You never expected Griffin Cross to call you. Hell, you’d half assumed he’d throw his phone into the Hudson before asking for your help.

But the world was changing—and so was he.

Still, when your phone lit up with Sebastian Griffin Cross at the top of the screen, you stared at it long enough for it to stop ringing. He left a voicemail. You didn’t check it. He texted. You ignored that too. It wasn’t until he sent a second message—“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”—that something in your chest twisted just enough to make you reply.

Which is how you ended up standing on his front porch in the fading afternoon light, a coffee in one hand and a garment bag in the other. You barely had time to knock before the door swung open.

And there he was.

Broad shoulders framed by a storm-grey suit jacket. Cuffs undone. Tie draped around his neck like a noose he hadn’t figured out how to tighten. The top button of his white shirt gaped open, collar slightly wrinkled from what looked like a frustrated attempt to yank it off entirely.

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drag down the length of him. Then, with a smug little smile, you said it.

“Well, don’t you look pretty…”

Griffin ’s brow furrowed immediately. “Don’t start.”

You stepped past him into the house without invitation, taking in the battlefield of suit jackets, ties, dress shirts, and measuring tape strewn across every flat surface in the living room. You raised your eyebrows. “Did you lose a fight with a Men’s Wearhouse?”

“I said don’t start.” His voice was dry, a little rough like gravel at the edge of a cliff. “This isn't funny.”

You tilt your head and cross your arms. “You called me, remember? If you wanted soft encouragement and polite nods, you should’ve called Sam. Or a golden retriever.”

He exhaled sharply, running his hand through his hair, messing up the part that had clearly taken effort to get right. “You gonna help me or what?”

“Oh, I’m definitely gonna help you.” You tossed the garment bag onto the back of the couch and unzipped it. “But you need to chill out first. You’re not infiltrating a Serpent Order cell, Griff—you’re running for Congress. This is image management, not covert ops.”

You watch his mouth twitch, like he’s trying not to smile. Good. You weren't here for games. But if Griffin Cross was going to run for Congress, he sure as hell wasn't going to do it looking like he fought his closet and lost.

“I feel like I’m being interrogated every time I look in the mirror,” he grumbled.

You arched a brow. “Maybe that’s just the guilt talking.”

He shot you a glare.

You grinned.

“Suit up, Congressman. You called the wrong girl if you wanted someone to coddle you.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then—

“I didn’t call you to coddle me.”

Your heart stuttered, just for a second. His voice was quieter now. More earnest. More vulnerable.

“I called you because I trust you to make sure I don’t look like a goddamn fraud.”

The teasing slid off your face, replaced by something gentler. You stepped closer, reaching up to straighten his collar.

“You’re not a fraud,” you murmured. “You’re just a former brainwashed assassin trying to become a public servant.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

You smiled up at him. “Now shut up and try on the navy one. You’ll hate it slightly less.”

Griffin didn’t say a word. Just held your gaze for a beat too long… then reached up, pulled off the grey jacket, and tossed it to the floor without breaking eye contact.