Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Griffin
Too early to be awake on the day after a road trip, but my brain had other plans.
I scrolled through the usual notifications—sports news, a message from Michael praising my “effort despite the outcome,” a text from my mom asking me to call when I had time.
Nothing that required immediate attention, nothing that would distract me from the loop of self-criticism playing in my head.
My thumb hovered over Wesley’s name in my contacts. We’d texted briefly on the bus last night, but I wanted more. Wanted his voice, his presence. I needed someone who could see past the public image to the person underneath and tell me I was enough even when I felt like I wasn’t.
Too early. He’s probably still asleep.
But my fingers moved anyway.
Griffin
What are you doing today?
I set the phone on my chest and stared at the ceiling, not expecting an immediate response. Which made it surprising when my phone chimed thirty seconds later.
Wesley
Going for my morning run in about 20. You?
Griffin
Light skate at 10.
I should have left it there—professional, appropriate, an exchange that wouldn’t raise eyebrows if anyone saw it. But the apartment felt too empty, and the memory of waking up in Wesley’s hotel room—his warmth, his company—made the distance between us feel unbearable.
Griffin
Want to come over later? I could make lunch. We could watch a movie.
The three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. I watched them with my pulse inexplicably quick, waiting for his response like it held more weight than a simple Sunday afternoon invitation.
Wesley
Define “make lunch.” Because I’ve seen your cooking skills.
Despite everything—the loss, the pressure, the complicated tangle of feelings about my father—I chuckled.
Griffin
Fine. I’ll order sandwiches. I’m very good at opening takeout containers.
Wesley
That’s a valuable skill. What movie?
Griffin
Your choice. I’ve got a few streaming services.
Wesley
Dangerous offer. I might pick something weird.
Griffin
I can handle weird.
Another pause, longer this time. I could practically see Wesley thinking it through—optimism battling with the hard lessons he’d learned in Nashville.
Wesley
What time?
Griffin
1:00?
Wesley
I’ll be there.
Relief and anticipation flooded through me in equal measure. I had something to look forward to now, something beyond replaying yesterday’s mistakes and dwelling on impossible legacies.
Griffin
Can’t wait.
I meant it more than was probably wise.
Wesley
We should delete this thread. We’re texting on our work accounts. If anyone ever looked through our phones…
The reminder landed like cold water. Right.
Our texts went through the team’s communication system, subject to review if anyone had reason to look.
Every flirtatious message, every plan to meet privately, every indication that this was more than professional collaboration—all documented in a digital trail that could destroy us both.
Griffin
Good call. Deleting now.
Wesley
See you at 1
I deleted the entire conversation, watching our words disappear with a mixture of relief and regret. Safer this way. Smarter.
We’re playing a dangerous game.
But I couldn’t seem to stop playing it.
Morning skate was exactly what I needed—an hour of skating that burned the Vancouver loss out of my system and replaced it with productive exercise. Coach Roberts kept it light but focused, stretching our legs and keeping us in form. An easy workout followed.
Afterward, I showered quickly, changed into jeans and a hoodie, and made it home by twelve fifteen with just enough time to order sandwiches before Wesley arrived.
I pulled up the menu for the deli he’d ordered from previously—the place near Wesley’s apartment where he’d ordered a turkey and avocado sandwich. I ordered two subs for myself—roast beef with everything—and one turkey and avocado for Wesley.
Wesley arrived a little after one, more exuberant than punctual. “Hey,” he said with a broad smile, his dimple making an appearance. He glanced up and down the hallway, then stepped inside.
“Anyone see you?”
“Don’t think so. The building’s pretty quiet.”
I gestured toward the kitchen. “Sandwiches just got here. Want something to drink?”
“Water’s good.”
We settled at my kitchen bar with the food spread between us. I was suddenly ravenous with a hunger that came from a good skate and workout. I demolished my first sandwich in what felt like four bites.
Wesley watched, a smile tugging at his lips. “Should you have ordered three?”
“Probably.” I reached for the second sub, slightly embarrassed by my appetite but too hungry to care.
Wesley unwrapped his sandwich, then paused and looked at it more carefully. “Wait. How did you know this is my order?”
