#soft!bucky

He is obsessed.

It starts small, the first time he rests his head against your stomach. You’re both on the couch after a long mission, exhausted and half-limp with it. You’re sitting upright, back pressed into the armrest, scrolling through something on your phone while he stretches out along the length of the couch. He shifts closer without asking, metal hand warm and steady as it hooks around your thigh and tugs you in.

“Buck,” you murmur, distracted.

“Shh.”

And then he just… folds.

He slides down until his head is resting squarely in your lap, cheek pressed to the softness of your belly. Not flat against bone. Not sharp edges. Just warmth and give and comfort. He exhales like he’s found something sacred.

You freeze. “What are you doing?”

“Using my pillow,” he answers simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Your stomach flips. “You have like six actual pillows.”

“None of them are this good.”

His flesh hand splays wide over your side, thumb brushing the slight dip where your waist curves inward before swelling out again. He gives a little squeeze—absentminded, affectionate—and settles his full weight there.

You’re hyperaware of it. The weight of his head. The scratch of his stubble through your shirt. The way his nose presses just slightly into you when he breathes.

“I’m squishy,” you mutter.

“Exactly.”

He sounds downright pleased about it.

You expect him to move after a minute. To tease you and then roll away. But he doesn’t. He stays. His shoulders loosen. His fingers trace lazy shapes along the underside of your belly, reverent and slow.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, rougher. “Don’t know how you walk around like this without me glued to you all the time.”

Heat floods your face. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious.”

He turns his head slightly and presses a slow kiss right through your shirt, just below your navel. The sensation makes you jolt.

“Buck.”

“What?” he asks innocently, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. “Can’t appreciate my girl?”

It’s the way he says it—my girl. Like he’s claiming treasure.

You shift, suddenly self-conscious. “You don’t… wish I was smaller?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You hate that it does. You hate that it’s even in your head.

He goes very still.

Slowly, he pushes himself up onto his elbows until he’s looking at you directly. His eyes are blue and sharp and entirely serious.

“Smaller?” he repeats, almost offended. “Why would I want less of you?”

Your breath catches.

He sits up properly then, hands coming to frame your waist. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t soften his grip. He squeezes—firm, grounding.

“I love this,” he says, sliding his palm over your belly openly now. “Love how you feel. Love how you fit in my hands. Love how I can lay my head here and hear you laugh and feel it.” He presses his ear back against you demonstratively. “It’s my favorite sound system.”

A startled laugh bursts out of you.

“There it is,” he says smugly. “See? Worth it.”

You swat at him lightly, but he catches your wrist and brings your hand to his hair instead. Encouraging. Guiding. Like he wants you to get used to this.

“I like that you’re soft,” he continues, quieter now. “I spent decades surrounded by hard things. Cold things. I don’t want that anymore.”

His cheek presses back into your belly, slower this time. Intentional. He rubs his face there shamelessly, like a cat claiming its spot.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs. “You’re comfortable. You’re real.”

Your fingers slide through his hair without thinking, nails scraping gently at his scalp. He melts instantly, breath shuddering out of him.

“And I like that I can do this,” he adds.

He wraps both arms around you and tugs until you’re practically folded over him, his face buried fully against your stomach now. He nuzzles, exaggerated and greedy, and then presses a series of soft kisses along the curve.

You can’t stop smiling.

“You’re obsessed,” you accuse softly.

“Yeah.”

No denial. Not even a pause.

“I am.”

His hand slides under your shirt this time, skin to skin. His palm spreads wide over the softness there, thumb tracing lazy circles. He watches your face carefully as he does it, gauging every reaction, like he wants to memorize the way you respond.

“I like that you’re soft enough for me to sink into,” he says, voice dropping slightly. “Like that when I grab you, I actually get to hold something.”

Your breath goes shallow.

His touch shifts from playful to deliberate. Fingers pressing deeper. Appreciative. His lips follow the path of his hand, kissing along your belly slowly, like he’s mapping it.

“You know what my favorite part is?” he asks quietly.

“What?”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark now, but still tender.

“That you don’t hide from me.”

Your chest tightens.

“You let me love you like this,” he continues. “You let me touch you. Lay on you. Hold you. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

He slides up your body then, kissing a path from your stomach to your sternum, to your collarbone, until he’s hovering over you on the couch. Big and solid and entirely devoted.

“And if you ever start thinking you need to be smaller,” he adds softly, brushing his nose against yours, “I’m gonna remind you that I need exactly this.”

His hand drifts back down, settling possessively over your belly again. Like it belongs there.

Like you belong there.

You pull him down into a kiss before you can overthink it, arms wrapping around his shoulders. He smiles against your mouth, satisfied, and then deliberately shifts so he can rest his head back where he started.

Pillow reclaimed.

You roll your eyes, but your hands find his hair automatically.

“Comfortable?” you tease.

He sighs like a man who has found heaven.

word count: 10k

People assume things. They always have.

It is easy for them to notice the small details. The way his gaze lingers on you a moment longer than it should. The way your hand finds his arm without thinking whenever the two of you are walking side by side. The way neither of you ever seems particularly eager to step away once you end up standing close.

To anyone watching, it looks obvious. Predictable even.

To you, it has always felt simple. You are friends. Nothing more.

By the time the two of you step off the subway, the city has slipped into that quieter version of itself that only appears late at night. New York never truly sleeps, but it does soften. The crowds thin. The noise lowers into a constant distant hum of traffic and conversation drifting from late night diners and corner stores.

You walk beside him toward the compound with no real urgency. Just two figures moving through the glow of the city lights, your footsteps falling into an easy rhythm against the sidewalk.

Bucky moves through the streets with a quiet confidence that suggests familiarity deeper than simple habit. His stride is relaxed, steady in a way that comes from knowing exactly how to move through a place without needing to think about it.

A cold breeze shifts through the street and catches his hair, leaving the dark strands slightly tousled where they fall across his forehead. The leather jacket on his shoulders looks as though it has belonged to him forever, worn into that perfect balance between comfort and durability.

As you near the street, he glances down at you with a small smile that feels almost private.

“Thanks for the tour,” he says. “You always know the best spots.”

You glance up at him, warmth blooming in your chest despite the casual tone of the conversation. The night air is cool against your skin, but something about the ease of walking beside him makes the cold feel distant.

“That was nothing,” you reply lightly. “I know a great Indian place too. But you have to book months in advance.”

You sigh dramatically, as though the injustice of the situation personally offends you.

“So maybe next time.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. His hands slide into the pockets of his jacket as he tilts his head, studying you with an expression that carries quiet amusement.

“Months in advance,” he repeats thoughtfully. “Sounds fancy.”

His gaze drifts over your face for a moment longer than necessary.

“You trying to impress me?”

You lift an eyebrow at him in challenge, entirely unimpressed with the implication.

“You’re impressed by basic knowledge of food and geography?” you reply. “You’re too easy, Barnes.”

The laugh that escapes him is sudden and bright, breaking through the quiet street in a way that feels almost startling. For a moment it looks like he surprises himself with it too.

“Easy?” he scoffs, though the sound carries no real offense. “I’ve been around since before half these places had menus.”

