Chapter 16
TIANA
As soon as Griffin steps out of the laundry room, I draw in a breath.
Every time I’m around him, my body forgets the basics and locks in on his presence in a way that feels entirely out of my control.
He doesn’t just take up space when he walks into a room, he fills it, and somehow that spills over into my head until I can’t string together a single coherent thought.
I don’t know what’s going on in Griffin’s head, but this constant tension, this weird, charged awkwardness hanging between us, isn’t sustainable if I’m going to keep working here without losing my mind.
Once I get the laundry going, I lower myself onto the floor and lean back against the machine, letting my head fall against it as I take a second to collect myself.
Sylas is still in the living room, the TV loud enough to confirm he’s fully occupied, and with Griffin home, I don’t feel the need to be on high alert.
I pull out my phone and open Instagram, expecting the usual mix of likes, a few DMs, and the steady trickle of new followers that come in every day.
There’s nothing out of the ordinary at first glance, just the same rotation of names and notifications I’ve grown used to filtering through without much thought.
Still, I scroll through my messages, because apparently I’ve become the kind of woman who checks her DMs for one specific account while pretending I’m not doing exactly that.
@built2last
I bet your shelf is still uneven.
I smile. @built2last and I have been talking here and there. Just little comments, stupid jokes, some deeper topics, and the occasional dry observation that makes me giggle before I remember I’m laughing at my phone like a teenager with a crush.
@tianawithlove
so you’ve decided to come terrorize me in my dms again…
@built2last
Someone has to check on the structural integrity of your room.
@tianawithlove
I blocked that out mentally for self-preservation.
@built2last
Coward.
@tianawithlove
says the person hiding behind a blank profile.
@built2last
Mysteriousness builds character.
@tianawithlove
no, it builds serial killers.
@built2last
I don’t think serial killers care about shelf alignment.
@tianawithlove
honestly? fair point.
@built2last
Did you ever fix it?
@tianawithlove
no. I just angle the camera differently now
@built2last
That’s very irresponsible.
@tianawithlove
are you the shelf police?
@built2last
I was trying to help.
@tianawithlove
by publicly humiliating me over half an inch?
@built2last
Structurally speaking, half an inch matters.
@tianawithlove
LOL. that’s what he said?
@built2last
That wasn’t intentional.
@tianawithlove
uh huh…
so what’s your actual deal?
@built2last
What’s yours?
@tianawithlove
that’s unfair. I’m the one with my entire life online.
@built2last
Good point.
You seem different off-camera.
@tianawithlove
different good or bad?
@built2last
More yourself.
@tianawithlove
that’s either strangely observant or creepy
@built2last
I haven’t decided which yet either.
@tianawithlove
well, congratulations. you’re officially the strangest person in my inbox.
@built2last
I’m flattered.
I don’t even know this person, but something about them gives me comfort. They seem to get me.
Then my gaze drops to a new message that pops up at the top. It’s from Markell.
Ugh.
I exhale slowly, tension settling in my shoulders before I even open it.
He’s been quiet ever since we broke up four months ago, which honestly felt like a blessing, but now he’s back like nothing happened.
He was my first real boyfriend, although calling him “real” feels too generous.
We lasted two years, which is just long enough to convince yourself it might actually mean something, and for the truth to hit harder when it doesn’t. The entire time we were together, he still had an active dating profile.
One of my subscribers, of all people, sent me a screenshot of his face on a “men in your area” ad.
When I confronted him about it, he fed me some half-baked excuse about helping his friend Jon build the confidence to make his own profile and get into the dating scene, as if that somehow explained or justified anything, and convinced me I was being paranoid and that I should just trust him.
It was ridiculous.
And yet, I believed him.
Or at least, I let myself believe him; he deleted the app right there in front of me, and at the time, that felt like enough.
Turns out, the damage had already been done.
One night, I followed a gut feeling I couldn’t ignore, waited until he was in the shower, and went through his phone.
He’d been texting—and seeing—three other women behind my back the entire time.
The conversations, the pictures, were all there, laid out in plain sight like I wasn’t even worth the effort of hiding them properly.
I ended things the second he stepped out of the bathroom, still dripping, a towel slung low on his hips.
I haven’t been on a real date since.
Every guy after him has felt like a layover—sweet texts, recycled compliments, conversations that never quite land anywhere real.
Being chronically online doesn’t exactly attract the emotionally available type.
They either want the curated version of me, with perfect lighting and angles, or they want the novelty of being seen with someone who has a following.
I open Markell’s message and read it.
@markellonthemap
Hey. I’ve been thinking about you. I know I don’t really have the right to reach out, but I miss you. Can we talk?
I stare at the screen longer than I should, weighing the very obvious reasons not to engage.
“TJ!” Sylas calls. Saved by the six-year-old.
“Coming!” I answer, sliding my phone into my pocket.
When I round the corner into the living room, Griffin is standing at the kitchen sink, his arm angled under the faucet while water runs over his hand. Sy is still on the sofa, watching his dad.
“What happened?”
“Dad stabbed himself with a knife,” Sylas says matter-of-factly.
Griffin shakes his head. “That sounds a lot worse than it is. I was trying to open a package and the knife slipped.”
“You were on the phone and not paying attention,” Sylas adds.
Griffin immediately reddens and grabs his phone off the counter, slipping it into his back pocket.
I step closer, assessing the damage. “Let me see,” I say, reaching for his wrist before he can protest.
“It’s fine—”
“It’s bleeding, Griffin.” I turn his hand slightly under the light. The cut isn’t deep, but it’s messy enough to need tending to. “I’ll get bandages.”
I move around him, grab what I need from the first-aid kit above the fridge, and guide his arm back toward me.
“Sit.”
“Bossy,” Griffin mutters under his breath, but he lowers himself onto the kitchen stool without another word.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
I clean the cut, focusing on the task, even though I’m acutely aware of everything else. His skin is warm under my fingers, his hand far too big in mine. Even sitting on the stool, he’s still somehow taller than me, taking up too much space in the kitchen.
The thought of his body engulfing mine completely sends heat crawling up my neck.
I press the cloth a little harder than necessary.
Griffin doesn’t flinch, but I notice the subtle shift in his breathing, the way it deepens, like he’s trying to keep it even.
I’m too close and far too aware of him.
Griffin’s eyes flick up to mine, and I catch the exact moment it registers for him too. Something tightens in his expression before he looks away, jaw shifting.
I finish wrapping the bandage.
“Thanks,” he says, his voice rough.
“Of course.”
I clear my throat and turn away to once again put some space between us.