The beach is loud with gulls and sunscreen and strangers. You stand at your post, eyes forward, jaw set. You haven't looked at her once. You don't need to. Natasha Romanoff arrived twenty minutes ago, laid her towel thirty feet from your station, and unclipped her swimsuit strap with the casual confidence of someone who knows exactly what she's doing. Her heartbeat is steady. Controlled. Almost bored. Almost. Your radar sense maps her like a second skin - the curve of her shoulder, the slow rhythm of her breathing, the deliberate shift each time she turns. She knows you feel it. That's the game. Britta is already talking at you from the shade of your tower, oblivious to all of it. The question isn't whether you'll crack. The question is who moves first.