Steven gripped his backpack, holding it tight on his lap as Maria eased the car away from the park. Her eyes stayed locked on the road, giving nothing away. He snuck a glance, trying to pin her down. Was this just her being nice? A setup? Or just Maria Hill doing what Maria Hill does?
"Thanks for the save," he said, voice scratchy from the long night. "Wasn't planning to star in 'Hobo Diaries' tonight."
Maria's mouth twitched—almost a smile. "Didn't peg you for the park bench type."
He let out a tired laugh, rubbing his neck. "Yeah, not quite my vibe. Yet."
Her gaze flicked his way for a heartbeat, then back to the street. "You're not homeless. Just… adrift. Right?"
"Close enough." He sank back, watching the city lights streak by. Adrift was generous. Dumped into the Marvel Universe—no ID, no powers, just a weird chat group as his only edge? Sure, "adrift" covered it.
The drive was quick, ten minutes through Bushwick's quieter corners. They rolled up to a plain brownstone, squeezed between a bodega and a laundromat. Two stories, brick, a couple of wilted plants by the steps. No S.H.I.E.L.D. gadgets, no goons. Just a house. Steven's brow quirked—he'd half-expected a spy lair—but Maria was already out, waving him to follow.
"C'mon," she said, unlocking the door. "Don't expect a five-star suite."
He hesitated, one foot still in the car. *Her actual place?* Shaking it off, he followed her inside.
The brownstone's interior matched the outside—simple, lived-in. A tight hallway opened to a small living room: beat-up leather couch, coffee table with books and a lone mug, a lamp throwing soft light.
"Bathroom's that way," Maria said, tossing her keys on the counter as she headed for what looked like the kitchen. "Spare room's upstairs. Don't mess with anything sketchy."
"Got it," Steven said, setting his backpack by the couch. He watched her pull two glasses from a cabinet, the faint *clink* cutting the quiet.
Maria Hill. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s steel spine, now handing him a crash pad like he was a lost puppy. If he could get her to trust him—even a little—it'd be a lifeline in a world packed with capes and conspiracies. Plus, she wasn't hard to look at.
He leaned against the couch arm, pulse ticking up. *Why not try now?* Something small, subtle. Test the vibe without overplaying his hand.
Maria turned, holding out a glass of water. Her eyes caught his, steady, like she was sizing up a threat. "Here," she said, voice flat.
"Thanks." He took it, letting his fingers graze hers—just a flicker, nothing pushy. Her expression didn't budge.
"You're staring," she said, sipping her water, one brow lifting. "Something up?"
Caught. He rubbed his neck, heat crawling up his face. "Just… grateful. Not every day someone like you pulls me off the street."
"Someone like me?" Her tone stayed cool, but her eyes sharpened.
"Y'know. Tough. Sharp. Doesn't let strays freeze." He kept it playful, watching for a crack in her armor. Was that a glint of amusement? Tough call.
"Don't get cozy," she said, setting her glass down. "This isn't a halfway house."
"Fair." He sipped, mind spinning. A little charm, not too much. Push too hard, and she'd ice him out faster than a S.H.I.E.L.D. lockdown.
Maria glanced at the stairs. "Bathroom's down the hall. Spare room's first door on the left. Don't touch what you don't get."
As her boots tapped softly upstairs, Steven sank onto the couch, glass still in hand. His brain wouldn't quit.
---
Morning came early, streetlights still bleeding through the spare room's blinds. Steven blinked at the ceiling, groggy, the world slow to click into place.
He rolled out of bed, the floor cold under his feet. A quick rinse in the bathroom sharpened him up, though the mirror wasn't kind—stubble, dark circles, hair like it'd lost a cage match.
"Good enough," he muttered, tugging on his cleanest shirt. Time to play his hand.
Downstairs, the house was dead quiet, like it was waiting for something. He slipped into the kitchen, moving light to avoid tripping any spy instincts.
A no-frills coffee maker sat on the counter, scuffed but functional. He dug through cabinets, finding dark roast grounds and two mugs. Not gourmet, but it'd do. He scooped grounds, filled the water tank, and hit brew. The machine coughed to life, the smell of coffee cutting through the morning haze.
Fridge check: milk, eggs, some sad salsa. No chef material, but a loaf of bread on the counter meant toast. Coffee and toast—basic, but it'd show he wasn't just mooching. He dropped two slices in the toaster, keeping an eye on the coffee's hiss.
His pulse climbed as he moved. This wasn't just about breakfast. Maria was a wall—cool, guarded—but if he could show he was worth keeping around, it'd mean more than a couch. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent like her? Nobody'd probably bothered with something as small as coffee. Maybe it'd hit different.
The toaster popped. He smeared butter on the bread, poured coffee into both mugs—hers black, guessing she skipped the fluff. He set it up on the counter: two mugs, toast on a plate. Simple, but deliberate.
Footsteps hit the stairs. Maria stepped into the doorway—dark jeans, fitted jacket, hair pulled tight. Her eyes swept the scene, lingering on the coffee and toast, then snapping to him. For a beat, she looked caught between puzzled and wary.
"Morning," he said, flashing a grin he hoped hid his nerves. "Thought I'd pay you back for the rescue. Coffee's hot. Toast's… toast."
Maria's brow arched. She stepped closer. "You got up early to make me coffee." Not a question, more like she was sniffing for a con.
"Yeah, well, you kept me from turning into a popsicle. Least I can do is fuel you up." He slid her mug closer, playing it smooth. "Black, right? Figured you're not into fancy."
She watched him, like she was peeling back his skull for answers. Then she grabbed the mug, taking a slow sip, eyes never leaving his. "Not awful," she said, setting it down. "But if you're trying to charm me, coffee's a low bar."