Griffin studied my expression for a long moment, thoseice-blue eyes searching for something. Finally, he leaned forward and kissed me.
It was different from last night—less desperate, more deliberate. A kiss that spoke of intention rather than discovery, of choice rather than impulse.
His mouth moved against mine with gentle confidence, and I opened to him, tasting coffee and cocoa and the promise of something real. Griffin pulled me onto his lap with surprising urgency, his hands strong and sure on my hips.
Before I could process the shift, his hands framed my face, and he was kissing me—desperate and hungry in a way that stole my breath. I gasped against his mouth, startled by the sudden intensity, then surrendered to it with a sound I didn’t recognize as my own. My thighs pressed against his hips as I settled over him, solid muscle beneath me, grounding and intoxicating all at once. His hard cock pressed against mine and made coherent thought difficult. I rubbed against him, sending an electric thrill down my spine, and he groaned from deep within his chest.
I ran my fingers over his hair, the short strands soft, and anchored myself as the kiss deepened. He kissed me like I was essential, like he’d been starving and I was sustenance, like this moment was life-or-death important. The taste of him, the heat of him, the way his hands trembled slightly against my jaw despite the urgency—it overwhelmed every rational thought, leaving only sensation and need.
But he broke the kiss and rested his forehead in the crook between my shoulder and neck. “I should probably go.” His warm breath ghosted across my skin. “Before I forget all the very good reasons I need to leave.”
“Probably,” I agreed reluctantly, even as every instinct urged me to convince him to stay. “It’s still early enough thatyour leaving won’t look suspicious if anyone sees you. Much later, and someone might wonder.”
He pulled away, his expression rueful. “Back to being careful.”
“Back to being careful.”
I climbed off his lap and walked him to the door, acutely aware that this would become our pattern—stolen hours of normalcy bracketed by the constant vigilance required to protect our secret.
At the door, Griffin turned back, his hand cupping my face once more. “Text me when you’re home tomorrow after work? Tell me about your day?”
“That’s a very boyfriend thing to request.” The word slipped out before I could stop it, and I tensed, worried I’d pushed too fast, named something we weren’t ready to acknowledge.
But he just smiled. “Yeah. It is.”
He kissed me again—quick and sweet—then stepped outside, glancing around before heading toward the parking lot. I watched until he disappeared from view, then closed my door and leaned against it.
The apartment felt emptier without Griffin in it, the silence more pronounced. I moved through the space, collecting our mugs and plates, loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher while my mind spun through the evening’s revelations.
Griffin had talked about the future. Had asked about my goals, my plans, what I wanted long-term. Had let me gently introduce the concept of a planned coming out instead of flinching away from the topic entirely.
That was progress. Real progress.
And the way he’d looked at me when I’d explained my vision—seeing the possibilities instead of just the fear—suggested my optimism was having an effect. Not pushinghim but showing him that there were paths forward he hadn’t considered.
I finished in the kitchen and moved to my bedroom, changing into sleep pants and a T-shirt while processing the evening. The camaraderie while cooking. The easy conversation over dinner. The planning for a future that included both of us, even if that future required careful navigation of impossible circumstances.
This felt different from Charles.
With Charles, every conversation about the future had felt like pulling teeth. He’d avoided the topic, changed the subject, made vague promises about “someday” that never materialized into concrete plans. Our relationship had existed in an eternal present, never moving forward because Charles couldn’t imagine a future where we existed publicly together.
Griffin was different. He’d engaged with the questions about our future. Had admitted the four-to-six-year timeline felt long. Had let me talk about planning his coming out without shutting down or getting defensive.
That difference gave me hope as I brushed my teeth.
But hope was dangerous when it wasn’t tempered with realism. Four to six years was a long time. Long enough for circumstances to change, for Griffin’s fears to override his good intentions, for the pressure from Michael and Liz to erode his resolve.
And the trade possibility loomed large. Griffin could be moved at any time—to a team in a less progressive city, to an organization with different values, to a situation where coming out would be even more difficult than it was now.
If that happened, what would I do? Uproot my life again? Try to follow him somehow? Accept long distance for years?
I climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, those questions circling through my mind. The easy answers I’d given Griffin over dinner—we’ll figure it out, we’ll adapt, I seepossibilities—felt less certain now that I was alone with my thoughts.
But I meant what I’d said. I chose this. I chose Griffin. I chose to believe this time could be different, that the risk was worth taking, that my optimism wasn’t just setting me up for another devastating Nashville-style lesson.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, and I reached for it, expecting a routine notification. Instead, Griffin’s name lit up the screen.
Griffin
