The door clicks shut behind you and his head lifts, blue eyes sweeping over you slowly, deliberately, darkening when they land on the tiny shorts you wore to tempt him. The corner of his mouth curves because you’re already playing the game.

“Been thinkin’ about you all day, doll,” he says, voice syrup-thick, gravel just beneath. His gaze snags on the delicate chain resting above your collarbone. “C’mere.”

A single word, quiet, and your pulse kicks against your ribs.

You toe off your shoes and cross the carpet, stopping only when your knees brush his. He’s so much bigger up close; it never fails to make you feel impossibly small, every inch of you a perfect fit for his shadows.

His hand finds your hip, thumb stroking lazily along the waistband of your shorts. Heat blooms through you. He hums low in amusement.

“These look painted on,” he murmurs. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You shrug, all faux innocence.

“Maybe I missed you.”

The admission is soft, nearly swallowed by the tension crackling between you.

His eyes lift to yours, the teasing fading for a heartbeat.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.”

The sincerity hits harder than any flirtation ever could.

Then suddenly you’re airborne.

A surprised sound leaves you as he lifts you effortlessly, settling you against the wall beside the couch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. One broad hand braces your back while the other supports your thigh, holding you as though you weigh nothing at all.

“Tell me what you need,” he says quietly, forehead resting against yours.

You swallow.

“You.”

His eyes darken.

“All of you.”

A low rumble vibrates through his chest as he presses closer, and your breath catches.

“That what the shorts were for?” he asks. “Wanted me thinkin’ about you all day?”

“Yes.”

The answer comes far too quickly to be embarrassed about.

His grin is slow and devastating.

“Honest girl.”

He kisses your throat, lingering there while his hand traces soothing paths along your skin.

“You’ll get what you want,” he promises softly. “But we’re gonna take our time.”

And he does.

Because for all his size, all his strength, all the ways he could overwhelm you if he wanted, Bucky has always treated you like something precious.

He takes his time with every touch, every kiss, every whispered praise.

Every reminder that he’s paying attention.

That he’s listening.

That he knows exactly how to make you feel safe enough to let go.

When he eventually carries you back to the couch, settling you beneath him, his gaze never leaves yours.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear before leaning down to kiss you again, slow and thorough, stealing every coherent thought from your head.

The world narrows until it’s only him.

His hands.

His voice.

The familiar weight of him surrounding you.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And just like always, he’s watching you with that impossible combination of devotion and desire that makes your chest ache.

“There she is.”

The praise settles deep.

Every touch after that feels deliberate.

Every whispered compliment chips away another piece of your composure.

By the time pleasure finally crashes over you, you’re clinging to him, breathless and trembling.

Bucky follows moments later, burying his face against your neck as he holds you through it.

Neither of you rush afterward.

Neither of you ever do.

Instead, he gathers you into his lap and wraps a blanket around both of you.

The apartment is quiet again.

Peaceful.

His hand drifts lazily along your thigh while you curl against his chest.

“You okay?” he asks.

You smile against his skin.

“Better than okay.”

A laugh rumbles through him.

“Good.”

You tilt your head up.

“Why?”

“Because,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I plan on spending the rest of the night proving something.”

Your grin widens.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

His arms tighten around you.

“That there’s no such thing as too much of me for you.”

You laugh, melting further into his embrace.