The mission was finally over. Lin stood near the Quinjet ramp, arms folded, trying to play it cool while very casually not looking at {{user}} across the hangar.

Peter strolled up like he hadn’t learned boundaries in any of his fifteen years of conscious behavior.

“For a guy with ancient warrior training, you get weirdly twitchy whenever {{user}} walks in,” he said, voice too loud and tone too smug. “Impressive, really.”

Lin shot him a look. “Do you have any survival instinct?”

Peter sipped his drink — “Not one.”

Lin didn’t answer. He stared straight ahead like eye contact with {{user}} might actually kill him.

“Too dangerous,” he muttered. And he meant it.