Random Shit

Chapter 06

Chapter 07

Chapter 08

Chapter 09

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 06

Chapter 07

Chapter 08

Chapter 09

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

“Sir, please we don’t want trouble. There are kids here.” A woman, maybe in her late thirties, manages to say through her tears.

“Shut up and keep your head down.” One of the gunmen kicks the office desk she’s pressed against, making her cry harder.

Including the asshole scaring the woman, nine heartbeats thrum against your senses. Their breaths are quick but deep as they try to hold their composure. In situations like this, the robbers know that if the thirty-four civilians packed into the bank sense weakness, they’ll lose control fast.

Most of the hostages are clustered near the front entrance. It’s hard to focus only on the robbers heartbeats from this distance without accidentally killing someone or knocking out a civilian.

Finally, you catch hold of all nine, steady and taut inside your chest, as if they’re your own. With a breath, you begin to slow them. Slower. Another breath. Slower, and—

“I’m just saying this isn’t an Avengers-level threat.” Walker’s voice cuts through the silence, his “whisper” nowhere near as quiet as he thinks. It takes everything in you not to shove him out of the air duct you’re crouched in.

“Yeah, well, we’re not actually Avengers, so suck it up and let’s get this done.” Yelena elbows John aside, shimmying forward until she’s peering through the grate with you.

“We’ve got two down in the back. Bankers are safe in the vault. Bucky’s pursuing the last guy who tried to head for the roof… oh, never mind, we’ve got three down.” Ava’s voice crackles through your earpiece. You huff and pull it out.

“Can you two please shut up for one minute so I can concentrate?” You glare at Yelena and John before refocusing on the people below.

You feel the closest heart. You seize it. Then the next. Then—

“That’s it. You’re taking too long.” John interrupts, and before you or Yelena can react, he drops from the vent straight into the crowd.

“Shit.”

“Goddamn it.”

Both you and Yelena hiss before following him down.

You strip off your gloves, twist around one gunman, and press your hand to his neck. His heart seizes instantly, dropping him unconscious.

Another lunges for you. You dodge, barely, but Yelena is already there, taking him down with ease. Fighting has never been your strength; distance is safer, even if it takes longer to get a hold.

Your heartbeat spikes, except it’s not yours. Another gunman has grabbed a civilian, pressing his gun to her head. Hands raised in a mock surrender, you draw his heart into your chest. After a few seconds, you’ve got him. You stop it.

But in that final split second before blacking out, his finger pulls the trigger.

The shot is deafening. You don’t think, you just tackle the woman to the ground. Miraculously, you’re both unharmed. A quick check confirms she’s shaken but fine, so you’re back on your feet, sprinting toward the next gunman.

You lunge for his neck, but instead of skin your hand closes around a blade. Pain sears your palm as the man whirls, knife flashing toward your torso. He doesn’t get the chance, John slams his shield into him, knocking him flat, and kicks his head to keep him down.

Clutching your bleeding hand, you glare at John’s smug grin.

“You’re welcome,” he smirks before striding off.

The fight ends within seconds, though it felt like forever. As the team confirms the building is clear, you snag the knife, slice off a strip of your undershirt, and bind your palm tight. The gash isn’t deep, but it burns. Placing your gloves back on, you exhale sharply.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Quiet. Quick. Controlled. That was the plan, to minimize casualties. Your power isn’t meant for large groups; you should have been stationed in the back, where only three gunmen held their ground.

Normally, that’s what would’ve happened. You and Bucky had learned to work well together. He understood how much focus you needed, and his steady confidence in you made the job easier.

Now, though, concentration around him is next to impossible and the shame of why burns in your chest as you take in the aftermath.

Joining the others, you help guide the civilians out of the building. The evening sun is so bright it stings your eyes, forcing you to adjust after so long in an air duct. Behind the police barrier, the gathered crowd cheers, watching as hostages stumble into the arms of loved ones. You can’t help the small smile that curves your lips when you see the woman you saved throw her arms around her husband. His hands cradle her face as he kisses her forehead, relief written in every line of his body. That kind of life has never been in the cards for you, as much as you’ve ached for it. This line of work never allows for that kind of connection, and it doesn’t help that almost everyone you’ve met is afraid of you.

Across the crowd, Bucky strides toward the police, gesturing at the building as he no doubt gives instructions on containing the gunmen. Even from here you can feel his heart, steady and strong, threatening to stop your own. His metal arm catches the sunlight, flashing bright and your chest tightens. What you’d give to have his hands on you. He’s always so gentle, aware of the strength he carries. And his eyes, so soft despite everything he’s been through, always look at you like he can see right into your soul. Like now, as you realize you’ve been staring far too long. He’s noticed, of course. That crooked smile of his spreads, and you whip your head away. God, this is exactly why you can’t be near him, you lose focus and end up looking like a lovestruck idiot.

He starts moving toward you, cutting through the crowd, and your chest constricts. Before he can reach you, someone calls your name. You turn, grateful for the interruption until you see Val, waving you over toward the press.

Of course.

This has become your unofficial role on the team: stuck answering questions while the others get to pose for a few photos and head home.

“There she is. Isn’t she adorable?” Valentina trills, far too enthusiastic for the aftermath of a robbery. “She’s captured the hearts of people all across the world.”

You turn your head to hide the eye-roll threatening to break free. How long had she spent thinking of that line? From the looks of it, you’re the only one not amused. Bucky and Yelena stand nearby, the latter trying to suppress a laugh but failing miserably, until Ava calls them both away, clearly eager to return to the Watchtower.

With a long breath, you resign yourself to answering questions, hoping to wrap things up quickly enough to follow and maybe get back before sunset.

—————————————————————

After nearly two hours of standing under hot lights, dealing with Val, and forcing a smile, you finally make it to the tower. Exhaustion from the completely avoidable fight seeps into your bones. All you want is your bed.

The sound of arguing greets you before you even feel the quickened heartbeats in the common area. Suppressing a groan, you drag your feet toward the voices.

“This is ridiculous. I analyzed the situation, saw they were getting antsy, and made a tactical decision,” John Walker snaps, his voice rising with irritation. As you step sheepishly into the large room, his eyes snap to yours. “I wouldn’t have had to if she did her job.”

Don’t stop his heart. Don’t. It would be so easy, but then you’d have to dodge his shield when he woke up. Instead, you settle for rolling your eyes.

“Walker.” Bucky’s voice cuts across the room, sharp with warning. He leans against the wall, arms folded, watching.

“It’s not her fault you can’t keep your fat mouth shut, John,” Yelena drawls from the couch, sprawled out with a bag of chips. You drop into the only empty seat beside her.

“It was an easy job, and you couldn’t even handle it,” John fires back. “If you can’t fight, you should at least be able to do your… magic body stuff or whatever.”

“Magic body stuff?” Ava echoes mockingly, reaching over to steal chips from Yelena. “Don’t look at me like that. Bucky and I did our job. It’s not our fault you can’t.”

You lean forward, elbows braced on your knees, pushing your hair back with gloved hands. Being stuck with the world’s most unstable team is a challenge at the best of times. And you can’t even argue, because technically, John’s right, it was your fault. Ava should’ve taken your position, the three of them working the guards one by one. Still, no one hits your nerves quite like Walker does.

“You know,” you mutter, your voice quiet and tired, “next time I could just take the air from your lungs, Walker. Maybe then you’d stay quiet long enough for me to do my job.”

The room goes still, their heartbeats pounding louder in your ears. It’s absurd. You can barely knock out a room full of people for more than a few moments, let alone actually hurt someone unless your bare hands are on them. Even in a room full of seasoned killers, no one is immune to fearing what you can do.

“Oh wow, you guys look terrible.” Bob breezes into the room with a chuckle, climbing to his usual perch by the window.

You seize the chance for escape, pushing to your feet. “That was a joke. And I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time.”

They laugh it off, eager to let the tension shift, but you’re not listening. You slip toward the elevator, pain shoots up your hand as you press the button for your apartment's floor. The doors nearly close, until Bucky slides in at the last second. Exactly what you need to end your night: another opportunity to embarrass yourself.

You keep your gaze fixed on the panel as he presses a button. Not his floor, but to the infirmary.

Your eyes snap up, scanning him for any sign of injury. By now, you're attuned to his body; the rhythm of his heart, the way his lungs expand with each breath, the steady flow of blood through his veins. Everything moves faster than it should, a result of the serum, while the dull aches lingering beneath it all belong to a man far older than he looks. Chronic pain aside, everything is functioning exactly as it should.

Still, Bucky is good at hiding things, even from you. His control over his own body is remarkable, and considering his past, it isn't surprising.

“You’re hurt?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, worry overriding caution.

He stands tall, eyes on the glowing numbers. Only when the elevator slows does he glance at you, his brow lifting slightly. “No. But you are.”

Heat rushes up your neck. His eyes flick to your gloved hand, then back to your face. You’d forgotten about it completely, too caught up in the press and your exhaustion.

“It’s just a scratch, Bucky.”

His gaze softens, impossibly so, and it takes effort not to shrink beneath it. He shrugs, turning back to the doors. “Even scratches need to be taken care of. And that—” he gestures to your hand “—is not a scratch. You couldn’t even press the button without wincing.”

Damn ex-assassin always noticing everything.

After following him inside, you sit in the empty infirmary, watching as he pulls items out of drawers. You can’t help but take a deep breath, the room blissfully quiet as opposed to the war zone upstairs. The heart filling your chest is strong, soothing all of the nerves from the day as he lays out the disinfectant and wrap next to you.

Suddenly, he’s far closer than you thought he was. You had been too relaxed, and now his hand is open in front of you, waiting. Looking at him in question, you’re taken aback by the soft creases in his eyes as he smiles.

“Your hand.”

Hesitating, you slowly begin to remove your glove, and immediately pause. Bucky’s heart spikes, his breath hitching. To a normal person, looking at him you’d never know, his face gives nothing away. To you, though, it’s clear as day.

“I can do it, Buck.” You swallow the hurt, not wanting him to feel bad for being afraid when he’s the one trying to help.

His brows furrow before he steps closer, removing the glove for you.

You’re practically holding your breath as he unwraps your hand, his heartbeat steady once more. His flesh hand cradles yours, his metal one gently dabbing antiseptic over the cut. His hand is surprisingly soft, though it’s not as if you can compare it to many others.

You wince as the cut burns, instead focusing on the way his thumb moves in slow circles over the back of your hand.

“For the record, I think removing all the air from Walker’s lungs is a great idea.” His eyes lift to yours, humor flickering in them. “Or I could show you how to punch him properly, knock the wind outta him. Same result, and way more satisfying.”

A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it. “I don’t think his ego would recover from that.”

“I don’t know, he’d probably manage. A little humility wouldn’t hurt.” Buckys pauses, “You really did great. I know you weren’t expecting a fight, and they should’ve been more careful.” His whole demeanor shifts, jaw tight as he stares at your palm before beginning to wrap it. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

“Well, he’s not totally wrong, Bucky. I should’ve seen the knife. I could’ve gotten someone hurt... or worse.” His thigh presses against yours as he secures the wrap, and you feel how close he is, his presence overwhelming. His head is bent, his hair falling forward, and you have to fight the urge to push it back so you can see him more clearly. Clearing your throat, you force yourself to look away. “I need to improve my combat skills, it’s not like I can spend all my time talking to the press.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Don’t see why not. You’re good at it. Better than I was, you should’ve seen the interviews during my congressional run.” Oh, you’ve seen every one of them, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I think you’ve really captured everyone’s hearts.”

You groan. “Just for that, I’m sticking the press on you next time. You can tell them how worrying the robbery was.”

He laughs at that and in his concentration finishing the wrap, you watch as he catches his bottom lip, wetting it. Oh no.

Before he can give a snide reply, you’re standing, tucking your hand safely back into the glove. His face is surprised as you put distance between the two of you. This is way, way, way worse than you thought. “Thank you, Bucky. I, uh, I’m really tired so I should…” You gesture to the elevator with your thumb. Not waiting for a reply, you quickly make your exit.

———————————————————————

The kitchen is warm, the evening sun shining softly through the windows, perfectly from your seat at the dining table. Every now and then, you pull your eyes from your book, focusing your senses on those in the building, and tracing your gloved palm. The mark underneath now faded to just a scar.

“Stop sticking your hand in the box,” Bob complains, trying to snatch the cereal box from Alexie.

“I got it, I got it, don’t worry.” He pulls out a tiny figurine, but his enthusiasm drops as soon as he sees it. He clicks his tongue. “Ghost, why is it always Ghost, huh? Why not Red Guardian? My figure looks much cooler.”

“Because people love me,” Ava says from across from you, feet propped on the table, tossing a crumpled wrapper in the air and catching it.

“It’s easier to mass-produce, you wear a mask so the cereal company doesn’t have to spend more trying to detail a face.” You interject before feeling the wrapper hit your head. “Or it’s because people love you.”

Alexie places the figure on the shelf, in line with the rest of his collection. You turn your senses back to the building… still nothing, but it’s been a few hours, so it should be any time now.

“What’s wrong with you, huh? You’re all twitchy and weird-looking.”

Realizing Alexie is talking to you, you pull your focus back before overcompensating with a laugh. “I’m not twitchy. I’m reading.”

“You haven’t turned the page in 30 minutes,” Yelena sits on the counter, now holding the cereal box, snacking.

“Sometimes when I’m reading,” Bob interjects, “I— uh— read a whole page and when I get to the end I realize I wasn’t paying attention, so I have to start all over. Does that happen to anyone else?”

You snap your finger into a point at him. “Exactly.”

“No,” Ava replies at the same time as you.

As your eyes fall back to the page, you get a faint sense of two people arriving at the building. Snapping the book shut with a clap, you stand. “I can’t pay attention, I think I’ll finish in my room.”

“You’re not staying for dinner again?” Bob says, the frown causing a crease between his eyebrows, almost making you want to stay.

Almost.

“I ate a big lunch. Not hungry.” You reply, making your way toward the exit.

“Hmm shocker.” Ava drawls, sitting up and scanning you with her eyes.

“When the others get back just text me the updates on the weapon manufacturers.” You rush out, eager to exit. All you see before leaving the room is Ava giving an exasperated thumbs up at you.

You try to not look behind you as you walk through the halls and up to your floor because you can feel Yelena following you. Failing, you chance a glance over your shoulder, only to be greeted by her smile, way too excited. “Aren’t you staying for dinner?”

“Ah,” she pretends to think, “no.”

Finally, you arrive at your door, and before you can attempt to bid her goodnight, Yelena slips through and into your room.

“Wooow.” She scans the living area, walking around and poking at various things. “It’s much tidier than I thought, given you’ve been practically hiding away in here the past month.”

All you can do is stand, fidgeting as you watch her flit around the room before heading into your bedroom. Quickly, you follow behind. “I have not been hiding. I was just in the kitchen, wasn’t I?”

“Ah, you’re right, that was inaccurate.” She flops onto the bed before startling you with a serious expression. “You only hide away when Bucky’s here.”

Shit. Shit shit shit. Of course, she’d be the one to notice. You scoff, “I have not been hiding from Bucky. What reason could I possibly have to do that?”

“Now see, that is what I have been trying to figure out. But, you can’t lie to me, you are definitely hiding from him.” Checking various pockets in her pants, then her hoodie, she pulls out her phone. “On the 2nd, you finally left your room and went to the gym to walk on the treadmill, after 5 minutes you rushed back here saying you were already tired. Bucky returned from seeing Sam early, just a few minutes later. The 11th, you practically sprinted up the stairs from the common room, only for Bucky to show up with groceries.”

“That’s not—”

“And right now, let’s see. Ah yes,” she turns the screen around, and you watch the security footage of John and Bucky entering the elevator.

You groan, resigning to sitting on your bed, holding your head in your hands. It’s been exhausting, avoiding the man. You thought that if you just went a few days without seeing him, all of the stupid feelings swarming your brain would go away. Until a few days turned into weeks, then a month. It feels like the longer you go without facing him, the worse it seems to get. “Alright. Fine, yeah I’ve been hiding from him. Mystery solved. Are you happy?”

“No, see, I care more about the why. Did you do something to upset him? Because whatever it was it couldn’t be worse than whatever John does daily. And besides, he has a soft spot for you.”

You try to ignore that last part. “No.”

“Mmm, did he do something to upset you then?”

“Yelena—”

“Oh oh, I know!” Glaring, you take in her excitement at your expense. “You accidentally saw him changing after a mission. It would make sense, those military guys always just find a corner rather than a room with a lock like a normal person.”

Your cheeks burn red at the thought, and immediately you realize your mistake. She’s standing in an instant, the dawning smile taking over her face.

“Oooo no, it’s that you wish to see that, isn’t it?” Your mouth gaps at her. Wanting to refute her, but she’s obviously not going to be convinced she’s wrong.

“It’s not—“

“No, no listen I get it. He’s attractive for a man who is over a century old, people go crazy for that, not me but people, sure.” She pops up, pacing in front of you. “And the arm. It has an appeal, I can see how it could add to it.” Suddenly she stops, turning to you with a clap of her hands. “I will help you.”

She’ll… what? “No, absolutely not, Lena he’s basically our coworker, I don’t want help sleeping with him. In fact, I’m actively trying to not.”

“Of course not,” she says in mock offense. “What I meant was locking away in your room will do nothing for the problem. No, what I’m saying is, you need to get laid.”

That’s somehow so much worse. The thought of going out and finding a stranger to sleep with has never been appealing. Sure, going to a bar and flirting is fun, but as the night goes on, there's always the question of removing the gloves. It’s always felt wrong, lying and making up excuses about why you have to keep them on. The reality is, it would take one moment for you to end someone’s life with your hands on them, and it would be unfair for them not to know.

However, the biggest issue currently isn’t that. Bucky being attractive is an objective truth. It was somehow easier to write off the moments where your eyes would catch on Bucky’s hands, wondering how they’d feel on your thighs, or his lips behind your ear. Because if you just turned away, you could think of something else entirely. But the ache in your chest, of wanting the simple act of his hand in your own again, or your mind constantly trying to find ways to make him smile, is much harder to shake. It’s as if your mind is conjuring a shadow in every waking moment, morphing images of what it might be like to have him there. But he’s not, and he never will be, and that harsh reality is devastating, as if you’re mourning a life you’ll never be allowed.

So, you’ll continue your distance, wallowing in the grief silently. At least you were… until you had a spy determined to bring it all up to the ugly surface.

“I don’t want to sleep with a stranger, alright.” There’s no fight left in you, only the hope she’ll just drop it.

Yelena stands for a moment, her earlier energy dipping. You’re surprised by the way her breath hitches in her lungs. “Oh no,” she says softly, as though the realization of how deep you are is dawning on her. “I was wrong.”

You can't even hide the horror on your face as she stands, suddenly much more serious. The only words echoing in your mind are just drop it. “Oh, this is much harder to fix.”

You can’t hide the tears that threaten to spill. Instead, you turn away, finding something to keep you busy, but nothing is enough to stop the feeling of your chest constricting. “There’s no fixing this. The reality is, I’m running around the tower, hiding, and he probably hasn’t even noticed.” You can’t help but let out a sharp laugh. “It’s like Walker said, I can’t fight, I’m a terrible shot, I’m a liability in any instance against more than four people.”

She tries to cut in, but you don’t let her. “People are scared of me. I feel it. I feel it in you, I feel it in the rest of the team, and I’ve felt it every time I’ve ever tried to get close to someone.” You can’t keep the bitterness out of your voice. “I can’t kiss someone without feeling it. Can’t hold them. You know, I haven’t accidentally killed or hurt someone since I was seven, and still, I have to wear these stupid gloves because otherwise, people are too afraid to be within arm's length of me. I’m not allowed to love someone, because they will never, ever, truly want to love me.”

Your voice is raised, the weight of everything finally breaking through, and you can hear the tremor in your words.

“I didn’t—” Before Yelena can say whatever comfort she was planning, you're both startled by Ava.

“Oh my god, don’t do that!” Yelena shouts, as Ava clicks her mask open.

“I told you to stop phasing into my room.” You turn after blinking away any tears, using the distraction to compose yourself.

“The door was unlocked. Anyway, we’re meeting on the roof in ten. Apparently, the people we think stole all of the weapons material got a heads-up that we’re looking into them. We need to get there before they’re gone.” Before either of you can ask any questions, she’s gone.

The journey up to the roof is tense. Yelena looks like she’s fighting to continue the conversation, but you spend the entire jet ride in silence, avoiding eye contact with both her and Bucky. It’s not just you who’s upset; everyone seems frustrated, and it’s easy to see why. You’ve received reports of stolen military-grade material and finally connected the dots to the organization responsible. If they complete whatever weapons they’re mass-producing, there’s no telling who they’ll sell to or what those buyers plan to do with them.

The team silently makes its way to a large warehouse that seems empty. According to your reports, however, it leads to an entire operation beneath the building.

“I’m not picking up any activity,” Yelena says.

“Me neither. Can you sense anything?” Bucky looks at you, his brow creased.

You move away from him, crouching down. This is bad. “No. Not even one person. They must’ve already packed up. They could be anywhere by now.”

“Well, we don’t know that for sure. Let’s see if anyone’s down there,” Walker says, leading the way down a tunnel. The rest of you follow behind. When you reach the opening, you see it. The ‘basement’ is essentially another warehouse, but in much better condition than the one above.

Bucky takes charge, pointing to the two levels of the basement. “Alright. There are two stories. Yelena, lead Walker and Ava on this level. Look for anyone we didn’t pick up, or anything we can use to locate them. If you find any material or blueprints, bring them back. We can use them to figure out what they’re planning to build. Meet back at the jet in an hour.”

They all nod, Ava speaking up. “What about you two?”

Bucky responds, “We’ll take the second floor. It’s smaller, likely used for storage, not building.” Before you can say more, everyone moves in different directions. Yelena waits for you, her concern evident, but you nod at her reassuringly, letting her know you’ll be fine.

“Come on,” Bucky says, all hard edges. He usually is in the middle of a mission, his mind focused entirely on the task at hand, constantly aware of anything that could go wrong. Hopefully, he’ll be too distracted to notice just how not fine you are.

You crouch together near the stairs and listen. It’s hard to focus on anything past the pounding of your own heart. “Clear.”

As usual, you stick close to Bucky’s back, following him as he leads the way, his gun drawn. Both of you scan the area, but soon, his hand drops, holstering the gun. Though seemingly more relaxed, you can feel the frustration in him. He was right about this floor being smaller. The ceiling is normal height, as opposed to the expansive space upstairs.

The floor is mostly open, with only a few scattered rooms. You both spend time flipping through scattered papers and checking drawers. It becomes clear that they had a head start, and there’s almost nothing left.

Across the room, you watch Bucky’s back as he searches. His muscles tighten under the leather, and his hair, once neatly pushed back, falls in loose waves. Turning quickly, you run a hand over your heated face. Just get this done. One hour, then you can go back to the peace of your room.

Your eyes catch on one of the open rooms near the back, and you decide to check it out. The doorway is lined in metal with a panel on the side. Inside, it’s small, clearly just for storage, though the shelves lining the walls are bare. There’s a small metal table in the middle. You tap your finger on it, taking a moment to just breathe.

“We might not even need the whole hour; they’ve already cleared out,” Bucky says, startling you. You hadn’t even realized he’d followed you inside.

“Maybe we should just go back upstairs to help. They might’ve forgotten something there.” Your heart constricts; the distance you were trying to keep has now dwindled significantly, and you’re eager to get out of the room before the ex-assassin can try to question you.

A beep sounds and as you try make your way out of the room, you're jolted back. Bucky pulls you back towards his chest, and right where you stood, a metal door slams shut with a force that absolutely would’ve hurt you. Staring, you try to calm your rapid breaths as the reality of it seeps in. You’ve both just been locked in, and there’s no handle.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks. You realize with a jolt that you’re still against his chest, his hands holding your arms where he grabbed you, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles while you calm yourself.

All at once, you try to put as much distance as you can. Which, in the tiny room —no, not room, vault— is not much at all. His eyes scan you, his heart still as fast as your own, before he turns to the sealed door. Watching as he attempts to pry it open, you try to shake the way his chest felt against your back, and the need lingering for wanting him there again.

One month, and all of these feelings are so much worse off, it’s as if you never left that stupid infirmary. “There has to be a way out.”

“There is.” He turns, hand resting on his hip. “The panel out there can open it.”

Pressing the comm in your ear, you try to reach someone from the upper level, only to be met with deafening silence. You lean against the far wall, trying to look more casual than you feel, though the way your chest is rising in panic is evidence enough. Surely they’ll notice and come for you both, right?

How fast do people run out of air in a room this size? Is it a few hours or a few minutes? With how fast you’re breathing, it’ll probably be much sooner. The vault is only dimly lit by one hanging bulb, and it feels as if everything is collapsing into darkness. There’s pressure on your face, and you feel as though everything is constricting until you register the cool metal.

“You need to slow your breathing.” As your eyes adjust, blurry from tears you didn’t even know had appeared, you see Bucky standing in front of you. His hands softly cup your face. “You can feel mine, can’t you? Take it in, follow the way I’m breathing.”

You can feel it. His breath is strong and slow, though his heartbeat is faster than his usual pace. Still, you hold onto the feeling, the way it melds into your chest as if it belongs there. As the panic from being stuck subsides, a far worse panic seeps in as you realize just how close he is. Your face heats under his hands, and he licks his lips before pulling away. You could’ve sworn he was pulling you closer.

“It’s a weapons vault, only made to keep things in. The others will realize we’re missing; we just gotta hold tight for an hour.” He moves a few steps away, leaning against the table. “Maybe less if Yelena comes down to check on you.”

Your head snaps up at that. “Why would she do that?”

In the dim light, you can barely make out the way his eyes squint as he stares. “Dunno, but she spent the entire ride looking like she was waiting for you to collapse. Or the way she was glued to your side even after I gave her orders to lead the others upstairs.”

Licking your lips nervously, you turn from his interrogating gaze. “I wasn’t feeling well earlier; she probably was just worried.”

His head nods. “That why you weren’t going to dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm.” His metal finger taps the table a few times as he chews over his words. Kicking off the table, he takes a step in your direction. “That why you’ve been missing almost every dinner the past month?”

Oh god. Every worst-case scenario you ran through in your head seems to hit you full force. Clearing your throat, you put on the most convincing face you can. “Yeah, I, uh, just have been really busy.”

Two more steps.

“That why you’ve been avoiding me all month?”

He noticed. Of course, he noticed. If Yelena did, then the man you’d been actively running from would, too. Your hand fidgets with your glove, suddenly very aware of the scar and the realization that came with it. “I wasn’t—”

Two more steps, and suddenly Bucky is back where he was just moments ago, and your chest seems to tighten again. “You were. You still are. I don’t know if you forgot, sweetheart, but I know when someone’s hiding from me.”

With nowhere else to look, your eyes land on the ground. Every explanation sounds worse than the last, and you fight against the urge to just blurt out the real reason. Rip the band-aid off so you can finally hear the words you’ve been running from: I don’t want you.

“You know I’ve had to deal with John following me around. Alexei, too. I’ve had to sit through him telling me about his glory days during the Cold War.” His head turns, biting the inside of his cheek before his eyes meet yours, the blue threatening to drown you. “I kept looking over, hoping you’d save me. Hell, I even considered setting off the alarm just to get you out of that room of yours.”

He missed you too. The truth of it causes guilt to creep in. Before you can get any word out, he continues, stepping just a bit further. “So I gotta know. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours that’s making you avoid me?”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.” You feel his fingers as he softly pushes your hair behind your ear, before tilting your chin up, forcing you to face him. “And before you try to come up with some other lie, consider this: the reason you’ve been hiding from me is exactly the reason I’ve been wanting you not to.”

You can hear your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Or maybe it’s his. His face is so close that you can’t just feel the breath inside him, but also feel it on your skin. No words form inside you, only every want that’s been building inside the past month. Before you can even comprehend what you’re doing, you're leaning in, catching his lips.

