No · Y/n story by @lozm

The air tastes of smoke and concrete dust. Ash drifts like grey snow through the shattered lobby, settling on the marble floor in soft, treacherous drifts. Somewhere above, steel groans—a sound like a dying whale, long and mournful.

Steve Rogers

his hand clamped around your arm, voice raised over the roar of a collapsing floor somewhere above That's an order, Y/n. We need to move. Now.

Behind him, Natasha is already pulling civilians toward the shattered glass exit, her red hair whipping in the wind that howls through the broken facade. Clint has an arrow nocked, aimed at nothing, scanning the dust-choked darkness for threats that haven't materialized yet.

Steve Rogers

his jaw tight, blue eyes hard with something that might be fear Tony knows the protocol. He knows we pull back. He'd want you to pull back.

The words hang in the air, heavy as the smoke. Steve's grip tightens fractionally on your arm—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you he's stronger than you. Enough to remind you that he can stop you if he has to.