phi

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The venue is more crowded than you expected, or perhaps you and your date have arrived a tad later than is appropriate. Either way, it feels as though the entire London entertainment industry is in one room, given the stifling heat and the overpowering scent of designer cologne. 

“You okay?” your date asks, their hand resting comfortably on your waist. Their accent isn’t novel to you and yet the way the words sit in their particular cadence sends a shiver down your spine. 

You smile, slightly touched by their concern. “I’m fine, love. Just a bit warm.” 

“Yeah, it’s way too hot,” they agree, “probably because you’re here.” 

You giggle at the flirtation, but a spike of irritation hits. If your date had been someone else, he might have offered to get you a drink or better yet, walked you out to the balcony for some air. You reel in your thoughts, determined not to make comparisons between your current partner and someone from your past. 

“I’m going to get a drink,” you say, though you notice that your date’s attention has already drifted. They nod, their gaze fixed on a group of important-looking executives in the far corner of the room. You don’t bother asking if they want a drink of their own. 

You maneuver your way through the crowd, making a beeline for the bar. You’re all but invisible among the London elite, save for one set of eyes that have been watching you since you first walked into the room. 

Sharky has since tuned out his friends’ chatter, his attention now focused on the way you’re drifting through the crowds. He hasn’t seen you since the day your relationship ended last year. You’d done an excellent job of avoiding him and his connections, despite the fact that London networks usually overlapped. 

However, this gala was too big to miss; in fact, deep down, he’d been counting on you being one of the attendees. What he wasn’t expecting to see was you on someone else’s arm, someone who happened to be a bigger name than all four of his friends combined.  

It rubs him the wrong way, seeing as the two of you ended because you disliked the spotlight and the price of fame. And yet, he’s distracted from his irritation because you are as stunning as he remembers. 

Taking in the way your hair is styled, the way your skin glows in what little light is dancing around the room, and how your body is accentuated in the elegant outfit you’ve chosen for the evening, Sharky can’t help but be at a loss for words. He watches you order a glass of something colourful and sparkling, your slim hand wrapping delicately around the bottom, and all coherent thoughts cease. 

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” he says abruptly, cutting Niko off mid-sentence. 

“You’re not allowed to drink, man,” Aj cuts in, a jester as always. 

“You know what I mean.” Sharky waves away his friends’ jokes and dives into the crowd, making a beeline for you. 

This cocktail is exactly what I needed, you muse as you take your first sips. It’s sweet, the way you usually like your drinks, with enough of a kick to remind you not to have too many. You take another sip, savouring the aroma of alcohol mixed with juice when another, more familiar scent finds its way to your nose. 

Cool and fresh, but heavy and enticing. Only one person wears cologne this distinct, but you make the connection too late. 

“Fancy seeing you here.” Sharky’s voice is an invasion, a battering ram threatening to break down the door to memories you’ve kept locked away for months. 

“Sharmarke,” you acknowledge, your tone neutral. 

“Oh, that’s a bit cold, innit?” he says, leaning against the counter next to you. 

“Something has to be cool enough to fight off the heat in here.” You sip, then take a breath, readying yourself to see Sharky for the first time in months. You shouldn’t have bothered; you’ll always be unprepared for the sight in front of you. 

Sharky is dressed impeccably in an all-black tuxedo. It complements the black durag he always wears and pairs well with the silver necklaces adorning his neck. Your eyes flick to the bracelets around his wrists, the rings on his fingers. 

What jawn put him on those? you think, and you’re shocked at your own bitterness. 

“You’re pretty cool,” he says smoothly, the ghost of a smile dancing across his lips. 

You have to lift your glass to your lips to stifle your chuckle at yet another one of his ridiculous puns. Unlike earlier when your date made a smooth comment, no irritation rises. Instead, warmth rushes through your chest. 

“That was terrible,” you reply when you’re no longer at risk of giggling at his charm. 

“You enjoyed it though,” Sharky teases. “I’m surprised to see you here, you know. You’ve been pretty good at avoiding every big London social, not to mention us.” 

  Us? You look beyond Sharky, to the side of the venue that he came from. You clock his friends easily: Niko’s towering frame, Aj’s blond locks, Kenny’s glasses glinting in the lamplight, and Chunkz’s token belly laugh carries over the crowd. 

“Should’ve known all of you would be here,” you mutter, then louder you say, “I only came because I was invited.” 

“By your date?”  

You’re surprised by Sharky’s straightforwardness, but you don’t show it. Instead, you take another sip of your drink and look at him over the rim of your glass. 

“You’ve been watching me, huh?” you say, mirroring his mischievous tone from earlier. 

“You’re pretty hard to miss in a crowd,” he counters, still playful. 

“I was under the impression that I’m easy to miss,” you say, “considering you and your friends always seem to be looking for me at those…‘big London socials,’ as you say.” 

Sharky laughs. “One-nil.”

The corners of your lips turn up at his surrender. “Why are you actually here, Sharky? If you wanted to, you could’ve avoided me the whole night. It wouldn’t be that hard in this crowd.” 

“You’re the only one doing the avoiding,” Sharky says, his tone not as light as it was. He raises a hand, flagging down the bartender. “I came for a drink and you just happened to be here.” 

“Right,” you say, unconvinced. You down the rest of your glass, just as the bartender brings Sharky a glass of water. 

“And another one of those for the lady,” Sharky says, gesturing to your empty glass. “On me.” 

“You can’t buy me a drink, Sharks.” 

“Why not?” 

You look over at him and you can feel the lightheartedness of the last few minutes slowly vanishing. You may already be one drink in but you’ve never felt more sober. 

“Because I’m here with someone else,” you remind him, but you turn to the bartender anyway. “Make the next drink virgin please.”  

“I know you’re with someone else,” Sharky insists. He takes a long drink from his glass. “I literally saw you guys walk in—there’s no need to rub it in.” 

“That’s not what I’m doing.” 

“Then what are you doing?” Sharky asks. The mischief has left his voice, something melancholic replacing it. “What are you doing with—”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to ask that,” you say, shaking your head.  “We’re not really friends.”

“And I’m not the reason for that, am I?” Sharky retorts, then downs the rest of his water. He pushes the empty glass away, just as the bartender comes back with your drink. 

Sharky slides the mocktail over to you. In that moment when he’s turned towards you and in the light, you catch a glimpse of the hurt on his face. 

“I know that,” you admit, your voice gentle, “but you still have no right to comment on who I choose to spend my time with.”

“I do if it goes against the very reason you broke up with me,” Sharky says. This time, you hear the hurt in his voice. “What happened to wanting to stay out of the spotlight?”

“Maybe I changed my mind,” you say with a shrug. You can hear how nonchalant you sound and you hate it. Sharky deserves better than your indifference. 

It has to be this way, you remind yourself. You’re both better off. 

