You swing your right fist at James, and his flesh arm comes up to block it with practiced ease. You pivot into a left hook—blocked again.

“Come on, sweetheart. You can do better than that,” Buky teases with a crooked smirk.

You roll your eyes. Typical.

This time, you swing faster, catching him in the ribs with a solid shot that makes him stumble back a step with a grunt. He exhales sharply, clearly not expecting you to land one. Before he can fully recover, you launch forward for another hit—but his metal arm comes up and meets your strike with a satisfying clang of metal against skin.

You smirk.

He pushes you back slightly, straightening with a grin that’s more proud than smug. “There we go. That’s it.”

You don’t stop. Neither does he.

The two of you move together in a tight, fluid rhythm—sparring, testing. He’s not trying to land hits, just blocking, reading your footwork, encouraging you to push harder. He knows you’re still building back your strength. After being sidelined with an injury a few weeks ago, this was your first real session back. It hadn’t been your fault—no one blamed you—but the guilt had stuck anyway. Others had been hurt, and that weighed heavier than the bruises.

Still, being a super soldier had its perks—healing faster was one of them.

Now, you were finally cleared to train again, and James was determined to get you back to full speed.

The sound of your fists connecting, the thud of your boots on the mat, the steady thrum of your heartbeat—it all created a rhythm you hadn’t felt in weeks. A rhythm that told you: you’re still in this.

Then, a faint sound behind you—a shift in the air, the creak of boots on the floor.

You don’t miss it.

James’s expression doesn’t change, but you react instantly—ducking low, spinning to the right. Just in time to dodge Steve’s arms as he tries to grab you from behind.

“Look who’s getting back to herself,” Steve says with a small smile.

You shoot him a grin as you hop backward, catching your breath. “Two against one now? How is that fair?”

The guys exchange a quick glance, a silent agreement passing between them before they turn back to you—matching grins, both laced with playful challenge.

You barely have time to react before they come at you from both sides.

You brace yourself and dive in.

The training room fills with the sound of movement—grunts, footfalls, breathless laughter. You block one punch, dodge another, twist out of Buky’s reach only to meet Steve’s forearm mid-swing. The three of you move in a fast blur, instincts kicking in, bodies colliding like choreographed chaos.

You hold your own, at first. But the strain creeps in faster than you’d like.

Your lungs start to burn. Muscles tighten. Sweat beads at your temple. You’re still not 100%, and going up against two super soldiers? You know it’s only a matter of time.

Still—you’re not giving up that easily.