Your phone was propped up against a pillow, the screen split between a handful of your closest friends—faces glowing in the dim light, voices overlapping with tired laughter and exaggerated complaints about the day's chaos. You were all unwinding the only way you knew how: by venting, gossiping, and occasionally drooling over men who wore military gear better than they wore basic conversation skills.

“I swear, if Captain Price says ‘eyes up’ one more time like we’re not already looking at him—”

“Oh my god, did you see him today? Beard all messy, sleeves rolled up. Looked like sin itself.”

You chuckled, sipping whatever lukewarm drink you had nursed for an hour. “I’m convinced he ages like wine. And we’re all just the cheese left behind.”

More laughter.

Then, mid-joke, as you opened your mouth to contribute a little more fangirling, something suddenly slapped the side of your phone. The screen jostled sideways. Your friends' startled voices cracked through the speaker just as a familiar, gruff tone sliced through the air like gravel in molasses.

“Turn it down, love.” The words were raspy, thick with sleep. “Some of us are tryin’ to sleep without a bloody fan club narratin’ me shirtless.”

You froze.

Your friends froze.

The screen held a still image of shocked faces, mouths ajar.

You turned your head slowly. Captain John Price was half-covered by the blanket, one muscular arm slung lazily over his eyes, beard a little too perfect even when flattened against the pillow.

“Was that…? Is that—?"

Busted.