Prizzy 💜

He sat behind his too-polished desk in his too-expensive office, staring blankly at an inbox full of emails with subject lines that made his eyes twitch. Urgent: Appropriations Strategy. Reminder: Agriculture Committee Briefing. Lunch with Donor—Move to Friday?

Lunch with a donor. Christ.

He rubbed a hand over his face, resisting the urge to lay his forehead flat on the desk. This wasn't him. He was a soldier, not a politician. He gave speeches like he gave orders—short, dry, and with zero charisma.

Every time he opened his mouth in public, he could see reporters wince. His team had tried coaching him. “Smile more.” “Loosen up.” “Try not to look like you're about to gut someone with a bayonet.”

So far, the best he'd managed was a half-smirk that came off more like a nervous tick.

Bucky sighed. Deep, soul-weary sigh. He looked at the framed picture on the wall—him shaking hands with someone he was pretty sure hated him. That was politics, apparently. Pretending to enjoy small talk with people who could and would stab you in the back with a regulation-sized American flag pin.

His phone buzzed again.

Another email.

Subject: Staff Assistant Interviews – You Still Haven’t Picked Anyone

Bucky groaned. That damn assistant position. He’d pushed the interviews for three weeks now, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting through a dozen conversations with people who’d use phrases like “synergize the legislative workflow” without flinching.

He didn’t want someone who talked like a press release. He just wanted someone who would show up, get shit done, and not ask too many questions when he had to disappear for an afternoon to punch a wall in private.

But apparently, you couldn’t say that in a job posting.

He glanced at the stack of printed resumes on his desk. He’d skimmed a few. Too polished. Too eager. Too… not him. None of them had that quality he couldn’t quite define—something real. Something normal. Someone who wouldn’t blink if he came into the office looking like he’d fought a raccoon on the metro.

The door creaked open slightly. It was Sam. Again.

“Still haven’t picked anyone?” Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Bucky didn’t look up. “They all talk like LinkedIn threw up on a resume template.”

Sam chuckled. “Want me to just find you someone?”

“God, yes.”

And just like that, he handed off the decision. Delegated. Efficient. Which, ironically, made him feel even more like he didn’t belong here.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, exhaling like a man twice his age. He looked at the ceiling. It stared back.

Congress. Jesus.

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Some Days Later

Bucky didn’t look up when the door opened.

He figured it was Brenda. Maybe Sam again. Hopefully not another reporter asking for a quote he’d regret later. He was mid-email—something about committee assignments and a lunch reschedule—when he heard it.

“Hi! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry I’m a tiny bit early—traffic was a dream, can you believe that?”

Not Brenda.

The voice was too bright, too chipper, and far too comfortable for someone stepping into a federal office for the first time.

Bucky looked up slowly, pen still in his hand, and there you were—framed in his doorway like a damn Hallmark commercial. Floral dress under a structured blazer, hair bouncing, smile like you’d just walked into brunch, not a congressional office. You carried a leather bag and a clipboard and somehow radiated the scent of confidence and cinnamon.

He blinked.

You didn’t flinch. Just walked right in like you’d been doing it your whole life.

“Congressman Barnes, right?” You extended your hand, polished nails and all. “I’m the assistant Sam recommended. So nice to meet you.”

He didn’t take your hand right away. He was still trying to process the human sunbeam in front of him. You looked like someone who hosted charity galas and had a Pinterest board for every holiday.

Eventually, he stood. Shook your hand. Warm grip. Firm. No hesitation.

“Right,” he said, voice low and flat. “Sam said you’d be coming by.”

You smiled even wider. “I brought a printed copy of my resume, just in case. I know Sam already sent it over, but you never know. Oh! And I made you a little overview—color-coded—of what your schedule might look like if we streamline some of the overlapping committee times. Brenda said Wednesdays are chaos.”

You placed the papers on his desk like you’d done this a hundred times.

Bucky glanced at the overview. It was in soft pastel shades, each block of time cleanly labeled, with footnotes. Actual footnotes.

He looked back up at you. Still smiling. Still sparkling, somehow.

“You always this organized?” he muttered.

Your laugh was soft but definite. “Only when I’m awake.”

Christ.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t really do… interviews.”

“Good,” you said, cheerful as hell. “I don’t really do bad interviews.”

He had no idea what to do with that.

“I work hard,” you went on, tone bright but grounded now. “I don’t miss deadlines. I know how to read people. I’ve handled CEOs, campaign donors, and one very angry florist. And I’m from New York, so I’m nice—but only as long as you need me to be.”

That part made him pause.

Your smile stayed sweet, but your eyes—sharp. That flicker of edge.

He exhaled. “You’re hired.”

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A Few Weeks Later

The thing was—Sam hadn’t exaggerated.

You were, somehow, even better than advertised.

You had shown up the next morning with a personalized planner, a labeled filing system, and two different cold brews—one for him, one “just in case he preferred oat milk.” Within three days, his inbox was tamed, his schedule was tight, and his meetings started and ended on time.

You smiled your way through logistical nightmares. You turned budget briefings into organized, annotated packets. You once managed to reschedule an entire committee meeting without pissing anyone off. That alone should’ve won you a medal.

And the worst part?

Everyone adored you.

Brenda now referred to you as her “angel girl.” The intern, Emily, had started mimicking your outfit choices. Even grumpy old Greg from Finance smiled when you passed him in the hall, and Bucky hadn’t seen Greg smile since the start of his term as Congressman.

Meanwhile, Bucky… didn’t know how to talk to you.

You were polite, always. Sweet. Occasionally too sweet—offering him snacks mid-meeting, asking if he needed a moment to breathe after intense calls. Once, you said “You’re doing amazing, by the way,” after a disastrous media interview.

He’d stared at you like you’d spoken another language.

He didn’t know what to do with that kind of warmth. He knew how to handle tension, confrontation, icy professionalism. He could navigate sharp words and sharp eyes. But compliments? Softness? Your sunny little “good morning!” every day before you sat down to absolutely decimate his workload?

It threw him off.

And you never tried to throw him off. That was what made it worse. You weren’t fake. You didn’t flirt or suck up. You were just… like this. Bouncy and competent. Bubblegum and brute force. Warmth wrapped in weaponized organization.

