it's in the boy i bring to bed .ᐟ
word count: 3.39K pairings: lyra kane x grayson hawthorne warnings: suicidal thoughts, minor depression? synopsis: lyra gets into her emotions while staying at hawthorne house, and finds the only person who can bring her comfort
NOT PROOF READ !!
Lyra stood silently on one of the balconies in Hawthorne House, her hands resting against the cold marble railing as the night stretched endlessly before her.
The gardens below looked unreal beneath the moonlight - fountains glimmering like glass, hedges perfectly trimmed, pathways glowing softly beneath golden lanterns. Above her, the sky was crowded with stars, scattered across the darkness like something painted there on purpose.
It was beautiful.
Too beautiful.
And somehow that only made the ache in her chest feel worse.
A shaky breath slipped past her lips as she stared out across the massive estate. She still couldn’t fully understand how she had ended up here, in a place where every room was bigger than her entire house. Hawthorne House felt less like a mansion and more like another world entirely. Polished, expensive, untouchable.
Meanwhile Lyra felt painfully small inside it.
She tugged the sleeves of her sweater over her hands, a nervous habit she’d never managed to break. The silk curtains behind her danced softly in the wind coming from the open balcony doors, warm light spilling from the luxurious room she knew didn’t belong to her.
Nothing here belonged to her.
Not the marble floors. Not the chandeliers. Not the wealth woven so casually into every corner of this family’s life.
And definitely not the happiness so many here seemed to carry so effortlessly.
The stars blurred slightly in her vision.
Lyra blinked quickly, swallowing the tightness in her throat before the tears could fall. She was good at that. Holding things in. Pretending the darkness inside her mind wasn’t slowly swallowing her whole.
But standing there beneath the endless night sky, surrounded by more luxury than she’d ever dreamed of, she had never felt lonelier in her life.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. She shouldn’t have been here. Lyra knew that.
And deep down, she knew the Hawthornes believed it too. They’d never said it outright (not all of them, anyway) but they didn’t have to. It lingered in the pauses between conversations, in the looks they gave her when they thought she wasn’t paying attention, in the way every room still seemed to belong to someone else long before she ever stepped into it. They had made it abundantly clear.
“I like you. Less than Avery.”
“He will always choose them over you.”
“She comes before most.”
“I can’t explain what Avery means to me.”
“She’s my Avery too.”
Avery.
Always Avery.
She knew, logically, that she had no real reason to feel so painfully insecure about Avery.
Avery had known the Hawthornes for years now, had woven herself so completely into their lives that it was impossible to imagine any of them without her beside them. She belonged here in a way Lyra never could, moving through Hawthorne House with an ease that made everything look effortless, as though the estate itself had been built with the intention of welcoming her home. Everyone loved her naturally, instinctively, and Lyra couldn’t even blame them for it. Avery was beautiful and intelligent and strong in ways Lyra could never be with her stupid curves. Avery was the kind of person people gravitated toward without hesitation.
Still, no matter how hard Lyra tried to reason with herself, she couldn’t stop the ugly ache of insecurity from settling deep inside her chest.
Because how was she supposed to compete with that? How was she supposed to believe there could ever truly be space for her in Grayson’s heart when so much of it already belonged to so many other people, people who had known him long before Lyra had even existed in his world? How could she ever have the confidence to be with him if his entire family saw her as the scum beneath their polished shoes?
It made her feel foolishly small.
And the worst part of it all was that Lyra knew, deep down, that she would never compare to any of them anyway.
Not to Avery, whose presence seemed to light up every room she walked into. Not to Grayson, who carried intelligence and composure so effortlessly it almost intimidated her. Not to Jameson, who’s bravery and grit made her feel like a pathetic bitch. Not to Nash or Xander who waltzed through life like it was a rehearsal of Wicked. Not to the Hawthornes as a whole, who all seemed born extraordinary in one way or another, as though greatness had simply been stitched into them from the start.
She wasn’t talented or impressive or unforgettable.
She was just…Lyra.
Invisible. Overly emotional. Damaged beyond repair.
A girl from an average family standing inside a mansion that constantly reminded her how painfully ordinary she was. The only thing that had ever made her special was her dancing. Now that was gone, too. She had nothing.
The thought hollowed something out inside her.
