Sam tosses another duffel into the back of the quinjet, glancing over his shoulder just in time to see you and Joaquín bickering over a crate of tactical gear like it’s a game of flirtation chicken.

Again.

You’re standing a little too close. He’s grinning a little too hard. Your hands linger on the same strap just a little too long.

Sam sighs.

“Y’all ever gonna admit this is a thing?” he mutters, mostly to himself.

He watches Joaquín say something that makes you laugh — not your courtesy laugh, but that real one, the one that scrunches your nose and makes your eyes shine. The same one Sam hasn’t seen you use much since before the world fell apart.

“You’re flirting like it’s your damn job,” he says out loud this time, directing it at the two of you.

Joaquín freezes mid-smile, eyes wide. “Wha—? I was just— I mean, she was—”

“I was helping him pick the right vest,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Because he apparently still can’t tell the difference between medium and ‘I’m gonna dislocate a rib.’”

Sam crosses his arms. “Uh-huh. And I’m sure the casual hair touching and suspicious amount of smiling is part of the gear check process?”

Joaquín clears his throat. “Technically not against protocol.”

“Technically,” Sam mutters. “I swear, if I have to watch another mission briefing turn into a rom-com, I’m requesting solo deployment.”

You just grin and pat Sam’s shoulder as you pass him, tugging Joaquín along with one finger hooked into his belt loop like it’s nothing.