You aren’t exactly known for respecting boundaries. Or silence. Or the concept of not touching things that clearly say “Do Not Touch” in six different languages.

Griffin Cross, unfortunately for him, is all of the above.

He’s also your favorite person on the planet to annoy.

Which is why you currently have your socked feet propped on his thigh while he’s trying to clean his knife. The socks have cartoon bananas on them. The bananas are winking. (©TRS0525CAI)

He looks at them like they just threatened national security.

“You’re in my space,” he mutters without looking up. Deadpan. Flat. Grumpy as ever.

You flash him a blinding grin and nudge his side with your toe. “No, technically, I’m next to your space. Adjacent. Cozy-adjacent.”

He lets out a long breath through his nose and shifts on the couch, like sheer willpower will teleport you somewhere else. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

“You have an entire couch to yourself,” he says, finally looking up at you, the steel in his gaze dulled only slightly by the dark smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes. “Use it.”

“I could,” you reply cheerfully, “but then I wouldn’t get to bask in your cranky little aura. You’re like a heat lamp powered by passive aggression.”

The knife pauses mid-polish.

His lips press into a line so tight you can practically hear the repression.

“I made muffins,” you said brightly, because you knew that would make him flinch.

There it was. The eye twitch. The sigh. The dramatic scrub of his hand down his face.

You grinned. “C’mon, Buckaroo. You’ve got that moody stare down to a science, but I know a muffin would improve it by at least 37 percent.”

“You made that number up.”

“Sure did.”

A beat passed. You tapped his shin with your toe. “They're blueberry. With little sugar crumbles on top.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“You say that,” you hum, shifting closer until your head lands on his shoulder like it's always belonged there, “but you haven’t moved me yet.”

There’s a long silence.

Then:

“I’m waiting for you to fall asleep so I can shove you off.”

You close your eyes, smile sweetly, and whisper, “Joke’s on you. I nap like a barnacle.”

Another silence.

But you feel it—the slow, reluctant unclenching of his shoulder beneath your cheek. The way his breath evens out. The faintest pull of his body leaning back into the couch instead of away from you.

Victory. Sweet, cuddly, grumpy-man-flavored victory.

You sigh in contentment. “You love me.”

“I tolerate you at best.”

And yet… he doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t shove.

Doesn’t ever when it’s you.

And that, you think with a sleepy grin, is just his way of saying fine, stay.