CHAPTER 1 - GRIFFIN
My alarm explodes and I groan, patting blindly across the sheet for my phone. I curse under my breath.
I sweep the blanket, finally catch the buzzing slab, kill it, and flop back onto the mattress. I rub the sleep from my eyes, then unlock the screen to check the time, only to land on the last page I was staring at before I crashed.
I sigh.
My thumb hovers over a sound-off reel I’ve already watched multiple times last night. Flour dusts her forearms, light slipping over satin shorts as she presses dough with the heel of her hand.
I’m not a man who lingers. I’m not a man who does… this.
The phone warms in my palm. The caption is nothing—three emojis and a caption: cinnamon rolls tomorrow—but my chest tightens like I’ve sprinted stairs.
Looking down at my sleep shorts, I notice a little tent forming. Goddamn it.
I readjust myself, scolding my cock to behave itself.
Five years taught me a lot about outrunning hunger and lust, but lately it’s been catching me by the ankle.
I drag my thumb back to the beginning of the video.
Her laugh ghosts the room even when muted. She brushes hair off her mouth with the back of her wrist and a streak of flour kisses her cheek. It’s harmless content. Still, it feels like a hand under my shirt.
I should put the phone down and take a cold shower.
“Dad?”
The spell detonates. I lock the screen so fast my hand almost cramps. “Yeah, bud?” I’m already on my feet, the phone face-down, the door open. Sylas stands there, his hair a storm, one fist rubbing an eye. “I think I had a bad dream last night,” he says, small.
“C’mere.”
He folds into me, and I squeeze him hard, giving his head a little kiss.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Okay then. Let’s get ready for the day shall we?”
Before heading out to the hallway, I pick up the phone and stare at my reflection in the blank screen: a man with work in the morning and a kid who needs structure more than I need a stupid distraction.
By seven, the house is loud. The TV is blaring, my dog’s nails are ticking, and the coffee machine is whirring. I pour a mug, forget to drink it, then pour another.
One of Sylas’s toys needs new batteries and he won’t let it go until I change them, so I open the junk drawer, hunting for a screwdriver when a small white piece of paper snags against my knuckle. I stare at it for a few breaths.
If you find this, it means you woke up first for once. Kiss me before coffee. —L
Fuck.
I squeeze the note and rub my eyes with two fingers, letting out a rough exhale.
“What’s for breakfast?” drifts down the hall, interrupting my thoughts.
“Cereal,” I call back, tucking the note away like it belongs in the dark.
Sylas groans. “Again? We had cereal yesterday morning.”
I rub my temple. “I know, buddy. I’m sorry. I’ll do better tomorrow morning. Promise.”
Our usual nanny had to step away last-minute to take care of a family member, and the precise little machine my life runs on threw a belt the same day.
Joyce used to batch breakfast burritos, chop fruit into perfect stars, and leave sticky notes on the fridge with reminders.
Since she left, I’ve been playing catch-up, badly.
“I miss Joyce,” he says with a sigh.
“Same here, Sy.” I state, scrawling my name on a permission slip I should’ve signed yesterday. “We’ll try to find a new nanny in two weeks. Try to look harmless when we interview them.”
He grins with all his teeth. “You first, Dad.”
On the drive to school, Sylas tells me about the robot claw he’s engineering. I nod, add a materials list to the notes app, and pretend I don’t see the social media thumbnail trying to lure me back into the dark.
Knock it off, Griff.
The red light goes green, and I keep my eyes on the road.
As soon as we pull up, I kill the engine. Sylas is already unbuckled, door flying open, sprinting toward the schoolyard.
“Bye. Love you too!” I shout after him, and he gives me a backward thumbs-up without looking. Six going on sixteen.
My phone buzzes with the group thread that’s been running since we were kids.
Worth:
You alive, old man?
Look who’s talking. You’re the eldest of us three…
Henson:
Haha. He got you there. You’re late. Not for anything specific. Just late in general.
Just dropped Sy. Headed to the office now.
Henson:
Good. We need your scary voice for the concrete sub at Tower South. He thinks ‘timeline’ is a suggestion.
Worth:
Also, budget review at 10. Bring your red pen and that vein in your forehead.
I smirk despite myself. Nantucket feels like another life, but the salt lives in my bones. We were three idiots swinging hammers on summer decks, callused hands and a truck that only started if you swore at it. Years later, the Miller brothers came up to me with a pitch that sounded like a dare.
“Come build a firm with us.”
I trusted them enough to pack a life into a storage unit and move across the country.
First year, I was still blue collar, working as a union carpenter by day and draftsman by night, teaching myself CAD in a rented studio with bad heat.
Then came night classes and licensure exams. Now I’m COO at W.H.M.
Construction, the guy who translates between the design team and the crews who actually make the drawings stand up.
It’s been insane, but good.
I’ll be there by ten.
Henson:
Atta boy. I’ll bring coffee.
Worth:
I’ll bring the actual agenda.
The lightness thins when the home screen flashes that same thumbnail again. I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But I open the app anyway.
From my burner account, I type her name into the search bar and her profile blooms. She’s always active, sunup to lights out, little squares of a life edited better than most movies.
I tap her story and watch. Then I watch the next. And the next.
The spell snaps. I toss the phone onto the passenger seat like it burned me and stare at my left hand, the gold band on my wedding finger catching a stripe of morning sun.
Guilt needles straight through the center of me.
I rub a palm over my mouth, jaw tight. Watching her is a habit I pretend I don’t have. An itch I keep feeding.
Enough.
I turn the key, pull into traffic, and point the car toward the office, hating how much I’m already thinking about the next hit.