He wasn’t sure if it made him uncomfortable or impressed. Maybe both.

He heard you laugh in the hallway one afternoon. Loud. Joyful. Brenda was giggling too. Probably over that dumb plant someone brought in. You’d named it. Called it Marvin. Marvin the Money Tree. Bucky didn’t understand why that made everyone so happy.

He sipped his coffee. It was oat milk. He hadn’t asked for that.

You’d just noticed.

One month in, Bucky realized you might actually be magic.

You handled press requests like a PR veteran, fielded donors with the grace of a diplomat, and had somehow convinced the coffee cart guy downstairs to give the staff a “Capitol Crew” discount.

Bucky didn’t know how you did it—maybe you smiled at the guy too nicely, or maybe you just offered to reorganize his inventory out of the goodness of your glittery heart.

You never stopped smiling.

Even when the job sucked. Even when schedules collapsed, or the media spun things sideways, or the office printer jammed for the fourth time in a single day—you smiled. Not in a fake, corporate way. In a real way. Like the chaos never got to you.

It made him suspicious.

He watched you from behind his desk more often than he meant to. You always moved like you were dancing to some rhythm he couldn’t hear. Laughing with interns, giving Brenda a shoulder squeeze on a bad day, complimenting someone’s shoes before dropping a twenty-slide briefing deck into their inbox.

And every time you turned that blinding kindness on him, Bucky froze like you’d aimed a spotlight at a feral cat.

He didn’t know how to respond when you handed him color-coded notes for a hearing and said, “I highlighted your speaking points—if you want to wing it, I backed up the quotes with data so you sound casual but still super smart.”

Or when you brought him soup from that one hole-in-the-wall deli because he coughed once and you “just had a feeling.”

He grunted. He nodded. He said “Thanks,” but it always came out dry, stiff, like someone had to wring it out of him.

You didn’t seem to mind.

You never flinched. Never made it awkward. Just smiled and moved on to the next task like your kindness didn’t require a thank you. And that bugged him more than anything.

He was used to people playing politics—smiling with their teeth, angling for favor. But you? You brought him homemade banana bread on a Monday because “Mondays are brutal and I didn’t want you to suffer more than necessary.”

Who does that?

He watched you now, through the glass wall of his office. You were standing in the hallway, coaching the new comms kid on how to navigate a donor event, switching between “babe” and “sweetheart” like it was a dialect, your hands moving as fast as your mouth. You were wearing some lavender thing today. Smelled like citrus and resolve.

Bucky looked back at his laptop. He hadn’t typed in ten minutes.

He hated this.

Not you. Just this feeling.

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Three Months In

It started with a meeting.

A routine one—just a few junior reps and a legislative strategist who looked like he’d swallowed a thesaurus. You had prepped Bucky flawlessly. Briefing notes, talking points, key players—all in a soft yellow folder with a post-it that said, “You’ve got this :)”

He didn’t got this.

The strategist spent the whole meeting throwing jargon like darts. Bucky kept pace, mostly. You even leaned in halfway through to quietly remind him which bill number they were referencing. Still, when the room cleared, Bucky felt like he’d just walked out of a storm.

You stayed behind, re-organizing his desk without being asked. “You did really well,” you said softly. “I know this guy was wordy but you held your ground.”

Bucky nodded.

But something in his chest pulled tight.

You were too kind. Too gentle about it. It made him feel like a child being praised for tying his shoes.

He didn’t say anything then.

But it stuck.

You were good at your job—he knew that. But politics wasn’t just about competence. It was brutal. Ugly. People chewed you up and spat you out for smiling too much, for being too friendly, too soft. And you… you glowed like you didn’t know the world could be mean.

He couldn’t shake the worry. That someday soon, someone was going to say the wrong thing to you in the wrong room, and you’d come undone. Or worse—you wouldn’t. You’d just… leave. Quietly.

So a few days later, when Sam called, Bucky didn’t think twice before stepping into his office, closing the door, and letting the words out.

“She’s not cut out for this,” he said.

Right outside the door, you were balancing two coffees—his preferred dark roast and your own sugar-heavy concoction—and a muffin from the café down the street. You’d been about to knock.

You didn’t.

“She’s good at the job,” Bucky went on, his voice low but firm, “but I don’t know if this is the right setting for her. Politics isn’t about being nice, Sam. She’s too… bright. Too open. That’s not sustainable here.”

Your stomach dropped.

It was the way he said it. Like being who you were wasn’t just a mismatch—it was a liability.

Too bright. Too open. Too much.

You’d heard that before. Too sweet, too emotional, too loud, too bubbly, too soft. Always a smile, always a “thank you,” always a goddamn post-it note. And it was never enough. It never counted. People liked it until they didn’t.

You blinked hard, eyes burning suddenly. You hated how fast the tears welled—hated that he’d never even raised his voice, never said it cruelly. That somehow made it worse. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He’d just meant it.

You stayed frozen, heart thudding.

Then Sam, through the phone, “You sure this is about her not fitting in… or you not knowing what to do with someone like her?”

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

You set the coffee and muffin on the side table near his door, the yellow post-it stuck neatly to the lid. It said “You looked tired today. Hope this helps.”

But you didn’t knock.

And for the first time since you’d started, you walked away without smiling.

────────────────────────

It started subtly.

You didn’t stop smiling—but it didn’t reach your eyes anymore.

Bucky told himself he was imagining it at first. That maybe you were just tired, or busy, or maybe it was allergy season. But the longer he watched you—really watched you—the more certain he became that something had shifted.

You still did your job. That was never in question.

Emails answered. Calls returned. Schedules maintained like clockwork. You still handed him briefing packets with neat highlights, still walked him through the day’s chaos each morning.

But the post-its stopped.

No more “You’ve got this!” or “Don’t forget to drink water :)”

Your voice, once full of light and little jokes and endearing asides, had gone quieter. Measured. Professional. Nothing personal. You didn’t ask how his weekend was. Didn’t tease him for frowning at your color coding. You didn’t call him “bossman” anymore.

You just called him Congressman.

That one hit the hardest.

The rest of the office noticed too. Jimmy asked where your “sparkle” went. Brenda had quietly asked Bucky if you were okay. He’d just shrugged, said you were probably busy. But deep down, something pulled at him.