He wasn’t expecting that, made obvious by the way his heart stutters, but he’s quick to compose himself. The hand that was holding your chin now moves to the back of your head, deepening the kiss. You grasp for anything you can to hold yourself up, one arm around his neck like a lifeline, your back hitting the wall, and he’s moving with you. You feel his metal hand sliding onto your hip, and your mouth opens at the feeling of him holding you steady. With what feels like all of his effort, Bucky pulls away just enough to look at you. For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breathing, and you think that if the room ran out of oxygen, at least you would die happy.

A smirk crawls onto his face. “As much as I enjoyed that, and will be doing it again, it doesn’t answer my question.”

You try to ignore the thrill his promise of again brings, instead trying your best to clear your head. In searching, your eyes land on your hand, which still rests along his neck. Hesitantly bringing it in front of you, you mumble, “I wanted to do that. The night in the infirmary and, if I’m being honest, a lot longer than before then.”

His hands catch your own, and your heart stutters. His eyes crease, breathing in slowly to calm himself. “Why didn’t you?”

That familiar feeling is back: shame. The burden you carry always throwing up a wall, right when you think things are going well. Pulling one hand from his, you place it on his chest, trying to ignore the way he swallows. “I felt it, when I went to take off my glove, Buck. And I don’t blame you, everyone feels like that with me. I’ve accepted it. But I…” The words die on your lips as you realize he’s smiling again, not teasing, but in disbelief.

“You know, I used to wear gloves. Never left my apartment without ‘em.” His metal arm appears in front of you, the black and gold shimmering faintly in the dim light. “I knew people were scared of it. Of me. It made me a weapon, and I thought that if I just covered it up, people would see me differently. But the thing is,” metal cools your cheek as he rests it against you, “it’ll always be part of me. And hiding it only made it harder to find people who didn’t just want me despite it, but because of it. Because of the man I am right now.”

He pauses, and for the first time, you catch something almost shy in his expression. “And that feeling you got from me in the infirmary wasn’t fear, it was me getting in my head about how badly I wanted to feel your hands on me.”

And the way he says it, there’s no room for argument. No interpretation needed or room for doubt. Only the fact that you’ve been aching to touch him, and he’s wanted the exact same thing. With a breath, you tear off the gloves, tossing them in the corner before they’re moving up his neck and into his hair. In that instant, his lips are back on yours, a soft groan escaping his lips at the feeling of you.

This kiss is harder, more desperate as he presses you against the wall, and you’re achingly aware of the way his body feels against you. Your hands can’t seem to still, wanting to feel as much of his as possible, and it seems his have the same idea. His flesh hand, warm against your cheek, as his mouth moves behind your ear. His lips are hot, and you can’t help the breath that escapes you. They’re not there long, moving down the expanse of your neck, until they make it to the spot just under your chin. Your body moves involuntarily against him, and you feel his lips curve into a smirk before nipping the skin. His other hand is back on your hip, testing the hem of your shirt. Desperate for more, you manage to breathe out a quiet, “please,” and you’re taken aback by the breathy sound that escapes him. His lips are back on yours, nipping your bottom lip, and as his hand reaches under your shirt, the cold metal against your ribs makes you gasp. He takes the opportunity to move his tongue, exploring your mouth.

It’s just a slight shift in his body, as his hand moves higher, but you become quickly aware of his leg between your legs, bent just barely. The movement makes you breathe his name. You can feel the weight on him against your hip, your own thigh grinding, adding not just pressure on yourself but to him as well. He breaks the kiss just long enough to see where you’re situated, a smile curving his lips just before returning. Cold metal jolts you as he gently moves your bra out of the way, your heart thrumming as he kneads, his thumb just barely catching your nipple. His flesh hand has moved back to your hip, seemingly desperate for you to move against him again. You feel his thigh, the muscles constricting under you, and you can’t help the tremble that overcomes you as he moves you again. You can feel how wet you are, desperate for more friction.

“Bucky,” your voice is a lot more pathetic than you thought it would be, and he’s quick to kiss your forehead, moving you again against him.

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” Your head falls back as his fingers pinch your nipple, his breath coming in heavy pants as he watches your face. “See what hiding was keeping you from?”

Of course, he’s going to tease you. You expect nothing less from James Barnes. But in your need, you can’t bring yourself to come up with a retort. Instead, you bring your hand to his cheek, hoping he will see the desperation. “Please, Bucky, I need more.”

Just like that, all of the composure he may have had disappears as he takes in a shaky breath. In one move, his hands move to your thighs, picking you up. Before you can let out a noise in surprise, his lips are back on you. Moving to the table, he gently sits you down, keeping the space between your bodies as minimal as possible. Your hands unzip his jacket, and he allows you to toss it off. Your hands dip under his shirt, exploring the new territory. You’ve seen him shirtless countless times, the image seared into your memory, but the feeling is unimaginable. His breath hitches as you move to his back, one hand reaching his shoulder before slowly coming back down, nails lightly scraping the muscles. Where he stands between your legs, rather than his thigh, this time his hardness presses against you, and you can’t help the way your legs hook around him, desperate for more.

With a groan, Bucky’s head lands heavily on your shoulder, his breath heavy. “You know they could be looking for us right now.” His voice is deep, barely able to come out. You can’t help but want to claw more of those beautiful sounds out of him. Taking the opportunity he’s giving you with his forehead against your shoulder, you rake your hand through his hair, exposing his neck before latching on. His hands tremble against your thighs, breath hot, a soft whimper escaping as you nip and suck the spot behind his ear. With your other hand, while he’s distracted, you find his wrist. He protests as you pull away, bringing his wrist into view, and reading the numbers on his watch.

“We have 30 minutes.” A smile takes over your face at his disbelief.

He pulls in, and you think he’s going to kiss you again, but instead, he stops short. “Ya know, I should probably stop here, since you made me go a whole month not getting to see that pretty face of yours.” His breath is hot as he moves his lips across your skin, slowly until he’s ghosting your neck. “Do you know how crazy you made me? All I could think about was how I should’ve kissed you. Hell, how I should’ve kissed you the first day we met.” Shock rolls through you at his confession. His hands move back under your shirt, shifting slightly until it’s tossed over your head, and he’s kissing your chest. “All I could think about was how your hand felt, and these thighs against me.” He’s moved you so you’re laying down on the table, before moving to your thighs, kissing the fabric. His face is back to yours, long hair tickling your face as he kisses you. Finally, you manage to pull his shirt over his head, and you can’t help the way you stare.

“You’re so beautiful, Bucky.” You’re breathless as your eyes crawl back up to his face, tempted to trace the nervous crease of his brow. His lips are back on yours in an instant, his teeth nipping your bottom lip, distracting you as he unbuttons your pants. You gasp into his mouth, and he desperately takes it, as his hand dips down until he’s cupping your core. With a light touch of just his middle finger, he dips between your folds, his hip bucking against your thigh as he lets out a moan, his head coming to rest on your chest while he struggles to regain his composure.

“You’re so wet,” he drawls, his ring finger joining his middle finger, gathering your slick, and moving up to tease your clit pulling a desperate sound out of you. “That’s it, you’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”

Your back arches at the feeling, your hand gripping his hair. His lips attach to your nipple, sucking as you grind on his fingers. Through your haze, you admire the way his back moves, the muscles shifting with the way his fingers circle you, in a slow, steady rhythm. His eyes are shut, like he’s raging some kind of internal war, until it seemingly comes to a head. All at once, he’s above you again, kissing you hard until he removes his fingers. You want to mourn the loss, but instead, you watch as he places them in his mouth, letting out a groan. His mouth is on you as soon as his fingers are out, as if he can’t stand not having you on his tongue. His hands tease your hips until you’re lifting, so he can remove your pants, tossed somewhere in the tiny room with your gloves and shirt. You think he’s going to remove his own next, but instead, his mouth is trailing down, his hands rubbing circles on your thighs, begging you to open them. You let out a keening noise, needing more as his lips suck and nip at your thighs. Going everywhere but where you need them most.

He stops only long enough for his eyes to flit over your underwear, licking his lips before they turn into a teasing smile. Before you can question it, his thumb is pressing against the wet spot on your underwear. You whine, your back arching as he takes pleasure in teasing, softly touching the wet fabric until suddenly, his thumb dips beneath it, pushing the fabric to the side so his finger can dip into your folds. He moves it just a few times inside you, before he removes the fabric completely, and immediately pumps a finger inside again. His mouth is on you in an instant, his tongue licking a strip until his lips are on your clit, sucking gently. Your hands cling to his hair, and you lift your hips at the way his moan vibrates through you. As Bucky adds a second finger, curling until he’s hitting that soft spot inside you, the coil inside you seems to tighten. He knows, his eyes flitting over your body and to your face, watching the way his tongue twists its magic. He’s seen so many beautiful expressions on your face, but this has to be one of his new favorites. Your thighs clamp around his face, and he revels in the warmth, his beard scratching as you squirm. His lips suck on your clit, tongue flicking, and you swear you’ve never felt anything so wonderful. His name escapes you like a prayer as you ride out your orgasm, his tongue staying on you, fingers slowing until you have to pull him away. And that smile, the way it shines down on you, his eyes sparkling and lips wet and swollen, you swear you died and went to heaven.

Breathing heavily, you reach for him, wanting to taste yourself, and he happily does, his hair soft against you. In an instant, you’re recovered and reaching for his belt, but he hesitantly pulls away, biting your lip once more.

It’s like the words hurt to release, his voice quiet. “We have maybe five minutes before the others are bursting in here, and as beautiful as you are, I don’t really like sharing.”

He lets out a laugh at the way you jolt up. You were so lost in him you forgot where you were. His hands are on your shoulder, stilling you, his lips gently brushing your forehead. He gathers your clothes first, gentle hands helping you into each one. You’ve never had anyone do this, the care he takes as if you’ll wither under him, placing a kiss on your thigh, hip, chest, arms, all before they’re covered. Finally, he gets his own shirt and jacket settled, and you have the pleasure of zipping the leather as his soft eyes watch you.

“How long do you think it’ll take them to realize we’re gone?” It takes a moment for him to register his words, lost in watching you.

“Oh… right. Well, they should be here soon if they can stop arguing for more than a minute and realize it. But if they don’t, the timer said it’ll release after an hour-thirty” He has the decency to look sheepish as he confesses.

You jab a finger into his chest, feigning anger. “Bucky, did you lock us in here on purpose just to have sex with me?”

“No, of course not. I just wanted you to talk to me, but I wasn’t planning for you to kiss me like that.” His crooked smile melts you, and you can’t even pretend to stay mad. “In my defense, I thought I’d be able to pry the door open before that, especially once I realized I scared you.”

He grabs your chin, his gaze steady. “Besides, I haven’t slept with you yet. And if you want that, you’re gonna have to stop hiding out in your room and go on a couple of dates with me.” His eyes crinkle, his voice teasing. “I’m a gentleman, you know.”

“We’re a little past that, don’t you think?” You can’t help but glance at his lips, and, of course, he notices.

“Of course not. I’ve got a lot planned, and you’re gonna love it. Gotta make sure my girl gets the works.” Before you can process that last part, your attention is pulled away by the sound of yelling.

It takes a few minutes, but the others finally manage to open the vault, needing to work together to pry it open. Bucky silently apologizes for it. Honestly, you'd happily stay locked in that vault forever as long as he was there.

The bed dips with Bucky’s weight, fresh out of the shower, only in boxers. You sit quietly on the bed reading, hands holding the book upright in your lap, back set against the headboard and fluffy pillows.

Bucky huffs looking at you holding the book in his designated spot. He shifts closer, his cold shoulder brushes yours. He huffs again, “Doll, the book is in my spot.”

You don’t look at him, not even a glance, “Exactly, because I wanna read.” You flip the page you were reading nonchalantly.

Bucky presses his vibranium arm even closer to you, “You can hold the book with one hand, doll.”

“Barnes.” The word has a warning edge to it, that made him shut his mouth.

A few minutes pass by, “Doll, you could just play with my hair with one hand while you read.”

“Your hair is wet,” You argue back calmly. He just huffs back with straight attitude.

Your hand is in his hair before he can register it, you yank his head down to your lap, no words from either of you.

Time passes by, quiet and comfortable, his breathing soft until a whine slips from Bucky’s lips as you remove your hand from his head, “Why’d you remove you hand-”

“James. I have to flip the page,” You place your hand back on his head, running your hands through the wet locks, scratching his scalps.

A sigh makes its way past his pink lips, “Love when you play with me.”

A tug at his hair makes him twist his head up, “I know you do Jamie, sweet boy just can’t resist.” Pink flush covers Bucky’s face. He turns his head forward, too flustered to look at you, even if you're not looking at him.

The feeling of strong arms wrapping around your thigh makes you look up, Bucky’s face rubs against your lap like a cat, his stubble rubbing against your upper thigh, “At this point I think you’re turning into a cat.” You scratch the stubble along his face.

You set your book face down on the table beside you, moving down the bed to lay on your back, Bucky makes noises of protest, “Jamie, I’m just getting comfortable.” 

His head lays down on your chest, listening to your heartbeat. The lights dim, you shift closer to Bucky, lips right above his ear, “Gonna get punished tomorrow, Jamie,” Fingers sweep through his hair. “Shoulda listened to me, baby.”

His breathing stops for a short moment, he looks up at you, eyes glassy in that submissive way. Your lips land on his softly, reminding Bucky that he won't be getting the luxury tomorrow.

Reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated!!

part 1 — autumn When old things fall away. The season of endings, of letting go, of learning that some chapters must close so others can begin.

part 2 — winter When the world grows quiet. A season of healing, fragile beginnings, and learning to survive the cold with someone beside you.

part 3 — spring When everything starts to bloom. New feelings, new roots, and the slow realization that hope can grow again.

part 4 — summer When everything feels alive. The season of warmth, belonging, and choosing the life you’ve built.

Sam’s the first one over, of course. “If these are anything like last week’s lemon bars, I’m declaring you honorary station chef,” he says, already stealing one. You laugh, shaking your head, sliding the foil aside. The sound makes Bucky glance up from his coffee. Just a glance—barely half a second—but it catches you. His gaze is steady, unreadable, the color of blue steel and morning smoke. You smile at him out of habit, soft and polite. He looks away like he didn’t see you at all.

You tell yourself you imagined it—the way his jaw moved like he was fighting back a smile. Maybe you want to imagine it. Maybe that’s why you keep coming back, tray after tray.

The station is quieter today, a rare lazy Saturday afternoon. Someone’s got the radio humming low, a classic rock station playing something worn and comfortable. You pour coffee for whoever’s around and settle by the counter, chatting with Sam about the upcoming charity event for the school. The talk is light, easy—exactly the kind of thing you love about this place. Then you catch Bucky’s reflection in the glass cabinet door across the room; he’s watching the tray.

It’s subtle, barely there, but his eyes linger. Not on you—on the food. You hold your breath, pretending not to notice, but Sam does notice. You can tell because he suddenly stops talking mid-sentence, and his grin grows almost mischievous. “Hey, Buck,” he says casually, “you sure you don’t want to try one? These got your name written all over them.”

“Don’t trust other people’s cooking,” comes the same gruff answer, quiet but final. You don’t miss the faint flush at the top of his ears though, and it’s enough to make something warm unfurl in your chest.

“Suit yourself,” Sam shrugs, but when he turns back to you, his eyes sparkle. You both know that was progress.

After a while, you find yourself leaning against the counter beside the coffee pot. Bucky’s still there, half in shadow, flipping through a newspaper that hasn’t been printed in years. You don’t try to talk to him—you’ve learned not to force conversation. Instead, you slide one brownie from the tray and wrap it in a napkin, setting it on the table near him without a word. It’s not an offering, not really, just a quiet, small gesture.

You’re halfway through cleaning up when you hear the softest sound—a fork scraping across foil. You look up without meaning to. Bucky’s still reading, still silent, but the brownie’s gone from the napkin. His shoulders are looser now, the tiniest bit of tension drained from his posture, and you swear, just for a second, his lips twitch like the start of a smile.

You don’t say anything. You just pack up the empty containers and hum under your breath, the tune quiet and content. The song fades into the murmur of the radio, into the hum of the refrigerator, into the rhythm of a place that, for all its noise and steel, suddenly feels a little softer around the edges.

When you finally head toward the door, Sam calls after you. “See you next week, sunshine!” You grin and wave. You expect Bucky to ignore you—he usually does, but as you step outside, his voice follows, low and gruff.

“Thanks for the… whatever that was.”

You turn, surprise flickering through you. “Brownies,” you say, smiling. “And you’re welcome.”

He nods once, barely meeting your eyes, and then goes back to pretending he didn’t say anything at all. But you see it—the faintest smudge of chocolate on the corner of his thumb.

And maybe, just maybe, next Saturday, you’ll make something just for him.

By the next Saturday, you’ve talked yourself out of caring. You told yourself you wouldn’t overthink it—that the brownie probably just looked good, that he might’ve been hungry, that it didn’t mean anything. But when you catch yourself checking the oven timer more times than necessary while your new batch of blondies bakes, you already know you’re lying to yourself.

You tell yourself you’re doing it for everyone. For Sam, who’ll inhale anything with sugar; for Joaquín, who always pretends to ration his desserts but ends up sneaking seconds; and for Natasha, who’s too polite to take one until you practically shove the container toward her. You’re doing it because you like baking, because the kids at school drive you to the edge by Friday, and this has become your calm. But somewhere in the middle of folding in the white chocolate chips, you add a pinch more brown sugar, just in case someone else decides to try one again.

The air outside carries that quiet, late-autumn chill that makes the world feel still. When you step into the station, the warmth hits instantly—coffee brewing, the faint scent of detergent and pine cleaner. You hear laughter before you even see anyone. Sam’s voice, low and teasing, followed by Steve’s steady calm trying to reel him in.

“Morning, teacher,” Sam greets as soon as he spots you, grinning like always. “You’re about to save our Saturday again, I hope.”

You hold up the container. “Blondies. And I brought apple muffins too, for breakfast since you people apparently eat nothing but caffeine.”

Natasha snorts from the couch. “That’s an exaggeration. Sometimes we eat protein bars.”

You laugh, and the sound fills the kitchen easily. You catch a glimpse of Bucky at the back table, leaning against the counter with a coffee mug that looks practically welded to his hand. He doesn’t speak, but you feel his attention like static in the air—muted, cautious, curious. You smile at him and keep moving, setting out plates, napkins, and paper cups. He watches every motion, pretending he isn’t.

Steve ambles closer, taking a muffin and murmuring his thanks, and then, as he’s biting into it, says casually, “Bucky told me your brownies were good.”

You nearly drop the lid. “He what?”

Steve’s eyes crinkle in quiet amusement. “He didn’t say it exactly like that, but I’ve known the man long enough to translate. You made an impression.”

You glance over again, Bucky’s pretending to read something on his phone, and there’s no chance he can’t hear you, but the faint color on his ears tells you he absolutely can. You bite back a smile, warmth blooming under your ribs.

It’s a calm day again, paperwork and banter, the radio humming. Joaquín’s sitting at the kitchen table fiddling with some gadget; Natasha’s nursing a mug of coffee while half-listening to Sam’s story about a neighborhood dog that keeps chasing their truck down the street. You take the seat beside her, listening, laughing, and slowly you notice the smallest thing—Bucky doesn’t leave. The last few weeks, he’d always disappear to the garage or the supply room when the noise started. But today, he lingers.

He doesn’t say much, just throws Sam a deadpan look when the man starts exaggerating, or mutters a dry comment that makes Steve choke on his drink. And somehow, those tiny, reluctant pieces of his personality make you grin more than you mean to.

Eventually, when the laughter quiets and the others drift toward chores or calls, you find yourself cleaning up the kitchen. You hum a little tune under your breath as you stack plates and rinse cups. The sound feels at home here now, tucked under the low buzz of fluorescent light.

Behind you, there’s a shuffle of movement. “You don’t have to clean all that,” Bucky says, voice low but clear enough to make you turn. He’s standing a few feet away, drying his hands on a towel, expression unreadable but not cold.

You smile, shaking your head. “I don’t mind. I made the mess.”

He hesitates, then steps closer. “You make a mess every week.”

The words might sound gruff, but his tone isn’t sharp. It’s teasing in the smallest, clumsiest way, like he’s trying it on for size. You laugh quietly. “You keep inviting me back.”

“That’s Sam.”

“I don’t remember him being the one who ate a brownie last week.”

That earns you a look—one brow slightly raised, the hint of embarrassment tightening his jaw. He doesn’t deny it. He just exhales through his nose and mutters, “you caught that, huh?”

You shrug lightly, rinsing another cup. “It was hard to miss.”

There’s a beat of silence. You can hear the creak of the building settling, the hum of the fridge, the soft tap of his mug setting down beside the sink. And then, unexpectedly, he starts helping. Drying dishes beside you, movements neat, efficient. You glance up, and for a moment, the light hits his face just right—soft edges, tired eyes that look less guarded, mouth relaxed. “You bake every week?” he asks.

You nod, setting another cup in the rack. “Usually. It’s how I unwind after teaching. My kids are… a lot. It’s nice to do something that doesn’t talk back.”

He huffs out a short laugh—barely a sound, but genuine. “Can’t argue with that.”

The air between you shifts. Not heavy, not awkward, just quiet and comfortable. When you reach for the towel he’s holding, your fingers brush his. It’s nothing—just the lightest contact—but his hand goes completely still. You feel it immediately, the static between skin and skin. He doesn’t pull back right away, his eyes flick up to yours, and for half a heartbeat, neither of you move.

Then you take the towel, pretending not to notice the way his shoulders straighten again. “Thanks,” you say softly.

He nods once. “Sure.”

When you finish, he walks you to the door. It’s unnecessary, but he does it anyway, holding the door open with a quiet sort of courtesy that feels almost shy. You turn back before stepping out, smiling at him again. “See you next Saturday?”

He leans against the frame, eyes flicking to your container. “You bring those blondies again, maybe.” It’s the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen on him yet.

And as you step out into the crisp afternoon air, the thought sticks with you the whole walk home—that maybe this time, you’re not the only one waiting for Saturday.

The third Saturday starts gray and cool, the kind of morning that feels like it’s been steeped in fog. You pull your sweater tighter around your arms as you balance two containers in your hands—one with your usual dessert, the other with something new. You’d made cinnamon rolls this time, because Sam had mentioned missing his mom’s recipe, and because you’d caught yourself wondering if Bucky liked cinnamon. You’re not sure why that thought stuck with you all week, but it did.

When you walk into the station, the smell of coffee is already there to greet you, warm and grounding. The radio hums somewhere in the background, and you can hear Sam’s voice echoing down the hall—loud, teasing, familiar. You smile before you even see them. “Morning, sunshine!” Sam calls, appearing around the corner. “Tell me you brought somethin’ good.”

“Always do,” you say, lifting the containers. “Cinnamon rolls and some kind of experiment involving brown butter and chocolate chips. No guarantees.”

“Brown butter’s never a mistake,” Natasha says from the couch, flipping a page of her magazine. She glances up, offers one of her rare, knowing smiles. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” you echo, setting the boxes down on the counter.

Steve’s at the stove making another pot of coffee—he always makes the second one too strong—and Joaquín is balancing on a chair trying to fix the overhead light again. Bucky’s there too, sitting at the table near the back, sleeves rolled up, forearms braced against the wood as he scrolls through his phone. He looks up once when you arrive, just once, then goes right back to whatever he was doing.

You pretend not to notice, but you do.

You start plating the cinnamon rolls, their warm scent filling the kitchen. Sam is the first to steal one, no surprise there. Joaquín jumps down from the chair, swiping his own before Sam can hog them all, and Steve gives you that gentle, polite “thank you” that always makes you feel like you brought something meaningful instead of just sugar and flour. Natasha takes one, too—eventually—and hums quietly after the first bite, which feels like a glowing five-star review coming from her.

Bucky doesn’t move. He never does, not right away. But he’s watching.

You can feel it in the way his gaze lingers just past you, pretending to be indifferent but landing too often on the tray. You could call him out on it, tease him the way Sam would, but you don’t. Instead, you just slide one of the rolls onto a small plate and set it at the corner of the table near him, like always. He glances at it, then at you. “What’s the trick this time?” he asks, voice low, almost cautious.

“Brown butter in the icing,” you say, smiling a little. “And extra cinnamon.”

He studies the plate for a moment, then his fingers curl around the fork. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a show of it—just cuts off a piece and takes a bite. The world doesn’t stop, the room doesn’t go silent, but you swear you feel it. Like something subtle and quiet shifting.

He chews slowly, expression unreadable, and then—barely, almost imperceptibly—his mouth twitches.

You keep your smile to yourself, pretending to busy your hands with cleaning up a bit of icing from the counter. Natasha sees it though, the faint curve of your lips, and you catch her smirk from across the room.

“Good?” you ask, when you can’t take the silence anymore.

Bucky’s gaze flicks up to yours. “Not bad.” It’s the gruffest possible compliment, but it makes your heart skip anyway. He finishes the rest without another word, and when he’s done, he stands, rinses his plate, and sets it neatly in the drying rack. You’re pretty sure that’s the closest thing to a thank you you’re ever going to get, but then he hesitates by the door, mug in hand. “You teach third grade, right?” he asks suddenly, eyes still on the floor.

You blink, caught off guard. “Yeah. I do.”

He nods once, still not looking at you. “That’s… brave.”

You laugh, startled. “Brave?”

He looks up then, just a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I couldn’t handle that many eight-year-olds. One of ‘em would start talkin’ back, and I’d lose my job before lunch.”

“Occupational hazard,” you say, grinning. “You get used to it.”

“I don’t think I would.”

There’s a hint of amusement in his voice now, something warmer threading through the usual gravel. He takes a sip of his coffee, leans against the counter, and you realize this is the first time you’ve actually seen him stay in a conversation. Not just endure it, stay.

The others drift in and out of the kitchen as the day stretches lazily on. Joaquín heads out to run errands, Natasha disappears into the office, and Steve starts sorting some equipment by the back door. Sam’s napping on the couch, his snores filling the otherwise calm space. And still, Bucky’s there.

You find yourself sitting across from him with your own mug of coffee, talking about small, ordinary things. The town fair that’s coming up. The school’s bake sale. His very strong opinions about the superiority of homemade coffee over anything from a café. It’s not deep conversation—it’s easy, simple. But for Bucky, it’s a start.

You watch the way he relaxes as he talks, his voice softening, hands moving just slightly when he describes something. He still avoids too much eye contact, still glances down often, but his walls are lower today. You can feel it.

Eventually, Steve calls something from across the room about checking a delivery in the garage, and Bucky pushes his chair back with a low grunt. You gather your empty mug, standing too. When he reaches to take it from you, your fingers brush for a second, not even a full second—but long enough.

His touch is rough, calloused, but careful. You notice the way his hand pauses, the faint inhale that catches in his chest. It’s nothing, really, just contact, but it’s the first real one, and you both feel it. He clears his throat softly, taking the mug from you like it’s fragile. “Got it.”

You murmur thanks and smile—gentle, easy. “See you next week?”

“Yeah,” he says, almost before he can stop himself. Then, quieter, “bring those rolls again.”

You walk out of the station with that small sentence echoing in your head. It shouldn’t feel like anything. But it does. It feels like the first crack in the armor. And when you glance back through the door before leaving, you catch him watching you go, a faint, unguarded look in his eyes that tells you exactly what you hoped—it wasn’t just about the food anymore.

You wake early the next Saturday with a kind of energy you pretend is just normal weekend motivation, but you know better. You replay that moment—bring those rolls again—more times than you’d ever admit. You tell yourself not to romanticize it, not to interpret it like something bigger, but your hands are already moving before you’re even fully awake, kneading dough, rolling butter and cinnamon into spirals, letting the house fill with that warm, sweet smell that feels like comfort itself.

These rolls aren’t for the whole station this time. They’re for him.

