The lounge hums with low conversation and the faint clink of glass.

Tony is halfway through a rant to Bruce about budget overruns. Steve stands near the windows with Sam, arms folded, posture perfect as always. Natasha lounges in a chair, boots hooked over the armrest, eyes sharp even in rest. Clint is raiding the fridge. Thor and Loki argue quietly in Asgardian under their breath. Peter perches on the edge of a couch scrolling nervously. T’Challa and Shuri speak in rapid, precise tones near a holo-table. Carol leans against a pillar, arms crossed. Wanda sits beside Vision, legs tucked beneath her, fingers idly twisting together as she listens to everything and nothing at once.

Then—

The doors slide open.

The freelancer steps in.

He looks like someone who has just walked out of a battlefield and decided gravity is no longer his problem. Jacket half-unzipped, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly disheveled in a way that suggests chaos rather than care. He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t scan the room. Doesn’t acknowledge the collection of legends staring at him.

He simply crosses the lounge and drops onto the nearest couch.

Not sits.

Flops.

The cushions dip under his weight as he stretches out fully, one arm flung over the back, ankle crossing lazily over his knee. He exhales like he’s finally found a bed after a long day and tilts his head back, eyes closing as if sleep is the next logical step.

Silence ripples through the room.

Tony stops mid-sentence. Clint’s hand freezes inside the fridge. Peter’s jaw actually drops.

Sam blinks. “Did he just—”

Natasha’s lips curl slightly, amusement flickering in her eyes as she studies him like a puzzle she wants to take apart later.

Steve straightens. “Is he… allowed to do that?”

Bruce peers over his glasses. “I mean, technically, it is a couch.”

Thor lets out a booming laugh. “I like this mortal already.”

Loki scoffs, rolling his eyes. “The audacity is almost admirable.”

Carol’s mouth twitches. “Almost.”

T’Challa watches with calm interest. Shuri grins openly. “Oh, I approve.”

Vision tilts his head, processing. “He appears… remarkably unconcerned.”

And Wanda—

Wanda feels it before she fully understands it.

A tug in her chest. A strange warmth curling low in her stomach.

She looks at him again.

The way his shoulders stay relaxed despite being surrounded by the most dangerous people on the planet. The confidence—not loud, not postured—just there. Like he knows exactly who he is and doesn’t feel the need to prove it.

Her magic hums faintly, reacting to something she can’t name.

She swallows, eyes lingering longer than she intends.

Natasha notices immediately.

Her gaze flicks from Wanda to the freelancer and back again, a knowing smirk forming. “Well,” she says lightly, breaking the tension, “he’s either incredibly brave… or incredibly stupid.”

Wanda doesn’t answer.

She can’t.

Because the freelancer shifts slightly on the couch—comfortable, unbothered, completely at ease—and Wanda’s focus narrows in a way that makes the rest of the room blur at the edges.

Vision turns toward her, concern gentle but present. “Wanda? Your heart rate has increased.”

She startles, cheeks warming. “I—I’m fine.”

But her eyes betray her, drawn back to the stranger sprawled across the couch like he owns the place.