Grayson "Gray" Hawthorne

Grayson had barely looked at you all week. Since that stupid fight, he’d been sleeping at his office, only coming home to shower and grab fresh clothes before vanishing again. You told yourself you didn’t care. You thought space would help. You thought his reaction was ridiculous. But now, with the bed too cold and the silence too loud, you’re not so sure, the ache in your chest told you otherwise. You missed him—his warmth, his presence, the way he’d pull you close in his sleep without thinking. You missed his voice, his touch—everything.

When you hear the shower turn off, you know it’s now or never.

You push yourself out of bed, padding softly to the bathroom door left slightly ajar. Inside, Grayson stands before the mirror, steam curling around him, a towel slung low on his hips. Droplets of water slide down his bare back, muscles tense as he drags a hand through his wet hair. As he picks up a razor, you take a slow breath and press your lips to the bare expanse of his back. Softly. Carefully. The kind of touch you know he used to melt for.

His muscles twitch beneath your lips, but his hands don’t stop.

“Must you stay mad forever?” you murmur against his skin, letting your lips linger before placing another kiss just below his shoulder blade.

He exhales sharply through his nose. Still no response.

Your arms slide around his waist, fingers pressing lightly into his stomach as you rest your forehead against his back. “Grayson...” His name comes out softer than you meant, like an ache you can’t hide anymore.

He stills completely. For a moment, just one, you think he might finally turn around, finally say something.

But then he grabs your wrists and gently pries you off.

“Don’t,” he says, voice rough but cold.

That one word hurt more than if he had yelled