The common room was unusually chill. Adrian wasn’t arguing with anyone, Grant was actually reading, and Sam was only half-complaining about leg day.

You? You were curled up on the far end of the sectional, flipping through mission files and trying not to fall asleep on a half-empty cup of coffee. (©TRS0525CAI)

That’s when it happened.

No warning. No preamble. No “hey,” no “how’s your day been?”

Just Griffin.

Crossing the room like he’d forgotten something, except apparently what he forgot was your entire sense of equilibrium—because without a word, he cupped your jaw, leaned down, and kissed you.

And not one of those “oops, our faces bumped in the hallway” kind of kisses either. No. This was slow. Intentional. Like he’d been meaning to do it for years and finally decided he was done thinking.

His lips were warm. His stubble scratched. And his metal fingers were cool against your skin in the kind of way that made your breath catch.

And then?

He just walked away.

Left the room. No glance back. No explanation. Like you were the weird one for being rooted to the couch, eyes wide, heart slamming like a war drum against your ribs.

“…Did Griffin just—?” Sam asked, eyes flicking up from his tablet.

You didn’t answer. Because honestly? You still weren’t sure it had really happened. Or if your brain had finally short-circuited from the lack of sleep and abundance of sexual tension.

But you did know one thing.

You were definitely going to need answers.

And maybe a fire extinguisher.

Because your face? Fully on fire.