The lights in your apartment are dim, the bottle of bourbon between you & Griffin nearly half gone. The playlist humming from your old speaker is a lazy mix of blues & slow jazz, just enough to give the evening a heartbeat. Griffin’s sprawled in your armchair, his boots scuffed from patrol & his sleeves rolled up like he means to stay a while. (©TRS0425)

You’re sitting on the rug, back against the couch, your glass resting on your knee when he asks it.

"You want to dance with me?"

You look up at him, narrowing your eyes. “No.”

He huffs a soft laugh, tilting his head. "Why do you make it so hard for me to flirt with you?"

You swirl the bourbon in your glass & smirk. “Because, if I made it easy, you wouldn’t flirt anymore.”

As soon as it’s out of your mouth, your stomach flips. You didn’t mean to say it out loud. It was too close to a truth you’re not ready to share.

You glance at him, suddenly wary, but he doesn’t look smug. He looks... focused. Like you’ve just said something that matters.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” you murmur, trying to recover.

But Griffin doesn’t answer. He starts to move, standing up slowly & stepping away from the chair. He walks toward you, deliberately slow, like a hunter giving you time to run.

Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. “What are you doing?”

"I'm walking toward you real slow," he says, his tone low & even.

“Why?”

"Because if I ran, I’d scare you."

Your throat tightens. There’s something in his eyes that’s almost too much—honest, patient, unflinching. You don’t know what to do with that.

“I knew from the moment I saw you that you’re trouble,” you say, mostly to distract yourself. “And don’t think I haven’t seen you watching me from your stupid—”

But you don’t finish the sentence. Because he’s right in front of you now, close enough for you to feel the warmth of him, close enough that you can’t hide behind sarcasm anymore.

And then he kisses you.

No hesitation. No rush. Just the heat of his mouth against yours.