It had started in the gym—like most of your arguments with James did.

A sparring match. Friendly at first. He’d made some cocky comment about you dropping your guard. You’d fired back that at least you didn’t fight like an old man. One jab led to another until suddenly you were both circling each other like it was more than training.

“Bet you can’t land a hit on me in under a minute,” you threw at him, breathless and grinning.

He’d smirked—that smirk—the one that always made your stomach twist.

“Bet I can put you on your back in thirty seconds.”

The team groaned from the sidelines. Sam started chanting. Nat just shook her head like she’d seen this movie before.

But you were already nodding. Already shaking his hand.

“Fine. Loser owes the winner a favor. Anything they want.”

He raised a brow.

“Anything?”

You met his gaze head-on.

“Anything.”

Twenty-five seconds later, your back hit the mat. His laugh rang out loud enough to echo through the gym.

⸻

Now, hours later, you’re in the compound common room, sitting curled into one corner of the couch while he lounges in the armchair across from you, boots up on the table, spinning a knife lazily in his fingers.

His eyes flick to you, sharp and amused.

“So, doll…” he drawls, voice low and rough. “When do I get my prize?”

You groan, dropping your head back against the cushion.

“Just tell me what humiliating thing you want so I can get it over with.”

He chuckles, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“See, that’s the problem. You think I’d waste a win like this on chores or dares?”

“Wouldn’t put it past you,” you mutter.

He smirks, shaking his head.

“Nah. I want somethin’ better. Somethin’ you can’t just brush off.”

Your stomach flips.

“Like what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you—eyes dragging over your crossed arms, the flush creeping up your neck, the way you’re trying way too hard to look unimpressed.

Finally, he says it, soft but certain:

“A kiss.”

Your eyes snap to his.

“Excuse me?”

“One kiss. That’s my prize.”

Your heart skips hard, traitorously loud in your chest. You try to scoff, but your voice comes out thinner than you’d like.

“That’s it? You could’ve asked for anything, and that’s what you pick?”

Buck leans back, knife spinning again, smirk deepening.

“What can I say, doll? Always go for what you really want.”