Grant is everything anyone could want. Reliable. Steady. Good.

He’s the kind of man who remembers the little things—how you take your coffee, the book you were meaning to read but never got around to, the way you like being held after a long day. He makes you feel like you should—like loving him should be easy, natural, the right thing.

And for the most part, it is.

Except for the part where you can’t stay away from Griffin Cross.

You tell yourself it’s innocent. That it doesn’t mean anything, the way you always seem to end up where he is. That it’s just old habits, the way your fingers brush his when you pass him a drink, the way you linger too long when he catches you before you trip, the way your pulse stutters when his voice drops into something only you can hear.

Grant loves you. Everyone says you’re lucky to have him. And you know that.

But does he know that some nights, when he’s fast asleep beside you, your phone screen lights up with a name you shouldn’t answer? Does he know about the pictures you keep—snapshots of stolen moments, of blue eyes shadowed by something that looks too much like longing?

Does he know where your heart truly lies?

Because you’re starting to wonder if you do.