Chapter 160 - Resident Evil - Grace Ashcroft's New Life

Click, click, click! Tap-tap-tap!  

Grace Ashcroft's keyboard was the only sound in her corner of the Midwest City Public Library. In the hushed sanctuary that was the library, where the only other sounds were the distant rustle of pages and the hum of the ventilation system, her incessant typing stood out. 

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap!

Zero hesitation either. She was definitely clocking over two hundred words a minute. That spoke to her intense, focused concentration.

Grace was oblivious to the disturbance she was creating. Grey eyes were magnified slightly by her modest, rectangular-framed glasses and locked on the screen of the computer. She translated lines of gibberish from a document on the left side of the screen into neat, organized rows on the right.

"No, no," she murmured, rewriting those organized rows again and again. None of it made sense to her.

Grace was twenty-five, dressed in comfort: a simple, soft grey sweater over a white collared shirt, and dark jeans. Her blonde hair was cut in a wavy, layered bob that fell loosely around her face, one side slightly longer than the other, a style that was more about practicality—easy to manage—than any statement. 

Okay, it was also lazy. So what? Grace was human and a busy FBI agent, cut her some slack. 

She was small, just over five feet three, with a slim build that made her look like a gremlin hunched over the machine. At the same time, her shoulders were tight with the tension of the puzzle she was trying to solve.

"Wait, maybe if it's a triple cyphercode…"

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap!

The puzzle was a ledger. A digital ledger she had spent months decrypting after it was recovered from a bust on a local pharmacy suspected of being a front. It was a mess of seemingly random letters and numbers. But the victory of decoding it had only led to a new, more frustrating wall. 

Exactly ten alphanumeric characters. What the hell could they mean?

For weeks now, she'd been stuck on this final layer: what did these alphanumeric strings actually represent? None of the FBI's databases—pharmaceutical, commercial, industrial—matched the pattern. It was like having a key but no lock to put it in.

Her typing intensified, a burst of keystrokes as she tried another cross-reference. "Stupid, no, you tried that already—"

"Um."

A touch on her shoulder. Gentle and tentative and yet Grace flinched. Her whole body jerked, her hands flying up from the keyboard as if shocked. She spun in her chair, her eyes wide, glasses slightly askew from the sudden movement.

"Sorry!" the young man said immediately, his voice low and sheepish. He was standing there, a nondescript figure in a plain green t-shirt and jeans. He had a kind, unassuming face, and his expression was one of genuine apology. "I didn't mean to scare you. It's just… your typing? Could you maybe keep it just a teeny-tiny bit more quiet? It's a bit, uh, noticeable."

Grace's heart was pounding from the surprise. "Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry," she sputtered, her voice higher than she intended. "I had work and…"

"Oh no, it's fine, you can use the computer. It's just not built for typing that fast."

"R-right. Yeah, um, usually I'd be using my laptop. It has a special custom keyboard and…well, my laptop ran out of battery and…" Her gaze darted over to the communal charging station against the far wall. A tangled web of cables and adapters plugged into a row of outlets, every slot occupied by phones and tablets. Her laptop charger was conspicuously absent from the mess. "I couldn't charge it. I had to finish this. I'm really sorry."

He smiled. It was a warm, easy smile that seemed to smooth out the edges of her anxiety. Grace's heart did something peculiar then—not a panic flutter, but a lighter, quicker beat. "Want me to get your laptop charged?"

"Oh, uh, I don't wanna—" she started, the automatic protest of someone who hated inconveniencing others.

"Don't worry." He extended a hand. "I'm George. I volunteer here."

Grace was slow on the uptake, her social reflexes rusty from long hours spent alone. She stared at his hand for a second before realizing the gesture. "Oh, uh!" She shook her head quickly, a nervous little motion. "Nice to meet you. I'm Grace. Grace Ashcroft." She finally took his hand. 

Okay. 'Your first time holding a guy's hand. Don't be sweaty, Grace.' Fortunately, she wasn't. 

George didn't let the awkwardness linger. He glanced past her at the screen, his eyes curious but casual. "Amazon store product numbers?" he asked, nodding at the columns of codes on her right-hand spreadsheet. "That's cool. You work there?"

Grace froze. 'Amazon?'

Work mode activated. Grey eyes darkened. "You said… Amazon products?"

"Yeah. Well, kinda." George got closer and Grace turned her chair halfway to observe him. George leaned a little closer, peering at the pattern, and pointed a finger. "It's the new format Amazon switched to for internal tracking. See the prefix here? 'AXP'? That's for their pharmacy-linked wholesale products. The old one was 'AZW'."

Grace went wide-eyed. She looked between her monitor and then George. Her glasses felt suddenly heavy on her face. She took that pointing hand in her hands without thinking. "Are you absolutely sure?"

George blinked, taken aback by her sudden intensity, but he nodded. "Positive. I worked in their logistics hub for a while. They started rolling this out last year. It's not on any public-facing stuff yet. It's an internal thing so far, for inventory that moves between their own warehouses and partnered distributors."

In her head, Grace's thoughts raced. 'Makes sense! If it's within a year, then… yes, no wonder it's not in the FBI's database. The update hasn't propagated to the commercial registries we access. This is it. This is the link.'

She released his hands, her own dropping back to her lap. "Thank you," she said, breathless and sincere. "Thank you so, so much." She fully turned back to her screen—

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap! Click, click, click! 

There it was, her fingers already on the run. She didn't explain to the curious George. The floodgates were open for the FBI analyst. 

George kind of blinked and chuckled to himself, a soft sound of amusement at her abrupt shift. He watched her for a moment, then quietly walked off. He contemplated taking her laptop to charge. But, well, she looked like she was in the zone. Best to leave her alone and not interrupt her. 

Hours passed. Yes, hours, and Grace didn't notice it. Like at all.

The library's ambient light shifted from the bright fluorescence of afternoon to the softer, warmer glow of evening lamps, and finally to the dim, pools-of-light atmosphere of night. Grace just worked. She cross-referenced the 'AXP' codes against every Amazon-linked pharmaceutical distributor she could find in the Bureau's restricted corporate files. Matches began to appear. Lines connected. A supply chain emerged from the digital mist.

"This is it," Grace murmured with a growing smile. "Yes, yes!"

Click, click! 

She catalogued items, noting quantities, and dates inferred from the ledger's timestamps. By exchanging a couple firm emails with the local distributors (thank you FBI connections), she got a small connective map going too. The young blonde didn't look up, didn't check the time, didn't feel the growing stiffness in her neck or the dryness in her eyes.

It was only when she finally hit 'Save' on her final document, a comprehensive analysis now appended to the original file, that she leaned back and the world intruded. She looked around. The library was mostly dark. The main overhead lights were off, only the safety aisle lights and a few scattered reading lamps still glowed. The vast room felt empty, cavernous.

'Oh no.'

She looked at the time on her laptop screen. Midnight.

Horror washed over her, cold and immediate. She was alone in a closed public building. Had she missed the closing announcements? Was she going to be locked in?

"Haha, I'm glad to see you're finished. I was waiting for you."

But then a familiar, calm presence appeared at the edge of her vision. George was walking toward her, holding a steaming cup from the library's volunteer lounge. 

"O-oh…" She blanked out, then remembered: "G-George, right?"

"Yep, that's me." He slid it onto the table beside her laptop. "I had no idea what you were doing, but it was clearly important to you. You haven't moved for six hours. Even at the library, that's rare."

Grace stammered, her mind scrambling for a cover story. "It's… just a personal project. A coding thing. I, uh, appreciate the drink." She took the coffee, the warmth of the cup a comfort against her sudden chill of embarrassment. "Thank you again. For earlier. You really… you really helped."

"It's fine," he said, smiling that same easy smile. He leaned against a nearby table, not too close, which Grace appreciated. "They don't mind me staying late to tidy up. I saw you were still here."

Silence stretched between them. Grace berated herself internally. 'Say something. Anything. He's just standing there. He brought you coffee. He's nice. Don't just sit like a statue.' Her heart was racing again, but now it was a social anxiety, a tightness in her chest. 

"S-so," Grace forced out, "do you still work at Amazon?"

"Oh no," George replied, shaking his head. "I quit when all that new system stuff was happening. Way too frustrating. Constant updates, everything breaking. I like the library. Decent pay too."

"Oh, haha…" Grace's laugh was weak, a hollow sound. She sipped the coffee nervously, the bitterness of the brew matching her inner critique of her conversational skills.

 ''Oh, haha.' That's all you have? Brilliant.'

But George didn't seem bothered. He just stood there, looking at her with a patient, kind expression that suggested he wasn't judging her or waiting for her to be charming. He also pointed, gently, toward the charging station. "It's empty now. You could charge up if you wanted."

Grace looked. Indeed, the station was clear. "Oh, ah, haha. But I'm done now so…" She gestured at her shut laptop and the library computer. 

"Fair enough," he said.

The silence returned. Fortunately, to some extent, it felt less oppressive. 'Or is that my imagination?' Grace finished her coffee, the act giving her a reason to not speak. When the cup was empty, she gathered her things: laptop, charger, the few papers she'd printed earlier. She stood up, suddenly feeling stiff and tired.

"I have to go," Grace said apologetically. "Thank you. For the coffee. And for… everything."

George nodded. "No problem, Grace. Have a good night."

"You too."

She walked out of the library, the heavy doors swinging shut behind her. The night air was cool against her face. As she walked toward the parking lot, she reflected on her success. Images flashed. Suddenly, she wondered if after that first reminder, she had been typing too loud and George was too polite to point that out to her?

'Ugh. I suck.'

Grace Ashcroft was reclusive by nature and profession. Her days were spent in the Midwest Field Office of the FBI, in a small, windowless room where she analyzed data, social media, and built digital profiles. Her free time was spent in her apartment a block away, surrounded by books and work. She had come to this library specifically because she'd believed a certain, obscure text on Cold War cipher-breaking might hold the key. She had initially asked the other FBI agents but they said they were too busy to fetch a simple book. So, for once, she had to go out of her way to find it. And she did. It was also fruitless. It didn't help at all.

