And despite everything I've told myself about staying safe, about keeping my distance, I think I want to find out.
The house settles around me like a promise I'm not quite ready to make but can't bring myself to refuse.
Thank you, universe, for turning my perfectly reasonable avoidance strategy into me falling asleep surrounded by the same three alphas who broke my heart once.
12
GRIFF
I'm out cold by midnight. It has been a week of having Savannah back, plus crawling around inspecting foundation cracks all day - I'm beat.
She made our favorite dinner tonight. Chicken and dumplings that tasted exactly like Mom used to make. Don't know how she remembered after eight years, but there it was. Even got the herbs right.
Shouldn't let myself think about how good it felt, having someone cook for us again. But damn if I can help it. The way she smirked when we fought over who'd do dishes. How pleased she looked when we told her the food was perfect.
Like she never left.
I'm dreaming about her - Savannah in our kitchen, on our couch, laughing at something stupid I said. Then the dream changes. She's yelling my name, but wrong. Scared.
I'm up and moving before I'm fully awake. Cold air hits my bare chest from the open window. Savannah's voice carries from somewhere in the house - high, panicked, wrong.
Every instinct I've got slams into gear.
Find her. Fix it. Now.
I move down the hallway fast, bathroom light throwing weird shadows everywhere. Don't make a sound on the hardwood - years of sneaking around this old house.
Her door's wide open, light spilling out. She's sitting up in bed, hair a mess, and I can smell the panic on her even from here. Something else too that makes my jaw clench.
Nightmare.
"Savannah? What's wrong?"
She turns toward me, hazel eyes wide and startled, and her gaze drops from my face to somewhere considerably lower on my cock. Her mouth falls open, vanilla bourbon scent spiking with shock and desire if I'm reading the signals right.
"Griff?" She screams.
"What happened? Are you hurt?"
Instead of answering, she points at me with a trembling finger, her face cycling through expressions I can't decode. “Has it grown?”
That thing. My sleep-addled brain takes a moment to process what she means, and when understanding hits, heat floods my face and neck. I glance down to confirm what my nervous system already knows.
Naked. I'm completely naked. Standing in her bedroom doorway like a perverted exhibitionist, displaying everything I own for her inspection.
And apparently I've been blessed by the gods of mortifying timing, because my body has chosen this moment to demonstrate how much it appreciates her presence. Eight years of wondering what it would be like to see her again, and my subconscious decides to answer that question with an anatomical display that belongs in a medical textbook.
"Shit." I grab a pillow from the chair beside her dresser and hold it strategically in front of my essential equipment. "Sorry. I was sleepwalking. I heard you scream and..."
"Sleepwalking?" Savannah stares at me like I've announced I'm secretly a unicorn. "You sleepwalk?"
"Sometimes. When I'm stressed or overtired or..." I trail off.
"Naked?" she asks, her voice strained.
Heat crawls up my chest and settles in my cheeks. "I sleep naked. Always have."
"Of course you do," Savannah mutters, finding it hard to speak.
