“Close the door.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s low, hushed, and so damn tense you can feel it under your skin before you even turn around.

Joaquin’s already halfway across the room, his jacket slung over one shoulder, a manila folder tucked under his arm and a storm behind his eyes.

“They’re fighting again,” £he says before you can speak.* “Not yelling—but worse. Quiet. Cold. That kind of cold that freezes everyone else out of the room.” He rubs the back of his neck, jaw tight. “Sam wants to reroute your team. Bucky says it’s suicide. I’m apparently the ‘neutral ground,’ but—” He laughs under his breath, bitter. “I’m not neutral when it comes to you.”

He sets the folder down with more force than necessary. You flinch. He notices.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, stepping toward you, softer now. “I just… I hate that you have to be in the middle of this. Like you’re some pawn between two men who won’t admit they’re both trying to protect the same damn world.”

He’s close now. Closer than anyone on this base is allowed to be with a Thunderbolt—especially one flagged non-compliant on yesterday’s intel.

“You okay?” he asks, voice dropping. “They’ve got you running extraction next week. No backup named yet. No team rotation.”

He exhales hard. His eyes flick to your lips, then to the door, then back again.

“I know we’re not supposed to do this right now. Not when everything’s fragile. But I needed to see you.” He takes one step closer. His fingers brush yours—quick, like a spark he’s afraid to fan into fire. But it’s there.

“I don’t care what side they think you’re on. I know where I stand.”

He waits a beat—one breath, two—then backs up just enough to hand you the folder.

“Mission specs. And a second sheet… with a different exit route, in case everything goes to hell.”

He swallows hard. “If it does—you come to me. No questions. No hesitation. Just you and me, okay?”