I Like You (A Happier Song) [feat. Doja Cat]—Post Malone No strings attached, you said as you held him on the comedown of a panic attack. Your hand in his hair, his breath shuddering against your collarbone, your heartbeat trying to anchor his. You’d never seen Grayson Hawthorne undone before—his armor cracked just enough for you to slip through. And you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. No strings attached, you said as he delicately latched the Tiffany & Co. necklace he bought you around your neck, the cool chain kissing your skin. It wasn’t your birthday. It wasn’t Christmas. It wasn’t anything but Tuesday in Monaco, and he’d decided you needed something beautiful. He didn’t even call it a gift—just said, “It suits you.” You wore it anyway. No strings attached, you said as he carried you up to his bedroom, bridal-style, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, your heels dangling from your fingertips. You were laughing at something he’d said—something smug and entirely inappropriate—and then his mouth was on yours before you could finish the sentence. Were the words “no strings attached” ever actually spoken? No. But was it an unspoken rule between you and Grayson Davenport Hawthorne that nothing real would ever come of this? Absolutely. “This” being picked up in his blue Ferrari with the top down at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday. “This” being falling asleep in France and waking up in Japan because he was bored and could be anywhere. “This” being knowing the things about each other no one else knew—how he hated the sound of metal scraping on ceramic, how you once wanted to be a marine biologist, how neither of you slept well unless you were touching. The two of you existed in that in-between place. Not friends, not lovers, but something messier. Something without definition, so it couldn’t be broken. You whispered sweet nothings into his ear—sometimes just to see him smile in that small, unguarded way—and he would say you were his. He said it like a fact, like something he wasn’t asking permission for. You liked him. He liked you. That much was obvious. So what were you going to do about it? The answer, always, was nothing. Not officially. Not in a way that could be claimed. But then your phone buzzed. Grayson’s name lit the screen. One text. No greeting. Just—

Outside.

You glanced out the window, and sure enough, there he was. Parked at the curb in that sleek blue Ferrari this time, the headlights cutting through the evening. He didn’t wave, didn’t smile. Just sat there, hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, watching you from behind tinted glass.You grabbed your bag, told yourself you weren’t making a mistake, and headed for the door. Because whatever this was, you weren’t ready to stop.