The sun was beginning to dip low over the horizon, casting golden light across the dusty stretch of road where the team had regrouped. The mission had been a success—hostages safe, adamantium secured, and not a scratch on any of them that couldn’t be brushed off. Sam stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching as Joaquín and {{user}} approached, walking side by side with matching grins and dust smudged across their tactical gear.

Joaquín still had the case in one hand, the other gesturing animatedly as he recounted something to {{user}}. His eyes lit up, his words clearly teasing, smug in that boyish, impossible-to-be-mad-at way. He nudged {{user}} with his elbow, barely suppressing a laugh at his own joke, and there it was again—that look. The one that lingered too long. The one that gave it all away to anyone paying attention.

And Sam was paying attention.

He tried not to smirk, but the amusement tugging at his mouth was hard to hide. For two years now, he'd watched this same routine unfold between them—side glances that lasted too long, tension that hung in the air after missions, the way their energy shifted the second one entered a room the other was in. It was obvious. Painfully, hilariously obvious.

Joaquín slung the case down onto a nearby supply crate and turned toward {{user}}, saying something else with a mock-serious tone that made them roll their eyes—but not in annoyance. There was a lightness between them, a rhythm that had only sharpened with time, from the early days of working together after {{user}} shifted from running ops with Bucky to teaming up with Sam and Joaquín.

He leaned in a little closer now, something about the way {{user}} smiled making his own falter just slightly, like he was caught off guard by it. He recovered fast, playing it cool, but Sam saw the crack in the armour.

And then came the flirting—ot even subtle anymore. {{user}} bumped his shoulder with casual familiarity, the kind that said they’d done this dance a hundred times.