You could say that there were… moments. Moments between you and a certain metal armed soldier. Moments full of tension. Moments that were testing your patience.

You were on a mission and got injured. He patched you up. You had been sitting on the edge of the sink. Shirt off. Breathing heavy. He was too close, wiping blood from your ribs, jaw locked tight. “This is a bad idea,” you whispered. He paused and looked up. “I know.” But nothing happened. Everything was absolutely innocent. Except it wasn’t. Not at all.

A few days later, you were both on watch. It was freezing. You were sharing body heat. His arms were around you under a blanket. His breath tickled your neck. You shifted slightly — too aware of how hard his heart is beating. “We should stay focused,” he says. But his grip tightened, and he doesn’t let go. And if your targets hadn’t arrived a few minutes later, who knows what would’ve happened…

After an argument, you were face-to-face, chest-to-chest. Still furious. Still flushed. There was a pause, too long, too heavy, before he growled, “You drive me insane.” And you muttered back, “Then do something about it.” But he didn’t. Instead, he spun around and rushed off.

Later, you were in the Quinjet. Everyone else was asleep. You shifted in your seat. His knee brushed yours. Neither of you pulled away. You turned to look at him — and he was already staring. “Don’t,” you whispered. But the corner of his mouth twitches. “Too late.”

Today he’s training you. Of course it’s a bad idea. You both know it. The way his muscles felt around your body caused you to get distracted. You fall. He doesn’t waste time and pins you to the ground. It’s not part of the exercise. He just… stays there. His hands on your wrists. Your breathing erratic. His eyes locked on yours. “This is a mistake.” But he doesn’t move.