Page 308 of End Game

The flowers are tulips.

Not roses.

I like tulips better.

The bakery bag contains two cheesecake slices because Griffin knows I will insist we split one and then steal most of his.

Before anything else, I kiss him softly.

We eat on the couch, and he listens while I tell him about Laugherty and asks enough questions that I know he's actually following.

He gives me the look when I minimize what I did—the husband look.

Apparently I have accumulated several men who refuse to let me downplay my own accomplishments.

Which is very inconvenient.

Later, when the house gets quieter, he takes me upstairs to my room, and everything he does is soft.

It is familiar and warm and easy.

My husband kissing me slowly because he has to leave before sunrise.

Me tracing the lines of his shoulders.

His face tucked into my neck afterward.

No complicated geometry.

No negotiations beyond the ones that live between us already.

Just Griffin and me.

Before he falls asleep, he says, “We'll go out next week.”

“Makeup Valentine’s Day?”

“A date.” His hand slides over my hip. “And you’re not planning it.”

I gasp. “Controlling.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Probably.”

At six-thirty the next morning, Griffin kisses me goodbye in the dark.

At seven-fifteen, I discover Dex has lost his fucking mind.

There are flowers on the kitchen counter.

Multiple flowers.

A box of chocolates.

A bag of gummy candy.

Three coffee drinks.