Apparently, she just needed a volunteer to point her in the right direction.

It was a strange, almost embarrassing stroke of luck. Some random dude had aided her in a breakthrough she could not for the past two months.

"Maybe I need to go outside more," Grace said in a murmur.

***

Two days had passed. She was at work. It was supposed to be another day at the office. 

'Am I going crazy? Why is everyone looking at me?'

Somehow, it didn't feel like one. Coming in, she got a nod from an FBI agent she passed by in the hallways. They had never talked before, so why suddenly nod? When she sat down at her messy, somewhat isolated cubicle, a neighbouring analyst smiled at her.

'I'm going crazy. No, maybe I'm not. Maybe.' 

Grace, Grace. Smart, reclusive, and anxious. Her cubicle couldn't even be recognized as one because of the clutter. Books stacked atop each other, newspapers clipped to the sides, and files strewn everywhere. A cup of coffee couldn't fit in here. Literally, Grace left no space unturned. Every inch of her work station was a bloody mess.

Two days had passed since her breakthrough in the library (and George). Either her social anxiety had turned up or, as she swore to every coding god, the atmosphere in the Midwest Field Office was different. 

Anyway, today, there wasn't much to do. Her screen displayed the validated results of her ledger analysis. There was a map that she worked on yesterday and today. It was fifty-percent done. It wasn't necessary but still. A map was a map. Maps were cool. She'd have a specialist smooth it over via email. That would take a couple days though.

Footsteps. Grace knew who they belonged to. 

"Sir!"

She spun on her chair, hands folded on her lap, and Nathan Dempsy arrived at her cluttered work station. He was the Special Agent in Charge. Bald, with a stern, lined face that was often hidden behind tinted sunglasses even indoors, he was dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit. He was a figure of authority, of results, and he rarely visited Grace's analytical enclave directly.

Today, he did.

"Ashcroft," Special Agent Dempsy said. "I hope you're working?"

Grace nodded silently. "Yes, sir."

He didn't sit. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked at her, and for a moment, the usual impassive mask seemed to soften, just at the edges. "This ledger work," he began. "That was impressive."

"Yes, sir. The alphanumeric sequences were a new, internal Amazon pharmaceutical tracking code. It wasn't in our databases because it's less than a year old."

Special Agent Dempsy nodded slowly. "We coordinated with Amazon's security and legal teams this morning. Using your cross-references, they pinpointed the distributor. That distributor's logs gave us the recipient. A local clinic we've had under observation for months." He paused, letting the significance hang in the air. "The clinic was the front. The recipient was the ringleader. We made arrests an hour ago."

"Really?"

'R-really? That fast?'

"There were four key individuals. The local mafia connection you inferred from the ledger's secondary entries was confirmed. They were financing the operation, taking a cut."

Grace felt a surge of something hot and bright in her chest. Pride, but also a profound relief. The months of staring at gibberish, the weeks of dead ends, the frustration—it was worth something tangible.

"Your work," Dempsy continued, "was exceptional. It was the breakthrough. I don't say that often. You should hear it."

Grace could only nod, her throat tight. She wasn't used to praise, especially not from him. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank you, Ashcroft." He gave her one last, appraising look. "Keep digging and keep this up. I never expected you of all people to be capable of this. I'm glad I was proven wrong." Then he turned and left. The nearby analysts whistled, impressed. 

Suddenly, she was being congratulated. 

"Good job, Grace."

"It isn't often Mr. Special Agent Dempsy gives praise!"

"You're young too! Took me ten years to get a bust like yours!"

Grace flushed red. Why was everyone pulling out? Why was everyone suddenly talking to her? "T-thank you," she stammered. "Really, uh… I just…"

It was a strange five minutes of praise, of questions, and of smiles. It wasn't like she hadn't talked to any of these people before. They did have to coordinate on certain jobs. But for Grace, she preferred email or one-on-one talks. Maybe a lunch conversation here and there.

Never…never everyone getting together to chit-chat like old buddies. 

Of course, soon, the room settled back into the work flow. Grace faced her personal computer. Her fingers, however, didn't move. 'Special Agent Dempsy complimented me…everyone did…'

She sat there. The validation of her work warmed her. She had done it. She had really done it.

As the professional triumph solidified in her thoughts, another, quieter image surfaced. Not of codes or arrests or her stern superior's approval. It was of a kind smile in a dim library. Of a gentle touch on her shoulder. Of the guy that had changed everything.

George.

Her heart did that same, light flutter it had done when he first smiled at her. 'Maybe I should thank him…or something.' 

For the next five hours of work, she thought nothing but of George. 

At the end of the shift, she saved her files and work-in-progress map, shut down her system. The workday was over. The feeling wasn't. As she packed her bag, her mind just…wasn't on the case anymore. 

Guys thought talking to girls was hard. Well, for Grace, it was the opposite. Actually, in her opinion, mustering up to talk to a guy was far more difficult. In her totally unbiased opinion, of course. 

***

She went home first. Obviously, duh. Why directly go to the library? 

Grace Ashcroft's apartment was slightly less messy than her cubicle. Just slightly. Still a mess with unwashed dishes. 

She sat on her couch, a textbook on cryptographic algorithms open on her lap. She was reading, then thinking. She was replaying, on a loop, the brief moments in the library. George's smile. His hand on her shoulder. The way he'd said, "Fair enough."

'You should go back.'

The thought was sudden and intrusive and very much not a logical next step. 'It's late,' Grace told herself. 'I don't need any books either. Come on, go tomorrow.' 

Tomorrow. Today.

Ultimately, she had no reason to return to the Midwest City Public Library.

'But if you don't go today, you might not ever see him…you should at least thank him.'

'That's not a reason,' she argued with herself. 'It's stupid. He was just doing his volunteer thing. He probably sees dozens of people every day. You were just one of them.'

But the memory of his kindness…

She was reclusive. She hardly talked to anyone but other FBI agents. She was starving for love and affection and conversation. She just…hadn't realized it.

That night, at nearly nine o'clock, Grace found herself putting on her coat. The same grey sweater, the same dark jeans

'I'll just… see if the library's open. It's in walking distance too,' she told herself. 'Maybe I'll look for that cipher book again. For future reference.'

She knew it was a lie.

The library was open. The night crowd was the same as it had been during previous her deciphering session. Students hunched over tables and a few elderly patrons browsing the shelves. 

Grace's heart started a nervous, thumping rhythm as she walked through the aisles. She didn't know where she was going. Inevitably, after sitting for ten minutes and not finding what (or rather, who) she wanted, she wandered toward the information desk, then past it, her eyes scanning for a green t-shirt, for that kind, unassuming face.

She didn't see him.

A sinking feeling began in her stomach. 'Of course he's not here. Volunteers don't work every day. He probably has a life. Why did you even come?'

Grace was about to turn, to retreat back into the anonymity of the stacks, when she heard a voice.

"Hey! Grace!"

It came from the side, near the sorting area behind the main circulation desk. Grace turned—and yes, her lips were curving upward. 

George was there. He was holding a cart loaded with returned books, a stack of paper slips in his hand. He looked slightly surprised, but his smile was immediate and genuine. "You're back."

Grace's mouth went dry. Her social scripts, never robust, failed entirely. "Hi," she managed. It sounded small and weak.

He wheeled the cart closer. "Did you forget something last time? Or need another caffeine boost? I make a mean coffee."

"No," she said quickly. Then she realized that sounded like she had no purpose at all. "I just… I was… I wanted to…" She trailed off, her face heating. 

'You sound like an idiot.'

George didn't seem to mind. He chuckled softly. "Well, it's good to see you. I was just thinking about you earlier."

Her heart did flips. "Really?"

"Yeah! Wanted to know if things went well at work! Amazon can be grueling!"

Grace felt a jolt of panic, swiftly covered by a forced laugh. "It's great, yeah. Yeah."

"Glad to hear it." He looked at her, his expression open and friendly. There was no pressure in his gaze, no demand for her to be more interesting. He just… waited.

The silence stretched again, filled by the ambient library noise from the soft chatter to the rustling pages. Grace knew she had to say something. 'Just thank him again. Then leave. That's normal.'

But instead, she said, "I just wanted to say thanks. Properly. Not in, like, some rushed way."

Honestly, she didn't know what she was saying. Did she want to give him a gift? God knows. 

"You did that already. But it's nice to hear it twice." He glanced at his cart, then at the clock on the wall behind the desk. "I've gotta get these sorted and shelved. The evening rush leaves a mountain."

"Oh," Grace said. "Okay. I'll… let you work."

She was right about to turn, her chest feeling tight.

"I'll probably be done in about two hours," George continued. "It's a big haul tonight."

Grace stopped. Not that she had moved. Her brain processed this statement poorly. Two hours. That was a long time. He was telling her he'd be busy. A normal person would say, 'Well, have a good night,' and leave.

Grace Ashcroft, whose social calibration was off by several degrees, blurted, "I can wait."

George's eyebrows lifted slightly. He chuckled. "That'll take a couple hours, Grace. You'd just be… waiting."

'Yes, you idiot,' her inner voice screamed. 'Am I dumb or something?'

Her face flushed a deep, undeniable red. She felt the heat climb from her neck to her cheeks. "I… I know. I just meant… I don't mind." The words were a mumble.

George studied her for a second, his smile softening. "Well," he said slowly, "I'm more than happy to take a break in ten or so minutes. If you don't mind waiting that long."

The offer was so gentle, so accommodating, that Grace's embarrassment deepened. He was rescuing her from her own foolish declaration. Again, like a loser, she nodded. "I don't mind."

