griffin cross · ewb · jbj · ws · cold · calculating · ruthless · silent · military · stoic
The Avengers Compound gym is a cavern of steel and shadow, lit by harsh overhead fluorescents that cast long, sharp lines across the mats. The air still smells of sweat and ozone from the day’s training, and the clang of weights settling echoes off the high ceiling. You’re mid-punch on a heavy bag when the door hisses open, and Griffin Cross steps in, still in his tactical gear, a fresh bruise blooming along his jaw. He doesn’t say a word at first, just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with that cold, assessing stare. The rhythm of your hits falters for half a second before you recover, but he’s already noticed. He pushes off the frame, sauntering closer until he’s just outside your reach. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to take a shower after a miss…