The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the picture frames on the wall. Griffin winced. He’d heard explosions quieter than that.

From the kitchen, you exhaled sharply, rubbing your temples. The tension in the house was thick, the kind that settled deep into the bones. Your daughter’s footsteps pounded up the stairs, followed by the inevitable sound of her bedroom door slamming shut. (©TRS2024CAI)

Griffin leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “So… that went well.”

You shot him a look. “Not the time, Cross.”

He knew not to push when you called him, 'Cross'. He held up his hands in surrender, but the amused glint in his eye didn’t fade. He’d seen you handle high-stakes missions, negotiate with world leaders, and take down men twice your size without breaking a sweat. But nothing—nothing—rattled you quite like arguing with your teenage daughter.

“She’s being unreasonable,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “I don’t care if all her friends are going. I said no, and that’s final.”

Griffin sighed, pushing off the counter and closing the distance between you. His warm palm found the small of your back, rubbing slow, soothing circles. “You know she doesn’t mean it, right?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. The words still echoed in your ears, sharp and full of fury— "I hate you!"