You still make a second dessert, because you don’t want anyone calling him out, not yet. Sam would tease him into hiding, and Natasha would smirk and Bucky would retreat behind a wall so fast you’d never climb over it again. So you make blondies for the group—easy, reliable, a crowd favorite, and definitely not something Bucky also liked—and you pack the cinnamon rolls in a smaller container, frosting separate so they won’t get soggy. Bucky deserves them really good, better than the first time. You don’t want to mess up the first thing he actually asked you for.

When you walk into the station, a wave of warmth and familiar noise greets you immediately. The TV is on, Sam and Joaquín are arguing about who should get credit for winning last week’s pool game, and Natasha is leaning back in her chair looking like she has already judged both of them twice before breakfast. Steve’s by the coffee machine again, he’s always by the coffee machine.

They all greet you, except Bucky. He’s there—but he doesn’t look up right away. He’s sitting at the table cleaning his gloves, movements precise, meticulous. You set the blondies on the main counter first, letting Sam pounce like he always does. Natasha takes one too, slow and deliberate. You laugh with them, talk lightly, and the dynamic is familiar and effortless.

But there’s a second moment happening under that. You move to Bucky’s table. He finally looks up when you stop in front of him, eyebrows lifting just slightly—not irritated, not cautious, but expectant.

You set the smaller container down in front of him. You don’t open it, you just slide it across the table gently, giving him space to choose. He glances at the way it’s packaged—different container than the blondies—like he knows immediately.

“These are the rolls,” you say softly.

He holds your gaze for a slow, solid second, then he closes his cleaning kit, pushes it aside, and pulls the container toward him. He opens it with careful fingers, like he wants to savor this. You hand him the small jar of frosting without even thinking and he takes that too, almost gently. “You made extra icing,” he says, tone unreadable.

“You asked for them again,” you answer, smiling. “Felt right to get it perfect.”

He doesn’t comment on that. But he coats the top of one roll and takes a bite, in front of everyone this time. No hiding, no pretending. The room keeps going around you, Sam still talking, Joaquín still pretending he’s above stealing another blondie, Natasha sipping her coffee—but it feels like time pauses around that single bite.

Bucky closes his eyes just barely for half a heartbeat. Then he exhales like that first taste knocked some weight off his ribs. “This is…” he starts, then stops. You wait, heart thudding quietly against your ribs. He tries again, voice lower. “It’s really good.”

You don’t tease him. You don’t downplay it. “Thank you,” you say. “I’m glad you like them.”

He eats another bite before speaking again. “You didn’t have to make these just for me.”

There’s no accusation in it. Just quiet, vulnerable acknowledgement. You soften a little, leaning a hand on the back of the chair across from him. “You asked me to. That was enough.”

His throat works like he wants to say something else—like he wants to say a dozen things—but instead he just nods. Then he gestures at the seat beside him with the smallest tilt of his head, like an invitation. You sit next to him easily, not making a big deal of it, and he doesn’t move away. His knee stays close to yours, his arm resting comfortably where it is instead of shifting away to protect some kind of invisible line.

The others absolutely notice. Steve glances once over the rim of his mug, faint amusement playing at the edge of his mouth. Sam looks confused for a second, then like he’s silently screaming in victory. Joaquín smirks, nudging Natasha, who simply lifts an eyebrow like she called this three Saturdays ago.

But they don’t say anything out loud, they let him have this moment.

You and Bucky sit there together, legs nearly touching, sharing quiet conversation while he eats something you made, openly, without hesitation, like a small ritual that belongs only to the two of you.

It starts with the smallest things. It isn’t cinematic. It isn’t some dramatic shift. It’s quiet. It’s domestic. It’s the kind of change that sneaks up on both of you without either realizing it until it’s already inside the ribcage, forcing breath to come different.

You start noticing it because he sits closer now, not directly next to you every time, but close enough that you feel the warmth of him. When you speak, he leans in slightly like the world between you is somehow always shorter than it appears. His attention isn’t lazy anymore—it’s tuned in, like he’s cataloguing you the way he does storms and weather patterns he trusts from decades of instinct. He doesn’t look away when you talk now. He actually listens.

And for Bucky, the noticing becomes almost unbearable in a way that’s brand new.

The first time it happens, you don’t even think about it. You were reaching behind him for the sugar jar in the station kitchenette because it somehow always ends up behind his mug, and your fingers brush briefly over his forearm. Just a soft, passing graze of your fingertips to warm skin through fabric. Nothing intentional, nothing suggestive, but Bucky goes still like something hit him point blank. The sensation lingers under his skin like heat that won’t dissipate. He stands there after you’ve already moved away, hand flexing unconsciously at his side, eyes a little distant.

That touch lives rent-free in his head all week.

He tries to ignore it, pretend it meant nothing, pretend it didn’t short-circuit something in him to feel such uncomplicated, gentle contact for no reason beyond necessity. He tries to move on, but it’s the only thing he thinks about when he’s lying in bed at night staring at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time someone touched him without expectation, without noise, without motive. The memory of your fingers feels soft enough to unspool him.

By the next Saturday, something shifts in how he moves around you. It’s small, almost invisible, but you feel it.

When you hand him a container lid, his fingers brush yours intentionally this time. Barely. Just enough that you feel the ghost of contact. When you walk past him in the hallway, he steps a little closer so your shoulders graze. When you sit beside him at the table with your coffee, his knee rests against yours for a breath too long before shifting like he’s convincing himself it was an accident.

You don’t call attention to it. You just quietly validate it by not pulling away. And that choice… that tiny, shared permission… is how the fixation begins.

One afternoon, you’re leaning in to show Natasha a little video clip your student sent you of their class hamster “learning math,” which is basically the hamster running across number tiles. You’re laughing, shoulder slightly turned, and Bucky stands behind you to look over your shoulder. His hand—hesitant yet pulled by instinct—settles lightly on your upper arm to balance himself for just a moment.

It should be nothing, it should be casual, it should be something people don’t think twice about. Except Bucky feels everything about it. The softness of your cardigan, the warmth beneath it, the way you didn’t flinch or stiffen or look uncomfortable. You just kept laughing with Natasha, leaning back into the space without even thinking.

He withdraws a second later, but he spends the next hour replaying that single point of contact in his head like a song loop. Sam tries to get him into a debate about which action movie trilogy is superior, and Bucky answers all wrong because he’s barely registered actual words. Steve gives him a suspicious side-eye when he zones out while cleaning equipment.

He is a grown man knocked absolutely senseless by a hand on an arm. You don’t see that happening inside him, but you feel the aftereffects slowly appear. He starts finding reasons to stand beside you rather than across. When passing you utensils or napkins or tupperware, his fingers linger those fractions longer than needed. When you take a seat at the table, he takes the chair next to yours without hesitation now, casual like it’s obvious that’s where he belongs.

And every single touch is feather light, polite, testing, non-assuming, but dripping with meaning. He never demands, he never grabs, he never rushes. He just lets himself slowly relearn the language of contact.

The station doesn’t tease him about it. Somehow, collective unspoken agreement settles that nobody should scare him back inside his armor. Not when he’s finally stepping out piece by piece. Natasha catches a few moments between you two, her eyes sharper than anyone else’s, but she simply smirks to herself because she sees the blessing of quiet healing when it’s right in front of her.

And you… you find yourself anticipating those small touches as much as he does. You don’t chase them, you don’t force them, you just gently meet them halfway every time he reaches.

And in the slow, silent corners of the station, where coffee steam curls in the low kitchen light and cinnamon and sugar linger in the air from last week’s rolls, you watch a man rediscover something he hasn’t allowed himself to want in years, the simple luxury of being touched without fear.

And Bucky learns—one soft brush of skin at a time—that he wants more.

The next two Saturdays become this quiet study of small proximity—like the space between you is its own gravity field and Bucky’s learning the pull of it in real time. It never happens in big gestures, never anything dramatic that would make the guys at the station crack jokes or ruin the fragile pace the two of you have found.

One Saturday you bring blueberry crumble bars. Natasha eats two, Sam tries to pick at the entire tray before Steve smacks his hand away like a disappointed parent. And Bucky sits next to you like that is the most natural place in the world to sit.

He doesn’t even think about choosing another chair anymore. His body makes the decision before his mind can get in the way. His arm rests on the back of your chair—not wrapped around you, but behind you.

He doesn’t even seem aware he’s doing it until halfway through your story about one of your students making up a conspiracy theory about why pencils exist, which was unhinged and adorable and your favorite thing all week, and then you see him slowly realize how close he actually is.

He should move, he knows he should move, but he doesn’t.

You feel the warmth of him at your back, the way his presence curls lightly around your spine like a secret he forgot to keep hidden. You don’t call it out, you don’t flinch or shy away. You just stay exactly where you are—and you watch the moment he realizes you’re not pulling from him. His shoulders settle like a slow exhale.

Later, when Steve asks you to grab something from the supply closet, Bucky follows without thinking. He insists he needs to get new gloves too, though you’re almost positive every glove in that closet is alphabetized by size and condition like his personal religion. But he’s there, standing behind you as you reach for the plastic bin on the second shelf. You stretch a little further and lose your balance by just a degree—not even enough to cause chaos—just enough for your feet to shift.

Bucky catches your elbow. Not a reflex of panic, but a reflex of instinct. His palm slides warm and steady around the bend of your arm, fingers wrapping gently just above your wrist, grounding you with more tenderness than pressure. The touch is nothing more than support—but the gentleness in it makes your breath catch mid-inhale. “You good?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you say, turning toward him slightly with the bin held against your chest. Your arm is still in his hand. “Just misjudged how far back they shoved this.”

He doesn’t drop your arm right away. His thumb shifts—just once—in a tiny, unconscious sweep. It’s barely movement, but it feels like a full sentence. And Bucky looks like he realizes in that exact millisecond that he’s gotten used to touching you. That he wants more of it.

He clears his throat and drops his hand, stepping back a respectable amount—but the air between you stays charged. You don’t push it, you just smile at him and head back out into the kitchen like nothing monumental happened, even though both of you are now thinking about nothing but that touch.

When you leave that evening, Bucky walks you to the door again. He always does now. No one calls attention to it. It’s just routine. Your routine. At the door, you shift your bag higher on your shoulder and his hand rises automatically—like he’s going to take it from you—like he’s ready to help you carry it without thinking—but he catches himself halfway and lets his hand fall back down. It’s so small. So ordinary. So charged. You give a soft smile, almost teasing, but not quite. “See you next week?”

There’s no hesitation anymore. “Yeah,” he says, eyes warm in a way that’s new, edges less sharp. “I’ll save you a seat.”

You don’t know if he realizes how much more intimate that sounds compared to anything else you’ve shared—but you leave with that sentence echoing through you the entire walk home.

By the next Saturday, Bucky starts waiting for the sound of your footsteps before you’ve even parked your car outside. He doesn’t tell anyone that, of course—he sits at the kitchen table with his mug like always, pretending he’s been there all morning, pretending he doesn’t check the clock every five minutes. Sam catches him glancing toward the door once and smirks, but he doesn’t say a word. No one does anymore. The teasing stopped the moment they realized something was happening quietly between the two of you—something delicate and steady that didn’t need noise.

You always come in the same way: soft knock on the frame, a smile first, your voice warm with that teacher-bright tone that seems to filter out the station’s gray edges. The kitchen fills with you as soon as you enter, like you bring your own weather with you. Today, your hair smells faintly like sugar and butter, and Bucky feels that scent settle somewhere low and calm inside him.

He greets you now, which still surprises you a little every time. “Hey,” he says, voice still rough but softer around the vowels. He stands up when you walk in—not because he means to, but because it feels wrong to stay seated while you’re carrying something heavy. You hold up your containers and he reaches automatically, taking them from your hands before you can protest. The brush of fingers is so casual now that neither of you pause, but the quiet electricity is still there, pulsing underneath everything.

“Got your favorite,” you tell him, pointing to the smaller container. “Cinnamon rolls. The others get the cookies this time.”

He gives a small nod, lips twitching at the corner. “You really don’t have to—”

“You said to bring them again,” you interrupt, teasing. “You can’t take it back now.”

“Didn’t say I was takin’ it back,” he mutters, and you catch the faintest ghost of a smile. It’s there and gone in an instant, but it’s real.

You unload the cookies while Bucky takes the rolls to the far counter. He doesn’t let anyone else near them until you’ve had your share. Sam groans dramatically when he notices. “Oh, so the rolls are exclusive now? Is that it?” Sam says, eyeing the container like he’s preparing for a heist.

“Yeah,” Bucky says simply, not even looking up. “They are.”

The room falls into a stunned silence for half a beat before Sam bursts out laughing, shaking his head. Natasha smirks from her corner with a knowing hum, and Steve hides his grin behind his coffee mug. You’re half-laughing, half-embarrassed, warmth spreading through your chest like sunlight. Bucky doesn’t even seem embarrassed about claiming them—or you—in that small, quiet way. He just sits down, pulls the lid off, and starts spreading frosting over one like it’s his ritual.

When you join him at the table, he slides the second roll toward you without looking, like it’s already decided. “Made sure I saved you one before Wilson tried to steal it.”

You take it with a small laugh. “Thank you.”

The rest of the morning unfolds gently, the rhythm familiar now. You all linger in the kitchen longer than necessary, talking about nothing important—school stories, local events, the fair coming up in a few weeks. Natasha mentions volunteering for the kids’ safety booth, and Bucky glances up when you say you’ll be helping there too. He doesn’t comment, but you see the flicker in his eyes—interest, curiosity, something softer you can’t quite name yet.

After a while, Sam and Steve head out to check equipment, and Joaquín leaves to run errands, leaving just you, Bucky, and Natasha in the kitchen. She excuses herself after a few minutes, mumbling something about needing peace before the chaos returns. That leaves the two of you alone at the table, the low hum of the fridge filling the quiet between sentences.

You start to stand to wash a few dishes, but Bucky’s hand finds your forearm before you can move. It’s the lightest touch—barely there—but his thumb brushes once against your sleeve. “Leave it,” he says. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”

You freeze for half a second, not at the words, but at how naturally he touched you. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s done it until you look at him. His fingers stay there a second longer than they need to, warm and steady, before he lets go and reaches for the plates instead. You sit back down, quiet, watching him.

He’s methodical when he cleans—careful and exact. You catch the way he hums softly under his breath, a habit you’ve never heard from him before. It’s low and tuneless, but peaceful. When he turns to grab a towel, you stand and move beside him to help, not saying anything. The two of you move around each other easily, unspoken choreography. At one point, your hand reaches for the same mug he’s drying, and your fingers brush again. He doesn’t freeze this time; he looks at you instead, his eyes flicking up, blue and tired and open.

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking the mug.

“Anytime,” he says quietly.

You finish cleaning in silence, but it’s comfortable—the kind of silence that feels shared rather than empty. When you finally pack up to leave, he’s leaning against the counter again, towel slung over his shoulder, hair a little damp from running his wet hands through his hair. He looks at you for a long moment before speaking. “You always bring something,” he says, almost like he’s thinking out loud. “Even when you’ve got a long week. Even when you look tired.”

You shrug, smiling a little. “It’s my way of winding down. And you all appreciate it. Mostly Sam,” you add with a laugh.

He huffs a laugh too, short but genuine. “I appreciate it more than I say.”

That catches you off guard, but you meet his eyes and see that he means it, completely. “I know,” you say softly. “I can tell.”

He nods once, then takes a breath like he’s going to add something else but decides against it. Instead, he steps closer and opens the door for you. You pass him on the way out, the scent of soap and cinnamon filling the small space between you. He doesn’t move right away. The side of his arm brushes yours, just a whisper of contact, but the simplicity of it makes the moment feel big. “See you next Saturday?” you ask, tilting your head slightly toward him.

His mouth quirks, barely a smile but enough to feel like one. “Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it.”

As you walk away, he lingers by the doorway for a moment, watching you until you turn the corner. When you’re gone, he looks back at the kitchen—the empty mugs, the faint traces of cinnamon on the counter, the chair you always sit in—and for the first time in a long while, he realizes the week ahead feels like the wait between good things instead of the grind toward the next shift.

Saturday used to be just another day in the rotation. Now it feels like the only one that matters.

You show up to the station one Saturday and the kitchen is already… set up. Someone went and made space on the counter, like they’d been expecting you and your containers. Someone laid out the cutting board, the butter knife, the napkins. Someone rinsed out the carafe and made a fresh batch of coffee thirty minutes before you arrived, just to make sure it would be hot when you walked in.

It’s Bucky. Obviously.

He pretends he didn’t. Pretends that’s just how the kitchen always is. But Sam catches your eye and mouths you did this to him the moment Bucky walks away to grab mugs.

You hide your smile in your sleeve.

When you open your container today, you notice Bucky doesn’t wait. He doesn’t hang back like he needs to “pretend to think about it.” He comes to the counter first. He claims his plate first. He doesn’t bother letting anyone else investigate what you brought before he does. He scoops icing and spreads it over his cinnamon roll with the same careful concentration you’ve come to adore—like food is a language too, and slow is how he honors it.

No flashy commentary. No teasing. Just soft ownership. He bites in, eyes shuttering, jaw going slack for a millisecond before he pulls it back under control. You see his shoulders drop a fraction, like sweetness somehow releases tension in his spine. And then… he actually speaks before anyone else does. “These are even better than last week.”

Sam nearly chokes on his coffee, Natasha quietly grins behind her cup like she just saw a planet finally rotate into alignment, and Steve pretends he’s not impressed, but he looks away to hide the way he’s smiling too hard.

And you just stand there, your heart doing something absurd, gentle, and painfully tender in your chest. Because he didn’t say it begrudgingly. He didn’t say it like he was forced or pushed, he offered praise—volunteer level, willingly.

You hand him a fork but he doesn’t take it the regular way anymore. He takes it from your fingers directly, brushing skin intentionally this time. That subtle slide of his fingertip across yours is deliberate. It lingers a half beat longer than necessary. He could easily avoid contact but he chooses not to.

You sit beside him with your own roll, and for a good twenty minutes the room just fills with quiet chatter and slow chewing and contentment. It feels absurdly domestic, like a messy little chosen weekend breakfast you don’t want to end. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t armor himself from the world. He doesn’t isolate from the noise of his friends. He sits with you—like this is where he fits.

At one point you’re telling him a story about a field trip your class is taking to the petting zoo and how you’re worried about one particular child trying to smuggle out a goat. He listens, leaning his chin into his palm, eyes on you the entire time like nothing else competes for his attention. Every few sentences he makes these tiny reactions—lips pursing when you mention chaos, eyes softening when you describe their excitement, a quiet huff laugh when you mention bribes in the form of stickers.

It’s this subtle emotional matching that sneaks up on you.

He isn’t just listening. He’s attuning.

When your plates are empty, he takes them from you automatically to rinse and dry. You don’t even have to ask. You don’t even have to offer. That’s just the role he takes now, unspoken. You cook. He cleans. It’s the smallest domestic ecosystem that somehow feels like the most intimate thing you’ve ever built with someone.

On your way out hours later, Steve and Joaquín are arguing about grill season, Natasha’s flipping through her paper, and Sam is half-dozing on the couch. It’s loud but warm. Familiar but safe.

Bucky walks you out like always.

And this time, when you turn to say goodbye, he doesn’t hover awkwardly or shove his hands into his pockets to protect himself. He stands a little closer and his eyes find yours without darting away. And in that space between breath and reason, his fingers catch the strap of your bag gently—just hooking it in place as if helping settle it on your shoulder is second nature now. It’s nothing dramatic. It doesn’t send shockwaves. It’s just… soft. “You drive safe, alright?” he says, quiet but earnest.

You nod once, smiling. “I will.”

He lets his fingers slide away slowly. Not rushed. Not nervous. Because somewhere between cinnamon and quiet mornings, you’ve become part of his weekend. You’ve become the only break in his routine he actually looks forward to.

And when the door closes behind you, the entire station sees the way he lets out a breath like holding himself together took effort he didn’t want to spend anymore. Sam doesn’t tease, Natasha doesn’t smirk, and Steve just claps him once on the shoulder on his way past.

Bucky doesn’t say it out loud, but everyone knows. Saturday is no longer just the day he endures. It has become the day he lives for.

By the time the school fair starts creeping closer on your calendar, you’ve gotten comfortable in the routine. Saturdays are Bucky days now. They’re warm and easy and slow in a way that feels almost sacred—like everything else in the week exists just to lead toward them. You don’t say this out loud to anyone, obviously, not even Wanda, even though she definitely sees something changing. She sees it before you are ready to claim it.

It’s Wednesday afternoon and you’re both in your classroom after dismissal. Wanda is perched on your desk, sipping from her tea, grading spelling tests and occasionally laughing under her breath at some of the answers. You’re organizing your materials for the spring fair games, sorting little giveaway bags, taping up the poster that says “FOLLOW THE FOOTPRINTS FOR PRIZES”—all glitter marker and 3rd grade chaos charm.

You think about the fair and immediately think about Bucky.

It pops into your head so naturally that it catches you off guard. Before, it would’ve felt like a stretch… like worlds couldn’t possibly overlap. But now, your worlds have already started to bleed into each other. He knows about your classroom, he knows your kids’ nicknames, he knows your habit of stress-baking. And more importantly, he listens. That’s the part you can’t let go of. The part where this man, who trusts almost nothing outside his own hands, trusts you.

Wanda glances over and catches that particular expression on your face—that soft internal conflict hovering at the edges of possibility. “You’re thinking about something,” she says knowingly.

You blink. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been staring at the same sticker sheet for two full minutes,” she says with a little smirk. “And you only do that when you’re overthinking something.”

You look down and yeah, you are literally holding the same sheet of star stickers, frozen mid-air like your brain has been suspended in amber. You try to look casual, not suspicious. “I was just thinking… maybe I should ask someone to come. You know. Just for moral support. It’s going to be chaos and—”

Wanda doesn’t even let you finish. “You should invite Bucky.”

You inhale sharply. “I didn’t say it was Bucky.”

“You didn’t need to.” She laughs softly, finishing her tea before setting the mug down. “Every time you talk about him you smile like someone just lit a candle inside you.”

You open your mouth to deny it, but she raises an eyebrow. The kind of eyebrow that says don’t insult both of us by pretending. You sigh then, leaning back against the wall beside the glitter poster. “It’s different with him,” you admit quietly. “I don’t… want to push him. He’s slow. He’s careful with everything.”

“And you already match him there,” Wanda says gently. “You’re not rushing him. You’re just… letting something grow.”

You chew your lip for a moment. “Do you think he’d even want to go? It’s a school event. Loud kids, small town noise, crowds.”

“Maybe that’s exactly the kind of trust bridge this kind of thing needs,” she counters, eyes soft. “It’s safe, it’s you. And he likes spending time with you, he lights up on Saturdays. I’ve literally seen it happen.” You flush, warm, because hearing it aloud makes your chest ache in a good way. Wanda leans closer, lowering her voice like this is a secret spell she’s whispering just for you. “Invite him out of his world… and into yours.”

You look down at your glitter poster again, the little stars catching the classroom lights. You imagine him here, awkward but warm, secretly charmed by the kids, maybe helping you hold things or laughing at their terrible knock-knock jokes. You imagine his hand brushing your wrist as he hands you a prize bag. You imagine just… existing with him outside stainless steel tables and cinnamon rolls.

And suddenly it doesn’t feel impossible. It feels… right. You exhale, steadying your voice. “Okay,” you say quietly. “I’ll ask him on Saturday.”

Wanda smiles like she already knew you were going to say that. She reaches for her grading stack again, finalizing her last test. “Good. Because I think he needs to see that he belongs somewhere outside that station. And I think he deserves to see where you shine.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You let those words sink deep. And for the rest of the afternoon, while you staple more posters and prep game bins, your heart feels different. Lighter. Braver. The idea of inviting him doesn’t feel terrifying anymore.

It feels hopeful. It feels like the next natural step in the slow burn you’ve been building together—one cinnamon roll at a time.

Saturday comes, and you spend the morning trying not to overthink the invitation. It’s ridiculous, really—you’ve spent months in the same room with Bucky, talking, laughing, baking, brushing hands and pretending it’s casual. You’ve built a rhythm. But this feels different. Asking him to the fair means stepping out of that familiar bubble. It means letting your two worlds touch. It means giving him a window into the life you built before he was part of it.

You bake early to keep yourself busy. Chocolate chip muffins this time—simple, comforting, impossible to mess up. You tell yourself you’ll just see how the day goes. If it feels right, you’ll ask. If not, no harm done. But even as you think it, you’re already choosing which words to use, rehearsing them under your breath while the muffins rise.

The station hums like always when you walk in—low music, the sound of someone sweeping, laughter echoing from the common room. You’re met with the same warmth that’s become ritual, the same voices calling your name, the same easy energy that makes you feel like you belong.

But Bucky’s the first person you see. He’s standing at the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with flour. He’s cooking—actually cooking—something in a skillet. The sight freezes you in place for a second. It’s not because he’s cooking, though that’s impressive enough, but because it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him share that space the way you do. “Morning,” he says, glancing up from the pan. His voice is rougher than usual, but softer somehow. “You’re early.”

“So are you,” you tease, smiling. “Didn’t peg you as the Saturday morning pancake type.”

He smirks faintly. “I’m not, but Sam’s been bragging about his cooking all week, so I thought I’d remind him what good actually tastes like.”

From the table, Sam yells, “you’re using my recipe!”

Bucky’s smirk grows. “And somehow still making it better.”

You laugh, moving to set down your container of muffins. He looks at it, then at you, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Those for us?”

“Always,” you say. “Figured you might need something to go with your… culinary competition.”

He takes one of the muffins without hesitation. It’s something you’ll never stop noticing—that small act of trust, how it still feels like a quiet miracle each time. He breaks it in half, steam curling up, and nods in quiet approval. “Good,” he says simply, like it’s law.

You help with the dishes while he finishes cooking, falling into that easy rhythm again. You hand him a towel, he hands you a spatula, the two of you brushing against each other in that familiar, subtle orbit you’ve built. Every accidental touch feels intentional now. Every small space between you feels electric.

When everyone sits down to eat, you slide into the chair beside him automatically. It’s become your seat; no one questions it. Bucky makes a show of setting your plate in front of you first, then his own. You catch Natasha watching him, her smirk small and secret, and you fight the urge to hide your smile behind your fork.

The conversation flows as it always does—banter, teasing, casual updates. You wait for the right moment, the right lull in the noise. When Steve gets up to grab more coffee and Sam starts talking about a neighborhood dog that won’t stop following their truck, you finally look toward Bucky. “Hey,” you say quietly, just enough for him to hear over the chatter.

He glances at you, eyes steady. “Yeah?”

“So, my school’s having its spring fair next weekend,” you start, picking at your napkin. “It’s kind of a big thing for the kids. Games, food, chaos—good chaos. I usually work one of the booths, but it’s a lot of running around.”

He listens closely, nodding a little. You can tell he’s trying to picture it.

You take a breath, deciding to just jump. “I was thinking… maybe you could come? You don’t have to stay long, I just thought you might like to see it. Wanda’s volunteering too—you’d like her, she’s great.”

Bucky’s brow furrows slightly. “You want me to come to a school event?”

There’s no teasing in it—just genuine surprise, a soft disbelief that someone would want him there. “I do,” you say simply. “You’re good with people, even if you think you’re not. And I think you’d enjoy it. Plus, you’ve heard about these kids for months, feels only fair you meet the legends.”

His mouth curves, small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up at you. “You really want me there?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.”

He studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to make sure this isn’t pity or obligation. When he finally nods, it’s slow, thoughtful. “Alright,” he says. “If you’re sure, I’ll come.”

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “Good. I’ll save you some cotton candy.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Not sure I trust fairground food.”

“Then I’ll bring snacks,” you counter easily. “My snacks. You trust those.”

His eyes linger on you, and something flickers there—something softer, something that looks dangerously close to fond. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

The rest of the day passes like it always does, filled with chatter and work and the easy rhythm of routine. But beneath it, something new hums. You can feel it every time he looks at you, every time his hand brushes yours as you move around the kitchen.

