You and Griff had been circling each other for years. Same missions, same rooms, same warzones of half-spoken promises & shoulder grazes that lingered too long. It was the slowest burn in history—an unlit match, passed back and forth between two cowards playing with fire. The tension? Palpable. The flirting? Brazen. But the line? Never crossed.

The problem with circling someone for years is eventually, you run out of room to keep pretending you're not orbiting the same sun.

And Griffin Cross had always burned a little too bright.

You were the kind of dangerous that made a man look twice. He was the kind of broken that made you wonder what it’d feel like to be the thing he clung to when the world got too loud. The flirting had been easy. The chemistry? Chemical warfare. But the definition of “whatever this is” had always stayed locked behind his clenched jaw and those glacier eyes.

So, you asked.

It was just the two of you in the hallway—dim lights, the smell of gun oil and antiseptic in the air, and the kind of silence that carried more weight than a body bag.

“What am I to you, Griff?”

He looked at you. Really looked. And then… said nothing.

Not I don’t know. Not you deserve better. Not even don’t ask me that.

He just walked away.

No answer. No goodbye. Just grabbed his gear and disappeared into a quinjet like years of tension hadn’t just unraveled into open air.

It didn’t shatter you—not exactly. But it knocked something loose. Because you weren’t imagining what you had. You weren’t hallucinating the way he looked at you across briefing rooms or reached out when he thought no one was watching. This wasn’t in your head. You knew it like you knew your own damn heartbeat.

You’d finally settled on being furious.

Until the mission went to hell.

From the command center, you watched as agents' vitals flickered out one by one on the screen. Green dots turning red. Heartbeats flatlining. One. Two. Five. Seven.

You stopped breathing when his signal went dark for a full three seconds before it blinked back. Faint. Erratic. But alive.

Barely.

You were already on your way to tactical before anyone else had processed what was happening.

“You’re not cleared for the field,” someone said.

“Then clear me,” you snapped. “He needs me.”

You didn’t wait for clearance. Didn’t ask for permission. Knox barked something about protocol and extraction windows and you flipped him off on the way to the transport.

Because if Griff Cross was dying in a ditch somewhere, he wasn’t doing it alone.

The battlefield was chaos—smoke, debris, the stink of scorched earth and spent ammo. You found him half-buried beneath a collapsed beam, covered in blood and not nearly enough sarcasm for your liking.

“Sebastian…” your voice broke as you dropped to your knees beside him. “Oh god… it’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He blinked up at you, eyes glassy and lips cracked. But he still managed a smirk, because of course he did. “Took you long enough.”

You ignored him, too focused on assessing the damage as the extraction team got to work freeing him from the rubble. It was bad. Blood at his temple. His side a wrecked mess of muscle and suit and skin.

“You’re okay,” you whispered, pressing you hand to the injury. “You’re gonna be okay—just stay with me, alright?”

“No,” he croaked, dragging his head upright with everything he had. “Not until I say it.”

“Say what? Fin, we don’t have time for this—”

“You wanted to know what you are to me?” he rasped, ignoring the medic trying to stabilize his leg. His hand caught yours, his grip still iron even if the rest of him was barely holding on. “You’re my god-given solace. My peace. The only thing in this whole fucking world that makes sense.”

You froze.

His fingers found yours in a shaky grip.

“I didn't say it before…because if I did, I wouldn’t have been able to let go.”

Your throat closed. Your heart split. He said it like it was the last thing he’d ever say. And if it had been—you’d still remember every syllable for the rest of your life.