You hadn’t brought him coffee in nearly two weeks.

He hadn’t realized how much he noticed it until it was gone.

You still smiled at other people—still lit up when interns needed help, still made time to compliment someone’s new haircut. But with him, there was a wall now. Polite. Distant. Not cold, exactly. Just… not warm.

You didn’t linger. You didn’t laugh with him anymore. You didn’t look at him like you had before—like he was something worth rooting for.

And the worst part?

He didn’t know why.

He couldn’t remember doing anything—saying anything—that would’ve caused it. But then again, he hadn’t been paying enough attention, had he? You’d been right there, every damn day, and he’d barely looked up. Barely said more than necessary.

He didn’t realize he missed you until the version of you he knew was gone.

And now, sitting at his desk, watching you work across the office with that tight-lipped expression and that perfectly put-together posture, he felt something sharp twist in his chest.

He missed the sunshine.

And somehow, he was sure it was his fault.

────────────────────────

He should’ve canceled everything.

But he didn’t.

Bucky woke up feeling like he’d been run over by a truck, the kind that reversed and hit him twice. Fever high, head pounding, body aching like his joints had finally decided to unionize and strike.

But he had a subcommittee meeting at 10 a.m., and three calls with constituents scheduled after that, and some damn transportation proposal that needed his signature.

He could barely see straight.

He tried emailing Brenda, but it took him ten minutes to type two lines. Gave up. Called you instead.

You picked up on the second ring. “Good morning, Congressman—”

“Hey,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “I, uh… I need you to bring some files from the office. And… maybe a laptop. There’s stuff I gotta do.”

You paused. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer fast enough.

“Mr. Barnes?” This time your voice had real concern in it—soft but sharper, like it used to sound before he ruined everything.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just a cold. I just… I need the budget report and that meeting brief for the committee.”

There was a pause. Then, “Text me your address. I’m coming over.”

Before he could object, you hung up.

You showed up 40 minutes later.

He didn’t expect you to let yourself in, but you did, like you belonged there—like someone had to keep things running. You had the laptop, the folders, your phone already out and your expression focused.

You were still in your usual outfit—put-together and professional—but there was something else in your eyes when you saw him slumped on the couch, pale, sweaty, and looking every bit like a man who shouldn’t be left alone with political responsibility.

“Jesus, Mr. Barnes,” you said, setting everything down. “You look like death.”

“I told you, I’m—”

“You’re not fine,” you snapped, and for the first time in months, your voice had bite. “You’re burning up. Go. Bed. Now.”

He blinked. “You’re not my—”

“I said bed, Barnes. Don’t make me speak again.”

That shut him up.

You guided him to the bedroom with surprising gentleness, adjusted the blankets, took his temperature without flinching.

Muttered something about idiots and stubborn men as you set a glass of water on the nightstand. Then you left the door half open and walked straight into his living room like it was your war zone.

And then?

You took over.

Bucky stirred to the sound of your voice. It was steady. Calm. Businesslike. Something about the infrastructure bill and a scheduling conflict.

He blinked at the ceiling, groggy but conscious enough to realize the headache had dulled. The water glass on his nightstand was full again. The thermometer was gone. So were most of the folders.

But your voice remained.

“…no, we’re not pushing it another week. The Congressman already reviewed the amended language,” you said, sharp but not yet rude.

Bucky turned toward the open bedroom door. He could just barely see the edge of you standing in the living room, phone to your ear, one hand on your hip.

A pause.

And then—

“Okay, you know what? You don’t gotta raise your voice at me, sweetheart. That ain’t how this works.”

His eyebrows rose. That tone? That wasn’t the voice he’d grown used to over the last month.

Your next sentence came faster. Smoother. The vowels shortened. The sugar gone.

“You show up late, you miss deadlines, and now you got the audacity to talk down to me? Mm-mm. Uh-uh. Try again.”

The silence on the other end must’ve been long, because your voice dropped lower, firmer.

“You’re an extremely odd individual, and I do not wanna speak to you anymore. So here’s what you’re gonna do: fix your mistake, resubmit the form correctly, and stop wastin’ my damn time.”

There was a beat. Then you scoffed, low and dry. “Don’t get slick with me. I’m bein’ very polite right now.”

Another pause.

Then a final, clipped, “Goodbye.”

Click.

You exhaled hard. There was a rustle of papers. A muttered “weirdo” under your breath. And then the soft tap, tap, tap of you moving to the laptop again, your tone immediately shifting back into something more composed as you started your next call.

Bucky lay there, fully awake now, eyebrows furrowed.

That… wasn’t the version of you he knew.

And yet, it wasn’t jarring. It was seamless. Natural. Like your sweetness wasn’t a mask, but a choice—one you could take off the second someone disrespected you.

And he’d never heard anything so impressive in his life.

You’d gone from high-level strategy to full-on verbal takedown in under five seconds and didn’t even flinch. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t soften it.

Bucky stared at the ceiling, half in awe, half in… something else he couldn’t quite name.

Maybe fever wasn’t the only reason his chest felt tight.

────────────────────────

By the time the sun had dipped low and the apartment took on that soft, golden hue, the chaos of the day had fully subsided.

You were back to yourself—at least, the version Bucky knew. Sweet. Bubbly. Moving around his apartment like it wasn’t the least bit strange that you’d just taken over a congressman’s workload in a knit cardigan and a cloud-patterned scrunchie.

He stood in the doorway now, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a reluctant ghost, watching you tidy up the living room while humming under your breath.

You turned before he could say anything, your face lighting up like it always did when you saw him—even now, even after the day you’d had.

“Hey, sunshine,” you said softly, like he was the one who needed reassuring. “You should be in bed.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, throat still raw.

You gave him a look that was very not convinced but didn’t press it. Instead, you stepped forward with a little tablet and a closed folder in hand.

“I wrapped everything up,” you said, tone gentle, like you didn’t want to overwhelm him. “Sorted the subcommittee notes, handled the calls, pushed your morning meetings. Everything’s in here, just in case.”

You held it out to him with both hands, like it was fragile.

“It should all run smooth when you’re back in the office,” you added. “No big hassle, I promise.”

