Morning finds me still angry. I shower until the water runs cold. Scrub my skin like I can wash away the memory of him inside me. It doesn't work. And Mom’s presence in my bedroom doesn’t make it any better.
My phone buzzes around eleven.
Grant: You free today?
I should say no.
Instead I type: Yes. Your place.
Grant: See you in an hour.
Mom asks where I'm going and I lie smoothly. "Coffee with Claire. She's picking me up."
She beams. Pleased her daughter is so responsible. So good.
I text Claire: Cover for me if my parents ask. Say we got coffee.
Claire: Again? What are you doing?
Me: Don't ask.
Claire: Be careful.
Grant picks me up two blocks over where Mom can't see his car. The drive to his place is quiet. Too quiet.
"Bad night?"
The understatement almost makes me laugh.
"Something like that."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No." I close the door behind us as we walk into his apartment.
I kiss him before he can ask more questions. Before he can be kind and patient and everything that makes guilt worse. The kiss is aggressive. Graceless. More attack than affection.
Grant responds carefully at first. Letting me lead. Letting me take what I need. His hands settle on my waist. Steady. Safe.
Wrong.
I don't want safe. Don't want careful. Want something that erases last night. Want to prove that Jordan doesn't own the space under my skin.
We stumble toward his bedroom. Kissing. Fumbling. Grant breaks away long enough to ask, "Are you sure about this?"
"Yes."
"Maya—"
"Please. I need this. I need you."
The lie tastes like ash but he believes it. Pulls me down onto his bed with reverence that makes my chest ache.
He undresses me slowly, asking permission. "Is this okay? Tell me if you want me to stop."
I won't stop him. Can't. Because stopping means thinking and thinking means feeling and feeling means admitting that I'm using him. Using this. Using everything to avoid the truth.
Grant kisses down my neck. My collarbone. Takes his time learning my body with a patience that should feel good but instead makes me want to scream. Because I want the desperation Jordan brought. The edge. The feeling of burning alive.
But Grant isn't Jordan. Won't be Jordan. Treats me like I'm fragile when I want to shatter.
When he finally settles between my thighs, he moves with careful intention. Slides inside slowly. Watching my face. Reading every reaction.
He goes still. Forehead creasing. "Maya." His voice carries confusion. Wonder. Something else I can't name. "Am I your first?"
The assumption is so absurd I nearly laugh.
Instead I pull him down. "Shut up."
"But—"
"I don't want to talk. Move."
He does. Slow. Measured. Building toward something with the patience of someone who thinks they're introducing me to intimacy rather than trying to compete with a ghost.
My mind catalogs every difference. Jordan had been rough urgency. Hands gripping hard enough to bruise. Taking and letting me take in return. No questions. No checking in. Just raw wanting that consumed everything.
Grant is measured patience. Careful touch. Asking "is this okay?" and waiting for answers. Treating me like something sacred rather than something to devour.
Neither approach is wrong. Both are honest. But Grant's gentleness doesn't satisfy the hunger Jordan awakened. Doesn't reach the places Jordan touched. Doesn't fill the emptiness left behind.
I want the edge. The danger. The feeling of burning.
Grant gives me safety. Reverence. Care.
And I hate myself for wanting more.
I close my eyes. Try to be present. Try to feel what I should feel.
Instead I feel like a liar.
When release builds, it's different than last night. Quieter. Gentler. Like the difference between wildfire and candlelight. Both are heat. Both are real. But one consumes and one illuminates.
I come with Grant's name on my lips because it's expected. Because he deserves that much. Because the truth would destroy whatever this is.
He follows moments later. Forehead pressed to mine. Breathing my name like benediction. Like I've given him something holy.
Afterward, he holds me with obvious satisfaction. Believing he's shared something sacred. Believing I chose him. Believing this means more than escape.
"That was incredible." His hand traces patterns on my back. "You're incredible."
Guilt wraps around my ribs. Squeezes.
"Grant—"
"I know we said this was complicated. That we started as strategy." His voice carries vulnerability that makes my chest ache. "But somewhere along the way, you became real to me. This became real."
I should tell him. Should be honest about last night. About Jordan. About using this moment to erase someone else.
But the words stick. Because telling him means hurting him. And he doesn't deserve more hurt.
"We should probably get up." I pull away. Reach for my clothes. "My parents will wonder where I am."
"Right. Of course." He watches me dress with an expression I can't read. "Maya?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I ask you something?"
My hands freeze on my jeans zipper. "Okay."
"Are you happy? With this? With us?"
The question is too big. Too honest. Too dangerous.
"I don't know what happy looks like anymore."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
He accepts this. Nods. Doesn't push.
I finish dressing in silence thick with everything unsaid. When I reach for my bag, Grant catches my hand.
"Thank you." His voice is quiet. Earnest. "For trusting me with this. For choosing to be here."
The gratitude in his voice makes guilt intensify into something physically painful. My chest constricts. Breath catches.
Because I didn't choose him. Didn't trust him with something precious. Didn't give him anything real.
I ran. From Jordan. From feelings too big to process. From the emptiness left behind by someone too afraid to stay.
And Grant bore the weight of that running. Let me use his body to chase away someone else's ghost. Believed my lies because the truth would break whatever we're building.
"I should go." The words come out strangled.
"Okay." He releases my hand. "Text me later?"
"Sure."
I walk out before the guilt chokes me. Before the truth tears free. Before I have to see his face when he realizes what I've done.
Outside, the afternoon sun feels too bright. Too honest. Exposing every lie I just told with my body.
I used Grant. Let him believe he was first. Let him think this meant something beyond escape.
And the worst part? I'd do it again. Because anything is better than sitting with what Jordan left behind.
Because having Jordan hurt. And using Grant to forget hurts worse.
And I don't know how to stop destroying everyone I touch.