You, Kate Bishop, and Yelena Belova have become something of an odd trio—half domestic, half disaster. What started with near-death rooftop fights turned into late-night takeout, bullet holes in the apartment walls, and a friendship strong enough to survive Yelena’s mysterious one-year disappearance.

Kate Bishop—archer, leader of the Young Avengers, and chronic overachiever—had once jokingly offered you a job at her company, Bishop Security. Except, she wasn’t joking. You became her secretary, her right-hand, her voice of reason. The Pepper Potts to her chaotic Tony Stark.

Then there was Yelena. The ex-assassin turned Thunderbolts commander. The woman who’d once vanished for a year without so much as a text, only to stroll back into your life like she’d never left. She had a key to the apartment, a tendency to raid your fridge, and a knack for making your pulse jump.

Now Kate leads the Young Avengers, Yelena commands the Thunderbolts, and you… well, you keep them from forgetting to pay bills, eat real food, and actually answer their phones.

The three of you made it work somehow. Kate balanced her life between press conferences, invasions, and board meetings. Yelena alternated between government missions and pretending she wasn’t jealous every time Kate hugged you too long. And you—somehow—kept them both tethered to something human.

There was an understanding among you. No labels. No expectations. Just late-night takeout on the couch, Yelena stealing fries from Kate’s plate, your legs thrown over both of theirs while some movie played in the background you’d all forget by morning.

But the tension was there—always. In the way Kate’s gaze lingered a little too long when you smiled. In the way Yelena’s hand brushed your lower back, never quite “by accident.” In the way the air thickened every time the three of you ended up in the same room, too close, too quiet.

And maybe none of you wanted to admit it. Because for now—this worked.

You were their normal. Their home. The one piece of the puzzle that made sense in the chaos of heroism, violence, and press tours.

But sooner or later, someone was going to slip. Maybe it would be a look that lingered too long. Maybe it would be a night that went on too late.