Mom drops me off at Grant's building. They think I'm meeting Mrs. Ellison about wedding venues. The approved fiancé gets his privileges.
Grant's apartment surprises me. I expected something sterile and expensive. Instead, books stack everywhere in precarious towers. Art prints are tacked to walls without frames. A half-finished painting leans against the window, still wet.
"Sorry for the mess." He clears magazines from the couch. "I wasn't expecting the maid today."
"You have a maid?"
"God, no. That was a joke." He gestures around. "Coffee? Water? I have wine but it's barely noon."
"Water's fine."
He disappears into the kitchen. I drift toward the painting by the window. Bold strokes. Vibrant color. A figure breaking free from something not fully visible.
"You did this?"
"Yeah." His voice carries from the other room. "It's not done yet. Probably never will be."
"It's good."
"You sound surprised."
"I am surprised." I turn when he returns with two glasses. "You're actually talented."
"Don't tell my parents. They think I waste my time."
"They haven't seen your work?"
"They don't want to." He hands me the water. "Seeing it would mean acknowledging I'm serious. Easier to pretend it's a phase."
I sip slowly.
"We're supposed to be talking strategy." I sit on the couch. "Planning how to navigate our parents' expectations."
"Right. Strategy." He sits beside me. "What's our game plan?"
"I don't know. You're the one who texted about needing to meet."
"I lied." His smile is sheepish. "I just wanted to see you again. Without the performance."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Grant—"
"I know. This is complicated. We're supposed to be playing a part." He sets his glass down. "But I'm tired of pretending with you. Can we just be honest for once?"
"Honest about what?"
"About the fact that I actually like you." He runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair. "Not because our parents decided it. Not because it's convenient. I just do."
My throat tightens. "You barely know me."
"I know you called me a jerk in front of everyone and didn't apologize." His eyes are warm. "I know you're trapped in a situation you didn't choose and you're still fighting. I know you want art school and your parents won't let you have it. I know you're stronger than anyone gives you credit for."
"That's not knowing me. That's observing me."
"Maybe. But I want to know more." He shifts closer. "Tell me something real. Something you've never told anyone."
The question catches me off guard. I should deflect. Should keep the walls up.
Instead, I hear myself say, "I'm terrified I'll never be free."
"Of the belt?"
"Of everything. My whole life is that belt. Locked. Controlled. Monitored." My hands twist in my lap. "And the worst part is wondering if I even know who I am underneath it all. If I'm just a collection of their rules and expectations with nothing real underneath."
Grant doesn't respond immediately. When he does, his voice is quiet.
"I fought with my father for two years about art school. Screaming matches. Threats. He told me I was throwing away my future. That I'd regret choosing passion over stability."
"What did you say?"
"That I'd rather regret trying than regret never knowing." He looks at me. "You're not just their rules, Maya. You're the person who fights even when fighting seems impossible. That's real. That's you."
Something in my chest loosens. Before I can think better of it, I lean forward and kiss him.
He goes still for a heartbeat. Then his hand cups my face and he kisses me back. Gentle at first. Asking permission with every movement.
Different from Jordan. Completely different.
Jordan had consumed me. Desperate and hungry and overwhelming. This is careful. Intentional. Like Grant is trying to memorize me rather than devour me.
His thumb traces my jaw. I press closer. His other hand settles on my waist and my breath catches.
"Is this okay?" he murmurs against my mouth.
"Yes."
"Tell me if it's not."
"I will."
We move to the couch properly. His hands slide under my shirt, mapping skin with careful attention. Every touch asks a question. Every response gives an answer.
He discovers the sensitive spot below my ear and exploits it until I gasp against his shoulder. His breathing changes when my hand slides under his shirt. Speeds up when I bite his lower lip.
"Maya." My name sounds wrecked in his mouth. "We should slow down."
"Do you want to slow down?"
"No. But I want to make sure you're sure."
I pull back enough to meet his storm-dark eyes. "I'm sure."
His hand slides up my thigh. Higher. Until his fingers hit the belt's edge.
He freezes.
"Can you feel anything through it?"
I shake my head.
Frustration flashes across his face. Not for himself. For me.
"That's so fucked up." He says it quietly. Almost to himself.
Then he kisses me again. Softer this time. Like an apology for something that isn't his fault.
We stay like that for a long time. Kissing. Touching everywhere the belt allows. Learning each other's responses.
When he finally pulls back, both of us are breathing hard.
"I should get you home."
"Probably."
Neither of us moves for another minute. Then Grant stands, offers his hand.
The drive home starts quiet. His hand finds mine on the console. The familiar streets slide past the window. Three blocks from my house, he pulls to the curb instead of turning onto my street.
"Grant?"
"Wait. I need to say something first." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "I know this is complicated. I know we started this because we were both trapped.
"Okay."
"But I need you to know I'm not doing this just to survive our parents anymore." He looks at me. Really looks. "I'm starting to care about you."
The words land with weight I can't carry. My chest tightens. Heat floods my face but it's not desire. It's guilt.
"Grant—"
"You don't have to say it back. I just needed you to know." His smile is gentle. Unguarded.
I should tell him. Should confess about Jordan. About the workshop and the kitchen and every moment I've spent wanting someone else even while kissing him.
But the words stick in my throat.
"Thank you for today," I manage.
He leans over and kisses me once more. Sweet. Unhurried.
"Text me later?" Grant asks as I open the door.
"I will."
As I watch him drive away, my stomach churns with something uglier than nervousness.
I'm going to hurt him.
And the certainty of it makes me feel sick.