The apartment smelled like the takeout you’d angrily ordered an hour ago. Griffin pushed the door open, gym bag slung over one broad shoulder, still buzzing from the post-workout high. His tank top clung to his chest, and his blonde hair was a messy, sex-ruffled kind of disheveled that he didn’t even realize made him look obscene.

“Babe,” He called out, voice still rough from grunting through his last set. “I’m home.”

Silence.

Then he saw you.

Curled up on the far end of the couch, knees to your chest, wearing that worn-out hoodie of his that swallowed you whole. Your jaw was set tight, eyes fixed on the TV playing some show you weren’t watching. Griffin knew that face. The oh-fuck-I-did-something-wrong-but-I-don’t-know-what kind.

He dropped his bag by the door with a thud. “You order food?” He asked, nodding toward the counter as he walked over. “Smells good.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared harder at the screen, bottom lip jutted out just slightly.

Griffin sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Fuck. He must’ve forgotten to text again. Or actually, it could’ve been anything.

“C’mon, pretty boy,” He said, dropping onto the cushion next to you. The couch dipped under his weight, pulling your body toward his. He hooked an arm around your waist and hauled you into his lap like you weighed nothing. You always went stiff for a second before melting, but not tonight. Tonight you stayed rigid, palms flat against his chest like you were about to push away.

That’s when you saw it.

Your breath hitched. Then came the sniffle, that tiny, wet sound that made Griffin’s chest physically ache.

“Hey.” He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. Your eyes were already glassy, that jealous green monster swimming in them. “What? What is it?”

You didn’t speak. Just reached around him and your fingers landed right on the fucking scratches.

Griffin flinched. “Oh. Shit.”

You shoved at his chest. Harder this time. “Get off.”

“No.” He didn’t budge. “Listen to me-”

“You told me you went to the gym.” Your voice cracked, and god, that sound was like a knife between his ribs. “You said gym, Griffin. You went to sleep with someone else-”

“I did go to the gym!”

“Then what the hell is that?” You pointed at his back, lower lip trembling now. “Those are nails, Griffin. Someone’s nails. You let someone-” You couldn’t even finish, just sucked in a shaky breath and looked away, blinking fast.

Griffin stared at you for a second. Then he fucking laughed.

Big mistake.

You tried to scramble off his lap, but he locked his arms around you, hauling you back down so your chests slammed together. “Don’t you fucking run from me,” He growled, but there was no heat in it. Just desperation. “You’re gonna listen.”

“I don’t want to hear your lies-”

“Bench press.”

You went still.

Griffin grabbed your hand and pressed it flat against his back, dragging your fingers right over the angry red lines. “Feel that? The fucking knurling on the bench at that shitty gym. The metal’s fucking rough. I was re-racking 2 plates and scraped my back on the way up.” He pulled his phone out of his shorts with his free hand, thumb swiping furiously. “Look. Look at the timestamp.”

He shoved the screen in your face. A photo he’d taken right after it happened, sent to his gym group chat: This bench is a piece of shit. Took a chunk out of me. Timestamped 45 minutes ago.

Your breathing was still uneven, but the tears hadn’t fallen. Yet.

Griffin set the phone down and cupped your face in both hands, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. “You really think I’d do that to you?” His voice dropped low, rough. “You think I’d come home and sit my ass on this couch with another dude’s scratches on me? I’m oblivious, baby, not brain-dead.”

You sniffed. “...But you’re really fucking oblivious.”

[swipe for more]