Usually, when our eyes meet, there’s an immediate wall that goes up. Griffin has always kept his distance, not out of hostility, but because I was Sierra’s husband. That alone was enough to define the space between us. I expect the usual edge—the stiff nod, the quick turn of the head.
But tonight, when Griffin looks up, his expression doesn’t harden. For a split second, I see something in his eyes I’ve never seen directed at me before. It’s not resentment. Not even the usual annoyance.
It’s… pity.
"Jace," he says, his voice unusually level. He doesn't move away. Instead, he taps the stool next to him. "Sit down. You look like shit. Long day?”
The invitation throws me. It’s not what he says—it’s how he says it. No bite. No dismissal. It feels dangerous, and my guard goes up.
Griffin has never made it a secret that he has no use for me. I was tolerated because I was Sierra’s husband, nothing more. The on-again, off-again history. A choice I’m sure he thinks lasted longer than it should have. I fit into the version of her life that never changed, and that was enough to earn his resentment.
I expect the usual edge—the stiff nod, the quick turn of the head that tells me I’m already on borrowed patience.
But tonight, the edge never comes.
I sit, the leather on the stool creaking. The bartender slides a coaster toward me without a word, and I signal for whatever Griffin is drinking.
"Rough day?" Griffin asks. He isn't looking at me now; he’s staring at the reflection of the liquor bottles behind the bar. There’s a heaviness to his posture, a slump in his shoulders that matches the exhaustion I feel in my bones.
“Rough year,” I correct, the words slipping out before I can stop them. I scoff once. “You know…”
I don’t finish the thought.
I expect Griffin to snort, to deflect, to throw it back at me the way he usually does. Instead, he just nods slowly.
“Doesn’t ever really ease up, does it?” he murmurs.
I don’t answer but I glance at him, but he’s still staring at the bar like the answer’s etched into the wood.
“You’ve been carrying a lot for a long time,” he continues. “Showing up. Holding the line. Doing what you thought you were supposed to do.”
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and something about it tightens my chest.
He pauses, and the air between us shifts. It feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, debating whether to jump.
“Some burdens aren’t yours to carry,” Griffin says, quieter now. “And some things were already broken long before you ever touched them.”
He takes another drink, eyes still forward. Doesn’t look at me when he adds, “Doesn’t stop people from blaming themselves for the collapse, though.”
My pulse jumps. That isn’t sympathy. It's an assessment. It’s the kind of thing you say when you know more than you’re letting on.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Griff?” I ask, keeping my voice even. “Because if you’re talking about my marriage, or Sierra, or whatever version of this you think you understand, just say it. I’m not in the mood for half-statements.”
Griffin looks at me and holds my gaze for a beat longer than is comfortable, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t want to be responsible for. For a second, I think he’s going to break and spill whatever’s clouding his eyes.
Instead, he exhales quietly and taps his glass against mine with a hollowclink.
“That’s the thing,” he says finally. “I’m not talking about what I understand.”
He takes a slow breath, eyes dropping to his glass.
“I’m talking about what I know better than to say out loud.”
My stomach tightens.
He looks back at me then, and there’s something in his expression that feels like restraint instead of distance. “Some truths don’t surface until the damage is already done,” he adds.
He stands, sliding a few bills onto the bar. “Go somewhere you can breathe, Jace.”
