By late morning, Liv was pulling on a long camel trench coat and looping her scarf loosely around her neck. The fall chill had sharpened since sunrise — a clean, bracing 56 degrees that made her feel both alert and nostalgic. The sky had turned that familiar Boston gray-blue, clouds drifting slowly and low over the spired skyline.
She was just about to head out the door when Daniel appeared, biting into an apple and juggling two granola bars.
"Where you headed?" he asked, tossing one bar to her.
She caught it with one hand, eyebrow raised. "Brattle for books. Then maybe some antique shops. Possibly a little reckless spending. Want in?"
Daniel's grin spread wide as he slid into his suede bomber jacket. "Absolutely. Haley's at work, and if I stay home, I'll end up reorganizing our spice rack in alphabetical order again."
They stepped out into the street, the building's glass doors hissing shut behind them. The fall air swept over them in a wave of dry leaves and chimney smoke, sharp and earthy. Every few steps, they crunched through small leaf piles swept against brick stoops.
As they passed through Coolidge Corner, the neighborhood stirred with Monday ease — no rush, just movement. Cyclists zipped past in scarves. Dogs trotted beside coffee-clutching owners. Cafés spilled cinnamon and espresso out into the street with every propped-open door.
"You know," Daniel said, pushing his sunglasses higher on his nose even though the sun barely flickered behind clouds, "we look like we're scouting for treasure or tracking down an elusive art thief."
Liv gave a sideways glance. "Speak for yourself. I look like a cozy detective solving coffee shop crimes."
They arrived at Brattle Book Shop, its old wooden sign creaking slightly in the breeze. Inside, the familiar aroma of paper and dust settled in her chest like home. Leather-bound books filled the shelves, and the faintest scent of lemon oil hinted that someone had polished the oak counter not long ago.
Daniel darted toward the nonfiction section, while Liv wandered deeper into poetry and classic literature. She trailed her fingers along the worn spines, the rough texture grounding her more than she expected.
"So," Daniel said eventually, sidling up beside her with a book about Viking mythology in hand, "Preston's in Boston this week."
Liv raised a brow but didn't look up from the dog-eared Neruda she was skimming.
"Said he's free Thursday night," Daniel announced, his voice laced with enthusiasm. "Good guy. Likes Italian food. Laughs at my jokes, which you know is a green flag." His eyes twinkled with mischief as he spoke.
"I think he's more your type than mine," she replied dryly, a hint of amusement dancing in her gaze.
"I'm flattered, but you're dodging the question," he persisted, a playful grin spreading across his face. "What's the harm in meeting him? It's not like it's a proposal." His voice was light and teasing, as if coaxing a child to try a new adventure.
She reached for another book on the shelf, the smooth leather spine cool against her fingers, and held it up without turning around. "Because I'm not dating anyone right now," she said, her tone firm yet gentle, like a soft refusal.
Daniel tilted his head, his expression skeptical, eyebrows raised. "Uh-huh," he drawled, his disbelief evident.
"Daniel," she repeated, her voice a soft warning.
With a dramatic sigh, he placed the Viking book back on the shelf, the sound of its spine sliding against the wood echoing in the quiet room. "Fine. No pressure," he relented, though his tone was tinged with mock resignation. "But Preston's going to think I made you up."
She smirked, a small, knowing smile creeping onto her lips. "That might be for the best," she quipped, her voice light with humor, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.
Back outside, the wind had picked up, swirling with an invisible force that seemed to dance through the streets. The air was alive with the rustling whispers of leaves skating across the crosswalks, a symphony of nature's whispers, while people huddled deeper into their coats, seeking refuge from the chill.
They had just left Brattle Book Shop, where the sidewalk beneath their feet hummed with the gentle vibrations of passing footsteps. As they strolled, ivy clung to the aged brick buildings, and maple trees stood like sentinels, already shedding their leaves like quiet confetti in hues of gold and rust. A sharp gust tugged at Liv's scarf, and she deftly caught it, tightening the loop with a swift flick of her fingers.
"I'm going to make a quick client call," she said to Daniel as they paused at a corner crosswalk, the light changing overhead. "Give me just a minute."
Daniel nodded easily, a nonchalant smile on his lips. "You got it," he replied, already reaching for his phone. "I'll text Haley and see if she wants us to pick up anything on the way back."
