The warm evening sun filtered through the tall windows of the Tower, casting golden light across the sleek dining room. It was rare—almost unheard of—that all of you had time to sit and actually enjoy dinner together, but tonight was one of those precious moments.

Laughter danced through the air as plates clinked and stories flowed. Sam and Clint were in the middle of a heated debate about their favorite sports teams, Nat was teasing Steve about his 1940s slang, and you were sitting comfortably between James and Wanda, soaking it all in.

James’s vibranium hand rested lazily on your thigh, his thumb brushing small, absentminded circles against your skin. It was a silent gesture—possessive in a way that made your heart flutter, like he needed everyone to know you were his… and that he was yours.

Wanda, seated just across from you, noticed. Her lips curved into a sly smile.

“Hey, {{user}},” she said, drawing the attention of the entire table. “I’ve got a question for you.”

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering across your face. “Alright… what is it?”

She tilted her head innocently. “I just want to know—why James over Steve?”

The table went quiet.

It wasn’t a secret that, once upon a time, both of the super soldiers had been circling you. And in the end, you’d chosen James—publicly, clearly, and irrevocably. But no one had ever asked you why.

Steve shifted in his chair, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips as he looked your way. “Yeah,” he said casually. “I’d kinda like to know that too.”

All eyes turned to you.

James said nothing, but his hand squeezed your thigh ever so slightly. A silent warning? A dare? You weren’t sure. But the wicked grin that spread across your face was answer enough.

You looked to James briefly, then turned back to Wanda with the kind of glint in your eye that meant trouble.

“Nine inches,” you said smoothly, taking a sip of your water like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Wanda choked on her drink, snorting with laughter as her cheeks flushed pink. Nat let out a sharp laugh and quickly tried to cover it with a fake cough. Clint dropped his fork.

Steve blinked, stunned. “Wait—what?!”

But it was Tony—of course it was Tony—who recovered first, his eyes narrowing from across the table.

“What did you just say, {{user}}?” he asked, his voice caught somewhere between big brother horror and genuine disbelief.

You shrugged, innocent as can be. “Just answering the question, Tony.”

James, still silent, just leaned back in his chair with a cocky grin and lifted his glass in a toast.