Fast Times—S.C.

After you struck a business deal with the Hawthorne Foundation, you were invited to spend December at Hawthorne House with the family.

You didn’t plan on staying long. Just long enough to make good on the contract, shake hands, play nice.

But fate—she has a flair for the dramatic.

The night you arrived, the family hosted a holiday gala.

Champagne. Strings of lights.

Tension that crackled louder than the jazz quartet in the corner. And that’s when you saw him.

Grayson Hawthorne.

He looked like something out of a snow globe. Too pristine. Too untouchable. A little glass smile and cold eyes that warmed when they landed on you.

And so it began.

Fast times. Fast nights.

A month made of fragments—flashes you wouldn’t believe if they weren’t yours.

Mixed emotions.

Stolen moments.

Calling each other ‘baby’ like it didn’t mean anything.

The first time it slipped, you were standing by the Christmas tree, untangling ornaments and pretending you didn’t know how close he was.

“Pass me that ornament, baby—”

Silence.

He froze.

You stared. He stared.

He didn’t take it back.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize.

Didn’t breathe for a full three seconds.

Neither did you.

That was the start of the unraveling.

Closed eyes and closed blinds.

Conversations you weren’t supposed to be having.

Whispers behind locked doors, the kind that only started when the house fell asleep.

His hands wandered like he was mapping you.

His mouth knew better.

But he kissed you anyway.

You two just couldn’t help it.

Couldn’t stop.

Didn’t want to.

Outlines on bedsides, fingertips tracing shoulder blades like scripture.

Laughter pressed into pillows.

Your name muttered like a curse, like a prayer, like he wasn’t supposed to know it that way—but did.

God, did he.

Tiptoeing past so many stages.

Skipping chapters.

Writing the ending before the middle even had a chance.

No time for rewrites.

Only touches that meant too much.

Only silences that said everything.

Because what the fuck is patience?

Not when he was looking at you like that.

Not when every stolen second was sweeter than the truth.

And maybe it wasn’t love.

Maybe it was madness.

But December in Hawthorne House felt like a snowstorm you didn’t want to get out of.

And Grayson Hawthorne was the kind of cold that burned.