You shook your exaggerated offense while he glances sideways at you again, something thoughtful slipping quietly beneath the teasing.

“Still better company than Steve.”

Your laughter spills out before you can stop it. The sound echoes faintly down the street, light and unguarded. For a moment the night feels strangely effortless, like the world has narrowed down to the simple act of walking together through dimly lit streets. The kind of comfort that sneaks in slowly until it settles somewhere deep in the bones.

The first drop of rain is so soft you almost miss it.

A second lands against the pavement near your shoe. Then another.

Both of you look up at the same time.

Bucky exhales through his nose, staring at the sky with the weary patience of someone who feels personally inconvenienced by the weather.

“Of course,” he mutters.

His gaze drifts back down to you.

“You didn’t bring an umbrella, did you?”

You scrunch your face in mild irritation and lift your bag above your head as if the thin material might somehow qualify as protection.

“Of course I didn’t,” you say. “How was I supposed to know it would rain?”

He watches you attempt to shield yourself with the bag, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve got all those psychic tricks,” he says casually. “Weather not included?”

You shoot him a flat look.

“That’s not how my powers work.”

The rain begins to gather strength, the droplets growing heavier as they strike the pavement. Within seconds the water is catching in your hair and soaking slowly into the sleeves of your jacket.

Bucky glances up at the sky again with visible disapproval before shrugging his jacket off in one smooth motion. The leather darkens almost immediately as rain begins to collect across the surface.

“Here,” he says, holding it out toward you. “No point in both of us getting drenched.”

You grumble something under your breath about unnecessary commentary and terrible weather, but you accept the jacket anyway. You lift it awkwardly above your head in a half-hearted attempt at creating some form of shelter.

The rain chooses that exact moment to grow heavier.

Water begins to fall in thick, steady sheets, the sound of it filling the street as it splashes against pavement and metal grates.

You glance quickly down the block, scanning for anything that might resemble cover. A small café appears halfway down the street, its extended canvas awning stretching over a narrow strip of sidewalk.

It does not look particularly reliable. The fabric sags slightly in the middle where water has already begun to collect. But it is shelter and that is enough.

Without thinking about it too much, you reach for his hand and pull.

He stumbles forward with a surprised sound, clearly not expecting the sudden movement, but he does not resist. His fingers tighten instinctively around yours as you drag him across the slick pavement, rain splashing around your shoes with every hurried step.

You reach the café just as the sky seems to open completely and duck beneath the canopy with a small breath of relief, the sudden absence of direct rain feeling almost miraculous.

The shelter is modest at best. The canvas roof hangs low above your heads, supported by thin metal poles that creak softly whenever the wind pushes against the fabric. A few metal chairs sit stacked near the wall, abandoned by the staff hours ago. The faint scent of old coffee lingers in the air, mixed with damp fabric and the earthy smell of rain.

Bucky shakes his head once, scattering droplets from his hair.

“Real five star setup,” he mutters.

You lower his jacket from above your head and hand it back to him, giving him a dry look as you brush wet strands of hair away from your face.

“No complaining,” you say. “I’m not interested in drowning in that.”

He glances out at the rain that now pours steadily beyond the edge of the canvas. The streetlights blur behind the falling water, turning the city into a hazy wash of gold and silver.

“Oh, this is luxury,” he replies lightly. “Exactly how I pictured my evening.”

But something about the moment has shifted.

The awning does not leave much room for distance. The rain presses in from all sides, loud enough to swallow the rest of the city’s noise. The world beyond the thin shelter feels strangely far away now, reduced to blurred lights and rushing water.

When you shift your weight, your shoulder bumps lightly against his arm.

You let out a quiet huff at his sarcasm and lean back against one of the narrow metal poles supporting the awning. Folding your arms across your chest, you look out toward the rain-soaked street beyond the shelter while the steady rhythm of water fills the quiet space between you. 

A few cars pass through the quiet street, their headlights cutting pale tunnels through the rain before disappearing again into the haze. Strangers hurry along the sidewalks beneath dark umbrellas, shoulders hunched and steps quick as they escape the downpour. Their shoes splash through shallow puddles without hesitation. Everyone seems determined to reach somewhere warm and dry.

For anyone watching from a distance, the rain might almost look romantic.

It should be beautiful.

Droplets gather along the glossy leaves of nearby plants, swelling until gravity finally pulls and they slip free, falling to the pavement quietly. The air smells freshly washed, cool and clean in a way that feels almost peaceful. The steady rhythm of rain striking concrete and metal and canvas creates a soft, hypnotic hush that spreads across the street.

It would be calming if you were not stranded beneath a tent that looks one determined gust away from collapsing completely.

Your mouth pulls into a small scowl as you stare out at the rain.

Across from you, Bucky stands with his back against the opposite support pole. Without realizing it, he has mirrored your posture perfectly. Arms folded across his chest. One shoulder resting against the metal frame. His gaze drifts over the same quiet street you have been watching, though there is something far calmer in his expression.

The rain does not seem to irritate him the way it irritates you.

If anything, it settles him.

There is an ease in the way he watches the storm, like a man who has endured far worse weather than this and learned long ago that fighting it is pointless. His eyes move slowly over the shimmering streetlights and slick pavement, absorbing the moment rather than wishing it away.

When he glances over and catches the scowl still sitting stubbornly on your face, something amused flickers in his eyes.

“You’re really cranky when you’re wet, huh?” he asks lightly.

The laugh that bursts out of you is immediate and bright, breaking through the quiet rhythm of rain with surprising force.

“There has got to be a better way to phrase that,” you reply, lifting your head to look at him with unmistakable mischief.

His lips curve slowly.

“Perfectly normal sentence,” he insists, though the faint spark of satisfaction in his eyes betrays him.

You narrow your gaze at him, unimpressed.

“Like you didn’t know how that sounded.”

His grin deepens just enough to confirm your suspicion.

The rain continues to fall beyond the tent, blurring the edges of the world outside. Streetlights glow through the downpour like soft halos, and the empty road gleams beneath the constant wash of water. You shift slightly, leaning your shoulder against the metal pole while watching thin streams of rain spill from the edge of the canvas roof above you.

Every now and then your gaze drifts back toward him.

He does not look inconvenienced in the slightest.

If anything, there is something strangely peaceful in the way he stands there, watching the storm like it is an old companion rather than an obstacle. The tension that usually rests in his shoulders seems looser tonight. Even his breathing is slower. As though the steady rhythm of rain has reached somewhere deeper inside him.

You let out a quiet sigh and push yourself away from the pole, digging into your bag until your fingers find your phone.

“Let me call Nat,” you say. “Maybe she can come get us.”

“Nat?” His mouth twitches.

“She’d make a joke and leave us here on purpose.”

You pause mid-motion, glancing up at him.

He shifts his weight slightly, eyes drifting back out toward the rain before returning to you again with that same calm expression.

“We could always walk.”

Your hand stills completely.

You stare at him.

“Seriously?” A small, incredulous laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “You want to walk in this?”

He shrugs as though the idea requires no further explanation.