It’s the same excuse you gave yourself when you walked away from him so many months ago. You can’t handle the spotlight, but given Sharky’s chosen career, he rightly belongs in it. The two things can’t co-exist. You just accepted it before he did. 

“And you couldn’t change your mind when you were with me?” Sharky asks. He doesn’t even bother to hide his sadness. It wraps around his words and hangs in the air between you two. 

“No, I couldn’t—is that what you want to hear?” you snap. 

Sharky takes a step away from you, as if the words have physically hit him. You regret them immediately. 

“Don’t do this here, Sharks,” you say. Your chest feels constricted; whether it’s from the sudden weight of you slowly realizing all that you lost or the oppressive warmth of the room, you don’t know. You can’t be bothered to figure it out. “I don’t want– I can’t do this here.”

Sharky must see your distress because he squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. Your heart squeezes at the sight of him trying to collect himself for you. 

“I just want to know one thing,” Sharky says. “Just one thing, please.”

You’re about to shake your head, but then he punctuates his plea with your name. Your knees almost buckle at the sound. 

“Are you happy?” 

If your second drink had any alcohol in it, you’re sure you would have burst into tears. Only Sharky would worry about your happiness while you were in the process of re-breaking his heart. 

“I don’t know,” you breathe, struggling for air. “Are you? Is anyone?” 

I would be, with you, is what Sharky thinks immediately. He’s not stupid enough to say it, but he knows it’s written clearly in his eyes, if you know him well enough to read it. 

You can barely look at him though; his heartbroken, yearning gaze is too much. It pushes against the mental dam you’ve created to keep all your memories of him at bay; if you don’t get away right now, everything will come flooding back. And you refuse to say or do anything stupid in front of hundreds of people. 

“You shouldn’t have come and talk to me,” you murmur, grabbing your glass. It’s still full and some of your drink splashes onto the counter. “I’m so sorry– I just– I have to go.”

You turn away quickly, walking into the crowd before he can utter another word. 

Sharky stands frozen, watching you wade through the sea of people. He knows who you’re trying to get to and yet he can’t keep his eyes off you. 

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he watches you walk away from him for a second time. The scent of your perfume lingers in the air and the sweet blend of odours brings on a slew of memories, just as you find your way back into your date’s arms. 

A sudden pressure forms behind Sharky’s eyes and he has to tear his gaze away from you and your new person. No use torturing himself further. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You’d forgotten to bring a jacket—a stupid decision given London’s unpredictable weather and how windy it was when you stepped out of your flat earlier that evening. Aj had warned you it was chilly before he came to pick you up and you should’ve known it was only bound to get colder. 

You shiver as soon as you step out of the restaurant, wrapping your arms around yourself to try and keep the chill at bay. 

“Here.” Aj shrugs off his jacket and lays it on your shoulders. The material is thick, heavy, and warm from his body heat. You suppress a contented sigh, refusing to give your boyfriend the satisfaction of being right. 

“I’m not that cold,” you protest, but you pull his jacket tight around you anyway. It smells like him of course, and you inhale, the urge to get drunk on his cologne too overwhelming to resist. 

“Not that cold, yeah?” Aj counters, rolling his eyes. “Your teeth are chattering so loud it’s making my ears hurt.” 

“Oh shut up,” you say, giving him a playful shove. 

Aj feigns being thrown a few feet away, tripping over his feet, and falling against the restaurant’s glass doors. Encouraged by your subsequent giggling, he adds on: “Chill, chill I need to be able to drive!” 

“That is literally something you’ve never had to say before, Aje.” 

Aj shakes his head, his blond-tipped curls bouncing. With a laugh, he pulls out his car keys and spins them on his pointer finger. “Crazy, innit? I’m up now.”

You roll your eyes, even as your lips turn up in a smile. “What’re you waiting for? Go get the car then.” 

Aj opens his mouth, ready to spit out another violation, but he must see how tightly you cling to his jacket and your lips quivering in the cold, because he doesn’t bother. Instead, he reaches out and squeezes your hand before disappearing into the car park. 

The absence of his warmth next to you is sudden. You huddle by the entrance of the restaurant, chasing any semblance of heat. The lighting outside is scarce, dimmed to match the ambience of the place; you find yourself hoping Aj hurries up, realizing that you’re all but alone in the dark. 

Just as you’ve convinced yourself there’s a shadow in your peripheral preparing to pounce, Aj pulls up to the curb. The car he drives is sleek, pitch black, and…not his. There are traces of Niko everywhere—the cat plushie hanging on the rearview mirror, the custom decals depicting him and his housemates on the rear window, the NDL emblem on the license plate. 

You walk over to the car door, giggling when you see Aj’s face photoshopped on the pizza sticker in the corner of the passenger window. 

Need to ask Niko to make me one of those, you muse.

“Wait, wait!” Aj calls out through his open window. It’s something you’re slowly getting used to—the idea of him getting out of the driver’s seat. Yet as you watch him step out, hand braced on the door for support, the wind ruffling his hair and tugging at his clothes as he stands up, you wonder if you’ll ever get used to the breathtaking sight at all. 

Aj jogs around the car, stopping by the passenger door and pulling it open for you.

“I’m nothing if not a gentleman,” he says with a grin. What little light the restaurant emits somehow catches the playful glimmer in his eyes and you have to look away from how handsome he looks in the glow. 

“You’re a jokeman is what you are,” you tease, without conviction. The sparkle in his eyes and his adoring smile bring a rush of warmth so strong it combats the frigid evening air. 

“It’s like that, yeah?” Aj counters, mischief in his voice. “Gimme that back then.” 

He leans over, grabbing his jacket from you as soon as you’ve sat down in the passenger seat. He pulls it on as he rounds the car and you’re staring at him again, watching the way the bomber jacket hugs his frame and complements his all-black fit. 

Aj has always been stylish. It’s one of the things that drew you to him before you started dating. These days though, you find yourself more and more unable to look away, the very image of him causing an unnamed feeling to rush through your chest. 

Aj slides into the driver’s seat next to you. He busies himself with pairing his phone to the car and putting your flat’s address into the GPS, seemingly oblivious to your intense staring. The way the corner of his mouth pulls up tells you otherwise; Aj is as aware of you as you are of him, as usual. 

“You gonna keep staring at me or you gonna put your seatbelt on so we can go?” Aj says as he finally looks up to meet your eyes. 

“My bad, I was just trying to figure out how a human being can look so much like a triangle,” you say, but do as he asks. 

“If I wasn’t driving, I swear..,” Aj grumbles as he maneuvers out of the car park.

“You’d what?” you reply, your tone teasing and light. 

It earns you a side-eye and a smirk from the Somali and you have to hold back a giggle at Aj’s feigned annoyance. 

“Might have to shut you up somehow,” he replies, his voice low. 

His tone sends shivers down your spine even as heat shoots through your body. You swallow hard, annoyed but not surprised by the effect Aj has on you. 

