Page 10 of Piggy

Charlotte

I’m the best girlfriend.

Okay, technically, Grayson doesn’t know that. When I asked him to be my boyfriend, his exact words were:

“No fucking way, Piggy.”

But then he kissed me like I belonged to him. Touched me like no one else was ever allowed to.

So maybe I’m not his girlfriend.

But I’m his. I have to be.

It’s been a couple of weeks, and like every morning, I make breakfast for Grayson and Atticus.

Eggs, toast, coffee just the way he likes it.

When I set the plate in front of him, Grayson leans in, quick, like someone might catch him, and presses a kiss to my forehead.

Only when no one’s looking.

I live for those kisses.

“I washed your clothes, too,” I whisper .

He exhales, half-groan, half-laugh, and mutters, “Fucking hell, Charlotte.”

He tries not to smile, but fails. Instead, he ducks in and nuzzles my neck, lips dragging against my skin.

I go stiff, glancing at Atticus. But his eyes are glued to his eggs, headphones on.

Brax is still dead to the world, sleeping in until noon, as usual. Thank God.

Grayson pulls back, murmuring near my ear, “Didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know.”

A beat.

“Thanks, though,” he says, quieter this time, like it costs him something to mean it. But he adds, lower, “Such a good girl. You like being useful to me, don’t you?”

I shrug, acting like it’s no big deal. But inside, I’m glowing.

That’s what good girlfriends do. Even if he refuses to call me that.

Still... he always looks so confused when I do things for him. Like the idea of someone caring for him is completely foreign.

Like it makes him itch.

He shows up at work again, his usual reserved attitude all over his chiseled face.

Like always, no “hi,” no hug, just a gruff: “ Hurry up. ”

Then, he snatches my hand and tugs me toward the door before I can even clock out.

He decides where we go and when we go.

And like always, I follow joyfully .

Because when it’s just us out on the pier, legs pressed together beneath the table, seagulls overhead and salt hanging in the air, he’s all mine.

He never says it. But I feel it.

I hold the sub sandwich he bought me and eat it merrily. He leans back, looking relaxed, so handsome with the ocean behind him.

He smells like cologne now, clean and sharp, but I can still catch hints of sun-baked salt, sweat, and whatever cheap soap he uses at the docks.

I know the truth. He scrubs up before seeing me. Always a fresh shirt. Face washed. Hands red from scrubbing the grime from his knuckles.

“Grayson,” I say softly, “you don’t have to clean up every time you bring me lunch.”

“Yes, I do.” He cuts me off. His tone is sharper than I expect. “Don’t eat with guys who won’t put on a clean shirt. Fuck, they should be willing to crack skulls for a girl like you.”

He shrugs, like he didn’t just say something terrifyingly sweet .

That stings, though. The way it always does when he talks like I’ll ever be having lunch with someone else.

Like he’s warning me. Training me. But I force a smile and let it roll off.

I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and say, “Do you like your job?”

He shrugs. “It’s work. Pays cash. Not a lot, but they don’t give a shit about my record.”

My brows pinch. “Wait. You have a record?”

He doesn’t blink. “Brax didn’t tell you?”

“No...”

“Stole a purse... some other stuff. Dumb, young, and broke.” He tears off a piece of bread and pops it into his mouth.

“Oh,” I say. “Well, that’s not so bad.”

He gives me a look like he knows I’m trying too hard to spin it positive.

Still, I want to know everything about him, so I push, “Did you serve real time?”

His eyes narrow just slightly.

“Do you like your job?” he shoots back.

There he goes again! Flipping the conversation before I can get close.

But I try anyway.

I lean in, give him a wide smile. “Come on, just tell me. A month? Two?”

He tilts his head, studying me like he’s deciding whether to lie.

Then he frowns. “What the hell is that?”

“What?”

He gestures toward my forehead. “Right there. Is that a bruise?”

“Oh. That?” I wave it off. “I hit it on a doorknob. Total klutz moment.”

He chuckles, those hazel eyes sparkling with affection, and his wicked smile is mean and fond all at once. He taps the spot, hard , causing me to wince and balk.