“It’s what you ordered the last time. I hope it’s okay that I got it for you again.”
Wesley’s expression shifted—surprise, then something softer, warmer. “You remembered my sandwich order.”
“I notice what you like.” The admission came out more honest than I’d intended, revealing the way I’d been cataloging details about Wesley since we’d met. His coffee order, his daily routine, the way he’d decorated his apartment with more enthusiasm than organization.
“Griffin…” Wesley set down his sandwich, his brown eyes holding mine with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. “That’s—thank you. For paying attention. For caring about the small things.”
“Of course I care.” The words felt inadequate for what I was trying to express—that Wesley had become the most important person in my life in a matter of weeks, that his preferences and habits and stories mattered to me in ways that went far beyond professional collaboration or physical attraction.
Wesley reached between us and his hand found mine. The touch was solid and warm. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice soft. “For being thoughtful. It’s…” He paused, like he was choosing his words carefully. “It means more than you probably realize.” He squeezed my hand gently before withdrawing.
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, a quiet that felt easy rather than awkward.
I finished my second sandwich while Wesley worked through his, and I just watched him—the way he seemed to relish every bite, the small smile that played at his lips when he caught me staring, the casual comfort he seemed to feel in my space.
“So what movie are we watching?” Wesley crumpled his sandwich wrapper. “Please tell me you have something better than just hockey documentaries.”
“I have a very respectable streaming queue.” I stood and moved to the living room, grabbing the remote. “Some fantasy stuff, action movies, a few classics.”
Wesley joined me on the couch, and I pulled up my saved list. He leaned closer to see the screen and scanned the titles with obvious interest. “Wait. You have The Name of the Wind adaptation saved? I didn’t even know they made a movie.”
“Limited theatrical release, then straight to streaming. Most people missed it.” I’d loved Patrick Rothfuss’s books—had read the series twice, finding something comforting in Kvothe’s journey and the magic system Rothfuss had created. “It’s pretty good. Stays faithful to the source material.”
“I love those books.” Wesley’s voice held genuine enthusiasm. “Kvothe’s story is incredible. The way Rothfuss writes about music and magic and memory…”
“Want to watch it?”
“Absolutely.”
We settled into the couch cushions—the same couch where we’d first kissed, where I’d confessed my attraction and asked Wesley to risk everything for a relationship we had to hide.
The sectional was large enough that we could have maintained distance, but Wesley nestled close, his thigh pressing against mine, our shoulders touching.
I started the movie and tried to focus on the screen—on Kvothe’s red hair and clever hands, on the beautiful cinematography and the haunting score. But I was acutely aware of Wesley beside me, of the warmth of his body and the occasional shift of his weight that brought us closer together.
Halfway through the first act, Wesley’s hand clasped mine. His fingers laced through my own with gentle certainty, and I squeezed back, acknowledging the contact and the intimacy it represented.
By the time Kvothe entered the university, Wesley had leaned his head against my shoulder, and my arm had found its way around his back. The movie continued—Ambrose’s antagonism, Master Elodin’s strange wisdom, Denna’s mysterious appearances—but I was only half watching.
I turned my head slightly, and Wesley looked up at the same moment. Our faces were inches apart, the space between us charged with possibility and desire.
“Griffin,” Wesley said, his voice barely above a whisper.
I kissed him.
The movie faded to background noise—dialogue and music and the visual story of magic and revenge becoming irrelevant compared to the reality of Wesley’s mouth on mine. He shifted to face me more fully, his hands finding my shoulders, then sliding up to cup my jaw.
I pulled him closer, one hand spanning his lower back, the other threading through his hair. The kiss deepened, becoming less gentle and more urgent, and Wesley made a small sound of approval that sent heat through my entire body.
We shifted on the couch and lay facing each other.
My hands explored the warm skin beneath his shirt, and his fingers worked at the button of my jeans.
The movie played on, forgotten, while we discovered each other with increasing intensity.
Our fingers roamed against bare skin, we ground our hard cocks together and—
Someone knocked on my door.
We froze, lips a breath apart, the sound of knocking impossibly loud in the room.
“Fuck,” I whispered, my heart rate spiking from arousal to panic in a single beat.