“Then it is too bad you’re driving right now,” you say, your voice dipping to match his tone. To distract yourself from the want that curls in your stomach and the warmth in your chest, you lean forward and fiddle with the car’s multimedia screen. 

“You better play something good,” Aj says. His eyes flit from the road to the playlist you’ve pulled up onscreen. “I’m not listening to your shit pop music for another hour.” 

“Eyes on the road, schmuck,” you shoot back. Pop music isn’t the vibe anyway, you decide as you pull up some R&B hits. 

Soon, Usher is crooning through the speakers, urging the DJ to get him and his partner to fall in love again. You bob your head and sway to the music, mouthing the lyrics. From the corner of your eye, you see Aj nodding to the beat despite previously insisting he’s “not into lovesick tunes.” You grin at the thought of him enjoying this as much as you are. 

“You better not be smiling like that because of Usher.” Aj turns his head to look at you, accusation in his eyes. 

You can’t help but laugh at how offended he sounds. With a shake of your head, you say, “You’re supposed to be looking at the road, Aje, not me.” 

“I’ll look at you whenever I want.” 

And there it is again: the pressure on your chest, behind your eyes, the evidence of some powerful emotion threatening to consume you. You swallow down the lump in your throat. 

“Not when you’re supposed to be driving! Honestly, how the hell did you pass your driver’s test?” 

“Because I’m an excellent driver,” Aj counters. “Besides, it’s a red light and you know what that means.” 

 You’ve unbuckled and leaned across the centre console before he finishes his sentence. Aj’s lips meet yours in a gentle kiss, made more intimate by the late hour and punctuated with the soft notes of a new romantic melody. His lips are warm, like the rest of him. You’re fighting (and losing to) the urge to breathe more of him in when the light turns green. 

“Who’s not following road rules now?” Aj nods to your undone seatbelt, then turns his attention back to the road. 

The snarky comeback dies on your lips as your eyes fall on your boyfriend again. 

Aj, next to you, a silhouette outlined in flashes of colour, the city blurring as he speeds up. His blond-tipped curls bouncing, the edge of his jaw tensing as he maneuvers onto the motorway that will take you out of Central London and into the outskirts you both call home. The way his jacket hugs his lean figure, and above that, the glint of his silver chains when the streetlamps hit them just right. 

Your breath catches in your throat as you finally name the feeling that’s been squeezing at your heart for some time. As Aj mumbles along to another R&B hit you love so much, oblivious to the epiphany you’re stumbling through, you allow yourself to think the words. 

I love you. 

Almost as if he knows what’s running through your head, Aj reaches for your hand. He glances over, a risky decision considering you’re travelling almost a hundred kilometres an hour.  

“I know, I know,” Aj jokes. “My singing is elite, innit? It actually shut you up for once.” 

The weight of your realization still hasn’t quite let up and it takes you a moment to process his words. 

“Actually, I’ve been holding my breath because yours is stinking up the car,” you tease, the corner of your mouth turning up in a smirk. I love him. 

“What the fuck?” Aj says in faux disbelief. “I’m literally serenading you and you violate me?” 

“Gotta keep you humble,” you say, but it’s I love you behind the words. 

You’re not quite ready to say it yet, so when Aj pouts at your teasing, all you do is laugh. You squeeze his hand. “I’m kidding, baby. You know I love it.” 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“I thought you were good at ball,” you say, rolling your eyes as Aj misses yet another shot. The countdown by the basketball net flashes, indicating there’s only a minute left of the game. 

“You know I am,” he retorts. “This is just rigged.” 

“You’ve said that about every game here, starboy.” 

The two of you had been at a local carnival for an hour now and Aj had dragged you from ring toss to balloon popping to skee ball like a five-year-old on a sugar rush, eager to win you a prize. After losing nearly every game, he swears up and down that every booth is impossible to win and they ‘all give Kenny vibes.’

You giggle at the thought of his fellow Beta Squad member catching yet another rigging allegation. 

“Whatchu laughing at?” Aj asks as he grabs another ball. “I don’t see you winning me any prizes either.” 

His whiny tone only makes you laugh harder. He’s an actual child, you think as you shake your head.  

Aj shoots you a sidelong glance. As he lines up his next shot, he says, “Maybe you’re not motivating me enough.” 

“Oh, it’s my fault, yeah?” You push him, knocking him off balance. The ball slips from his hand, but Aj is too quick. He catches it before it hits the ground and turns to you, clearly proud of his reflexes.  

“Nice try, schmuck,” Aj says. He grins, the smile you adore you so much lighting up his features. “Aight, if I make this shot, what do I get?” 

“If you think you deserve anything after calling me a schmuck, you’ve lost your whole mind, Aje.” 

“My bad, baby.” He reaches out to you, a hand coming up to rest low on your waist. 

You lean into Aj, savouring his closeness. His aversion to physical affection made moments like this even more special; you were one of the few people he allowed into his personal space and you tended to enjoy the privilege. 

“A kiss,” you whisper. This close to him, you smell his cologne and the scent is so intoxicating you want to chase it into his skin. “If you make the shot, you get a kiss from your lovely girlfriend.” 

Aj looks down at you and smiles. “I’ll take that, I’ll take that.” 

You step back as he prepares to make what’s arguably the most important shot of the day. Aj is fit, athletic in a way that’s surprising to everyone given his height and thin frame. It’s evident in the way he adjusts his stance, lining himself up perfectly in front of the basket. You know nothing about basketball and yet, you can’t help but admire your boyfriend’s form as he lets the ball fly. 

The ball swishes clean through the net. 

“C’mere,” Aj says, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you to him. 

He’s not that much taller than you, but for a moment, the distance between you two is insurmountable. Aj closes the gap, his curls brushing your forehead as his lips meet yours. His lips are soft, warm as always, and gone too soon. Thankfully not for long, as he kisses you again. Harder this time and the pressure makes your mouth fall open beneath his. You share a breath and Aj’s hold on your waist tightens. 

“Relax, Aje,” you manage to sigh, pulling away slightly. “There are kids around.” 

“So? We’re adults, we can do what we want.” 

“You’re not wrong.” This time, it’s you who loops your arms around his neck and pulls him down. You kiss him again, your lips falling open under him, his breath hot against you. The rush of warmth spurs you on and you pull your eager boyfriend flush against you, your chest pressed against his so firmly you can feel his necklaces digging into your skin.

If Aj is surprised by your sudden vigor, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he somehow pulls you even closer. The press of his lower body against yours makes it clear what your kisses are doing to him and it’s that that brings you out of the haze. 

You pull away, drunk from everything Aj. 

“Tease,” the Somali grumbles, but his grip on your waist loosens and the two of you manage to pry yourselves away from each other. 

