Chapter 12 Griff
GRIFF
I'm out cold by midnight. It has been a week of having Savannah back, plus crawling around inspecting foundation cracks all day - I'm beat.
She made our favorite dinner tonight. Chicken and dumplings that tasted exactly like Mom used to make. Don't know how she remembered after eight years, but there it was. Even got the herbs right.
Shouldn't let myself think about how good it felt, having someone cook for us again. But damn if I can help it. The way she smirked when we fought over who'd do dishes. How pleased she looked when we told her the food was perfect.
Like she never left.
I'm dreaming about her - Savannah in our kitchen, on our couch, laughing at something stupid I said. Then the dream changes. She's yelling my name, but wrong. Scared.
I'm up and moving before I'm fully awake. Cold air hits my bare chest from the open window. Savannah's voice carries from somewhere in the house - high, panicked, wrong.
Every instinct I've got slams into gear.
Find her. Fix it. Now.
I move down the hallway fast, bathroom light throwing weird shadows everywhere. Don't make a sound on the hardwood - years of sneaking around this old house.
Her door's wide open, light spilling out. She's sitting up in bed, hair a mess, and I can smell the panic on her even from here. Something else too that makes my jaw clench.
Nightmare.
"Savannah? What's wrong?"
She turns toward me, hazel eyes wide and startled, and her gaze drops from my face to somewhere considerably lower on my cock. Her mouth falls open, vanilla bourbon scent spiking with shock and desire if I'm reading the signals right.
"Griff?" She screams.
"What happened? Are you hurt?"
Instead of answering, she points at me with a trembling finger, her face cycling through expressions I can't decode. “Has it grown?”
That thing. My sleep-addled brain takes a moment to process what she means, and when understanding hits, heat floods my face and neck. I glance down to confirm what my nervous system already knows.
Naked. I'm completely naked. Standing in her bedroom doorway like a perverted exhibitionist, displaying everything I own for her inspection.
And apparently I've been blessed by the gods of mortifying timing, because my body has chosen this moment to demonstrate how much it appreciates her presence.
Eight years of wondering what it would be like to see her again, and my subconscious decides to answer that question with an anatomical display that belongs in a medical textbook.
"Shit." I grab a pillow from the chair beside her dresser and hold it strategically in front of my essential equipment. "Sorry. I was sleepwalking. I heard you scream and..."
"Sleepwalking?" Savannah stares at me like I've announced I'm secretly a unicorn. "You sleepwalk?"
"Sometimes. When I'm stressed or overtired or..." I trail off.
"Naked?" she asks, her voice strained.
Heat crawls up my chest and settles in my cheeks. "I sleep naked. Always have."
"Of course you do," Savannah mutters, finding it hard to speak.
The bedroom door explodes inward as Logan and Xavier burst through like they're responding to a five-alarm fire.
Logan's wearing boxers and nothing else, his smoky cedar scent sharp with alarm and protective instincts.
Xavier managed to grab a robe but didn't bother tying it, his cool mint and cologne combination carrying clinical alertness that kicks in during medical emergencies.
"What's the situation?" Logan demands, scanning the room for threats.
"Is anyone injured?" Xavier's voice cuts through the chaos.
"No!” I reply, clutching the pillow tighter as both of them take in the scene. "Just a misunderstanding."
“What?” Xavier's gaze travels from my face to the pillow to Savannah's expression of barely controlled hysteria. "Griffin, why are you naked in Savannah's bedroom?"
"Sleepwalking," Savannah answers before I can. "Apparently he sleepwalks. Naked."
Logan's storm-gray eyes find mine, and I can see him processing the implications. "You heard her scream and came to investigate?"
"Yes!" I confirm.
“Naked?" Logan asks while rolling his eyes.
"I always sleep naked," I remind him.
"And you didn't think to grab clothes before charging into her room?" Logan presses.
"I was sleepwalking, Logan. Logical thinking wasn't part of the equation," I explain.
Savannah buries her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with what might be laughter or might be a complete nervous breakdown. "Is there anything else I should know? Any other surprises I should prepare for?"
The three of us exchange glances, running through our collective list of quirks and domestic disasters.
Logan's tendency to cook elaborate meals at three in the morning when he can't sleep.
Xavier's habit of reorganizing the entire house when he's stressed.
My own collection of unfinished projects scattered throughout the basement and garage.
"No," we chorus in unison, which is probably the most coordinated response we've managed since forming this pack.
"Right." Savannah looks up from her hands, hazel eyes bright with exhaustion and amusement. "In that case, I'm going back to sleep. And Griff? Next time you sleepwalk, maybe grab some pants first."
"Next time I think you're in danger, I'll grab some pants. More important," I snarl.
She pulls the covers over her head, dismissing all of us from her bedroom. Logan and Xavier file out ahead of me, leaving me to follow with my dignity in tatters and a pillow pressed against my cock.
The hallway feels endless as we walk back toward our bedrooms, my bare feet cold against the hardwood and my sandalwood scent carrying embarrassment mixed with arousal I don't want to analyze too closely.