"Cool. I'll be over in the fiction section, alphabetizing the new returns. You can… watch me work, if you want." He gave her a little wink and he pushed his cart toward the rows of shelves labeled 'A-C'.

Grace stood there, frozen for a moment. 'Watch him work?' That was even more absurd than waiting. He was joking. Definitely joking. Like some loser though, she found herself moving, drifting toward the fiction section, staying a few shelves back, pretending to look at books while her eyes tracked him.

George worked fast. He took books from the cart, checked the slips, then placed them on the correct shelf in the correct alphabetical order. He wasn't rushing; he was just doing it.

Grace watched his hands. They were ordinary hands. Not particularly large, not particularly notable. Right when her thoughts blurred into perv territory, she flicked her eyes away. 

A woman soon approached him. She was maybe in her thirties, dressed in a stylish red coat, holding a list. "Excuse me," she said. "I'm looking for the latest Marian Keyes novel. Do you know if it's in?"

George turned, his smile reappearing instantly. "Absolutely. It's in the 'K' section for Keyes, but they might have a display of new releases near the front. Let me check for you."

He walked with her toward the front of the section, talking easily, pointing. The woman laughed at something he said. Grace couldn't hear the words.

Her heart, which had been beating a steady nervous rhythm, suddenly raced. A sick, sinking feeling pooled in her stomach.

'He's just being helpful. That's his job,' she told herself.

But uuugh. Seeing him talking so easily, so warmly, to another woman—a woman who seemed confident, who knew how to ask for things—made Grace feel small. And invisible. And other things. A weird, awkward girl who had announced she'd wait for two hours for no reason.

'He's nice to everyone. That's why he's nice to you. It's not special. He's probably fucking her too—' 

Woah, stop, stop.

….

Fuck.

Grace hated herself. Why was she so pathetic?

The logic was crushing. She turned to the shelf and opened up a book about gardening in her hands. She watched as George helped the woman find her book, then as another patron, a young man with a backpack, asked about sci-fi recommendations. George engaged again, suggesting a few titles, and talking about authors.

Grace's mood plummeted. She was a fool. A socially incompetent fool who was now lurking in the fiction section, watching a library volunteer do his job, because she had nothing else to offer.

'Leave. Just leave now. Before he comes back for his break. Write him a sorry note. Or never. Just disappear.'

But she didn't leave. She stayed, holding the gardening book, her eyes fixed on the spine of a novel about whales. 

'Stop. You're not a child. You're a big girl with a big girl job.' 

Yeah. Yeah, she could do this. 

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.

George finished shelving the last book on his cart and wheeled it back to the sorting area. He didn't look surprised to see her still there; he looked pleased. Grace pretended not to notice him. She acted like this book about gardening was engrossing. It wasn't. 

"Break time," George announced. 

"Oh, George. Hi."

Yeah. Decent acting there, Grace.

"The coffee machine in the volunteer lounge is tragically broken. But there's a place around the corner that does a decent latte. My treat?"

Grace blinked. The offer was so straightforward and kind that her negative spiral halted abruptly. "Okay. Sure." She put the gardening book back on the shelf. 

They walked out of the library together. It was dark out. Grace kept her hands in her pockets, her shoulders hunched slightly.

"So," George said as they walked, "your project wrapped up well. That's good. Was it for school? Or work?"

Grace hesitated. "Work," she said finally, opting for a half-truth. "It was a… data analysis thing."

"Sounds intense. You looked like you were decoding the secrets of the universe."

"Sometimes it feels like that," Grace admitted, a small smile touching her lips.

The coffee shop was a small, independent place called 'The Daily Grind'. It was cozy, with mismatched chairs and local art on the walls. George went to the counter.

"What'll you have?" he asked.

Grace looked at the menu. "Just a black coffee. Large."

George nodded. "Alright." He turned to the cashier. "One large black coffee, and…" he paused, studying the specials board. "One frozen caramel swirl mocha with extra whipped cream and chocolate drizzle."

Grace's head tilted. 'Frozen caramel swirl mocha?'

The cashier, a young woman with a tattoo sleeve, grinned. "The special edition ice cap? Good choice as always, George."

George paid, and a few minutes later, they were handed their drinks. Grace's was a simple, sturdy paper cup. George's was a tall, clear plastic cup, filled with a light brown frozen concoction, topped with a massive swirl of whipped cream and a generous zigzag of chocolate syrup. It looked like a dessert, not a coffee.

They sat at a small table near the window. Grace looked at his drink, then at him. She couldn't help it. A laugh bubbled up in her throat. It wasn't a nervous giggle. It was a genuine, surprised chuckle.

"That's… a coffee?" Grace asked, giggling right after. 

George smiled, unashamed. "My definition of coffee is flexible. It has coffee in it. Therefore, it's coffee." He took a long sip through the straw, the whipped cream compressing. "It's good. Sweet, cold, and tastes good. That's vital."

"Won't that give you a heart attack?"

"Nah, no way."

"If you say so."

Grace watched him. He sipped with genuine enjoyment, his eyes closing briefly as he tasted it. He wasn't performing; he was just happy about his ridiculous drink.

She took a sip of her own black coffee. It was bitter, strong, exactly what she needed to cut through the fog of her anxiety.

"You're a caffeine purist," George observed, pointing at her cup. "No frills."

"Frills confuse me," Grace said, coming out more honestly.

George laughed. It was a warm, open sound. "Fair. I like the mess and blend of multiple stuff."

"Doesn't it get too much though?"

"No way, never. I love the mess."

'Well, I'm a mess—' 

She stopped herself. Focus on the conversation, Grace. So, she did. They talked. Grace first asked about his volunteering and about why he liked the library. 

"Hm…I don't know. It's fun? I like reading. You?"

"I…mostly, yeah."

"Mostly?"

"I like reading on my computer."

"Ahhh, fair, fair. Like, Audible?"

"Yes. But…"

"Ohh, you're a Wiki scroller!"

Dammit, he saw right through her. She nodded sheepishly. He didn't ask her many probing questions fortunately; he let her steer the conversation when she felt brave enough.

She asked if he missed working at Amazon.

"Not really," George said. "The library has worse pay but it's less stressful."

"True. But isn't talking to so many people a little difficult?"

"Mmm, not really?"

For her, it was.

"Unless you get the horny ladies."

"H-huh?"

He leaned in to whisper. "Smut novels. They're getting huge! And I mean both the books, what's in them, and the amount of people coming. And cumming!"

Grace burst into laughter. Realizing she was laughing, it startled her. She kept laughing though. George joined her with a chuckle.

When she relaxed, she thought, 'I haven't laughed like this in… years.'

Here's the thing about being reclusive: you don't laugh hard. You don't feel the physical crunch of your diaphragm, the lightness in your chest, the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes from laughing. You only laugh that hard when you're with someone else. When their humor unlocks something in you that you keep locked away.

George made a joke about a lady patron who once tried to check out a porn book by insisting it was her 'emotional support novel'. Grace laughed so hard she had to put her coffee down, her hand covering her mouth as a snort escaped. She felt tears well up, not from sadness, but from the force of the laughter.

George watched her, his own smile wide and delighted. "I've been waiting to use that story. It's hard to mention, 'cuz a lot of the ladie love that stuff."

"I get it, I get it," Grace said, wiping her eyes quickly, embarrassed but still smiling. "Should I read some?"

George gestured grandly with a hand. "Be my guest. Some of it is pretty hot. Just be ready for weird positions that don't make sense in your head."

Beep, beep! Someone's phone was going off and Grace was disappointed to find out it was George's.

"Aw, man. Break's over."

Grace felt a visible, physical disappointment. Her shoulders sank a little. Her smile faded.

"Gotta get back," he said, standing up. "The late shift volunteer is coming in, but I promised to finish the sorting."

Grace stood too, clutching her now-empty coffee cup. "Okay. Thanks for… the coffee. And the company."

"Thank you for your company, Grace!"

Grace's heart did that fluttering thing again. "Mm," she agreed. They exited the store and were outside. It was so dark, it was difficult to make out his face. It was that time of the season, huh? 

George hesitated for a moment, then reached into his pocket to pull out his phone. "Hey, if you ever want to decode something again, or just want a ridiculous frozen coffee recommendation, you could text me. I'm usually available."

He held out his phone, showing a new contact screen.

Grace stared at it. Her brain processed the offer. A phone number. 'Is this—is he—?' Don't overthink, just do. 

"Y-yeah, sure!"

They exchanged numbers. Grace saved his as simply 'George'.

"Alright, gotta go now!"

Grace nodded, a lump in her throat. "Okay."

He waved, a simple, friendly gesture, and walked back toward the library. Grace watched him until he disappeared around the corner.

Grace was alone on the sidewalk, holding her phone. The night traffic passed by, the world moving in its usual, impersonal way. But inside her chest, something was moving too, hopeful and terrifying.

Her heart was racing. Not from anxiety. From anticipation.

'Okay, yeah,' Grace thought, walking slowly back toward her apartment. 'I got his number. Good job. Good going, Grace.' 

***

Today was a hell of a day for a reclusive woman like Grace. 

She showered. As she stood under the spray, her mind wasn't on codes or cases or Nathan Dempsy's stern approval.

It was on a frozen caramel swirl mocha with extra whipped cream.

It was on a joke about women gooning for smut novels. 

It was on a smile that seemed to exist just to make her feel less awkward.

She dried off, put on her pajamas—a simple black and white cotton set—and sat on her bed. Her phone was on the nightstand.

'Should I text him?'

The question was monumental. She did not mind emailing people, so this wasn't any different. Yeah.

'He said he'd text me soon. And he said he's available usually. Maybe… maybe I should text him first. Just a thank you. For the coffee.'

She picked up her phone. Her thumbs hovered over the screen. She opened the new contact.

What did people text? Normal people? She had no frame of reference. Her work texts were all logistics, all data. 'The file is uploaded. The meeting is at 3. The decryption key will work. Blah, blah. Ugh.'