“You’re famous enough to be recognized and I don’t want us drawing attention,” you reply. The words come out in short bursts and given Aj’s smirk, you’re not the only one that can hear how breathless your brief makeout session has made you. 

“You already have all my attention,” Aj replies. His eyes are trained on yours and in the dark brown of his irises, you can see the honesty and affection written clear as day. 

Your cheeks warm at his sweetness and you can’t stop the corners of your lips from turning up in a small smile. 

“Smooth, innit?” Aj continues, his gaze locked on you as you try to fight back the smile he adores so much. The smile he gave you.

“Yes, of course,” you answer, rolling your eyes. “You know how to speak to gyaldem and all that.”

“Nah, just you.” 

You can’t hold back your grin this time. “Flirt,” you say, and you resist the urge to stick your tongue out at him. “What game do you wanna play next?” 

“You know what, fuck these rigatoni ass games,” Aj says. “You’re already my biggest W anyway. Let’s grab some food instead, yeah? I think I saw a good burger place over there.” 

Aj laces your hands together and as he leads you through the carnival, blond curls bouncing, his hand squeezing yours every so often, you reaffirm the one thought that’s been circling your mind the whole night. 

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

You wait until almost everyone has been lulled to sleep by the hum of the Quinjet before you give up on getting rest. 

You swing your legs over the bench, boots hitting the floor with a dull thud. The threadbare blanket you’d been trying to seek comfort in slides off you easily. It settles in a lump on the floor and you kick it aside as you walk across the jet. 

In the pilot’s seat, Clint is wide awake, eyes sharp enough to pick up on you moving in his peripheral vision. 

“Can’t sleep, huh?” he calls out, tilting his head in your direction.  

“Scared of what I’ll dream about,” you answer, because honesty is the only thing possible in the darkness of the aircraft, in the aftermath of what you all survived. 

Curling red light flashes in your mind’s eye and the vision you were bewitched with follows suit. 

You can almost feel the fury of the explosion, the flames kissing your skin and somehow leaving behind blistering marks. You hear the shouts of the wounded, the dying, and worse, the wails of children separated from their parents. Beneath that, the memory of smoke invades your nostrils, remnants of the fire you started, of the massacre caused by your lack of control. 

Even as you shiver from the haunting memory, you feel your body warming. No. Not here, not now. 

“They all are,” Clint says, voice low so he doesn’t wake the rest of the Avengers from their fitful slumbers. The timbre of his voice pulls you back to yourself, to the level of calm and control you so desperately need. “But they need rest and so do you.” 

You inhale, slow and deliberate. You refuse to allow that vision to come to life, not again. 

The thought of losing control and risking your team, the only family you have left, sends fear coursing through your veins. Only when you’ve felt yourself cool down do you start to make your way through the aircraft, seeking comfort in their presence. 

Bruce is curled on the floor, cocooned in a blanket and shivering in his sleep, though beads of sweat dot his face. Nat lies across the seats, one arm thrown across her face, the other at her side, her hand on the pistol tucked into her belt. 

Even Thor, who rarely rests, has ceased his pacing. He sits with his head bowed, blond waves hiding his face such that you can’t tell if he’s asleep or just still. Tony, on the other hand, knocked out in the chair next to Clint. He’s positioned awkwardly, his body already half off the seat; one restless turn and he’ll be on the floor. 

“Where’s–” 

“In the back, where he always is.” 

You find Steve where Clint said he’d be: tucked in the far corner of the jet, back against the wall, one leg up. His eyes are closed, his lashes so long that in the darkness, they seem to brush his cheekbones. 

“Hey.” You stop a few paces away from him, hovering, wondering if he needs space or if he needs you as much as you need him. 

Steve’s eyes open slowly. Even hidden in the shadows, the blue of his irises is bright, piercing. 

“I couldn’t sleep either,” Steve says, observation and invitation in one. You exhale, in relief or weariness, you don’t know.

You close the gap between you and sink to the floor in front of him. You tilt your head so you can keep your eyes on his face. 

“Tell me what you saw,” you whisper, reaching for him, your fingers brushing against the hand resting on his knee. “I want to know.” 

Steve sighs, the sound heavy with the weight of memory. It clouds over the blue of his eyes and you wonder, briefly, if you’ve ever seen the Captain’s gaze this stormy. 

“It was a ballroom,” he says, his gaze fixing on something past you. “The kind where people gathered before the war, and probably after, too– guess I wouldn’t know.” 

Beneath your fingers, his hand clenches into a fist. Your touch, feather-light, grazes his knuckles; you’re not sure he can feel it. 

“It was filled with soldiers, commanders and generals, the people I fought with, the people I served. They were shouting and laughing, taking photographs and drinking, and I think we were meant to be happy, but…” 

Steve pauses. The breath he takes is shaky, but he clenches his jaw, steeling himself to continue. 

“But it felt…so fucking wrong. The wine soaking into their white shirts, the flashes of the cameras, the pop of the champagne bottles– instead of celebrating the end of the war, it felt like I was back on the front lines. And then Peggy was there, in this beautiful, blue dress. We danced, like I promised her we would.” 

He stops talking again, this time so that he can look at your face, at the pain that flashes across your features. The mention of Peggy Carter stings, but you already knew that Steve had loved — and lost — before you. Ignoring the twinge of jealousy, you offer him a small smile and nod for him to continue. 

“She was trying to reassure me that the war was over, that…we could finally go home. She told me to imagine it and when I looked around, I saw–” 

Steve stops abruptly, snapping his eyes shut as the memory overtakes him. The muscles in his jaw, his neck, tense as he swallows, fighting against the burden of the vision. 

“I’m right here, Cap,” you breathe, your chest tightening and making it hard to speak. You reach for his hand again, desperate to hold him, to keep him from drifting away from you. 

“I saw nothing.” Steve’s eyes snap open, finding yours almost immediately. You’d half expected him to be tearful, but what you see is worse. 

Steve’s eyes are dry, unwatering, but the agony gushes through the blue of his irises, a storm of loss and pain that you can’t even begin to comprehend. The Captain has the look of a man who’s been cut off from all he knows, all he holds dear. 

“The Maximoff girl didn’t show me a terrible fate or some unavoidable future,” Steve whispers. His voice is strangled, tortured, but beneath your hand, he relaxes, just a fraction. Just enough that his hand loosens and turns slightly so your fingers can wrap around his.

“She showed me my present, the thing that haunts me every day: the idea that I don’t have a home after this war. That maybe there’s a part of me that doesn’t want the war to end because– because I know I have nothing in this time but my duty as a soldier. And what good is a soldier without a war?” 

Steve laughs, short and mirthless. “She reminded me that in the end, I’m nothing more than my shield."

His words settle on you the way a wave crashes on the shore — violent, unforgiving, powerful enough to knock the breath from your lungs. You swallow down the lump in your throat, your mind racing to form the words you need him to hear. 