He took it slowly, fingers brushing yours.

Then your eyes flicked toward the kitchen. “Oh! And I made soup.”

Bucky blinked. “Soup?”

You nodded, looking proud. “Chicken. With orzo. Little bit of lemon. It’s an old recipe from my ma. Helps with stomach stuff, and it’s good for fevers.”

You paused, like maybe you were worried you’d overstepped. Your hands twitched slightly in front of you.

“I mean—you don’t have to eat it now,” you said quickly, “but I left it in the fridge. Labeled it with a little sticky so you know which one it is. Not that there’s a lot of stuff in your fridge, I just… y’know. Thought it might help.”

Your voice trailed off, but your smile stayed.

Soft. Open. So completely you.

And all Bucky could do was stand there, wrapped in his stupid blanket, and wonder how the hell you’d spent the whole day being terrifyingly competent, and still ended it with soup and a nervous little glance like you weren’t sure if he’d like it.

You hesitated at the edge of the living room, hands fidgeting with something behind your back.

Bucky noticed the shift immediately.

The glow you’d carried all day—while juggling Congress from his couch and checking his temperature without breaking stride—had dimmed. Not gone. Just… pulled inward, like you were trying to protect something small and fragile inside yourself.

You stepped forward, arms unfolding to reveal a neatly sealed envelope.

Your smile this time was softer. Smaller. Like a flickering candle. “Before I forget,” you said lightly, “I meant to give this to you earlier.”

You held it out.

He didn’t take it at first. Just stared. “What is it?”

Your lashes fluttered. You tilted your head slightly, voice still calm—almost apologetic. “It’s just my formal letter of resignation. Two weeks’ notice.”

The room went still.

Like even the hum of his ancient fridge paused to register the words.

Bucky took the envelope slowly, like it might explode in his hands. His stomach dropped, even lower than it had that morning when he first woke up sweating through his sheets.

“You’re leaving,” he said, flatly, like maybe saying it again would change the shape of it in the air. “Why?”

You hesitated, and for a second, he thought you weren’t going to say anything at all.

But then your gaze lifted—slow, reluctant—and something behind your eyes dimmed. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just a sadness so quiet it made his chest ache.

“I heard you,” you said, voice small but even. “That day on the phone. When you were talking to Sam.”

The words sank into him with slow, merciless weight.

Shit.

He opened his mouth, panic rising. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“I know,” you cut in gently, holding up a hand. “It’s alright.”

That made it worse.

You smiled, the kind of smile that tried so hard to be kind it hurt to look at. “It’s okay,” you repeated. “I get that a lot, honestly. People sayin' I’m too soft. Too nice. Too… whatever.”

He shook his head. “That’s not—”

“I know you didn’t mean it to be cruel.” Your voice was airy, almost thoughtful. “It didn’t even sound mean. You were just being honest. And you’re right, in a way. I am sweet. I care a lot. I get excited over little things. I bring baked goods to meetings and I probably hug too much and I call people sweetheart even when they’re mean to me.”

Bucky’s throat was dry. “I didn’t—”

“But I’m not naïve,” you said, and this time there was steel under the softness. Not sharp—but unbending. “I’m not stupid. I know how this world works. I just… don’t want to become like it.”

Your eyes met his fully then, warm and steady. “I like who I am. I don’t want to lose that just to survive a place that tells me kindness is a weakness.”

He opened his mouth again—anything, something—but you beat him to it, words tumbling now with gentle finality.

“I’m a big-hearted person, Mr. Barnes. I love hard. I care hard. I will go to war for the people I believe in, and I’ll still make them soup afterward. That’s who I am.”

You gave a small shrug, and your smile this time was a little sad, a little tired. “But I know not everyone wants that. Not everyone likes their coffee sweet.”

He looked at you, mouth parted, heart twisting tighter with every breath.

You tilted your head, a soft laugh escaping. “And that’s okay. Really. I don’t need everyone to like me. I just want to work somewhere I don’t feel like I have to apologize for existing.”

Bucky tried—he really tried—to find the words to take it back. To undo it. But they stuck in his throat like gravel.

All he managed was a strangled, “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

You nodded gently, like you already knew that.

But the hurt was still there, just under the surface, quietly humming like a bruise.

────────────────────────

It’d been three days since you handed him that letter.

Three days since you smiled with that soft resignation and walked out of his apartment, leaving behind bowl of soup and a hollow ache in his chest.

And now you were in the office—laughing.

Bucky watched you through the slats of his office shutters like a goddamn surveillance drone. Brenda was telling some story that clearly wasn’t funny, but you were laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week. Head tilted back, hand on her shoulder, the kind of laugh that made the people around you lean in like flowers toward sunlight.

He hated how familiar that laugh felt now.

And how far away it sounded.

You’d gone back to being sweet, professional, helpful. You hadn’t missed a single beat in your work. But with him, you were still distant. Polite. You hadn’t brought him coffee. Hadn’t cracked a joke. Hadn’t touched his arm in passing the way you used to.

He was losing you.

And the worst part? It wasn’t dramatic. You weren’t bitter. You weren’t angry.

You were just… quietly leaving.

So now he sat at his desk, glaring at his screen, not reading a damn word. His mind was a storm of useless questions and even more useless ideas.

Could he offer a raise? A promotion? Make the job more creative? Incentivize something?

He rubbed his hand down his face. No, that sounded like bribery.

Maybe he could ask her to stay just until the end of the quarter. Emphasize her value. Play the logistics angle. Remind her how much smoother things have been with her here.

He leaned back in his chair. That sounded desperate.

What if—

‘Jesus,’ he thought. ‘This isn’t about keeping her.’

A beat.

Then he corrected himself instantly. ‘Keeping her as an assistant. I mean. Not— Not like—’

He groaned, scrubbing at his eyes like he could rub the feelings away.

She was just efficient. That’s all. Stable. Predictable in a way he relied on. She was good at her job and the office ran smoother with her in it and that’s why this mattered.

Not because she smelled like lemons and comfort. Not because she looked at everyone like they were worth loving. Not because he’d started measuring his mornings by whether she smiled at him.

No. No, no, no. Just work.

Strictly professional.

