You don’t knock.

You haven’t knocked on Griffin’s door in the two years you’ve lived in this building, and you’re not about to start now just because someone decided to slap a “New Sentinels” plaque on the outside and pretend it meant anything. (©TRS0625CAI)

Your fist shoves the door open with the kind of casual authority that comes from years of being best friends with someone who’s seen you ugly cry in your old V.I.G.I.L.. sweats over a Pop-Tart commercial. So what if he’s been a little moody lately—who hasn’t? You were all one “global catastrophe” away from a group therapy punch card.

“Fin?” Your voice is already halfway to a warble as you toe your boots off in the hall and wander into the dimly lit room, heart pounding like it wants out. “I need to talk. Like, urgently.”

There’s no answer.

But you hear the water running. The bathroom door is cracked open just enough to see the steam curling like a ghost. You push it open. Walk straight in. You’re unraveling—mentally, emotionally, maybe existentially—and you don’t have the bandwidth to care if he’s n-ked.

(He is.)

He’s standing in the shower like a Greek tragedy, water sluicing down his back, metal arm catching the light. You’ve seen him bleed out, black out, break down—but never like this. He turns, still half-shampooed, blinking water from his eyes as if you’re a hallucination.

“Uh,” he says, blinking. “I’m n-ked.”

“Congrats,” you deadpan, leaning against the sink like it’s the only thing holding you up. “Don’t care.”

He doesn’t move, too stunned to reach for a towel, so you keep going because if you stop, you’ll cry, and Griffin Cross doesn’t do well with tears unless he’s the one shedding them.

“Also, wow,” you wave a hand vaguely in his direction, “blessed by the Super Soldier Serum gods. Truly. Mazel tov. Anyway, can you help me before I implode or punch Sam in the throat? Whichever comes first.”

“You’re in my bathroom,” he says slowly.

“And you’re my best friend. Also: n-ked. Yes, we’ve covered that. So can we move on to the part where you remind me that I’m not a catastrophic failure at humaning?”

Griffin sighs. Loudly. Then mutters something about needing better boundaries and shuts off the water. You hear the curtain shuffle and then the sound of a towel being violently yanked from the rack.

And then—his voice, a little softer this time: “What happened?”

You swallow. Hard. Eyes locked on the sink faucet like it holds all the answers.

“I think I broke something I can’t fix,” you whisper.

The towel rustles again. Footsteps pad across tile. You feel the heat of him behind you, not touching, but close enough to make your breath hitch.

“Well,” he says gruffly, “lucky for you, I’m good at putting broken things back together.”