It’s the little things with Griffin Cross.

You figured that out early on—before the first date, before the first almost-kiss that didn’t quite land because Sam walked in and wouldn’t stop humming “Kiss the Girl” for a week. Before any of that, Griffin remembered the things you thought no one ever would. Your favorite drink order. The way you hum under your breath when you're deep in thought. How you tuck your hands into your sleeves when you're cold, even if you’re wearing a coat. (©TRS0525CAI)

And that morning—quiet, rainy, slow—he made your coffee without asking and said, “You always like extra cream when the weather’s shit.”

Just like that. Like it was obvious. Like knowing you was muscle memory.

You didn’t say it, but your heart ached a little. In a good way.

Griffin Cross remembered everything.

Your tells. Your patterns. The way you wrinkled your nose when you're skeptical and the fact that you bit your thumb when you're nervous. He never mentioned it. Just filed it away like another piece of intel—like you're the mission he's never failing.

And that night? The first time you stayed over, wrapped in one of his hoodies, curled up on the left side of his bed like you belonged there?

He didn’t sleep.

You did, though. Peacefully. Soft breaths. Warm skin. And Griffin lay beside you, eyes open, listening to the rhythm of your breathing like it was the first song that ever made sense. No nightmares. No screaming. Just quiet. Just you. He didn’t move all night. Didn’t dare.

Now when you’re next to him, you swear he slept deeper. Not dreamlessly, but softer somehow. Like your breathing steadied his. Like your warmth quieted the ghosts.

One night, you woke up to find him already watching you. “You okay?” you asked, voice rough. His hand found yours beneath the blanket. “Now I am.”

Then came the pets.

Specifically: your dog, Max. A judgmental, curly-furred gremlin who didn’t trust easily. And yet— “There’s my guy,” Griffin greeted one morning, crouching down to Max’s level like the two of them had a secret. “She deserves better than me,” you heard him whisper, brushing his metal fingers through Max's fur. “But I’m tryin’, Max. I really am.”

You caught the tail end of it, of course. Pretended you didn’t hear. He pretended he didn’t notice.

You never brought it up, but Max loved him after that. Traitor.

Then there was the folder on his phone labeled “Nothing.” Which is cute, because it’s absolutely something.

Candid shots of you mid-laugh. You curled up on the couch. You dancing in the kitchen with zero rhythm and even less shame. Biting your lip in thought. Dressed like a menace in his t-shirt that was three sizes too big.

You found it by accident, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. “Those were just… I didn’t want to forget how it feels,” he said, not meeting your eyes. You stared at the photos, each one a little love letter. “Feels like what?” you asked. He swallowed. “Safe.”

And that was all it took for you to shut up about it. Because maybe… maybe he needed those pictures more than he’d ever admit out loud.

He wasn’t much for PDA. Not because he didn’t want to—God knows, the way he looked at you should’ve required an emotional seatbelt—but because Griffin liked the quiet kind of love. The hand-holding like it was sacred. The pinkies brushing under the table. The way he’d pull you close when a room got too loud, not to kiss you, but to let you breathe.

“I don’t need an audience,” he said once, lacing your fingers with his. “Just need you.”

And really, what were you supposed to say to that?

You told yourself you wouldn’t fall in love with him.

And now? Now you wake up to him whispering to the dog and staring at you like you're the sunrise and his whole past never even happened. Like you're the only thing that makes sense.

And damn it.

You're starting to think you were doomed from the first “Hey, doll.”