He glanced back out through the blinds.

You were organizing a folder stack with the intern, gently fixing the label tabs, still smiling.

Still leaving.

And Bucky felt like the office was already colder without you—even though you hadn’t gone yet.

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Bucky liked to think he was a decent boss.

Not fun, sure. Not particularly approachable. Maybe a little gruff. And socially awkward, definitely. But fair. Honest. He let people take their lunch breaks. He remembered birthdays when he could. He even once approved an impromptu office donut day.

So it surprised him—no, perturbed him—when he found out about your going away party… from Brenda.

Brenda, who was sixty-eight and had once said she considered EDM “an acronym for something immoral.” Brenda, who referred to clubbing as “light alcoholism with extra steps.” Brenda, who had received an invitation.

He had not.

He found out over coffee. His coffee. The one he’d fetched himself because you no longer brought it to him.

Brenda had mentioned it casually, in that unassuming way older women do when they know they’re about to light a match and walk away from a very dry haystack.

“They’re doing a little sendoff for her Friday night. At that club downtown—the neon one with the ridiculous name. Something with vowels missing.”

He’d blinked. “What sendoff?”

“The one for your assistant, dear.” Sip. “The one who’s leaving.”

The words sank in slowly. Your assistant. Leaving. Right. That was happening. Somehow he kept forgetting it was real. Or maybe refusing to process it.

Then came the kicker: “Jimmy’s organizing the whole thing. Should be fun.”

Bucky had stared. “Jimmy?”

Brenda nodded, as if it were perfectly normal that the chillest, most easygoing staffer in his entire office had turned into a party planner on your behalf. “He booked a VIP booth. Very thoughtful.”

VIP booth? Bucky didn’t even know Jimmy knew how to book things. The guy wore mismatched socks and said “vibe check” unironically.

“So… they didn’t think to tell me?”

Brenda hesitated, just for a second, which was all the answer Bucky needed.

Later, he cornered Jimmy in the hallway, trying to sound casual and not like a man deeply offended by club logistics.

Jimmy had shrugged, wide-eyed and harmless. “We just figured it wasn’t really your scene, you know?”

Bucky blinked. “It’s not Brenda’s scene either.”

Jimmy scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, Brenda knows the DJ.”

Of course she did.

Bucky didn’t say anything else. Just walked back to his office, each step echoing a little louder in his chest than it should have.

They didn’t think he’d want to come. Or maybe they didn’t think he deserved to.

And maybe they were right. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of guy you threw parties for. Maybe people just did their jobs around him and left. No post-its. No coffee. No soup.

But still… the fact that you were going to be out on a dance floor, surrounded by people who adored you, celebrating your last day—without him—hit harder than it should’ve.

Because he’d hurt you. He knew that now. And they all knew it too.

And no one invited him to say goodbye.

────────────────────────

He wasn’t even supposed to be there.

He told himself that, at least, on the way over. This wasn’t some grand gesture. He wasn’t planning a speech, wasn’t going to make a scene. He’d accepted it—you were leaving. And maybe he didn’t deserve a chance to change that.

So he’d come to do the one thing he could do.

Say goodbye.

He clutched the small, carefully wrapped box in his jacket pocket, fingers curling around the corners. It wasn’t much. But it was personal. Thoughtful. Something that reminded him of you—sweet, strange, specific.

But he remembered.

The music hit him first. The bass vibrating through the walls as soon as he stepped into the club. It was too loud, too crowded, too young. Neon lights pulsed off the walls, everything warm and blurred. He stood near the entrance, eyes scanning—feeling wildly out of place in his plain clothes and clenched jaw—until he saw you.

And then his lungs just… stopped working.

There you were.

It took one second. One.

You were standing near the booth, laughing—God, always laughing—wearing a pale blue outfit that looked like moonlight wrapped in fabric. Halter top hugging your curves, skirt tied at your hip, legs long and bare under the shifting lights. Gold hoops in your ears, bangles on your wrist, that familiar dreamy look in your eyes as you leaned into Jimmy mid-laugh.

Bucky’s feet stopped moving.

You were stunning. Effortlessly so. But it wasn’t just that. It was the freedom—the way you stood like nothing in the world could touch you here. Like you weren’t his assistant or part of a machine or tethered to other people’s expectations. You were you—unfiltered, unbothered, alive.

And he’d never seen you like this before.

Not in your pastels and blazers. Not behind your desk with your clipboard and schedule.

This version of you—this—was what he was losing.

He swallowed hard.

She’s just your assistant, he told himself. Or had been. That’s all this was. You were good at your job. That’s all.

But even he didn’t believe it anymore.

You were mid-sip of your drink when you caught sight of him, standing near the edge of the club like he was trying to melt into the wall.

Your breath caught.

And then your whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside you.

“Oh my gosh, you came!”

You pushed past two people without thinking, grinning, already reaching for his arm like you couldn’t help yourself. Your bangles clinked as you tugged him gently into the glow of the booth’s lights.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” you laughed, almost breathless. “You hate places like this.”

Bucky looked at you—really looked at you—and it took him a second too long to answer.

Your eyes were sparkling, cheeks flushed, hair tousled and falling perfectly over one shoulder. You looked like the kind of girl who had the whole room on a string and didn’t even realize she was holding it.

He murmured under his breath, just low enough that it got swallowed by the music, “Maybe ‘cause I wasn’t invited.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, shaking it off with a stiff half-shrug. “Just thought I’d… say goodbye.”

Your expression softened. Just a bit.

“Oh,” you said, the word light and airy, but touched with something else. “That’s sweet.”

Bucky nodded once. Awkward. Hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still.

He should’ve left it at that.

But instead, he held out the little box he’d been carrying all night—plain black wrapping, a thin ribbon tied unevenly, like he’d done it with too much concentration and not enough skill.

You blinked, surprised. “What’s this?”

“Just a gift,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “It’s stupid.”

You took it carefully, reverently, like it might break in your hands. “Oh, you shouldn't have…”

“It’s not a bribe,” he added quickly, before you could say anything more. “I know you’re leaving. I just… thought you should have something.”

You didn’t wait.

