My mind is blank, a white wall of shock. Griffin. Here. Now. After all this time. I nod, stepping aside without a word, my body moving on autopilot.
He steps inside, bringing the cool night air and the scent of the tavern with him. The small space of my entryway suddenly feels too small, too intimate. I’m wearing my oldest, softest pajamas—thin cotton pants and a faded T-shirt. I feel exposed.
“I’ll be right back,” I mumble, grabbing the thick fleece robe hanging on the hook by the door.
I wrap it around myself, tying the belt tight, creating a barrier between us. It’s a flimsy defense, but it’s something.
He’s already moved into the living room, his gaze taking in the space—the bookshelves overflowing, the half-finished potion projects on the side table, the paused TV. He sits on the edge of the armchair, perched like he’s ready to bolt.
Thistle, my traitorous familiar, abandons his spot on the sofa. He trots over to Griffin, rubs against his leg, then, with a graceful leap, jumps into his lap. Griffin stiffens for a second, then relaxes, his hand automatically going to Thistle’s head, scratching behind his ears. The traitor starts purring again, that loud rumble that fills the silence.
I stand there for a moment, watching them. A man I once loved, a cat who’s supposed to be my judge of character. And they seem to like each other.
“Can I… can I offer you something to drink?” I ask, the words tumbling out, filled with nervous energy. “Water? Tea? I have… Diet Coke?”
He shakes his head, his eyes still on Thistle. “I’m okay. Thanks.”
I sit on the sofa, across from him, tucking my feet under me. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. Every tick of the clock on the wall sounds like a hammer blow. My palms are damp, my heart is beating too fast.
This is wrong. This is all wrong.
“Griffin,” I whisper. “I’m getting nervous. Is everything okay? Did something happen? Is it the Rift?”
He looks up from Thistle, his gaze direct, intense. “The Rift’s fine. As fine as it ever is.” He takes a breath, and I can see him gathering his courage. “It’s something else. Something Beckett said.”
Beckett. One of the firefighters. What could he have said?
“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to prepare myself. “What about it?”
He studies me, his eyes searching my face, and I have the unnerving feeling that he can see right through me, through the robe, through the lies I’ve told for years. He sees the girl who was stupid enough to let a boy mark her during her first heat, the girl who’s been living with the consequences ever since.
“Do people in this town not know that we’re not dating?”
And there it is.
One of my biggest lies, the one I’ve cultivated for years, the one that’s kept me safe and lonely all at once, hanging in the air between us. The world seems to stop, the sound of the refrigerator humming in the kitchen fading away. The floor drops out from under me, and I’m falling, falling into a panic so sharp it takes my breath away.
He knows. Someone told him. Or maybe he’s just been putting the pieces together. The way people look at me. The way no one ever asks me out.
“Griffin,” I say, his name a strangled sound. I don’t know what else to say. What can I say?
He doesn’t look away. His gaze is unwavering, a stark contrast to the nervous energy he radiated at the door. He’s found his footing, and he’s not backing down.
“What is going on, Caroline?”
The question hangs there. It’s not an accusation. It’s a genuine plea for understanding, a request for the truth. And I have no idea how to give it to him. My throat is tight, my mind a chaotic mess of excuses and half-truths and the overwhelming, crushing burden of my own deception.
“It’s complicated,” I say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. It’s the most pathetic, inadequate response imaginable, but it’s all I have.
Griffin stands up so abruptly that Thistle leaps from his lap, landing silently on the rug. For a second, I think he’s going to walk out, that this is over before it’s even begun. But then he sinks back into the armchair, running his hands through his hair, his elbows resting on his knees. He looks broken, and the sight of it sends a pang through my chest.
“Complicated how?” he presses. “We haven’t spoken in three years, Caroline. Three years. And I come back to find outeveryone in this town thinks we’re some bonded couple. How is that complicated?”
The words tumble out of me then, a frantic, jumbled rush of truth I’ve kept buried for too long. “We were on and off, you know that. It was never… simple. There were good times, really good times, but then there were the bad times when we’d drive each other crazy.” I can almost smell the old leather of his jacket, feel the scratch of his stubble against my cheek. “Then you told me you were joining the academy. You were so excited, so sure. And you asked me… you asked me to marry you.”
My voice cracks on the last word. I remember that day so clearly. The sun was shining, we were by the river, and his face was full of hope. A hope I couldn’t share.
“I said no,” I whisper, the confession hanging in the air between us. “I ended things. I know I hurt you. I saw it in your eyes—the confusion, the hurt. And then the anger. You were so angry, Griff. And you had every right to be.”