“You know, all my life I wanted to be a soldier,” you say, careful, gentle. Steve’s hand stays clasped in yours; you feel the slight squeeze of his fingers and your heart stutters. 

“I thought that’s what I needed to become if I wanted to be a hero. It’s why I fought the stupid ass misogynists and earned my place here, at SHIELD. And I thought that– that the only way to do some good in this fucked up world was to learn how to follow orders, shoot a gun, blow shit up…”

You shift, pulling yourself up to your knees so that your eyes are level with Steve’s. Your hands come up to frame his face, keeping him still, keeping his eyes locked on yours. 

“And then I met you: Steve Rogers, not Captain America,” you say, your voice soft, the look in your eye even softer. 

You think of the mission Fury had assigned to you a couple of years ago: keep an eye on the Captain. You hadn’t known it would involve living next to him, getting to know him as a neighbour, a friend, a person. And eventually, inevitably, falling in love with the man behind the shield. 

“I was lucky enough to know you just as the boy next door. It felt like I got a glimpse of the side of you from before the war, before the serum. The ninety-pound asthmatic that couldn’t run away from a fight if he tried. The little guy from Brooklyn who saw the Nazis for what they were: bullies. The one who wanted to serve, not because of the glory it would bring, but because you knew it was the right thing to do.” 

You pause, your fingertips brushing the sharp lines of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips.

Steve stills, nothing moving but the rise of his chest as he breathes in your touch, as he lets you memorize his features for the umpteenth time. His skin is cool from the jet’s air and the altitude; you allow yourself to warm up slightly, sharing your heat with him. 

At the sudden warmth, Steve sighs against your fingers, eyes closing as he allows himself to close the gap between you. His head falls against your shoulder and his hands rise to grip your waist, pulling you to him. 

The gesture hurts, not because his grip is always enough to bruise, but because of the softness, the desperation in it. In the past year, you’ve become the Captain’s lifeline and he yours. 

You run a hand through his hair, closing your eyes and focusing on the weight of him against you. A few moments pass before you find your words again. 

“I met the man behind the shield, not the perfect soldier, but you,” you say, your voice steady, though your heartbeat is anything but. “Determined and loyal, honest and kind. Compassionate and strong. That’s all you, Steve, not Captain America.

They didn’t make you; they didn’t have the power. No one does. Someone as honourable, as good as you…can’t be created. No shield or title can hold a candle to who you are, who you always have been.” 

Steve pulls away from you, just enough that he can look at your face again. Though his gaze remains stormy, his mouth has fallen open slightly, as if in awe of you. Of your unwavering faith in him. 

“You’re the one who showed me how to be more than just a soldier,” you continue, fighting the urge to kiss his lips, open and waiting. “That following orders isn’t everything — choosing the right thing is. You knew that from the start. You’re so much more than a shield, Steve. I know it doesn’t feel like the truth, but…I’m here to remind you that it is. You’re more than what they want you to be.” 

Something flickers in Steve’s eyes — a break in the storm clouds darkening the blue of his eyes. The tiniest of smiles tugs at his lips. “Did you write that down first or was it off the top of your head?” 

You roll your eyes. “Is that Sam Wilson I hear?”  

“Maybe,” he teases, and then he’s almost serious again, a muscle in his jaw flexing as he considers what you said. “Thank you. For reminding me, for being here. For seeing through my title, my service…and still staying. I should’ve known you were gonna change my life the moment you offered to fix the radio.” 

“It was ridiculously out of tune,” you say, smiling fondly at the memory. “Besides, I needed an excuse to get inside your apartment so I could bug it.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Steve replies, shaking his head. He’d been understanding, empathetic even, when he’d discovered you were assigned to spy on him, but it would always be a touchy subject. “You must’ve panicked when I invited you to have dinner with me as a ‘thank you,’ given that I was supposed to be your mission.” 

You had been startled by his offer, you remember, but in the warm glow of his apartment, in the silence between the walls he’d made a home of, you’d had no other choice but to accept his invitation. Over boxes of takeout and reheated plastic containers of food, you’d begun to uncover the man beneath the cowl, behind the shield. 

“You’re wrong,” you murmur, lost in the memory of seeing Steve for the first time. “I always had a crush on you, golden boy. I never would’ve said no.” 

Steve breathes your name then and it draws you to him, grounds you like gravity. Your hands find his shoulders, his neck; his find your waist, the bend of your hip. 

“Thank you,” he breathes, his gem-like eyes pulling away from yours to roam your face. His voice frays at the edges as he continues, “For knowing me, for loving me. It’s hard to remember where Captain America ends and I begin and sometimes– sometimes I don’t know if I remember how to just be Steve.” 

“That’s okay, my love,” you whisper, leaning in closer, always closer. “You don’t have to do it, any of it, alone. I’m here, I’ll always be here.”

You think of his vision, the haunting notion that despite all his victories, all the proof of his heroism, Steve has nothing to look forward to after his battles. That he believes he has nowhere to go after the war.

“I want you to know… there’s somewhere you’ll always belong once the fight is over,” you say, thinking of Steve in your apartment, bent over his sketchbook. Steve outlined by sunrise during your morning jogs, by sunset during your rooftop dinners. Steve curled in your bed, still, silent, the soldier in him at peace. “Somewhere you can just be Steve from Brooklyn.”

“Yeah? Where’s that, doll?” Steve asks, though the dull sparkle in his eye tells you he knows the answer. That perhaps, the same images are running through his mind. 

“With me,” you answer, steady and certain. “You’ll always have a home with me."

The blue of Steve’s eyes crackles, still stormy but no longer desolate. Instead, he looks at you, slow and careful, studying the lines on your face, navigating the pathways on the map that will lead him home.

For a few heartbeats, the Quinjet fades away — no hum of the engines, no mechanical clicks from JARVIS fixing Tony’s suit, no rustling as Clint shifts in his seat. Just you and Steve, haunted by ghosts of the wars you’ve fought, clinging to each other for refuge, for salvation. 

Steve breaks the silence, pressing closer until the space between you disappears. When he speaks, his nose slides against yours; you can feel his breath, imprinted on your parted lips. 

“You never needed to be a soldier to be a hero. You were mine the moment you showed up at my door, even if I didn’t realize it right away, even when I didn’t know what you were.” 

“And you?” you breathe, your body aching, thrumming with the need to press against him until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin…but you need to know. You need to know that he heard you.   

“I’m still that kid from Brooklyn,” Steve relents, his body pressing, melting against you, giving in to you and all that you believe, “who wanted — who still wants — to do the right thing.” 

It’s enough, this promise spoken in secret. Sealed, made covenant, when Steve kisses you. 

His lips are soft and eager, and so, so warm — from your gift or proximity, you’re not sure — and they mould themselves against yours with the ease of puzzle pieces snapping together. The hunger of Steve’s mouth matches that of his fingers curling in your hair, his legs bracketing your body and drawing you to him. 

