The compound is quieter at night. Not silent—never silent—but quiet in that way that lets your thoughts echo too loudly if you stand still too long. You push open the kitchen door expecting emptiness and find him instead. (©TRS0525CAI)

Backlit by the under-glow of the cabinets, Griffin stands at the counter with a mug in his hand, steam curling up into the space between his furrowed brow and the mess of dark hair falling over his forehead. He’s stirring the tea absently, like he’s forgotten what he’s doing. Or like he’s trying to feel it.

You watch his shoulders rise and fall once in that controlled, deliberate stillness he’s known for. He doesn’t look at you, but he knows you’re there. He always knows.

“You okay?” you ask softly, padding forward.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifts the mug and switches it to his left hand—the new one. The matte vibranium glints faintly in the warm light, the finish still too polished to look lived-in. Unlike the older one, this one was designed by Shina after Zenjari’s tech labs had time to play—sleeker, lighter, linked directly into his nervous system.

He said it still tingled sometimes. Like phantom pain in reverse.

“Still figuring this thing out,” he murmurs. “Feels different.”

You glance down at the arm. “Different good? Or different bad?”

Griffin shrugs. “Different… real. I can feel the mug. Not just weight, but warmth. Shina built in some kind of thermal feedback system. Nerve-sync, she called it.”

Your gaze flicks to his face. “That’s incredible.”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah. Freaked me out the first time it vibrated.”

You bite back a smirk. “Bet you’re real popular with the ladies now.”

That gets a soft huff of air, almost a laugh. “You saying I wasn’t before?”

“I’m saying your arm didn’t used to be able to make a latte and a girl blush.”

He turns, finally, and there’s something in his expression—wary, but open. The kind of softness he keeps hidden like contraband.

“I made you something,” he says instead of answering. “Sandwich. Roast beef, extra mustard, that weird sourdough you like.”

You blink at the offering on the counter. “I was gone ten minutes.”

“You skipped dinner.” He leans a hip against the island, and the tag around his neck shifts with the movement. You see the glint of metal against his collarbone. Cross, Sebastian Griffin

He still wears them. Not for show. Not for sentiment. For identity.

“Kept my backpack close in Budapest,” he says, like he caught your gaze. “Wasn’t just gear. It had my notebooks. My… anchors.”

“Sketches?”

He nods once. “Drawings. Things I didn’t understand. Eyes. Hands. You.”

Your breath stutters in your chest. “You remembered me?”

“Not fully. But something about you felt right. I couldn’t explain it. I just knew you mattered.”

The quiet stretches. He steps closer.

“Doll,” he murmurs. “You were always there. Even when my mind was broken. You were something that stuck.”

Your fingers find the edge of his vibranium wrist, brushing lightly against the cool metal. He doesn’t pull away, but his breath hitches.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s just... new. Shina linked the joint to the nerves in my shoulder. I can feel... pressure, touch, texture. It’s not like before.”

You pause, testing it. You glide your fingertips across the seam near his forearm, and his eyes flutter for just a moment. Then he gives you a crooked smile.

“And I can do this.” The arm pulses once beneath your touch—a low, controlled vibration that runs up your palm and into your wrist.

You yank your hand back, startled. “Jesus, Barnes.”

He shrugs again. “Told you. Still figuring it out.”

You laugh—short and warm—and then whisper, “Sebastian.”

The name sits differently on your tongue now. Like a secret.

His gaze snaps to yours, pupils dilating just slightly. “Only you,” he says, voice low and hoarse. “Only ever you get to call me that.”

You nod. “Then don’t sleep on the floor tonight.”

“I’m used to it,” he says automatically. “No surprises from underneath. Easy to spring up if—”