Ever since Sokovia, Pietro had made it his mission to worm his way into every part of your life — your missions, your routines, your thoughts. You’d saved him that day, blocking a hail of bullets just seconds before they could tear through him. He’d been carrying a child in one arm, protecting Clint with the other, a blur of heroism and recklessness. You remembered the way his shocked, grateful eyes met yours when the dust settled.

He never forgot it.

Since then, he’d called you “hero,” sometimes sarcastically, sometimes sincerely, but always with that insufferable smirk. He had a talent for showing up when you least expected it, and today was no different.

You were curled up in a rare moment of peace on the couch in the Avengers lounge, flipping through a battered magazine. Pietro plopped down next to you in a blur of wind and motion, draping himself across the cushions like a lazy cat.

“You know I’m fast, right?” he drawled, that cocky Sokovian accent practically dripping with mischief.

You didn’t even look up. “Right…”

He leaned in, head hovering beside yours, voice low and teasing. “I’m also fast in the bedroo—”

Whack.

The magazine slammed into his face with a satisfying thwap.

He yelped, falling back dramatically against the cushions, laughing. “Ow! love, really?”