The gallery opening feels like stepping into another world. High ceilings. White walls. Art that doesn't apologize for taking up space. Grant holds the door for me and I walk through into possibility.
"This is the kind of place I want to show in someday." He says it quiet. Like confession.
"You will."
His smile is genuine. Unguarded. "Come on. Let's look around."
We drift through the space. Stop in front of an abstract canvas. Discuss technique. Composition. His knowledge isn't performative. He sees the same things I do. Understands the language of visual expression in a way that makes conversation feel like collaboration.
"This one." I stop in front of a piece that's mostly shadow. "It's about concealment."
"Or revelation." Grant tilts his head. "Depends on what you're looking for."
"What are you looking for?"
"Truth." He meets my eyes. "In art. In people. In everything."
The moment stretches. Weighted. Real.
"Bathroom?"
"Down that hall. On the left."
I walk away feeling his eyes on me. The single-stall bathroom is small. Clean. I lock the door and lean against the sink.
A knock comes thirty seconds later.
I unlock it. Grant slips inside. Locks it behind him.
"Hi."
"Hi." I barely get the word out before he's kissing me.
Different than before. Less tentative. More certain. His hands cup my face and then slide into my hair. I press closer. He backs me against the sink.
His hands slide under my shirt. Map skin with careful attention. Not timid. Just attentive. Every touch asks a question. Every catch in my breath gives an answer.
He kisses down my jaw.
"You like that?"
"Yes." I gasp against his shoulder. My fingers dig into his back.
"Good." He does it again. Teeth grazing. Tongue soothing. "I want to know everything that makes you feel good."
My breath comes faster. His hands trace my sides. My ribs. The curve of my waist.
"We should go." The words come out breathless.
"Probably."
Neither of us moves. His forehead drops to mine. We breathe together.
"Okay. Actually going now."
"Good plan."
He kisses me once more. Soft. Sweet. Then unlocks the door and checks the hallway.
"Clear."
I slip out first. He follows a minute later. We meet back at the abstract canvas like nothing happened.
The drive back starts quiet. Comfortable. He finds a dark corner of the museum lot and parks.
"Come here."
I climb over the console. Awkward. Laughing. End up halfway in his lap.
We make out like teenagers. Hands everywhere. Breathing ragged. His hand slides up my thigh. Higher. Until his fingers hit the belt's edge.
He freezes. Than his hand spreads flat against my stomach. Above the belt. Like he's trying to will sensation through steel and into the places it guards.
"I wish I could give you that back."
"You're giving me what you can."
The words hang between us. True and insufficient all at once.
"Still. You deserve better."
"I know."
We stay like that. Foreheads pressed together. His hand warm against my skin.
Eventually, he starts driving. The highway stretches dark. Street lights blur past.
I think about differences. Jordan makes me feel like I'm made of gasoline and he's a lit match. Every touch is ignition. Every look is combustion. Being near him feels like standing too close to a fire.
Grant makes me feel seen. Understood. Like I'm a whole person instead of just a body to consume. He asks what I think. Listens to the answer. Makes space for me to exist beyond wanting.
Neither feeling is wrong.
Neither is enough.
"What are you thinking?" Grant glances at me.
"About art. And honesty. And how complicated everything is."
"Heavy thoughts for a Friday night."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize." His hand finds mine on the console. "I like that you think. That you don't just go through motions."
"Most people don't like that about me."
"Most people are idiots."
I laugh. Real and surprised.
We pull onto my street. Grant slows. Parks in my driveway.
"Thank you for tonight." I reach for the door handle.
"Wait." His hand tightens on mine. "I need to tell you something."
My stomach drops. "Okay."
"My mother's been watching us differently lately."
"What do you mean?"
"Just. Noticing things. Asking questions. Like she's looking for something." His hand moves to the steering wheel. Grips it hard enough his knuckles go white. "We need to be more careful."
"Careful how?"
"I don't know. Just aware." He looks at me. "She's suspicious by nature. And lately she's been more so."
"About us?"
"About something. I can't figure out what." His jaw tightens. "But I don't trust it. Don't trust her when she gets that look."
Fear prickles down my spine. "You think she knows about the key plan?"
"No. She can't. We've been careful." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself. "But she senses something's off. And when she senses that, she digs."
"What do we do?"
"Keep playing the part. Engaged couple. Following expectations." He releases the steering wheel. Flexes his fingers. "We just need to make it to the gala."
"And if she figures it out before then?"
"She won't." His voice is firm. "I won't let her."
I want to believe him. But the fear in his eyes tells a different story.
"Okay."
"Okay." He cups my face and kisses me. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of kiss meant to be witnessed. When he pulls back, his eyes search mine. "Goodnight, Maya."
"Goodnight."
I climb out. Walk to my house with his headlights at my back. He waits until I'm at the door before pulling away. His taillights disappear around the corner.
I glance up at the house. Jordan's bedroom window. The curtain moves slightly. Or maybe I imagine it. Maybe I hope for it.
Inside, the house is dark. Mom and Dad already asleep. I climb the stairs quietly. Pass Jordan's closed door. No light underneath. But I feel his presence anyway. Feel the weight of whether he saw. Whether he's awake right now thinking about Grant's mouth on mine.
The thought sends heat through me that has nothing to do with Grant.
In my room, I lock the door and lean against it. My pulse races.
I should feel guilty. Should feel torn. Should hate myself for wanting this.
But I don't.
I want them both. Want Grant's careful understanding and Jordan's consuming fire. Want safety and danger in equal measure.
More than that.
I want them both to see me with the other. Want jealousy and possession and the dark thrill of making them lose control.
The belt presses against my hip. Three weeks until the gala. Until freedom. Until I can finally act on everything I'm feeling.
Is this wrong?
All I can do is wait until I find out.