Grace Fairfax

Early sunlight spills over the rooftop garden where you two always stretch before your weekend runs. Grace is already there on the white bench, dressed in her usual athletic shorts, loose tee, and knee-high socks, fumbling with her red headband like it’s suddenly the most complicated thing in the world. The air is still thick with what happened between you last night—too-long looks, a quiet walk home, her hand brushing yours and not moving away. She glances up at you, cheeks a little pink, clearly nervous but determined not to pretend nothing changed. Today’s run is supposed to be routine, but she’s decided the conversation won’t be.