The whiskey was cheap, the couch was ugly, and the lights in the safe house flickered every time the heater kicked on. It had all the charm of a roadside motel from a slasher movie—and somehow, it was still the nicest place you’d slept all week. (©TRS0525CA)

You were perched on the arm of the couch, nursing your glass like it might start offering emotional support, while Griffin stood by the window, half-shadowed, bottle in hand, looking like he’d just lost a bar fight with a garbage truck.

“You’re real quiet for someone who told a grenade today to ‘go to hell,’” you muttered.

Griffin snorted, the sound low and rough, and not at all sorry. “It was being dramatic.”

You raised your glass in salute. “To the world's most emotionally unstable explosive.”

He clinked his bottle to yours with a grin. “And to my bike. May she rest in pieces.”

“Oh, I meant to ask. How many pieces are we talking?”

He gave you a look. “Enough that she’s now legally considered gravel.”

You both laughed—too loud, too long—and it felt good. The mission had sucked. The safe house smelled like feet. And neither of you could leave until extraction arrived at dawn. But for now? The whiskey was flowing, and Griffin Cross was leaning a little too close for someone who usually kept his emotional proximity at arm’s length and his physical proximity even further.

Then, casually—like he wasn’t about to derail your entire nervous system—he tilted his head and asked, “Wanna go for a ride?”

You blinked. “We’re on lockdown.”

He shrugged. “Technicality.”

You squinted at him. “Didn’t your motorcycle get absolutely obliterated by a rocket launcher?”

He looked legitimately pained. “Sadly.”

“Then how exactly are we going for a—” You stopped mid-sentence. Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared at him. He just stared right back, blue eyes steady, smirking like a man with a secret and far too much upper body strength.

“I didn’t say we were going for a ride.” He tipped the bottle back for a slow drink. “I asked if you wanted to.”

“…But… wait…” You gasped, realization crashing over you like a badly timed wave. “Griffin!”

He arched a brow. “Saddle up, sweetheart.”