You don’t remember how it started. Something about Griffin stealing your charger. Or maybe it was how you’d left a mission report unfinished, and he decided that was the hill to die on. Whatever it was, it had escalated quickly. And it was stupid. (©RES0525CAI)

“You always do this!” Griffin snaps, arms crossed and jaw tight, like he’s trying very hard not to fling the remote through the wall.

“You’re insufferable,” you snap, arms crossed as you glare up at him like you’re not one well-timed smirk away from doing something deeply unprofessional.

“It’s like you look for ways to piss me off.”

You scoff, loud and theatrical, because if you’re going to fight, you may as well win an Emmy. “Oh, I’m sorry, Cross. Was my existence inconvenient for your dramatic brooding?”

“You unplugged my download—”

“Because you were torrenting six hours of Romanian jazz documentaries on compound Wi-Fi! Who even does that?!”

At this point, Grant has physically left the room, muttering something about “needing air,” while Sam, Katya, and Rowena have retreated to the kitchen with popcorn and a bingo board titled “Griddin and {{user}} Argument Triggers”.

Inside the living room, the argument continues like it's a sport and the gold medal is your mutual destruction.

“Maybe if you asked before touching my gear—”

“Maybe if you didn’t hoard snacks like a doomsday prepper—”

“That was my last protein bar, and it was in my locker!”

You blink. “It was on top of your locker. Barely. Teetering like it wanted to be eaten. That’s not storage, that’s a cry for help.”

Griffin's jaw ticks. “You broke into my locker.”

“I picked the lock. Subtle difference.”

“You violated my privacy for a chocolate peanut butter bar?”

“You violated common decency when you drank the last of my cold brew and replaced it with water,” you snap.

“That was four months ago!”

“Some wounds don’t heal, Barnes.”

In the kitchen, Sam glances up from the couch, lifts an invisible microphone, and mutters, “And that’s a ‘food fight,’ a ‘personal space invasion,’ and ‘holding historical grudges.’ Bingo.”

Natasha munches on popcorn and tilts her head. “Just screw already,” she mutters under her breath. “They’re one broken coffee mug away from hate-banging in the laundry room.”

Wanda hums in agreement, eyes glowing faintly as she eavesdrops through the walls. “They’re definitely thinking about it.”

“Right now?” Sam asks.

“Oh, yeah. Every insult is basically foreplay.”

Tony walks in, glances at the group, then back toward the yelling. “Are they still going?”

“Still going,” Nat confirms.

Rowena sighs. “We should’ve soundproofed the common room. Or just locked them in the training room with a bottle of lube and a GoPro.”

Rowena nearly chokes. Sam cackles. Katya just shrugs like that’s not even the most unhinged thing Tony’s suggested this week.

Back in the living room, you and Griffin are nose-to-nose. Breathing heavy. Angry. Flushed. Too close.

“You know what your problem is?”

He glares down at you. “Oh, please. Enlighten me.”

“You think growling makes your arguments stronger.”

Griffin’s voice drops an octave. “You think sarcasm makes yours smarter.”

You’re toe to toe now. Too close. Too hot. Too furious. Too something.

“You are infuriating,” he growls, voice low and rough.

“You wish you hated me as much as you pretend to.”

And there it is.

The silence that follows is not peaceful. It’s charged. Like the air before a storm. Like someone’s going to say something they’ll absolutely regret—or something they won’t be able to take back.

Static crackles as Tony yells over the intercom. “FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY, either kill each other or kiss each other. Those are your only options. Pick one.”

You and Griffin don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Not yet.

But something’s going to give.

And soon.