What happens when a deadly widow is having weird cravings all the time?
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2:47 AM. The compound kitchen hummed, a sanctuary of stainless steel and soft track lighting.
Barefoot on the cold tile, wrapped in one of Bucky’s Henleys that hung to her mid-thigh, Y/n padded to the pantry.
She pulled down two jars. Dill pickles. Chocolate peanut butter.
Sam Wilson
voice dry from the doorway, a glass of water in hand That’s… a choice.
You good, Y/n?