Right there in the middle of the club, music thumping, lights flashing, you carefully tugged the ribbon free and opened the box with that bright, childlike excitement you always had when someone gave you something—even if it was small. Even if it wasn’t wrapped perfectly.

And when you saw what was inside, your breath hitched.

A delicate gold necklace. Thin, simple chain. At the center, your birthstone—tiny, gleaming, perfectly cut. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. Just right.

You stared down at it, brows pulling together, mouth parting slightly.

And then, to Bucky’s horror, your eyes started to well.

“Wait… this is my—this is my birthstone,” you said softly, voice already wobbling. “How did you even know?”

You looked up at him with wide, glistening eyes, and Bucky’s stomach dropped.

“I—I never told you my birthday.”

He shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I remembered. You mentioned it once. In passing.”

That did it.

You blinked quickly, but the tears came anyway, slipping free with no real warning. “Oh God,” you whispered, pressing your fingers to your mouth, eyes going glassy. “That’s actually… really sweet. Why would you…?”

Your voice cracked. Right in the middle of a sentence. Just folded in on itself.

And Bucky panicked.

“Hey—” he murmured, stepping closer, voice low and careful, like you were a fragile object he might accidentally break with the wrong tone. “Hey, don’t cry. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You let out a small, broken laugh, brushing at your cheeks. “Sorry, I just—this is so thoughtful. And you remembered. And now I’m crying in a club like a weirdo—”

“You’re not a weirdo,” he said quickly, awkwardly, like he was saying it on instinct and didn’t even believe he was qualified to offer emotional reassurance.

Still, he reached out—tentatively—and touched your elbow. Just barely. Like he was scared of overstepping.

You were sniffling now, trying to dab at your eyes with the corner of a cocktail napkin that immediately disintegrated. “I’m just—God, I’m such a mess—”

“You’re not,” he muttered, more firmly this time. “It’s just… a lot. I get it.”

You nodded, wiping at your nose with the back of your hand in a way that made his heart twist in his chest.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he added, a little helplessly. “I was just… trying to say goodbye.”

That last word came out rougher than he meant it to.

Bucky didn’t know what to do with the way your face crumpled again.

The tears came back—hot and fast—and though you were trying to smile through it, you clearly weren’t managing. You swiped at your cheeks with both hands now, uselessly, still holding the jewelry box in one.

He hesitated. Then stepped in a little closer, hand hovering awkwardly near your back.

“Hey,” he said gently, “come on. Let’s get some air.”

You nodded, a hiccuped little sound catching in your throat, and let him guide you with a light touch on your back. You were too busy trying not to sniff too loudly, muttering something about God, I probably look insane right now, as he led you carefully past the crowd and toward the door.

The outside air hit cool and sharp. The street was quiet in comparison—just the low hum of traffic and the faint pulse of music through the walls behind you.

You sniffled again, eyes still glassy as you blinked up at him, half apologetic. “Ugh, my makeup is definitely ruined,” you mumbled. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn this mascara. But it was waterproof! It was supposed to be—why do they even say that if it’s a lie?”

Bucky gave a short breath—almost a laugh, almost not. He looked at you, really looked.

Your cheeks were a little streaked, sure. Lip gloss a bit smudged. But your eyes were shining. And that necklace—the one he’d spent way too long choosing—sat against your skin like it had always belonged there.

“You look fine,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “You look like… you.”

You smiled weakly. “That bad, huh?”

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “No. That good.”

You looked down at your heels, a soft little laugh escaping from behind your hand.

Then, a little quieter: “You really didn’t have to come, you know.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But I wanted to.”

You sniffled once more and tilted your head back, resting it gently against the brick wall behind you. The chill of it made your skin rise in little goosebumps, but you didn’t mind. It helped ground you.

Bucky stood a step in front of you, hands in his pockets, close but not quite touching. He looked like he was trying to memorize the shape of you in this light—the heated cheeks, the still-damp lashes, the faint shimmer of highlighter on your collarbone.

You smiled at him, a little shy now, still damp-eyed but back to your usual, airy self. The kind of smile that could make someone forget everything they were angry about.

“You’re gonna miss me, huh?”

You meant it like a joke. Playful. Light.

But he didn’t laugh.

He looked at you like the weight of that sentence had knocked the wind out of him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I am.”

That stopped you. Just for a second. Like you hadn’t expected honesty from him—not that much, not here.

The smile on your lips faltered.

He stepped a little closer. Just a half-step. Just enough to feel his presence around you. He wasn’t touching you, but he didn’t need to. You could feel it anyway. Could feel him—his stillness, his warmth, his quiet restraint.

And then he said it.

“Are you sure,” he asked, voice barely audible, “there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The question hung in the air between you. Not loud. Not desperate. Just there.

You looked up at him, blinking too fast again. “Bucky…”

But you didn’t finish the sentence.

Because it was already happening again—your eyes glassing over, that familiar sting building behind your nose.

You sucked in a shaky breath, the cool air burning your lungs. You looked away from him, blinking rapidly, willing the tears not to spill—but it was already too late. Again.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “God, I’m sorry, I don't wanna cry again—this is so embarrassing.”

Bucky said nothing.

Just stood there in front of you, still as stone. But his eyes… they were softer than you’d ever seen them. And it hurt.

“I would stay,” you choked, voice trembling with the weight of the truth you’d kept tucked away for weeks. “I want to stay. Of course I want to stay.”

You were crying now, tears falling hot down your cheeks as your chest tightened. “But it wouldn’t work. It can’t. It’s unethical now. It’s inappropriate. Because I—”

Your throat clenched, but you pushed through.

“—because I have this stupid crush on you, okay?”

You didn’t dare look at him.

“I have this dumb, awful, unprofessional, completely humiliating crush on my boss. I think about you way too much, and it makes it hard to do my job. I bring you coffee I know you like and highlight your notes so you won’t panic during speeches and I try to make you smile because when you do it’s like—it’s like the world gets quiet for a second.”

Your hands fluttered uselessly as you spoke, as if your body could catch your words and stuff them back in your mouth.

“And I know it’s one-sided, okay? I’m not stupid. I know you don’t feel that way, but I—”

He kissed you.

Just like that. No warning.

A sudden, quiet press of lips that silenced your breath, your words, your panic.

