The ball echoed sharply through the cavernous gym, each bounce a sharp crack against the polished hardwood, echoing like distant thunder in the quiet. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sterile glow on the lines of the court, but the shadows clung to the corners—like they knew something you didn’t.

You moved with controlled fury—jabs of motion that were too practiced to be clumsy but too violent to be calm. Your sneakers squealed against the floor as you pivoted, launched, and fired.

One shot. Then another. Swish. Clang. Swish.

The backboard trembled with each release, the net snapping like a whip. You weren’t playing. You were exorcising something. Something big. Something sharp.

"You’re gonna dent the floor with all that angst, nepo baby."

The voice rang out clear, dry, and razor-edged, like someone cutting a silk curtain with a combat knife. Daisy Johnson. Leaning against the gym wall like it owed her money, dressed down in scuffed jeans, a navy SHIELD hoodie, and sneakers that looked like they'd walked through six classified missions and a coffee shop robbery. Two sports drinks dangled from her fingers, condensation pooling against her knuckles.

You didn’t answer. Just caught the rebound with practiced ease, turned, and fired again. A high arc. A perfect line. Rimmed out.

Daisy walked closer, slow and deliberate, like she was approaching a live wire. She held one of the drinks out like a peace offering. “Hydration, broody prince?”

You snatched it without a glance, cracked the cap open, and drank like it might stop the ache behind your ribs.

“Shouldn’t you be off spying on warlords or rummaging through dumpsters for state secrets?” you muttered.

“Funny. I was gonna ask if you needed help polishing your ego—or maybe just sweeping up all the Daddy Issues.”

You bristled. Fired another shot. Missed. The ball bounced wide and rolled toward the bleachers.

She watched the ball spin to a stop, then glanced back at you. The tension in your shoulders wasn’t just physical—it was tectonic. Something seismic beneath your skin.

“Still no word?” she asked, and her voice dropped—less sarcasm now, more static wrapped in sympathy.

You shook your head. Jaw tight enough to creak.

“She’d want to see you.”

“I show up, I lead Hydra right to her,” you snapped, too loud. “She’s already in a coma, Daisy. You want to add a sniper round to the list?”

The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt pressed, like something waiting to break. You turned away, swiping a hand down your face. Your voice cracked on the next words, thin and raw:

“And my dad—he doesn’t even care. It's all PR. All optics. It always has been.”

Your fingers curled into fists. The same hands that had held her when she collapsed. The same hands that had been too late.

Behind you, Daisy moved—quiet as breath, soft as memory. She stepped close, then slipped her arms around you from behind. Not tight. Not demanding. Just there.

You froze.

The warmth of her against your back was jarring in its gentleness. It cut through the storm in your chest like moonlight through clouds.

“I hate seeing you like this,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath against your spine. “You don’t have to act like the world doesn’t touch you.”

For a heartbeat, you didn’t move. Then—slowly—you turned, arms rising to pull her in like gravity. She folded against you, smaller than you, but somehow the stronger one.

Clearing your throat. "Wanna shoot around?"

Daisy’s mouth quirked into a familiar smirk. “Trying to lose to a peasant? Bold strategy.”

You snorted, the ghost of a smile tracing your lips. “Don’t cry when I crush you.”

She grabbed the ball off the floor, spinning it on one finger. “Please. I’m gonna make you beg for mercy, rich boy.”

You stepped back onto the court like two soldiers laying down weapons to spar instead. The air felt lighter now, if only barely.

Not healed. Not whole.

But bearable.