#bare minimum

Outside, the late-afternoon sun spilled gold across the windshield, streaking light through the dust on the dashboard. The warm scent of leather seats and faint pine from Bucky’s air freshener curled in the air, but none of it lifted your mood.

“They didn’t have it,” you sighed, dragging a hand through your hair as you slouched lower in the seat. “The last copy of Crown of Shadows sold yesterday. Now I have to wait a week for the restock.”

Beside you, Bucky’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He glanced over, brow creasing like you’d just told him your car had been stolen. “A week?”

“Mm-hmm.” You tried to shrug it off, though your shoulders barely moved. “It’s fine, babe. I’ll live.”

His jaw clenched, the muscle twitching just beneath his cheekbone. His grip on the wheel turned white-knuckled, like he was trying not to take your heartbreak personally. “It’s not fine. You’ve been waiting on that book for, what, eight months?”

“Seven,” you corrected with a small, amused smile, watching how seriously he was taking this. “But it’s not like it’s life or death.”

He gave you a look, then said, “Remind me why you can’t just read it on a Kindle?”

You gasped, offended on a spiritual level. “Because it’s just not the same as feeling the pages under your fingers or smelling that new book smell. Ebooks don’t have soul, Bucky.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared straight ahead and merged into traffic with a sharpness that made the tires grumble. When you tried to lighten the mood with a joke or two, he only hummed distractedly, lost in thought and visibly irritated on your behalf.

Two days later, you came home to find your kitchen bathed in soft afternoon light, and in the center of the table, a massive cardboard box. It dominated the room like it had grown roots there. No note. No receipt. Just Bucky, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in hand and a look of exaggerated innocence on his face.

You arched a brow. “What’s all this?”

He took a sip, voice casual. “Open it.”

You tore the tape back with hesitant fingers, tissue paper crinkling as you pulled it away, and then froze. Nestled inside were the gleaming hardcovers of your favorite fantasy series, all seven volumes, their spines shimmering in the soft light like rare artifacts. Each one was signed in metallic silver by the author herself. And not just a signature, every title page had a little doodle and a handwritten message addressed to you.

Your breath caught like you’d been punched in the chest. “Bucky—what—how—?”

He sipped again. “Called the author. Asked real nice.”

You just stared at him, lost between awe and disbelief. “This is insane.”

He shrugged, like he’d just run to the store for milk. “Sweetheart, this is bare minimum when you’re with me. Now you don’t have to wait for the restock.”

Your heart swelled, and then it broke into laughter. “Oh, I’m not reading these.”

He blinked. “...You’re what now?”

“They’re basically collector’s items, Buck! The spines have to stay pristine. No bending, no cracking, no fingerprints on the pages. Oh my god, if I smudged the signature, that’d be sacrilege.” You cradled the set to your chest like a dragon hoarding gold. “I’ll still wait for the restock before I actually read the new one.”

Bucky stared at you, stunned and blinking like you’d just spoken in tongues. “It’s a book. It’s meant to be read.”

You grinned. “Are you kidding? I might have to get a display case for these beauties.”

He squinted. “So… I got you a gift you can’t use?”

You looked genuinely alarmed at the idea. “No! You got me the nicest gift ever. I’m just gonna have to handle it with gloves, like a museum curator.”

He watched as you clutched the box, smiling so brightly it looked like it hurt. And when you looked back at him, eyes glassy with emotion, you stepped forward and pressed a hand gently to his jaw.

“This is the most thoughtful, ridiculous, amazing thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you murmured. “You called an author. You got her to sign them. That’s not just a gift, Bucky. That’s you putting your heart on paper and handing it to me.”

His expression softened instantly, the tight line between his brows easing as your words landed. He didn’t say anything, but you could see it in his eyes, how much it meant to be understood like that.

You stepped closer, rising onto your toes to kiss him. It was slow and lingering, a kiss that carried every ounce of your gratitude. When you pulled back, you whispered against his lips, “And I’m going to appreciate it exactly the way it is, because I want to remember this feeling every single time I see them on the shelf.”

A slow smile tugged at his mouth, exasperated and helpless. “You’re impossible.”

“And you, James Buchanan Barnes, are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”