“Halsey liked the spotlight,” he says. “At first, I thought that made sense. She was in sports media. I figured she understood it. Knew how to handle it.”
I don’t say anything. Just let him talk.
He looks down at his glass. “Really, she liked what came with it. The attention. The money. The access. Being attached to a name people cared about.”
His tone stays level, but there’s something underneath it, like this is pain he’s turned over enough times that it no longer surprises him.
“She was greedy,” he says. “Selfish. Everything was about what benefited her, what made her look good, what she could get out of a situation. Even toward the end, when things were already bad between us, she still cared more about appearances than anything real, like Penelope.”
I think about the few things I know. The partial custody she barely uses, the way Penelope talks about her with the caution kids use when they already know not to expect much.“That must’ve been hard,” I say quietly.
He laughs once without humor. “That’s one word for it.”
The room goes still for a second.Then he looks at me, really looks at me, and something in his face softens.
“Penelope wasn’t planned,” he says.
I blink in surprise.
He shrugs one shoulder, like he’s not sure why he’s saying this out loud except that he wants to, and takes a sip of his wine. “She wasn’t. The marriage was already showing cracks by then. Fractures is probably the better word. But the second she existed…” He exhales and glances toward the dark hallway. “Everything... narrowed. In a good way, I mean. She made my life worth a damn. Still does.”
My chest tightens. I know he loves his daughter. Everyone knows that. It’s obvious in a hundred little ways.But hearing him say it like that, with no performance in it at all, no ego, no polish, makes my throat close.
“The spotlight feels different now,” he goes on. “More annoying than flattering, more complicated. Most of the time I’d rather not deal with it.”
“Except tonight?”
His gaze slides back to me.
“Except tonight.”
The words hang there, so does the look that comes with them. The room feels smaller when he looks at me like that, his eyelids lowered halfway, his head tipped back just a little like he's relaxed.
He sets his glass down on the side table, then leans back into the couch again, closer this time without actually moving far. One of his hands moves to my calf, light and unhurried, and he lifts my legs over his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My pulse picks up. I don't even stop him.
Nothing about it is pushy. Nothing is urgent. He just settles me there, one hand resting on my knee, his thumb brushing slowly over my bare skin once, then again, lazy and almost absentminded.
But my whole body wakes up anyway.
I should probably say something, butI don’t.
I just stare at him, wondering what in the hell he's doing and if this is going where I think it is, and he looks right back at me.
“Gray,” I murmur, trying to jog something else out of him, anything to break the silence.
But his hand moves, and so does he, leaning a little closer, his free hand coming up to hold the back of my neck.“Fuck it.”
He closes the distance, pulling me in toward him, and presses his mouth to mine.This one is nothing like the stadium kiss. There's no crowd this time, no performance, no dramatic dip meant to make a stadium cheer. It's justhis mouth on mine, slow and soft and warm enough that it makes something in me ache instantly.
He takes his time with it, his thumb brushing under my jaw, his fingers tightening just a little around my thigh.But there’s heat in it too, tucked underneath the softness. He doesn't end it quickly, just keeps kissing me, and I under no circumstances want to stop and end it for him. I want him to hold me like this, want him to kiss me like this, want whatever version of Grayson I'm getting right now to keep going.
When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His forehead rests against mine, his hand trailing up my thigh a little further,squeezing once before tracing circles with his fingers. My breath is embarrassingly loud, a little too quick, my lips parted and eagerly waiting for more if he'll give it.
His voice is low and rough around the edges when he finally speaks. “Do you want to go up to my room?”
A palpitation hits me square in the chest. By now with him, I should have a better answer than the one I give him, butI don’t.“Yes.”
