The next day, America and the Champions gathered outside a downtown bank, chaos spilling onto the street. Sirens wailed, civilians scrambled to safety, and inside the building, the Sinister Six had taken hostages.
"They're Spider-Man's rogues. Why are we dealing with them?" Power Man muttered, cracking his knuckles.
"Because Spider-Man's off-world with the Avengers," Cyclops replied dryly, munching on a bag of popcorn like it was just another training session.
America tightened her fists, eyes fixed on the smoking bank entrance. "Ironheart, status?"
Ironheart's armor lit up as she scanned. "Six hostiles inside, confirmed. Civilians restrained. But…wait—there's a seventh heat signature deeper in the vault."
Hawkeye frowned. "That doesn't track. The Sinister Six don't exactly do guest appearances."
Everyone turned to America. She hadn't moved, her jaw tightening.
"America?" Hawkeye pressed.
"Wait here."
In a flash of light, America vanished into a star-shaped portal.
Power Man sighed. "And there she goes."
…
The vault was quiet, too quiet. America paced across the polished floor, her boots echoing. Piles of cash and gold bars gleamed under fluorescent light—untouched.
Her stomach dropped. If they didn't come for the money, then what…?
She turned sharply—and froze.
A sleek playing card sat propped on the vault door.
Sorry, I can't give you the win this time. – B.C.
Her teeth clenched. Black Cat.
The vault door slammed shut behind her. Sirens blared. Sparks raced across the walls as an energy grid activated.
"Damn it, no, no, no!" She slammed her fist forward, summoning a star portal—only for the portal to fizzle, short-circuited by the energy field.
And then, a voice curled out of the shadows. Smooth. Teasing. Familiar.
"Right on cue. You're easier to bait than I expected, America."
Her eyes narrowed. "Felicia."
A burst of electricity rippled through the vault floor. America cried out, dropping to one knee as sparks danced across her jacket.
Felicia's laugh rang through the chamber. "Thank the Tinkerer for this one. Nasty little toy, isn't it? Custom-made to keep someone like you right where I want you."
America gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stand despite the pain. "What's the game this time, huh? Robbery? Or just making me look stupid in front of my team?"
Felicia's silhouette emerged, feline and elegant, perched on a stack of untouched gold. Her eyes gleamed under her mask.
"Oh, América…" She tilted her head, smiling wickedly. "This wasn't about the vault. Or the money. This was my invitation."
"Invi—what?"
Felicia hopped down gracefully, closing the distance between them until America could almost feel the heat of her presence.
"I wanted you here. Alone."
America's pulse spiked, anger and something else tangling in her chest. "You're unbelievable."
Felicia smirked. "And yet…you still showed up."
"I came here for the Sinister Six," America said, stepping closer, her voice low, "but when Ironheart scanned the bank, she found someone else. No wonder I was suspicious."
Their faces were inches apart now. America's gaze flickered downward, betraying her for a moment as it lingered on Felicia's lips.
Felicia noticed. A slow, knowing smile tugged at her mouth before she gently placed a hand on America's chest and pushed her back.
"Careful, querida." Her tone was soft, teasing. "Every game…has its limits." She bit her lip—deliberately, like she knew exactly what she was doing.
America's pulse jumped. Limits? I don't even know what those are.
She lunged forward, fist cocked, but Felicia dipped under her strike with feline grace. In one fluid motion, she swept America's legs and tackled her to the ground. The clang of their bodies hitting the vault floor echoed, followed by the glittering crash of gold bars spilling around them.
Felicia vaulted toward the vault door, grappling hook in hand. But before she could fire, America grabbed her ankle, yanking her back down.
"Oh no," America gritted her teeth, holding tight. "I'm not letting you slip away this time."
Felicia landed hard, then turned her head, a sly grin breaking across her face despite the scuffle. "Mmm…so you do like foreplay."
They tumbled together among the scattered gold, breaths ragged, muscles straining. For a heartbeat too long, neither moved.
"Hah…hah…" America looked down, only to see Felicia's eyes closed, her body perfectly still.
Her chest tightened. "Felicia?"
No answer.
America leaned closer, her voice dropping. "You don't have to fake it. I know you're tougher than this."
Still nothing.
America hovered uncertainly, her hand trembling before she reached out to check for a pulse.
And then—Felicia's eyes snapped open. She smirked up at America, inches away. "Gotcha."
Before America could react, Felicia twisted, planting a quick, daring kiss at the corner of her mouth—just enough to leave her stunned—before slipping free in a blur of silver and black.
By the time America scrambled to her feet, Felicia was already gone, her laughter echoing in the vault.
America touched her lips, heart hammering. What the hell is happening to me?
America stepped out of the vault, her pulse still racing. In the main lobby, the chaos had already ended—her teammates stood victorious over the Sinister Six, who were cuffed and groaning in defeat.
Ironheart waved at her with mock cheer. "Well, look who finally decided to show up. Our fearless leader. How's the adrenaline?"
America brushed past her without a word, still dizzy from the heat of Felicia's lips so close to hers.
"Uh, hello? I was talking to you!" Riri called after her, frowning.
America stopped, blinked, and forced herself to answer. "Sorry, Ri. Just… had a lot on my mind."
Hawkeye trotted over, squinting at her face. "Whoa, what's that on your lip?"
That got everyone's attention. Ironheart, Cyclops, and Power Man all crowded in.
"Yeah, it's like… smudged."
"Looks like—"
"Lipstick."
The three of them stared.
"Explain," Hawkeye demanded, pointing accusingly like she'd uncovered some massive conspiracy.
America froze. Words—usually her weapon—failed her completely.
"This…" she stammered, "this isn't what you think—"
"America doesn't need to explain." The cool, authoritative voice cut through the teasing.
Agent Hill strode in, with Fury right behind her.
"Director Fury!" The Champions snapped to attention. Everyone except America.
She stiffened, suddenly very aware of Fury's gaze. She lowered her head, unable to meet it. Hill's sharp eyes flicked over her face, taking in the telltale mark above her lip. Without hesitation, she seized America by the arm.
"Girl talk. Now."
The others exchanged looks as Hill dragged America out of sight.
Outside, in the quiet, Hill folded her arms, studying her. "Tell me straight," she said. "Did you just make out with Felicia Hardy?"
America's chest tightened. Her mouth went dry.
"No," she said firmly. Then, softer, "Not… exactly."
Hill raised a brow.
America's heart pounded as Felicia's grin replayed in her mind—the sly kiss at the corner of her mouth, the way it had left her reeling.
Hill sighed, pulling a handkerchief from her jacket. She wiped at America's lip with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. "Don't let Fury see this. He'll think you're compromised."
America swallowed hard, eyes darting away. Compromised? Maybe she was.
Because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't shake it.
Felicia's voice. Her lips. That dangerous, intoxicating smile.
Damn it, Felicia. Why do you have to make this so complicated?
.
.
.
.
.
To be continued.