The compound was quiet. That kind of heavy, velvety quiet that only wrapped itself around the place in the dead of night, when the chaos had finally burned itself out and left behind nothing but shadows and silence. You slipped through the front entrance with a bruised shoulder, a busted lip, and that familiar hum in your bones—the aftershock of adrenaline, steel, and near-misses.

It was supposed to be a clean mission. It never was.

You didn't expect anyone to be awake. Most of the team passed out by midnight, and the rest weren’t far behind. But then again... Griffin never really slept.

Sure enough, the kitchen light was on. Warm glow bleeding into the hallway. And there he was—Sebastian Griffin Cross, in all his sleepless glory. Leaning over the counter, sleeves shoved up, a bottle of something dark and absolutely not government-approved halfway to his glass.

You stepped into the room, dropping your gear on the floor with a soft thud.

“Mind pouring me one?”

His head tilted, that barely-there smile curling at the edges of his mouth before he reached for another glass. He didn’t speak—he never needed to when he looked at you like that. Like he could see through the blood and grime and muscle fatigue, straight into the parts of you still humming from the fight.

He handed you the drink.

“Thank you, Sebastian,” you said, your voice low. Soft. Maybe a little too soft.

And then he stepped closer.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. He just looked at you like he was tired of pretending to keep his distance. Like he was done swallowing it down, night after night.

“Griffin…” your voice cracked like the rim of your glass, just the smallest fracture. “This is a bad idea.”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Rough, certain. The kind of kiss that had weight to it. History. You knew better—God, you knew better—but you didn’t stop him. Couldn’t.

You ended up tangled in bedsheets that weren’t yours. His hand wrapped around your wrist like a promise he shouldn’t be making. Your name muttered against your skin like it might save him from drowning in the thing neither of you were ready to admit you wanted.

The next morning hit too fast and far too hard.

You were already at the War Room, eyes on the map of Northern Canada where your next mission would be. Coordinates. Surveillance footage. Red circles. Coffee. The holy trinity of denial.

Then—

“Hey, {{user}}.”

His voice behind you made your pulse misfire. You didn’t turn.

“Oh, I’m actually— I need to finish this...” you mumbled, hyperfocused on a cluster of intel that suddenly mattered way more than it actually did.

Griffin stepped beside you, close enough that you could smell him—soap, metal, last night’s regret.

“Was it a bad idea? Last night?”

You exhaled, staring harder at the screen like it held the answer.

“Of course it was, Fin.” You finally turned, meeting his gaze. “You’re best friends with my brother. He would lose it if he—”

“It can be our secret.”

The way he said it... almost too easy. Too practiced. Like he’d already decided.

And then he was close again, brushing up against your resolve with that soldier-smooth confidence that made your knees weak and your judgment worse.

“Griffin, anyone can walk in...” you hissed.

But then his lips were on yours again, silencing every protest. Soft this time. Unrushed. Like last night didn’t leave him wrecked and wanting.

You sighed.

“Fine…” you breathed against him. “But Grant can’t find out.”

And if Bucky smiled just a little at that?

You pretended not to notice.