29. Turn Order Reversed
Chapter twenty-nine
Turn Order Reversed
Griffin
Dating my wife is weird.
Okay, not bad weird. Just objectively backward.
We basically skipped half the main campaign, got married during character creation, and are now going back to complete the dating side quests.
Most people date, fall in love, talk about a future, maybe eventually get married.
Cami and I got married so she could have health insurance, fell in love somewhere in the middle of pretending the marriage was practical, moved three additional men into the emotional and sexual center of our lives, and are apparently now getting around to regular date nights.
Totally normal progression.
I glance across the table at her.
She’s studying the dessert menu with the same concentration I’ve seen her use when calculating insulin or trying to figure out whether Dex is lying.
Which, admittedly, may require similar analytical skills.
“You know you’re getting dessert,” I tell her.
Her eyes lift over the menu. “You don’t know that.”
“You told me before we even left the house you wanted the chocolate cake.”
“Circumstantial evidence.”
I lean back in my chair. “Cami.”
She fights the smile for approximately half a second. “Fine. I’m getting cake.”
“Shocking.”
We’re at one of those steakhouse chains that manages to feel expensive without being so expensive that I need to refinance the house to order dinner.
Low lighting.
Actual tablecloths.
A server who somehow appears exactly when we need something and disappears before conversation gets awkward.
I wanted nice.
Not anniversary nice.
Not apology nice.
Not please notice how romantic your husband can be nice.
Just somewhere I could make a reservation, put on a shirt with buttons, and take my wife out without another person at the table.
That sounds more possessive than I mean it.
Maybe six months ago, it would have been.
Tonight, it’s simpler.
I wanted time with her.
Nobody needed to be excluded for me to want that.
That distinction would probably have saved me several months of emotional constipation if I’d figured it out earlier.
Cami sets down the menu. “You’re thinking.”
“I do that occasionally.”
“Dangerous.”
“I manage.”
She narrows her eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s bullshit.”
I smile.
Across the restaurant, somebody drops silverware. My attention shifts automatically toward the sound, assesses it, dismisses it.
No emergency.
No one choking.
No one collapsing.
Just a fork.
Occupational hazard.
When I look back, Cami is still watching me.
“I was thinking this is nice.”
Her face softens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Even though it’s technically our makeup Valentine’s date?”
I shake my head. “I told you. This isn't makeup anything.”
“Right. It's a date.”
“A revolutionary concept.”
She grins. “We should have tried this before getting married.”
“Would've ruined the surprise.”
Her laugh comes easily.
I love that sound.
I’ve heard it in our kitchen with Dex being an idiot, at the D&D table while Ronan looks like he regrets all of us, and even pressed against Micah on the couch.
None of that changes what it does to me when I’m the one who caused it.
Different doesn’t mean less.
Apparently that lesson has been beaten into all of us recently.
The server returns for the dessert order.
Cami orders the cake—obviously.
She gives herself insulin before it arrives, checks the number on her phone, then turns the screen toward me without me asking.
“Look. Responsible diabetic.”
“I wasn't going to say anything.”
“Liar.”
“I was giving you at least another thirty seconds.”
She laughs again, and it’s perfect.
The movie is exactly what we expected—explosions and car chases.
A lead actor in his forties who apparently heals from stab wounds in twelve minutes.
And a romantic subplot Cami becomes aggressively invested in halfway through.
“They're obviously going to kiss,” she whispers beside me.
I keep my eyes on the screen. “They've known each other for two days.”
“So?”
“He tried to arrest her yesterday.”
“Enemies to lovers.”
“He handcuffed her to a radiator.”
“That was foreplay.”
I turn slowly toward her.
The light from the screen catches the smile she is trying to hide.
“I’m not discussing handcuffs with you in public.”
“Coward.”
I take another handful of popcorn.
Five minutes later, the hero gets shot.
Cami grabs my arm. “He better not die.”
“He's the lead.”
“That doesn't mean anything anymore.”
He does not die.
He also kisses the woman he handcuffed to the radiator.
Cami makes a smug little noise beside me.
I lean closer. “Don't say it.”
She just smiles wider.
By the time we leave the theater, it’s late enough that most of the stores surrounding it are closed. The parking lot is quiet, the February air cold enough that Cami immediately slides closer to me.
My arm goes around her shoulders automatically.
She tucks herself against my side. “You liked it.”
“It was fine.”
“You liked it.”
“The trauma care was terrible.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“He had a penetrating chest wound and was running fifteen minutes later.”
“Griffin.”
I look down at her.
She smiles.
“I liked it.”