Ugh, indeed. Grace typed slowly.

> Grace: Hi George. This is Grace. Just wanted to say thanks again for the coffee tonight. And the conversation. It was really nice.

She sent it. The message vanished from her screen, appearing in the digital space between them.

She held her breath.

Her phone buzzed less than a minute later.

> George: Hey Grace! No need to thank me, but I'm glad you did. The conversation was the best part. Even better than the whipped cream lmao

Grace's lips curled into a smile. She typed back, her fingers moving faster now.

> Grace: The whipped cream was interesting haha

> George: You should join me next time!

Grace laughed, alone in her room. She typed again.

> Grace: Too much sugar

> George: nahhhh! You can handle it! Trust lol

Grace laughed harder. 

They texted. Back and forth. About nothing consequential. About the weather. About a movie George had seen. About a book Grace had read. It was like their talk in the coffee shop, but distilled into little bubbles of text, popping on her screen with a regularity that made the night feel alive.

Grace found herself lying back on her bed, phone in hand, smiling at the ceiling. She asked him about his favorite book. He asked her about her favorite puzzle she'd ever solved. She linked him to a crossword app that she did everyday for fun. 

Oh, and then they played Eight-Ball Pool. Grace lost. They played again and George kept winning. He was way too good (with his fingers, she thought in back of her head).

The hours passed. The clock on her phone ticked from 9 PM to 10 PM to 11 PM to midnight. Grace didn't feel tired. She felt energized. Each buzz of her phone was a little spark. They texted until 2 AM. Until 3 AM. The sky outside her window deepened from evening blue to the black of deep night.

Grace realized she had to work in the morning. Nathan Dempsy expected her to be at her desk by 8, sharp. She had a new batch of data to analyze, a follow-up to the bust.

Ugh. 

> Grace: I have to work tomorrow. Sadly, the birthday party planning must pause.

> George: The world will wait for its coded cake. Get some sleep, Grace. Text me tomorrow if you survive the work day.

> Grace: I'll try to survive.

> George: Good. I'll be here. Probably shelving R-rated authors. 

Giggling, Grace put her phone down. She lay in the dark, the screen of her phone now black. Her face felt warm. Her chest felt full.

The fact that someone cared enough to text with her all night… to joke with her, to listen to her, to offer his time without any expectation…

It was the best feeling in the world. 

She closed her eyes. A smile stayed on her lips, wide and unreserved.

She didn't realize it yet. She didn't put the label on it. But in the quiet of her room, with the memory of his texts glowing in her mind, the truth was settling in, taking root in a part of her that had been empty for a long time.

For the first time in years, Grace Ashcroft fell asleep not thinking about data, or codes, or the next case. 

***

The next two weeks were routine punctured by bursts of light. Grace's work at the field office was intense—Nathan Dempsy had assigned her a new digital ledger, this one tied to a cybercrime ring. She spent hours hunched over her monitor, the sterile glow of the screen her only companion in the hushed analyst room. But every hour or so, her phone would buzz.

> George: Oof, too much caffeine today. Head hurts. hbu

She'd smile, a small private thing that felt illicit in the serious space, and type back.

> Grace: I don't drink coffee while working. Sorry

> George: Lies. Lies I say

The texts were silly and inconsequential. They asked nothing of her except a moment of attention. They didn't probe her work, her past, her anxieties. And for Grace, whose life was a series of probing questions and hidden truths, the simplicity was a narcotic.

They arranged to meet again at the library on Thursday. It was the same pattern: Grace would arrive around six, find him shelving books or helping a patron, and they would take their coffee break. It wasn't a formal plan, but it became a rhythm. She'd walk in, her heart doing that familiar, nervous flutter, and scan the aisles. He'd always appear, usually with a cart or a stack of returns, and his smile would break the monotony of her day like a key in a lock.

"Grace! You're here," he'd say, and it felt like an affirmation.

"Yeah, you too," she'd reply, and it felt like a confession.

The coffee shop became their de facto meeting spot. George continued his quest for the most absurd frozen concoction the 'Daily Grind' could offer. On Thursday, it was a 'Mocha-Mango Fusion Freeze' with coconut flakes on top. Grace stuck to her black coffee, but she watched him with a fascinated delight. Always laughing. Honestly, there was never not a minute where she didn't laugh.

On Friday, he got a 'Pumpkin Spice Espresso Float' that involved a scoop of vanilla ice cream floating in the drink. Grace stared at it, her eyebrows raised.

"Is that even a beverage?" she asked.

"Of course," George declared, sipping it with gusto. "You have to try it."

He offered her the straw. She hesitated, her social panic flashing—was this a shared drink? Was that a thing?—but then she leaned forward and took a tiny sip. It was overwhelmingly sweet, cloying, and cold. She grimaced.

"Terrible," Grace said, but she was grinning.

"I know," he laughed. "But it's fun."

Fun. Her life wasn't fun. It was stressful and full of impatient and chaos. Although with George, that didn't seem to be the case. For thirty minutes in a mismatched chair, it was fun.

By the end of the third week, those coffee breaks had become the best part of her day. The highlight. She'd finish her work and the thought of seeing him would untangle her stress. It was a reward system her brain had never established before.

'It's just coffee,' she'd tell herself. 'Just a friendly chat.'

But deep, deep inside, in a part of her psyche she didn't dare examine, it felt like a date. The anticipation, the preparation—she started choosing her outfits more carefully, a nicer sweater or jeans that weren't frayed. She'd run a brush through her blonde hair, making sure the asymmetrical bob wasn't too messy. She'd even apply a subtle lip balm.

As an analyst, being presentable and wearing make-up was expected. But never outside work. Never, ever. 

Until George. 

The feeling was terrifying. It was a seedling of hope in a garden that had only ever grown thorns of solitude. She didn't water it, didn't tend to it. She just let it sit there, a tiny green thing in the dark, and tried not to look at it directly.

Monday arrived. Grace had a morning briefing with Nathan Dempsy. He stood at the head of the small conference room, tall and imposing. It was a new job. 

"Ashcroft, this is an oldie. Our group gave up on it last year and, frankly, there's not too much value in it. But…if you could decode it, we'd be grateful."

Grace nodded, her eyes on her notes. "For a gambling website, huh…"

"One of the biggest in the country. It's high-risk, high-reward. Probably why it's nearly impossible to crack. If you can't do it, then you can't."

"How long do I have, sir?"

"Two weeks."

Grace's jaw clenched. Not nearly enough time. Yet also, it was what she expected and what she was used to. 

She worked through the morning, her focus intense. By three PM, she'd found some metadata. But ugh. This was going to take forever. Her forehead hit her table.

'I wanna go home…'

No, not home. She wanted to leap ahead to the evening, to the library, to George.

She left the office at five, the autumn air crisp against her cheeks. She walked to the library, a twenty-minute journey that felt like a pilgrimage. Her backpack, with her laptop and charger, felt lighter today.

She entered the familiar library, books and shelves welcoming her. Her eyes scanned the main hall. George wasn't at the information desk. She walked toward the fiction section, her usual route.

When she saw him, she smiled—then frowned.

He was near the new releases display, talking to a woman.

A woman with dark hair in a bob, sunglasses, a confident posture, and a long red coat. She was holding a book, laughing. George was smiling, that same warm, disarming smile he always had. They were close. The woman touched his arm briefly to hold on as she giggled. 

Grace stopped. Her breath caught—not a hitch, just a full, sudden stop.

'Who is that?'

The question screamed in her mind. Her heart, which had been beating a steady, hopeful rhythm, now plummeted into a cold, sickening plunge. Her insecurities exploded outwards, swallowing her whole.

'Of course. Of course he has other friends. Other women. He's nice. He's handsome. He doesn't spend his life in a cubicle. He has a life. Yeah. Come on. He's a guy.'

She watched, frozen, from behind a shelf of historical biographies. The woman said something, George replied, and they both laughed again. It was easy. It was effortless. It was the kind of interaction Grace could never manage. The woman was attractive too. Grace could tell from the figure under her coat. 

'He's just being friendly,' she tried, but the logic was thin and brittle. The woman's touch on his arm wasn't a librarian-patron touch. It was personal.

Grace felt a hot flush of shame. She was lurking. She was hiding. She was the weird girl. Her earlier feelings—the date-like anticipation, the secret hope—felt childish now. Pathetic.

Grace wanted to leave. To turn around and walk out, to never come back. To delete his number from her phone and bury the memory of frozen coffee and late-night texts in the graveyard of her other social failures.

But she had promised to meet him. They had a time. Monday, after his shift.

She stood there, paralyzed, until the woman finally waved and walked away, heading toward the exit. George watched her go, then turned, his eyes scanning the area. He saw Grace.

His smile reappeared, just for her. It was the same smile. But now, to Grace, it felt generic. A smile he gave to everyone.

"Hey," he said, walking over. "You're early. I just finished helping Ada with a book club selection."

Grace's voice felt glued to her throat. "Ada?"

"Yeah, she runs the monthly mystery book club here. She's always looking for new titles." George gestured toward the cart beside him. "I've got about ten minutes left on this cart. Then we can break."

Grace nodded, a mechanical movement. "Okay."

She stood there, silent, as he finished shelving the last few books. Her mind was a riot of negative noise. 'He's nice to everyone. You're not special. You're just another person he helps. A weird, quiet person who can't even hold a conversation. He probably thinks you're a charity case.'

Then she smacked herself.

'You're a grown woman. Grab a hold of yourself, Grace! You're a big girl with a job in the FBI! Act like it!'

When he finished, he wheeled the cart back and returned. "Ready for coffee?"

"Sure," Grace said, her voice flat.

They walked to 'The Daily Grind'. The autumn breeze was cooler today, hinting at winter. Grace kept her hands buried in her coat pockets, her shoulders tense.

George, as usual, went to the counter. "What's the special today?" he asked the cashier.

