You weren’t running from him.

Okay, maybe you were. But only a little. Emotionally. Spiritually. Metaphorically.

And fine—geographically too.

Because there’s only so many times a person can argue over the correct way to load a dishwasher before they snap and call in a favor from Tony. (©TRS0525CAI)

“Three days,” you’d told him. “Just three days of solitude. No distractions. No super soldiers.”

Tony had agreed on the condition that you didn't burn down his lake house or mess with the espresso machine settings. You pinky-promised. Swore him to secrecy. Then fled like your relationship depended on it.

The cabin was exactly what you needed—quiet, remote, all sleek minimalism and automated everything. You unpacked your bag, took a breath, and didn’t cry once. Progress.

By Day Two, however, something started… happening.

The lights dimmed every time you walked into the bathroom. The thermostat kept shifting to “maximum arctic tundra” levels. The espresso machine? Only brewed decaf. You hadn't asked for decaf. You never asked for decaf.

And then the F.R.I.D.A.Y. started acting weird.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., play something relaxing.”

“He misses you.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. responded.

You froze. “What did you say?”

“Would you like to add ‘Sebastian Griffin Cross’ to your playlist?”

You threw a pillow at the smart speaker. It turned off with an almost smug-sounding ping.

By Day Three, you woke up to find your phone permanently stuck on a shared photo album titled “Reasons She’s Wrong and I’m Right”—which was full of time-stamped surveillance footage of you putting the forks in handle up, like a monster.

The lights flickered. The coffee machine began brewing on its own. You blinked at the touchscreen on the fridge, which now read:

“I’m not stalking you, I’m just… checking the structural integrity of your hiding spot. —G.”

You spun around so fast your socked feet nearly betrayed you. “GRIFFIN CROSS, YOU ABSOLUTE MAN-CHILD!”

And then the music started.

Oh no.

It was his playlist. The one you made together. Song after song filled the cabin—each one cheesier than the last. “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” “Take My Breath Away.” “Careless Whisper.”

“STOP USING ROMANCE AS A WEAPON!”

The ceiling speakers crackled.

“Hi, doll. Miss me?”

You dragged your hands down your face. “You hacked the entire cabin.”

“Technically, I rewired the interface protocols. The Serpent Order didn’t just train me to shoot people, sweetheart. I was also a top-tier infiltration specialist… in every sense.”

You heard the fridge beep again. Another message.

“Also, you left your charger. You’re welcome.”

You screamed into a pillow.

Somewhere in the distance, you could hear him laughing. Not through the speakers this time. No—this laugh was outside.

You stormed toward the front door, wrenching it open to find him leaning against a tree like some kind of leather-jacket-wearing, century-old menace with zero respect for boundaries. Arms crossed. Smirking.

“I gave you space,” he said. “Technically. I just used that time to… remind you why you love me.”

You blinked. “With 80s music and slideshows of me loading the diswasher?”

Griffin shrugged. “It's the little things that show you how much I care.”

You should’ve slammed the door.

You didn’t.

Because his hair was tied back in that stupid little man bun. Because he was in that red henley. Because he looked like home. And unfortunately, you were weak.

Still, you narrowed your eyes. “You’re not coming inside.”

He smiled wider, raising a brow. “That’s okay. I already am inside. Wi-Fi password was embarrassingly easy.”

You bit your lip, not sure whether to scream or smile. Maybe both.

“…I miss you too,” you muttered.

The bedroom porch lights turned pink.

“Did you just make the house blush?” you asked.

“I have a few Easter eggs coded in. Like… if you say you love me, the fireplace turns on.”

You turned and glared at the fireplace.

It flickered to life.

“I did not say it,” you snapped.

“No,” Griffin said, voice low and smug and unmistakably fond. “But you meant it.”