost trip.
It’s not just what he says. It’s the ease in his voice, like he’s not even trying to be smooth. Like he means it.
I glance up at him. He’s not smiling, not posturing. Just watching the path ahead like we’re on any ordinary walk and not flipping the whole social gravity of this school on its head.
And here I am, cheeks flushing like I’m fifteen and this is the first time someone’s ever held my hand in public andmeant it.
