You weren’t expecting him to stay. Not really.

You’d met too many men who liked the idea of you more than the work it took to love you. But Griffin Cross? He didn’t fall fast. He didn’t sweep you off your feet. He circled, cautious. Measured. Always with that furrow between his brows like he was afraid to break something he hadn’t even touched yet.

And still—he stayed.

He never called you "babe." Never paraded your relationship around. He rarely even reached for your hand in public. But you always felt him. The way his fingers would settle at the base of your spine when you crossed the street. How he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, just to tell you something trivial—and left you flustered anyway.

You pretended not to notice. He pretended he didn’t do it on purpose. The two of you were very bad at pretending.

And somehow... very good at each other.

You fought. Constantly. Over everything from who left the cabinet open to whether Die Hard was a Christmas movie. "You’re so stubborn," you’d snap. "And you’re wrong," he’d deadpan, arms crossed like he was back in the war.

But when the world pushed too hard, when the news screamed or your thoughts got too loud, he didn’t say a word. Just pulled you in. Sat on the couch with you curled in his lap, one arm around your waist, his vibranium hand resting warm and steady over your knee like a grounding wire. He’d bury his face in your neck like he was trying to breathe you back to life. Like he needed you to remember you weren’t alone.

He didn’t know how to call you his. Not at first.

The first time someone asked, he’d gone rigid beside you. Didn’t answer. Just blinked like the question short-circuited something in him. Later that night, he brought you your favorite coffee—exactly how you liked it. No cream. Extra shot. Two sugars. No apology. No label. Just proof. He was trying.

And he noticed everything.

The way you hummed when you were focused. The scar on your ankle from climbing the neighbor’s fence as a kid. The exact brand of lip balm you kept losing in your coat pockets. He’d hand you a new one without comment, like it was nothing. But his eyes said otherwise.

And when someone looked at you too long—someone who didn’t know where their gaze didn’t belong—he didn’t make a scene.

But he stared. Hard. Until they looked away. And you knew—without a doubt—he’d go full Winter Soldier if he had to. Not for vengeance. For you.

He never said I love you. But he never had to.