A sigh falls from your lips as he tugs at your hair, tilting your head so he can slip his tongue between your lips with ease. 

You rebel, sliding your tongue along the seam of his lips until his mouth opens against yours. He tastes like metal, like salt and cold air, and something sweet he must’ve eaten hours ago. You press against him, trying to commit the taste of him to memory. 

Steve laughs into your mouth once, no doubt amused by your attempt at control– before he yanks you from the floor. He lifts you easily as you stumble to your feet, your legs tangling against his, then deposits you onto his lap.  

“Better?” Steve murmurs against your skin.  

You shift, tucking your legs between his, balancing your weight on his thigh. Your hands move easily across his broad shoulders and circle his neck. 

But you know he doesn’t just mean your position.

You think of your vision, of the flames sprouting from your hands, the charred bodies that followed. Of the blackened foundations of long-standing buildings, the ash clinging to your clothes. 

Then you think of the hush that fell as soon as you saw Steve, tucked in his corner of the jet. Of the silence in your mind as you found your way to his side. For the first time since you were hit with the witch’s spell, you find yourself able to breathe. 

“Better,” you sigh, before pressing your lips to his again. 

Steve comes alive under you, hands splayed across your back, head tilting as he catches your lips with his. He breathes you in, enamoured and reverent, a soldier surrendering. 

You heat up, slow and deliberate, as you kiss him deeper, hold him closer. He sighs into your mouth at the rising heat and you smile against his lips, feeling in control for the first time since you were bewitched. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“You lot are having a stinker!” Niko crows, so loud and obnoxious that you can hear it from your perch at the top of the stairs. 

You frown, ears picking up on the telltale sound of Mario Kart blaring from the lounge. 

There’s no way he flaked on me for a video game, you think as you creep down the stairs. 

You’d woken up, groggy and confused, from an impromptu nap only moments ago. Earlier that afternoon, you’d fallen asleep waiting for Niko to come upstairs and watch a movie with you. 

Clearly, he forgot, you think, your hold on the railing tightening as you reach the ground floor. Your annoyance only grows as down the hall, the room erupts.  

“You’re cheating!” Aj yells, followed by a thump that sounds suspiciously like a controller being thrown on the sofa in frustration. “I swear you’re cheating, Niko.” 

“Nah, he’s just finessing the shit out of us,” James says, a mouthful of crisps muffling his voice. “You know Niko, always gaming the damn system.”

“We all know he just plays too often,” George corrects, soft but firm. You can almost imagine him adjusting his glasses as he speaks. “Addict.” 

“Guys, guys,” Niko says with a laugh and you can hear it — his smug smile, his unearned sense of superiority. “I was just born to win. What can I say?” 

You snort. That schmuck needs his ego checked. 

You linger at the doorway, just in time for James to retort: “You’re delusional, how about that? And you have a fucking problem, mate.”    

He and the other two boys dissolve into a fit of laughter, loud and echoing and endless, until—

“Nikolas Daniel Adegbajumo Omilana,” you say, each syllable coated in frost and irritation as you finally walk into view. 

Silence falls, quick as a guillotine, heavy as a blanket. 

All four boys turn to you, matching looks of shock — and to their credit, a little horror — on their faces. 

“So this is where you’ve been for the last three hours.” You cross your arms and arch an eyebrow, the perfect picture of attitude and indignation. 

 “Oh, you’re on your own mate, peace out.” George moves first, hopping up from the sofa and marching towards you, towards escape.

“Told you she’d wake up soon,” James mutters. He smacks Aj on the shoulder, pulling the latter out of his frozen state, and the two of them struggle to maneuver themselves around the pillows and crisp packets littering the sofa. 

They follow in George’s footsteps, elbowing each other as they make a mad dash for the door. 

“Pretty sure it’s Adefajumo,” Aj mutters as he slips past you and out of the room; you pretend not to hear him. 

“Baby!” Niko, alone now, has all the aura of a deer caught in headlights. His eyes are wide, hands raised in surrender, controller forgotten on the coffee table. “You ready to watch our movie?” 

You stare, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “You ditched me!” 

“You were asleep!” Niko shifts, the sofa dipping under his discomfort. He has the decency to look ashamed. “I didn’t want to wake you.” 

“I only fell asleep because you took forever to come upstairs, you jokeman.” 

“I won like, six tournaments in a row for you,” your boyfriend offers, a hopeful glimmer in his eye. 

It’s the wrong thing to say and you glower at him. “Not helping your case, Nikolas Omilana.” 

“Okay, okay,” Niko concedes, picking up one of the abandoned controllers and holding it up — an offering, a white flag. “If you win, you get to pick the movie.” 

You smirk, your smugness an echo of his. “Deal.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Your afternoon wasn’t supposed to consist of you discovering that dirt tastes a little sweet. 

But you find yourself face-first on the football pitch anyway, mouth full of earth and grass, the metallic tang of the soil making you gag. The only thing that keeps you from throwing up is the flowery scent that invades your nostrils and your mouth. It would be pleasant, if not for the grainy texture assaulting your tongue. 

“What the fuck, Niko?” You push yourself up off the ground, knees cracking in protest and pain. You cough out as much of the greenery as you can, then stalk over to the bench. You grab your water bottle and take several gulps, taking the time to gargle and spit after every one. 

Traitorous red blinks in your peripheral: your camera, still recording from the corner of the pitch. You make a mental note to purge this footage from the hard drive. 

“Are you alright?” Niko calls out as he jogs over. His tone is one of worry, but you can tell from the set of his mouth that there’s a smirk trying to break loose. “I didn’t mean to kick it that far, baby, I swear.” 

“You’re vile,” you say, rolling your eyes. “You’re a sick, sick individual. You knew I couldn’t run that far, let alone turn enough to kick that fucking ball.” 

Niko stops in front of you just as you put your water bottle down. Though he’s struggling not to laugh, there’s genuine concern in his dark eyes. He reaches for you, slow and gentle, a hand coming up to caress your face. 

“Did you scratch yourself? Get any cuts?” he asks, even as he turns your face this way and that, determined to discover the answers on his own. His thumb brushes across your cheek as if he’s checking for cracks in porcelain, his touch gentle and precise like he’s searching for damage in a piece of art. 

Your irritation ebbs away. “I’m fine, baby. I coulda lived without knowing dirt kinda tastes like expired candy…but I’m good to go back to filming.”

“I can’t believe you wiped out like that,” Niko says, unable to help the grin that cuts across his face. “And we got it on camera!” 

His teasing elicits something wicked inside you: an idea in the making, striking you quick as a viper.

You walk away from Niko and towards your camera, positioning yourself in the middle of the frame. You can imagine how it looks: you bathed in the rare golden light, the pitch framing you in emerald, Niko hovering in the background, serving as guardian…or the devil on your shoulder. 

