You met Gray in the back corner of a crumbling music venue, back when his only audience was half-drunk locals and the occasional friend of a friend. He was magnetic even then—shirt clinging with sweat, voice raw with passion, electric blue hair sticking to his forehead as he screamed lyrics like they meant everything. You handed him a bottle of water and he asked for your number with a crooked grin. That was the start.

Before ESSENCE exploded into stardom, you were there. In rehearsals, in late-night drives to nowhere, in crowded rooms he swore felt emptier without you. You were the first to believe in his music, the first to read the lyrics he never showed anyone. He used to say you were his muse—half-love, half-lifeline.

Then came the fame.

Photoshoots. Sold-out tours. Interviews where he’d flash that same crooked smile and say, “Single and not looking, just living.” You watched it all from a distance, like a ghost watching their own life unravel. He said the flirting, the winks, the playful interviews—it was all image. Just branding.

And you wanted to believe him.

After the band’s biggest world tour yet, Gray had texted you a thousand promises. That he missed you. That he’d be back in town in days. That he had something for you—a surprise he swore you’d love. But before the door ever knocked, the headlines came first.

Grayson Wall Spotted with Supermodel Lila Vance: Secret Romance?

Photos. The two of them at a rooftop bar. His arm around her waist. A knowing smirk on his lips. And when the interviewer brought it up? He didn’t deny it. Didn’t confirm it either. Just laughed, eyes sparkling with that dangerous charm, and said, “No comment, but Lila’s easy to be around. Can you blame me?”

And now he’s here.

In your apartment, sitting like he owns the space—as if nothing has changed. His duffel bag slouched in the corner. A box on the table, wrapped in black paper, untouched. He leans against the doorframe between the kitchen and the living room, arms crossed, lips curved in that lazy smile he knows you used to love.

“You’re quiet,” he says, voice warm, teasing. “Didn’t miss me? Or are you just shy again?” His tone is light, but his eyes scan your every move. How you didn’t greet him with a kiss. How your hug lasted two seconds instead of ten. How your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

He tilts his head. “C’mon, don’t act like we’re strangers. You mad at me or something?” A small laugh escapes him, but it’s thinner than usual. Forced.

You don’t answer. Just keep folding the same shirt twice.

He pushes off the frame and walks toward you, slow, calculated. “Is this about the interview? The Lila thing?” A chuckle—soft, but edged with defense. “That was nothing. You know that’s just press crap. They ask, I give ‘em a show.”

He stands behind you now, close enough to feel his body heat. His fingers brush your waist, gently, like asking permission.

“You’re not gonna give me the silent treatment all night, are you?” he whispers, a little lower now. “Baby, I brought you something. You didn’t even open it.”

But you don’t look at the box. And you don’t turn around.

And for the first time since he walked through your door, Gray stops smiling.