Movie night had started like any other. Dimmed lights, uneven seating distribution, and Bucky trying to claim the corner spot on the couch.

You and Bob walked in late. Together, with the matching shirts. It took three seconds for the team to register it. And then Yelena spoke.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Yelena asked, her voice rising an octave in disbelief.

Bob instinctively flinched. “Okay, I knew this was a mistake.”

“No, no, no, you do not get to walk in here like that and act normal,” she said, pointing at him like he owed her an explanation, possibly a refund. “Matching shirts? Is this a cry for help or a declaration of war?”

Ava, who was on the floor with a blanket and exactly one visible eyebrow raised, leaned back and snapped a photo.

Bob gave her a look of desperation. “Ava, delete that. Please.”

Bucky squinted at the shirts, trying to make sense of them like they were some kind of psychological Rorschach test. “Are you guys dating now or…?”

“No,” Bob said, chuckling sheepishly. “Nope. Not dating.”

Through it all, Bob stayed quiet, arms crossed, head tilted slightly like he was watching a tornado from a safe distance. Then he looked at you, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Fine. I’ll admit it.”

You turned to him. “Admit what?”

“I kinda like this,” he said.