She felt so unbearably dead these days. Empty in a way that exhaustion couldn’t explain, like her mind had spent years digging itself a grave and quietly lowering her into it piece by piece. Most days, she moved through life numb to everything around her, carrying fear and pain so heavily it had started to feel like part of her.
And somehow, being on that godforsaken island had been the first thing in years capable of pulling her out of it.
Not because it made her happy, but because it forced her to feel.
Without really thinking, Lyra climbed onto the balcony railing and sat carefully on the narrow ledge, her feet dangling over the drop below. The cold wind wrapped around her instantly, slipping through the fabric of her sweater until she could feel it deep in her bones, while silver moonlight spilled across her skin in soft, quiet kisses.
For a moment, she simply sat there beneath the endless night sky, looking painfully small against the massive estate behind her.
And for a few minutes, just a few, she didn’t raise her hand to wipe the few tears that fell.
Wandering through what was essentially a haunted castle in the middle of the night while running on absolutely no sleep and the constant fear that some overly polite maid might quietly slit her throat the second she let her guard down wasn’t exactly Lyra’s idea of a good time.
Then again, nothing about the past week had been ideal.
Honestly, she had only left her room because lying awake with her thoughts had started feeling worse than roaming the endless halls of Hawthorne House at two in the morning. She just needed to clear her head for a little while, maybe stare at a few ridiculously expensive paintings, explore a socially acceptable amount, and pretend she wasn’t one bad thought away from just swallowing a bunch of pills and ending it all.
Her eyes caught on a framed photograph sitting among the dozens lining the hallway walls. It was of the four Hawthorne brothers dressed sharply in black suits, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders as they laughed openly at something off-camera while champagne sprayed everywhere around them. The picture looked messy and alive in a way the rest of the mansion didn’t, like a captured moment of chaos hidden beneath all the wealth and perfection.
All of them were smiling, except Grayson.
Even there, surrounded by his brothers, he looked more restrained than the others, his expression softer rather than openly amused, like he was holding part of himself back without even realising it.
And just seeing his face was enough to make something inside Lyra ache.
It was ridiculous, honestly. She had known him for barely a week, and yet somehow she already felt tethered to him in ways she couldn’t explain. Rationally, she knew attachment like this shouldn’t happen so quickly, but nothing about Grayson Hawthorne felt rational.
He was quiet, but never weak. Controlled, yet somehow intense enough to fill every room he walked into without trying. A living contradiction made of sharp edges and careful restraint, like someone who had spent his entire life forcing himself to stay composed no matter what was happening underneath.
Lyra didn’t know what kind of demons lived inside his head, didn’t know what thoughts kept him awake at night or what exactly had carved that constant sadness into him, but she knew one thing with painful certainty.
He quieted hers.
For the first time in years, being around someone didn’t feel exhausting. She didn’t feel like she had to monitor every expression or carefully shape herself into someone easier to love. Around Grayson, she didn’t have to pretend she was okay when she wasn’t. She didn’t have to wear the thousand different versions of herself she’d created over the years just to survive other people.
She could just exist.
No one had ever made her feel that way before. Not the racing heartbeat she got from the smallest touches, nor the warmth that spread through her chest whenever he looked at her too long. She had never understood what people meant when they talked about fireworks or butterflies or feeling seen by another person. Not until him.
She kept walking, drifting deeper and deeper into the endless maze that was Hawthorne House until she eventually found herself in an entirely separate wing of the estate.
This part of the mansion felt different from the rest.
Quieter.
The ceilings stretched higher here, the hallways wider, with expensive paintings covering nearly every wall in heavy gold frames. The lighting was dim and warm, casting soft amber shadows across the marble floors, while every door she passed remained firmly shut, almost as though this side of the house was hiding something.
Then she heard the music.
Faint and distant, barely audible at first, drifting softly through the silence of the hallways.
Lyra slowed immediately. She recognised the melody, though not completely at first, and curiosity instantly tugged at her chest. And because she had always been a complete sucker for a good song, especially at ungodly hours of the night when emotions felt heavier than usual, she found herself unconsciously following the sound.
The music grew clearer the farther she walked. It wrapped around the empty hallways like smoke.
After a few more turns, she finally spotted an open door at the very end of the corridor, cracked open just enough for warm golden light to spill into the darkness outside alongside the song that she finally recognised. Novacane, by Frank Ocean.