Rain has begun to creep under the edge of the tent, darkening the collar of his shirt where stray droplets have landed. The damp fabric clings faintly to the shape of his shoulders without him seeming to notice.

“It’s just rain,” he says simply. “Already wet anyway.”

You lean forward slightly and peer out from beneath the tent. The downpour has not softened in the slightest. If anything, the rain has grown heavier, thick drops slanting across the street with relentless determination.

“There’s no way I’m joining you,” you begin.

You never finish the sentence. His hand closes around yours in one smooth, decisive movement and before you can react, he pulls you forward and straight out from beneath the shelter.

Cold rain hits instantly.

The shock steals the breath from your lungs as icy water soaks through your clothes within seconds, plastering your hair to your face and running down the back of your neck.

“Bucky!”

He is laughing now.

Not the restrained, polite version he offers most people. This one is genuine and bright, carrying easily through the sound of rain as he keeps hold of your hand and pulls you further down the sidewalk.

“You’re coming with me,” he says, tightening his grip slightly when you try to resist. “I’m not doing this alone.”

Rain gathers on your lashes and slides into your mouth when you gasp for breath. You attempt to shield yourself with the edge of his jacket, but it does absolutely nothing against the relentless downpour.

“Come on,” you protest, trying to steer him toward the wide canopy of a nearby tree where the branches at least promise partial cover.

He resists immediately, tugging you back toward the open stretch of sidewalk.

“No hiding,” he counters. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.”

A frustrated sound escapes you, though it dissolves quickly into reluctant laughter. The whole situation is ridiculous. Completely unnecessary.

And yet there is something strangely exhilarating about the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours. About the way his laughter cuts through the storm as if the rain itself cannot dampen it.

“I swear I will kill you,” you warn him, though the grin tugging at your mouth ruins the threat entirely.

“You’d miss me,” he replies without hesitation.

He releases your hand only long enough to slide his arm around your shoulders instead, pulling you closer against his side as the two of you continue down the glistening sidewalk. The leather jacket drapes awkwardly over both of you in a half hearted attempt at shelter. It does almost nothing to keep the rain away, but the gesture lingers anyway.

You are pressed against him now. Your shoulder brushes his chest with every step. Your hip knocks lightly against his thigh as the two of you navigate puddles forming along the street.

The rain falls harder.

Streetlights smear into streaks of warm gold against the wet pavement. Water splashes around your shoes with each hurried step. The entire city feels quieter somehow, softened and distant beneath the steady roar of the storm.

And somewhere between your protests and his laughter, the walk stops feeling like such a terrible idea.

----

You find the bus stop before he does.

It appears through the blurred rain like a small miracle of concrete and fogged glass. For a moment it almost does not seem real, just another shape shifting in the storm, but the longer you stare the more certain it becomes. Relief hits first, followed immediately by a burst of energy.

You dart toward it without warning, shoes splash through shallow puddles that scatter water across the pavement, breath coming quick and uneven from the combination of running, laughing, and the cold air filling your lungs. Rain clings to your eyelashes and blurs the world into streaks of gray and yellow light.

By the time you reach the shelter you are breathless.

You duck beneath the metal roof and lean against one of the pillars, pressing your palm against the cool surface while you try to steady your breathing. Your chest rises and falls quickly. Strands of wet hair cling to your cheek and neck, and the fabric of your clothes feels heavier now, soaked through from the rain.

Bucky arrives a second later.

He slows as he approaches, pushing damp hair back from his face with one hand. Water runs freely along the sharp line of his jaw before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His jacket clings darkly to his shoulders, rain dripping steadily from the edges.

You glance at him and shake your head, still catching your breath.

“I swear,” you say between breaths, laughter still lingering in your voice, “that has to be the most ridiculous thing you have ever done.”

Despite the accusation, a reluctant smile curves across your mouth.

“If I get sick after this, I am blaming you.”

He pauses just inside the shelter and shakes his head once, sending a small spray of droplets across the concrete floor before stepping fully beneath the cover.

“Ridiculous?” he repeats, sounding faintly offended. His mouth tilts upward.

“I prefer adventurous.”

He leans back against the wall beside you, close enough that the warmth of him cuts through the lingering chill of the rain. The air beneath the shelter feels slightly warmer, trapped beneath the metal roof while the storm continues to pour beyond it.

His gaze drifts over you slowly. Your soaked sleeves. Your dripping hair. The faint rise and fall of your breathing as you recover from the run.

“If we do get sick,” he adds lightly, his voice softer now, “at least it will be together.”

Rain pounds steadily against the thin metal roof above you. The sound is loud and rhythmic, a constant drumming that fills the small shelter and creates a strange cocoon around the two of you. Outside the glass panel, passing headlights smear into glowing streaks of white and red.

For a moment neither of you speaks.

Then he glances at you from the corner of his eye.

“Admit it,” he says. “You were not having that much fun before I pulled you out there.”

You let out a quiet scoff, trying to summon indignation that refuses to stay in place.

“No. Absolutely not.”

He simply watches you. One eyebrow lifting  slowly, patient and amused, as if he already knows exactly how this will go.

Your resolve lasts three seconds.

“Fine,” you sigh, the word leaving you with exaggerated reluctance. “Maybe a little.”

The corner of his mouth lifts almost immediately.

“But this is the last time,” you add quickly, raising a finger in warning. “And only because you dragged me.”

“Dragged,” he repeats, placing a hand lightly over his chest as if wounded. “I was being helpful.”

The rain outside refuses to slow. It drums relentlessly against the pavement, splashes into gutters, and bounces off the dark street in silver bursts. The air smells fresh and metallic, clean in a way that only storms can make it.

Without thinking, he shifts slightly closer.

His arm brushes yours.

The contact is subtle. Barely there. Just the faint press of damp fabric against damp fabric.

Neither of you moves away.

Then his expression changes. There is a small glint in his eyes now, the kind you have learned to recognize far too well.

“You know what would make this better?” he asks.

You narrow your gaze immediately.

“I do not like that tone.”

He turns his head toward the rain again, pretending to consider something serious while the hint of a smile tugs at his mouth.

“A race.”

You stare at him.

“A race?” you repeat slowly.

He nods once, the challenge written clearly across his face.

The laugh escapes before you can stop it. The idea is completely ridiculous. Entirely unnecessary.

Which somehow makes it perfect.

You glance toward the rain soaked street and then back at him.

“First one to the next shelter wins.”

And before he can answer, you bolt.

The rain hits harder the second you leave the bus stop. It is colder out in the open, the drops striking your face and shoulders with renewed intensity. Somewhere behind you he shouts something, but the words dissolve into the roar of the storm.

For a few glorious seconds, you are ahead.

Your shoes slap against the wet pavement. Your heart pounds hard in your chest. Laughter bubbles in your throat as you run blindly through the rain.

Then he is beside you.

His stride is longer, smoother, effortless in a way that is almost insulting. He matches your pace easily, not even looking winded.

“Hey,” you protest between breaths. “That is not fair.”

“Fair?” he replies, his voice carrying clearly over the rain. “I am a super soldier. I can’t do anything about fair.”

