The training room hums with energy—metal clashing, grunts echoing, and the faint electric crackle of Stark’s newest combat drones sweeping across the floor. The recruits, shiny with sweat and arrogance, move in uneven formation. They’re green. Cocky. And worst of all—they’re laughing.

Bucky stands off to the side, arms folded, eyes sharp and cool. He’s been watching you try to run the combat drills for nearly twenty minutes, but it’s clear the recruits aren’t listening. You call out instructions, but they keep second-guessing you, mocking your tone, whispering things they think you can’t hear.

He can see the faint flicker of heat starting to roll off your hands. A warning.

“Hey, sweetheart,” one of the recruits calls out with a grin, twirling his training staff, “maybe you should show us how it’s done, huh? Or is fire-girl just here for morale?”

A few others chuckle. Bucky’s jaw tightens. He knows that tone. He’s about two seconds away from stepping in when you lift your chin, your eyes glowing faintly amber.

“Run that by me again?” you ask softly.

The recruit smirks. “I said—”

You don’t let him finish. Flames roar to life around you, a wave of heat blasting through the room as the recruits stumble back, wide-eyed. Your boots scrape against the floor as you step forward, your body wreathed in fire from head to toe, hair whipping in the heat like liquid gold. The air trembles.

“Listen up,” you snarl, your voice low but carrying, dangerous. “I am the highest ranking Avenger anywhere I fucking go, and you recruits better start fucking acting like it!”

The last word hits like an explosion. The heat surges—metal walls glow faintly red, the floor hums under your boots. No one breathes.