And later, when you leave, he walks you to your car like he always does. The afternoon sun is soft on the pavement, the world unhurried. You turn to him before getting in, hand resting lightly on the door. “Thanks for saying yes,” you say quietly.

He shrugs, but his voice is warm when he answers. “Couldn’t let the kids down, could I?”

You grin. “Or me?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just gives a small, almost shy smile. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Or you.”

When you drive away, you see him still standing there in the rearview mirror, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he’s still watching you go. And as you turn the corner, your chest feels full in a way that’s new and familiar all at once.

He’s coming into your world next week.

The fair day dawns bright and loud, the kind of spring morning that feels like sugar in the air—kids’ laughter already echoing down the main street, vendors setting up booths, music floating from the community speakers. The smell of kettle corn and fried dough hangs over the whole town like a promise. You arrive early, wearing one of the school T-shirts with your name on the back, arms already full of poster boards and tickets. It’s chaos, and you love it.

You help Wanda set up the game booth—ring toss, bean bags, a giant jar of jellybeans for kids to guess at. She’s wearing sunglasses, sipping tea, looking like she owns the place, and occasionally humming in amusement every time a student runs up to greet you like you’re a celebrity. “They worship you,” she says, adjusting the rings on her table. “You know that, right?”

“They’re eight,” you laugh. “They worship whoever gives them stickers and sugar.”

Still, the affection warms you. You love your kids, the energy, the noise, the chaos. But as the crowd thickens, a part of you can’t stop flicking toward the street, scanning faces as if you’re expecting someone—hoping, really. Wanda catches the motion. “You’re looking for him,” she says without even pretending it’s a question.

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “He said he’d come. He doesn’t have to, though. I wouldn’t blame him if—”

Wanda interrupts you with a small smile. “He’ll come. He’s a quiet one, not a liar.”

You try not to overanalyze it, you focus on your booth, the crowd, the small joys of the morning. You laugh with your students, cheer when they win prizes, and help clean up spilled lemonade. It’s easy to get lost in the noise, the blur of color and movement.

And then—there he is.

You don’t see him approach right away. You feel him first, a subtle shift in the air behind you, the quiet weight of someone standing close but not too close. You turn, and Bucky’s there at the edge of the booth, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other holding a small brown paper bag. He’s dressed differently than usual—still simple, still him, but softer somehow. Jeans, a plain gray henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows. The sunlight catches in his hair, a faint breeze teasing it.

You freeze for a beat, because something about seeing him here, in your world, out of uniform and duty, hits deeper than you expected. “You came,” you manage finally, voice caught between surprise and warmth.

He gives a small, lopsided smile. “Told you I would.” He holds up the paper bag. “Brought backup snacks, just in case fair food’s as bad as I think it is.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you too easily. “You really didn’t trust my cotton candy plan?”

“Didn’t say I don’t trust you,” he counters, and the way he says it—steady, quiet, completely earnest—makes your chest tighten.

Wanda materializes beside you like smoke, smiling at Bucky with that curious teacher’s-eye look she gives to every new person she meets. “So you’re the infamous firefighter,” she says, extending her hand. “She’s told me about you.”

Bucky shakes her hand politely, shooting you a look that’s equal parts suspicion and amusement. “All good things, I hope.”

“Mostly,” Wanda says, smiling. “You’re taller than I pictured.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “I get that a lot.”

You glare at her playfully, but she just waves and says, “I’ll go check the dunk tank before the kids decide to flood it early,” before wandering off.

The two of you stand there, momentarily caught between laughter and quiet. Around you, the fair buzzes—kids running past, someone yelling about funnel cake, the smell of caramel apples thick in the air. But somehow, it feels like it’s just the two of you. “Want me to show you around?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Lead the way.”

You walk through the fair together. He doesn’t talk much at first—he doesn’t need to. He listens, hands in his pockets, occasionally making some dry comment that makes you laugh. You take him past the art booths, where your students’ projects hang in rows of color, and he stops in front of one labeled with your name. It’s a collage your class made—a field of handprints in paint, each signed by a child, surrounded by cut-out letters that spell The Best Teacher Ever! It’s uneven and smudged and perfect.

Bucky studies it longer than you expect him to, a faint softness pulling at his mouth. “They really love you,” he says quietly.

You shrug, embarrassed. “They’re good kids.”

He glances down at you, something thoughtful in his eyes. “You’re good with them,” he says simply. “It shows.”

The compliment lands heavier than he probably intended. It isn’t the words—it’s the way he says them, steady and sincere, like it’s not even a question, like it’s a fact.

You move on, showing him everything—your favorite stall for handmade candles, the game where the kids always cheat, the bake sale Wanda and the PTA moms are running. At one point, you find yourself next to him in front of the cotton candy machine, and you laugh as a gust of wind blows sugar threads into your hair. Without thinking, he reaches out and brushes them away.

The touch is brief, featherlight, but his fingers linger at your temple for half a second before dropping. His breath catches. Yours does too. “You’ve got, uh,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “Sugar in your hair.”

“Tragic,” you say, your voice a little too soft.

“Catastrophic,” he agrees, mouth twitching.

You both laugh, a little shy, a little stunned, and move on. But the touch stays, and it hangs there like a memory neither of you wants to disturb.

Later, as the afternoon fades and the crowd begins to thin, you sit on the curb with a paper cup of lemonade, your knees almost touching. The air smells like sun and sugar and pavement. You don’t talk much, you don’t have to, the silence feels full instead of empty.

“You were right,” Bucky says finally, nodding toward the fairgrounds. “Wasn’t so bad.”

You smile at him, eyes squinting against the last bit of light. “Told you.”

He looks at you then—not the quick glances he used to give, not the cautious observation from behind a wall, but openly, with quiet awe. Like he’s finally seeing how you look in your own world. Surrounded by color, laughter, tiny sticky hands tugging your sleeves, your voice still warm even after hours of talking.

For Bucky, something settles deep in his chest that he can’t name. It’s not attraction—he’s already been living in that. It’s something deeper, more domestic. It’s the feeling of home.

You notice the look but don’t name it either. You just smile back, soft and unguarded. “Thanks for coming,” you say quietly. “It meant a lot.”

He shrugs, but there’s no deflection in it this time. “Anytime,” he says, voice low. “I liked seeing your world.”

You sit there a little longer, until the lights start flickering on and the first stars slip out behind the clouds. And when you finally stand to leave, he offers his hand—not out of obligation, not because it’s polite, but because it’s instinct now. You take it without hesitation. His palm is warm, steady, a little calloused. You hold on just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

And when you walk back through the fairgrounds, side by side, your hands brush again and again until they finally stay that way. Fingers linked loosely, not claiming, not rushing. Just… together.

The crowd hums around you, the night growing soft, and Bucky realizes something simple and terrifying all at once:

He doesn’t just like your Saturdays anymore. He likes you everywhere.

He starts showing up in small ways outside Saturdays. You’ll be in your classroom after school prepping next week’s math centers and there will be a knock at the door. You look up and he’s leaning in the doorway, one hand tucked in his jacket, holding a thermos of coffee like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He pretends he’s dropping it off because Steve accidentally made too much at the station—not because he just wanted to see you.

But the second he steps into your room and sees your kids’ artwork taped to the walls and your desk covered in glitter glue and fidget toys and half laminated name tags, he looks around like he’s inside something he never imagined existed: harmless chaos. “You deal with this every day?” he murmurs, stunned but not mocking, eyes darting around like he’s trying to translate children in their natural terrain.

“And willingly,” you tease, passing him a marker so he has something to do with his hands before he overloads. “Some people like adrenaline. I like sticker negotiations and ‘please stop licking the book’ diplomacy.”

He huffs out that tiny almost laugh he does—the one at the edge of softness—and helps you hang up a few more student drawings without saying anything else. And it’s the way he stands next to you, shoulder brushing yours every so often, that tells you he didn’t come here because of extra coffee at the station at all. He came because he wanted to be here. Because being near you doesn’t drain him—it restores something.

He starts noticing when you’re tired now, too. Not in a pitying way—he doesn’t talk to you like you need fixing. He just quietly slides a container of his meal prep toward you when you mention skipping lunch. He brings extra apples one day and tosses one to you without even looking up from the newspaper. He casually hands you his jacket when you shiver taking trash out to the dumpster behind the station, acting like it’s not a big deal while his eyes track you the entire way back inside.

And you start to see how much he craves small, steady connection—even if he doesn’t know how to ask for it. When you walk beside him now, he reaches for your arm lightly—not tight, not possessive, just guiding. When you laugh, he leans in closer, almost subconsciously. When you hand him a napkin or utensil or anything at all, he always touches your fingers first before taking it from you. Like contact is becoming a language.

Sam notices before you do. One afternoon at the station, you reach across the table to pass Bucky a spoon and his hand slides along yours like muscle memory, like instinct, and Sam chokes mid swallow until Steve kicks his ankle under the table with military precision. Natasha doesn’t say a word—she watches with narrowed amusement like she always knew this was exactly where the slow burn was heading.

And Bucky? He just keeps doing it. Little touches. Little claims disguised as casual nothing gestures. He doesn’t call attention to them and neither do you. You just lean in gently, matching his pace, letting him guide in the small quiet ways he’s comfortable with.

The first time you walk outside together after a long Saturday shift and the night air settles cool against your skin, he reaches out and hooks his hand lightly behind your elbow—barely pressure at all—but you can feel how deliberate it is. You can feel that he wanted that contact. That he wanted you closer. “You okay?” you ask softly, turning toward him.

He takes a slow breath before answering, looking almost surprised at himself. “Yeah.” His voice is quiet, steady-sincere. “Just… making sure you don’t get lost on the sidewalk.”

The excuse is thin. Laughable. Ridiculous. And when you look up at him with that sunshine softness he pretends doesn’t undo him, he tries to scowl and fails. You don’t call him out, you don’t burst his cover. You just lean closer and bump your shoulder into his gently. “Guess I’m lucky you’re here to keep me on track,” you say.

And he breathes in slow like your words went somewhere deeper than lungs. Because that’s the part that’s melting him the most. Not the baking, not the quiet weekends, not the familiar routine. It’s the fact that when he reaches for you—however small, however hesitant—you reach back without fear. And that kind of safety is something he hasn’t let himself want in a very, very long time.

The kids were wild because it’s almost spring break, you spilled half your coffee down your front before first bell, and someone tried to feed the classroom fish a Cheez-It. Upstairs chaos and glitter. But you got lucky—this week the lunch schedule shifted because of standardized testing, so you have a full, rare, unheard-of long lunch break. Wanda gives you a lazy little smirk and a sing-song “use it wisely” before disappearing to the teacher’s lounge.

You’re sitting at your desk when you hear the soft knock on your door. You don’t even look up at first—expecting a student who forgot a water bottle or who needs a pencil sharpened even though class ended twenty minutes ago.

Then his voice fills the doorway, that calm, low, gravelly voice that already lives in your body now. “You free?”

You look up so fast your neck might actually crack. Bucky stands just inside the threshold, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket, the other holding his helmet. A motorcycle helmet. He looks like the kind of trouble that’s good for a soul no matter how you try to reason yourself out of it. You blink at the helmet, then at him. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most normal thing in the world that a stoic firefighter has just casually appeared in your classroom like he belongs there. “Natasha said you had a long lunch today. Thought I’d steal you.”

You stare for a second and it’s embarrassing how warm your face gets. “Steal me?”

“Borrow,” he corrects, pushing off the doorframe and stepping deeper into the room. His eyes scan the chaos—markers everywhere, spelling posters half laminated, glitter flakes stuck to the tile floor, handprint art drying on the window sills. He takes it all in like he always does, curiosity softening him around the edges. “Lunch?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, still a little startled. “Yeah, I’m free.”

He walks toward your desk slowly, eyes holding yours the entire time. “I brought the bike,” he says, lifting the helmet slightly so the light catches on the visor. “Hope you’re not scared of motorcycles.”

You don’t even hesitate. “I’m not.”

Something flickers across his face then—something predatory but soft, like he just discovered a shared secret before it’s spoken. He holds out the helmet. You step around your desk and take it from him, fingers brushing over his as you do. His hand lingers against yours a second longer—small, steady contact—and your pulse kicks up instantly. “You ready?” he asks, voice lower now. Warmer.

You grab your sweater, turn off your overhead lights, and slip out the door beside him. He rests his hand at the small of your back as you exit the building, guiding you gently—not pushy, not claiming, but protective in a way that feels instinctive and natural.

The bike is parked right outside the staff lot. Sleek, black, and intimidating in a beautiful way. You put the helmet on and he adjusts the strap for you—careful thumbs brushing your jawline as he tightens it. His fingers tremble just slightly, barely there. “Trust me?” he asks.

You don’t look away. “Yeah. I do.”

The answer lands between you like something more binding than a promise.

He swings on first and you climb behind him, your hands hovering awkwardly for a half second before he reaches back and taps your thigh. “Hold on,” he says quietly. You slide your arms around his waist, fitting against his back, cheek brushing between his shoulder blades. His muscles go taut, breath catching like that single contact might overload him. Then he settles, breathing you in slowly.

And then you’re moving.

The wind hits your body, the speed curling around your legs, your arms tightening instinctively around him, your cheek pressing into the soft worn cotton of his shirt. You feel the rumble of the bike beneath you, the warmth of his torso under your palms, the faint scent of woodsmoke and soap and something inherently him. It feels like flying through something you’ve been waiting for without knowing it.

He takes you to a small diner on the edge of town—quiet, low key, with mismatched mugs and the best grilled cheese on the planet. He orders for both of you, gently nudging your knee under the table like he’s testing another version of contact he’s still learning he can have.

You talk about the fair again. You talk about his last call where nothing big happened and how Sam nearly got into a verbal duel with a neighborhood terrier. You tell him about a kid in your class who keeps trying to prove he can talk to worms. He listens like he’s cataloguing every detail, like your words are safely being stacked and labeled inside him.

When the check comes, you try to grab it but he gives you a look that says don’t. You let him. And when you climb back onto the bike, he doesn’t need to say hold on this time—you just do, arms sliding around him naturally.

The ride back is slower. He’s not showing off this time—he’s savoring the closeness. Back at the school parking lot, he helps unbuckle your helmet, fingers brushing your cheek, eyes locked on yours like the world shrank to three inches of space between you.

“That was nice,” you say quietly.

He nods, voice low and certain. “Yeah, we should do that again sometime.” A beat. “Not just Saturday.”

You feel it settle warm in your chest—this gentle shift into something that looks and feels dangerously real. You smile. “I’d like that.”

He steps back reluctantly, like he doesn’t actually want to put space back between you yet. But he does. Slowly. Respectfully. He tilts his head toward the school doors. “Go teach the tiny chaos gremlins,” he says, almost smiling. “I’ll see you this weekend.”

You watch him leave on the bike, wind whipping his hair as he pulls away. And as he disappears down the street, you press your palm to your sternum and realize something with bone-deep certainty, he didn’t steal you from school for lunch. He brought you into his world and let himself into yours again. And these small worlds are starting to not feel so separate anymore.

He doesn’t tell Sam, or Steve, or anyone really. But little shifts start to happen when you’re not around. One day he shows up to the station with a different creamer in his bag—one he’d seen you use in your coffee at the diner. He puts it in the fridge under the guise of “someone left it at the store cheap” but Sam wasn’t born yesterday.

Another day, he spends an hour quietly fixing the hinge on the supply cabinet at your classroom when he stops by after a run—not because it was broken in any way that mattered functionally, but because you were frustrated with how it squealed every time you opened it. He doesn’t tell you until you open it and it swings smoothly and you’re staring at him, dumbfounded.

“Oh,” he says, shrugging like he didn’t just spend his entire break doing it. “Just needed tightening.”

You start realizing he shows up when you need someone without you ever asking. And he doesn’t make a spectacle of solving problems. He doesn’t announce his presence or his help like some kind of performative hero thing, he just does it. And that quiet reliability begins to sink into you in a way that feels deeper than just comfort.

One afternoon after school, you’re sitting on the floor of your classroom grading math quizzes. Wanda is stapling a bulletin board. You’re telling her about the lunch day with Bucky—the motorcycle, the diner—and you’re trying to say it calmly, rationally, like it’s not burning itself into your skin in the fondest way possible. Wanda just smiles a little, shaking her head as she aligns the border at the corner of the board. “You’re already in it,” she says.

“Already in what?” you ask, though your pulse spikes because you know. You absolutely know.

“The middle of it,” Wanda says. “Whatever this is with him. You’re already there.”

You want to deflect. Or joke. Or hide behind sarcasm. But instead, you sit back on your palms, expression softening. There’s no dramatic “aha moment.” It’s just the quiet acknowledgment that she’s right. You’re already in it.

Later that week, Bucky ends up at the station kitchen with Steve late at night—quiet, low music humming through the empty room. He sits with a mug between his hands, thumb brushing the rim in slow thought. Steve washing out a pot stops and just regards him for a moment. “You really like her,” Steve says suddenly, not unkind, just observant.

Bucky doesn’t look up right away. He stares down at the mug like it holds the answer. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t deflect. He doesn’t growl his way out of it. He just breathes once through his nose and lets the truth exist between them. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

Steve smiles faintly, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen you this relaxed with anyone in years.”

“It’s different,” Bucky says, still not meeting his eyes. “She’s… soft. And steady. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t expect anything from me I can’t give.”

Steve leans back against the counter, arms crossed. “She’s good for you.”

Bucky’s jaw works for a second. He finally looks up, blue eyes tired and open. “I think I want to be good for her too.”

Steve doesn’t tease him for it. He doesn’t smirk or make a comment about feelings. He just nods once. “Then let it happen. Don’t think your way out of it.”

Bucky sits there long after Steve heads to bed—hands cupped around warm ceramic, staring into nothing—realizing there was no wall left to pretend to hide behind. Because somewhere between cinnamon rolls and motorcycle rides and tiny classroom repairs… he already stepped out of it.

And on the other side of town, you lay in bed later that night under the soft glow of your bedside lamp, re-reading your lesson plan, unable to fight the quiet smile that keeps pulling at your mouth every time you remember how he looked at you today. How he stood closer. How he listened with that focus of his like you were the only thing he wanted to absorb in the room.

This isn’t an almost-crush anymore. This isn’t “something’s maybe happening.” This is real. This is slow and gentle and certain. And both of you—without ever saying it out loud—finally understand it.

One Saturday morning at the station, you’re helping Sam chop fruit for some post-cleaning brunch and Bucky walks in, hair still wet from his shower. You smell the cedar shampoo on him before he even speaks. Without hesitating, he comes to stand beside you at the counter, close enough that his arm presses firmly against your side. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t pretend he didn’t notice. His shoulder stays flush with yours while you slice strawberries, like touching you is now his default starting point instead of a privilege that surprises him.

Sam glances at the way your bodies align and mutters something dramatic about “the universe shifting” before Bucky casually kicks his shin under the island counter, not even looking up from the fruit bowl. Sam hobbles away laughing to himself and Natasha smirks from the corner because she’s been waiting for this exact evolution.

Later, when you and Bucky take a break outside, you’re leaning against the front of the firetruck, sipping iced tea from a plastic cup. The early spring sun is warm against your skin. Bucky stands close—close enough that when the breeze hits, your sleeve brushes his forearm. He doesn’t shift away like he used to; instead, he rests his hand lightly against the small of your back.

Your breath catches—not because you weren’t expecting it, but because it feels so wonderfully normal. Instinctive. You don’t even look at his hand; you just lean gently into the contact, letting your body melt into that simple warmth like it belongs. “You got any plans later?” he asks, voice rough from the cool air.

“Just grading and laundry,” you answer. “Not exciting.”

He hums, thumb stroking the back waistband seam of your jeans in a small unconscious arc. “I could come by after shift. Fix that shelf you said was wobbly. We could order something in.”

You turn your head toward him, heart thudding slow and heavy. “I’d like that.”

He nods, eyes soft. No tease, no guard, just quiet meaning sitting heavy in the air between you. When you part ways later, his fingers trail gently along your wrist before letting go. It’s not accidental. It’s not subtle. And the feeling stays in your skin the entire drive home.

A few days later, it happens again—this time in your classroom when he stops by with coffee. You’re busy sorting folders and he leans against your desk, watching with that soft, observant attention he’s only ever given you. When you reach for the stack beside him, his hand covers yours and he holds it there—not just a brush of fingertips, but a slow, deliberate press. “Take a break,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, pulse fluttering under his palm. You don’t pull away and he doesn’t either. The stare lasts longer than it ever has—no one darting their eyes away this time. He lifts your hand slightly, thumb brushing small circles into your skin, almost reverent in how gentle it is. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you by touch alone.

And then, one night after dinner at your place—he’s fixing that shelf just like he said he would—you end up sitting on the floor organizing books and he ends up sitting beside you. The shelf is done, but neither of you move. His knees are bent, long legs stretched out in front of him, and your hip leans against his thigh where you sit shoulder to shoulder.

At one point, you shift to reach for a new stack of books… and he catches your hand again. But this time he doesn’t release it. This time his fingers slide slowly, intentionally between yours, interlacing like it’s the most natural progression in the world. Both of you freeze—not in panic or shock—but in sudden, quiet awareness.

The world goes gentle around the edges. His thumb strokes the inside of your hand again, slow and almost absent-minded like this is something he’s been wanting to do for weeks. You watch his eyes drop to your joined hands before lifting back to yours—open, calm, quiet.

No one speaks first because this moment doesn’t need narration. It is already declaration. Your head tilts slightly into his shoulder, and he exhales slow against your hair—like every tension he used as armor for years is starting to melt.

This isn’t guiding. This isn’t accidental. This isn’t helping. This is wanting. And for the first time, Bucky isn’t afraid to show that he wants you.

It’s a Tuesday. The school is hosting a district-wide teacher workshop, and you’re surrounded by colleagues you only see a few times a year. There’s a lunch spread in the library—half sandwiches, fruit, and cookies that look far better than they taste. Bucky had texted you that morning to tell you he was swinging by later with a container of stew, “real food,” he called it, so you’re in good spirits.

That’s when Adam—the new P.E. teacher—walks in. He’s all easy smiles and too much cologne, with that comfortable charm that gets him volunteered for every fundraiser and assembly. You know him in passing; he’s nice enough, good with the kids, harmless in the way men who haven’t been hurt often are. He waves when he sees you and walks right over.

You chat politely—just small talk about class schedules, the fair last month, his new after-school soccer program. It’s perfectly innocent. But when he leans closer to joke about your third graders and the “mystery glitter epidemic,” his hand brushes your elbow in a way that’s friendly but too familiar. You don’t think twice about it, laughing it off.

Except that’s the exact moment Bucky walks into the library.

You spot him over Adam’s shoulder instantly—dark jacket, thermos in one hand, that quiet confidence he wears like second nature. He was supposed to wait in your room, but of course he found you first. He always does. His expression is unreadable at first, all neutral and calm, but then his gaze dips to where Adam’s hand lingers near your arm before you move away.

It’s barely a flicker—a tightening of his jaw, a small stillness in his body—but you feel it. You know him well enough now to recognize the quiet current under the surface.

You excuse yourself from Adam politely and cross the room to meet Bucky halfway. His eyes soften as soon as you’re close, like the act of you coming to him defuses whatever sparked that flash of heat in his chest. “Hey,” you say gently, smiling. “You found me.”

He nods, voice low. “Yeah. Library wasn’t hard to guess.”

You glance down at the thermos and laugh. “You brought lunch.”

“Stew,” he says simply. “Didn’t want you living off whatever those are.” He nods toward the sad sandwiches, and you grin.

“You’re my hero.”

He tries to hide the faintest twitch of a smile, but it’s there. The jealousy isn’t ugly in him—it’s quiet, protective, edged in something vulnerable. You see it in the way he stands slightly closer to you than usual, the way his hand finds the small of your back while you walk toward an empty table, a small gesture that says you’re mine, right? without words.

You sit together, sharing his stew from the same thermos, and the world narrows until it’s just you and him. He doesn’t bring up Adam, doesn’t say a word about what he saw, but it’s in the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you the spoon, lingering a little longer than necessary. It’s in the way he looks at you when you laugh, softer now, calmer.

“Thanks for this,” you say, blowing on your spoon. “I’d be starving without you.”

“Can’t have that,” he mutters.

The silence after that isn’t awkward—it’s thick with unspoken things. You can practically feel what he’s thinking. Later, when the workshop ends and you’re walking him out to the parking lot, you bump his arm lightly. “You okay?” you ask.

He glances at you, startled by the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ve been quiet.”

He exhales through his nose, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Just… didn’t like seeing that guy touch you, that’s all.”

You stop walking, blinking up at him. His tone isn’t sharp—it’s hesitant, almost sheepish, as if he’s embarrassed by his own honesty. You step a little closer, voice gentle. “It wasn’t anything. He’s just friendly.”

“I know.” He shrugs, half-smiling but not looking at you. “Still. Didn’t like it.”

You study him for a moment—this big, careful man who’s spent years keeping everything locked up tight—and your heart squeezes. You reach out, curling your fingers around his wrist until his hand relaxes in yours. “You can tell me stuff like that,” you say softly. “You don’t have to swallow it.”

His gaze lifts slowly to meet yours. “You don’t think it’s… too much?”

You shake your head. “I think it’s kind of sweet, actually.”

That earns a small, reluctant grin from him—half relief, half self-deprecation. He looks down at your joined hands, turning them slightly so his palm faces up and your fingers slide together more naturally. “Guess I’m bad at playing it cool,” he admits.

You smile. “I like you better when you’re not trying to.”

Something warm flickers in his eyes at that, something unguarded and bright. He squeezes your hand once, firm and sure, and you both start walking again. And later that evening, when he drops you off at home, he doesn’t just walk you to the door. He hesitates there, hand still in yours, thumb tracing your skin like he’s memorizing it. “Just so you know,” he says, voice quiet but steady, “I’m not going anywhere. Even if there’s a line of guys waiting to bring you sandwiches.”

You laugh, soft and easy, leaning into him slightly. “I think I’ll stick with the guy who brings real food.”

That earns you his real smile—the one that breaks slow and a little shy before it settles into something sure. He bends just enough to press a light kiss to your forehead, lingering there for one heartbeat longer than he should. And when he pulls back, his voice drops to a whisper meant only for you. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t plan on sharing.”

It’s not possessive, not sharp. It’s gentle, warm, threaded with affection that’s been waiting months to breathe. And as you stand there with his hand still holding yours and the faint smell of stew and smoke between you, you realize something simple and certain—Bucky Barnes may not know how to be loud about his feelings, but when he loves, he does it with his whole, careful, deliberate heart.

His place is small, warm, and lived-in in a way that feels startlingly intimate without being messy. You notice instantly that the kitchen is the heart. Sharp knives hung neatly, cast iron pans seasoned black from years of use, spice jars lined and labeled by hand.

He hands you a wine glass the moment you shrug your coat off and hangs your cardigan himself—casual, like he’s always done that. The steady domesticness of it hits you like a soft weight in the chest.

“What’re we making?” you ask, leaning against his counter, watching the way he moves around his kitchen.

“Something simple,” he says, pulling out vegetables like it’s second nature. “Roasted chicken thighs, potatoes, salad. Nothing fancy.” Then a tiny ghost of a smirk. “Don’t wanna scar you with my seasoning ratio math first round.”

You laugh, take a sip of the wine, and step beside him. “You seriously think I’d be scared?”

“You saw Sam try to replicate my marinade,” he says dryly. “It traumatized him.”

Cooking together becomes its own language. When he hands you ingredients, his fingers linger along yours instinctively. When you reach for a bowl beside him, his arm brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away. You chop alongside him at the butcher block and there’s something about the quiet, rhythmic slide of the knife and the way he nudges your hip lightly with his own that feels almost like dancing.