He speeds up just enough to irritate you.

The next stretch of cover appears ahead beneath a flickering streetlamp. The light reflects across the wet pavement, turning the ground into rippling gold and gray. It is close enough that you can almost imagine winning.

You push harder. You really do try. But your lungs betray you first.

You slow abruptly, bending forward with your hands on your knees as rain pours down your back and soaks the collar of your shirt.

“Okay,” you gasp. “Stop. You win.”

He slows from a jog to an easy walk, stopping directly in front of you. His breathing is slightly heavier now, but nothing compared to yours.

“Told you,” he says, satisfaction clear in his voice.

Before you can protest, he reaches forward and ruffles your already soaked hair.

“Next time,” he adds casually, “try keeping up with a hundred year old man.”

You lift your head and peer up at him through wet lashes, exhaustion slowly giving way to something far more mischievous.

“Sure,” you say sweetly.

“Grandpa.”

You grab the jacket slung over his shoulder and fling it straight at his face before he can react.

Then you take off running again. Your laughter echoes through the rain as you sprint toward the wide trunk of a nearby tree.

“Loser.”

He sputters behind you, yanking the jacket away from his face just in time to see you darting across the pavement.

“You are going to regret that,” he calls.

You barely manage two steps into the open before he catches you. His arm loops around your waist from behind, pulling you sharply off balance as he drags you back against him.

“Got you,” he murmurs.

His breath brushes warm against your ear despite the chill of the rain.

You shriek, half in surprise and half in laughter, as he spins you around and gently presses you back against the rough bark of the tree. The canopy above blocks part of the storm. Not all of it, but enough that the rain softens into scattered drops slipping through the leaves.

Your breathing is uneven now. His is close enough that you can feel the rhythm of it against your cheek.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

The rain begins to soften, shifting from a wild downpour into something steadier and calmer. The street beyond the trees blurs into distant light and shadow.

The world feels quieter.

Smaller.

As if the storm has carved out a small private space beneath the branches just for the two of you. And suddenly you are very aware of how close he is. Too close for something that is supposed to be only friendship. 

His chest rises and falls unevenly as he steadies himself, but the moment he truly registers how close you are, something in him shifts. The playful energy that had carried the two of you through the rain fades into something quieter, heavier. His grip on your waist loosens slightly. Not enough to let you go. Just enough to give you space if you want it.

An offer rather than a retreat.

His eyes drop to your flushed cheeks first, then to the rain caught along your lashes. Droplets cling there for a moment before sliding down your skin. When his gaze lifts again to meet yours, something guarded flickers behind it.

“The rain’s slowing,” he says quietly.

His voice is rough.

Not from running. But from restraint.

You feel the shift in him as clearly as if it were a physical thing. The careful distance he is trying to rebuild. The discipline he has relied on for decades pressing its way back into place. Your breathing begins to steady, but your heart does not follow.

You notice the space he offers.

You do not take it.

“Yeah,” you murmur softly. “It is.”

Above you, the canopy of leaves filters the last of the storm into scattered drops that fall gently through the branches. The roar that had surrounded you moments ago fades into a softer rhythm. The air smells fresh and cool, washed clean by the rain.

He should step back. He knows that.

This is easy. This is safe. You are friends.

But your body is still pressed to his. Warmth seeps through damp fabric where you touch, and your eyes never look away from his. His gaze lowers again, slower this time. It lingers at your mouth before returning upward, his jaw tightening as though he is holding something back through sheer force of will.

The space between you has almost vanished. A breath. Less than that. His fingers flex slightly against your hip. The motion is small, hesitant. Not demanding. Not pulling.

Just asking.

The world narrows until the rain becomes nothing more than background noise. Even the distant hum of the city fades. Your pulse pounds loudly in your ears, so hard you are certain he must feel it through the hand resting at your waist.

Without thinking, your hands rise and catch lightly in the hem of his damp shirt, gripping the fabric.

He inhales sharply.

The control he carries so carefully begins to thin.

You tilt your chin upward just enough to meet his gaze more fully, your voice barely more than a breath.

“Bucky.”

That is all it takes.

Whatever line he had drawn for himself dissolves.

His mouth finds yours in one decisive movement, fierce and unguarded. His metal arm braces against the tree beside your head, steadying himself as his other hand tightens around your waist and pulls you flush against him.

There is nothing tentative about it.

The kiss carries every unspoken glance, every almost-touch, every moment the two of you pretended not to notice. It is rain soaked and breathless and long overdue.

You gasp softly against him before melting into it, your hands sliding upward to the base of his neck. His hair is damp beneath your fingers, the strands cool from the rain while the skin beneath them is warm.

He responds immediately.

A low sound escapes him, something caught between relief and disbelief. His hand leaves your waist and slides into your hair, angling your head slightly so he can deepen the kiss without overwhelming you.

Above you the rain has nearly stopped. Only scattered droplets fall through the leaves now, landing softly against your shoulders and the back of your neck.

Neither of you notices.

When you finally pull apart, it happens at the same time. Both of you reluctant. Both of you needing air.

Your lungs burn, lips tingle.

His hands never leave you. One stays firm against your hip while the other slides slowly from your hair down to your waist, as if he needs the reassurance that you are still there.

Still real.

Your foreheads rest together while the quiet of the storm settles around you. The only sound left is the uneven rhythm of your breathing.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath.

It is not elegant. It is not practiced.

It is honest.

His chest rises and falls against yours as he studies your face, like he is still trying to understand what just happened, like part of him expects the moment to vanish if he looks away.

You feel it in the way his fingers press into you. Not possessive. Not demanding.

Just unwilling to let go.

“You know,” he says after a moment, his voice lower now, rougher than usual, “I don’t know if I wanna stand here all night.”

His thumb brushes slowly along the curve of your hip, absent and distracted, like he is barely aware he is doing it.

“Or,” he adds, his gaze drifting back to your mouth, “if I wanna kiss you again.”

A small smile curves your lips and you can see it clearly now. The want in his eyes. The fragile thread his restraint is hanging from.

Your hand lifts and rests lightly against his chest, fingers curling into the damp fabric there.

An invitation.

He leans in.

And you stop him.

Your finger presses gently against his lips before they reach yours.

He freezes instantly.

The shift in him is immediate. His eyes darken, his breath catching as if the smallest movement might shatter something delicate between you.

For a moment he does not move at all.

He swallows.

“What?” he asks quietly.

You slide your finger away from his mouth slowly, letting it trail along the edge of his lower lip before your knuckles drift across the line of his jaw.

His eyes close for a brief second at the contact.

You watch the reaction carefully. Watch the control tighten and strain.

When you speak, your voice is soft, teasing, threaded with something deeper.

“You look at me like that again,” you murmur, “and we are never making it back.”

A subtle shudder passes through him.

A low curse slips out under his breath.

Your laughter breaks the tension, lighter than the moment deserves. Before he can react, you step out of his hold and put a little distance between your bodies. You move back toward the pavement where the rain has begun to fall harder again.

You lift a hand over your head in a useless attempt to shield yourself, glancing back once with a grin before turning forward.

