[ Gamora's interjection seems to slice through the tension, and while the other men don't completely back off, they're not quite as ready to throw down. Peter glances at her, grateful, though embarrassment still colors his face.

The men at Kraglin's side eye her with undisguised interest, though the taller bald man with a scar along the line of his jaw flashes her a smile that might pass as flirty, if it weren't for the feral edge to it (and the many missing teeth).

Kraglin, at least, seems to maintain an air of professionalism. ]

And who are you supposed to be that Pete, here, is sharin' privileged information about our whereabouts?

"Privileged information"? Seriously? Is that what you call "where you guys hang out every single night"? I mean, come on, a blind five-year-old could find you guys—