Page 38 of Freestyle (Boys of Frampton U #2)

Rowyn

F or the first time in what feels like years, I don’t look over my shoulder every time I walk outside. I don’t brace myself for footsteps, don’t flinch when shadows shift wrong.

And somehow, that feels more terrifying than anything.

It should be a relief.

But peace feels unfamiliar in my skin, like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes, trying to pretend they were made for me. The calm is too quiet, the warmth is too sharp around the edges.

Because peace was never something I believed I had a right to, not with the things I’ve seen. Not with the things that were done to me.

Now it’s quiet.

Gray and Phoenix… they’re the reason why.

They say I’m safe.

They say they’d burn the world down before letting anything happen to me, and I believe them.

Or I want to.

But I’ve been down this road before. I’ve heard promises dressed up as protection, and I’ve felt love used like a noose.

So even now, wrapped in Gray’s hoodie and Phoenix’s silence, part of me is still waiting for the catch.

For the shift, for that moment when safety turns into ownership, and care becomes control.

Because that’s how it always goes, right?

Except it hasn’t.

Not yet.

Phoenix stayed up all night just to keep watch. Gray reached for me in his sleep like I belonged there. Neither of them asked anything from me, no explanations, no apologies. Just presence. Just… me.

And still, there’s this quiet war inside my chest.

Because I don’t know what’s more dangerous; trusting them with my heart… or admitting that I already am.

I’m falling.

Not fast. Not recklessly.

But enough that it scares me.

Because maybe I’m not running from monsters anymore.

Maybe I ran straight into the arms of two men who would rip the world to shreds if it ever reached for me again.

And maybe the scariest part?

That I don’t want to run anymore.

I don’t say it.

Not with words.

Not out loud.

But it comes out in the way my fingers brush Gray’s when he passes me a coffee, lingering longer than necessary, like maybe I forgot how to let go. It’s in the way I angle my body toward Phoenix when we sit too close on the couch, like his warmth is gravity and I’m just tired of fighting orbit.

They don’t call me on it.

They notice— of course they notice —but neither of them push. They just... let me be. Let me want something without demanding I name it.

I catch Gray watching me sometimes. Not protective. Not predatory. Just quiet, searching, like he’s trying to memorize every version of me in case this one slips away too.

And Phoenix, he’s gentler now. Not softer, because there’s nothing soft about the way he looks at me when I’m not paying attention, but he moves quieter. Like if he’s patient enough, I’ll fall right into his hands.

God help me, part of me wants to.

But I can’t say it, I can’t admit that I feel safer in their chaos than I ever did in anyone else’s calm.

So I keep it buried. Half-glimpsed in passing glances, in the way I laugh a little easier when they’re near, in the way I’ve started sleeping through the night again and haven’t dared ask myself why.

If love lives anywhere in this mess, it’s in the things I don’t say.

And that silence?

It’s starting to sound an awful lot like hope.

It’s strange how fast comfort becomes its own kind of tether.

The week looms ahead, lectures, lab deadlines, the daily churn of campus life but it all feels distant, like background noise under the hum of their presence. I should be panicking. There’s a stalker out there, a name clawed into the edges of every fear I’ve tried to bury.

But instead of spiraling, I’m slipping into their orbit .

I didn’t argue when they told me I was staying. I didn’t list reasons, didn’t dig for independence like I always do because being wrapped up in Gray’s warmth and the quiet steadiness of Phoenix’s gaze has started to feel like something I’ve never had.

A home that breathes .

There’s coffee on the table. Gray’s voice murmuring something in the kitchen. Phoenix pacing near the window, glancing out every few seconds like the shadows might try something if he looks away.

They haven’t said it, not in words, but I feel it in everything they do.

They’re not just guarding me.

They’re choosing me .

And I’m starting to realize; maybe I’ve spent my whole life surviving, just waiting for the moment someone looked at me not as a responsibility, but as something worth fighting for .

Gray slides the mug across the table like it’s a peace offering, or a ritual.

The smell hits before I even touch it; dark roast, a splash of oat milk, the way I like it but always pretend not to care about. He doesn’t say anything when I curl my hands around it, just watches until I take the first sip.

Then he leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, and says, “Let’s talk about today.”

I blink. “Today?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Your schedule. We’re walking you to and from class.”