Liv returned his smile and took a few steps down the block, away from the flow of foot traffic and the occasional honking car that pierced the air. Her fingers hovered over Grayson's name on her phone screen. She hesitated, her mind a whirl of uncertainty. What if he was upset? She hadn't mentioned she wasn't in Chicago, and it had been almost a day since her last text.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, steeling herself, then hit the call button. The line rang once. Twice. Then—
"This is Grayson Steel."
The voice that answered was clipped, professional, and almost chilling in its detachment. The tone sent a ripple of anxiety through Liv's stomach, tightening it into a knot.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important," she said carefully, her voice laced with a hint of hesitation.
A moment of tense silence followed, stretching like a taut string. Then his voice returned, clipped and terse, like the snap of a lock closing: "Hold on."And then... an empty void.
And then... nothing.
Her heart drummed an anxious rhythm as she fixed her gaze on a nearby streetlamp, its gentle sway casting flickering shadows on the pavement. Was he in a meeting? With someone else? Was he angry with her?
A few minutes slipped by, just enough time for her nerves to unravel, their frayed ends tickling her anxiety, before his voice came back, transformed.
Deeper. Smoother.
Like velvet steeped in bourbon, rich and intoxicating.
"Apologies," he said, his voice now a low, intimate murmur that felt like a whisper against her ear. "For the wait."
That voice. It slithered around her spine, wrapping her thoughts in a haze and stealing away her common sense like a thief in the night.
She rolled her eyes, even as her pulse quickened, betraying her facade of indifference. "You're always making me wait."
A low chuckle filtered through the line, warm and teasing, like sunlight breaking through clouds. "I don't make you wait on everything, do I?"
Heat blossomed in her chest, spreading a rosy flush that crept up her neck. Even the crisp evening breeze couldn't quell the warmth.
"Mmm. I like the sound of that," he replied, a hint of satisfaction threading through his words.
"Too bad, so sad," she sang-songed, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck, the fabric brushing against her skin as she spun in a slow circle, trying to keep her nerves in check. "I'm somewhere else, and you're in Austin."
Her laugh followed, light and teasing, a melody that danced through the air—but it was mostly to keep herself grounded. She could feel herself slipping, a part of her yearning for more of that voice in her ear, that sensation of his presence even from states away.
Yet, even in the simplicity of their conversation, he had her grinning like an idiot, her cheeks flushed with a warmth that couldn't be contained. She sighed softly, a contented exhale, as the call began to wind down, signaling its inevitable end.
As the line went dead, she stood there for a second longer than necessary. Her face was warm. Her stomach was fluttering. She hated it. She loved it.
A text buzzed before she caught back up with Daniel outside the antique shop:
Grayson: You wound me.
She smiled and typed back:
Little Fox: LOL… Work.
She slipped her phone into her coat pocket just as Daniel opened the door.
"Ready to dig through other people's old junk?"
"Absolutely," she said. "Let's find some buried treasure."
Nestled between a plant store and a shoe repair shop is the antique store with a faded sign that reads "Antiques" in peeling gold letters. This small shop is positioned between the vibrant displays of plants and the enduring charm of the cobbler's workshop. As visitors enter the dimly lit store, a bell above the door, tarnished by time, softly jingles.
The storefront features an appealing combination of brick and aged, worn wood. Windows line the exterior, showcasing a variety of items such as vintage typewriters, tarnished silverware, and ornate lamps. The sign above the door creaks in the breeze, with its faded letters almost unreadable. Inside, the shelves are brimming with dusty treasures, each carrying its own unique tale and history.
The shop is compact and narrow, with shelves and displays lining the walls and occupying the spaces in between. These shelves overflow with knick-knacks and trinkets, from delicate teacups to tarnished candlesticks. Vintage posters and paintings adorn the walls, while the cluttered counter showcases various jewelry pieces and watches. The window display features antique furniture and home decor, capturing the sunlight and casting a warm glow throughout the shop.
As Olivia steps inside, they are met with the aroma of the past—a blend of wood polish, musty fabric, and traces of candles long since snuffed out. The light scent of jasmine from the nearby plant shop drifts in through the open window, infusing a hint of freshness into the otherwise timeworn atmosphere. The air is thick with the fragrance of wood, dust, and aged materials. The polish that maintains the furniture's sheen mingles with the mustiness of old books and a subtle note of sturdy leather. It's a comforting scent, evoking childhood memories of attics and visits to grandparents' homes.
