Oops!… I Did It Again—B.S.

“Valentina will be gone for two months,” Mel said slowly, eyes sweeping the mismatched crew of vigilantes gathered around the briefing table. “On an international mission.”

Bullshit, Walker thought immediately, jaw tightening as he leaned back in his chair. She’s probably off running more goddamn evil schemes. Or whatever the hell she calls them. He didn’t trust her—not entirely—but at least he knew what to expect.

“There will be an interim arriving shortly, to take Val’s place as director,” Mel continued.

That—that—snapped John’s internal monologue clean in half. His head tilted, eyes narrowing. Interim? Who the hell would be crazy enough to fill Val’s stilettos?

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. You walked in five minutes later, heels tapping on the concrete floor with an irritating click-click-click that reverberated right down his spine.

Everything about you screamed control: razor-sharp eyes, tailored blazer, voice steady as a sniper’s aim.

You didn’t ask questions—you gave orders, cold and calculated, like you’d been running the room your whole damn life. And worst of all, you were so damn sure of yourself. Smug, precise, always one step ahead. If Val was venom, you were the scalpel—cutting deep, clean, and leaving no doubt you enjoyed it. Walker hated you immediately. The feeling was mutual. It all boiled over one night in the training room. The two of you had been butting heads over a mission plan for over an hour, your voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Walker, I’m tired of hearing the same thing over and over again,” you hissed, manicured finger jabbing hard into the bulletproof material covering his chest. “Yeah?” He loomed closer, a vein ticking in his temple. “Well I’m tired of hearing your goddamn heels click-clicking on the floor! Jesus Christ, you’re even worse than Val!” You glared up at him, brows knitted stubbornly together, fire and fury sparking in your eyes. His breath was hot, chest rising and falling fast, and something in the air shifted—tilted, cracked, and pulled taut like a tripwire about to snap. You weren’t sure who moved first. But suddenly, you were kissing him. It was messy, rough, born of weeks of pent-up irritation. His hands fisted into the fabric of your Dior blazer, dragging you closer like he couldn’t stand a millimeter between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan against your mouth. His shield arm pressed against your back, caging you in. Neither of you heard the door creak open. “Woah,” a voice breathed out. Soft. Awed. Bob. You both froze. “What the hell?” another voice cut in, gruffer, skeptical. Definitely male. Bucky. “That’s new,” came a British sigh, laced with amusement. Ava. “Since when—” a Russian woman gasped. Her tone was caught somewhere between scandal and delight. Yelena. A deep, rumbling laugh filled the room. Alexei. You and Walker tore apart like guilty teenagers, but not fast enough—the damage was done. The Thunderbolts were standing in the doorway, watching like they’d just stumbled onto a car crash they couldn’t look away from. Bucky’s arms were crossed, expression sharp as a blade. Ava’s head tilted. Alexei muttered something in Russian that made Yelena snort. Bob gaped, wide-eyed and shocked. Walker’s face was flushed scarlet, jaw flexing as if he could chew through steel. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then jabbed a finger toward the group. “Shut the door.” “Don’t stop on our account,” Yelena said, grinning like Christmas morning. You straightened your blazer, trying to wrestle dignity back into your posture, though your lips were still swollen and your pulse was thundering. “This isn’t—” “Don’t say it,” Ava interrupted smoothly, voice cool. “Because whatever it is, none of us are buying it.” Walker groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Goddamn it.” It should’ve been mortifying. But when your eyes flicked back to his—still heated, still lingering—you realized the truth: you weren’t done with him. Not even close.