Page 39 of Griffin

Griffin raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting between amusement and disbelief, as if he was seriously wondering if I’d hit my head thinking I deserved a raise.

“I’m just saying,” I added with a smug grin, “if you wanted something fancier, maybe you shouldn’t have interrupted me every time a customer tried to chat me up. I could’ve made better tips.”

The grin slipped when I glanced over and found him already walking toward the entrance.

Without a word, he held the door open and gestured for me to come inside. I shook my head, laughing as I followed.

We slid into one of the cracked vinyl booths near the window, and a waitress brought over menus.

After some quick small talk, we ordered—two burgers, fries, and milkshakes.

When the food came, Griffin didn’t waste any time, picking up his burger and taking a massive bite.

I watched as he carefully fixed the paper lining around his basket—like it was some delicate art—before going back for another bite.

The corner of my mouth twitched into a faint smile. I picked up a fry, rolling it between my fingers as I debated how to start.

Instead of eating it, I used it to nudge the pickles on my plate to the far edge, like they might contaminate the fries if I left them too close.

The habit was pointless, I knew that, but it gave my hands something to do.

Griffin was watching me—I could feel it, even without looking up.

Was he curious, or just amused? Either way, the weight of his attention made my stomach flutter and tighten all at once.

I swallowed hard before finally breaking the silence. “So, um… that night at the convention.”

Griffin looked up mid-bite, chewing deliberately before answering. “What about it?”

I hesitated, still not entirely sure how to word this without sounding weird. “What were you doing there?”

“Same as everyone else,” he said, casually gesturing to my pickles. “You gonna eat those?”

“Help yourself,” I muttered, watching as he scooped them up without hesitation.

He popped one into his mouth before answering. “I went to check it out.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You were really there for the gaming convention?”

He tilted his head, smirking. “Why? Surprised I know how to turn on a computer?”

“No,” I said quickly, leaning back and folding my arms.

A part of me was still surprised that Griffin, of all people, had been to a gaming convention. But then again, a lot of people were into it these days.

“Just didn’t peg you as the type to stand in line for autographs or fan merch.”

“Didn’t say I was,” he said.

“Then why’d you go?” I pressed, ready to tease him. “Were you there for a specific game? Or…” I let the words hang. “Or were you just there to see me?” I teased, trying to hold back a grin.

Griffin’s smirk didn’t falter. “Yeah.”

I blinked, caught off guard by how readily he admitted it. “Wait, really?”

“Really.” He leaned back, completely unbothered. “You’re good at what you do.”

The casual compliment hit harder than I wanted to admit.

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