The guest room feels different now. Not just clean and comfortable, but welcoming in a way that suggests it could be more than temporary if I wanted it to be. Which I don't. Because that would be insane.
I change into pajamas and settle into the reading chair with my romance novel, but the words blur as my mind processes today's emotional minefield. The house settles around me withpeaceful evening sounds. Footsteps on stairs, water running through pipes, doors closing softly.
Normal domestic sounds. The kind that make a house feel like home instead of just a place to crash between disasters.
I'm almost dozing when I hear a soft knock.
"Come in," I call, expecting someone to check on me or deliver something I forgot downstairs.
Griff appears in the doorway, wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt that's clearly seen better days but looks comfortable enough to sleep in. His hair is damp from the shower, and he smells like soap and his usual sandalwood.
"Sorry to bother you," he says carefully, like he's not sure this visit is welcome. "I wanted to thank you again. For today. For everything."
"You already thanked me," I point out, though my voice is softer than intended because there's something vulnerable in his expression.
"Not properly." He steps inside, closing the door with deliberate care. "What you did today, turning our disaster into something that actually feels like home. I know we don't deserve that kind of effort."
"Griff..."
"Let me finish," he says with gentle authority, his brown eyes serious. "Twenty-two and stupid, too scattered to keep track of who I'd asked out, too young to understand what I was throwing away."
"What changed?" I ask, because I need to know if this is just nostalgia or something deeper.
"These days I can build a house from foundation to roof, remember every measurement and deadline," he says simply, and the honesty in his voice catches me off guard. “Also, you’ve only been here one day, and we’ve actually had a meal together."
“Because of me?”
He steps closer, close enough that I can see gold flecks in his eyes and smell his skin beneath the soap. “Yeah. Tonight was the best night we’ve had in this house. I just want to know if you're willing to give us another chance."
"There needs to be a lot more groveling, than one dinner."
“Of course!” he says. "We know it's complicated, and that we hurt you before."
"I don't know if I can do this again," I admit, the words tasting like fear and hope.
"We have three months. No pressure, no expectations. Just time to see if what we had before can become something better."Griff says.
The offer sits between us like a gift I'm not sure I deserve. Two months to explore possibility instead of just surviving proximity.
"What if it doesn't work?" I ask, because the fear of failure feels overwhelming.
"Then we'll know we gave it an honest chance," he says with pragmatic acceptance. "And you'll plan the best wedding Pine Hollow has ever seen, and we'll all be better for having tried."
The logic is sound. The emotional risk is still terrifying. But the recognition that they're offering partnership instead of just romance makes something flutter in my chest.
"I'll think about it," I say, because that's all I can promise.
"That's all we're asking," Griff responds with a smile that could power the entire town. "Sleep well, Savannah."
He heads toward the door, pausing to look back. "For what it's worth, having you here feels right in a way I'd forgotten was possible."
The guest room feels different as I settle into bed with my novel, but the words can't compete with the real-life emotional complexity happening in this house. Maybe some second chances are worth the risk.
The mountain air through the window smells like pine and possibility, clean and sharp and full of futures I'm not ready to name but am brave enough to consider.
Tomorrow will bring wedding planning and professional boundaries and navigating pack dynamics I thought I'd left behind. But tonight, I'm falling asleep in a house that feels like home, surrounded by the scents and sounds of people who want to take care of me the way I took care of them today.
Sleep pulls at me like a tide, and I let it. Because tomorrow I'm going to find out if second chances can be better than first attempts when everyone involved has finally learned what love is supposed to look like.
