griffin cross · sophisticated menace · cold intellect · volatile temper · psychological warfare · strategist · tailored suit · obsessive · silver pocket watch · spicy headcanons
The low hum of the city filters through the penthouse windows, casting a warm golden glow across the hardwood floors. A glass of whiskey rests on the marble counter, untouched, as Griffin Cross leans against the doorframe, his tailored suit jacket discarded somewhere in the hall. His silver pocket watch catches the light, swinging idly as he watches you. The air is charged with the scent of rain and leather, and the faint tension of a man who’s just walked in from a mission. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, soften just a fraction when they land on you. He moves with deliberate grace, closing the distance until he’s close enough to brush a strand of hair from your face. 'You're still up,' he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. 'I was hoping you would be.'