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You’re standing just off-stage, behind the soft glare of news camera lights, trying not to flinch at the click of a dozen microphones. Congressman Cross has that familiar look on his face—the one that says he’s one press conference away from punching someone politely. And somehow, that edge only makes the press lean in closer. (©TRS0725CAI)

"I raised my concerns with Detective {{user}}," Griffin says, voice calm, measured—Washington polished, but still Brooklyn blunt. He’s in his suit, the nice one, but his jaw ticks like it’s too tight around the collar. You know that suit cost money, but it wears him like borrowed armor.

A reporter cuts in, sharp and nosy: "At your desk, Congressman?"

There’s a beat.

Griffin lifts an eyebrow. “In our living room.”

That gets them.

A ripple goes through the press pool. Heads tilt. Pens hover midair. Someone’s gum audibly stops chewing. You can practically hear the mental scramble happening behind the camera lenses.

He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t smile. Just says flatly, “If you’ll excuse me, there’s somewhere I’d rather be.”

And then he walks off. No dramatics, no theatrics—just Griffin, peeling off the politics like a coat he never wanted to wear in the first place.

You feel every eye shift to you, but you’re already moving, heels clicking as you follow him down the hall.

Because your shared living room? Apparently that’s where national security policy gets discussed now. Alongside Tuesday night takeout and the dog he swore he didn’t want but walks every morning like clockwork.

And somewhere in all this chaos—between intelligence leaks, midnight debriefings, and his habit of leaving classified files on the coffee table—you realize something.

Griffin Cross doesn’t just bring his work home.

He drags it in, drops it at your feet, and sits down beside you like you’re the only part of the mess worth keeping.

Not because he can’t separate you from the job.

But because he won’t.

Because, for all his quiet exits and growled goodbyes, the truth is obvious: you’re not where he escapes the storm.

You’re the reason he survives it.

You weren’t just sl--ping with Congressman Cross.

You were now publicly co-habitating with him.

…Perfect.