Liv darted straight toward a copper mirror adorned with a delicate vine-etched frame, its polished surface gleaming softly under the store's warm lights. She traced her fingers along the cool, smooth brass edge of an antique camera, feeling the history etched in its metallic surface. Nearby, Daniel seized an aged telescope, extending it with a flourish and aiming it dramatically across the room.
"Aye, I see your past boyfriends lined up on the horizon," he declared with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
"Keep it up," Liv retorted with a playful smirk, "and I'm buying that gramophone just to blast sad love songs at you for the rest of the day."
Daniel grinned widely, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I'd expect nothing less from you, Liv."
They meandered through the shop for nearly an hour, their footsteps echoing on the polished wooden floor. Liv's treasures included a small iron key, its purpose a mystery locked within its intricate design, a dainty hand-painted teacup with delicate floral patterns, and a weathered hardcover book from the 1930s, its pages yellowed with age. Daniel departed with a vintage Celtics pennant, its colors slightly faded yet still vibrant, and a sleek flask he claimed lent him an air of being "dashing and mysterious."
Outside, the sun emerged timidly from behind a cluster of clouds, casting a gentle warmth that barely touched the cool sidewalk. The inviting aroma of roasted nuts wafted from a nearby food cart, mingling with the crisp air, while the soft, melodic strains of a saxophone floated from around the corner, adding a touch of jazz to the atmosphere.
"You've been quiet today," Daniel remarked, gently nudging her elbow as they strolled along.
"Just enjoying the air," she replied, her gaze drifting away, avoiding his eyes.
He studied her momentarily, his expression softening before offering a reassuring nod. "Just so you know—you're not alone, okay? You've got us. Even if you're figuring some stuff out."
"I know," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just need a minute."
Understanding her need for space, he didn't press further. Instead, he wrapped her in one of those comforting big-brother side-hugs, allowing it to linger warmly before they turned towards a cozy café, drawn by the promise of more coffee and a moment of respite.
By the time Liv and Daniel got back to the condo, the sky had gone full November gray, and the wind was whistling through the trees like some old Boston ghost trying to get inside. The elevator dinged open onto the penthouse floor, and Olivia was carrying two bags — one filled with antique shop finds and the other with ingredients they picked up for dinner.
"Chef Beckett and Sous Chef Webber reporting for duty," Daniel announced as he dropped his keys into the bowl on the entry table.
"I am not your sous chef," Liv said, kicking off her boots. "I'm the brains and beauty of this operation. You're just here to stir things without burning them."
"That sounds fair."
They made their way to the open kitchen. Copper pans glinted from their wall hooks, and the long island felt more like a stage than a counter. Olivia pulled out ingredients: angel hair pasta, garlic, white wine, parmesan, cherry tomatoes, and began prepping while Daniel queued up ESPN on the living room TV.
The moment the NFL Live theme blasted through the surround sound, Olivia's face twisted in faux pain. "Daniel! That intro is violence."
"You love it," he said, flipping it louder.
"I tolerate it because you sauté like a damn pro."
The apartment filled with the smell of garlic hitting hot oil, wine reducing in the pan, and fresh herbs being chopped. Olivia swirled pasta into a large ceramic bowl while Daniel opened a bottle of wine with flair — the cork popping like it had been waiting all day for its cue. They were plating when the front door opened.
Haley stepped in, coat draped over her arm, heels clicking as she entered, her red hair catching in the soft gold light from the Edison bulbs overhead.
She blinked.
ESPN was blasting.
Olivia and Daniel were laughing, clinking wine glasses, and dancing around the kitchen island while pasta steamed from a huge bowl. A bottle of red sat open. Another was uncorked and waiting.
"Oh my God," Haley said, laughing as she dropped her coat on the back of a chair. "Is this what happens when I leave for eight hours?"
Daniel reached for her immediately. "Welcome home, my goddess of spreadsheets."
He handed her a glass, pulled her close, and kissed her with a loud, dramatic mwah.
"Gross," Olivia muttered, rolling her eyes. "Get a room, or at least, like, a different side of the kitchen."
Haley giggled, sipped her wine, and turned toward the table.
Then stopped.
Froze.
