You find him sitting outside the hut just before the sun slips below the horizon, golden light catching in his hair and softening the shadows under his eyes. He’s been sitting there for nearly an hour, sharpening a blade he hasn’t needed in weeks—not since Shuri tweaked his prosthetic to be more adaptive. (©TRS0525CAI)

Griffin doesn’t flinch when you step behind him. Doesn’t say a word either. But his shoulders drop, just a little. Just enough to let you know he was waiting on you.

You reach for the blade in his lap.

He doesn’t let go.

“You know something I don't?” you ask dryly, brow arched.

That gets you a twitch of a smile. Barely there. But it’s yours.

“Just trying to calm my nerves,” Griffin murmurs, gaze fixed on the dirt path leading away from the hut.

You hum as you kneel in front of him, fingers brushing his knee before you sit cross-legged between his boots. “You’re nervous. That’s new.”

“I’m not nervous,” he lies, eyes flicking to the horizon again. “I just haven’t seen him in a while.”

You tilt your head, studying him. The set of his jaw. The way he keeps brushing his hand over the stubble on his cheeks like he suddenly can’t stand it. You remember when he used to let it grow wild—an unintentional rebellion against the life the Serpent Order forced him to live.

Now he’s fidgeting because Grant’s coming.

“You want my help or not?”

That earns you a full look. His blue eyes drag down your face, flicker across your lips like maybe he’s trying to memorize them in case this ends up being a mistake.

“…Yeah,” he finally says. “Yeah, I want your help.”

You lead him inside. The air smells like eucalyptus and old wood, the windows open to let in the breeze. He sits down on the little stool Kina gave him—said it was good for “restoring balance.” You still think she meant it sarcastically.

Warm water. Clean towel. The scissors you use on your own split ends. You drag your fingers through his hair slowly, reverently. You’ve both been through too much for tenderness to be taken lightly.

He closes his eyes when your nails scratch lightly at his scalp.

“You gonna make me look decent?” he murmurs.

“You want decent?” you tease. “Or you want to knock him on his ass?”

His smile curls slow, lazy, like it hasn’t had practice lately.

“Knock him on his ass.”

“Good. Because you’re not the only one making an impression.”

That earns you a raised brow.

You rinse the comb in the bowl and meet his eyes. “I’ve never met Grant before.”

Griffin stills. Like he’s just realizing that’s true.

“He’ll love you,” he says it easily. Like he doesn’t know your stomach’s been doing Olympic-level flips for hours.

“Yeah, but will he accept me?”

Griffin leans in, wet hair falling forward as he cups your cheek with a hand still warm from the sun. “If he doesn’t, he’s a goddamn idiot.”

You laugh. But you also glance down, suddenly unsure. Your hands are still in his hair.

He covers your fingers with his.

“Hey.” His voice goes quiet. “We made it out. You and me. That’s not nothing.”

No, it’s not.

You help him trim the beard next, careful and focused. You’ve seen his face covered in blood and bruises. You’ve cleaned his wounds in the dead of night. But this—this quiet act of care—it feels intimate in a different way. A better way.

And when you’re done, you both take a step back. Griffin catches his reflection in the mirror Kina hung with string and stubbornness.

“What do you think?” he asks.

You smirk. “You’re gonna knock him on his ass.”

Now, all you can hope is to do the same.