The air smelled of salt spray, coconut sunscreen, and the faint metallic tang of one of Tony’s experimental margarita machines, which was whirring aggressively from the cabana.

All around, the team was scattered in states of relaxation. Thor was attempting to build a sand sculpture that looked suspiciously like Mjolnir. Clint was passed out face-down on a towel, his bow tucked safely under the shade of his chair. Natasha, sleek in a black one-piece, was reading a book with the intensity of a woman decoding nuclear launch codes.

You were stretched out on a sun lounger, the heat soaking into your bones. The black bikini felt like a second skin, damp with sweat and sea spray.

A few feet away, Bucky was sprawled on his own lounger, shirtless.

Three women you didn't recognize—Stark Industries employees, probably, assistants from R&D or marketing—had wandered down from the main house. They were wearing tiny swimsuits and even tinier smiles.

And they were making a beeline straight for Bucky.