His hands didn’t even touch you. Not yet. He just leaned in and kissed you—firm, sure, warm—like it was the only way he knew to make it all stop.

You froze, heart crashing into your ribs, eyes wide for just a moment.

And then you melted.

Mouth softening into his, breath catching in your throat. Tears still clinging to your lashes, your hand clutching the front of his jacket like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

He pulled back slowly—barely an inch—his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered, voice rough. “It’s not one-sided.”

Your lips parted to speak—to say something, anything, maybe to ask if this was real—but you didn’t get the chance.

Bucky kissed you again.

This time deeper, firmer, more certain. His hand found the side of your jaw, fingers brushing just behind your ear, grounding you in the moment like he couldn’t stand to be any farther away. Your back pressed gently against the wall behind you, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

It wasn’t careful now.

It was warm and urgent and real, and it made your head spin, your knees wobble. You let out a tiny noise against his mouth, your fingers curling into the front of his jacket again, clinging like you couldn’t bear to stop.

When he pulled back—slowly, reluctantly—his breath mingled with yours, foreheads still close.

“You taste like strawberries,” he murmured, lips brushing against yours as he spoke.

Your heart stuttered. Your brain, still floating somewhere behind your eyes, couldn’t string thoughts together fast enough.

You blinked up at him, eyes hazy, lips still parted. Then, barely above a whisper, you murmured against his mouth,

“I think it’s ‘cause of my strawberry daiquiri.”

That made him smile.

Small, crooked, and stupidly tender.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks, you smiled too—real and a little dazed, like you couldn’t believe this was happening.

Bucky looked like he was about to say something else.

His mouth opened, barely.

And you didn’t let him.

You moved fast—tipping forward and throwing your arms around his neck before he could even breathe, your body colliding into his with enough force to make him stumble half a step back. His hands shot out instinctively, catching you by the waist, holding you steady.

Then you kissed him again.

Harder this time. Messier. Mouth opening against his, tongue slipping past his lips like it had been building in you for months.

He grunted softly into the kiss, grip tightening at your sides like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening—but wasn’t about to let go, either.

You pressed into him, fingers curling into the back of his neck, pulling him closer like it wasn’t close enough. His hand slid up your spine, the other anchoring at your hip, both of you half-pinned against the brick wall and completely lost in the feel of each other.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was heat and tension and all the things you’d both been swallowing back for too long.

Your mouth moved against his like you’d been waiting for this exact angle, this exact pressure. He kissed you back with equal weight, tongue meeting yours, breath shallow, one of his hands fisting lightly in the fabric at your lower back like he needed something to hold onto.

You pulled back for half a second—just enough to breathe—then dragged him right back in, catching his lower lip between yours before deepening it again, another sweep of your tongue making him tighten his hold on you.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to catch your breath, your foreheads were still touching, your fingers still curled at the nape of his neck. His hands were warm against your waist, thumbs absently brushing your sides like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

Your lips hovered against his—still wet, swollen, parted.

“My heart is going tachycardic right now,” you mumbled, voice breathy and half-delirious.

Bucky blinked, a slow exhale brushing over your cheek as he gave a short, low laugh. It was half a huff, half a genuine what are you even saying, but there was nothing mocking in it.

He had no idea what that meant. Not really.

But still, without missing a beat, he murmured against your lips, “Yeah. Me too.”

Then he kissed you again.

Soft this time. Lingering. Then again, just below your mouth. And again, near the corner. Like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to taste more.

Your breath hitched, arms tightening briefly around his neck as his mouth found yours again—more lazy now, indulgent, like you had all the time in the world to learn each other one kiss at a time.

You smiled into it. Couldn’t help it.

And he didn’t stop kissing you.

Didn’t want to.

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

The Watchtower.

New York.

Leader—unofficially—of the most emotionally unstable group of enhanced individuals the government could dig up. He didn’t want the job. Didn’t ask for it. But somehow, it was always his name they called when something needed handling.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes heavy from a sleepless night. Not that anyone here noticed. Ava phased through walls at 3 a.m., Walker trained like rage was cardio, and Yelena had made it her personal mission to ignore authority unless she gave it to herself.

He sighed, long and low, ready to go back to pretending he didn’t exist.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out instinctively, screen lighting up.

Finally—cleared my schedule. I’m coming to New York this weekend. Hope you’re ready for excessive cuddling and making out and me refusing to let go of you for like 48 hours. ❤️

Bucky’s lips pulled into the faintest smile as he read your text, thumb tapping the screen just once in response.

Can’t wait.

And of course, that’s when Yelena walked in.

She stopped mid-stride, immediately squinting at him like she’d spotted a security breach.

“What the hell is that?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “What?”

“That thing on your face.” She tilted her head, arms crossed. “Are you… smiling?”

He pocketed the phone quickly. “It’s nothing.”

“No, no, no.” She was already circling him like a predator. “You look—God, what’s the word—pleasant. That’s not your baseline.”

He sighed, already regretting not hiding in the gym.

“Who texted you?”

“None of your business,” he muttered.

Yelena didn’t even pretend to buy it. She crossed her arms, watching him like he was a broken vending machine she intended to fix with violence.

“You smiled. I’ve never seen you smile. Not like that. It was very suspicious.”

Bucky took a slow sip of coffee. “Wasn’t smiling.”

“Your face moved, Bucky,” she said flatly. “It was unsettling.”

He turned away, walked over to the fridge like it held answers.

Yelena followed.

“Was it a dog video?” she asked. “No. You’re not soft enough for dogs. A meme? A mission update with someone dying? No—wait. It was a person. You smiled like someone flirted with you.”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it serious? Is it secret? Is it dangerous?“ Yelena asked, suddenly in front of him, leaning slightly into his space, “I will find out. I am very good at finding things. And people.”

Bucky just sighed, long and tired, and walked out of the kitchen without a word.

Yelena stared after him for half a beat before turning sharply and locking eyes on the next available target.

Walker.

He’d just wandered in, hoodie half-zipped, chewing on a protein bar like he hadn’t had a thought in days.

“You,” Yelena said, pointing at him. “You’ve known him longest. Does Bucky have a girlfriend?”

Walker blinked. “What?”

