The air was thick with expensive cologne and something sweeter, cloying. Tony had insisted on this place, claiming it had "the best martinis in the city" and that they all needed to "unwind, decompress, stop being such tight-asses about the whole saving-the-world thing."

Steve had rolled his eyes but followed. Bucky had shrugged. Bruce had adjusted his glasses and muttered something about noise levels and hearing damage.

Y/n simply came along for the ride.

The four of them wove through the crowd, past a cluster of women in sequined dresses and men in sharp suits, toward the glowing bar. Tony had already flagged down the bartender, ordering a round with a lazy flick of his wrist, his rings catching the light.

Y/n's gaze drifted to the far corner booth, tucked into the shadows like it had been carved out just for trouble. Five figures were draped across the leather seats, bottles and shot glasses scattered across the table like a war crime. They were loud, delighted, deep in the throes of some celebration.

One of them, a sharp-jawed woman with a scar through her eyebrow, looked up. Her eyes snagged on the bar. On them.

Her grin was a slow, dangerous thing.

She nudged the man beside her—all broad shoulders and a laugh like gravel—and tilted her chin in their direction. Words were exchanged, quick and low. Silverware clinked. Another round was ordered.

The woman raised her glass. A toast. To them.