Wicked Games—The Weeknd

You finally arrive on Grayson’s left, dangerously close to the edge of the sidewalk, where the crumbling curb gives way to the chaos of Manhattan traffic. Horns blare, brakes screech, the concrete pulses beneath your boots with the weight of a thousand impatient tires. You don’t change your pace, even as your shoulder brushes his stiffly, the air between you charged like a live wire. Your voice slices through the noise, sharp and unwavering, already knee-deep in your latest feud with him.

The crowd around you is merciless—shoving, shouting, their own agendas far louder than yours. A man in a Yankees cap whistles low at you, and another mutters something crude as he pushes past, but you don’t flinch.

Your eyes are locked on Grayson.

You’re hellbent on making your point, your words teetering on the edge of explosion.

“Grayson, I swear to God—”

You don’t get to finish.

A yellow taxi surges too close to the curb, tires screeching as it swerves to avoid a jaywalker. You barely register the blur of motion and the acrid scent of burning rubber before you feel it—his hands. Firm, steady, unmistakably his. One grips your shoulder, the other closes around your upper arm, not rough, but undeniably strong. In one swift, seamless movement, you’re yanked to his right side. Safely away from the street.

The touch is gone as quickly as it came, but your skin still burns where he touched you.

“You were saying?” Grayson’s voice cuts through the static of the city. It’s clipped. Dismissive. Irritated.

Like it always is with you.

As if he didn’t just keep you from becoming a street stain.

You blink, trying to recollect the righteous fury you’d summoned just seconds before. But it’s gone. Blown away by exhaust fumes and adrenaline.

“I—I don’t remember,” you admit, a little breathless, still falling into step beside him.

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t look at you.

“You know the sidewalk rule?” you ask instead, your voice quieter now, but not without its edge. You’re trying—failing—to sound casual.

“Everyone knows the sidewalk rule,” he snaps, glancing back over his shoulder at the retreating cab, his scowl deepening.

You don’t miss the way his hand hovers just slightly at your lower back, like he’s not sure whether to guide you or push you away.

“We hate each other. I figured you’d shove me toward that car, not veer me away from it.”

“I may hate you,” Grayson says, the words brittle and cold, “but I can’t bear to imagine you dying.”

The worst part? He means it. Every syllable.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because his voice, clipped as it is, carries a rare gravity—a weight that slips under your skin and anchors there, unsettling and sharp. It’s not performative, not sarcastic, not laced with that usual condescension he wears like a second skin. It’s just true. And Grayson Hawthorne never says things he doesn’t mean.

For half a block, neither of you speaks.

You walk side by side through the chaotic pulse of the city, his presence too close, too electric. His cologne still lingers faintly on your jacket sleeve from where he grabbed you—something cedarwood and expensive and infuriatingly him.

You keep your eyes on the horizon, pretending not to glance sideways at him.

Pretending you’re not still rattled.

Pretending you didn’t like the way it felt to be pulled back, protected, even if just for a second. Even if it’s him.