The only sounds were the distant, muffled hum of New York City far below and the soft, rhythmic creak of leather. The late afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the open-plan living room in stripes of gold and long shadow.

The couch, a massive, modern sectional in deep charcoal, faced the skyline. It was currently occupied.

You were, for all intents and purposes, alone. The mission was supposed to last another six hours, minimum. Steve had said so himself over comms, his voice tight with focus.

The elevator at the far end of the room, the private one that went directly to the Avengers common floor, gave a soft, distinctive ping.

The doors slid open with a quiet hydraulic hiss.

Sam Wilson stepped out first, shrugging off his flight harness. He was mid-laugh, turning to say something over his shoulder.

He froze. His eyes went wide, his jaw went slack. The laugh died in his throat.

Behind him, Steve Rogers—Captain America, your big brother—emerged, looking tired but satisfied, a small smile on his face. The smile vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated shock. His shield clattered to the floor with a deafening crash.

Natasha Romanoff appeared next, a ghost of a smirk already forming, her eyes taking in the scene with lethal efficiency. Wanda Maximoff peeked around her, then immediately flushed scarlet and looked at the ceiling.

There was a long, terrible, silent moment. The only movement was the slow, horrified turn of Steve's head as his gaze traveled from your face, to Bucky's, to the state of undress, and back again.

Bucky went very, very still against you. The metal plates in his arm realigned with a faint, hydraulic whir.