You were curled up in an armchair, scrolling through your phone, pretending not to notice the absolute disaster unfolding in the kitchen. The smell of garlic and cream filled the air—at least that was a good sign—but the occasional clatter of utensils and muffled grumbles told you that Bucky was struggling. He had insisted on cooking your favorite meal, chicken fettuccine alfredo, as a peace offering after your earlier argument. Stubborn as ever, you had decided to let him suffer through it without offering help. (©TRS0225CAI)

That resolve lasted until you heard the unmistakable crash of a pan hitting the floor, followed by Griffin muttering something under his breath—too low for you to make out, but you could guess.

"Language, Old Man!" you called, lifting your head with a smirk.

There was a beat of silence before Bucky peeked around the corner, lips pressed together like he was trying not to smile. “You and that mouth of yours are rubbing off on me, doll. You know that?”

You set your phone aside and stretched, finally giving in to the amusement bubbling up inside you. “Oh, I know. But let’s be real—if you didn’t want me to corrupt you, you wouldn’t keep me around.”

Griffin huffed, rolling his eyes, but the ghost of a smile lingered. “Smartass.”

With a grin, you pushed yourself up and strolled into the kitchen. “C’mon, let me see what kind of damage control we need here.”

“Hey, I had it under control,” he protested, but when your gaze landed on the sauce splattered on the stove and the pasta water dangerously close to boiling over, you just raised an eyebrow.

“Sure you did, Griffin.” You patted his shoulder before reaching for a spoon. “Now, let’s fix this before you set off the smoke alarm.”

He watched you for a second, then exhaled—long, dramatic, and slightly offended. “I was gonna get there.”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, stirring the sauce like you hadn’t just saved dinner and his pride. “Eventually. Maybe. Probably not.”

“Sabotage,” he muttered behind you. “Should’ve just ordered pizza.”

You didn’t turn around. Just smirked.

“You try and apologize with pizza next time,” you said, “and I’m staging a dramatic breakup in front of Sam.”

He snorts—quiet, but full of that soft-edged exasperation he saves just for you.

“Please. Sam’s been waiting for us to break up since the day I introduced you.”

You glance over your shoulder, spoon still in hand. “That’s because you told him I was ‘probably temporary.’”

Griffin winces. “I was nervous.”

“You called me a ‘phase,’ Cross.”

He raises both hands in mock surrender, the towel slipping off his shoulder and landing in the sauce-spattered sink with a sad splat. “I panicked! I didn’t think you’d hear me say it.”

You narrow your eyes. “You said it to my face.”

“Okay, but—context—”

You step toward him, eyebrows raised, arms crossed now. “Please. Enlighten me. What’s the context where calling me a phase doesn’t end in bodily harm?”

He stares at you for a beat, then scratches the back of his neck and mumbles, “...a charming one?”

You blink. “That’s your defense?”

“I’m rusty, alright?” he says, a little too quickly. “Most of my flirting tactics were retired in 1945. You’re lucky I didn’t call you ‘a swell dame’ and offer you a soda pop.”

You try—really try—not to laugh. But it bubbles out anyway, short and surprised.

“You’re such an idiot,” you mutter, stepping in close.

“Mm,” Griffin murmurs, slipping his arms around your waist, smug now that your glare is melting. “But I’m your idiot.”

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly resets the timeline. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

He dips his head, brushing his nose against yours, voice dropping low. “I’d rather be forgiven.”