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        drop dead - olivia rodrigo

0:01 ❍─────── 3:43 ↻ ⊲ Ⅱ ⊳ ↺

Gigi’s half brother. Came out of nowhere. That’s all you knew from what Gigi told you.

You met him at the Grayson Estate, when you passed by to check on Gigi. It had been nothing. Small talk. Polite. Controlled. Very him, apparently.

But then one night, bored out of your mind and half-awake in bed, you found his Instagram through Gigi’s page. Mutuals.

You followed him. Scrolled through his posts.

Six posts. That was it—you liked them all. Six perfectly curated, annoyingly minimal posts—each one with millions of views, likes, comments. Of course he would be the type. Very Grayson-core. Private without even trying to be.

The next day he followed back. And liked everything. Not a few posts. Everything. Even the story you posted a few hours later.

Weeks later you were in Paris. So was he. Something about meeting with possible international sponsors for the Foundation. You posted—something casual, nothing grand. Grayson saw it. He reached out, asking if you’d want to meet up.

It was perfect, really. Him, being Grayson Davenport Hawthorne, got an after hour private pass to the Palace of Versailles. No tourists, no crowds. Just the moon and stars outside and them. Private, personal, intimate.

The whole time—with the low, warmly lit hallways of the Palace and the moonlight gardens—he looked like an angel. Unreal. He was so pretty—you were paranoid you were making him up, that he wasn’t real.

He walked you home. Got the hints and held your hand. Goddamn.

Now here you two stood, outside your place. He lingered, like he wanted to stay. Or at least end the night with a kiss.

Now you two stood outside your place. He lingered, like he wanted to stay. Or at least end the night with a kiss.

If he kissed you though? You might just drop dead.

“I didn’t expect you to be this shy in person,” Grayson murmured, finally breaking the comfortable-turning-awkward silence. “You’re not nearly as composed as you were online.”