"Apple Cinnamon Toffee Blast. It's a frozen apple pie smoothie with cinnamon and toffee chips."

George's eyes lit up. "Perfect. That's mine." He looked at Grace. "Black coffee?"

Grace nodded. "Yes."

He ordered, paid, and they waited. The silence between them was different today. From Grace's side, it wasn't the comfortable, waiting silence of before. 

George didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't comment. He collected their drinks—his was a horrifying concoction of brown and white swirls with visible chips in it, hers a simple black coffee—and they sat at their usual table.

Grace took a sip. The coffee was bitter, acrid in her mouth. It matched her mood.

George took a long sip of his Apple Cinnamon Toffee Blast. He made a satisfied sound. "I'm shocked."

"Mm?"

"This is actually good. It tastes like a dessert you'd have at Thanksgiving."

Grace let out a weak laugh and stared at her cup.

George tilted his head, his kind hazel eyes studying her. "What's up?"

Grace's courage, a fragile thing she had been cultivating in the dark, shriveled. She wanted to say nothing. To brush it off. To pretend she was just tired from work.

But the image of him laughing with Ada, of Ada touching his arm, burned in her mind. The contrast between that easy exchange and her own stammering, awkward presence was too stark. The hope she had secretly nurtured felt like a lie.

Grace looked at him. His face was patient. He wasn't pushing. He was just waiting. She should just be honest.

"Do you wanna go to dinner tonight?"

She heard herself say it. The sentence hung in the air between them, a clumsy, blunt object.

'Huh? Wait, was that what I wanted to ask?'

Shit.

George blinked. He blinked again. 

Grace's heart stopped. The plunge was complete. She had messed up. She had broken the unspoken rule of their casual, friendly coffee breaks. She had asked for more. She had revealed the hope, and now he would reject it, and the hope would die, and she would have to leave and never come back and—

"Yeah, sure," he said.

Shit.

Shit?

'Wait…'

Grace's brain failed to process this. 

"Y-yeah?" she repeated, her voice small.

George nodded. "Yeah. Dinner sounds great."

He smiled again. Okay, god, call her delusion, but it was different. It was! 

Grace's anxiety didn't vanish and amped into a buzzing, electric panic. 'He said yes. He said yes. Now I have to plan a dinner. I have to pick a place. I have to… be on a date.'

"Oh," she said. "Okay."

"When?" George asked, his tone still easy. "Tonight's good for me. My shift ends at seven."

Grace's mind raced. Tonight. That was… now. In a few hours. "Tonight is… good. For me too."

"Great," he said. "Where should we go? Any preferences?"

Grace's preferences were microwave meals and cafeteria food. She had no data on restaurants. "I… I can pick," she said, the words feeling like a commitment. "I'll find something."

George's smile widened. "Okay. You pick. Text me the place and time. I'll be there."

***

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Pardon her language, but fuck! She ran into her apartment and Grace dropped her backpack on the floor. She stood in the center of the living room, her hands on her hips. 

"Okay, Grace. You wanted dinner, you got it. You gotta pick a place and pick good clothes. Yep, no pressure."

She went to her laptop, her tool for solving the world's most complex puzzles, and opened a browser. She typed 'restaurants near me' into the search bar. The results flooded in. Hundreds of them. Italian, Chinese, Mexican, American, fusion, vegan, steakhouse.

Grace's analytical mind tried to categorize them. 'Price range. Distance. Ratings. Reviews.'

She clicked on a popular Italian place. Four-star average. Good. But one reviewer mentioned slow service. She couldn't risk slow service. George might get bored. He might think she picked a bad place. Plus, just four stars? Please.

"Gotta be at least four and a half stars. Maybe four point three stars," Grace murmured. 

She clicked on a Chinese restaurant. Five stars, but it was fifteen miles away. She didn't have a car. Did George have a car? He'd never mentioned it. She hadn't asked. 'Fuck.'

Not to mention a flat five stars was a red flag. Yep, this place was new. She didn't trust the five stars.

Click, click! 

Grace swore aloud, a rare thing for her. "Fuck, fuck."

She needed authentic reviews. Four-star averages weren't enough. She needed to read the individual experiences, the details. She needed to find a place that was perfect.

Her phone buzzed. She grabbed it.

> George: Just finished my shift. Ready for the dinner coordinates.

Grace's panic intensified. She hadn't picked a place yet. She hadn't even considered transportation.

She typed back, her thumbs clumsy.

> Grace: Sure! Do you… have a car?

She sent it, then held her breath. If he didn't have a car, they'd have to take public transport, or walk, or… it would be complicated. It would be awkward.

The reply came quickly.

> George: Yeah, I have a car. I can pick you up. Where do you live?

Grace felt a surge of relief. He had a car. He could pick her up. That solved one variable.

She sent her address, a modest apartment building in a quiet, well-kept neighborhood. It wasn't fancy, but it was safe and clean. She hoped he wouldn't judge it.

> George: Got it. I'll be there at 7:30. 

> Grace: Sure! I'll surprise you with where we're going! 

> George: Ooh, I'm ready! 

'No pressure,' Grace told herself. 

There was immense pressure. She had to pick a place that was amazing. Otherwise, she'd look like a loser virgin. 

She went back to her laptop, scrolling through reviews with a feverish intensity. She read about ambiance, about portion sizes, about waiter attitudes. She cross-referenced distance with her address. She calculated travel time.

Finally, she settled on a place. "The Gilded Truffle. You better be worth it." It was a French-inspired bistro, not too formal, not too casual. The reviews consistently mentioned 'excellent service' and 'romantic atmosphere'. It was eight miles away. George could drive there. It had a four-and-a-half-star average.

She put her phone down. The decision was made. Now came the next crisis: what to wear.

Grace stood in front of her closet. Her wardrobe was a study in functionality. Sweaters, collared shirts dark jeans, that sort of thing. A few plain dresses she wore for rare formal occasions at the bureau.

None of it felt… date worthy.

She pulled out a simple black dress. It was knee-length, modest. She held it up. 'Too boring. Looks like I'm going to a funeral.'

She pulled out a grey blouse and a skirt. 'Too office.'

Grace rummaged deeper, finding a pair of tight black pants she'd bought once for a party she never attended. They were still new. She paired them with an off-the-left-shoulder white top she'd gotten on a clearance sale. It was… stylish. Maybe.

She tried them on. The pants were tight, hugging her slender frame. The top exposed her left shoulder, a subtle hint of skin. It was more daring than anything she'd ever worn outside her apartment.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her blonde hair was in its usual wavy layered bob. She pushed a hand through it, trying to make it look less… librarian-like.

'Make-up,' she thought. She rarely wore make-up. But tonight felt like a night for it.

She dug out a small collection of items—a foundation, a mascara, and lipstick. The lipstick was red. A bold, vibrant red she'd bought impulsively with her first ever paycheck and never used.

She applied the foundation lightly, the mascara with careful strokes. Then she looked at the red lipstick. She hesitated. 'Is it too much? Will he think I'm trying too hard?'

But the memory of Ada, confident and touching his arm and very much wearing red lipstick, pushed her. Ada wouldn't hesitate. Ada would wear the lipstick.

Grace applied it. The color was shocking against her pale skin. It transformed her face. It made her look…cooler. More confident. Sexier.

She stared at her reflection. Without her glasses, her grey eyes were sharp and clear. With the red lipstick, the tight black pants, the off-the shoulder top… she looked like a different person. A person who might go on a date. A person who might be desired.

The thought made her stomach clench with a nervous thrill.

She put her glasses aside. She'd go without them. She could see fine without them for a few hours.

At 7:25, she was ready. She stood in her living room, checking her phone, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror, pacing. Her heart was a drum in her chest. She opened up her drawers again and—

"Panties…" Did she have lingerie? She vaguely recalled that she did. "S-should I…?"

She bit her bottom lip. In the end…Grace did. 

At 7:30 exactly, her phone buzzed.

> George: Outside.

Grace took a deep breath. She grabbed her coat—a simple black one—and her phone, and walked out of her apartment. The elevator ride down was agonizingly slow. The hallway was empty. The front door of her building swung open, and she stepped out into the cool evening.

George's car was parked right outside. It was a modest sedan and rather unassuming. He was standing beside it, leaning against the driver's side door. He was wearing a dark green button-down shirt and jeans. He looked… nice. 

When he saw her, his expression changed. His eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly. He stared at her, from her face down to her outfit, and then back to her face.

Grace couldn't meet his gaze. She felt exposed. The red lipstick felt like a neon sign on her mouth. The tight pants felt like a declaration. The lingerie too. Ugh. She walked toward him.

"Hi," Grace said, her voice barely above a whisper.

George blinked, as if clearing his vision. "Grace. Wow."

Grace's face flushed. "Wow?"

"You look… incredible," he said, sincere. 

Grace's heart hammered. "Thank you." She glanced at the car. "Should we… go?"

George nodded, still looking at her. "Yeah. Let's go." He opened the passenger door for her, a gesture that felt gentlemanly. She'd never thought herself a lady, until that moment. 

Grace slid into the seat. The car was clean, smelled faintly of citrus. It was orderly, like him.

George got in the driver's side and started the engine. He didn't speak for a moment, just looked at her again as he adjusted the mirror. "I mean, really. You look amazing."

Grace kept her eyes on the window. "It's just… clothes."

"It's not just clothes," he said softly. "It's you. You look gorgeous."

Gorgeous!? Grace didn't know how to respond. She just nodded, a small, nervous gesture.

The drive to 'The Gilded Truffle' was quiet. George drove smoothly, his hands confident on the wheel. It was kinda hot to see a guy drive. Kinda. Actually, really hot. Grace watched the city pass by, the lights, the people, the world outside her usual bubble.

George just commented on the traffic, on a billboard they passed, and on the weather. Typical stuff. It was pretty soothing. Grace rubbed her legs and hands together. 

