It started with little things.

The kind of things that slipped through the cracks in the chaos of Aveng3r life—between battles and bruises, team meetings and training drills.

At first, Pietro just liked being around you.

You weren’t loud like Tony, or intimidating like Nat. You didn’t try to out-lead Steve or one-up Clint. You were steady. Kind. You always remembered to bring an extra protein bar to training for the “speedy one who burns a thousand calories in an hour,” as you’d once teased him. You never looked at him like he was a weapon or a mistake.

You saw him.

And for a long time, Pietro didn’t know what to do with that.

He flirted, of course. That was second nature. But it wasn’t just flirtation with you. You made him nervous. Slower. That was new. When you laughed at his jokes or nudged him during team debriefs, he felt this heat spread through his chest, sharp and warm, like the start of a wildfire.

He asked you out for the first time six months into knowing you.

You laughed and said no, too focused on mission prep.

Then he asked again a week later—after a mission where you’d almost been hurt. He’d picked you up and carried you out of the danger zone before anyone else could blink.

Still no.

“Why not?” he’d asked, bewildered.

You’d just given him a small smile. “Because I like things to last. Not burn out in a flash.”

He hadn’t understood that then.

But he’d started trying.

He stuck around longer after meetings. Waited to walk with you to the kitchen instead of speeding off ahead. He learned your favorite tea, your favorite time of day to train, the songs you hummed under your breath when you thought no one was listening. He started leaving little things for you—not flashy gifts, but things that said I noticed.

A new bookmark when your old one fell apart.

A small bracelet made from thread and beads he found in Waknda.

A paper flower folded and left by your mug with a scribbled “Still waiting. –P.”

The others teased him, of course.

Tony called it “toddler-level pining.” Clint referred to it as “Romeo in overdrive.”

But Pietro didn’t care.

Because he knew what he wanted. And every day, he wanted it more.

Today, it was quiet in the Tower. Golden-hour light spilled across the living room floor. Wanda was off somewhere with Vision. The others were scattered—either on patrol or enjoying a rare moment of peace.

You stood by the counter in the communal kitchen, nursing a warm mug of tea, eyes a little tired but peaceful.

He watched you for a moment, leaning against the doorway. You didn’t notice him right away—which was rare, considering how often he made his entrances dramatic.

But today, he stayed still.

Just watching.

You were wearing that old hoodie you liked, sleeves pushed up, your hand curled around your mug. There was a soft hum in the air from the record player Sam must’ve left on, some mellow jazz drifting lazily through the space.

Perfect.

“Come on,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “Say yes.”

You didn’t turn around. “To what?”

“My eternal affection.”