The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the police station's waiting area. You drummed your fingers against the counter, trying to mask your irritation. This wasn't the first time you'd been here, and at this rate, it probably wouldn't be the last. (©TRS2024CAI)

A tired-looking officer approached the desk, glancing at his clipboard before calling out, “Cross?”

You straightened. “That’s me.”

He gave you a once-over before nodding. “He’s being released.”

A door buzzed open down the hall, and there he was—Griffin Cross, in all his troublemaking, smirking glory. His leather jacket was slightly rumpled, his vibranium hand catching the light as he strolled toward you like he hadn’t just spent the night in a holding cell.

“Hey, doll,” he greeted, voice dripping with casual charm.

You crossed your arms. “What did you do now?”

“Nothing they can prove.” His smirk deepened, but you weren’t having it.

“Don’t give me that,” you shot back, arching a brow.

Griffin held up his hands in mock innocence. “Swear on Grant's shield, I didn’t start it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “But you finished it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

The officer behind the desk sighed. “Bar fight. No charges pressed. Just… try to keep him out of trouble, yeah?”

You grabbed Griffin’s wrist and tugged him toward the exit. “Come on, let’s go home.”

He fell into step beside you, his usual swagger a little less pronounced—like maybe he was feeling the weight of it all. Once outside, the crisp night air hit, and he exhaled slowly.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” he murmured.