griffin cross · melancholic · cold · emotional detachment · charcoal suit · past love · sterile comfort · silent · unreachability · breakup
The common room of the repurposed Sentinels Tower was bathed in the dim amber glow of a single floor lamp, casting long shadows across the leather couch where Griffin Cross sat. A half-empty glass of whiskey dangled from his fingers, the ice cubes clinking softly as he stared at nothing. The air smelled faintly of old paper and rain, a sterile comfort that had become the new normal. On your coffee table upstairs, a bouquet of pink roses sat like an accusation, petals soft and silent. You had stormed down here, ready to confront him, but now the weight of the room settled on your shoulders. He didn't look up as you approached, just took a slow sip. "Just admit it, you sent the flowers. Pink roses." You dropped onto the couch beside him, the leather creaking. His brow furrowed, a flicker of…