Ben leaned against the cold metal wall of the warehouse, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might crack a tooth. His eyes tracked {{user}} like she was a bomb waiting to go off—loud, violent, and just familiar enough to make his skin crawl.

“I said don’t touch my gear,” he growled, voice sharp, already filled with irritation. “What the hell is it with you and boundaries?”

{{user}} didn’t even flinch. She turned, tossing a blade into the air and catching it effortlessly. “You think you’re the only one who knows how to handle a goddamn weapon?” she shot back, stepping closer. “Get over yourself, Captain America Lite.”

Ben pushed off the wall in a flash, closing the distance. “You’re a goddamn headache,” he spat. “Always mouthing off, always starting shit.”

“And you love it,” she snapped, too close now, eyes locked with his.

He stared at her, the muscle in his jaw twitching. He should hate her. He did hate her. Everything about her rubbed him the wrong way—her temper, her smart-ass mouth, the way she walked like she had nothing to lose.

But damn if that didn’t do something twisted to him.

“I’d snap your neck if I didn’t think you’d bite back,” he muttered.