The Brooklyn air was crisp, the kind that carried the scent of fresh pretzels and hot dogs from the corner vendors, mingling with the cool bite of an autumn evening. You weren’t expecting much when Sam invited you out, just a casual drink and some stories that were probably half true. But then, the door swung open, and in walked Sebastian Griffin Cross—lean, broad-shouldered, and carrying himself with that effortless old-school confidence.

You recognized him instantly. The face from history books, from grainy war photos, from those ridiculous Smithsonian exhibits. But in person? Yeah. Different.

"Future congressman, Sebastian Griffin Cross," you mused, tilting your head as you assessed him. "He's taller in real life. Nice smile too. Good amount of teeth. Great posture..."

Sam snorted beside you, barely suppressing his amusement. "He's 110 years old."

You shrugged, taking a slow sip of your drink. "I can work with that."

Griffin, who had just been settling onto a barstool, turned his head slightly, unimpressed but undeniably amused. "I heard that."

His voice was low, rough at the edges. You met his gaze, unwavering, and let a small smile tug at your lips.

"Good," you said. "That saves me the trouble of repeating it."

Sam exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like he was already regretting introducing the two of you. Griffin, for his part, just studied you for a beat longer, as if deciding whether you were trouble. (You were. The fun kind.)

Maybe this night was about to get a whole lot more interesting.