She moved closer to the door quietly, careful not to make a sound as she let herself steal the smallest glance inside.
And the sight waiting for her nearly made her short-circuit on the spot.
Grayson Hawthorne stood in the middle of the room wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants and black socks, warm golden light spilling across the sharp lines of his back and shoulders as he dragged a paintbrush across the canvas in front of him with slow, absent movements. One hand rested loosely in the pocket of his sweatpants while the other worked carefully, paint staining the tips of his fingers, his foot tapping lightly against the hardwood floor in time with the music drifting through the room.
Lyra stared.
Because Grayson Hawthorne was painting.
Somehow that fact alone felt impossible to process.
She didn’t know why it shocked her so much, but it did. Maybe because Grayson carried himself like someone too controlled to create messy things, too guarded to pour emotion into art. Yet standing there now, surrounded by half-finished canvases and smeared paint and dim lighting, he looked softer somehow. More human.
And devastatingly beautiful.
Her eyes flickered around the room, taking in the scattered brushes, the open sketchbooks, the faint smell of paint lingering in the air. Clearly this wasn’t a one-time thing. He actually did this. Often.
But why?
Was he painting for someone? Was this some hidden Hawthorne talent nobody talked about? Or did he paint simply because he enjoyed it?
The thought made something warm ache inside her chest.
Because for some reason, the idea of Grayson secretly staying awake at night to paint while the rest of the house slept felt unbearably intimate.
As though she had accidentally discovered a piece of him no one else was supposed to see.
His golden-blonde hair almost seemed to glow beneath the warm lighting of the room, messy in a way she had never seen before, soft strands falling carelessly across his forehead instead of being perfectly styled like usual. Without the expensive suits and composed expression he always wore like armour, Grayson looked younger somehow.
Her eyes caught on the faint scars scattered across his back and torso.
Some were thin and barely visible beneath the golden light, while others stood out more clearly against his skin, little remnants of injuries long healed. Lyra remembered him mentioning them once in passing, brushing them off as the result of “fun” things he and his brothers used to do growing up.
She still didn’t understand what kind of fun involved leaving scars on each other.
Maybe it was because she didn’t really understand sibling hood the way other people did. Her little brother had come much later in her life, leaving her more accustomed to loneliness than chaos, more familiar with silence than the loud, messy affection the Hawthorne brothers seemed to carry between them.
But still. What kind of brothers did this to each other?
Somehow, even with the scars and sharp edges and all the obvious damage hidden beneath his skin, Grayson still looked heartbreakingly beautiful standing there beneath the warm amber light, paint staining his fingers while Frank Ocean played softly in the background like some cruel attempt by the universe to make Lyra fall even harder for him.
And then, before Lyra could stop herself, her foot shifted slightly against the floor. The creak echoed through the quiet hallway.
Grayson froze.
The brush stopped moving instantly before his head turned toward the door, sharp eyes landing directly on the narrow opening where Lyra stood half-hidden.
For a second, neither of them moved.
“Are you planning on standing there all night,” he asked quietly, voice rough with exhaustion, though she could hear the faint smile hidden in it, “or were you actually going to come in?”
Lyra startled slightly at being caught, her fingers immediately moving to toy with a strand of hair beside her face.
“...Sorry,” she murmured awkwardly, already feeling heat creep into her cheeks. “I wasn’t trying to snoop or anything. I just heard the music and-”
“It’s fine,” Grayson interrupted gently.
He set the paintbrush down against the tray beside him before glancing back at her over his shoulder, his expression softer than she was used to seeing from him.
“You can come in, you know,” he said. “Crossing the threshold doesn’t give you a death sentence.”
That almost made her smile. Actually smile.
The corner of her mouth twitched upward before she could stop it, and something in Grayson’s expression shifted slightly at the sight, like he wasn’t used to seeing that from her either.
Slowly, Lyra pushed the door open wider and stepped inside.
The room felt warm compared to the cold hallways outside, lit by dim golden lamps and moonlight spilling through tall windows. Music hummed softly through the speakers in the background while unfinished paintings leaned against nearly every wall, some abstract, some heartbreakingly detailed. Paint brushes and charcoal pencils were scattered across tables in a way that felt messy but lived-in.
It didn’t feel like a room belonging to a Hawthorne.
