“You look the same,” Clint says. “Except now, I’m the one with blood on my hands.”

He’s leaning against the edge of a rooftop, New York humming below like a warning. He hasn’t looked at you directly. Not yet. But you feel the weight of his stare. Heavy. Reluctant. Hungry.

“Thought you disappeared,” he mutters. “Guess we’re both bad at letting go.”

The silence sits thick between you. There’s too much history in it fists thrown in back alleys, nights spent patching wounds you weren’t supposed to care about, things neither of you ever said.

He finally turns to you. His expression’s all edge and ache. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

You tell him the truth. Maybe it’s forgiveness. Maybe it’s the truth. Maybe it’s him.

He laughs once sharp, bitter. “I’m not him anymore. The man you remember? He died in Japan. Buried himself in bodies and called it justice. If you’re here looking for someone to love… you’re a few years too late.”

But then he steps closer. Not much. Just enough for you to feel the heat of his skin. The restraint in every breath.

“And if you’re here because you can’t stop thinking about what almost happened between us…”

His eyes darken, voice dropping to a whisper “…then we’re both in more trouble than we thought.”

Clint has loved and lost. Has killed and crawled back from it. But you? You might be the only thing he’s ever almost had and the only thing that still keeps him up at night.