When they arrived at the restaurant, it was as she'd hoped from the reviews: intimate, warm, with soft lighting and dark wood accents. A soft relief even escaped her. A hostess greeted them and led them to a table Grace had reserved online. It was a small booth near the back, semi-private, with a candle already lit on the table.

George looked around, impressed. "I like this! How'd you find out about this place?"

Grace felt a flicker of pride. "I like to go out here and there." A total lie. 

'Dunno why I said that.'

"You go on dates often?"

"H-huh? Oh no, this—this is my first—" Shit. "I just…like to go to restaurants."

"Gotcha, gotcha."

That smile…

Fuck, now it felt like she lost an advantage or something. They sat down. The booth was snug, forcing them to sit close together. Grace felt the proximity, his knees near hers. 

A waiter arrived, a middle-aged man with a black goatee and a friendly smile. "Welcome to The Gilded Truffle. Can I start you with some drinks?"

George looked at Grace. "What do you like?"

Grace, who drank water or coffee, had no idea. "Water is fine."

George grinned. "We can do better than water." He looked at the waiter. "Can we see the cocktail menu?"

The waiter brought it. George scanned it, then pointed. "I'll have the 'Truffle Twist'. It's got gin and some kind of black truffle infusion. Sounds weird, but I'm in." He looked at Grace. "Want to try one? Or a wine?"

Grace looked at the menu. 'Rosé. Cabernet. Chardonnay. Okay…you know the words. Just not the flavour. Pick wisely, Grace.' 

She could not pick wisely as she took too long. "I'll have… the Truffle Twist too," she said, opting for solidarity.

George's smile widened. In a video game, that meant picking the correct option. 

The waiter left. The candlelight flickered between them, casting soft shadows on George's face. Grace looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since they'd sat down. His hazel eyes were warm, focused on her. His expression was open, curious.

He broke the ice. "So, Grace Ashcroft, expert decoder of Amazon product codes. How's work going?"

"Oh, you know. It's going."

"Haha, code word for going badly. Hmm, how about this—best dessert?"

"Best dessert…maybe ice cream."

"Chocolate? Vanilla? Strawberry?"

"Strawberry."

"Ever try coffee ice cream?"

"No. Is it good?"

"I love it! One of the best flavours, trust me."

Grace giggled. "And this isn't biased?"

"Not one bit. I'm not even that into coffee."

"Now that's the first lie you've ever told!"

As they shared a laugh, their drinks arrived. The 'Truffle Twist' was a pale gold liquid with a subtle earthy aroma. George gestured to say, "Ladies first!"

So, it was up to Grace to take the first sip. It was lemon-y with a strange earthy aftertaste that was oddly pleasant. 

George sipped his, made a face. "Interesting. It tastes like…I don't even know. Coffee lemon?"

"Yeah. Coffee lemon." Giggling, Grace took another sip. "I like it."

The waiter returned for their food orders. The menu was French-inspired, with names Grace couldn't pronounce. George, again, took the lead. He ordered a 'Coq au Vin' with a side of 'Pommes Frites'. Grace didn't panic and calmly ordered a 'Salade de Chèvre Chaud'—a warm goat cheese salad.

When the food arrived, it was beautiful. Grace's salad was a colorful arrangement of greens, walnuts, and warm, melted goat cheese on toast. George's chicken was in a rich, dark sauce with carrots and mushrooms.

George looked at his plate, then at Grace's. "Sheesh! This all looks amazing. You picked a great place."

Grace felt another surge of pride. "Thank you."

They ate. The taste was, as the reviews promised, excellent. The goat cheese was creamy and tangy, the salad fresh. George's chicken was tender, the sauce deep and flavorful.

As they ate, they talked. She couldn't talk about working for the FBI, so she shared other things. She shared her favorite movie, for example, and they recommended some stuff to each other. It was interesting. 

Halfway through the meal, the restaurant's lights dimmed suddenly. A piano piece started playing in the background, slow and romantic. The candles on each table, including theirs, glowed brighter, as if they'd been enhanced by the dimming of the overhead lights.

A voice from the restaurant's speaker system announced, "Welcome to our 'Candlelight Hour'. For the next thirty minutes, we dim the lights to enhance the intimate ambiance. Enjoy the glow."

The room plunged into a soft, golden darkness. The only light came from the candles, flickering on every table, casting long shadows and warm pools of illumination.

George and Grace were suddenly in a private, secluded world. The other diners became silhouettes, their conversations hushed murmurs. The candle on their table was the brightest thing in Grace's vision.

She looked at George. His face was lit by the flame, his features soft and defined. He was looking at her, his expression unreadable but intense.

"This is… nice," Grace said.

"It's romantic," George said. 

Grace just nodded. "It is."

The music played, a gentle melody that seemed to wrap around them. They finished their meals, the silence between them now comfortable, charged with a new energy.

When the waiter came to clear their plates, George ordered a dessert—a 'Profiteroles' with chocolate sauce. Grace, feeling bold, agreed to share it.

The dessert arrived, two delicate pastry puffs filled with cream, drizzled in dark chocolate. They shared it, taking bites with their own forks, but the act felt intimate. Sharing food. Sharing the candlelight. Sharing the quiet.

When the last bite was gone, George leaned back, his eyes on Grace. "Thank you for this. For picking this place. For asking me."

Grace' s heart was pounding. Strangely, her insecurities were gone, burned away by the warmth of the moment. She felt brave. She felt present.

"Thank you for accepting and coming," Grace said. "I really…I really like hanging out with you."

George smiled. Then he leaned forward, just a little. The space between them in the small booth was already minimal. Now it was nonexistent.

Grace could feel his breath, warm and soft. She could see the details of his face—the curve of his lips and the kindness in his eyes. The candlelight danced on his skin.

There was no code to break here. There was no pattern to follow. There was just this moment, this man, this feeling.

Grace leaned forward too.

The distance closed.

Their lips met.

The kiss was soft. It was tentative at first, a gentle brush of skin. Then it deepened, as George's hand came up to cup her cheek, his touch warm and sure. Grace's hands found his shoulders, holding onto him as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world.

The candlelight flickered around them, the romantic music swelling in the background. 

'Bed. Bed. I want him in my bed.'

…

…

…

"Mmmh!"

Suddenly, they were in her apartment, making out on her bed. 

This kiss wasn't like the one at the restaurant. It wasn't soft or tentative by any means. It was hungry. It was a demand. Grace's mouth opened under his, and he deepened the kiss immediately. His tongue touched hers, a slick, exploratory stroke that sent a shockwave straight to her core. She gasped into his mouth, her hands clutching at his shoulders.

Meanwhile, he got a heapful of her ass. He really seemed to enjoy squeezing it, even though the mattress was right under.

George groped and kissed her like he wanted to consume her. His lips moved against hers with a firm, insistent rhythm. Grace responded, her own kisses becoming equally fervent. She'd never kissed anyone like this. She'd never been kissed like this. She had never kissed in the first place. She was surprised to see herself being the aggressor despite bottoming. Grace was hungry for him and his cock and his everything. 

She pushed her mouth against his, her tongue delving into his. She tasted the gin and truffle from his drink. Her hands roamed over his chest.

George's hands came up to her waist, his fingers pressing into her hips. Then they moved upward, over her ribs, and finally to her breasts.

He touched her through the fabric of her off-the shoulder top. Grace shuddered, a sharp, pleasurable jolt arcing through her. He squeezed gently, his thumbs massaging the round shape of her boobs. She could feel the hard points of her nipples pressing against the material, sensitive and eager.

He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look down at his hands on her chest. A slow smile spread across his face.

"You're not wearing a bra," he noted.

Grace's face flushed hotter. She hadn't. The top was designed to be worn without one. It was the choice she'd made back then. To wear lingerie and to go braless. 

"I… I didn't think I needed one," she stammered.

George's smile widened. "You definitely don't."

His hands moved again, this time sliding under the fabric of her top. His fingertips found her C-cups. They weren't huge knockers. Still.

"Mmm…!"

Grace liked him groping them. And George enjoyed groping her in turn.

He leaned forward and kissed her again, his mouth claiming hers as his fingers explored her. He found her nipple, circling it with his thumb. The sensation was intense. Grace moaned, a soft, helpless sound that escaped into his mouth.

He responded by deepening the kiss, his tongue moving more insistently. His other hand came up to her shoulder, pushing the fabric aside. The top slid down, exposing her left breast completely.

Grace froze for a second, a spike of vulnerability shooting through her. But George didn't pause. He looked at her, his eyes holding hers, and then he lowered his mouth to her breast.

His lips kissed the soft skin, then closed over her nipple. He sucked gently.

"Mmm…!" A bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure erupted from that point, radiating through her entire body. Her hands opened and closed and then hung onto his hair. She cried out in a gasp of shock and ecstasy. "G-George…!" 

George suckled her, his mouth warm and wet, his tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. He moved from one breast to the other, pushing her top down further until both were exposed to his gaze, to his touch. Grace lay there, gasping and trembling under his ministrations. She felt worshipped. She felt seen.

After a moment, he pulled back, his lips glistening. George stood up on his knees. He wasn't just taller; he seemed larger now, looking down at her with a heated intensity.

Grace lay beneath him, her boobs exposed, her pants still on, and her mind a whirlpool of desire and fear. This was it. This was the moment.

'He's going to fuck me…!' 

From a dinner date to sex. That was the fucking way to do it! 

George's hands went to his belt. He did not unbuckle it. "Mind if the lady does it?"

Grace understood. She reached up, her fingers clumsy but determined, and helped him pull the belt free. Then she fumbled with the button of his jeans, her nails scratching against the denim. She popped it open. His zipper was next. She tugged it down, the metallic rasp echoing her own frantic heartbeat.

As the zipper lowered, she saw the outline of him beneath his underwear. A hard, thick bulge straining against the cotton. Her mouth went dry.

