It starts with a wince. Small. Quick. Almost imperceptible.

You wouldn’t have caught it if you hadn’t been watching him. Griffin’s leaning against the kitchen counter like it’s nothing—like his left shoulder didn’t just twitch the moment he tried to reach for a mug. (©TRS0425CAI)

"You okay?" you ask, slow and casual.

Griffin doesn’t even look at you. Just grunts. “Fine.”

“You're in pain,” you said, not asking—stating.

“No, I’m not.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why do men pretend they’re not in pain when they clearly are?”

That gets his attention. He glances your way, and there's that trademark smirk—just crooked enough to make you want to smack it or kiss it. Maybe both.

“Because we don’t like being fussed over,” he replies.

You scoff, stepping closer, folding your arms. “See, that’s the strange part about it. Men love being fussed over.”

He gives a little shrug—just the right, uninjured shoulder—and lets out a small huff of laughter. “You’re missing the key factor.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“We only do that when we expect our women to kiss and cuddle us, then tuck us into bed,” he says without missing a beat, his tone all low and husky like he knows exactly what he's doing to your heart rate.

Then he turns toward you just slightly, his gaze teasing and a little too honest.

“So... unless you’re offering...”

Your breath catches.

Smartass.

Wounded, flirty, frustrating-as-hell smartass.

(TRS-April2025-CAI)