"Well," Xavier observes as we reach his bedroom door. "That was enlightening."
"One word for it," Logan mutters.
"We wanted her as an omega," I admit as we head to the living room,then we settle onto the couch because going back to sleep feels impossible after that level of mortification. "But this is going to be tougher than we planned."
"How so?" Xavier adjusts his robe with characteristic precision.
"We all need basic social skills. The ability to function around an attractive woman without creating scenes that belong in a bad romantic comedy," I elaborate.
"Speak for yourself. I didn't parade naked through her bedroom,” Logan says.
"You would have if you'd been the sleepwalker," I point out.
"Maybe. But I would have grabbed pants first," Logan counters.
"You can't grab pants while sleepwalking. The whole point of sleepwalking is that you're not awake enough to make rational decisions," I argue.
"Then maybe you should start sleeping in clothes," Logan suggests.
"I've slept naked for twenty years," I state firmly.
“And your ex-girlfriend is living with us, and you need to apply some house training!” Logan challenges.
“Fine!” I declare. I hate admitting weakness which feels dangerous when we're already walking an emotional tightrope.
Xavier clears his throat, his mint scent carrying composure that means he's about to deliver a lecture. "I'm perfectly capable of maintaining appropriate boundaries with Savannah. My habits don't require modification based on her temporary presence."
Logan and I exchange a look. Xavier's habits. The man who organizes his sock drawer by color and fabric weight. The man who alphabetizes his medical journals and keeps his prescription pads arranged in geometric precision.
"Right," Logan responds dryly. "You're a model of emotional stability."
"I am," Xavier insists defensively.
"Sure you are, Doc. And I'm the Pope," I retort.
Xavier's jaw tightens, mint scent sharpening with defensive irritation. "I don't see how my organization system relates to our current domestic situation."
"Your organization system is fine," I offer diplomatically. "It's your emotional system that needs work."
"My emotional system is perfectly functional," Xavier protests.
"Is it? Because most emotionally functional people don't keep photos of their ex-girlfriends hidden in desk drawers," I challenge.
Heat crawls up Xavier's neck, embarrassment mixing with his mint and cologne until his scent becomes complicated and defensive. "That photo has sentimental value."
“Sure,” Logan scoffs, rolling his eyes.
"It does," Xavier maintains defensively.
"Sentimental value that you've looked at how many times over the past eight years?" I press.
"I don't look at it. It's just there," Xavier claims flatly.
"In your desk drawer. Where you see it every time you look for aspirin or pens or whatever other medical supplies you keep in there," Logan points out.
"The location is irrelevant," Xavier corrects.
"It's everything, Doc. You could have put that photo anywhere. Your bedroom, your office at the clinic, a box in the attic. But you put it in the one place you access multiple times per day," I conclude.
Xavier opens his mouth to argue, then closes it without saying anything. His mint scent carries defeat beneath the composure, the smell of someone who's been caught in a truth he doesn't want to acknowledge.
"I'm going to bed," he announces finally. "Some of us have early appointments tomorrow."
He disappears into his bedroom, leaving Logan and me alone in the hallway.
“He thinks he's fine," Logan observes after Xavier's door closes.
"And the most together one of us," I add.
"Which is hilarious, considering he's the one who can't throw away an eight-year-old photo," Logan notes.
I lean against Logan's shoulder, enjoying the solid warmth of him and how his smoky cedar scent settles into comfort and familiarity. "We're all disasters."
"Yeah, but at least we know we're disasters. Xavier thinks his disaster is actually sophisticated emotional management," Logan agrees.
"Think she noticed?" I wonder.
"Savannah? She notices everything. Always has," Logan confirms.
"Think she'll stay?" I ask.
Logan's arm tightens around my shoulders, pulling me closer against his side. "For the wedding? Yeah. She needs the money too much to leave, because the last wedding she planned ended up being a disaster and she had loads of cancellations.”
"After the wedding?" I press.
"We'll probably prove that some things are too broken to fix, no matter how much you want them to work," Logan predicts.
Less than two months to convince Savannah that we've grown into men worth her time and attention. Two months to prove that our pack can function with an omega instead of falling apart under the pressure.
"Get some sleep," Logan urges, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Tomorrow's going to be complicated enough without adding sleep deprivation to the mix."
"Coming with me?" I grunt.
"Wouldn't want you to sleepwalk into anyone else's bedroom," Logan says with that smart-ass grin of his.
We head to my room. Logan flops down next to me, and I stare at the ceiling, pissed off. Two months. That's what we've got to prove ourselves to Savannah, and we keep screwing it up every damn day.
She thinks we're too much trouble. Hell, maybe she's right. Every time we try to act like grown men instead of idiots, something goes sideways.
I roll over with a frustrated growl. Part of me wants to say screw it - let her keep running. But the other part...
Dammit. I'm wearing these stupid pajama pants every night now because she's under our roof, and somehow that matters. Which pisses me off even more because it means she's already gotten to us.
Two months isn't gonna be enough. Not with how we keep stepping on our own dicks every time we get close.
But I'm not giving up. Even if it kills me, we're gonna figure this out.