He stays still for a moment watching you. Like he is deciding something.

Then he runs a hand through his damp hair and starts after you.

The smirk returns slowly, deliberate and dangerous.

“Oh no,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re not getting away that easy.”

You hear him before you see him. The quickening rhythm of his steps. The shift of air behind you.Then his arm slides around your waist again and pulls you back against him in one smooth motion.You shriek before dissolving into laughter, turning within his hold until you are facing him again.

The rain is heavier now. It pours down in steady sheets, soaking both of you completely. Your hands settle instinctively against his chest while his arm remains firm around your waist.

He looks down at you like this might be the best decision he has made all night.

Water runs down the line of his jaw. Your hair clings to your face. Your eyes struggle to stay open against the falling rain.

You cling to him as if he is shelter, though he is just as drenched as you are.

“Do you not want to get home?” you ask, teasing.

He pretends to think about it. Really think about it.

His grip tightens slightly as his gaze drifts over you without subtlety now. The rain soaked hair. The flushed warmth of your cheeks. The way you are looking back at him.

“Mm,” he hums thoughtfully.

Then his eyes lift to meet yours again.

“Why go home,” he says slowly, “when I’ve got this view?”

You are still laughing when it happens.

Before you can throw another remark at him, a car tears down the street, moving too fast for a road slick with rain. The tires cut through a shallow puddle near the curb and send a sudden wave of muddy water rushing outward.

It crashes into him without warning. Cold spray drenches him from boots to hair in one violent splash. His shoulders jerk back instinctively and his metal arm gives a sharp mechanical whir as it reacts faster than the rest of him.

For one stunned heartbeat, he simply stands there.

Dripping.

Blinking slowly as rain and murky water slide down the sharp angles of his face.

His shirt, already damp from the storm, clings even more miserably to his frame. Droplets gather along his jaw and fall steadily to the pavement. The expression that forms on his face is slow and deliberate, disbelief giving way to unmistakable outrage.

“Excuse me?” he calls sharply after the car.

The vehicle is already disappearing down the road, its taillights fading through the rain. He turns back toward you with the look of a man who has just suffered a profound betrayal. As if you somehow had a hand in the entire situation.

“Did you see that?”

You have one hand clamped over your mouth in a completely useless attempt to stop yourself. The sight of him standing there, soaked and splattered and glaring at the empty street like it personally offended him, is simply too much.

“Oh my god,” you manage but the laughter escapes you anyway. It spills out uncontrollably, bright and breathless, echoing beneath the quiet rhythm of the rain.

His scowl deepens immediately and flicks water off his sleeve in your direction with exaggerated offense making a few cold droplets land on your arm.

“You think this is funny?” he asks, his voice dry with disbelief. There is irritation in his tone, but the faintest glimmer of amusement betrays him.

He takes a slow step toward you and you instinctively take one backward.

If he were not completely drenched and faintly ridiculous in the moment, the movement might have been intimidating. Instead it only makes your laughter worse.

“Okay,” you manage through another breathless giggle. “It is a little funny.”

He advances again. You retreat again.

The rain begins to soften around you, easing from a steady downpour into a gentler fall that still patters against the pavement and darkens the street beneath your feet.

“Let’s just find some shelter,” you offer quickly, raising your hands as if reasoning with him might save you from whatever revenge is forming in his head. “You can dry off a little.”

For a moment he pauses, brows draw together slightly as though he is considering the suggestion with genuine seriousness. Then a slow smirk spreads across his face. The expression is sharp. Dangerous. Entirely too pleased with itself.

“No.”

You barely register the word before he lunges forward with sudden speed and scoops you off the ground in one effortless motion. The world tilts violently as your feet leave the pavement. A startled squeal escapes you before you can stop it.

In the next second you find yourself slung over his shoulder. Your stomach drops with the sudden shift in balance, but his metal arm immediately locks around the back of your thighs, steady and unyielding. His other hand settles securely against your back.

There is absolutely no risk of falling.

There is also no chance of escaping.

Your laughter bursts out again, louder this time, as you kick your feet uselessly in the air while he begins striding down the sidewalk with deliberate confidence.

“Nice try,” he says smugly. “No shelter yet.”

“Okay, okay,” you protest between breathless laughs.

Rainwater drips steadily from your hair onto the back of his shirt as you squirm slightly. You push yourself up just enough to look at him upside down, bracing your hands against his shoulders for balance.

“I will not tease you,” you promise dramatically. “Just put me down.”

You swat his back lightly for emphasis. The attempt at defiance lasts all of two seconds before you ruin it by dissolving into another fit of laughter and pressing your face against the side of his neck.

The reaction is immediate.

His hold tightens instinctively when you nuzzle closer. You feel the subtle shift in his breathing where your cheek brushes his skin, warm despite the rain.

He stops walking but does not put you down.

“You promise?” he asks, his voice skeptical but clearly amused. “No more laughing at me?”

You sigh with exaggerated patience.

“Yes,” you drawl innocently. “I promise.”

A quiet laugh escapes you anyway.

He waits another moment just to prove that he can. Then, finally, he relents. His hands guide you down slowly, steadying your waist as your feet meet the pavement again. The motion is careful despite the teasing. Protective in a way that seems entirely instinctive.

The moment you are upright, his arm slips around your waist.

He keeps you there, close against him.

Rainwater has soaked through both of you by now, damp fabric clinging to skin, but neither of you seems particularly concerned about it anymore.

He tilts his head slightly as he studies your face, one eyebrow raised in quiet challenge.

“You are sure?” he asks softly. “No more teasing, doll?”

His arm tightens just enough to remind you that lifting you again would be very easy.

You chuckle softly and look up at him with a small, knowing grin.

“I promise,” you reassure him, your hands resting lightly on his arms. “No more teasing.”

Then you gesture toward the nearby bus stop.

“And we are finally taking the bus.”

Before he can argue, you slip your hand into his and tug him forward.

“Come on.”

He gives you a deeply skeptical look, the kind that says he does not believe your promise for even a second. But the moment your fingers lace with his, something in his expression softens. The resistance fades almost immediately and he lets you pull him along the rain-darkened pavement, his longer stride easily matching yours.

“The bus?” he asks, his voice thick with exaggerated disbelief. “I am soaking wet and you want the bus?”

You glance back at him over your shoulder, laughter still lingering in your voice.

“Well it is better than walking all the way back to the compound,” you reply. “Especially when we are not even halfway there.”

You shake your head lightly and keep moving, your hand still wrapped securely around his.

“Unless you have a better suggestion.”

He huffs under his breath, clearly unimpressed with the plan but unable to argue with your logic.

“Fine,” he mutters, falling into step beside you, his hand remaining firmly in yours.

He glances at you again, wet hair falling loosely across his forehead while rainwater drips from the ends.

“I could think of a much better way to keep warm right now than getting on a goddamn bus.”

You roll your eyes, though the corner of your mouth lifts into a small smirk.

“Of course you could,” you mutter dryly.

