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Bob was just doing his job.
That’s what he’d told himself when he got handed the login for the @NewAvengersOfficial social media accounts. “You’re young. You know hashtags,” someone had said. “Make us look good.”
And he had! The account was thriving. Followers loved behind-the-scenes clips of Ava bench-pressing small cars, Yelena rolling her eyes at everything, and Joaquín photobombing mission prep with finger guns. They even liked the snack reviews. He was a responsible digital content manager.
Then came the hallway photo.
Bob hadn’t meant to upload it. Not really. It had been in a folder called ‘Ops Dump – Thursday,’ and he’d been queuing content, multitasking between thumbnail cropping and responding to someone in the comments asking if Bucky’s biceps were insured. He’d seen the photo, thought, Huh. Dramatic lighting. That’s cinematic, and tossed it into the carousel.
Did he look closely? No.
Did he realize the subjects in the photo were Captain America and the Winter Soldier making out like horny teenagers behind the comms room?
Also no.
Fifteen minutes later, Bob looked at the numbers and choked on his latte.
He watched the likes skyrocket. The quote tweets exploded. The DMs flooded.
One simply read:
“I AM IN TEARS. THIS IS THE GAY PROOF I’VE WAITED FOR SINCE 2014.”
Another:
“PUT THE EXIT SIGN KISS ON A STAMP. DO IT, COWARDS.”
And then his phone rang.
The conference room was quiet in the same way a minefield was “quiet.”
Yelena was standing in front of the projector screen with her arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and murder in her soul. Behind her, the infamous photo was displayed in high-res glory: Sam and Bucky, backlit by red emergency lighting, mid-kiss, hands on each other’s faces like they were going to die if they didn’t touch.
Joaquín was trying not to laugh. Ava was sipping coffee like this was the best Tuesday she'd had in weeks.
And Sam and Bucky were sitting side by side, smug as hell.
“I cannot believe I was collateral damage in your romantic espionage,” Yelena snapped, turning to Bob, who was standing near the door like a man awaiting execution. “I was in that post. You tagged me. In the same carousel as this.”
Bob raised both hands like he was under arrest. “I didn’t know they were kissing! It was blurry! I thought it was, like, brooding or whispering or something!”
Bucky turned toward Sam, mock-pensive. “Do we brood while whispering?”
“Sometimes,” Sam replied, grinning. “But we usually stop before it gets tongue-involved.”
“I will shove you both into the sun,” Yelena growled.
“I liked it,” Ava offered. “Great framing. Bucky’s jawline really popped.”
“Thank you,” Bucky said, all false modesty. “That was a good lighting day for me.”
Sam leaned on the table, fake-sincere. “We didn’t mean to soft-launch.”
“You hard-launched with a vengeance!” Yelena shouted. “You broke the internet. Ava sent me the meme of you two kissing with the caption, ‘National Boyfriends.’ Do you understand what you’ve done?”
Bob whimpered. “Oh no. I’ve committed a gay war crime.”
Later, in the hallway, Bob sat slumped against the wall, still clutching his phone. He’d turned off notifications. It hadn’t helped. The internet was feral. Someone had made a playlist called Exit Sign Romance. There were at least four fan cams. One user had drawn an animated version of the kiss—with sparkles.
Yelena stomped past him with her combat boots squeaking, carrying a bag of knives and rage.
“Next time you post a thirst trap, Bob,” she growled without stopping, “blur the damn tongue.”