He moves around you with this ease that tells you he memorized your presence already—adjusting without thinking, making space for your elbows, brushing his knuckles against your arm occasionally as if grounding himself. The silence isn’t empty. It’s that warm kind that fills the walls with comfort.

Halfway through seasoning the chicken, you catch him watching you. Not intensely like he does sometimes when he studies you… but soft. Affection written plain across his face. He realizes he’s staring and blinks, looking down like he’s embarrassed, but you reach out and touch his wrist gently.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

When the food goes into the oven, he pours you both fresh wine and you settle on the couch while the kitchen timer ticks quietly in the background. The moment you sit down, he hesitates only a second before sitting beside you—not at the other end like he might’ve weeks ago. He sits close. Knee against your thigh. Shoulder brushing yours.

The TV hums some sitcom rerun neither of you actually watch. You talk about small things—your terrible indoor plant survival rate, his disdain for store bought marinades, a kid from your class who insisted Jupiter is a portal to a toy dimension. He listens, relaxed and open, eyes slipping lower and lower the longer you talk.

Then, not suddenly but naturally, he lets his head rest against the back of the couch closer to you. He’s angled toward you, body soft, guard down. His hair brushes your shoulder and you feel this tug—this impulse that you’ve been resisting for months.

You lift your hand and brush a stray strand behind his ear and he goes still immediately. You pause. “Okay?”

He swallows once, nods once, slow. “More than okay.”

So you let your fingers slowly slide through his hair—soft, deliberate, carding through it gently. He exhales like it pulled breath from somewhere deep inside his sternum. His eyes flutter shut, jaw slackening, posture melting deeper into the couch as if his body doesn’t remember how to hold tension with you touching him like this.

He leans into your touch. Not subtly. Fully. His head tips closer to your shoulder, his hand finds your knee lightly—just resting there, warm and steady. There’s this magnetic, quiet honesty in the way he seeks contact now. He’s not shy about wanting more time in your hands. “This feels… good,” he murmurs, voice rough with something vulnerable, something unused. “Haven’t had someone touch me like that in… I don’t even know.”

You slow your fingers slightly, cupping the back of his head gently. “I like doing it,” you whisper. “You can ask for this anytime.”

His hand tightens a fraction on your knee. He turns his head a little toward you—not kissing you, not rushing anything—but close enough that you feel his breath soft against your collarbone. And when he opens his eyes again, the softness in them is so intense it makes your heart stutter.

The oven timer breaks the moment—but even when he stands to go check the food, he does it reluctantly, like he’s leaving something warm and important behind on that couch.

Dinner is cozy and quiet and shared from the same side of the table like that closeness is the new normal. And afterwards, when he walks you to the door and helps you into your coat, his fingers slide up your arms, gentle and warm and slow—like he’s memorizing the shape of you again before you step away. “You coming by Saturday?” he asks softly, thumb brushing your wrist one last time before he lets go.

You nod, leaning a little closer because you don’t want to leave that softness behind yet. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

He opens the door, but before you step out, he brushed his knuckles lightly across your cheek. The smallest gesture. But it feels like he just placed something inside your ribs that’s going to keep burning all week until you see him again.

The station usually rotates who does the big supply run for the week—mostly because Sam buys random snacks he wants, Steve buys everything organic like a betrayed suburban mom, Joaquín buys the weird cereal no adult should ever want, and Bucky considers grocery ingredients sacred resources not to be compromised by chaos.

This week, Sam insisted it was a “team building group outing” and for reasons unknown to humanity… they all agreed. And you ended up coming along because Natasha texted you casually that morning: bring Bucky snacks and come entertain me, I don’t want to shop with these idiots alone.

You show up to the station first, in soft jeans and a sweater that Bucky immediately notices because he looks up from tying his boots and does a slow blink like his brain took a picture of you before he remembered to breathe. He doesn’t say anything—he just gives a barely-there smile and murmurs, “hey,” like the word feels different when it’s directed at you.

The grocery store is busy the way Saturday late morning always is—families, couples, old women with coupon binders, teenagers attempting independence with energy drinks and frozen pizza.

Natasha pairs off with Joaquín because she doesn’t trust him not to buy “experimental spicy cereal” and Steve and Sam argue over protein shakes. Which leaves you and Bucky in produce.

You’re holding the list Sam scribbled and reading out loud, “two bags spinach, bell peppers, potatoes, berries, sourdough—” He’s already grabbing things methodically, moving with quiet focus. And you follow along beside him, gently teasing him about being aggressively efficient. “You plan grocery trips like tactical missions,” you comment, watching him inspect potatoes like they might carry classified intel.

“Bad produce ruins meals,” he says simply, shrugging as he rolls a potato in his palm. “Can’t risk it.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re such a snob.”

His eyes flick toward yours and warm slightly. “You like that I’m picky with food.” Your heart does that absurd jump again. Because he’s right—you absolutely do.

At one point, you reach up to grab something from a higher shelf, coffee beans that Sam wrote three underlines under, and Bucky steps behind you automatically—not hovering, not crowding—but close enough you feel his presence like a shield. His hand settles briefly at your waist as if steadying you. Just a moment. But long enough for warmth to spread through your body.

You don’t rush away from the contact this time, you lean back slightly into it, and he doesn’t pull his hand away as fast as he used to. Instead, he lets it linger. His thumb brushes, deliberately gentle, like a silent word.

When you turn toward him again there’s something new in his face—soft certainty. You move further down the aisle together, the list half done, and somewhere between yogurt and granola bars, a toddler in a dinosaur hoodie barrels past you both and nearly knocks into you. Bucky’s reflex is instant—he reaches out, steadying your elbow, guiding you smoothly aside before the tiny chaos tornado continues screeching toward frozen waffles.

You laugh, a little breathless. “Wow. Good reflex.”

He hums, unconsciously stroking your arm once before letting go. “Years of dealing with Sam.”

You start walking again, your fingers brushing his at your side. And this time when they touch… he turns his hand palm-up.

Offering.

Not an accident, not a hesitant brush disguised as movement. He wants you to take it.

And you do.

You slide your fingers into his slowly, threading them together, palm against palm, skin warm and certain. His grip tightens—not forceful, but firm. Intentional. Claiming in the quietest, softest way. He looks down briefly, as if memorizing the sight of your hands together, then looks forward again like he’s grounding himself in this moment.

There’s no panic in his breathing. No tension in his shoulders. Just that gentle steadiness he’s slowly letting himself have with you.

And he doesn’t let go the entire rest of the store trip.

Not while you check out. Not while you help load groceries in the cart. Not even when Sam comes back and does a double take so dramatic Steve smacks him in the back of the head and says, “don’t scare it, let it happen naturally.”

Natasha doesn’t even react. She just gives you this tiny knowing smirk when she sees your joined hands like she’s been waiting for this exact beat for weeks. When you all walk out of the store, Bucky carries the heavier bags and keeps your hand in his free one like it’s just what his body does now. Like this is a new base state.

When you get to the cars, before anyone else climbs in, he shifts closer, thumb brushing along your knuckles as the morning sun warms the pavement between you. “That alright?” he asks quietly, nodding toward your hand in his. “This?”

You squeeze his hand once, soft and certain. “Yeah. More than alright.”

And the look he gives you then—open, relieved, a little overwhelmed and entirely devoted—tells you everything you need to know, hand holding wasn’t a milestone for him. It was him choosing you openly, without fear.

It’s late, the station’s been busier than usual that week, and Bucky’s more tired than you’ve ever seen him. You’d stopped by with dinner—homemade soup, still warm in the container—and stayed to help clean up after the team’s shift meal. The others trickled out one by one, voices fading upstairs or into the night until it was just you and him left in the kitchen.

The lights are low, humming quiet. The sink runs with a steady rhythm while he dries a pan, towel slung over his shoulder, sleeves rolled to his forearms. You’re leaning against the counter beside him, sipping tea from one of the chipped mugs they all use. It’s comfortable, easy silence—the kind that fills up a room instead of emptying it.

He glances sideways at you occasionally, eyes softer than the dim light should allow. “You didn’t have to stay,” he says finally, setting the pan on the rack.

You shrug, smiling into your cup. “Didn’t want you cleaning up alone.”

He hums in quiet agreement, folds the towel carefully. “You always stay.”

“Guess I do,” you murmur. “You mind?”

Bucky turns toward you then, leaning against the counter with his hip, one arm resting loosely over the edge. “No,” he says. Then, after a beat, “I think I’ve started counting on it.”

The air thickens—not heavy, but aware. You set your mug down, fingers curling around the edge of the counter to keep them busy. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat off him, the faint smell of cedar and smoke that always clings to him. Your heart beats a little too loud for the quiet in the room.

His gaze drops briefly—to your hands, then to your mouth—and that’s when something in your chest breaks open. He doesn’t move closer yet, but you feel the intent in him. The restraint, the quiet question that’s been there for months.

You don’t answer with words. You step forward, just a fraction, until you’re standing directly in front of him. His hand, resting on the counter, twitches once. His throat works in a slow swallow. “Bucky,” you whisper, voice barely carrying.

“Yeah?” he answers, the word soft and hoarse, like it’s dragged up from somewhere deep.

“I think I’ve started counting on it too.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you move. The air feels like it’s holding its breath with you. Then his hand lifts—hesitant but deliberate—fingers brushing along your jaw, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth. It’s reverent, almost uncertain. You can feel him trembling faintly, not from nerves but from the sheer weight of wanting and the fear of breaking the moment.

You lean into his touch, just enough to let him know it’s okay.

That’s all it takes.

He leans forward, slow, eyes flicking between your eyes and lips until the space between you collapses. The first touch of his mouth is so soft it barely registers as a kiss—more like an exhale, a testing of pressure, a question whispered against your skin. He starts to pull back, unsure, but you chase him forward, catching his bottom lip between yours and answering the question he didn’t dare ask.

The second kiss isn’t hesitant.

It’s slow, yes, but sure—like something he’s been building toward for months. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck. Your hands find his shirt, gripping lightly at his chest as if to steady yourself against the quiet, dizzying rush of it all. He tastes faintly like coffee and something darker, something entirely him. He kisses like he touches—gentle but grounding, all patience and careful strength.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven. You stay like that, neither of you ready to break the fragile stillness. He’s the first to speak, voice low and rough at the edges. “Been wantin’ to do that for a while.”

You smile, still breathless. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I know.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating where his chest meets yours. His thumb traces a slow path along your jaw, memorizing. “Didn’t think I’d get here. Not really.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes—those tired, storm-blue eyes that have softened into something that feels like home. “You’re here now,” you say softly. “That’s what matters.”

He nods once, eyes still locked on yours, and you can see the truth settle into him. Whatever walls he’s spent years holding up, they’ve finally stopped being barriers between you. Now they’re just background—the ruins of something that doesn’t need rebuilding because what you’re creating together is better.

He leans in again, kissing you slower this time, longer, his hand splayed against your back, anchoring you both in that quiet, golden kind of certainty that doesn’t need words. And when you finally part, the clock ticks softly in the background, the world outside the station hushed and distant.

He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip, voice barely more than a whisper. “I want this. I want you.”

You nod, heart full enough to hurt. “Then you’ve got me.”

He doesn’t say thank you, he doesn’t need to. He just smiles—small, real, a little dazed—and presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth before pulling you gently against his chest.

And for the first time in years, Bucky lets himself simply exist in the quiet peace of being held.

One Year Later

The first thing Bucky notices when he wakes is the space beside him. It’s warm but empty, the sheets folded back, the soft indentation still in the pillow where you’d been. His hand finds that spot instinctively, fingers brushing over the cotton like maybe you’d only just left. He breathes in once—slow, easy—and the faint smell of something buttery and sweet reaches him before he even opens his eyes.

He knows where you are. He always does on Saturdays.

The clock on the nightstand reads a little past seven, sunlight already spilling through the curtains in pale ribbons. He stretches, lazy and slow, rubbing at the back of his neck before swinging his legs off the bed. The floorboards creak softly under his bare feet as he stands, tugging on the flannel pants he left draped over the chair last night. The air smells like sugar and pastry, something faintly tart beneath it—raspberry, he realizes—as he heads down the short hallway toward the kitchen.

You’re there, exactly where he expected, standing at the counter in one of his old shirts, with the sleeves rolled up. The radio hums softly from the windowsill, some old song you probably found in one of those “weekend morning” playlists you love. The kitchen is alive with the sound of it—metal trays clinking, the gentle hum of the oven, your quiet hum matching the music as you drizzle chocolate over neat, golden pastries cooling on a wire rack.

He stops in the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the frame. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, watches the way your body moves so easily in this space that used to be only his. The way the light catches on your hair and the corner of your smile when you hum along to the song. The way this apartment smells like home now, like you.

“Smells dangerous,” he finally says, voice still gravelly from sleep.

You turn, eyes lighting up instantly when you see him. “You’re up.”

“Couldn’t sleep through that.” He gestures toward the pastries, walking over until he’s close enough to rest a hand on the small of your back. “You’re making the station spoiled.”

“They asked for raspberry this time,” you say, grinning up at him. “And I couldn’t say no.”

“You never do.” His thumb brushes along your spine, slow and absent, a quiet kind of affection that’s become as natural as breathing.

You lift one of the pastries carefully from the tray, holding it toward him. “Quality control,” you offer.

He leans in to take it but stops halfway, eyes glinting as he murmurs, “you sure this isn’t bribery?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit.

He huffs a laugh, low and warm, and takes a bite. The pastry flakes against his lips, sweet and tart, the chocolate melting just enough to coat his tongue. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, voice thoughtful. “That’ll do.”

You roll your eyes, laughing softly as you turn back to the tray. “High praise, chef.”

Bucky steps closer behind you, hands sliding around your waist until his chest presses lightly against your back. You let yourself lean into him, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours as he rests his chin on your shoulder. He smells like sleep and warmth, and his voice when he speaks next is soft enough that it feels like part of the morning air. “You gonna take all these to the guys?”

You nod. “Most of them. I promised Natasha a box but I thought I’d save a couple for us.”

He hums approvingly, lips brushing against your temple. “Good plan. Joaquín’ll inhale his before you even park.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “That’s why I make extras.”

For a while, neither of you speak. The oven ticks as it cools, the radio shifts to another song, and his hands stay splayed comfortably against your stomach, fingers tracing small, slow circles through the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing. When you finally turn in his arms, your palms slide up his chest until they rest against his shoulders.

He looks down at you, eyes half-lidded, the kind of soft he only ever gets with you. You rise onto your toes and kiss him—nothing rushed or desperate, just the familiar, grounding kind of kiss that feels like a language you both invented together. When you pull back, he follows slightly, just enough that your noses brush. “Morning,” you whisper.

“Morning,” he echoes, voice low, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. “You got flour on your face.”

You laugh, rubbing at your cheek. “Do I?”

He leans in and kisses the spot instead, the faintest graze of lips against skin. “Got it,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, grinning, and reach up to ruffle his hair—something you do every time he gets too serious. He catches your wrist gently before you pull away, turning your palm so he can press a kiss into the center of it. Then he lets go, stepping back just enough to look around the kitchen. “Need help packing these?”

“Yeah, actually,” you say, reaching for the containers. “If you can box up the ones for the guys, I’ll do Nat’s.”

He nods, already moving toward the counter. “You sure you trust me not to eat ‘em?”

“I’ll count them before we leave,” you tease, bumping his hip with yours.

He chuckles, grabbing a pastry anyway and taking another bite before you can protest. “You didn’t count this one,” he says around a mouthful.

You swat at him with the edge of a towel and he laughs—really laughs, the sound filling the whole apartment until it feels like the walls themselves are smiling. It’s easy, this life with him. Easy in the way mornings like this feel endless. The light through the window. The smell of raspberries and coffee. His hand brushing yours as you both reach for the same pastry box.

When everything’s packed and you’re slipping your shoes on by the door, he comes up behind you again, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, chin resting in the crook of your neck. “You sure you don’t wanna stay here?” he asks softly. “We could keep the raspberry ones hostage.”

You tilt your head just enough to brush your cheek against his. “Tempting,” you say. “But I already promised. And besides—” you turn, smiling up at him, “—I like bringing them something sweet.”

He smirks, kissing your forehead before letting go. “Yeah. They’re lucky to have you.”

You pick up the pastry box, glancing back at him. “You ready?”

“Always,” he says, and means it. He takes the keys from the counter, holds the door open for you, and when you step out into the hallway, he reaches for your hand without even thinking—his fingers finding yours like they always do.

And as the door closes behind you both, the scent of raspberry and sugar lingers in the air, curling softly through the quiet apartment that’s no longer just his, and never will be again.

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

That I’m bored. You bored? Wanna cause problems? look.

You raise one eyebrow. He raises two. You narrow your left eye dramatically for no reason at all. He squints like he suddenly forgot how to see. Sam, unfortunately in the middle of pouring coffee, mutters, “Oh hell. Not this again.”

John turns, confused. “What? They’re just… staring.”

“Oh buddy,” Sam sighs. “You’re about to have a bad day.”

Because Bucky decides this is the moment to start whatever bit he thinks you’re doing—lifting both hands slowly like he’s conducting an orchestra, then pointing at you, then at the fridge, then back at you.

You have absolutely no idea what this means.

So naturally, you pretend you do.

You flick your fingers twice—like jazz hands but menacing—then tap your forearm, then mime placing something gently on the counter.

Bucky’s eyes widen like you’ve just delivered the most profound psychic message of your marriage.

Walker looks between the two of you. “Are you—are you guys telepathic or something?”

You and Bucky answer at the exact same time: “Yes.” “No.”

Which only makes it worse.

Sam groans into his mug because he knows you’re about to double down, and both of you, in your infinite immaturity, absolutely commit.

Bucky nods gravely. “We trained for years.”

You nod back with equal severity. “Ancient Wakandan bonding ritual.”

Bucky blinks twice—slowly—which you assume means go bigger, so you raise your hand dramatically and swipe it through the air like you’re cutting through invisible fabric.

John flinches.

You are delighted.

Meanwhile, Bucky continues his totally-improvised, makes-no-sense gestures. He holds up three fingers. Then one. Then wiggles his thumb like it’s trying to escape his hand. You respond by tracing a circle in the air and pointing at the toaster like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Somehow, you and Bucky stay in perfect rhythm. Every gesture he makes, you answer confidently—even though neither of you knows what the hell you’re agreeing to.

To be honest, you're just riffing at this point.

It’s performance art.

Walker steps back uneasily. “Sam, are you seeing this?”

“Oh, I see it,” Sam says. “I’ve been seeing it for months. Therapy starts at ten if you want in.”

Bucky slams his vibranium palm flat against the counter, startling everyone. “It is done.”

You nod solemnly. “The pact is sealed.”

Walker stares. “What pact? With who?”

You shrug casually. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Captain.”

Bucky snorts. Sam chokes on his coffee. Walker looks one second away from spiraling.

But then—because the universe loves you—you and Bucky reach for the same bowl at the same time, pause, and share a look that accidentally syncs your next fake-psychic sentence perfectly.

Bucky: “Two hours.” You: “The extraction begins.”

Walker makes a strangled noise. “Extraction of WHAT?!”

“Can’t say,” Bucky says, poking his temple like he’s checking for WiFi. “Private channel.”

You nod, tapping your forehead like you’re turning up the volume. “Encrypted.”

Walker looks visibly alarmed. “Sam, what extraction? Are they planning something? Are we compromised?”

Sam waves him off. “We’re only compromised because you asked them a question.”

And that’s when you strike.

You turn your back to the guys, whisper loudly, “Initiate phase four,” and slam the cabinet shut.

There is no phase one through three.

There will be no phase five.

But John Walker jumps like you’ve just armed a bomb.

Bucky, bless him, plays along instantly. “Phase four?! You’re sure?”

You spin dramatically. “It’s time, James.”

Sam mutters, “Jesus, here we go.”

Walker’s face contorts. “What does phase four do?”

You and Bucky both shrug at exactly the same time.

You honestly don’t know.

He doesn’t either.

But that doesn’t matter.

What matters is the way Walker’s eye twitches as he tries to decode absolute nonsense coming from two people who are stone-faced serious while making gestures that belong in an interpretive dance competition.

Bucky lifts his hand again, makes what could only be described as “crab claw motions,” and you answer with a gentle circular wave like you’re blessing the kitchen with chaos energy.

Walker decides this is the breaking point. “Okay, that’s it. I’m telling Fury—something weird is going on.”

“Tell him what?” Bucky asks, leaning forward. “That me and my wife just think at each other sometimes?”

Sam: “You guys don’t think at each other.”

You and Bucky together, perfectly timed: “We absolutely do.”

Walker sputters. “Then what were you just saying?!”

And here, the two of you lock eyes—deeply, lovingly, mutually idiotic—and without missing a beat, you answer in perfect harmony:

“Lunch.”

Walker looks like he wants to scream.

Sam is wheezing.

You and Bucky high-five under the counter.

But Walker hasn’t fully learned yet.

Later that day, he passes you both in the hallway. Bucky lifts a hand—wiggles two fingers, makes a circle, taps his chest twice. You haven’t the faintest clue what that’s intended to be, but you raise an eyebrow, tap your own shoulder, and hum approvingly like he’s shared a brilliant battle plan.

Walker trips over his own feet trying to interpret it.

Your marriage? Strong.

Your communication? Absolutely nonexistent.

Your dedication to fucking with John Walker?

It had been weeks—no, months—ever since they’d met. If Bucky was honest with himself, the change had started the very first day.

It hadn’t been some big, thunderclap revelation, more like having the ground gently but irrevocably shift beneath his feet. She’d slipped into his life so easily that he hadn’t realized what was happening until he was already in too deep.

She was just… easy.

Easy to talk to.

Easy to laugh with.

Easy to breathe next to.

She never prodded too far into the places he didn’t want to go, but somehow still managed to pull him out of himself. She remembered the smallest things—how he took his coffee, that he hated working with sticky trigger mechanisms, that he read the same dog-eared paperback before missions. On the field, she was always where he needed her before he even asked—most often a ghost on a rooftop, breath steady through her scope, covering him like her own life depended on it.

Which was exactly why he’d done nothing about the way he felt.

He was too damaged, too weathered, too damn old, too… him.

And she was—

Everything.

So when she handed him the strip of black cloth with that infuriating little smirk, he had to hide the warmth curling in his chest with a different kind of expression.

“You can try all your tricks, I’m too good to miss, sweetheart,” he said, letting his voice take on that low, smug drawl.

“Good,” she countered, eyes glinting, “then it shouldn’t be an issue to spar blindfolded.”

He gave her a look, but tied the cloth around his head without another word. Darkness swept over him.

The thing was—he didn’t need his eyes. He could feel her in the air between them, the slight shift in her stance when she moved, the rhythm of her breathing. He knew what she’d try before she tried it. Every step, every strike, every sweep of her leg—blocked. Effortlessly.

He could feel her. The way she shifted her weight barefoot on the mat. The rustle of her tank top. The subtle shift of air pressure as she circled. Her heartbeat—a steady flutter like wings in his ear.

She moved.

So did he.

Block. Twist. Counter.

Again.

Again.

He anticipated everything. She was fluid, quick, precise—but he was older, stronger, and maybe most dangerous of all… he knew her. He knew how she moved. He had spent so long memorizing her rhythms, he could practically see her with his eyes closed.

Every strike met his forearm. Every sweep was dodged. Every jab parried. Until—

Her frustration started to show in the subtle sharpness of her movements, in the light scoff she let slip when he caught her wrist again.

“S’this all you hoped it would be?” he murmured, lips curving as he turned his head toward where she was circling. “Gotta say, I’m getting a little bored here.”

“Oh, I haven’t really been trying,” she said, voice light, teasing. Then, lower, with a heat that cut straight through him:

“Too distracted by how pretty you look blindfolded, Buck.”

And just like that—she had him.

The tiniest hitch in his breath, the faint tilt of his shoulders—enough. Her leg hooked behind his, the momentum sweeping him down hard enough that the mat thudded under his back.

She was on him in an instant, straddling his hips, hands braced on either side of his chest. His pulse was thundering against his ribs, his world narrowing to the heat of her body over his. He tugged the blindfold down, letting it rest around his neck.

Those blue eyes met hers—startled, darkened with something he couldn’t quite keep out of his expression.

Her smirk deepened.

“What?” she asked, head tilting, eyes shamelessly drinking him in.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Bucky was stunned, for the first time in a while words couldn’t come out of his mouth. None that were appropriate anyway.

Bucky didn’t linger after training.

He grabbed his towel, muttered a quick goodbye to the others, and left before anyone could see the state he was in. His chest was tight, his skin hot like it had been scorched from the inside out, every nerve still wired from having her straddling him. From that smirk. From those damn words.

By the time he stepped into his quarters, he was already stripping out of his shirt, jaw tense. He headed straight for the shower, twisting the handle all the way to cold.

It didn’t help.

The water hammered down his back, icy enough to sting, but his skin still felt fever-hot. He braced one hand against the tile, head bowed, breath coming unevenly as if he’d just finished a sprint. She was everywhere—in the echoes of her laugh, in the feel of her thighs bracketing his hips, in the heat of her leaning over him, smug and merciless.

He could still hear her voice, low and teasing, looping in his head until it burned:

Too distracted by how pretty you look blindfolded, Buck.

His hand slid down over his stomach before he could stop himself, wrapping tight around himself with a hiss through his teeth. His other arm flexed where it held him up, the vein standing out under the spray.

He worked himself slow at first, trying to take the edge off, but it wasn’t enough. His hips jerked into his palm, a strangled sound catching in his throat. The cold water did nothing to put out the fire—if anything, the contrast made every touch sharper.

Her face wouldn’t leave him. The press of her body over his. The cocky tilt of her head. The way she’d looked at him like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

“Fuck…” The word slipped out on a shaky exhale, followed by another, quieter. “Shit.”

The rhythm quickened, the tension coiling so tight in his gut it almost hurt. He bit down on a groan, trying to keep quiet—like even here, alone, it would be dangerous for anyone to hear.

The moment hit fast and hard, the pressure snapping as his release spilled hot against the tile. He gritted his teeth, eyes squeezing shut, her name trapped behind them, never spoken aloud but vibrating through his chest with the force of it.

Bucky stayed there a moment longer, forehead resting against the cool wall, water pounding over him while his pulse gradually slowed.

The next morning, Bucky was at the gym before sunrise.

He didn’t sleep—how could he? Not when every time he closed his eyes he saw her above him, smirking like she owned him, thighs around his hips and voice in his ear like honey wrapped in every dirty thought he ever had.

So he did what he always did when things got under his skin.

He trained.

Now he stood under the harsh fluorescents, shirtless, sweat glistening on his chest as he loaded yet another set of plates onto the barbell. The amount of weight was borderline reckless—ungodly, even for a super soldier—but he didn’t care. Every curl of muscle, every tremble in his arms, every clang of metal was penance.

He dropped into a set of deadlifts with brutal focus. Over and over. Veins in his arms bulging, jaw locked, eyes narrowed. The gym shook with the sound of iron hitting the mat, and he didn’t even flinch.

Across the room, she paused mid-sip of her water bottle, eyes narrowing.

“Okay, what the hell is his problem?” Yelena muttered under her breath, watching Bucky like he might rip the barbell in half.

Nat smirked without looking up from her towel. “Probably a certain someone swept his legs and sat on his lap yesterday.”

Y/N’s eyes went wide. “I did not sit on his lap—”

Yelena cut in, grinning. “Sure, sure. You just… accidentally straddled him in the middle of a sparring session and stayed there for ten seconds too long while he looked like he forgot how to breathe.”

Nat arched a brow, her voice syrupy with mischief. “He’s lifting like he’s got something to prove. Or like he’s trying very hard not to think about something. Or someone.”

Y/N scoffed and turned away too quickly. “You guys are insane.”

“Mmm,” Yelena hummed. “Right. So it’s just a coincidence he nearly snapped the bar in half the second you walked in?”

She looked back.

