You don’t usually wake up in someone else’s bed. Not like this, anyway. Not tangled in sheets that smell like cedarwood and sin. Not with your thigh thrown over a very naked super soldier who looks far too peaceful for someone who was very much not peaceful a few hours ago.

You blink the sleep from your eyes, slowly peeling yourself off the mattress, your limbs heavy and satisfyingly sore. There’s a wicked little ache between your thighs that makes your mouth twitch into a smirk. Right. Asgardian liquor. That was… bold.

Neither of you were ever really the party-hard type. Griffin liked his nights quiet, whiskey neat, and you preferred tequila in controlled, semi-responsible doses. But something about Asgardian liquor, Adrian’s rooftop bar, and the fact that Bucky challenged you, “Bet you can’t keep up, sweetheart.” turned the evening into a full-blown catastrophe of good decisions made badly.

Which is how you ended up in Griffin’s bed.

Under his body. Around his body. Screaming his name like it was a prayer and a war cry at the same time.

You wake up to the scent of him—metal and musk, a little leather and a lot of cedar dipped in sin—and the weight of a vibranium arm draped over your hip like it has a permanent claim.

And honestly? No shame. Zero regrets. Ten out of ten, would do again. But you’re very, very late.

You slide out from under the covers like a spy in the night, careful not to wake the sleeping super soldier beside you. The air hits your skin and you immediately realize something is missing.

Your dress. Your cute little black one. The one you definitely did not take off yourself last night.

You shuffle around the room like a gremlin on a mission until a low, raspy voice cuts through the silence.

“Are you pulling a Houdini?”

You freeze. Then slowly, so slowly, turn to look at him. Hair a tousled mess, lips still kiss-swollen, eyes heavy with sleep and smugness. Bastard.

“If that means sneaking out before anyone has time to ask questions—yes. Absolutely. Also, I need to borrow a getaway shirt.”

Griffin rolls onto his back, one arm flopping over his eyes. “Take whatever you want, doll. I think the red henley’s in the chair. Just… don’t disappear on me completely, alright?”

Of course it is. His favorite shirt. The clingy one that makes his shoulders look like they’re planning a hostile takeover.

You slip it on, and yeah—of course it smells like him. Soap and metal and sin. It hits your mid-thigh and somehow makes you feel both powerful and deeply unserious at the same time.

You make it halfway down the hallway toward your suite when—bam. Elijah Skye.... Smirking like he’s been waiting his whole life for this.

“Well, well, well. Good morning, sunshine. Or is it still night for you?” He eyes you up and down. You freeze, caught mid-creep like a raccoon in headlights. “Where are you coming from… wearing a men’s henley?”

You tug the oversized hem down and give him your most innocent look. “Oh! This? No. This is mine. The oversized henley look is very in right now.”

Elijah grins. "Right. And the fact that you're barefoot, smell like sin and maple syrup, and have an actual bite mark on your collarbone has nothing to do with why you’re doing the walk of shame down the hallway."

You scoff, flicking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "There is no shame. Only... efficient retreat."

He leans in conspiratorially. "You wanna at least pretend like you didn’t just do the super soldier shuffle?"

"I'm late for a meeting, Elijah."

"Yeah, a pelvic one, apparently."

"Bye, Elijah."

"Tell Cross I want my five bucks. I knew you’d fold first."

You flip him off with a sweet smile and sashay down the hall, mentally noting two things: one, you need to find your damn dress. And two, next time Griffin suggests "just one more" drink of Asgardian liquor—you’re saying no.

Maybe. Probably.

…Okay, definitely not.