It felt like a room belonging to Grayson.
And somehow, those felt like two very different things.
Lyra glanced around the room slowly, taking in the paintings lining the walls, some finished, some abandoned halfway through, alongside shelves cluttered with sketchbooks and charcoal pencils. A small sofa sat tucked into the corner across from a television, a blanket lazily thrown over one armrest like he actually spent time there instead of simply existing in the polished perfection of the rest of the mansion.
This was Grayson’s hideout, she realised.
Not where he slept, but where he existed. Where he let himself breathe.
The thought felt strangely intimate.
Her gaze drifted back toward the artwork surrounding them, lingering on the details she hadn’t noticed at first, the emotion woven into every brushstroke, the careful use of colour, even a few small sculptures hidden near the corner of the room.
“You’re really good,” she said absentmindedly, still staring at one of the canvases.
Grayson looked almost caught off guard by the compliment.
A faint flush dusted across his cheeks as he glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Uh, thank you,” he muttered. “I never actually learned how to paint, though. I just...started doing it randomly when I was around nine, so I know they’re not exactly the best-”
“Shut it, Hawthorne,” Lyra interrupted immediately, finally looking over at him properly. “They’re stunning.”
The words seemed to genuinely disarm him for a second.
And Lyra couldn’t stop the small warmth blooming in her chest at the sight of Grayson Hawthorne - composed, intimidating, impossible Grayson Hawthorne - blushing because of her.
“Why are you awake at this time, anyway?” Grayson asked quietly as he leaned back against the table behind him, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s around 2:30 in the morning.”
Lyra shrugged awkwardly. “I couldn’t sleep.”
A small frown immediately crossed his face at that, the kind that appeared before he even seemed aware of it.
“Why?”
Her stomach tightened.
“Nothing,” she answered too quickly. “Just forget I said anything.”
The words came out softer than intended as she shifted her attention toward the floor, suddenly finding the hardwood incredibly interesting. She already regretted saying anything at all. The last thing she wanted was to unload her problems onto him or sound pathetic admitting that sleep had become difficult lately because her own thoughts refused to leave her alone.
For a second, the room fell quiet except for the music still humming softly in the background.
And then something warm wrapped around her.
Lyra froze.
Strong arms slipped carefully around her waist and pulled her gently against a solid chest before her brain could fully process what was happening.
Oh my gods, she internally screamed.
Grayson Hawthorne was hugging her.
The realisation nearly made her combust on the spot.
For a moment she just stood there in complete shock, her heart beating so violently she was half convinced he could probably feel it through her sweater. But then instinct kicked in, and she slowly wrapped her arms around his neck, melting into the embrace far easier than she wanted to admit.
And god, he was warm.
Not just physically, but safe in a way she hadn’t realised she’d been craving. His hold on her was firm without being overwhelming, careful without feeling distant, like he was holding something fragile and genuinely wanted to protect it.
He was also, unfairly, a very good hugger.
The kind that made your chest ache afterward because you immediately knew no other hug would ever compare.
“This is nice…” she mumbled softly against his chest.
That earned a quiet chuckle from him, the sound low and warm above her head.
“That is good to know.”
Then he pressed a small kiss to the top of her head, so gentle and absent that it made something inside her chest ache painfully. The tenderness of it nearly brought tears back to her eyes all over again.
Slowly, Lyra pulled back just enough to look up at him, craning her neck slightly until her gaze met those endless blue-grey eyes of his, eyes that always reminded her of rainstorms in the middle of summer. Beautiful. Heavy. The kind you wanted to stand in even knowing they’d ruin you.
And before she could think better of it, she kissed him.
It was soft.
Not desperate or messy, but tender in a way that almost startled her, the kind of kiss that belonged to lazy mornings tangled in bedsheets after sex or quiet evenings spent making dinner for children that didn’t exist. A kiss that felt strangely domestic, strangely safe.
Not that Lyra actually knew anything about kisses like that.
She was a virgin, for gods sake, and most of her understanding of romance came from listening to her mother’s rambles about love or from the books and movies she consumed like lifelines whenever reality became too exhausting to sit through.
Though, to be fair, when he wasn’t acting detached or cold or irritatingly unreadable, Grayson Hawthorne really did feel like the human embodiment of a book boyfriend.
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