And sure enough—Bucky’s eyes had flicked up the moment she entered. Just for a second. Barely more than a glance. But it was enough to see the way his jaw tightened. The way his next lift came harder, rougher, like he was punishing the ground for daring to hold him up.

“You should put him out of his misery,” Nat said smoothly, wiping her neck with her towel.

“I am not doing this with you two,” Y/N muttered, cheeks warming as she turned back to her warm-up stretch.

Across the gym, Bucky dropped the barbell with a growl and ran a hand through his hair, sweat dripping down his temples. He didn’t know what was worse—the ache in his arms or the one in his chest.

Either way, it had a name.

And she was standing twenty feet away, laughing at something Yelena said, like she didn’t even know she was driving him crazy.

Late afternoon light bled through the high windows, warm and golden across the mats as Bucky circled her with practiced ease, breathing steady, movements fluid and contained.

Y/N, on the other hand, was breathing hard—sweat beading on her collarbone, hair up in a Dutch braid but still messy, her stance shifting as she tried to anticipate his next move.

She was good. Really good. But he was still winning. Always winning.

He landed a soft jab against her ribs and she twisted out of range with a huff, eyes sharp, footwork precise. But not precise enough. He caught her wrist in the next pass and flipped her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. She landed on her back with a soft thud, groaning.

“Again,” she muttered, already sitting up.

“You sure?” he asked, brows raised.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not that fragile, Buck.”

He offered a hand, but she waved it off and stood on her own.

This had been going on for an hour.

“Why the sudden obsession with hand-to-hand?” he asked, arms folded as she reset her stance.

Her answer was immediate. Honest. “Because if I ever end up facing someone like you—someone enhanced and actually trying to kill me—I need to last long enough to call for backup.” She shrugged. “I know I won’t win. But I don’t want to die in the first thirty seconds.”

Bucky blinked. Something about the way she said it hit him harder than it should’ve. Because it was practical. Tactical. Smart. And terrifying.

She was preparing to fight someone like him. Like what he used to be.

He swallowed. “Alright.”

“What?”

“You want to see what it’s like when someone’s trying to end you?” His voice dropped, low and careful. “You sure?”

She met his eyes and nodded. No flinch. No fear. Just steel in her spine. “Do it.”

He didn’t like it.

But he did it.

The next pass was faster. Harder. He moved like a threat instead of a partner—shoulders hunched forward, fists tighter, footfalls quieter. His strikes came faster, feints sharper. She was quick, ducking, weaving, barely keeping up. But she was keeping up.

Until she wasn’t.

One misstep—one pivot that was a second too late—and he caught her full-force with a sweep and a shoulder slam that sent her sprawling onto the mat with a crack of impact that echoed through the gym.

“Shit—“

He was kneeling by her in an instant, hand hovering just shy of her waist, guilt already curling in his gut. “You okay? I didn’t mean—”

She blinked up at him.

And smiled.

Not a grimace. Not a wince. A slow, delighted, smug little smile that made his stomach flip.

“Again,” she said, voice low and almost breathless. “Do it again.”

Bucky stared at her.

She looked like the damn cat that got the cream, like getting thrown down by him had just made her week. Her eyes were dark, cheeks flushed, lips parted just enough to be a problem.

“…You’re insane,” he said softly, chest still rising and falling with adrenaline.

“Maybe,” she murmured. “But I’m not dead yet.”

And God help him—he wanted to pin her there and kiss her stupid. But instead he stood, offered her a hand, and pulled her up like she didn’t already own him.

“Again,” she said, already circling.

And this time, he didn’t hold back.

He should’ve stopped.

Should’ve pulled back, told her no, reminded her she wasn’t enhanced and this wasn’t smart, wasn’t safe. But she kept coming. Kept resetting. Kept circling him with that glint in her eye—like she wanted to get thrown around.

So Bucky gave her what she asked for.

Again. And again. And again. And an extra time after that.

She lunged again—fast, sharp, trying to sweep his leg, but he was quicker. He caught her mid-motion and used her momentum against her, spinning her in the air before slamming her flat on her back again, chest-first to the mat with a grunt.

She lay there for a second, breath knocked out of her.

And then she giggled.

He blinked. “Y/N.”

“I’m fine,” she said, voice muffled into the mat.

He hauled her up by the waist before she could protest, hands firm but gentle. She was flushed, sweaty, and grinning like she just won the lottery.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, half-accusation, half-bewildered.

“Maybe a little.” She was already settling back into position, braid messy, sports bra sticking to her skin, wild energy radiating off her in waves. “Don’t stop. Again.”

He exhaled through his nose, hard. She was out of her mind. But also?

He was kind of losing his mind, too.

Because the way she moved—determined, stubborn, fearless—lit something inside him that hadn’t sparked in years. And the way she looked up at him every time he slammed her to the mat? Like she liked it? Like she trusted him completely, even when he was manhandling her like a weapon?

It undid him.

Next round, she tried to catch him with a low kick—he dodged, hooked an arm around her waist, lifted her clean off the floor like she weighed nothing, and threw her down on her back with enough force to bounce.

She groaned, breathless.

But she didn’t stay down.

“Oh my god,” she panted, laughing now. “Bucky, that one rattled my teeth.”

Bucky froze mid-step, muscles tense, sweat sliding down his temple. “You’re not supposed to like getting rag dolled.”

She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow, gaze flicking shamelessly down his chest. “You’re doing a great job. A+ brute force.”

He dragged a hand down his face, exasperated. “You’re gonna be sore for a week.”

“Do you promise?” she muttered, still smirking, and then—God help him—bit her bottom lip as she looked him over like he was the dessert.

“You’re a menace,” he muttered, walking past her.

She grabbed his ankle.

“You throwing in the towel, sergeant?”

Bucky turned back, looming over her, and let out a dry, breathless laugh as he crouched beside her. “Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

And from the way her eyes darkened, breath hitching just slightly?

Yeah.

She absolutely did.

The gym had quieted, the sun dipping lower in the windows, painting the walls in soft amber as the dust settled—literally and figuratively.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the mat, drenched in sweat and radiating satisfaction. Her sports bra was damp and clinging to her, her knee was starting to throb in that familiar post-adrenaline way, and her abs felt like they’d been personally insulted by a truck.

She tilted her head back, eyes closed, trying to cool down, when a cold thud landed beside her.

Ice pack.

She opened one eye. Bucky stood in front of her, towering and shirtless, holding out a water bottle with his usual gruff scowl.

“For the knee,” he muttered. “And drink. You’re already dehydrated.”

She raised a brow but took both.

“You always this bossy after manhandling someone for an hour?”

His mouth twitched.

“You always this bratty after getting your ass handed to you?”

She smirked. “You wish you were handing my ass anything.”

Bucky’s nostrils flared. He looked away sharply—too sharply—and crossed his arms over his chest. The metal one caught the low light, gleaming across his shoulder.

She uncapped the bottle and drank slowly, knowing full well he was still watching her from the corner of his eye. The ice pack rested on her knee, making her hiss as the cold bit into the fresh bruise.

“You’re gonna feel that tomorrow,” he said, voice low, distracted.

“I feel it now,” she replied, rolling her neck. “But don’t act like you didn’t enjoy throwing me around.”

He crouched in front of her, pressing the ice pack onto her knee a little harder, eyes locking onto hers. “You liked being thrown around.”

Her lips curled. “Maybe. Depends who’s doing it.”

There it was.

That little shift in the air. That thing between them that always hovered in the space just shy of spoken. Heavy. Charged.

He looked at her like he was weighing every consequence, every inch between them, every pulse of heat still radiating off her skin. His voice dropped.

“Lucky for you,” he murmured, “you’ve got a sparring partner who knows exactly what you can handle.”

She licked her lips, slow. Intentional.

“And what if I can handle more than you think?”

Silence.

Tension coiled thick between them. Her knee ached, her knuckles throbbed, and her chest was tight for a whole different reason now. Bucky didn’t move. Just stared at her like she was a problem he both wanted and couldn’t solve.

Eventually, he reached out and nudged the ice pack higher on her knee, his fingers brushing warm against her skin.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

“And you’re still here,” she whispered.

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t say a word.

Just stood again, grabbing his towel, and paused at the edge of the mat.

“I’ll be down the hall if you need me,” he said, voice unreadable.

She smirked to herself as he walked away.

Oh, she needed something alright.

She just wasn’t sure how much longer they were both going to pretend it wasn’t the same thing.

The next morning, Y/N hobbled into the compound kitchen like she’d been hit by a truck.

A Bucky-shaped truck.

Her tank top was loose, hair scraped into a bun with strands falling out in all directions, and she had an ice pack rubber-banded to one knee. She moved like someone who had done about 300 squats followed by getting tossed across a mat for an hour—and enjoyed it.

She didn’t even make it to the coffee machine before Nat, Yelena, and Joaquin pounced.

They were seated at the kitchen island like a well-rested, overly-interested jury.

Joaquin smirked first. “Good morning, sunshine. You look like you got dragged behind a jet.”

“I feel great, thanks,” She muttered, heading for the coffee. “Perfectly fine. Muscles intact. Core function… mostly restored.”

Yelena popped a grape into her mouth. “Mm. So that explains why Barnes was wandering around last night looking like he had been in a fight with a sex demon and lost.”

Nat sipped her tea. “Interesting choice of words.”

Y/N froze, mid-pour.

Joaquin grinned. “You really let him toss you around like that, huh?”

“It was training,” She said, spinning on her heel with her mug in both hands like a shield. “Combat scenario prep. Realistic sparring. You know—completely normal, professional things.”

Nat raised one perfect brow. “Uh-huh. You’re telling me he realistically had to pin you by both wrists and hold you down with his thigh?”

“Also—” Yelena leaned in, eyes dancing with glee. “—who trains by saying ‘do it again’ like they’re in a damn romance novel?”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I knew one of you was creeping around the gym.”

Joaquin pointed to himself proudly. “Guilty. I only saw the aftermath. You on the floor, looking very pleased with yourself. And him walking away like he had just committed a felony in slow motion.”

Nat tilted her head. “You’re flushed. Your heart rate’s elevated. And you’ve been glancing at the hallway every three minutes like he might walk in.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” all three said in unison.

She downed half her coffee in one desperate gulp.

Yelena smirked. “So when’s the wedding?”

“There’s nothing happening,” Y/N gritted out. “We’re just… training partners.”

“Mm,” Nat hummed. “He brings you ice packs. Makes you drink water. Pins you to the floor and still looks like he wants to apologize and devour you.”

Yelena leaned forward, conspiratorially. “You like it when he tosses you around, don’t you?”

She looked away, cheeks turning pink. “That’s not the point.”

Joaquin leaned back, satisfied. “I give it a week.”

The rest of the day was quiet. Briefings, running over intel, training new recruits, and then me time.

Not the strained kind of quiet, not the post-sparring-charged silence full of tension and unresolved heat. This was soft—the kind of quiet that felt like being let in on a secret, like finding stillness in the middle of noise.

Bucky padded into the kitchen early the next day, hoodie on, hair damp from the shower, and already bracing himself for a typical chaotic morning. He expected her teasing, maybe Ava’s side-eyes, Joaquin’s smirks—but the kitchen was empty.

Except for one thing.

A familiar silver and blue bag of coffee grounds sat on the counter. The fancy stuff. The kind from that café downtown—the one that always had a line out the door, too many people in too tight a space, too many eyes, too much everything. He hated going there. She knew that. He loved their home brew. She also knew that.

He picked up the bag slowly, thumb brushing over the label, and turned when he heard soft footsteps behind him.

She stood in the doorway, hoodie oversized, sleeves covering her hands. Hair still messy. Face open and quiet in a way that wasn’t like her usual smirking self. She shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing.

“Thought you might want real coffee today,” she said casually, moving to grab a glass from the cabinet. “Figured it might save you from drinking whatever burnt tragedy Joaquin brewed before his run.”

Bucky stared at her, then down at the bag.

“You went to Corvus for this?”

She didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Left early. The line wasn’t that bad.”

He raised a brow. “They wrap the block at six a.m.—”

“I know,” she said, glancing at him. “I waited. It’s not a big deal.”

But it was.

Because she knew. She knew he wouldn’t go there himself. Knew it made him feel boxed in, overwhelmed. She did it anyway—got up early, stood in a crowd for him, just so he could have something small and good without asking for it.

Bucky swallowed hard. His voice was quiet. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said again, softer this time.

And she didn’t smile, didn’t joke, didn’t make it into something flirtatious or clever. She just moved around him, brushing his shoulder lightly with hers, and started rinsing out the French press without a word. Like she did this all the time. Like it was easy for her to care about him.

And God, maybe it was.

Maybe that’s what made it so hard.

Because this—this simple, quiet thing—was the kind of intimacy that rattled him more than her on top of him, more than the heat, more than the teasing. It was the way she saw him. The way she didn’t ask him to earn it. The way she made space for him without saying anything at all.

He stood there for a beat longer, the coffee grounds in his hands.

Then he reached up, tugged gently at the end of her hoodie sleeve.

She glanced up.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

She gave him the smallest smile. Not cocky. Not playful. Just warm.

“Anytime, Buck.”

He nodded, looking down. Like if he looked at her too long, he’d say something he couldn’t take back.

Something true.

So he stayed quiet.

Pretended it was nothing.

Even though his chest felt too full and too exposed, and the smell of her shampoo mixed with the fresh coffee grounds was going to haunt him for the rest of the day.

The gym was mostly empty in the late morning—just the steady thump, thump, thump of fists hitting heavy bags and the low hum of classic rock playing from the corner speaker.

Bucky’s hands were wrapped tight, knuckles red, sweat slicking down the back of his neck. He drove his fist into the bag again, harder this time, the chain above it rattling from the force. He hadn’t said much since he walked in, just started throwing punches with a tension Sam immediately clocked.

Sam jabbed at the bag next to him, side-eyeing Bucky in the mirror. “You planning to knock that thing off the chain or are you working through something?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just threw another hard right. Jaw clenched.

Sam ducked under his own bag, shaking his head. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that when you’re two hits away from breaking your own wrist.”

Bucky grunted, stepped back, shook out his arms. “It’s nothing.”

Sam grabbed a towel and tossed one to him. “Sure it’s not about Y/N?”

That stopped him cold. His expression didn’t change much, but his next punch was slower. Less focus. More distraction.

Sam caught that, too. “C’mon, man. Just talk to me. You’ve been in a fog for weeks. Ever since she started walking around all bruised and smirking like she survived a full round with a bear—and you’re out here trying to pretend like it wasn’t you who threw her around like a rag doll.”

Bucky huffed out something like a laugh, breathless and tight. He leaned against the bag, arms draped over the top of it, eyes low.

Sam waited. Didn’t push. Just gave him space.

Eventually, Bucky spoke, voice low and rough. “It’s hard.”

Sam turned to him fully. “What is?”

“Pretending I don’t feel what I feel.”

That surprised Sam, if only because Bucky never admitted things like that out loud.

Bucky kept going, words slow but honest. “She makes it too easy. Being around her. Laughing with her. Sparring. Sitting in silence. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing, it’s like she… I dunno. Made space for me in her life like it was always supposed to be there.”

Sam was quiet. Watching. Listening.

“And then yesterday, she shows up with this stupid bag of coffee from that place I hate going to—the crowded one, Corvus.” He exhaled hard through his nose. “She knows I hate that place. Knows I can’t stand the crowds, the noise. So she goes for me. Gets up early, waits in line. Doesn’t even say anything about it. Just leaves it there on the counter.”

His fists clenched around the towel.

“I didn’t even ask.”

Sam’s voice was quiet. “That’s just how she is.”

“I know,” Bucky muttered, like that made it worse. “She just… gives. Doesn’t expect anything back. Doesn’t realize how much that shit wrecks me.”

—

It was past 2 a.m. when Bucky gave up trying.

Sleep just wouldn’t come.

He’d tossed and turned for hours—hot, then cold, then hot again, sheets twisted around his legs, chest tight with something he couldn’t shake. He even tried jerking off, quietly in the dark, hand slow and rough beneath the blanket, biting his lip to stay quiet while thinking about her—always her. The way she looked on the mat. The way she said “do it again.” The way she’d smiled when she handed him his favorite coffee like it cost her nothing and meant everything.

He came with her name in his mouth and that ache still lodged behind his ribs.

Didn’t help. Not even a little.

So he got up, pulled on a t-shirt and sweatpants, and padded barefoot through the darkened compound halls, the silence heavy and familiar. He told himself he was going to the kitchen for water. Maybe tea. Something to give him an excuse to be awake.

But when he walked in, the smell hit him first.

Brownies.

Rich, chocolatey, warm.

And there she was.

Y/N stood in front of the oven in her big gray sleep shirt and socks, hair falling around her shoulders, backlit by the open fridge as she grabbed milk. She didn’t jump when he came in—just glanced over and smiled like she’d been expecting him all along.

“Insomnia?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “Yeah. You?”

She shrugged, already plating two brownies. “Wanted something sweet.”

He moved toward her like he couldn’t stop himself, like gravity pulled him. “You’re making brownies at 2 a.m. and watching—what is this?” he squinted at the TV in the living room beyond the kitchen, where soft romantic music played from a half-muted speaker, “27 Dresses?”

“It’s a classic,” she said without looking at him, offering him a plate. “And the perfect comfort movie when you’re wide awake and a little emotionally unstable.”

He let out a quiet laugh, sitting down on the floor in front of the couch without even thinking about it. She followed with her own plate, flopping onto the couch above him and pulling the throw blanket over her legs.

They didn’t talk after that.

Just sat.

The only sounds were the quiet murmur of the movie, the occasional clink of forks against plates, and the soft rustle of her shifting as she laid down, one leg hooked over the armrest.

Bucky leaned back against the couch, resting his elbows on his knees, head tilting slightly toward her without realizing it.

At some point, he felt her fingers in his hair.

Slow. Gentle. Just barely there at first, like she wasn’t sure if he’d let her.

But he didn’t move.

Her nails scraped lightly over his scalp, smoothing back his hair, again and again, until his shoulders stopped tensing. His eyes got heavier. The movie blurred in the background, and the only thing he could feel was her.

Her hand. Her breath above him. The warmth of her knee brushing his back through the blanket.

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

But she did.

Because when she finally drifted off too, he was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her, head resting against her thigh, and she had one hand still tangled in his hair—her fingers curled like she never wanted to let go.

And so they kept living like that. Close enough but not too close. She had protein bars in her gear bag in missions, exactly the chocolate fudge ones he liked, her guns somehow were always clean (nothing to do with the very expert 108 year old sniping super soldier that stayed back in the armory for extra time to clean it for her), and there was flirty banter in the comms during missions. Nothing to get them off game but enough to make her blush and bucky let out a breathy chuckle.

The team was doing so great, Tony thought a party was the way to go. Celebrate, get a few photo ops, and so they did.

The party was loud. Music pulsing through the walls of the tower, laughter echoing from the bar to the balcony, the sound of glasses clinking and the occasional whoop from the pool table corner. It was one of those rare nights where every Avenger—or former one—could finally let loose. After a couple of hours, the only people that stayed were on a need to know basis. And by that, they mean no press, no photographers or journalists waiting for a juicy scoop.

And Y/N?

She was glowing.

Her black silk mini dress shimmered like liquid ink every time the light caught it. The open back dipped dangerously low, revealing smooth, warm skin he could trace with his eyes closed. No bra—not with that dress—and Bucky could barely look at her without his palms itching to touch. Her hair was blown out and curled in that way that framed her face like something out of a vintage ad, sultry and soft all at once. And her heels—those strappy YSL ones she’d muttered were a splurge, but worth it—lengthened her legs in a way that should’ve been illegal.

He couldn’t stop staring.

She was laughing at something Sam said, head tipped back, one hand holding her drink, the other resting lightly on Bucky’s bicep like it belonged there. Her nails were painted a deep, wine red. Her perfume, the one she always wore when she wanted to feel “like a princess fairy frolicking in the rain” as she so eloquently put it—clung to the space between them like a secret. Every time she leaned closer to talk to him over the music, it seeped into his bloodstream, thick and sweet and warm.

And she was dangerous. Because she smiled up at him like he hung the damn moon just for her. Looked at him with those doe eyes and long lashes like he was the only person in the room worth seeing. She laughed at all his quiet jokes he didn’t think anyone caught, pulled him into her orbit like it was effortless, and stood just close enough for his fingers to brush the soft curve of her lower back if he moved an inch.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Because he was too tightly wound, too aware of the fire under his skin. Every muscle in his body was tense, his jaw clenched, hands shoved deep in his pockets so he wouldn’t give in to the need—to press her up against the wall of Tony’s ridiculous marble hallway and kiss her until her lipstick smeared across both their mouths. To tangle his hands in that perfect hair and ruin it. To tear that damn silk dress at the seams and drop to his knees.

Instead, he stayed exactly where he was. Silent. Still. Burning.

“You okay?” she asked softly, glancing up at him, unreadable but warm. Like she knew.

He gave her a crooked half-smile. “Yeah.. Just… takin’ it all in.”

She didn’t push. Just smiled back, slow and knowing, brushing her shoulder lightly against his arm as she turned back to the group. But that look stayed with him.

That look.

The one that made it so damn hard to keep pretending this was nothing. The one that made him wonder—again—how much longer he could last before he finally gave in and kissed her like he’d been dying to since the first day they met.

And if she kept smiling at him like that, he knew the answer was: not much longer at all.

Everyone was tipsy by that point. The dance floor was booming, a playlist carefully curated by the chaos triplets (her, Yelena, and Joaquin) and after flip cup, tequila pong, and some other drinking game that she won by making Joaquin drink most of it, they were sitting on the couch.

Her legs curled under her and his arm sprawled on the back of the couch almost close enough to touch her, and conversation came easy, like it always did. And it got interrupted. Like it always did.

He was about to say something in response to the nerdy comment she let out when an arm snaked around her waist.

“Come on,” Yelena said, tugging her toward the bar with a gleam in her eyes.

“What now?”

“Blowjob shots,” Yelena replied, like that explained everything.

“I—” But she didn’t have time to argue; Yelena was already pushing two glasses toward the bartender. Whipped cream, liqueur, the works.

“Hands behind your back,” Yelena ordered with mock sternness.

She laughed, giving in, and they both leaned down to knock them back without using their hands, earning a round of cheers from nearby onlookers. When she straightened, the sweet burn of alcohol warming her throat, her eyes instinctively sought him out across the room.

Bucky was still where she’d left him—leaning against the couch, beer in hand, blue eyes locked on her like she was the only thing worth looking at in the entire party.

And then the opening notes of Usher’s Nice & Slow rolled through the speakers.

“Ohhh yes,” Yelena grinned, seizing her wrist. “Bar top. Now.”

She laughed again, letting herself be pulled onto the bar. The music was slow but heavy, the kind of rhythm that made everyone move closer. She danced with Yelena, letting the crowd sway around them, but her gaze kept drifting back—always back—to where he sat.

He hadn’t moved, but she could feel the weight of his stare from across the room, heat crawling up her neck every time their eyes met.

She wanted—achingly, desperately—to be back on the couch beside him, knees brushing, leaning in close enough to feel his breath. It was almost physically painful to be this far, to have the bass thrumming in her chest instead of his voice in her ear.

Her lips curved softly, not the playful smirk she usually gave him, but something quieter. Warmer.

And Bucky—God help him—looked like he’d stand there all night if it meant keeping her in his sight.

Somewhere in the song, Sam convinced Bucky to get a refill of whatever they were both drinking, as if regular alcohol did anything for him except give him that faint burn in his throat.

The hem of that silk dress flirted with indecency every time she moved, catching the glow of the lights in a way that made it impossible for him to look away.

And then—just as she spun to face the crowd—her foot slipped.

She gasped, arms flailing for half a second before gravity took over.

Bucky was already moving.

By the time her feet left the bar, he was there, catching her against his chest like she weighed nothing. The impact pressed them close, her perfume wrapping around him, the warmth of her body soaking straight through his shirt.

They froze there.

The noise of the party blurred, the cheering fading to the background as her wide, slightly glassy eyes locked on his. His hands were firm at her back and thigh, steadying her, but neither of them moved to let go.

It was a beat too long—long enough for the crowd’s whoops to turn into knowing laughter, for Yelena to smirk down from the bar like she’d orchestrated it herself.

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Bucky’s chest rose and fell against hers, his grip not loosening, not yet.

Finally, she cleared her throat, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. “Thanks, Buck.”

He didn’t trust himself to answer. Not with her still in his arms like that.

—

Bucky lost track of her for a while—saw her laughing near the bar with Wanda, then weaving through the crowd with a fresh drink in hand. Every so often, she’d glance up and catch him looking.

And each time, she didn’t look away right away.

Just let it hang there—eyes on his, a faint curve at her mouth, the smallest tilt of her head—before turning back to whoever she was talking to.

It was driving him insane.

“Buck.” Steve’s voice cut in, low but amused. He followed Bucky’s line of sight. “You’re staring again.”

“I’m not—”

“Sure,” Steve said, sipping his drink. “Not like I’ve watched you track her like a sniper all night.”

Sam wandered over in time to hear that. “Oh, he’s absolutely staring. Look at him. Man’s ready to risk international incidents over a dress.”

Bucky glared. “Don’t you have a bar to bother?”

“Not as fun as this,” Sam grinned.

The second the thudding beat of “Don’t Stop the Music” drops, the dance floor lights shift into a rhythmic kaleidoscope, strobes of crimson and gold spinning over the crowd—and Bucky sees her.

Striding back toward him, dress clinging to her like second skin, cheeks flushed from dancing and shots and laughing too hard. Her hair is a little messier now, like someone’s fingers have already been in it—his fingers, in a dream he can’t stop replaying. Her heels click across the floor, and she’s beaming like a girl with a mission.

His mission.

“You look like a ghost over here, Barnes,” she says, leaning in close enough for her lips to brush his ear. “Come dance with me.”

He lifts a brow, legs still planted like he’s resisting gravity itself. “Don’t know how to dance. Not in this century anyway.”

She backs up, grinning wicked and sweet, her voice playful and soft.

“Please? You owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

She tilts her head, pouting. “For tossing me around like a chew toy in the training room.”

He opens his mouth to argue—then closes it. Because she’s right. And because, if she’s asking, he’d walk through fire barefoot.

With a sigh, he stands. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Her eyes flicker, warm and too knowing. “I know.”

She laces her fingers with his, tugging him through the crowd. When they reach the center of the floor, the music swells—Rihanna’s voice wrapping around them like velvet, pulsing through the floor, through their bones.

“Do you know what you started? I just came here to party…”

She turns to face him and takes his hands, places them gently—intimately—on her waist. He swallows hard. Her skin is warm beneath the silk, and she smiles up at him like she’s handing him the sun.

“Just follow me,” she says, stepping closer. Their bodies brush, chest to chest, her thigh slipping between his legs, her hands trailing up his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He tries. God, he tries. Lets her guide his hips in time with hers, matching the slow sway of the rhythm. Her hands on his shoulders, his sliding lower—hesitating for just a breath—then resting firmly on her hips.

That’s it. He’s gone.

“We’re hand in hand, chest to chest, and now we’re face to face…”

His heart’s pounding. She smells like rose and sugar and something warm and sinful. The lights catch in the waves of her hair, casting glints of gold across her cheekbones. Her smile softens, eyes hooded and bright as she moves against him, rolling her hips just so.

He can’t think. Can’t breathe. She’s everywhere. The music blurs behind the pounding of blood in his ears.

Her fingers brush the back of his neck, pulling him closer. “You’re doing fine,” she whispers, and it’s intimate the way she says it—like it means more. Like she’s not just talking about dancing anymore.

His fingers tighten on her hips without meaning to. His head dips a little, so their foreheads nearly touch.

And the worst part?

He’s hard. Hard—from nothing but the way she smells and feels and moves, from the way she’s looking at him like she wants him just as badly. His jeans feel too tight, and he’s silently praying she doesn’t notice—but she does. She definitely does.

