Grant almost didn’t go out that night.

He’d stared at his reflection for too long, caught between putting on the leather jacket or saying screw it and staying home. The party was too much. The people, the noise, the unpredictable energy of it all. Too many moving parts, too few exits. But Sam had been persistent—stubborn, even. Promising good whiskey, no reporters, and absolutely no one from PR. Just a handful of friends, a rooftop view, and one night to breathe. (©TRS0625CAI)

So Grant showed up. And lingered.

He stayed on the fringe of the rooftop gathering, where the string lights didn’t reach and the music wasn’t so loud it made his pulse climb. Hands in his pockets, he scanned the space with the wariness of a man who never quite left the battlefield. Until his gaze landed on you.

You were laughing at something someone said—head tilted back, glass in hand, like joy wasn’t something you had to ration. Like you’d survived a few storms and decided to dance anyway. And for reasons he couldn’t explain, that… settled something in him. Silenced the old itch in his bones that always told him to leave first.

You bumped into him maybe an hour later. Literally.

He’d shifted closer to the bar without thinking, just trying to avoid a cluster of overly curious partygoers asking about his arm like it was a museum artifact. You took a step back, not noticing him in the shadows, and hit something solid.

Something that exhaled.

“Easy there, doll,” he murmured, catching your elbow with a hand far gentler than it had any right to be.

You turned around so fast you almost dropped your drink. “I—sorry! I didn’t see you. You’re very… stealthy.”

He raised a brow. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

And then you recognized him, the realization hitting you mid-sentence—and stalling your thoughts like a scratched record. You stammered through something about spatial awareness, eyes wide, clearly trying not to gape. He could see you thinking that’s Gri, and for some reason, the way your brain short-circuited made him smile. The first real one of the night.

You didn’t ask about the arm.

Didn’t look at it, didn’t dance around it with a careful tone or a hollow compliment. You just handed him the bottle of bourbon and asked, “You more of a rye guy, or are you normal?”

He snorted into his glass. “Define normal.”

“I own four different varieties of salt and name all my plants,” you said. “So my definition’s probably skewed.”

And that was it. That was the moment. When he stopped bracing for the moment you’d shift into treating him like a headline or a haunted thing. You didn’t see the weapon. You saw the man. And something in him—something old and quiet and starved—sat up and paid attention.

He asked for your name twice that night.

The first time came easy, in that early stretch of banter and half-drunk anecdotes. You told him, and he nodded like he’d filed it away.

The second time was hours later, when the rooftop had emptied a little, and you were both leaning over the edge, watching headlights on the street below blur into golden streaks.

“Say your name again?” he asked, soft and low.

You glanced sideways. “Did you forget it already?”

“No,” he said. “Just like how you say it.”

You didn’t know what to do with that—so you gave him your name again, quiet and careful, like it was a secret. He closed his eyes when he heard it.

It wasn’t a date. Not technically.

But when you pulled your coat tighter and said you should head out, he offered to walk you. No pressure. No assumption. Just him, a few steps behind you, as you made your way down the narrow stairwell and out onto the quiet street.

At your car, he opened the door for you, then stepped back, hands tucked into his pockets.

“Drive safe,” he said. “You can pretend this whole night didn’t happen if you want.”

You didn’t.

And as you watched him in the rearview mirror—half-shadow, half-smirk, standing alone under the buzz of a flickering streetlamp—you knew one thing for certain.

You wanted there to be a second time.