Her smile faltered.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Where is he?"
Daniel blinked. "Where's who?"
"Henry."
Liv's eyes widened. "Oh no—"
"How could you?" Haley's voice went full betrayal. She stormed off up the stairs like a woman on a mission.
Daniel set his wine glass down. "I don't like that tone. That's a dangerous tone."
"Should we run?" Olivia whispered.
"Too late," Daniel muttered.
Haley reappeared moments later, descending like an avenging angel—with Henry Cavill, the cardboard cutout, in her arms, his face as serious as ever.
"I trusted you two," she said, standing at the bottom of the stairs dramatically. "We left him. He's family."
Daniel groaned. "I cannot—he's not real, Haley!"
"Henry has more emotional range than half your fantasy football team."
"Oh my God, I'm calling for a psychological wellness check," Daniel muttered.
Olivia doubled over laughing. "She hugged him like he'd been through something."
Haley gently patted Henry on the chest, kissed her fingers, and tapped them to his cardboard cheek before propping him up beside the couch.
Wine was poured, pasta served, and ESPN turned down to background chatter. The three of them gathered on the couch, plates in their laps, and threw blankets over their legs.
"So," Haley said between bites, "housewarming party."
"Yes!" Olivia said. "Give me the guest list rundown."
"A lot of coworkers," Haley said. "Some old sorority sisters. One or two of Daniel's guys. And..." Her voice dropped into a playful warning. "Emma insists on coming."
Olivia nearly choked on her wine.
"No."
"Oh yes."
"What am I missing?" Daniel asked, frowning.
"I know Emma changed outfits a lot during the wedding," he continued. "But it was her wedding. I just figured she was... I don't know... over the top."
"Over the top doesn't begin to describe the Great Emma Sinclair-Johnson," Haley said, stabbing her pasta. "One time, at our sorority's annual family dinner, she changed three times."
"She changed clothes in the middle of the dinner table," Olivia added.
Daniel stared. "What? Like, at the table?"
"No one saw her do it," Haley said seriously. "It just happened. Like magic. She doesn't even carry a bag."
"I'm sorry," Daniel said. "Are you guys serious?"
"Dead serious," Olivia said.
Haley leaned in. "Babe, did you once see her holding anything besides a cocktail at the wedding?"
Daniel blinked. "I... I thought I missed it because I was—uh—participating in... activities."
"Nope," Haley said. "Because she doesn't hold things."
Olivia sipped her wine. "Once a new pledge asked her how she did it."
"And the girl transferred a day later," Haley finished.
Daniel sat back on the couch like someone had just told him ghosts were real. "Okay. Now I know y'all are shittin' me."
"We're not," they said in unison, both wearing identical deadpan expressions.
"There's even a rule in the house," Olivia added, crossing her legs. "No one asks Emma about her outfit changes, how she does them, or where the outfits go."
Daniel blinked. "What kind of cult were y'all in?"
Haley punched him in the arm. "It wasn't a cult! That was just the one crazy rule. And it only happened after that girl transferred. Coincidence... probably."
Daniel squinted. "So you're saying... she's going to just change clothes during the housewarming party?"
"Yup," Olivia said, sipping her wine.
"And I'm just supposed to act like... that's normal?"
"Exactly," they both said.
Daniel groaned, sinking back into the couch. "This is not what I thought adulthood would look like."
Haley patted his leg. "Welcome to the rest of your life, babe."
ESPN had faded to post-game coverage, and the last of the pasta had been devoured. Plates were still stacked on the island, half-filled glasses of wine dotting the living room table like forgotten chess pieces.
Daniel leaned back on the couch, rubbing his stomach with satisfaction. "That meal may have saved my life."
"You say that about all the meals you didn't have to make," Liv said, sipping the last of her wine.
"I'm just giving credit where it's due," he said, eyes on the TV. "That throw in the third quarter was unreal. Did you see it?"
"I did. Watched it live," Liv said, flipping her hair dramatically. "Some of us have NFL RedZone and taste."
Daniel rolled his eyes. "I swear you keep that subscription just to roast me with stats."
"Not just for that," she said, leaning forward. "Also for fantasy league domination. Speaking of, I better win this week. If Travis Kelce lets me down again, I'm going to set fire to my whole roster."
"That's fair," Daniel said. "Also... I think you're terrifying when you talk about benching strategies."