“Poor, stupid Charlotte. My breakable little thing.”

But before I can protest, he yanks me closer and kisses the bruise, then trails his knuckles down my arm, slow and tender.

My body melts into his.

Because this is how he loves me... I hope. Not with words. Not with declarations. But with his palm against my thigh when we sit. With his jacket over my shoulders before I can even say I’m cold. With how he always asks, “You okay?” even if his tone sounds like an accusation.

Like now, when I squint into the sun and he grabs my bag, rummaging through it without asking.

He finds my sunglasses and slides them onto my face.

“You were squinting,” he mutters, gazing at the ocean.

That one gesture? It unravels me.

All the memories from these past few weeks rush back: Waking under blankets I didn’t remember pulling up. Water bottles filled and set beside my purse. Texts when I work late: You okay? Need me to come get you?

And Monday, my gas tank was mysteriously full.

“Grayson... did you take my car?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t want you stranded somewhere.”

My heart squeezes.

He doesn’t even look at me as he mumbles, “A guy should take care of you. Make sure you’re safe.”

There it is again, like he’s handing off a job. Preparing me for when he stops showing up.

I pivot fast, my voice light. “You like taking care of me, huh?”

“Don’t make it a thing,” he mutters, a phrase of his I don’t like.

I poke his side. “But you do! You’re always looking out for me.”

He side-glances. “I have to. You’re too dumb to survive on your own.”

But there’s no bite behind it. Just something tight in his jaw, something almost... protective.

His knee bounces, as if he’s anxious. “I guess I worry about you,” he says, barely audible. “A lot.”

I grin, warmth bubbling up. “Because… I’m your girlfriend?”

But instead of grinning back, he looks away.

Silent. Distant.

Like I ruined something.

And I don’t understand why .

If he likes me so much... why won’t he just say it?

Late that night, he slips into my room.

No knock. Just the creak of the door and his body pressing into the mattress like he owns it.

Like he owns me .

He always comes to me in the dark, when I can’t look him in the eyes and ask what this means.

His chest presses to my back, solid and hot. His arm curls heavy around my waist, dragging me close, holding me like I’m something he needs to breathe.

And then his lips, warm and slow, start brushing the back of my neck.

Not just once.

Again.

And again.

Each kiss lingers a little longer than the last. He’s not trying to turn me on.

He’s... trying to tell me something.

His nose brushes my skin as he breathes me in, deep and shaky. Like he’s memorizing me.

“Charlotte,” he whispers.

My heart kicks. “Yeah?”

A long silence.

Then low and hoarse:

“I wish I’d gotten to know you before my life got so fucked up.”

I pause, then bring his hand to my lips and kiss his knuckles. “It’s okay. We’ve got time. We have our whole lives—”

He exhales, sharp and short. Not a laugh. More like a wince. He doesn’t answer. He just tightens his grip. Squeezes me too tight, like I might vanish if he doesn’t hold on hard enough.

I melt into him. Every inch of my back flush to every inch of him. His heart beats against my spine, his breath on my shoulder, his powerful body a cage I never want to leave.

In the dark, I whisper, “I...” I almost say it. Almost slip. But I bite back the L-word, and instead, I add, “I really like you. So... you can tell me anything about your past. I won’t judge you.”

Another silence.

Then his voice, soft and ragged, barely a breath:

“Have higher standards. You should judge me. Judge all guys.”

“Why do you always talk about other guys like you won’t be here and—”

“ Fuck , Charlotte,” he cuts me off. “Don’t say shit like that. Just keep the vibe chill, or you’ll ruin it.”

I bite my bottom lip, wishing I knew what to say to get Grayson to trust me, to open up to me. To love me.

I’m so afraid of losing him.

So I stay quiet.

His breathing slows, but his hold doesn’t ease, not even in sleep.

He clutches me like a secret he’ll kill to protect.

As if I’m not allowed to leave. Like he knows I’ll try.

And I do wonder… how long can my heart endure Grayson? Because not having all of him is a new form of suffering.