Across the room, Phoenix doesn’t look up from where he’s lacing his boots, but I feel the weight of his attention shift immediately.

“Gray—”

He lifts a hand, silencing the protest before I can finish it.

“I know you don’t want a detail. This isn’t that.” His gaze softens, just a fraction. “You’re not going alone. Not after what we found.”

My throat tightens. The pony, the notes, the soft scratch of an A still echoing in my head.

“I’ve got Econ at nine,” I mutter. “Then Sociology at noon. Break till two, then lab.”

“I’ll take the morning,” Gray says smoothly, already reaching for his keys. “Nix will cover the afternoon.”

Phoenix finally stands, adjusting the chain around his wrist. “I’ll meet you outside the lab. Walk you back.”

“You guys don’t have to—”

“We want to,” Gray interrupts, calm but firm. “Row, this isn’t about you being weak. It’s about us giving a damn. ”

Phoenix shrugs. “Plus, walking you around campus gives us the perfect excuse to stare down anyone who looks at you wrong. It’s a win-win.”

I smirk into my mug, but inside, something shifts.

I finish getting dressed and head back downstairs.

Gray’s leaning against the banister at the foot of the stairs when I spot him, backpack slung effortlessly over one shoulder, sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he just rolled out of a crime of fashion.

The morning light filters in behind him, catching in the messy edges of his hair and painting him in gold like a damn oil painting that forgot it wasn’t supposed to smirk.

Grayson Ford isn’t just handsome.

He’s ruin-you-with-a-look hot. Dangerous-in-a-library hot. The kind of hot that makes you forget your own name and what year it is.

He’s wearing all black, of course. Black jeans, black Henley shirt clinging to broad shoulders and forearms like sin. The veins in his forearms are visible where he’s gripping the strap of his bag, and I hate that I notice, but not enough to stop looking.

His gaze lifts as I hit the bottom stair.

And then he smiles.

Not the smug one he uses on people who underestimate him. The other one, the rare one. Soft, crooked, a little tired. Just for me.

My stomach flips so hard that I feel it in my throat.

I barely manage to keep walking because it hits me, like a sucker punch wrapped in heat; He’s here. Waiting for me. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe the scariest part is how easy it is to want that, to let that become real.

His fingers lace through mine like it’s second nature, like we’ve been doing this for years.

The walk to class isn’t far. Campus is drowsy with Monday fatigue, low voices, the rustle of backpacks, coffee cups clutched like lifelines. And yet somehow, it feels like every pair of eyes finds us.

Or maybe just me.

I hear the murmurs as we pass.

Is that Grayson Ford?

Since when does he hold hands with anyone?

I want to shrink from it. The whispers, the heat crawling up the back of my neck. But Gray’s thumb brushes a slow, grounding stroke across the back of my hand.

“Ignore them,” he murmurs, voice low enough to be just for me. “They’re not even looking at you. They’re looking at me, wondering how I got so lucky.”

I almost trip .

It’s not just what he says. It’s the ease in his voice, like he’s not even trying to be smooth. Like he means it.

I glance up at him. He’s not smiling, not posturing. Just watching the path ahead like we’re on any ordinary walk and not flipping the whole social gravity of this school on its head.

And here I am, cheeks flushing like I’m fifteen and this is the first time someone’s ever held my hand in public and meant it.

He doesn’t ask if I’m nervous, doesn’t ask if I want him to wait outside the building like some subtle, silent guard dog.

He just stops on the sidewalk outside my lecture hall, hand still in mine, eyes gentle in a way I’m still not used to.

I shift, suddenly aware of all the students passing by, of all the stares I need to ignore, of the tension that used to sit on my chest every time I stepped foot here alone.

But with Gray next to me, it’s quieter inside.

“Alright,” I murmur, trying to sound casual. “This is me.”

He nods once, then steps a little closer.

Just when I think he might say something clipped and pragmatic like text me when it’s over or don’t talk to strangers , he leans in and kisses my forehead.

Soft.

Deliberate .

His hand lingers at my waist as he pulls back, and something in my chest curls up and sighs.

“I’ll be back after class,” he says quietly. “You won’t walk out alone.”

I don’t respond, I can’t. Not with the heat crawling up my neck and the sudden urge to kiss him back.

So I nod, and walk inside.

Still tasting safety on my skin.