---

You reach the bus stop first and drop onto the narrow bench beneath the small metal shelter, your legs grateful for the brief rest after running through the rain. The storm has eased slightly now, though the air still carries the sharp scent of wet pavement and cold evening wind. Water continues to drip steadily from the edge of the shelter’s roof, tapping softly against the concrete below.

A moment later, Bucky sits down beside you.

Close.

Close enough that the damp fabric of his jacket brushes lightly against your arm, still cool from the rain. The contact sends a faint shiver across your skin that has nothing to do with the weather.

The stop is quiet. A few cars pass along the street in the distance, their tires hissing softly against wet asphalt. Otherwise there is only the low murmur of rain and the distant hum of traffic around the two of you.

He lifts one arm and drapes it loosely over your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey,” he says, his voice warm with teasing. “I am just thinking practically, sweetheart.”

His fingers move idly against your upper arm as he speaks, brushing back and forth in an absent motion that somehow feels far too deliberate.

“Warmer options are available.”

A giggle escapes you before you can stop it, and you tilt your head upward to look at him. A playful spark lights in your eyes as you study the faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“God,” you say. “You make it sound so easy.”

You lean forward slightly as you speak, closing the space between your faces until only a few inches remain. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath in the cool air beneath the shelter.

“And what exactly do you have in mind?”

His smirk deepens the moment you move closer.

His eyes darken just enough to betray the quiet challenge building beneath the teasing. Rainwater still clings to the edges of his hair, a few damp strands falling across his forehead as he studies you.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he murmurs.

His voice drops lower, meant only for you over the steady rhythm of rain. His fingers trace a slow line along your side where his arm rests around your shoulders, the motion almost absent but impossible to ignore.

“Maybe putting my jacket back on you.”

His gaze dips briefly toward your lips before lifting again.

“Or carrying you all the way home like that.”

He says it as though both options are perfectly reasonable. As though he would do either one without the slightest hesitation.

You laugh softly and lean closer still, lifting your hand until your palm rests lightly against his jaw. His skin is warm beneath your touch despite the cold rain outside.

Your thumb brushes slowly over his lower lip.

“Now that sounds really tempting.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes again, though your hand remains against his face.

“Romantic, even.”

One brow lifts as you study him carefully.

“Did not know you had it in you, Barnes.”

His breath catches the moment your thumb touches his lip.

A quiet, rough chuckle slips from him, low and warm despite the chill lingering in the air.

“Romantic?” he repeats softly, eyebrow lifting slightly as his gaze lingers on your face.

“You have not seen romantic yet.”

His arm tightens subtly around your shoulders. The movement is small but impossible to miss, shifting you just slightly closer against his side. The rain, the street, the quiet bus stop all seem to fade into the background as his attention remains entirely on you.

His gaze then drifts to your mouth again before slowly lifting back to your eyes.

“You have no idea what I would do,” he says quietly, “for a few minutes alone with you right now.”

Your breath catches and a slow smile spreads across your lips.

“I think I might have some idea,” you tease.

You lean forward again until the space between you nearly disappears, close enough that your breath brushes lightly across his lips.

For a moment the world narrows to that tiny distance between you. Then the low rumble of an approaching engine cuts straight through the moment.

The bus.

You pull away suddenly with a bright laugh as you stand from the bench.

“Come on,” you say lightly. “Ride’s here.”

Bucky stays seated for half a second longer, staring at the space you just vacated.

You had been so close.

So close.

He drags a hand through his damp hair before pushing himself to his feet with a long exhale.

“I hate public transportation.”

---

The bus is mostly empty when the two of you climb aboard. Only a few passengers sit scattered toward the front and middle rows, some speaking quietly while others stare through rain fogged windows at the passing streetlights. The faint hum of the engine and the steady patter of rain against the roof fill the otherwise quiet space.

A pleased smile tugs at your lips.

You can practically feel the effect you have had on him tonight. The tension still lingering in the way he looks at you. The quiet intensity in his gaze every time your eyes meet. And despite the cold rain, despite the ridiculous dash through the streets and the crowded bus, that small smile still tugs at the corner of his mouth.

It is adorable.

You spot an empty seat at the very back and slide into it beside the window.

The moment Bucky notices, he shoots you a look. He knows that smile. That smug little expression that means you are enjoying this far too much. He climbs onto the bus slower than necessary, letting out a dramatic huff as though the entire situation personally offends him. But the second he sees the open seat beside you, he heads straight for it.

He drops down next to you without hesitation.

Close.

Close enough that his damp side presses lightly into yours as he stretches one long arm along the back of the seat behind you.

“Comfy?” he mutters under his breath.

His tone is dry, but his eyes linger on you like he is still very aware of everything that happened tonight.

You sigh softly and shift comfortably in the seat before resting your head against his arm.

“Yup.”

A small giggle escapes you as you turn slightly to face him, your smile still lingering and something in his expression softens immediately. He lets out a slow breath, almost as if he is steadying himself. The sight of you curled easily against his side does something strange to his chest, something warm and unfamiliar.

His fingers begin tracing slow circles against your shoulder where his arm rests behind you. The motion is absent and gentle, warm even through the chill of damp clothes.

“Good,” he murmurs quietly.

The bus lurches forward then, beginning its slow route through the rain soaked streets. Each turn and bump makes the frame rattle softly, but he barely notices.

If anything, the movement only presses you a little closer against him and the two of you settle into a comfortable silence. The gentle rocking of the bus and the steady drone of traffic outside create a quiet rhythm around you. His fingers continue tracing those lazy circles along your shoulder without him even realizing he is doing it.

He feels everything.

The warmth of your head resting against his arm.

The occasional brush of your knee against his.

The way your body naturally leans into his space as if it belongs there.

It is intimate.

Almost too intimate for the back seat of a public bus.

But Bucky does not care.

Because it is you.

After a moment Bucky lowered his head slightly, bringing his mouth close enough that only you could hear him over the soft rumble of the bus and the distant whisper of rain against the windows.

“You know,” he murmured.

His voice was low and rough from disuse, the sound of it close enough that a faint warmth slid down your spine despite the cold damp air clinging to both of you. His breath brushed lightly against your ear and for a second the world felt smaller, quieter, as if the rest of the passengers had faded somewhere far away.

“This isn’t exactly how I imagined the rest of the day going.”

Your brow lifted with quiet curiosity and you tilted your head to look up at him. There was still rain caught in the dark strands of his hair and the dim lights of the bus painted soft shadows across his face.

“What do you mean?”

A small chuckle slipped out as you asked, the sound light and easy. Your expression softened in that familiar way that only appeared when you were around him. Comfortable. Relaxed. Too relaxed, maybe.

Because technically you were just friends.

At least that was what the two of you had always believed.

Until earlier tonight.

Until the rain.

Until the ridiculous race down the street.

Until the kiss that had shattered whatever quiet line had once existed between you.

Now every little thing felt different. The way he held you close without thinking. The way you teased him about wanting that other kiss. Even the quiet space between words seemed charged with something new.

It felt strangely familiar. Like things had always been this way and neither of you had noticed it until tonight.

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle when you looked at him like that, your eyes bright and curious as if you were waiting for him to explain something important. There was something about the effortless ease between you that made his chest feel warm. The way you leaned against him without hesitation, as if the space beside him had always belonged to you.

