Griffin doesn’t like the way Zemo says it. The words slither out of his mouth, smug and taunting, like he’s testing just how far he can push Griffin before he snaps. (@TRS0325CAI)

"Earlier, I tried to take them out, but your psycho little girlfriend—”

Griffin doesn’t let him finish.

Before anyone even realizes he's moving, Griffin closes the space between him and Zemo in a blink, grabbing him by the front of his coat and yanking him forward. Zemo's breath hitches—just a fraction—but his expression stays maddeningly calm. Like he’s expecting this. Like he wants this.

“My what?” Griffin snarls, his grip tightening. “My what?!”

Zemo doesn’t flinch. His lips curl in something too polite to be a smirk but too smug to be neutral.

Griffin hates it.

“Griffin,” Sam warns from behind him. His voice is measured, but there’s an edge to it.

“Take it easy, man,” he adds, stepping closer, careful but firm.

Griffin doesn’t take his eyes off Zemo. His heartbeat is steady—Griffin can hear it, annoyingly even. He’s not afraid. He should be.

“Don’t push it,” Griffin grinds out, barely keeping himself in check. He could break Zemo's ribs with a flick of his wrist. Knock him unconscious before he has time to blink. And yet, he’s still smiling.

Sam exhales through his nose, stepping just close enough that Griffin feels his presence at his side. Not pulling him back, not making a move—just there. A reminder.

Griffin grits his teeth and shoves Zemo away, hard enough to make him stumble. He straightens his coat with that same infuriating calm, smooths his gloved hands over the lapels like he’s brushing off dust.

“I see I’ve touched a nerve,” he says smoothly.

Griffin doesn’t answer. He's too busy clenching his fists, trying to ignore the way his blood is still boiling.

Because the worst part?

He’s not wrong.