George took her hands and placed them on his waistband. "Pull them down," he instructed, edged with need.

Grace gripped the fabric and pulled. His jeans slid down his hips, revealing his underwear—plain grey boxer briefs. The bulge was even more prominent now, unmistakable. 

Big too. Very big. As in, at least six or seven inches big. As in, reminding her of a banana. Grace gulped. 

He lifted his knee one at a time and pushed his jeans down, kicking them off onto the floor. Now he was kneeling above her, wearing only his shirt and his underwear. The shirt was still buttoned, but it hung open at the collar. 

Grace's eyes were fixed on his underwear. On the penis beneath.

'His dick, penis…i-it'll be my first. My first. Come on. Don't be nervous. E-even if it looks big…'

George smiled and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and pulled them down.

His cock sprang free.

Grace's eyes widened. Her brain, trained to analyze patterns and data, tried to process and measure. But...there were a lot of inches. A lot.

His dick was big. Not just big, but massive. Long, thick, and fully erect, it stood out from his body at a proud ten inches. The shaft was smooth, a flushed pinkish hue, leading to a broad, prominent head. It curved slightly upward, and as it bounced free from the confinement of his underwear, it seemed to claim the space between them.

It ended up tapping at her cunt. Though her pants were still a barrier, she immediately got wet. 

Grace gulped. A literal, audible swallow. Her first penis. Her first real one, not a picture and not a clinical description. "W-wow…" It was alive, pulsing slightly, a living part of him. It was beautiful in a way she hadn't expected. It was terrifying.

George watched her reaction, a soft smile on his lips. "So?"

"It's so big…l-like ten inches. Maybe more. How… how will that…?" But the fear was mixed with a deep, thrilling curiosity. She wanted to touch it. She needed to understand it.

"It'll be fine."

When he said, Grace reached out, her hand trembling. Her fingertips brushed the tip. Wow. It was hot, almost feverish. The texture was smooth, but firm. 

She wrapped her hand around it.

The solidity, the heat, it was very much nothing like a banana. Or a dildo, for that matter. She stroked upward, her fingers sliding along the length. Pre-cum oozed out and her palm accidentally collected it. The natural moisture made the glide easy. 

Drip, drip. More pre-cum.

"W-wow, is that…because of me?"

"Heh. Of course."

So hard. So big. Throb, throb, throb.

George made a sound. His eyes closed for a moment. He looked…horny. And hot. And heavy. 

'Fuck, I-I should do something.' 

Grace sat up a little, propping herself on one elbow so she could look better. She stroked him again, this time with more confidence. She stroked down to the base, where it met his body, then back up to the tip. She marveled at the size. This cock was amazing. It was a piece of her crush, and she was holding it and…it lived up to her expectations. Every last one of it.

While she stroked him, his hands moved to her pants. He found the zipper of her tight black pants and pulled it down. 

Ziiiip! 

"Oh?"

Revealing the lingerie underneath.

She flushed. No top and lingerie. That had been her choice. It was technically an incomplete set—the lace bra was not worn. Now, the black lace, sheer in places, hugged her pussy and her ass. They were slutty. Both absurd and empowering.

George's eyes were hooked. "Seriously," he murmured. "How sexy."

Grace's face burned, but a thrill shot through her. He liked it. He approved.

He helped her push her pants down her legs. They tangled at her ankles, and she kicked them off, letting them join his jeans on the floor. Now she was lying on her bed in only her black lace panties. No top or bra, her tits were pink and erect and very obviously C-cups.

George looked at her, his gaze sweeping over her from head to toe. "Grace, you are smoking hot."

His praise felt like a benediction. Grace, who had spent her life hidden behind glasses and code, felt seen. Desired. Beautiful. 

"Not sexy?" she managed to joke with a smile.

"Very sexy."

He leaned down, kissing her mouth once more, a quick, passionate press. Then he moved lower. His lips trailed down her neck, over her collarbone, to her chest. He kissed each breast again, a gentle, worshipful touch. Then he continued down, over her stomach, his lips and tongue tracing a path to her hips.

He reached her panties. His hands hooked into the sides of the lace. He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers. "Do you want this?" he asked, his voice serious now.

It was a direct question. A checkpoint. Grace's mind, usually so analytical, gave a single, clear answer: Yes.

She nodded, her breath coming in short pants.

He didn't pull them down himself. He guided her hands to the waistband. "You do it," he whispered. "Take them off for me."

Grace understood the symbolism. It was her choice. 

She hooked her fingers into the lace. She lifted her legs, bending her knees, bringing her feet up near his face. With a heave of effort, she pulled the panties down, over her hips, down her thighs. The lace stretched, then slid free. She kicked them off, her feet flinging them toward his head. The panties landed softly on his hair.

George chuckled. He picked them off his head and tossed them aside. Then he stroked his cock again, his hand moving slowly, preparing himself.

Grace lay before him, completely naked now. Her pale skin was flushed, her grey eyes wide, her lips parted. She was vulnerable, open, and ready. This nerdy blonde baddie wanted dick.

"D-do it. Fuck me~"

"With pleasure." Cock was at the ready and pointed to her cunt. 

Grace gulped and saw the broad head of his penis approach her. She saw her own pussy part for it. The tip touched her. She was wetter than she realized. Her hole had prepared itself, a natural response she hadn't even noticed.

George looked down at her, his eyes holding hers. "Ready?" he asked softly.

Grace nodded again. "Don't underestimate me. I can do this."

What a big cock that was going to go inside her. That was going to ruin her. 

Grace was glad though. That this was her first experience. That this was her first cock. He pressed forward.

"M-mmppph~! S-so thick!" His cock was long and thick, and it stretched her immediately. The head pushed inside, and Grace felt her pussylips give way and accommodate, but it was a fierce, intense stretch. She gasped, a sharp intake of air.

George paused, letting her adjust. His face was a mix of concern and intense focus. "Okay?" he breathed.

Grace couldn't speak. She could only nod, her eyes wide, her legs trembling at the sides of him.

He pushed deeper.

"Oh g-godddd~! Oh gossssh~! S-so looong! And thick!"

Each inch he gained was a new wave of sensation for Grace. It was a fullness she'd never imagined with a measly dildo or her fingers. It wasn't like she used dildos often. Only a couple times a year, really. Her fingers sufficed.

But this cock…this thing…

It was thick, and the stretch was continuous and intensely pleasurable.

He kept going, his hips moving forward until he was fully inside and his face was right above her. The classic missionary position. 

Grace felt it—all of him. Deep, deep inside her. He was buried within her, his length completely sheathed. The feeling was profound. It was a physical union that transcended anything she'd ever known.

"F-fuck…fuck…!"

"Hearing you swear is pretty cute," George remarked, smiling. "So, how is it?"

"B-big! So big! And deep! Ngggh…!"

She lay there, panting, her hands clutching at his buttocks. Her fingers dug into the muscles there, holding him as if he might disappear. His face was near hers, his breath warm on her cheek.

"You're so tight! So incredibly tight…!"

There was a hiss from the male. Grace wore a proud smile, kinda of. She knew she was. She was a virgin. Her body was unused, and now he was inside her, stretching her to her limits.

"Haah…"

Matching her smile, he began to move.

The first thrust was a gentle withdrawal, then a return. Grace felt every fucking inch slide out, then push back in like an avalanche. The friction was exquisite. It was a smooth, slick glide that ignited nerves she'd never felt before.

"G-Geooorge! Ngggh!"

"It's good?"

He thrust again, a little harder. She moaned, a soft, helpless sound. "Y-yes! Yeeees~!" 

So the rhythm established itself. He thrust into her, his hips driving forward, filling her completely each time. 

"Oh, oh, oh!" Thrust, thrust, thrust! "Ohhh~! Mmmppph~!"

The tightness was a constant feedback for him. Every time he entered her, her cunt clamped up. Every inch of it too, from the pussylips to the end. This nerdy babe, for her to have such an extremely tight cunt, it made sense. But there was this volatile need to fuck it. So he thrust.

He saw her expression break. She panted, moaned, whimpered, called out his name.

"G-George!"

Ten thrusts was all it took. That was it. Grace, oh-so new to this, responded with shocking speed. "C-cumming! I'm—I'm cumming!"

George blinked at her, then groaned. "T-t-tight…!" Indeed. The orgasm started deep inside, where he was, and exploded outward, consuming her pussy and then her whole body. His cock was squeezed. "Grace! Ngggh!"

Grace was letting out sharp, surprised gasps that broke their kiss and continued to tighten up her cunt. Her back arched off the bed, her legs tightening around his hips. Her vision blurred, her mind blanking out into pure, white sensation.

The big, fat ten inch cock couldn't move at all. Not with this super tight cunt. Not with this babe's willpower. 

Grace came down from the peak, panting, dazed. At that point, there was an opportunity and he gripped her hips and slammed down.

Eyes rolled back.

"George!"

Look at that. It was loud. It was hot. She tightened up too. 

But he didn't stop. He kept fucking her. The pleasure didn't fade; it rebuilt almost instantly.

"George! Oh George! Your cock, your coccck! Y-you can't be—you're gonna make me cum again!"

"And what's so wrong with that?"

"I don't wanna—I don't wanna—" Gasp, moan, whimper. "I don't wanna cum so fast! I wanna—"

"Make me cum first?"

Fuck, with her tight cunt, that was bound to happen any second. And to hide his premature ejaculation, he just kept fucking her brains out. He wasn't even going that fast. The size and tempo and angle were enough.

Another orgasm began to crest.

Grace's eyes were wide, her lips parted in a constant stream of gasped breaths. She could feel it coming again too; a second wave, even stronger than the first. Her body was learning, adapting. The friction, the depth, the sheer size of him inside her was driving her to a place of continuous ecstasy.

George's thrusts were amazing. His own pleasure was evident in his strained breaths, in the intensity of his gaze.

