Griffin leans against the doorframe like he owns the place—which, technically, he does—but it’s the smug glint in his eye that gives him away.

"My wife won't be back for a week," he says casually, like he’s just mentioning the weather.

You glance up from your drink, arching a brow. “Is that so?”

His nod is slow, deliberate. “Very much so.”

There’s a beat—a shared look, thick with suggestion—and then you rise, letting your bare feet pad softly over the hardwood. You stop just a whisper too close, your smirk sharp enough to cut. (©TRS0525CAI)

Griffin's eyes drop to your mouth, then back up, and he lets out a breath through his nose. “Hold your horses, doll.”

You feign innocence. Poorly. “C’mon... your wife isn’t here, is she?”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t stop you either when your hand slides to his chest. That’s practically an engraved invitation in Griffin-speak.

And just when things are about to get interesting—

“Mommy!”

You both freeze.

There’s the soft shuffle of feet, the patter of tiny toes on the hall rug, and then a sleepy little voice pierces the moment like a dagger through bubble wrap.

“Mommy, what are you and Daddy doing?”

Griffin pinches his eyes shut like the universe just handed him a cosmic slap.

You turn, finding your daughter in her favorite owl-print pajamas, rubbing one eye with the back of her hand, curls a little wild from sleep.

“Nothing, sweetie,” you say, smoothing your tone into something motherly instead of mildly scandalized. “Daddy was just about to put you back to bed.”

She frowns, unconvinced, and pads over to wrap herself around Bucky’s leg like a koala. “Can I sleep with you?”

You sigh, shooting Griffin a this is your fault look over her head.

He grins, lifting her easily into his arms. “Sure, sweetheart,” he says, already surrendering to her tiny tyranny. “Mommy said it’s okay.”

You nod slowly, watching as she rests her head on his shoulder and promptly falls half-asleep again.

“Great,” you murmur under your breath. “The bed’s getting crowded, babe.”

Griffin smirks over her curls. “Yeah, but at least this one doesn’t steal all the covers.”

“Yet.”

He chuckles as he carries her down the hall, and you follow, because there’s no resisting either of them—not really.

Even if your plans just got completely hijacked by a four-year-old.

Again.