The door opened and Griffin stepped in, wearing joggers and nothing else.
“It’s after midnight.” I pulled the sheet higher, pressing it against my chest. The air conditioning had been running full blast and my tank top wasn’t doing me any favors. “What do you want?”
“Can’t sleep.” He closed the door behind him, leaning against it.
“So you thought you’d bother me?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” His gaze swept the room, landing anywhere except on me. The chair. The wardrobe. The baby monitor on the nightstand. “How’s Hazel?”
“Asleep.”
“Right. Yeah.” He pushed off the door but didn’t leave. Instead, he crossed to the window, peering through the curtains at the Singapore skyline. “Can’t believe how bright it is. Even at night.”
I stared at him. “You came in here to discuss the city lights?”
“No. Just—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Observation.”
He was stalling.
“It’s race day tomorrow,” I said. “You need to sleep.”
“Can’t.” He turned from the window, finally looking at me. His gaze caught on my face, then dropped lower before snapping back up. “Tried. My brain won’t shut off.”
“Count laps instead of sheep.”
His mouth twitched. “Already tried. Got to forty-three before...” He trailed off.
“Before what?”
“Before I ended up here.”
The admission hung between us, weighted with things neither of us would say.
I shifted, adjusting the sheet higher. The movement made the fabric slide against my skin and I froze, hyperaware thatI wasn’t wearing a bra. That if Griffin looked too closely, he’d notice, and I’d never hear the end of it.
“Was it really that bad?” The words came out fast, urgent. “What I did today?”
I studied him for a second, hesitating. “You want my opinion?”
“Yeah.” He moved closer, stopping at the foot of my bed. “Not the diplomatic version. What you actually thought.”
“I think,” I twisted the fabric between my fingers, debating just how honest I wanted to be. Then I remembered this was Griffin and I gave zero shits about what he thought of me now or tomorrow. If he wanted honesty, he’d get it. “I think you’re an idiot.”
His face fell, defeat flickering across his expression. “Right. So I?—”
“But you’re a good dad.”
He stilled, almost like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard.
“You didn’t let them turn her into something shameful. You just… owned it.”
“I panicked, you mean. I blurted it out without thinking.”
“Did you?” I held his gaze. “Or did you decide you were done pretending she didn’t exist?”
His jaw worked, pain flashing across his face.
My father would’ve controlled every word and turned it into a calculated PR move designed to minimize damage and maximize sympathy. He’d have crafted the narrative, selected the timing, ensured every angle was covered before a single word left his mouth.