Your lips quirk up in a smile. “Alright friends, it’s sunny in London for once so you lot know we gotta take advantage of it. Today, my current boyfriend and I are doing some football challenges.” 

You don’t turn around, but you hear Niko choke. 

“What?” Niko sputters. “Current?” 

“You heard me.” 

“That’s how it is, yeah?” His tone shifts into one that promises trickery, his voice that of a man always ready to rise to a challenge and unafraid of causing chaos to win it. “Well my current girlfriend can’t even play football, let alone do half these tricks. I might have to trade her in, find one that doesn’t fall face-first onto the pitch.” 

You whip your head around, your mouth falling open. This shameless jokeman. 

Niko’s smile is blinding, all teeth and mischief. He kicks at the football by his feet, maneuvers it easily between his legs and around him. Too smug, too steady. 

“Not to mention she’s a Liverpool fan,” he continues, eyes twinkling as he picks up on the disbelief on your face. “Can’t be around scouser sympathizers and that.” 

You don’t dignify his jab with a response. Instead, you toss him your water bottle — just out of reach. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Chunkz 

starts wheezing immediately (you lot know what his real laugh sounds like– yeah, that) 

you have to crop the tiktok because he laughs at you for three minutes straight 

“c’mon now, when have you ever paid it?” 

“do you even know how?” 

“didn’t think that word was in your vocabulary, babes” 

he’s so done with you

but he’s smiling so hard you can see his dimples 

you’re giggling too because he’s fucking right (and he’s being adorable about it)

he’s always been the provider

never lets you pay for shit 

always covers the main expenses since he’s got that beta squad/youtube/sponsorship money flowing in 

i’m telling you it’s in his dna to look after his partner/wife

before you end the tiktok, he imitates you in that silly voice he and aj always use 

“i can’t pay the mortgage this month, amin, sorry honey” in the most ridiculous, high-pitched tone 

he gives you the ‘harry pinero’ face as he walks away 

Sharky

knows of the trend (obviously — he’s the tiktok king) 

lowkey has been waiting for you to try it on him

“i got you, baby, don’t worry” because he knows it’ll make you swoon 

(also because he knows it’ll do numbers on social media and give the tiktok editors good material) 

he turns away from the camera and tries to walk away nonchalantly 

(he almost walks right into the kitchen counter) 

looks back way too soon

you’re still recording

and now you (and your viewers) know he’s just aura farming 

(he’s right though — that clip does numbers)

he asks you after if you’re serious 

because he just invested a shit ton of money into a brand new primo launch 

and his bank account is crying 

you pretend not to hear him (oops)

Niko 

“you know what that means, yeah” 

“you gotta go” 

“no freeloaders here” as he grabs a handful of your clothes and starts shoving them into a suitcase 

specifically that scooter one he and aj share 

(how he found it so fast, you don’t even know)

escorts you to the front door

somehow has those fuck ass shades on 

(again, how and when he put it on, you don’t fucking know)

you’re getting all his antics on camera until he picks you up 

fucking bridal-style 

the recording cuts 

(when you post this tiktok, everyone comments that the ndl have disposed of you)

in reality, you’re deposited on the front porch 

the door closes for 0.02 seconds 

and then it’s open again 

“...the way we don’t even have a mortgage”

“even if we did, we’d just rinse the beta squad account till it’s paid off” 

you knock the shades off his head

but not the shit-eating grin off his face 

Kenny

“huh? we live in a flat…that we own” 

confused as fuck because he isn’t chronically online like that 

when you repeat yourself, the poor man looks even more confused 

“we don’t have a mortgage, hon” 

“what’re you on about?”

“did you buy a house without telling me”

“...in this economy?”

at this point, you’ve lost the plot and are just cackling at his cluelessness

“am i missing something” 

“this is for a tiktok, innit” 

he finally notices you filming and laughs 

(yes, that laugh)

((all the comments end up talking about it))

“the way you had me thinking i bought a whole house without knowing” 

“you can’t be doing this shit to me, baby” 

“you know i don’t know trends like that, fuck”

off-camera, he tells you he’d cover the mortgage and more  

if it was actually a problem 

you try not to jump him 

(you fail)

Aj

doesn’t even look up from his computer screen 

“damn, aight, guess we’re homeless now” through a mouthful of chips 

“you belong in the streets anyway” as he shoots people on valorant 

“i’m not paying it either, schmuck” 

blames that “nasty green shit” for taking all your money (he means matcha) 

you cut the tiktok just so you can fuck up his hair 

and distract him from his game 

(you’re needy like that) 

((aje lowkey loves it))

the joke lasts the whole fucking night 

he insists that one (or both) of you should start an onlyfans 

you think he’s kidding

you hope he is 

he films a bunch of youtube videos for both of his channels the week after and does a short twitch stream 

he says he’s just “inspired”

you know he’s tryna make bank 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You hate blood. The sound of punches connecting with skin. The stench of sweat and leather.

You hate the echo of pained grunts, of limbs hitting the floor, the noises reminiscent of pain and exhaustion.

You hate the crowds, the crush of people baying for more. More violence, more brutality, more spectacle.

And yet you find yourself at the boxing matches anyway, ready to support Kenny as he takes on opponent after opponent. It helps that you’re surrounded by his friends, your friends now too, given how much time you spend with the Beta Squad and their crew. But it doesn’t make it better.

Today’s fight is brutal. Amateurs or not, Kenny and his opponent don’t pull their punches and the sound of contact makes you flinch one too many times. It’s hard to look away though, especially when everyone around you has their eyes fixed on the show in front of them. 

God, Ken, just let yourself be knocked out, you find yourself thinking. The thought makes you sick, but the nausea dissipates when Kenny’s opponent lands a particular nasty jab on the side of his head. Fuck.

When the referees call it, none of you are surprised. The fight was over the first couple of rounds. Kenny had fought well, you knew, but it hadn’t been enough. 

“You coming?” Niko’s voice cuts through your muddled thoughts. The rest of the boys have started to walk towards the ring, to give their friend a hero’s welcome despite the loss. 

“You guys go ahead, I’ll catch him a little later,” you manage to say before you feel the bile rise in your throat. You turn away before Niko can see how nauseous you are and make your way to the bathroom. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Later, after the crowds have dissipated and your stomach has been emptied, you make your way to the change rooms. Your phone has been buzzing for the past few minutes and unsurprisingly, you have several missed notifications. 

A call each from Chunkz and Sharky, a few Tiktoks Aj sent (how’s this man scrolling on that app already?, you wonder), and several texts from Niko. 

where’d you go? 

you good? 

kenny’s gone to change 

we heading to the car park to wait for you lot 

you feeling wagamama or nando’s? 

aj wants pizza 

hurry up schmuck – aj

You type out a response and send it as you reach the change rooms. You knock. No one answers. You push the door open and step into the cool, dim space. 

