My feet move before my brain catches up, and before I know it, I’m standing beside him again.
He glances down at me with a half-smile. “Your hand’s shaking a little.”
“Crowds make me nervous,” I admit.
His voice is light. “For the sake of public safety, I better hold your hand.”
“Ok but just for stability,” I echo.
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s taking that in. Then his fingers brush mine, warm and sure, andmy pulse trips. He catches my hand fully this time, the grip steady, protective.
“You hold on to me, I’ll hold on to you,” he says, voice low enough that it feels like a secret. “We’ll call it stability…but between us, I just like having an excuse.”
The air between us shifts. My lips curve, but my chest is too busy forgetting how to breathe to manage anything more than that.
“Come on,” he says, and once again it’s not a command, not exactly—it’s an invitation.
We weave through the crowd, the sound of street music wrapping around us from every direction—brassy trumpet notes, the rhythmic beat of a drum, a saxophone’s soulful cry. The air smells faintly of powdered sugar and roasting pecans, sweet and warm and a little dizzying.
I don’t look back toward the girls. If I do, I might lose my nerve.
I sneak a glance up at him. He walks like he belongs to the moment. As if the chaos of the world simply parts around him.
Meanwhile, I’m practically vibrating with nerves. Every brush of his arm sends a spark to my fingertips. Every inhale catches halfway in my chest.
What is happening to me?
I don’t do things like this. I don’t follow strangers down crowded streets. I’m the girl who makes lists. Who plays it safe. Who plans everything down to the minute.
And yet, here I am, walking beside a man who makes my heart race like it already knows him.
“So…” I manage, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. “Do I get to know your name before we get coffee?”
His lips twitch, just barely. “Gray.”
Of course. A name like that belongs to a man like him.
Gray.
It suits the way he carries himself with that calm, quiet intensity.
“It’s short for Grayson,” he adds, then glances at me. “But don’t call me that.”
I almost smile at how quickly he says it. Not angry just, final. Like it belongs to a different version of him. A chapter he doesn’t open often.
“Got it,” I say, tucking the information away. “Gray.”
He looks at me again, eyes flicking down to meet mine like he’s weighing the way I say it. There’s something searching in his gaze, like maybe he’s not used to people really seeing him.
I should be unnerved by how naturally we fall into step. But I’m not.
We pass a violinist on the corner, and I notice Gray dip his hand into his pocket and quietly drop a few bills into the open case. He says nothing about it. Just keeps walking, like kindness is a habit he doesn’t feel the need to advertise.
It sticks with me.
He doesn’t just look good. He seems good.
“You got a name,” he says suddenly, “or am I just supposed to call you hand-holding stranger forever?”