Because when her hips roll a little slower and her smile turns into something smug and devastating, her lips brush the edge of his jaw like an accident.

Across the room, from their booth near the bar, the entire team watches with open-mouthed awe.

Yelena practically leans over Nat’s lap, whisper-yelling, “LOOK at them! He’s about to combust! I give him two minutes before he does something illegal.”

“I mean,” Joaquin says, sipping his beer, “that man is at 110% capacity. He’s holding onto her like the Geneva Conventions don’t apply anymore.”

Nat takes one sip of her drink, completely unbothered. “She’s going to end up in his lap before this song ends.”

“He’s going to melt,” Yelena mutters. “His brain is short-circuiting. He has no idea what to do with her being all…” She gestures vaguely toward the dance floor. “That.”

They all watch in stunned silence as she tilts her head, leans in, and presses her lips—barely—against Bucky’s jaw, soft and slow and achingly deliberate. His hand spasms on her hip, and his eyes flutter shut.

Sam just whispers, “Dead man walking.”

The song ends in a blur of heat, heartbeat, and breathless tension.

The final beat fades and the lights shift, but Bucky doesn’t move. He’s still holding her—one hand on her hip, the other on her lower back, close enough to feel every inch of her, even as the rhythm slows and the crowd around them begins to disperse or shift partners.

She doesn’t pull away either.

She just looks up at him with flushed cheeks, the kind of quiet smile that could crack a man in half.

His head is spinning.

And then—

“Barnes!”

Tony’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife. “I need you for a second. Something about the heat sensors in the garage triggering—probably nothing, but Friday’s being dramatic.”

Bucky stiffens, jaw tight, eyes snapping back to her as if silently begging her not to move.

She smiles a little. Gentle. Understanding. Doesn’t say a word. Just brushes her fingers down his chest lightly as she steps away.

He walks away, slow and steady, but the second he’s out of view, he beelines for the balcony—cold air slamming into his lungs like a mercy. He braces both hands on the railing, heart thudding so hard it echoes in his ears, and closes his eyes.

The scent of her is still on his skin. The curve of her body still mapped on his hands. His brain is a mess—tequila, silk, her mouth near his ear, the roll of her hips to the beat, the softness in her voice when she looked up at him like he was something worth holding onto.

“Buck.” Sam’s voice is the first to cut through the haze.

Followed by footsteps.

Joaquin and Steve join them a moment later, all three of them lined up like a judgment panel at a very inappropriate emotional support group.

Bucky doesn’t turn around.

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

Sam crosses his arms. “We’re not here to tease you.”

Joaquin: “I am. But I can wait till you’ve calmed down a little.”

Steve leans on the railing beside him. “You okay?”

Bucky exhales sharply, still staring at the skyline. “I just—fuck, I don’t know.”

“She looked at you like you hung the moon,” Joaquin says. “You’re acting like she threw you off a cliff.”

“She danced with me,” Bucky mutters. “In that dress. Smelled like her perfume. Said things that—” He stops himself, swallowing thickly. “It’s not just the flirting. It’s her. Everything she does, everything she is, just makes it harder to pretend like this doesn’t matter.”

Steve’s voice is calm. “So stop pretending.”

“I can’t.” Bucky’s voice is strained, quiet. “Because the second I stop pretending… I won’t ever be able to stop. I’ll want everything.”

There’s a long silence.

Sam finally sighs. “You already want everything. You’re just suffering in a darker corner while it happens.”

“I’m trying to keep my shit together,” Bucky mutters. “That’s all I’m doing.”

Joaquin pats his back. “Brother, respectfully… you’re losing. Bad.”

Inside, the party hadn’t slowed down.

The music was still loud, the lights still spinning, people still drinking like the night had no end.

Y/N was dancing, laughing, shot glass in hand—but something about her was different now.

The spark hadn’t gone out. It had just dimmed.

Wanda noticed first. She leaned over from their little dance circle and murmured, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said too quickly. Too brightly. “Totally. Great.” She forced a smile, took the tequila shot, and joined Yelena in a loose sway to the beat of some Dua Lipa remix. Her movements were smooth, effortless even—but detached.

Because every few seconds, her eyes flicked toward the hallway.

The stairs.

The kitchen.

The bar.

Anywhere he might’ve gone.

Anywhere he might come back from.

But he didn’t.

Not once.

Not even for a second.

Still no Bucky.

Not even a glimpse.

She reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek where the warmth of his touch had lingered earlier, like her body was still remembering something her brain was trying not to hope for.

She smiled at someone walking by. She complimented Wanda’s dress. She joked with Yelena. She took another shot.

But the ache in her chest kept blooming.

Because if he left after that moment—after everything she said, everything she let him feel, everything she let herself feel—then maybe she had been wrong.

Maybe he didn’t want her like that.

And maybe pretending again was the only thing left.

He’d half expected her to stay inside.

To keep laughing with her friends, to let the night run its course without making this any harder than it already was.

But then the balcony door cracked open, the hum of the party spilling out for a second before it clicked shut again.

She stepped out into the cool air, arms wrapping lightly around herself, her heels clicking softly against the stone as she crossed to him.

“I think I went too far,” she said quietly.

Bucky straightened from the railing. “What?”

“With the dancing.” Her gaze darted to his, then away again. “And the shots. And—” she exhaled, her breath misting faintly in the night air—“just the whole night. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” he said immediately, the word sharper than he intended.

Her brow furrowed. “You left.”

“I needed air.”

She looked up at him then, searching his face. “Because of me?”

He hesitated, the truth burning a hole in his chest. “Because you…” He stopped, shook his head. “You make it hard to think sometimes.”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t move, didn’t push. “I’m sorry if I—”

“Don’t be.” His voice had gone low, steady, even though inside it was anything but. “You didn’t cross any lines. If anything…” He trailed off, the rest caught somewhere between his throat and his better judgment.

The faintest crease softened from her brow, replaced by something warmer. “Okay.”

They stood there for a beat, the muffled bass of the party behind them, the scent of her perfume threading into the night air, her bare back catching the glow from inside.

She didn’t go right back in.

Instead, she stepped up beside him, resting her forearms on the railing, her gaze settling on the city spread out below—lights twinkling, the distant hum of traffic like a low tide.

He mirrored her posture, close enough that her bare arm brushed his sleeve when the wind shifted.

For a few beats, neither of them spoke. Then her right leg flexed slightly, brushing against the back of his left calf in a slow, idle motion—barely there, but impossible to ignore.

“I’m glad you came out tonight,” she said at last, eyes still on the skyline. “I know you hate this kind of thing. The crowds, the noise, the… glitz.”

Bucky’s mouth quirked, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “I don’t hate them when you’re around.”

Her head turned toward him then, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “That’s sweet.”

He kept looking at the city, but there was the faintest warmth in his voice. “It’s true.”

She let her gaze linger on him for a moment longer, then turned back to the skyline. The city lights reflected faintly in her eyes, her perfume threading through the cool air between them.

The quiet felt good. Easy.

And then the balcony door slid open.

“There you are!” Yelena’s voice broke in, bright and unbothered. “We’re starting another round of shots, come on.”

Her leg stilled against his, but she didn’t move right away—just glanced at him with that small smile again before pushing off the railing.

“Don’t disappear on me,” she said softly, and then she was gone, heels clicking against the stone as she slipped back inside.

Bucky stayed where he was, staring at the city but not really seeing it, the ghost of her touch still burning against his leg.

—

The party winded down slowly, like the last embers of a fire—guests trickling out, music fading to something mellow and soft, heels dangling from tired hands and laughter tapering off into warm, late-night sighs. The compound glowed with golden light, casting everything in that sleepy, after-midnight haze.

She was barefoot now, dress wrinkled from dancing, curls loosened and falling around her flushed cheeks. She held her heels in one hand and Bucky’s in the other, fingers laced like it was second nature now.

Neither of them said much on the walk to her room.

There was a calm between them, thick and charged but sweet, their shoulders bumping gently as they made their way down the quiet hallway. The world had quieted but something between them hadn’t. If anything, it pulsed louder now in the silence.

When they reached her door, she turned to face him, thumb brushing softly along his knuckles.

“Thanks for staying with me tonight,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when it got… complicated.”

He smiled, tired and crooked and full of something real. “There’s nowhere else I’d wanna be.”

His eyes flicked to the door behind her, and then back to her face, jaw tightening slightly like he was bracing himself. “I should let you get some rest,” he murmured, already starting to release her hand.

But she didn’t let go.

Instead, she stepped closer. So close her chest brushed his. So close her breath ghosted across his jaw when she looked up at him through those lashes and asked, softly—

“Will you come inside?”

She pressed her body gently to his, looking up at him like a prayer wrapped in perfume and silk. Her voice was barely there. Sweet. Devastating.

“I know,” she whispered. “You’re being good. Always good.” She reached up, her fingers slipping into his hair, thumb brushing behind his ear. “But I don’t want you to be a gentleman tonight. I just want you.”

God help him.

She could’ve pushed. Could’ve teased.

But she was asking.

Soft. Open. Wanting.

And that was what broke him.

Not the look in her eyes.

Not the warmth of her hand on his chest.

Not even the sweet, aching kiss she gave him just before she whispered “stay with me.”

It was the way she meant it.

He didn’t speak. Just nodded, quiet and reverent, and followed her in.

She closed the door behind them, turned to face him, and his hands were already on her hips, already backing her toward the bed like he’d been dreaming of this moment for months. And he had.

Her room was warm and dim, lit only by the faint city light bleeding through the curtains and the soft glow of the lamp she’d forgotten to turn off earlier. It smelled like her—rose, linen, skin—and for the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky didn’t feel like a soldier or a ghost or something caught between centuries.

He felt like a man. And she was looking at him like he was hers.

She took his hand and led him wordlessly to the bed, her dress whispering against her thighs with each step. Then she gently pressed at his chest, coaxing him to sit, and he went willingly—like there was never a world in which he wouldn’t.

He sat at the edge, legs apart, fingers twitching against his knees like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that she was this close and everything was real.

She stood between his knees, barefoot and flushed, looking down at him like he held every answer in the world. Her fingers hovered near his jaw before finally brushing along his cheek with a tenderness that made his throat tighten.

He kissed her like she was the only thing he’d ever get to taste again.

Like he needed her.

Like he’d earned this—every sigh, every shiver, every inch of skin he was about to memorize.

Bucky shifted gently, turning and laying her back against the mattress like she was something precious, his hands strong and steady as he guided her down with him. Her legs stayed curled around his hips, but her arms stretched out above her for a moment, hair spilling like a halo across the pillow, messy and radiant in the low golden light. Her lips were swollen from kissing, cheeks pink and eyes heavy-lidded and so full of trust it nearly undid him.

She looked up at him like he was everything she wanted.

And it broke his heart a little—because she was everything he didn’t know he could want.

His metal hand braced beside her head, while the other brushed her hair back with tender fingers.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice low, gravel-soft. “I’ll stop right now if you want me to.”

She reached up, curled her fingers gently around the collar of his shirt, and tugged him down until their foreheads touched. Her voice was barely a breath. “Bucky, I think if I ask you to stop I’ll slap myself into a different dimension.”

He kissed her again—soft and deep and lingering—before beginning his slow descent.

First, her mouth.

Then her cheek.

Then the edge of her jaw, warm skin beneath his lips.

He pressed another kiss just below her ear, then lower, along the curve of her throat, sucking gently until she sighed, her hips twitching against his. He smiled against her skin.

“Sensitive?” he murmured, teasing.

“You’re mean,” she whispered, grinning, breath catching as he kissed lower, slow.

“Not yet,” he said, and her soft gasp when he said it told him exactly what she liked.

He trailed down, mouthing gently along her collarbone, nuzzling the dip there before kissing lower—pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses over the front of her dress, feeling the warmth of her through the silk.

Her hands slipped into his hair again, hips rolling subtly beneath him.

Bucky slid his hand up her thigh, pushing the silk of the dress higher as he went. When he kissed just above her breast, he paused, giving her time to stop him.

She didn’t.

Instead, she arched up into his touch.

“Off,” she whispered, voice breathy and low. “Take it off.”

He helped her sit up just enough to slip the straps of her dress down her shoulders, letting it fall away, slow and reverent, like he was unwrapping something sacred. The fabric pooled at her waist, exposing her bare chest, and Bucky stilled.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

She was beautiful. Beyond reason. Every inch of her soft and warm and real beneath his hands. The soft curve of her breasts, the line of her ribs, the flush of her chest—all of it was hers, and she was giving it to him.

She brushed her thumb over his bottom lip. “Yours,” she said again. “I want to feel your mouth everywhere.”

He groaned like it hurt.

Then did exactly what she asked.

He kissed her breast, slow and warm, his tongue flicking gently over her nipple before he sucked—just enough to make her moan, soft and needy, back arching into his mouth.

“James,” she gasped, breath breaking.

He moved lower.

Kissed down her stomach.

Trails of fire where his mouth touched her skin, his hands smoothing down her sides as he dropped to his elbows, worshiping her with every inch he uncovered.

Each kiss was permission.

Each sigh from her was a plea for more.

He took his time.

Because he could.

Because she deserved it.

And because no part of him ever wanted to forget what it felt like to undress her with his mouth and hands and hear her whisper his name like it was the only thing she’d ever known.

Her dress was a crumpled mess of fabric in the corner of the room in no time.

He kissed the inside of her thigh, then again, higher this time. Her fingers curled in the sheets. Her breath caught in her throat. Her chest rose with every shiver he drew from her, every gentle nip of his teeth.

But even through the haze of pleasure and fire, she noticed it.

He was only touching her with one hand.

His flesh hand skimmed up her ribcage, cupping her breast, brushing his thumb across her nipple. It trembled slightly with the weight of restraint, thumb circling slowly, eyes locked to her face like he wanted to memorize every expression she made.

But his metal hand?

Still.

On the bed.

Braced beside her, fingers flexing against the sheets like he was scared of his own grip.

And suddenly she knew.

He didn’t think she noticed, but of course she did. He always did this—always kept that hand in his pocket when they walked, always reached for her cheek with the other when they hugged. Not because he was ashamed of it. But because he thought she might be afraid of it. That it might hurt her. That it wasn’t gentle enough for this.

Her heart ached.

Because it was his. All of him was.

And she wanted every inch.

So while his mouth found the crease of her thigh and kissed it open—while she let her head tip back and moaned soft and low as his tongue began to tease her gently—her hand reached down. Found his metal wrist. Cool and tense beneath her fingertips.

He hesitated.

She guided it up.

First, to her throat.

His breath hitched.

“I want all of you,” she whispered, voice shaky but sure. “Touch me. Please. Don’t hold back.”

His fingers, stiff at first, settled gently around her throat. Not squeezing. Just resting. Measuring the beat of her pulse. Feeling how she thrived beneath him.

He groaned softly, mouth never leaving her, tongue now licking deeper, slower, groaning when she rocked her hips against his face like she was unraveling for him and him alone.

“Fuck,” she breathed, a whimper curling from her throat. “Bucky, yes—”

His metal thumb brushed up over her pulse.

Still careful.

Still hesitant.

So she let her hand drift from his hair, down his arm, until she gently tugged it from her throat—then guided it to her breast.

His breath stuttered.

And then he groaned—deep and guttural—because she arched into his touch, chest rising against his palm, moaning louder now as his mouth moved faster and the cold metal cupped the heat like it belonged there.

It did.

He wasn’t too rough.

He wasn’t too much.

He was hers.

And when she came on his tongue, thighs shaking around his head, her nails digging into his forearm—flesh and metal—he looked up at her like a man lost to devotion, mouth slick with her, chest heaving, every inch of him aching to worship her again.

And again.

She lay there trembling, flushed from head to toe, her chest rising in soft, shaky breaths. Her skin damp with sweat and the lingering heat of release, and her lips parted in the aftermath of a moan that still echoed faintly in the air between them.

Bucky hadn’t moved yet.

He was still between her legs, still on his knees on the bed, chest heaving, mouth wet and pink and kissed raw from how thoroughly he’d worshiped her. His hair had fallen over his forehead, his pupils were blown, and his lips were parted as he stared at her like she was the first good thing he’d ever been allowed to have.

She reached for him, eyes still hazy but full of something tender—not just want, not just lust. Something deeper.

“C’mere,” she whispered, voice rasped.

He moved like he’d been summoned. Crawled up over her slowly, every inch of him controlled, caged, careful—still treating her like she might break.

But she wasn’t fragile.

She was his.

He braced himself on either side of her, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and kissed her again—slower now, like he was trying to remember the shape of her mouth forever. She tasted herself on his tongue and moaned softly into it, fingers threading into his hair, tugging until he pressed harder, deeper, hips grinding against hers just enough to draw a shared gasp between them.

That’s when she felt it.

The thick, aching bulge pressed against her inner thigh through the fabric of his pants.

And God, the way he kissed her—desperate but reverent, like he was asking for permission even now, even after she’d fallen apart under him.

She broke the kiss first, breathless. “Take these off.”

He blinked, dazed. “What—?”

“Your clothes, Buck.” She cupped his jaw, guiding his gaze back to hers. “I want to see you.”

His throat bobbed. “You sure?”

She smiled, soft and utterly unshakable. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

He nodded once, shakily, and sat back on his knees again to strip.

He started with his shirt, pulling it over his head, slow and unsure—and when the fabric fell away, her breath caught.

Because God.

He was carved muscle and scars and history—shoulders broad, chest thick and dusted with hair, that metal arm catching the light as it flexed, still braced beside her. The blue glow from the city bled in through the curtains and danced over his collarbone and the sharp cut of his waist like it knew what it was doing.

Her eyes swept down the rest of him as he unfastened his belt and slid his pants down his hips. He didn’t say a word, didn’t preen or act cocky—but the way he saw her watching him?

It made his cock twitch.

And when he kicked the last of his clothes to the floor and settled between her thighs again, fully bared, she reached for him like she couldn’t stand another second of not touching him.

Their skin met, and both of them gasped.

“Fuck,” she whispered, hands running up his chest, over the metal plates of his shoulder, then down again to where he was now pressing, heavy and hard, against her center. “You’re so warm,” she breathed. “Everywhere.”

“Not everywhere,” he rasped, voice breaking.

She looked down between them—where he was thick and flushed and leaking against her skin, dragging slowly through the mess between her thighs.

And then she looked back up, gaze locked to his. “Then let me warm you up.”

She guided him to sit against the headboard, and he groaned, full-bodied, and moving up to kiss her again—this time messier, hungrier, his hand (the metal one) sliding under her thigh to grab at anything he could.

He lined himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through her folds, dragging it against her clit, teasing her with maddening slowness as they both panted into each other’s mouths.

She arched into him, desperate. “Please,” she whispered. “Bucky—please, I need you—”

“You have me,” he said, and then she sank down.

Slow.

Thick.

Deep.

Her mouth fell open with a gasped cry, her head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut as he filled her inch by inch.

And he—

He was fucking ruined.

His jaw clenched hard. His head tipped back against the headboard with a low, wrecked groan that vibrated deep in his chest. “Fuck— baby, you’re so—tight, so warm—”

Her fingers braced on his chest, nails dragging lightly through the hair there as she rocked her hips forward another inch, then another, watching him the whole time.

He was staring at her like she was the most sacred, sinful thing he’d ever seen.

The way her breath caught. The way her eyes fluttered closed for just a second before opening again. The way her lips parted on a sigh when she finally bottomed out and sat flush against him, completely full.

She shuddered above him, breathless.

The stretch was intense, almost too much—but exactly what she craved. That aching, burning fullness that made her feel his in the most intimate, undeniable way.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky groaned, his hands gripping her hips tighter, eyes wide as he looked down between them, then up at her again. “You feel like—fucking heaven.”

She smiled softly, still catching her breath. “You okay?”

He laughed under his breath, almost in disbelief. “I’ve never been more than okay a second in my life until right now.”

She rolled her hips slightly, just once, just to feel him shift inside her—and his hands spasmed on her hips, head dropping forward to rest against her chest.

She cradled the back of his head with one hand and whispered into his hair, “We can move when you’re ready.”

“I am moving,” he muttered against her sternum, voice tight. “I’m moving closer to God.”

She giggled—and then moaned when he lifted his head and thrust up into her, slow but deep, pulling a sharp gasp from her throat.

Her eyes fluttered shut for just a second before she forced them open again.

“Keep looking at me,” she whispered. “I want to see you. Every time you fill me up.”

His pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen, face flushed and reverent—he obeyed.

Held her gaze while she rocked her hips against his, slow and deliberate, while she began to ride him. Controlled and sensual, meeting every upward thrust with a roll of her hips that left them both shaking.

Each time she sank down on him, they gasped—together. Her nails dug into his shoulders. His hands mapped every inch of her waist, her back, her thighs.

She felt like home.

He felt like worship.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned. “You’re—fuck, baby—”

“Yours,” she breathed again, lips brushing his.

He kissed her. Deep and messy and filthy.

And still not nearly enough.

Their mouths crashed together again, all teeth and tongue and raw, panting heat. She rolled her hips down just as Bucky thrust up—deep—and they both moaned into each other’s mouths like the sound had nowhere else to go.

Her thighs quivered around him, every muscle tight and trembling with the effort of how slow they were going, how much it was building. Every drag of his cock inside her was perfect—thick, full, devastating—stretching her in a way that made her toes curl against the mattress.

And he watched her.

Eyes dark, wild, locked to the way her brows furrowed and her lips parted as she sank down on him again and again, the soft bounce of her breasts with each roll of her hips, the slick heat that gathered between them, shining on his cock every time he nearly slipped out.

“You feel so good,” she whispered, forehead pressed to his. “So full. Like I’m made for you.”

He groaned—choked on it—and buried his face in her neck, mouthing at her skin, tongue trailing over the salt-sweet curve of her collarbone as his hands gripped her tighter, one flesh and one metal.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he panted, voice ragged. “You’re killing me—riding me like you own me—”

“I do own you,” she whispered, smiling against his cheek.

And fuck, he loved the way she said it—teasing, sure, but also true. Because she did. Had for a long time. Had him wrapped around her finger, around her thighs, around the sweet heat of her body like a ribbon.

He kissed her again—rougher now, deeper—and started thrusting up harder, faster, matching the pace of her hips as the rhythm built between them. She gasped into his mouth, nails dragging down his back, head falling back to expose the line of her throat.

“Look at me,” he rasped again, hand on her jaw, tilting her face toward his. “I wanna see you come. Right here. On me.”

She nodded frantically, whining, eyes wide and heavy-lidded, her hips stuttering as the angle hit just right—again, and again, and again—the thick drag of him stroking over every nerve inside her until her thighs started to tremble.

“I’m close,” she whimpered. “Oh my God, Bucky—don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he promised, breathless and earnest and wrecked. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby—come for me.”

And with one more deep, perfect thrust, she shattered.

His thrusts were stuttering now, deeper, more erratic, like his whole body was unraveling from the inside out.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against hers, breath shaking, metal hand wrapped tight around her waist while the other gripped her hip like a lifeline. Her pussy was fluttering around him, still soaked and pulsing from her orgasm, her moans breathy and desperate in his ear.

“Y/N,” he groaned, nearly broken. “Fuck, baby—I’m close, I’m gonna—shit—”

“Inside,” she begged. “You can—”

But something in him hesitated.

Not fear. Not shame. Just old instinct. He pulled out at the last second, thick and flushed and leaking—his hand already moving to finish himself, the hot rush of pleasure surging up like a wave about to crest. He was going to come all over her stomach, maybe her thighs, maybe his own hand—but then—

She moved fast. Too fast for him to stop her.

Dropped to her knees between his spread thighs on the bed, eyes burning into his as she gripped the base of his cock with one hand and took him in her mouth.

His entire body jerked.

“Fuck— Angel—Jesus!”

He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t even thought she would—he’d pulled out to be good, to be safe, to keep things controlled. Whatever that means now.

But now?

Her mouth was hot and wet and perfect, sucking him deep without hesitation, and his control shattered in an instant.

He came hard.

Groaned her name like it was ripped from his throat, one hand braced behind him against the headboard while the other—his metal one—curled into her hair on instinct as he spilled onto her tongue, pulse by pulse, gasping for breath like she’d knocked the air from his lungs.

She moaned around him—moaned—as she swallowed, lips wrapped tightly around him, not letting a single drop go to waste. Her hand stroked him through it, slowly, lovingly, her eyes fluttering closed like she was the one being given a gift.

“Holy shit,” he panted, watching her with wide, awe-struck eyes, chest heaving. “You—you didn’t have to—”

She pulled off of him with a little pop, licking her lips, smiling like she’d just devoured him whole.

“I wanted to,” she said softly, like that explained everything.

And it did.

Because she always knew what he needed—even when he didn’t.

Prologue: One Night (18+; MDNI Version) Prologue: One Night (Clean Version)

Chapter 1: Discovery

Chapter 2: The Results

Chapter 3: Unwelcome Eyes

Chapter 4: For Appearances Only

Chapter 5: You Don't Own Me

Chapter 6: Ours (18+; MDNI Version) Chapter 6: Ours (Clean Version)

Chapter 7: The Winter Heir

Epilogue:

Chapters will be released when they become available. There may be more time between chapters than you’re used to, because I have some *events* coming up November and December!!

Message me if you want to be added to the tag list! (or removed, of course)

Your leg hooked carefully over the back of his, keeping close without pinning him, mindful of old instincts. You’d learned the exact balance of weight he loved, enough pressure that he could feel you, not enough to feel trapped.

His breath was slow and steady, face turned into his pillow, hair a dark, messy halo. That little furrow between his brows had finally smoothed out, the one that showed up when the world felt like too much. It was replaced by something soft and peaceful that made your chest ache.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of his spine.

He hummed in his sleep, a deep, content little sound that vibrated under your lips.

“Hi,” you whispered against his skin, even though he was only half-awake at best. “You still pretending to be asleep, big guy?”

His shoulders lifted on a slow inhale. “M’not pretendin’,” he mumbled, voice rough and syrup-thick with sleep. “M’just comfortable.”

You smiled, nose brushing his shoulder as you spoke. “Comfortable, huh?”

“Mmhm.” His hand flexed against the sheet. “Got my girl on my back. Hard to complain.”

Heat curled low in your belly at that, at the easy, unthinking way he said my girl. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it was a fact, not a miracle.

You shifted a little closer, chest pressing more firmly to him, arm tightening around his waist. Your fingers splayed over his stomach, feeling the firm give of muscle beneath his skin as you held him.

“You’re very warm,” you murmured.

“That’s ‘cause you turned me into a human space heater,” he said drowsily. “Like a big, overgrown weighted blanket. Custom-made, just for you.”

You laughed softly against him. “Mm, my favorite purchase.”

He snorted into the pillow, but his ears flushed pink.

You let your fingertips drift lazily over his ribs, tracing invisible shapes, the curve of old scars softened by time. He shivered once, a tiny, helpless twitch that made you grin.

“Sorry,” you whispered, absolutely not sorry at all. “Am I tickling you, Sergeant?”

“Sunshine,” he warned, voice thick, though there was no real warning in it. “You know what that does to me.”

“Oh, do I?” you asked sweetly, letting your nails drag lightly down the length of his spine.

He groaned then, the sound low and rough, buried into the pillow as his back arched just a fraction into your touch. The reaction shot straight through you, thrilling and tender all at once.

That was the thing about Bucky, about this big, tough, broad shouldered soldier who could pick you up like you weighed nothing and bench press a small car if he really wanted to…

He melted like butter the second you laid a gentle hand on him.

You dipped forward, unable to resist, and pressed another kiss between his shoulder blades. Then another. And another. Slow, careful, reverent kisses following the line of his spine, tasting sleep-warm skin and the faint salt of dried sweat from the night.

His breathing deepened, not quite sleep heavy anymore. More… aware.

“Darlin’…” His voice sounded different now, lower, smoke curling at the edges. “What are you doin’ back there?”

You smiled against his skin. “Admiring the view.”