"Thank you."
Haley stood, stretching as she plucked her wineglass off the table. "Okay, sports nerds. My turn. I'm claiming this man for a back massage before he conks out in those basketball shorts."
Daniel grinned. "You say that like it's not part of my charm."
"Come on, charm. Upstairs. Now," she said, tugging him by the hand.
Olivia waved them off, snorting. "Go. Canoodle. Be gross in private."
Haley turned at the stairs and wrapped her arms around Olivia in a warm, slightly wine-soft hug. "Hey—come by my office tomorrow, okay? We'll grab lunch."
Liv hugged her back, the moment pressing something warm and nostalgic into her chest. "Promise. Now go on. You've got a man waiting."
Haley laughed and shooed Daniel ahead of her, his lazy protest echoing up the stairs as Olivia stood and stretched. She wandered to the kitchen, tucked the remaining bottle of wine under her arm, opened the fridge, and grabbed the container of leftover fruit. Then she headed to the hall closet and pulled out the thickest weighted blanket she could find — one of those navy blue, high-thread-count ones that felt like being hugged by a memory.
Her room was quiet, dimly lit by the twin brass lanterns mounted above the bed. She crossed through the room and pushed open the French doors to her private balcony.
The fall air hit her instantly — cold, bracing, clean.
She stepped outside anyway.
The balcony was narrow but beautiful: ornate iron railing, slate tile underfoot, and two cushioned chairs with a small wooden table between them. The city below murmured softly—faint traffic, a dog barking in the distance, someone's music low and rhythmic from another rooftop.
Olivia dropped the blanket over her shoulders like a cloak, set the wine and fruit down on the table, and lowered herself into the chair with a sigh.
It was peaceful out here. Peaceful enough to almost pretend she wasn't wading through emotional concrete.
She looked at the stars, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Austin. Hotel sheets. A man's hands brushing her lips, his voice low in her ear. A kiss in an airport bathroom. A feeling she wasn't ready to name.
She wanted to call him.
But if she did, he'd ask where she was.
And if he asked… she'd tell him.
Or worse—she'd go to him.
She was supposed to be thinking. Or, at least, that's what she kept telling herself.
But the truth was, she was hiding.
Her phone buzzed on the small side table.
Her heart thumped as she saw his name.
Grayson Steel: Are you asleep?
She could ignore it.
She should.
But she didn't want to. He was part of her now, threaded through her thoughts, wrapped in the corners of her heart like he belonged there.
She answered.
Little Fox: Not yet.
His reply was instant.
Grayson: I'll keep that in mind next time I see you.
She stared at the screen, pulse fluttering.
Grayson: Which will be…?
Liv tapped the phone's edge with her nail, keeping the conversation vague, keeping herself safe in the gray. Why? She wasn't even sure anymore. There was no reason not to tell him where she was or what she was feeling. But here she was—tiptoeing around the truth, like it wouldn't follow her home anyway.
And then…
Grayson: It doesn't matter what you say. The outcome will be the same.
She blinked. Read it again.
The outcome will be the same.
Doesn't matter what I say.
She felt the weight of those words sink through her chest.
Because the truth was—she knew.
This would end the same way no matter how she played it. No matter how she danced around it.
She wanted him. She missed him. She wasn't ready, but she didn't care.
This was a choice.
A quiet, reckless, fully conscious choice.
She took a deep breath, then typed:
Little Fox: Yes.
Grayson: Then I can sleep better tonight knowing nothing's changed.
Her throat tightened.
Grayson: You can't. Unless you're in my arms.
The air around her stilled. She felt like she was underwater — breathing shallow, everything quiet, her thoughts drowning in a feeling too big to control.
She stood, phone still in hand, and walked back inside.
Dropped the weighted blanket onto the foot of the bed.
Climbed beneath the covers.
Set her phone on the nightstand and stared at it for a long moment before whispering:
"Fuck."
She said it like a secret. Like a surrender.
She loved him.
Even if she didn't want to.
Even if she couldn't admit it out loud.
Tomorrow, she'd go shopping. She needed more clothes anyway. Winter was creeping in, and the pipe burst ruined most of her wardrobe.
But for now… she'd sleep.
She rolled over, pulled the blankets to her chin, and closed her eyes.
Grayson could wait. She'd deal with the storm tomorrow.