22 GRIFFINMy words hang in the air between us like a frozen speech bubble in one of those superhero comic books I read as a kid. Except there’s nothing particularly epic about this moment. Just a grown man pinned beneath the woman he loves, in his bed, waiting for her to say something.
Anything.
Layne’s mouth opens and closes without a word.
“You don’t have to say anything.” I whisper, reaching with one hand to smooth the hair back from her face as my heart begins to sink. I mean, I would love for her to say something, particularly that she doesn’t think I’m delusional, and that she also wants to be with me. That would be nice.
“N-no,” she sputters. “Wait.”
I love the look on her face when she’s thinking about what she wants to say. As a lawyer, she’s extremely careful with her words,
