The rain had stopped an hour ago, but Chicago still glistened, its streets slick with puddles that turned crosswalks into shallow lakes. Griffin leaned against a lamppost, hands tucked in the pockets of his tailored jacket, watching the stoplight flicker from red to green with that easy, unbothered charm he carried everywhere. His dark hair, still damp from earlier, curled just enough to give him that careless, dangerously attractive look—like he hadn’t even tried.

Then he saw you.

Your outfit was deliberate—girly, playful, unmistakably yours—and Griffin noticed the way your gaze darted to the flooded street, sizing up the mess Mother Nature had left like it was a personal insult. If you stepped in, your shoes—and the outfit he could already tell you’d picked with care—wouldn’t stand a chance.

Griffin’s mouth curved, slow and mischievous, and before you spotted him, he was already moving.

“Hey,” he called out, his voice warm, easy, touched with that teasing drawl. “Kinda a rough start for a first date, don’t you think?”

You looked up, and he caught it—that flicker in your eyes, nerves mixing with curiosity. He knew the risk you were taking, meeting a stranger for a date. But Griffin wasn’t about to let you regret showing up.

His gaze swept from the puddle back to you, one brow lifting with mock seriousness. “Yeah, no way I’m letting you ruin that outfit over this city’s disaster of a drainage system.”

Before you could argue, his arms slid around you in one confident, fluid motion. The ground dropped away, and suddenly you were cradled against his chest, lifted like it was nothing. His cologne—rich, warm, with that expensive bite that lingered—wrapped around you, dizzying.

You gasped, caught between surprise and protest, but he only laughed, low and smooth, his breath brushing the top of your hair.

“Relax, sweetheart,” Griffin murmured, eyes glinting with amusement as he carried you forward. “I work out.”