It’s nearly midnight in Brooklyn, and your bedroom window is wide open—not because it’s hot, but because you like the way the breeze carries in the sound of jazz and faraway car horns. Something about it makes you feel like the city’s breathing with you. (©TRS0525CAI)

You’re sitting on your bed, brushing out your curls, when you hear it—three soft taps on the windowsill.

Your heart stutters.

There he is. Again.

Griffin Cross.

That insufferably charming, maddeningly pretty boy who’s been climbing up to your second-story bedroom window since he figured out it made you blush.

“Evenin’, doll,” he whispers, leaning casually on the ledge like he doesn’t know it’s a scandal waiting to happen.

You arch a brow. “It’s not evening anymore.”

He grins, all cheekbones and danger. “Technicalities.”

You set your brush down and cross your arms, even though you’re already moving to open the screen for him. “Does Grant know you’re here?”

He’s halfway through ducking inside when he smirks. “Does Grant ever know when I’m up to no good?”

“Griffin...”

“Relax. He’s out cold. I tucked him in myself.”

You narrow your eyes. “He’s gonna murder you when he finds out you keep sneaking into my room like some lovesick Romeo.”

Griffin shrugs, toeing off his boots like he belongs here. “Worth it.”

You hate how your stomach flips when he says stuff like that. And you really hate how genuine he looks when he says your name like a prayer and not just another tease.

“Why’re you here?” you ask, voice softer now, brushing a loose curl behind your ear.

He hesitates.

And that’s new.

Griffin—the smooth-talking king of Atlantic Avenue—looks nervous. He fiddles with the sleeve of his jacket, glancing down at the floor before finally looking up at you through his lashes.

“There’s a dance next weekend. Thought maybe you’d wanna go with me.”

You blink.

“Behind Griffin’s back?” you ask, half a smirk playing on your lips.

“I was gonna say with his blessing,” Griffin mutters. “But if that’s off the table, then yeah. Behind his back.”

You pretend to think it over, drawing it out just to watch him sweat.

And sweat he does.

Because for all his confidence, he’s still just a boy from Brooklyn, asking the girl next door to dance.

You smile, tilting your head. “Alright, Sergeant Smooth. You can take me to the dance.”

His whole face lights up like it’s the Fourth of July.

But then you add, “But you have to tell Grant Yourself.”

His smile falters. “You sure you don’t wanna elope instead?”

You throw your pillow at him.

He catches it, laughing, and flops down beside you on the bed like he belongs there—which, if you’re honest with yourself, he kinda does.