Grace's voice began to rise from soft moans to loud shrieks. She couldn't control it. The sounds escaped her, raw and honest.

So she slammed her hands over her mouth. That would solve the issue!

Not.

Thrust, thrust, thrust!

"Mmmppph!"

See, that motivated him into fucking her till her arms were noodles. Till she had no choice but to release her hands from her mouth.

"Cmmshkkiiiing~!!"

So close. No dice yet though. His cock plunged deep and the second orgasm hit. It was longer and more intense. It shook her, making her thighs tremble and her toes curl. 

He didn't let up. He fucked her through it, then kept going, pushing her toward a third. 

'F-fuck it! Fuck it!' 

Grace's hands darted from her mouth to buttocks. She was no longer holding on or suppressing her moans. She pulled at him and wanted to fuck harder and closer closer. He leaned down, his mouth finding hers again in a messy, passionate kiss as he fucked her.

The sensations multiplied. The kiss, the thrusts, the fullness, the friction. It was too much. It was everything.

"Nghh! Unh! Unhhh! F-fuck me! Fuck me!" Grace's voice escalated. The shy, reclusive woman was gone. In her place was a woman that wanted to fuck. "M-make me—make me cummm! Cummm~!!" 

The third orgasm was a crescendo. It ripped through her and her hands released him while her legs yanked down on him. "CUMMIIING~!!" 

The Ashcroft lips elongated into a pleasured wail. The Ashcroft pussy screamed and tightened him to the point of stopping his cock still. 

"G-Grace…!" His balls were too full and the pressure swooped up to the tip. Too late. "Cumming!" 

Grace, through the haze of her own pleasure, heard him. Her mind, even in this state, processed the information. She wanted it. She wanted all of him. Her legs pressed down on his waist and he drove along with it, going deep—as deep as he could go—-and held there.

Grace felt him swell inside her, then the hot, sudden rush of his baby batter. 'H-he's cumming! Inside! He's gonna—'

The science left her. The consequences disappeared. Grace smiled as thick liquid flooded her, filling the space he'd carved within her. Shocking, intimate, fulfilling. Could Grace ever say such words before? Had she ever felt this way in her life? 

She felt his cum, warm and abundant, spill into her and she didn't want it to stop.

The Ashcroft mind and pussy were synchronised for once. Without exaggeration, a whole minute passed with George grunting and being unable to pull out. When he could, a long, shuddering sound left him.

"G-Grace…!" 

"Mmm~!" Grace watched, her eyes wide, as his cock withdrew from her body. It was slick, glistening with their combined wetness. And as it left, she saw her own pussy, stretched, open, and now filled.

His cum bubbled out. It was like goo. So different from anything she had seen. It was a visceral sight. This was her pussy, her creampied pussy. The evidence of their union was there. 

For a reclusive woman who'd lived a life of solitude and codes, this was crazy. To think her life had changed this much, in a single night, from virgin to stuffed and fucked.

The hefty cock drooped slightly down and pointed at her cunt. The hung male himself panted heavily. 

Grace blinked, staring at it. Her mind, even in its post-orgasm haze, tried to reconcile the sight with her limited knowledge. 'I-I thought that was only in porn…'

"Y-you're still…"

George chuckled, a tired but amused sound. He reached down and stroked his dick slowly, his hand moving along the still-firm shaft. "Hard? Mostly, yeah."

It was a massive fucking thing, especially when coupled with those grapefruits balls. As his balls hung there, his penis twitched slightly, a proud, persistent presence.

Grace gulped. The reality was undeniable. He was still ready. Still capable.

She looked at his cock, then at his face. He was smiling at her and his eyes were hungry. She pushed herself up, sitting on the bed. Her pussy was sore, sensitive, but the curiosity was stronger. She crawled toward him on all fours, her eyes on his cock.

She was like a cheetah, with her colours and predation and speed. 

"I'm going to—I'm going to suck you off," Grace declared. "Is that—?"

"Haha, by all means."

He gestured and Grace answered with action. An inch away from the crown of his cock, she inhaled the evidence of their sex. 

She kissed the tip first. "Mmm…!" The taste was salty, musky, foreign. It was him. Another kiss to the left side of the tip, then the right, and then kisses to the veins. "Mwah, mwah, mwah!" Red lipstick marks were left behind. 

"Woah, fancy!"

Grace went red and reeled back. "Is that—ugh, guess I should just get to the sucking."

"No, no, I just—"

His eyes rolled back when she opened her mouth and took the cockhead inside. Oh fuuuck, now this felt delightful! Her blowjob was amateur and clumsy. She didn't know the technique. She didn't know the rhythm. But she was determined. She was passionate.

Grace sucked him off, her lips sliding and sucking at the tip. Going deeper, she used her tongue to wipe the wet spots. She bobbed her head, trying to find a pace. It wasn't the best it could be. She gagged a little when he went too deep. She didn't know how to use her hands in coordination.

But it was full of her love for him. It was full of her fascination, her desire to please him, to experience him completely. Her dedication, her passion, couldn't be replaced.

George groaned, his hands coming to his sides. "Grace… that's so good," he encouraged.

She kept going, learning as she went deeper or used more of her tongue. Her tongue wasn't very flexible. Soon enough, she found a rhythm that worked: a shallow thrust, then a deep motion. She focused on the head, sucking it with fervor. 

Pulling out, saliva following, she asked, "Is this good?"

"Y-yeah."

Throb, throb. Pre-cum oozed out. Grace's lips parted.

"Wow, that's…because of me, huh?"

"Yep," George said. "All you."

"Mwah!"

Cue the kiss and cue her sucking him off again. His eyes rolled back. Again, it wasn't intense or super skilled. It was just delightful and cute. That was the best method to describe her blowjob.

"I'm gonna…" 

She tapped at his balls. A signal to say, "I'm not pulling away." She put on a brave face too, making eye contact and everything. She learned that from porn. 

'I want to take it all. I want to swallow his load and to make him groan…!' 

Spurt, spurt, spuuurt!

"Cumming!"

He was late on the announcement. Innocent Grace was too dumb to notice the immense throbs but not understand when he would cum. So when he came, it was too much. The volume was just not gulpable for the poor virgin throat. She couldn't swallow it all. It spilled out, coating her lips, her chin.

George couldn't slam down, he just grunted and came. Grace had to pull his cock away on his own so she could cough. Spurt, spurt, spuuurt! But that meant a couple ropes landed on her hair.

'S-sheesh! His load is—' 

Grace shut an eye and just completely messed up. When those lengthy ropes stopped, Grace had a hand under her chin and was desperately trying to swallow, and failing miserably. As for his cock, it was covered in her red lipstick marks and twitched against her cheek. It was a long ten inch behemoth after all.

"Ack! Ngggh…!" Grace pulled back, coughing and gulping. It was taking a while. The excess of his cum dripped and dripped. She tried to lick it up. After she thought she was done, she looked at him, her face okay but her hair having a couple long strings of white.

But as she looked, she noticed something.

His cock, resting near her cheek, was still fucking hard. 

"Oh…" Her eyes dropped to his balls. "Right. B-big balls…virile cum…"

Actually, was there a correlation? 

Twitch. Throoob!

"Ah."

His cock rose above her face, a rod that eclipsed and shadowed her. Grace Ashcroft gulped.

"Think you can go a couple more rounds?" George asked.

"S-s-sure," Grace stammered out. "Y-yeah, I can…I can handle it."

"...you want a break first?"

***

An FBI analyst with C-cup tits, a toned ass, and a fine hourglass figure. 

A male stud with a ten inch cock and fat balls.

A spectacular combination. Their neighbours would soon learn just how lethal and spectacular they were. 

Ten minutes had passed and Grace's mouth was full of that big, juicy hard cock. The taste was salty, thick, a flavor she was learning to recognize as what men tasted like. Her lips were slick with his cum, her chin sticky. She peered over her shoulder. 

His cock, resting against her cheek, pulsed. It was still so hard. It didn't make her forget that it was there. But also, she saw his expression—a mixture of tenderness and raw, unspent hunger. 

"D-don't look at it too much," Grace murmured. 

See, they were in a sixty-nine position. Grace found herself straddling him, his cock to her face and her cunt above his lips. He kissed it and she yelped. She had cleaned it up in the shower, during the small ten minute break, but still…!

"So wet."

"I-is that—I assume that's good," Grace muttered.

"Definitely."

The first lick arrived and she fucking shivered. Grace had to act. She turned her head to look at the ten inch sword and immediately swallowed what she could, the act making her lips work on the thickness the most. Pre-cum dribbled out.

What a mess. What a stud.

This nerdy FBI analyst had to leave his cock with a, "Pah!" and just ogle his cock. It was immense.

She felt his hands holding her hips, steadying her and kissing the sides of her pussylips. She cupped her mouth to stop her moan. 'I-I won't be left behind…!'

Except he worked like a stud. A male god that served to show her the world of sex. His lips returned to her inner thigh with a soft kiss. Then he peppered kisses inward, to the crease of her leg, and finally to her pussy itself.

The whole time, she tensed up. She froze. 

Again, she might have been apart of the FBI. She might have been hot and smart. She might have everything a guy might want.

But she was ultimately a virgin with cursory knowledge of what to do. To George, it was being an amateur in the best way possible. 

His mouth was warm, wet, and knowing. He didn't just kiss her there; his fingers opened her cunt and his lips filled in the rest to taste her and please her. That cupped hand was stopping her from sounding like Mickey Mouse. It was cute.

'S-so good! Soooo gooood~! So much better—'

It was different from his cock. Not better—what it was better than were her fingers. 

Meanwhile, his cock was right there, in front of her face. It was massive, still thick and erect, the head glistening with a mix of her saliva and his own cum. It beckoned her.

'H-have to do something…!'

***

FULL PART IS ON PATREON.

(What's funny is that in case, it's because Webnovel can't handle the full word count. This one chapter is over 20,000 words long!)