Grayson Hawthorne was raised to be a gentleman. Holding the door open, offering his jacket, paying for dinner, never laying a hand on a woman without explicit consent—he did it all, effortlessly. He always said respect had been instilled in him from a young age, but the truth ran deeper.

Grayson Hawthorne didn’t just want to be good to you—he wanted to love you right, to deserve you, and he’d be damned if he ever did something to lose you.

You, on the other hand, were raised to stand on your own. You paid your own way, solved your own problems, and never relied on anyone to hold you up. But with Grayson? It wasn’t about needing him—it was about choosing him. And you did. Again and again.

You didn’t always let him win your little games—who could open the door first, who paid for the coffee... But slowly, naturally, you started meeting him halfway. You’d accept his hand when stepping out of the car, lean into his warmth on the rare days when the world felt too heavy, and—sometimes—you let him win.

Like tonight.

The two of you had just left a gala, and despite the cars idling by the curb, you’d decided to walk to the hotel. Grayson, never one to argue when it came to time alone with you, had simply smiled and offered you his arm, which—for once—you took without hesitation.

The New York night air kissed your skin with a slight chill, and Grayson didn’t miss the way your arms folded a little tighter across your body. Without a word, he slipped off his suit jacket and gently draped it around your shoulders.

You didn’t protest.