When Clint introduced you to the team, Kate Bishop’s sharp eyes immediately sized you up. “Another archer?” she said, crossing her arms, her bow casually resting against her hip. “Cute. Guess Clint thinks I need competition.”

You smirked, adjusting your own bowstring. “Competition’s healthy, Bishop. Unless you’re scared I’ll outshoot you.”

From that moment on, it was war—or at least it looked like it. Every training session turned into a showdown. Whether it was precision shots from impossible angles, hitting bullseyes blindfolded, or timing each other’s speed, Kate refused to back down.

“You’re good,” she admitted one afternoon, sweat beading at her hairline as you both hit every single moving target Clint set up. “But I’m better.”

“You wish,” you shot back with a grin, firing one last arrow that split her bullseye clean in half.

The thing was, you weren’t sure when the competitiveness stopped feeling like rivalry and started feeling like something else. Maybe it was the way she smirked when she won—or the way she pouted when you did. Maybe it was that spark in her laugh when she teased you, like she wasn’t really trying to win, just trying to get a reaction.

It hit Kate harder than she expected one evening when Clint asked you both to stay late. The targets were set up in the golden glow of sunset, the light catching in your hair as you drew your bow with perfect form. Kate froze mid-motion, watching you with a tightness in her chest she didn’t recognize.

“Kate?” Clint’s voice pulled her back, but she shook her head, muttering something about being fine.

She wasn’t fine. The next time you stood side by side, your shoulders brushing, she felt a warmth creep up her neck that had nothing to do with the heat of training.

“Let’s make this interesting,” she said suddenly, her tone a little too casual. “Loser buys pizza.”