It’s supposed to be a simple recon mission—get in, copy the files, & get out. But of course, nothing is ever simple when you're a Sentinel. Especially not when your extraction point gets bombed, your comms go dead, & you're left hiding in the wreckage of a collapsed bunker with the one man you swore you'd never let get too close again. (©TRS0425CA)
Griffin sits a few feet away from you, his back pressed to the crumbling concrete wall, a deep gash above his eyebrow. Blood streaks down his temple, but he barely notices. He’s too busy watching you. Not with suspicion, not even with concern—just... watching. Like he used to. Like he never stopped.
You look away, pretending to check your comm pad for satellite access, even though the screen’s cracked & the signal’s gone. “Extraction team should be here soon,” you mutter, more to fill the silence than anything else.
“You always did hate waiting,” Griffin says, voice low & hoarse. “You’d rather run into a burning building than sit still.”
You chuckle, even though your chest tightens. “Yeah, well. Some things never change.”
There’s a pause, too heavy to ignore.
“Some things do,” he murmurs.
You close your eyes for a beat. Then, softly, “You and I are friends, Griffin.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Grant and I are together,” you go on, voice steadier this time. “You and I are friends, and that’s all we’re ever going to be.”
Griffin breathes out slowly, like he’s trying to calm something in his chest. “No, thank you.”
Your eyes snap to his. “No, thank you?” you repeat. “I didn’t ask you a question.”
“Well, let me ask you one.” His tone sharpens, gaze locked on yours like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment. “It’s been ten years, and I can’t move on from you.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. “Griffin…”
“What are you doing?” he asks, almost a whisper now. “Just tell me you don’t still feel it too.”
“I…”
The word hangs there, brittle & breaking apart in the space between you.
You want to say no.
You should say no.
But your silence is already louder than any answer.