“I didn’t exactly think we’d end up riding a bus soaked through and flirting,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth lifting.

You hummed softly in agreement, glancing down at the damp sleeve of your jacket before looking back up at him again.

“Yeah. Well I didn’t think we’d get caught in the rain either. Or that you’d pull me into a race in the middle of the street.”

You paused then, your gaze drifting slowly across his face. Over the familiar lines, the faint crease between his brows, the quiet intensity that always seemed to linger in his eyes.

“Or that we’d kiss.”

The words left you softer than you intended.

Your expression shifted as you said it, the teasing fading just enough for something gentler to appear. Your eyes lingered on him a second longer than necessary.

Bucky’s breath caught before he could stop it.

You looked unfairly pretty like that.

Rain had softened the strands of your hair and there was still a faint flush lingering across your cheeks from earlier. His mind betrayed him instantly, dragging him right back to that moment. The way your lips had felt against his. The warmth of your body pressed against his chest. The way his hands had tightened around you without a second thought.

And how badly he had wanted to kiss you again.

He cleared his throat quietly, attempting to look far more unaffected than he actually felt.

“Yeah, well,” he said, forcing his voice back into something casual.

“You started it.”

Your reaction was immediate. A laugh bubbled up and your brows lifted in challenge as you turned toward him.

“Hey. It was your idea to race me in the first place.”

His smirk returned almost instantly.

Bucky leaned a little closer, raising an eyebrow in exaggerated accusation as if he had just caught you in the worst lie imaginable.

“That’s a lie and you know it,” he said. “You’re the one who got competitive and started sprinting away from me.”

You huffed under your breath, though the corner of your mouth twitched traitorously. Unfortunately he was not wrong. So instead of arguing you nudged his shoulder with yours before turning toward the window, pretending to focus on the rain-streaked glass.

Your attention shifted outward but the shy little smile tugging at your lips gave you away completely.

Bucky noticed it at once.

His eyes followed the faint curve of that hidden grin as blurred city lights slipped past outside the window, reflecting faintly across your face. You looked like you were trying very hard to pretend you were not pleased with how the evening had unfolded.

His own smirk softened into something quieter.

Leaning back into the worn bus seat, he draped his arm across your shoulders again in that same easy motion. It felt natural now, like something he had been doing for years instead of minutes.

“You know,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter this time.

“I don’t regret racing you.”

He paused briefly before adding, softer still,

“Especially if this is where it leads us.”

Your head lifted quickly at that.

A flicker of surprise crossed your face as you turned fully toward him again.

“You mean that?”

Your heart had begun beating noticeably faster now and you searched his expression carefully, trying to find even the smallest hint that he might be teasing.

But he wasn’t.

The playful smirk had faded into something gentler. Something honest.

His gaze stayed steady on yours when he spoke again, his voice was lower, warmer.

“Of course I do.”

There was no hesitation.

“You’re worth a little rain, doll.”

For a moment the world seemed to slow.

The bus rolled quietly through dark city streets while rain tapped softly against the windows and distant headlights blurred across the glass. Your shoulder remained tucked beneath his arm and the quiet certainty in his voice settled somewhere deep in your chest.

And a soft smile found its way onto your face before you could stop it.

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

You remained by the window while Bucky sat at the aisle beside you, his arm still resting across your shoulders as if it had always belonged there. Outside, the rain had begun to slow into a softer drizzle. The window glass had fogged faintly with mist, streaked by the slow paths of fading droplets.

Neither of you spoke.

The air between you still carried the quiet weight of everything that had happened that night. The kiss. The laughter. The way something unspoken had shifted between you both.

And yet the silence did not feel awkward.

If anything, it felt strangely familiar.

Almost as if this closeness had been waiting quietly beneath the surface of your friendship all along. As if something deeper had simply been biding its time for the right moment to reveal itself.

As if the two of you had never truly been just friends.

Bucky sat beside you with that same relaxed closeness, his arm draped loosely across your shoulders. His thumb moved slowly in absent circles against your sleeve without him even realizing he was doing it.

The bus rocked gently along its route, the steady hum of the engine filling the quiet space.

He stared ahead at nothing in particular, though his attention kept drifting back to you. The warmth of your body leaning into his side. The quiet comfort of your presence beside him. The simple ease that seemed to settle over everything whenever you were this close.

It was dangerously easy to get used to.

By the time the bus slowed near the stop a few blocks from the Compound, the rain had almost disappeared. What remained was the quiet aftermath of it. The pavement shimmered beneath the streetlights, still slick and reflective, thin puddles gathering along the curb.

You stepped down from the bus together. Cool night air brushed against your damp skin, carrying the faint scent of wet concrete and leaves.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Then Bucky’s arm settled naturally around your shoulders again, like it had belonged there all evening. The gesture was easy, unthinking. As if somewhere along the walk, he had forgotten how to stand beside you without that small point of contact.

You began the short walk back toward the Compound.

The city had already slipped into its late evening quiet. Traffic had thinned to the occasional passing car, headlights sweeping briefly across the street before fading again. Mostly there was only the soft rhythm of your footsteps against damp pavement.

For a while neither of you spoke.

Bucky glanced over at you now and then, careful enough that it almost looked casual. The dim streetlights caught the side of your face as you walked beside him. The calm set of your expression. The way the last traces of rain still clung to the loose strands of your hair.

His thumb moved absentmindedly against your shoulder, tracing slow circles through the fabric there.

He had not even noticed he was doing it.

There were things he could say. A lot of things, actually. Words that had been sitting quietly in the back of his mind for longer than he cared to admit. Feelings that had waited patiently while he convinced himself they could stay unspoken.

But the quiet felt good.

Right now he was content just walking beside you.

Content to have you close enough that your arm brushed lightly against his side with every few steps.

He then cleared his throat suddenly, the sound small in the stillness of the street.

“You know,” he began.

His voice came out rougher than he intended.

You turned your head slightly toward him, curiosity softening your expression.

“That was nice.”

The words were simple. Almost careless in the way he said them. But there was far more hidden behind them than he let on. He was talking about the bus ride. The rain. The ridiculous sprint down the street. The way you had laughed while water dripped from your hair. The kiss beneath the tree that still lingered somewhere warm in the back of his mind.

And this quiet walk beside you now.

Your eyes met his for a brief moment, and he knew immediately that you understood.

The faint smile that appeared on your face made something tighten quietly in his chest.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice soft in the calm night air. “It really was.”

Bucky breathed in slowly, then let the air leave him through his nose.

“Real nice,” he added.

This time there was something heavier behind the words. Something that lingered between you both, unspoken but unmistakable.

He shifted a little closer without realizing it, his arm tightening just slightly around your shoulders.

His gaze lingered on yours.

“In fact,” he said after a moment, quieter now, “I wouldn’t mind if something like this was… permanent.”

The word seemed to settle into the space between you.

Permanent.

Not just rainstorms and stolen moments. Not just teasing glances and quiet walks home. Something steadier than that. Something that lasted beyond nights like this.

