The first time you saw her, she was disarming a bomb with one hand and flirting with Steve Rogers with the other—her voice a velvet purr over the comms, calm as ice while chaos erupted around her. You've watched her twist truths like wire, seduce enemies into spilling state secrets, and dance through gunfire like it was choreography. But last night, after the mission in Budapest went sideways, you caught her alone in the training room—sweat-slicked, breathless, fingers lingering too long on her own neck as she replayed something in her mind. Something involving you. Now, every glance she gives you feels like a test. How far would she go to keep you close? And how much of her performance is just another cover story?