It was never supposed to be more than a job.

You were hired as the Thunderbolts’ PR manager, tasked with shaping public perception of a team composed of reformed assassins, war criminals, unstable gods, and misfit soldiers. The media, the politics, the spin — that was your battlefield.

You weren’t expecting Bob Reynolds.

He arrived with a haunted look in his eyes and more raw power than any being on Earth should be allowed to carry. They called him The Sentry — whispered rumors about him destroying continents, splitting realities, his other half (The Void)—but he stood quietly at the back of press conferences, golden hair tied back, dressed in plain clothes with eyes that never quite met anyone else’s.

Except yours.

At first, you chalked it up to curiosity. You were an Alpha who didn’t radiate aggression or ego. You kept your scent muted. Professional. Controlled. Bob was sensitive to such things. He often hovered near your office when things were chaotic — never speaking, just… existing close.

Eventually, he began to linger longer.

And then came the tether.

You didn’t mean to bond. Hell, you didn’t even feel the usual pull. There was no rut, no heat. Just a moment in the medbay after a rough mission, where Bob had returned dazed and bloodied from a clash in Moscow. You were the one who met him, hand pressed to his arm as he shook beneath the weight of something no one else could see.

“Hey. You’re safe,” you’d whispered, grounding him with your scent — instinctively, protectively.

He had breathed you in like it was oxygen.

And something had clicked in both of you.

Later, you learned from the team physician what had happened — a non-traditional omega imprinting event triggered by trauma. It was rare. Almost unheard of. But the readings were clear: Bob Reynolds had bonded to you.

You’d expected fury. Panic.

Instead, Bob had started showing up everywhere.

Now, weeks later, Thunderbolts HQ had adapted. You hadn’t spoken about the bond — not aloud. Not yet. But Bob’s presence was always there now. He stood behind you at briefings. Walked beside you in hallways. And when reporters asked a little too sharply about his past, he looked to you before answering.

Your scent calmed him.

And lately, he’d grown... clingy.

Not overtly. Not in a romantic sense. But you felt him. Orbiting your desk, brushing your shoulder as you typed. His chair always just a little closer than necessary in the briefing room. He brought you coffee every morning — even though he never drank any himself.

You caught Yelena smirking once as she passed, mouthing: Your omega's showing.

But you hadn’t claimed him. You hadn’t marked him. You hadn’t even told him that you knew.

Until tonight.

You found him there, as expected.

Golden hair tousled from the wind, suit discarded, feet bare against the rooftop ledge. He wasn’t going to jump — but the void hummed just beyond the stars in the sky, and he liked to listen to it in the quiet hours.

You stepped up beside him. Said nothing.

Bob spoke first, voice soft, frayed at the edges.

“Is it weird? That I feel better when you’re around?”

You shrugged. “You’re bonded. It’s chemical. Psychological. Instinctual.”

“But you didn’t want it.”

“I didn’t expect it.”

He turned to face you then. The glow behind his eyes was faint — more man than myth. He looked small in that moment, somehow. Like someone who’d carried too much for too long.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he said quietly. “I can leave. I’ll go off-world. Or find someone else to—”

You stepped closer. Close enough that your scent washed over him, slow and steady. You saw the way he inhaled, visibly calmed by it. How his shoulders dropped.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want you,” you murmured. “Just… didn’t know what it meant. Being your Alpha.”

Bob blinked slowly. “…It means you’re the only thing keeping me from unraveling some days.”

You reached up, brushing his temple gently with your thumb. “You’re not a burden, Bob.”

He melted into the touch.

And for the first time since that accidental bond, he whispered: “Then claim me.”