You and Griffin had known each other for a long time. Long enough that the lines between platonic and something else had started to blur. Not all at once—slowly. In glances held too long. In touches that lingered. In the way your name sounded different when it came from his mouth. (©TRS0525CAI)

You had always operated in this quiet, dangerous middle ground—somewhere between a smirk and a secret, between loyalty and something almost too sacred to name. You fought side-by-side. Sat too close on late-night stakeouts. Made each other coffee without asking. Shared headphones on long missions and hotel rooms when the team’s budget was tight.

But you’d never crossed that line.

Not officially.

It wasn’t love. But it wasn’t not.

It had been like this for a while now. An unspoken thing that simmered just below the surface, crackling like live wires in the air between you. But neither of you ever said a word. Because naming it made it real. And real was dangerous.

Especially now.

The Watchtower was quiet tonight—storm rolling through Manhattan, rain slicking the windows in rhythmic waves, thunder humming somewhere far off. You sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the leather couch in the rec room, knees brushing, half-watching an old black-and-white film neither of you had the energy to name.

The rest of the team had called it a night, but neither of you had moved. Not even when the movie ended. Just sat there, pretending the silence wasn’t deafening.

Griffin shifted beside you, his arm brushing yours. He didn’t move away.

“You cold?” he asked.

You shook your head, eyes on the screen. “No.”

A beat of silence. And then—

Griffin cleared his throat. “We’re friends,” he said, voice casual, like the thought had just wandered in.

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah?”

“Friends,” he repeated. A beat. “Pals.”

You made a quiet noise in your throat. “Right. Good buddies.”

“Best of buds,” he added, this time his voice softer. A little slower.

The tension twisted low in your stomach, coiled and restless. You turned your head, met his eyes in the soft blue glow of the TV screen. He was already watching you—his eyes steady and unreadable, like he was waiting for you to be the one to call it. The tension between you tightened, thick as smoke in the space where your arms barely touched.

You swallowed. “Just friends… right?”

There was a pause. A beat too long.

Griffin blinked. Then nodded, slowly. “Yeah,” he said, barely above a whisper.

The quiet after was the loudest thing you’d heard all night.

You cleared your throat and stood up a little too fast, brushing invisible lint off your pants like you needed something to do with your hands. “Right. Okay. Well… I’m gonna go… annoy Walker or something. That always ends well.”

Griffin didn’t move. Just stared up at you with that same unreadable expression, like maybe he regretted saying it, or maybe he regretted not saying something else entirely.

“Goodnight, Fin.”

“Night.”

You walked away. Didn’t look back. Couldn’t. But you felt it—the weight of his gaze lingering like a hand against your spine.

And later, much later, when the Watchtower was silent and everyone else had gone to bed, Griffin was still sitting on that same couch. Movie long over. Lights dim. Rain still falling.

And he was still watching the door you walked out of.