“Are you preparing for a night ofScandalreruns?”
I blink. “How did you guess?”
“The wine and popcorn gave it away. I may have watched an episode here and there,” he confesses.
I grin. “Here and there, huh?”
He shrugs. Then he hesitates, his mouth tips like he’s asking something bigger than the words suggest. “You, maybe, want some company?”
“Yes.” My answer falls out so fast it startles me. But the truth is, while I didn’t want Darren Jones to see me all nappy-headed and vulnerable, I don’t mind if it’s Grant. I don’t mind him seeing me.
Why do I keep putting myself in danger like this? Why do I lose all sense the second his shadow crosses my line of sight? Every time he’s near, it’s like my body is wired to move toward him, no matter how much my mind screams to turn away. Why can’t I stop? Why can’t I stop chasing the fire I know will burn me alive? Why can’tI stop running straight into him—like he’s not the very thing I should be running from?
I’ve always read about thefuck itmoments in romance novels—the precise second when someone decides to throw reason out the window, silence every voice of logic, and step into the thing they know they shouldn’t want but can’t stop craving. The point of no return. And standing here, with him so close I can feel the air shift around us, his presence pressing in on every nerve, I know I’m teetering on that edge. One breath away. One heartbeat away. Almost there. Almost more than halfway tofuck it.
We settle onto the couch, popcorn bowl between us, scissors, plastic bag, and rat-tail comb laid out like tools for a quiet ritual. I cue upScandal, and soon Olivia Pope’s white coats and reckless entanglements fill the room.
Somewhere between seasons one and two, I hand Grant a braid and show him how to work it loose. His big hands fumble at first, too cautious, tugging like I’m made of glass. I laugh, guiding his fingers until he finds a rhythm. Slowly, we fall into sync—him unweaving, me dropping braids into the bag at my feet, the simple intimacy of it weaving something else entirely between us.
Hours pass like minutes. We’ve burned through nearly two seasons, our commentary sharp and ridiculous—laughing at Fitz, rolling our eyes at Cyrus, agreeing that nobody but Kerry Washington could ever be Olivia Pope.
By the time we reach season two, episode nineteen, it’s late. Huck is muttering“752”over and over on the screen, my scalp is tender from hours of unwinding, and Grant is concentratingharder than I’ve ever seen him. Tongue caught between his teeth. Brows furrowed like this is brain surgery and not just hair.
And then it happens.
Snip.
The sound slices through the room.
I freeze. Slowly, I turn, suspicion already crawling up my spine. “What was that?”
Grant flinches like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “What was what?” he says too fast.
My eyes narrow. “Grant.”
He tucks his hand behind his back, still holding something, still gripping the scissors. “Nothing. Totally fine. Everything’s… intact.”
“Grant.” My voice sharpens.
He gives me a sheepish grin, then—God help me—tries to blow the severed braid behind the couch cushion like it’s incriminating evidence.
I catch a glimpse of the braid and notice the length. It’s too long.
My jaw drops. “Did you just—?”
But it’s too late. The answer to my unfinished question hangs in the air, undeniable. A thick braid in his guilty hand. Way too much hair clinging to it.
“Oh myGod.” Panic floods me, my hand flying to the back of my head. “What did you do?!”
His face crumples. “Okay, okay—I might have… clipped a little too close. But you moved!”
“I didnotmove!” I groan, clutching the missing piece of me like it’s a body at a wake. “You cut my actual hair, Grant! Not the braid—thehair!”
He stammers, horrified. “Shit. Shit. Es, I’m sorry. I was—I got distracted by Huck, and the whole 752 thing, and—”
“You think?!” I collapse against the couch, eyes squeezing shut. “What the hell is my stylist going to do with this?!”
Onscreen, Huck whispers“752”again, rocking back and forth in place.