“Thank you.”
“But the chest wound was bullshit.”
“Of course it was.”
She slips her hand into mine as we reach the truck.
The drive home is easy.
Music low.
Her hand on my thigh.
No heavy conversations.
No relationship processing.
Nobody asking what forever looks like or how five adults navigate another complicated boundary.
Just us.
I didn't realize how much I missed just us until we intentionally made room for it.
That's probably something worth remembering.
The house is mostly quiet when we get home.
There are signs of life—someone left a glass beside the sink, and I can hear something faintly through the wall down the hall—but nobody appears.
Thank God.
Not because I'm embarrassed about where this date is heading.
Mostly because if Dex sees us right now, I know exactly what he'll say.
I have had enough of that man narrating my sex life lately.
Cami walks backward down the hallway in front of me. “You coming?”
“I was considering sleeping on the couch.”
“Liar.”
She opens her bedroom door.
I follow her in.
The second it closes, she turns and slips her arms around my neck.
My hands settle at her waist.
“This was a good date,” she says.
“Was?”
“Technically, I guess it isn't over.”
Her mouth meets mine.
The kiss starts soft, but it doesn't stay that way long.
I back her toward the bed.
Her fingers work at the buttons of my shirt while mine find the zipper at the back of her dress.
We know this part—there is comfort in that.
I know how she tilts her head when I kiss the left side of her neck.
I know how her breathing changes when my hands slide over her ribs.
I know exactly how to pull her against me so she can feel what she's doing to me.
It’s familiar. Easy. Ours.
She pushes my shirt off my shoulders.
My hands find her ass and lift her.
Cami laughs against my mouth.
Then I stop.
Not completely.
Just enough.
She feels it immediately.
Her legs are still around my waist when she pulls back. “What?”
I look at her.
At the bed.
Then back at her.
There are easier ways to start this conversation.
I apparently can't find any of them.
“Do you remember the boundaries conversation?”
Her eyebrows pull together. “With Ronan?”
“Yeah, but way back. When we went through everybody's limits.”
Recognition moves across her face.
I set her back on her feet.
My hands stay at her hips. “I said something then.”
Her expression changes slowly. “Is this about bondage?”
I nod.
“You said only if you felt safe.” She pauses. “And only if I was the one touching you.”
Of course she remembers it word for word.
I clear my throat.
“I meant it.”
Cami doesn't speak.
Which is probably worse than if she'd laughed.
I look away long enough to drag a hand through my hair. “I've been thinking about it.”
“For how long?”
“A while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Long enough that this interrogation is becoming uncomfortable.”
Her mouth twitches, but she doesn't let me off the hook.
“Griffin.”
I exhale. “Since before Ronan and I had that conversation in the basement about the three of us.”
That takes the teasing out of her face. “I don't want you doing this because you think you need to compete with them.”
“I'm not.”
“Or because Ronan ties us up.”
“I know.”
“Or Micah does.”
“I know.”
She studies me.
I let her.
That's the problem with being married to somebody who knows every version of your face.
Eventually, she asks, “Then why?”
I have spent enough time thinking about that question that the answer should be easy.
It isn't.
“You probably know better than me, but I don't know exactly.”
Her eyes stay on mine.
I try again. “I spend most of my life doing something.” I gesture vaguely. “At work, I'm making decisions. Figuring out what's wrong. Deciding what needs to happen next. At home…” I pause. “I do it here too.”
Her expression softens. “I know.”
“If you're upset, I want to fix it. If something goes wrong, I want a plan. Even during sex, I'm usually moving you, holding you, making sure you're okay, paying attention to what you need.”
“That sounds terrible.”
I give her a look.
She smiles.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
My thumb moves against her hip. “I think I want to know what it feels like if I can't do any of that for a little while.”
Her breathing changes.
“To just let you…” I trail off.
“Let me what?”
“Whatever you want.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
Apparently hearing it out loud affects both of us.
“I want to know what it's like to let you be the one deciding.”
“Griff.”
“And before you ask again, no, I'm not trying to prove anything.”
She closes her mouth.
“I know myself well enough to know this might last thirty seconds.”
“Okay.”
“I might hate it.”
“Okay.”
“My brain might decide being unable to move my hands is a terrible fucking idea.”
“Then we would stop.”
I nod. “Exactly.”
Cami's fingers move gently along my jaw. “And you're sure you want me?”
“That part isn't remotely complicated.”
She smiles. “I mean doing this.”
“I know.” I catch her hand and kiss her palm. “Yes.”
Her eyes move down my body.
Then stop at my belt.