“Yeah?” He shifted just enough that you could see the side of his face, lashes still lowered but mouth curved in a lazy, pleased grin. “Think it needs improvin’?”

“I think,” you murmured, your lips brushing along the top of his shoulder, “that this is perfect.”

You felt the way his body stilled under you for a heartbeat, like he didn’t quite know what to do with that word: perfect.

So you kept going.

You kissed along the slope of his shoulder, soft, lingering presses of your mouth over old, faded scars and the thick muscle there, your thumb rubbing soothing circles into his side.

“You know,” you said quietly between kisses, “I love your back.”

“Yeah?” His voice was softer now, that rough edge turned inward. “That so?”

“Mhm.” Another kiss, just beneath his neck. “It’s very… dependable.”

He huffed out a surprised little laugh. “Dependable.”

“Mmhm. Big. Warm. Shows up when I’m cold. Great for naps.” You smiled against him. “Top-tier back, Barnes. A ten out of ten, would recommend.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, but his grin had gone shy and his hand started to search for yours.

You slid your palm down his chest until he could tangle your fingers with his. His much larger hand swallowed yours up instantly, holding on tight like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

He never said that out loud, but you knew.

You gave his hand a small squeeze and pressed your mouth to the nape of his neck.

He shuddered at that, a full body ripple that made the mattress tremble. His fingers tightened on yours, knuckles going white.

“Sunshine,” he rasped. “Careful.”

“I’m just kissing you,” you whispered, lips brushing along the fine hairs at his hairline. “My sweet, overcooked weighted blanket.”

“You keep doin’ it like that,” he said, voice hoarse, “and m’gonna stop bein’ a gentleman real fast.”

The words sent a pleasant little spark through you. You shifted closer, letting your chest fit snugly to his back, your leg sliding more firmly over his, cocooning him in your warmth.

“That a promise?” you teased.

He turned his head just enough that one blue eye cracked open, heavy-lidded and molten. “You fishin’ for trouble, doll?”

“Maybe.” Your teeth grazed the curve where his neck met his shoulder, just barely. “Maybe I like my trouble six foot something and way too handsome for his own good.”

He groaned again, burying his face in the crook of his arm like he could hide from the heat crawling up his neck.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Big, scary super-soldier, brought down by one tiny menace in fuzzy socks.”

You glanced down at your toes and wiggled them, the little pastel socks rubbing against his calf. “You love my socks.”

“I love you,” he said, so easily it made your breath catch, “the socks are just collateral damage.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest, spreading outward until it filled your entire body.

You leaned in close, pressing your lips right beneath his ear. “Say it again.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Love you,” he murmured, voice so low it vibrated through the bones of his back and straight into your heart. “Love when you hold me like this. Love when you kiss on me. Love wakin’ up with your breath on my skin.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of the words settle over you like a second blanket.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not planning on stopping.”

You trailed your mouth down the side of his neck, pressing slow, unhurried kisses along the strong column of his throat, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. His hand squeezed yours again, the grip shifting from sleepy to needy.

“Turn over for me?” you asked softly against his skin.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, old wiring, old habits, then he exhaled and nodded. “Yeah. ‘Course, sunshine.”

He rolled carefully onto his back, shifting his arm so he didn’t accidentally elbow you. You moved with him, nimble and familiar, adjusting your leg until you ended up half draped over his torso, your chest resting against his ribs, one knee hooked over his hip.

The sheet slipped lower, and suddenly you had his entire chest in front of you, broad, solid, dusted with hair, dog tags glinting faintly where they’d fallen to the side on the pillow.

He looked up at you, hair a mess, cheeks faintly flushed, blue eyes soft and open in a way they never were with anyone else.

“Hi,” he said, a little breathless.

“Hi,” you echoed, your fingers spreading over his sternum. His heart beat strong and steady beneath your palm.

“Y’know,” he said, trying for light and almost managing it, “pretty sure it’s my job to worship you in bed, not the other way ‘round.”

“Mmm.” You bent down to kiss the center of his chest, right over his heart. “We can take turns.”

His throat bobbed.

You let your mouth wander, slow and careful, mapping him like you had his back. The curve of his collarbone. The warm, solid swell of his shoulder. The scarred dip near his ribs that always made him twitch.

Every time your lips found a mark he used to hate, you pressed a gentler kiss there, like you could rewrite the memory from the outside in.

His breathing went shallow, hand sliding up from the sheets to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with aching tenderness.

“You don’t have to do that, y’know,” he murmured. “All the… sweet stuff. You don’t gotta pretend I’m somethin’ pretty.”

You lifted your head, brows knitting. “I’m not pretending anything, James.”

His eyes flicked to yours, something vulnerable and raw in them at the sound of his full name.

“You’re beautiful,” you said simply. No coyness, no teasing. Just truth. “Every inch of you. Outside, inside, all of it. You think I’m kissing you just because you’re conveniently within range?”

He tried for a smirk and only managed a shaky half-smile. “Maybe.”

You leaned down until your forehead touched his, noses brushing. “No. I’m kissing you because I’m obsessed with you. Slight difference.”

His hand tightened in your hair, metal fingers flexing gently against your waist in counterpoint. “You’re gonna make me fall even harder, sunshine.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Fall with me.”

You kissed him then.

It started soft, like it always did, with your lips brushing his once, twice, a warm hello shared on a shared breath. Then his mouth parted on a quiet sigh, and you deepened the kiss, tilting your head to slot against him more fully.

He tasted like sleep and warmth, familiar and addictive. His free hand slid up your side, spanning your ribs, thumb stroking the edge of your shirt like he was memorizing the feel of the fabric over your skin.

He kissed you the way he always did when he finally let a little restraint slip, like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked, yet determined to savor every second you were here. Slow at first. Gentle. Then hungrier, his lips moving with a growing urgency you felt all the way down your spine.

Your fingers slid into his hair at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to pull a low, helpless sound from his chest. The noise sparked through you, and the breath you exhaled against his mouth came out as a soft, involuntary gasp.

“Sunshine,” he breathed, pulling back an inch, eyes blown wide. “If we keep goin’ like this… I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

You brushed your thumb along the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble tickle your skin. “Did I say anything about stopping?”

His chest rose a little faster beneath your palm. Muscles jumped under his skin. “I just—” His voice faltered. “I don’t ever wanna push you. You start somethin’, I’m right behind you, but if you tell me to slow down or—”

You silenced him with another kiss, softer this time, your heart squeezing at how earnestly he meant it. At how even now, half undone and clinging to his composure, his first instinct was to check in.

“I know,” you whispered against his lips. “And I trust you. Always.”

That did something to him.

You felt it, the subtle collapse of tension in his shoulders, the way his breath caught like he’d been holding it for years. His hand slid up to cradle your face, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness so steady it made your eyes sting.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay, sweetheart.”

You shifted your weight forward, closer, letting your torso settle fully against his. His reaction was immediate, his breath stuttered, hips nudged up instinctively, fingers tightening at your waist as if to ground himself.

“Breathe,” you teased, your smile brushing his mouth. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” he said, voice rough but honest. “You’re… you.”

You laughed softly and pressed a quick kiss to the tip of his nose before finding his lips again. This time, the moment your mouth touched his, the kiss deepened on its own, lips parting, breaths mixing, his hand gliding down your back in slow, possessive sweeps that made heat coil low in your belly.

The room felt smaller now, quieter. Just the soft rasp of skin, the creak of the mattress, the intimate little noises you pulled from each other with every shift and sigh.

You rolled your hips closer without thinking, chasing more warmth, more contact, more of him. His breath hitched sharply, and his hand flew to your waist, holding you there as if one more inch might ruin him completely.

“Sunshine,” he groaned, eyes closing for a heartbeat as his control slipped. “You’re killin’ me. I’m tryin’ to take my time, but you keep…”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then down to that soft spot under his ear that always made him unravel. You felt him twitch, felt the way he clutched your hip like you were the only stable thing in the room.

“Who says going slow and making you lose your mind can’t happen at the same time?” you murmured against his skin.

His laugh was breathless, almost pained, turning into a low exhale when your lips lingered there a beat too long.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered, needy, adoring, undone. “My favorite kind.”

You smiled, mouth brushing his ear. “Yours, huh?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Always.”

You pulled back enough to see his face again, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. He looked at you like you’d handed him the stars and told him they were his.

“You know I’m not letting you go today, right?” he said quietly. “World can knock, yell, explode for all I care. They don’t get you. Not today.”

Warmth bloomed through you, slow and sweet and deep.

“Well,” you murmured, slowly kissing him again. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

His smile against your mouth was soft and stunned and so full of love it made your chest ache.

“Then c’mere, sunshine,” he whispered, voice dipping low and warm as he gently rolled you beneath him, pulling you deeper into his arms. “Let me hold onto you for a while.”

You went willingly, tangling yourself around him until your bodies fit together perfectly, his weight settling over you just enough to feel safe, wanted, enveloped.

The kiss he gave you then was different, slow, warm, unhurried, but the moment your fingers slipped into his hair again and tugged gently?

Something inside him snapped like overstretched thread.

His breath hitched.

His hips lifted.

And his hand slid down your spine to grip your ass, squeezing with a reverence that made your pulse stumble.

“Sunshine,” he murmured against your mouth, voice already frayed with need, “you keep touchin’ me like that, I’m gonna lose every last bit of control I’ve got.”

You rocked your hips up to meet his, slow and subtle, perfectly aligned.

He groaned, a low, broken sound, and any remaining restraint he’d been fighting didn’t stand a chance.

“Fuck—don’t do that,” he rasped. “I’m tryin’ to be good. I’m tryin’ real hard.”

You kissed along his jaw, your breath ghosting over his skin.

“What if I don’t want you to be good?” you whispered.

His hand paused on your hip. His pupils blew wide. For a second he just… looked at you. Like you’d said something holy.

“Sunshine…” It was half a plea, half a warning.

You kissed down his neck, letting your lips drag, letting your teeth graze, and felt the shiver rip through his big, warm body. He was fully awake now—every muscle in him pulled taut, every breath uneven.

You slid your leg higher over his hip.

He sucked in a sharp breath when your thigh brushed the hard line straining beneath the sheet.

“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes squeezing shut as he clenched the sheets with his metal hand. “You’re so fuckin’ soft. You’re gonna drive me insane.”

You moved again, slow and deliberate, rolling your hips so your body pressed perfectly into his.

This time, his hips pushed up to meet you. Instinct. Need. Pure, uncontrollable desire.

His hand flew to your waist, fingers digging in, not to stop you, god, Bucky never stopped you, but to steady himself.

“You feel that, baby?” you murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Look how hard you are already.”

He whimpered, actually whimpered, and the sound went straight to your core.

“You’re killin’ me,” he said, voice choked and wrecked. “I woke up wantin’ cuddles and kisses and now I—fuck, sunshine, I need you. I need you so bad.”

You dragged your lips down his neck again, slower this time, leaving a wet trail that made him tremble. 

“Then tell me,” you whispered. “Use your words.”

His chest rose fast. His metal hand slid up your back, over your spine, cradling the back of your neck with impossible gentleness.

“I want you,” he breathed, voice cracking. “I want you wrapped around me, your legs around my waist, your body under mine so I can feel you everywhere.”

Heat pooled low in your belly, sharp and sweet.

You shifted your hips again, letting your body press fully into the thick, hard length of him. 

Bucky choked on a moan, hand tightening in your hair.

“Sunshine—please.”

You smiled softly, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Roll your hips for me.”

He did, instinctively lifting his hips into yours, grinding up with a need so raw it punched a sound from your throat.

“Ohhh—god—Bucky—”

That did it. His eyes snapped open, dark with hunger and awe.

“You like that?” he rasped. “Shit, you sound so pretty—do it again, c’mere—”

His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you down against him as he thrust up again, slower this time, deliberate, dragging every inch of him against you through the thin layers between you.

Your head fell forward with a breathless gasp.

“Bucky—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growled softly against your mouth. “Say my name like that. Ride me through the fuckin’ sheets—just like that, sunshine, just like that—”

You moved with him, both of you finding a rhythm that was maddeningly slow and unbearably intense. Friction building, heat curling low in your core, your breath stuttering every time his hips rolled just right.

He was breathing hard now, jaw clenched, sweat beginning to bead at his temples.

“I’m gonna lose my damn mind,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re so warm—feel so good—fuck, sunshine, I need to be inside you.”

“Then take me,” you whispered.

His whole body stilled.

Blue eyes locked onto yours, blown wide.

“…say that again,” he said, voice breaking.

You cupped his jaw, kissed him slow and deep.

“Take me,” you murmured against his lips. “I want you inside me.”

A sound tore from his chest, half growl, half prayer, and then his hands were on your hips, guiding, lifting, his control hanging by a single frayed thread.

“Sunshine,” he panted, “I’m gonna make you feel so good—gonna have you comin’ on my cock before the sheets cool—”

“Then don’t make me wait.”

He flipped you gently but urgently onto your back, settling between your thighs with a reverent, starving kind of hunger, his big body caging yours without an ounce of pressure, nothing but warmth and wanting.

His lips were on your throat immediately, kissing, nipping, worshipping down the line of your neck as his hands traced up your sides under your shirt, palms warm and greedy.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmured against your skin.

“So are you,” you breathed.

He laughed softly, wrecked, breathless, already barely composed.

“Yeah,” he admitted, kissing down the center of your chest. “’Cause I’ve been dreamin’ about this my whole life. Wakin’ up to you. Havin’ you under me, soft and needy and mine.”

Your breath caught at the word. Mine.

His eyes flicked up, dark and molten.

“You like that,” he said quietly, knowingly. “You like when I tell you you’re mine.”

You nodded, heat shooting through you so fast it made your toes curl.

He groaned. Groaned.

“Sunshine, I’ll say it all mornin’. You’re mine—mine to touch, mine to kiss, mine to make come—”

His metal hand slid between your thighs.

Your breath shattered.

“And I’m yours,” he whispered, kissing below your ear. “Every fuckin’ inch of me.”

Bucky’s fingers brushed the inside of your thigh, barely a touch, more a question than a demand, and your breath hitched hard enough that he felt it.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“Yeah,” he whispered, thumb stroking the sensitive skin once, slow. “That’s it. Open up for me, sunshine.”

You did, immediately. Instinctively.

Like your body had been waiting for that exact tone from him.

He settled between your thighs, heavy and warm, his hips lowering just enough that you felt the thick press of him against your core even through the last thin layer of clothing. Your back arched involuntarily.

“God, you’re needy,” he murmured, sounding somewhere between awed and undone. “Didn’t even have to touch you yet.”

“Bucky—”

His hand slid up, cupping you through your panties, metal fingers curved perfectly to your heat. The cold vibranium contrasted with warm skin, sending a shocked moan tumbling out of your mouth.

“Ohhh—fuck—”

He smirked, slow and sinful.

“That’s it, baby. I love that sound. Gonna get a lot more of those outta you.”

He pressed just a little harder, enough that you felt his fingertips through the damp fabric.

“You’re soaked,” he breathed, thumb brushing your clit through the cotton in a slow, purposeful circle. “All this for me?”

Your hips jerked. Your breath broke. And Bucky smiled like he’d just been handed a sunrise.

“Tell me,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss along your jaw. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” you gasped, your fingers curling in his hair as you pushed helplessly into his touch. “I want all of you—please—”

His breath stuttered.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I love when you beg.”

He hooked one finger in the fabric of your panties and dragged them down, slow and deliberate, his eyes locked on you the entire time.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost reverent. “Pretty little thing, drippin’ for me.”

His finger slid through your slick and your entire body arched. You grabbed at his shoulders, nails sinking in, but he only chuckled softly and kissed your cheek.

“Easy, sunshine. Lemme take care of you.”

He dipped his finger into you just to the first knuckle.

Your breath crumbled.

“Bucky—oh my god—”

“Shhh, I got you,” he murmured, kissing your temple, his voice low and steady even as his hips ground into the mattress for relief. “You’re so tight already… you’re gonna ruin me.”

He pushed deeper, stretching you with a tenderness that contrasted brutally with the way he was panting against your neck.

“Always so fuckin’ tight for me,” he whispered. “Squeezin’ me like you’re already around my cock.”

You moaned, hips rocking helplessly toward him. Your hand found his wrist, not to stop him but to urge him deeper.

He obeyed instantly.

A second finger slid in beside the first, and your back arched so sharply that your chest pressed to his.

“There you go,” he murmured, kissing your throat as his fingers scissored gently. “Open up for me. Let me feel you.”

You could barely breathe.

You could barely think.

All you could do was cling to him as he fucked you slowly with his fingers, deep, curling strokes that hit a spot inside you that made your vision blur at the edges.

His forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours.

“Sunshine,” he rasped, “look at me.”

You forced your eyes open and what you found nearly undid you.

Bucky was flushed, pupils blown, hair messy from your grip, completely gone for you.

“You look so good when I’m inside you,” he whispered, thumb brushing your clit in a slow stroke that made your hips buck. “So pretty when you take me.”

Your whimper was immediate and broken.

He swallowed it with a kiss, deep and hungry and wet. His tongue brushed yours, lazy and possessive.

His fingers curled inside you.

You cried out into his mouth, thighs trembling.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned against your lips. “Ride my hand—come on, sunshine, fuck yourself on my fingers.”

You did.

Your hips moved on instinct, grinding down into his palm, chasing the pressure and the heat and the delicious burn building low and fast.

“Good girl,” he whispered into your mouth. “My good girl. You’re gettin’ close, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes—oh god—Bucky—”

His thumb circled your clit with devastating precision.

“Come on my fingers,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your trembling mouth. “Come for me, sunshine.”

It hit so fast it stole the air from your lungs.

Your body tightened, shaking, clenching around him in rhythmic waves that dragged a rough, desperate groan out of his chest.

“Ohhh fuck, yeah—that’s it,” he rasped, watching your face like he was memorizing every detail. “That’s my girl. That’s my perfect fuckin’ girl.”

You trembled through the aftershocks, unable to catch your breath. Bucky didn’t pull away, not yet. He kept his fingers inside you, slow and gentle now, grounding you, helping you ride it out.

His free hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking tenderly.

“You with me?” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “You okay, baby?”

You nodded, still shaking. “Y-yes. Just… holy shit.”

He laughed softly, sweet, breathless, affectionate as hell.

“You’re somethin’ else, sunshine.”

He pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way you gasped at the sensitivity.

Then he brought his fingers to his mouth… and sucked them clean.

Your entire body jolted.

His eyes locked on yours as he did it, tongue dragging between his fingers, savoring every bit of you.

“Mmm,” he hummed, low and sinful. “Taste even better first thing in the morning.”

“Bucky—”

“Yeah, baby?” he said, settling between your thighs again, his cock heavy and swollen between you now, nudging your slick entrance.

“I need you inside me.”

His eyes darkened to midnight.

Everything in him went soft and wrecked at the same time.

“You got me, sunshine,” he whispered, lowering himself carefully. “You always fuckin’ got me.”

And with one slow, perfect thrust, Bucky sank into you, like he was trying to memorize every millimeter of the way you opened around him. The stretch burned in the best way, a sweet ache blooming deep in your belly as his thick cock pushed past your entrance and filled you inch by devastating inch.

Your breath caught, high and desperate, and your nails dug into his shoulders without conscious thought.

“Oh—God—Bucky—”

He groaned your name into your neck, the sound raw and shaky, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still. His breath hit your skin in hot, uneven bursts.

“Sunshine,” he panted, voice shredded. “You feel—shit—you feel unreal.”

When he bottomed out, hips flush with yours, your back arched off the bed. The fullness, the heat, the pressure—it was all-consuming. You felt stretched around him, filled to the edge, claimed from the inside out.

He stayed like that for a long moment, buried deep, chest pressed to yours, his pulse rabbiting hard against your skin.

His voice shook when he whispered, “Every damn time… you take me so perfect. So warm. So tight around me… fuck, sunshine, you’re gonna ruin me.”

Your thighs trembled around him, instinctively tightening. The move squeezed around his thick length and a strangled growl tore out of him, muffled against your throat.

“Don’t—” His hand tightened on your hip. “Don’t squeeze like that—baby, I’m beggin’—I’ll come right now.”

“Maybe I want that,” you breathed into his ear, your lips brushing the sensitive shell, your breath hot and deliberate. “Maybe I want you to lose it.”

His hips jerked, helpless, involuntary.

His control frayed to threads.

He lifted his head, eyes blown wide and dark, chest heaving.

“You say shit like that,” he rasped, “and I swear to god, sunshine, I won’t make it five minutes.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and teasing.

“Then don’t last.”

Whatever was holding him together snapped.

He withdrew an inch, just enough that you felt the sudden emptiness, then pushed back into you with one deep, heavy thrust that knocked a sharp cry out of your mouth.

Your hands flew to his back, dragging down the hard lines of muscle, feeling him flex beneath your fingers.

He set a pace that wasn’t fast, but deep. Long strokes that dragged the blunt head of his cock against the softest, most devastating spots inside you. Each thrust pushed a whimper from your lips, each retreat made your body chase him, try to keep him.

His forehead dropped to yours, his hair brushing your cheeks in soft, messy strands.

“Look at me,” he whispered, nudging your nose with his. “Wanna see your face when I fuck you.”

You forced your eyes open and Bucky was staring down at you like the sight of your pleasure was the most beautiful, holy thing he’d ever witnessed.

He kissed you then, slow at first, lips molding to yours, tongue brushing the seam, tasting your gasps. Then deeper, hungrier, like he needed your mouth as much as he needed your body.

His metal hand slid beneath your waist, lifting you into him as he thrust again, deeper this time, angled perfectly to make your vision blur.

“B-Bucky—oh god—right there—”

He groaned against your lips, his breath shuddering.

“There?” he rasped, thrusting again in the same devastating angle. “That the spot, sunshine?”

“Yes—yes—oh fuck—”

His hand on your thigh tightened, pulling you wider open, giving him more space to thrust deeper, harder, until you could feel him pressing into a place inside you that made your toes curl and your lungs stop working.

You clamped around him without meaning to, walls pulsing in rhythm with each slow, bruising thrust.

His head snapped back with a loud, helpless groan.

“Fuck—don’t do that—don’t—oh god, sunshine—”

You dragged your nails down his back again, something wild and needy unraveling inside you.

“Come for me,” you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I want you to. Fill me.”

He froze mid-thrust, every muscle seizing.

His cock twitched violently inside you.

“You—you can’t say that,” he stuttered, voice dropping into something feral, primal. “Baby—don’t—if you say that—”

You cupped his cheek and whispered it again, slow and pleading.

“Come inside me, Bucky.”

He made a sound you’d never heard before, half moan, half growl, and buried his face in your neck like he couldn’t bear the intensity of it.

“Ohhh fuck—oh fuck—sunshine—fuck—”

His hips began to snap into you, fast and uneven now, instinct taking over, desperation unraveling what was left of his restraint. You felt him losing control, felt the raw hunger in every thrust.

Your body tightened around him again and he swore, deep, shaky, guttural.

“You’re squeezin’ me so hard—oh god—baby, you’re gonna make me—”

His hand found your clit, thumb circling with a perfect, devastating pressure that sent a lightning bolt through your entire body.

“Come for me,” he begged, voice cracking. “Please—please sunshine—need to feel you come before I do—need to feel it—”

Your orgasm hit like a wave breaking over a cliff.

Your back arched so sharply you nearly lifted off the bed, your body clamping tight around him, pulsing in desperate, rhythmic waves as sounds you couldn’t control broke from your throat.

“Yes—yes—oh fuck—Bucky—”

Your orgasm dragged him with you.

He thrust once, twice, then yelled into your neck as he came hard, hips stuttering, cock twitching violently inside you as he spilled deep, hot and thick, filling you in long, pulsing bursts that made you gasp all over again.

His whole body trembled with it, shoulders shaking, breath shattering, hands gripping you like you were the only solid thing in the world.

He stayed inside you, chest pressed to yours, breath slowing against your throat. His hips gave one final, involuntary little pulse that made you both gasp softly.

“Jesus…” he whispered, kissing your jaw with a trembling mouth. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my damn life.”

You smiled, stroking the back of his neck. “Good.”

He let out a quiet, breathless laugh, nuzzling into your cheek like a sleepy oversized dog who wanted affection and praise at the same time.

“‘Good,’ she says…” He kissed you again, slower this time. “You’re gonna kill me.”

His softening cock slipped a bit, and you let out a tiny sound, half sensitivity, half the warm, messy reality of him still inside you.

His eyes snapped to yours, soft and earnest.

“You okay?”

“More than okay,” you murmured. “Just… full.”

That soft wrecked look he got, the one that said you have me completely, spread across his face.

He kissed you.

Slow.

Lingering.

So tender it made your stomach flip.

“My sunshine,” he whispered against your mouth. “My perfect girl. My everything.”

But then he shifted his hips just slightly, unintentionally, and the warm spill of him inside you shifted with it.

You gasped.

His brows flew together in a mix of concern and sudden hunger.

“Ohhh… sweetheart…” he breathed. “Did you feel that?”

You nodded, cheeks warming.

He dropped another kiss to your lips, then your cheek, then your chin, murmuring between each press.

“Let me take care of you…”

He slid out of you carefully, slow so he wouldn’t hurt you, and the movement drew a soft, broken whimper from both of you. The warm spill of him followed the retreat, and you felt it begin to slip down your thigh.

Bucky saw it.

His breath stuttered.

And then he was gone only for a second, reaching for tissues from the nightstand with frantic tenderness, and was immediately back between your thighs.

“Sunshine,” he whispered, voice low and affectionate. “Look how messy you are…”

You flushed hot, thighs trying to close on instinct.

He gently pushed one hand to the inside of your knee.

“No,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Don’t hide from me. Lemme clean you.”

And he did, dabbing carefully first, then using his warm palm to keep your legs relaxed as he wiped the slow, warm trickle of him from your skin.

His voice stayed low, intimate, soothing.

“Hold still for me, baby… yeah, that’s it… god, you look so pretty like this… all relaxed and fucked-out…”

His words made you melt instead of tense.

He cleaned you with such care, such gentleness, that your chest ached.

When he was done, he pressed the softest kiss to your inner thigh.

Something possessive.

Something worshipful.

Then he crawled up your body, bracing himself carefully so he wouldn’t crush you, and cupped your cheek.

“You feel okay?” he asked, brushing his thumb over your lips. “Anything hurt? Too much?”

“You were perfect,” you whispered, leaning into his touch.

The look on his face, soft, overwhelmed, and so in love to the point of pain, made your heart flip.

He kissed you again, slow and lingering, then nudged your nose with his.

“C’mere,” he murmured. “I wanna hold you.”

Before you could even adjust, he pulled you into his chest and rolled onto his back, bringing you with him so you were draped over his torso.

Your leg fell across his waist.

Your hand spread over the center of his chest, feeling his heartbeat, slow, warm, and steady.

His arms wrapped around you like he was locking you into place.

“Perfect,” he breathed, kissing the top of your head. “Just like this.”

You murmured into his skin, “You’re warm.”

“Mmh.” He smiled into your hair. “Told you, I’m your human space heater.”

You snorted softly, nuzzling closer. “Overgrown weighted blanket.”

“Damn right,” he said, rubbing slow circles into your back. “And I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He shifted a little beneath you, tugging the blanket over both of you with his metal arm, then burying his nose in your hair with a quiet, content sigh.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You know… I love this part the most.”

You lifted your head. “Which part?”

His eyes softened, thumb brushing your lower lip, voice low and earnest.

“Holdin’ you after. When you’re all soft and warm and still shakin’ a little… feels like I got the whole world in my arms.”

Your breath caught.

Then you kissed him, slow, deep, with the softness that filth can’t touch, and he melted under you, a big, heavy, happy sigh leaving his chest.

“Bucky?” you murmured, curling deeper into him.

“Yeah, sunshine?”

“Don’t let go yet.”

He tightened his arms instantly, protectively, affection spilling from him like heat.

“Never,” he whispered into your hair. “You’re stayin’ right here.”