It smells like the rest of the boxing gym and if you had anything else to vomit, it would’ve come up now. Instead, you swallow hard and take a deep inhale through your mouth instead of your nose. 

Kenny is alone at the far end, straddling one of the benches. He’s in sweats now instead of shorts, no shirt. You can see the sheen of sweat on his dark skin, the droplets lining the muscles of his back. It’s something that would normally leave you breathless, if not for the dark bruise starting to form on his side. 

“Hey,” you say quietly as you take a seat in front of him. 

Kenny barely looks up at you. He’s busied himself with slowly rolling up his hand wraps and tucking them into the open duffel bag by his feet, right next to his boxing shorts. From one of the pockets, he takes out a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a stack of bandages, and some cotton pads.

You watch for a moment, taking in how gently he holds himself. Someone who doesn’t know him might think he’s being methodical and careful, but you know better. He’s injured as hell and each movement must be beyond painful. 

“Hey.” This time, you reach out and tuck a finger under his chin, bringing his head up so you can look him in the eye. 

You almost wish you didn’t. There’s a bruise forming over his left eye, dark and spreading quickly. His lip is split, the bottom one swelling above a nasty gash, and there are other cuts all over his face. Many are on swollen patches of skin, some are bleeding. On his temple is a particularly ghastly bruise that looks like it will take weeks to fade. Even with the various injuries, it’s the defeated look in his eyes that makes you want to turn away. 

You don’t. You could never. 

You see the instant Kenny makes sense of your agonized expression. To your surprise, he cracks a smile before saying, “That bad, huh?”

“You won’t be modelling anytime soon,” you say, eager to lighten the mood. 

“That’s calm, the other boys got that shit covered.” Kenny hesitates before adding, “And you do too.” 

Your cheeks warm; it’s rare that he outright compliments you and you hate the way it flusters you. Just friends, you chant in your head. You’re just friends. 

It’s usually not something you forget easily. Your crush on Kenny is almost as old as your friendship, for better or for worse. The two had always gone hand in hand; you’d maintained your friendship at the expense of your feelings for him. 

Were there times you wished for more? God, yes. 

And were there moments you could almost believe the feelings were mutual? Maybe, and Kenny’s flirty nature did not make it easy to remind yourself that that was impossible. 

Was now one of those moments? Fucking hell, yeah. 

“Need help with that?’ you ask, desperate for a distraction from your racing heart. You nod towards the makeshift first aid supplies piled up on the bench. 

“Nah, I’m good, I just need to—” 

“Oh shut up and let me help you.”

Kenny has the sense not to say anything except: “There’s an ice pack just behind me too.” 

You nod and reach around him. The action puts you directly in his personal space, and without thinking, you inhale his scent. He smells like the gym, like all the things you hate so much about this place, but beneath that…it’s all him. 

For fuck’s sake, get it together, you chide yourself. You pull away quickly, ice pack in hand. You mirror his position so that all the supplies are on the bench between your legs. 

“Hold this against that ugly ass bruise on your head,” you order, handing him the ice. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Kenny teases. He laughs at your annoyed expression, but complies. 

“You fought well today, you know,” you say, as you douse one of the cotton pads with alcohol and begin dabbing it on the cuts littering his face. 

Kenny winces beneath your touch, but at the stern look you give him, he quickly leans back in. The movement changes his position such that his knees are touching yours; you pretend not to notice. 

“Did I?” Kenny asks. His expression is neutral, but his tone betrays the disappointment he’s been carrying since the fight ended. 

“Yes,” you say, slow and careful. Kenny knows when you’re bullshitting him, so you don’t bother. “He just…fought better.” 

“Great, thanks for that.” 

“Always your number one supporter,” you joke, but the tenderness in your voice betrays how much you mean the words. You grab a few plasters and rip one open, trying to distract yourself and Kenny from the serious shift in your conversation. 

The large cut under his lip is still bleeding slightly and you lean forward to cover it up. Your fingers tremble slightly as you press the bandage down by the edge of his mouth. Oh my days, please don’t notice.

“Yeah, what would I do without you?” Kenny says, his lips brushing against your fingers as he speaks. 

You pull your hand away lightning fast as you think, You never have to find out. 

You don’t say it aloud. Instead, you take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. Your empty stomach and the nausea lingering there combined with your proximity to Kenny is making your head spin. 

You force yourself to focus on the last of his cuts: his split knuckles from throwing punch after punch. You realize too late that you put too much alcohol on the cotton pads when Kenny’s fingers clench around yours as you dab at his wounds. 

“Fuck,” Kenny grunts. 

“I mean it, you know,” you say, trying to distract him from the sting and yourself from the way his fingers are locked on yours. “You fought well. The boys and I are really proud of you. Win or lose, it doesn’t matter. Every time you have a match, you train and you train and it takes so much discipline. 

And after all that, you go up there and you face these crazy fighters who’ve been doing this longer than you. You fight them and you put your all into your fights because that’s how you are. Giving a hundred and ten percent in everything you do. It’s amazing to watch and I really can’t be more proud.” 

You’d finished cleaning his cuts sometime while you were speaking, but Kenny’s fingers are still curled around yours. You look up to find him staring at you. So many years of reading every emotion on his face, but here, right now, the look in his eyes is unknowable.

You’re not sure if it’s your imagination or your ridiculous, hopeless crush, but it feels like there’s less space between the two of you than there was before. Another endless moment of staring and then…

“Thank you for being here,” Kenny says quietly and you know you’re not imagining it when he pulls away ever so slightly. He doesn’t let go of your hand though, and it stays that way as he continues to talk, holding your gaze. 

“I know you hate all this. The fights, the prep, how you barely see me when I’m training. Or when you do see me and I look like– like this. All banged up and shit. And I know you hate being here, in the gym. Niko told me you had to step out right after my fight. I know this stuff makes you sick and I just– thank you for being here anyway. It means a lot.”

“Where else would I be?” you say quietly, your eyes dropping down to your fingers loosely clasped under his hand. Kenny must hear something in your voice because he readjusts his hold, maneuvering his fingers so that your hand is firmly in his.

Your breath catches at the gesture, but you can’t– you won’t let your imagination run wild. Just friends.

“Nah, you’re right,” Kenny answers suddenly, his thumb running over your knuckles. He pauses, but only for a second. “You should be here with me. It’s better that way, innit? For both of us.” 

His words sober you up and you’re about to rip into him for being presumptuous, but he catches your eye again. This time, everything he’s feeling is laid bare for you to see. You know Kenny well, better than you know yourself, and for the first time in all the years you’d cared for him, the look in his eye is a stark reflection of your pent-up feelings. 

Just friends, part of you insists, but now it’s losing to the side that’s been saying, What if?

Whatever this is, whatever is about to happen, it can wait. I’ve already waited long enough.