Griffin’s hands flexed at his sides. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For touching you where someone could see.”
“You were doing your job.”
“I held on too long.”
It was an open admission.
“I know,” I said. “For two seconds after the redirect was complete.” I paused. “I didn’t mind.”
Something changed in Griffin’s expression. He didn’t shut down. He stared back at me, holding my gaze.
My pulse quickened.
Griffin’s hands flexed once at his sides. He didn’t step back and stopped pretending we were still talking about professional boundaries. “You should mind.”
“Why?” I kept my voice steady even as my heart hammered. “Because you’re supposed to be professional? Because I’m your responsibility?”
"Yes.”
“Those things don’t make me untouchable.”
“They should.”
“But they don’t. Do they?”
Griffin took a deep breath, as if he were fighting for control. His gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second before looking up again.
That was enough of an answer. He stepped back, creating distance and reestablishing boundaries.
“Stay aware,” he said. “Notice who’s watching. If something feels off, trust that instinct.”
“And trust you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you moved fast enough to keep me from getting hurt. I know you noticed something in that photo that I didn’t, and you’re telling me to stay aware instead of dismissing my concerns. That sounds like competence to me.”
His expression softened slightly. “Thank you.”
“Griffin.”
“Yes.”
“If you need to redirect me again, don’t ask permission. Just do it.”
“I should ask.”
“Asking takes time. And if there’s danger, time matters.”
“Even if it means touching you?”
“Especially then.”
Griffin’s hands flexed. His jaw worked. I watched him fight himself, desire and discipline colliding. “Understood,” he said finally.