“A girlfriend,” she repeated, slower. “A woman. He dates her. Romantic?”

He squinted slightly. “Bucky? Uh… I mean… I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugged, genuinely baffled. “I mean, maybe? He’s quiet. One time he left early and said he had ‘plans.’ That could mean anything though. Like… groceries. Or laundry.”

Yelena stared at him, unblinking. “You are completely useless.”

Walker nodded, still chewing. “That’s fair.”

────────────────────────

Bucky had just settled onto the couch, bowl of something vaguely edible in hand, eyes on the muted television where an old war documentary flickered across the screen. It wasn’t exactly entertainment—it was just quiet.

He barely got through three bites before he felt it.

The shift in the air.

Then the voices.

Yelena entered first, of course—arms crossed, wearing the face of someone who’d appointed herself lead investigator in a murder case that didn’t exist.

She was followed by Bob, Alexei, Ava, and Walker, who trailed in like a herd of very uncoordinated cats.

Bucky didn’t even look at them. “No.”

“We haven’t said anything yet,” Bob offered, smiling too nicely.

“Still no.”

Yelena dropped onto the armrest beside him, eyes sharp. “We’ve been talking.”

Bucky stared straight ahead. “Tragic.”

“And we’ve decided,” she continued, ignoring him completely, “that we don’t know anything about your personal life.”

“That’s because it’s personal,” he said dryly.

Alexei huffed, already pacing. “This is concerning. You are team leader. We need to know if you are emotionally stable.”

“I’m not. None of us are.”

Walker plopped into a chair. “He did smile the other day. That was weird.”

“That’s what started all this,” Yelena snapped. “He smiled. At a text. And now he won’t tell us who sent it.”

Bucky turned up the volume on the TV. Barely.

Ava appeared on the other side of the couch, silent as usual, but she arched a brow that said she was equally invested.

Bob, cheerful as ever, leaned forward with a grin. “We’re just saying… if there’s a special someone, you can tell us. We’re fun. We’re emotionally safe.”

“You’re emotionally nosy,” Bucky muttered.

“We are team,” Alexei boomed. “And you—our glorious yet emotionally constipated leader—should share with group!”

Yelena leaned in closer, narrowing her eyes. “Is it serious? Like, does she know you have zero social skills? Does she like that? Is she in therapy?”

Walker nodded. “Is she hot?”

Everyone looked at him.

“What?” he said. “It’s a valid question.”

Bucky's phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn’t check it right away—not with five pairs of eyes watching him like he was the last episode of a series they weren’t supposed to binge but did anyway.

But then he did glance. Just one look at the screen.

And something shifted in his posture. Barely.

The corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, not quite—but something loosened in his shoulders. He stood up, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said simply.

“Go where?” Yelena asked instantly, sliding off the couch and following with military-grade suspicion. “Where is Winter Soldier going all dressed up in… black?”

“I’m always dressed in black.“

But it didn’t matter.

They were already following him.

Bob was at his side with his usual skip in his step, Walker tagging along behind like a golden retriever who wasn’t sure what game they were playing. Alexei caught up quickly, talking to himself about trust and emotional openness. Ava materialized near the elevator, silent but present. And Yelena, of course, was right on Bucky’s heels.

“You’re deflecting,” she said as the elevator doors closed around them. “I can smell secrets. And this smells like a woman.”

Bucky didn’t respond. Not a word.

Just faced the elevator door, arms folded, jaw tight, clearly regretting every life choice that led him here.

“Where exactly are you going?” she pressed, arms crossed. “Is she here? Is she real?”

“You’ll see,” Bucky said flatly, not bothering to face them.

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and they all spilled into the main lobby of the Watchtower, a wide, sleek expanse of glass and metal and polished silence.

Then a sound cut through the air like a missile.

A high, joyful squeal.

“Bucky baby!”

Everything stopped.

The team froze.

Yelena’s face scrunched in real time. “Bucky baby?”

Before anyone could process that phrase, there was movement.

A blur of color streaked across the marble lobby. Heels clicking, earrings swinging, hair bouncing—you, in full tilt.

And without hesitation, you launched yourself straight at him.

Bucky barely had time to catch you, but he did—one arm wrapping around your waist, the other under your thighs as you jumped up and clung to him like gravity didn’t apply.

And then, right there in front of everyone, your lips were on his.

Not shy. Not sweet.

Mouth open, tongue in, both hands in his hair as you kissed him like you’d been holding your breath for hours and he was the only oxygen you wanted. You tilted his head, deepened it, bit his bottom lip and everything. It was messy and loud and had absolutely zero awareness of space or audience.

Bucky just held you there—like he’d been waiting for this all day. One hand squeezing your hip, the other steady under your thigh, mouth moving against yours like he couldn’t get enough.

Silence behind you.

Long.

Awkward.

Unblinking.

Walker looked physically stunned, eyes wide, lips parted like he couldn’t figure out what dimension he’d fallen into.

Bob had both hands over his eyes. “I feel like I’m watching something x-rated.”

Alexei, meanwhile, was grinning ear to ear. “Ah, love! Powerful! Raw! Very virile. I respect it.“

Ava stood slightly to the side, arms crossed, expression twisted into something between a wince and a grimace. “This is disgusting.”

Yelena just raised one eyebrow. “What the fuck?”

The kiss finally slowed—just a little. You pulled back to catch your breath, your forehead pressing against Bucky’s as you grinned, lips swollen, eyes dancing.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He huffed out a breath, still catching up. “Hi.”

Then, finally, he turned—still holding you, still slightly dazed—and glanced over at the very silent, very stunned lineup of teammates.

No one said anything.

You blinked, just now noticing the five-person audience.

“Oh,” you said cheerfully, breath still short. “Hi.”

Silence.

The kind that settles like static. Thick, charged, slightly horrified.

The team’s eyes slowly, almost comically, shifted from you to Bucky.

All at once.

Yelena stepped forward half a pace, pointing without subtlety. “This is your girlfriend?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

You were still curled in his arms like you lived there, bright smile lighting up your entire face, makeup slightly smudged from the kissing, lipstick faded along Bucky’s mouth.

You held up your left hand like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Diamond. Simple, perfect, unmistakable.

“Fiancée, actually.”

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

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