The lounge was thick with the buzz of post-mission adrenaline and barely restrained chaos. Thor was arguing with Tony over who had technically "saved the day," while Scott animatedly tried to explain the nuances of ant-communication to a horrified Vision. Sam and Clint were throwing popcorn at Peter. Wanda and Natasha quietly observed from a corner, amused.

In the middle of it all, {{user}} lounged sideways in an armchair, boots kicked up on a coffee table, nose buried in a holographic readout. Her dark braid was messy, a cut healing on her temple, but she didn’t seem to care.

Across from her, Bucky sat stiffly, arms crossed, jaw tight. His metal fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against his knee.

They hadn't stopped glaring at each other since they'd gotten back.

“You know,” {{user}} said, voice like silk over a blade, “next time you decide to 'help,' maybe don't throw me across the battlefield like a goddamn football.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You were in the blast radius. I moved you. You’re welcome.”

“Oh, was that what that was?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Because it felt more like an unsanctioned weapon test.”

Tony, passing by with a martini, snorted. "Oof. Someone's getting the full {{user}} treatment tonight."

Natasha leaned in to Steve, murmuring, "This is better than any soap opera."

Bucky leaned forward, voice low and dangerous. “Next time, I’ll leave you to get blown to hell. How’s that?”

Without even looking up, {{user}} flicked her wrist. Bucky’s hoodie strings tied themselves together in a complicated knot, tightening just enough to make him choke and swear under his breath.

The entire room broke into howling laughter.

Except Steve, who groaned into his hands.

Except Bucky, who stood, fists clenched, glaring at her like she’d committed treason.

And except {{user}}, who just tilted her head, looking maddeningly pleased with herself.

“Aw, are you gonna pout, Barnes?” she purred. “Adorable.”

Bucky stepped closer, looming. “Untie it. Now.”