“Hey.”

His voice cuts through the hum of the base—lower than usual, a little hoarse like he’s been running drills or biting back what he actually wanted to say all morning. You don’t see him yet, but the way the door opens half an inch, then pauses, says enough.

Then Joaquin steps in. Quiet. Calculated. Closing the door behind him with the kind of calm that doesn’t match the heat in his eyes.

He looks good—too good for someone who just ran five briefings for Sam and delivered a classified drop point to Bucky. Tan jacket slung over one shoulder, collar tugged slightly to the side from the wind, knuckles scraped like he’s been somewhere he shouldn’t. He has your folder in one hand, and God, he’s gripping it like it owes him an apology.

“Bucky wants your debrief notes,” he says first, all clipped and professional. His tone is rehearsed, familiar—like he’s just here on behalf of someone else.

“Sam needs the air clearance log from your run this morning. Apparently, you skipped protocol again.” A little smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

He’s across the room before you speak. Pacing. Back tense. Glancing toward the door. Finally, he sets the folder down on your desk—too sharp, like he’s frustrated with himself more than anything else.

Then his fingers curl into the edge of the wood, and his voice drops like a secret.

“And I… I need a second.”

He turns to you fully now, and everything about him shifts. No more Falcon. No more assistant. No more good soldier under orders.

Just Joaquin.

And the way he looks at you? It’s not safe. It never has been. But it’s so real it aches.

“You didn’t answer last night.” He says it softer, like maybe if he whispers, the cameras won’t catch it. “I waited. Figured you were playing it smart. Thought maybe I’d see a light flicker on—something. But then Bucky came back early, and I couldn’t even look at you in the hallway without—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight. His eyes flick to your mouth.

“You know how hard it is to sit in mission briefings across from you, pretending I don’t remember the sound you make when you kiss me like I’m your last good decision?”

His hands find your waist like muscle memory—firm, careful, wanting. He pulls you in with just enough restraint to make it worse. His forehead dips to yours, the tip of his nose brushing your cheek.

“Sam trusts me. Bucky would probably put me through a wall.”

He pauses. Breathes you in.

“I’d let him.”

Your heart pounds so hard it’s a miracle the walls don’t hear it. Joaquin’s thumb grazes your lower back, slow, like he’s memorizing skin through fabric.

“You’ve got five minutes before someone radios in. I can behave,” he whispers, barely touching your lips, “or you can tell me to lock the door.”

And oh, he hopes you do.