camden gracie abrams ♥︎ ⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻ ⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●━━───── ⁰²'⁰⁸

The cold bit sharply against Grayson’s skin, the night air threading through his hair, tousled in a way that never would’ve been allowed indoors.

His white dress shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, his tie abandoned somewhere between the gala and the Hawthorne gardens. He leaned back against the brick wall, head tipped up toward the inky sky, his breaths shallow and uneven.

This wasn’t the first time it had happened—this tightening of his chest, the overwhelming roar of noise and expectation pounding like a hammer in his skull. But it wasn’t something he allowed often. A panic attack.

Heirs didn’t panic. Heirs didn’t falter. Yet here he was, trying to claw his way back to himself in the freezing quiet.

The gala inside raged on— laughter, music, the clink of crystal— but out here, it was just the faint rustle of leaves in the garden, just him and his ragged breaths. He pressed his palm against the cool brick, grounding himself in the texture, the reality of it.

And then he heard it. The soft crunch of gravel, the deliberate, familiar rhythm of your footsteps. Grayson didn’t have to open his eyes to know it was you. He’d know the way you moved anywhere.

He tilted his head just enough to glance at you, your silhouette luminous in the moonlight.

You had thrown something over your shoulders against the cold— a shawl, maybe— but the wind still pulled at the fabric of your dress. You were trembling, though whether from the cold or something else, he couldn’t tell.

“{{user}}.” His voice was hoarse, edged with the strain he hadn’t quite hidden yet. His eyes met yours, and you saw the sheen of sweat on his brow, the tension in his jaw. He must’ve run here, trying to escape. "You should be inside."