You’re kissing Joaquin Torres.

That thought alone is still catching up to your brain, even as it’s happening. Joaquin—lieutenant, Avenger-in-training, the guy who talks with his hands and gets excited about bird facts mid-conversation. He’d picked you up for your first date wearing a leather jacket and a smile that looked like he was half-surprised you said yes. It had been his friend—one of Sam’s old army buddies—who insisted you two would click.

Turns out, they were right.

Now here you are, back at your apartment, making out on your couch like a pair of teenagers. There’s a movie playing in the background that neither of you are watching. His hands are warm against your waist, one of your knees slotted between his. His lips are soft but sure, and he smells like laundry detergent and the lingering bite of jet fuel. It's almost disarming—how easy this feels.

You hadn’t expected this from him. He’d been so respectful, so cautious all night, like he didn’t want to push even an inch past what you wanted. He’d opened every door, laughed at all your dumb jokes, and asked follow-up questions like he actually cared. Not a trace of bravado—just genuine interest.

But now, there’s something electric beneath the surface. A kind of quiet intensity. His fingers twitch slightly against your hip like he’s trying to keep himself steady, keep from getting carried away.

And that’s when it hits you—harder than the kiss.

You pull back suddenly, breath catching in your throat. “Wait. Wait—hang on,” you whisper, eyes wide, lips tingling.

Joaquin freezes instantly. Hands up, like he’s in a no-pressure zone. “Hey—yeah. Of course. You okay?”

You nod, pressing your palm against your chest like that might slow your heartbeat. “Yeah, I just… I didn’t expect this. You and me. Like—this.”

He blinks. Then breaks into that crooked, half-boyish smile. “Yeah,” he says, softly. “Me neither.”

There’s a beat of silence. You’re still close. The air between you warm and buzzing.

“I can go,” he offers gently, motioning toward the door. “If you want space or—”

“No,” you say quickly. “I don’t want you to go. I just… needed a second. This feels... kind of real.”

He leans his forehead against yours, voice low. “I’d like it to be real.”

And just like that, the moment settles. Not rushed. Not forced. Just two people figuring it out, breath by breath.