His fingers pressed a little more firmly into your shoulder without him quite realizing it. A subtle grip. Almost instinctive. As if some part of him already knew he did not want to let you go.

“With you.”

Your steps slowed.

Then you stopped completely.

The subtle shift did not escape him. Bucky halted almost immediately, turning toward you as the soft glow of a nearby streetlamp cast a faint wash of gold across the pavement and the damp strands of your hair.

Your expression was gentle, though a trace of surprise lingered in your eyes as you studied him.

“Are you sure it’s not the rain talking?” you asked lightly.

A small laugh slipped out with the words, teasing in tone, though your heart was beating just as quickly as his.

Bucky’s expression sobered almost at once.

“Rain?”

He stepped closer without hesitation. His hand lifted instinctively, warm and steady as it came to rest along your jaw. His rough fingertips brushed over the cool, rain-damp skin of your cheek as he tilted your face toward him.

“Doll,” he murmured, his voice low and textured with something deeper than teasing, “I’ve been in love with you since way before we got soaked today.”

The words settled into the quiet between you.

They were simple. Honest.

But they carried the weight of years behind them.

Bucky had carried those feelings carefully, quietly, like something fragile he had been afraid to expose to the light. For a long time it had been easier to keep them tucked away, hidden behind jokes and sideways glances and moments that almost meant something.

Now that they had finally slipped free, spoken out loud beneath the quiet hum of the city and the fading scent of rain, he felt something loosen in his chest.

Relief.

He stepped closer again, his height casting a gentle shadow over you as his gaze searched your face.

“It’s always been you,” he said softly.

The words sounded almost like a confession.

Your breath caught in your throat.

For a moment you simply looked at him.

At the damp strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. At the leather jacket hanging loosely from his hand. At the quiet seriousness in his eyes that left no room for doubt.

The teasing expression you had been wearing slowly softened.

“You picked a strange time to tell me you’re in love with me.”

A faint smile curved your lips again, warmer this time.

“Good thing I feel the same way.”

Bucky stilled completely.

For one strange, disorienting second he wondered if he had imagined the words.

But then he saw the certainty in your expression. The warmth lingering in your smile.

And that was all he needed.

He pulled you toward him without another thought.

His metal arm wrapped securely around your waist, drawing you against him as his lips found yours with sudden urgency.

The kiss came fast and fierce.

Bucky kissed you like a man who had been holding himself back for far too long. Like someone who had spent years pretending he could live without something he had wanted all along.

His hold on you tightened instinctively. His other hand curled into the fabric of your shirt as if he needed the reassurance that you were really there.

When he finally pulled back for air, both of you were breathing harder.

Your forehead rested lightly against his. Your cheeks were warm beneath the cool night air, and your hands had somehow found their way to the back of his neck.

A quiet laugh escaped you, breathless and soft.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Bucky lowered his head again, this time pressing his face gently into the curve of your neck. His breath warmed your skin as he exhaled slowly, his nose brushing just beneath your jaw.

“God,” he murmured quietly, his voice rough with something that sounded very close to relief, “been wanting to do that for a long time.”

You inhaled sharply as his lips grazed your skin, a small shiver slipping down your spine before you could stop it.

“Jesus, Bucky…”

Your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

It felt natural being held like this. Easy in a way that made everything else fade quietly into the background.

Just then a low crack of thunder rolled through the sky.

You startled slightly at the sound and pulled back just enough to look up at him, though his arms were still wrapped securely around you.

“Okay,” you said quickly, glancing toward the darkening clouds above. A laugh slipped out despite yourself. “I am not getting drenched again.”

You slipped your fingers through his and immediately started pulling him toward the compound gates before the sky could prove you wrong.

Bucky let himself be dragged along, a quiet laugh rumbling under his breath as your joined hands swung between you.

“You really hate getting wet, huh?” he teased.

You glanced back at him over your shoulder, a grin already spreading across your face.

“Okay, for the second time tonight,” you began, “there has to be a better way to say that.”

Before you could finish the sentence, Bucky suddenly bent and lifted you clean off the ground.

A startled gasp escaped you as he scooped you into his arms with effortless ease, your feet leaving the pavement before your brain could quite catch up to what had just happened.

“Bucky!”

But he was already moving.

His laughter broke free a second later, deep and unrestrained as he took off down the rain-darkened street. The first fresh drops began to fall again, cool against your cheeks and catching in your lashes.

“Better?” he teased near your ear, his voice warm with amusement.

You clutched instinctively at his shoulders as he ran, the steady rhythm of his steps jostling you just enough to make another helpless laugh spill from your lips.

“Put me down,” you protested breathlessly, though the grin tugging at your mouth betrayed the words entirely.

Bucky only tightened his hold around you, one arm secure beneath your knees while the other kept you firmly against his chest.

“Not a chance, doll.”

Instead of slowing, he shifted his grip slightly and pulled you a little closer against his chest as he kept running, boots splashing lightly against the rain-dark pavement.

The rain grew steadier around you, soft silver droplets falling through the warm glow of the streetlights as the compound gates appeared in the distance.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s breathing beneath you. The solid warmth of him. The easy strength in the arms holding you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Your laughter softened into quiet giggles as you held onto him.

And somewhere between the falling rain and the sound of his footsteps echoing through the empty street, you realized something.

Being carried through the storm in his arms like this, with his laughter rumbling against your ear and his grip warm and certain around you, felt strangely perfect.

So you did not ask him to stop again.

Bucky wakes slow.

Not all at once. Not startled, not sharp. Just gradual awareness filtering in through the haze behind his eyes — the weight of blankets over his legs, the cool whisper of morning air against his bare shoulder, the faint hum of the Tower wrapped around the walls.

His eyes open.

The place beside him is empty.

Not cold, exactly. Just no longer occupied. Your pillow is dented, sheets kicked loose and wrinkled where you must have been curled up only a little while ago, but the shape of you is gone. No sleepy mumble. No warm body tucked against his side. No lazy hand half-thrown across his stomach like you do when you drift back off after dawn.

Bucky lies still for a second, staring at the ceiling.

It’s early enough that the room is all grey-blue shadow and soft edges, the kind of half-light that makes everything feel suspended. He can hear the building breathing around him — distant plumbing, some muted clatter from far below, the low mechanical hush of air moving through the vents.

Usually, if you’re awake first, he knows it before he fully comes to. Feels it in the shift of the mattress. Hears you padding around the room. Smells coffee before you even make it back.

This time, it’s just...quiet.

His brow furrows.

Not alarmed. Not yet. Just immediately aware in that way he always is, some old instinct surfacing before thought can catch up. He turns his head toward the door, listening.

Nothing.

He pushes himself up onto one elbow, metal hand braced against the mattress, and glances toward the bathroom. Dark. Empty. Door open.

“Doll?” he calls, voice still rough with sleep.

No answer.

He sits up fully now, sheets pooling around his waist. The chill of the room brushes over his chest and back, but it barely registers. His gaze flicks to the bedroom door, then to the clock.

Early. Too early for the team to be making noise. Too early for anybody to need anything from either of you.

His mouth thins a little.

You’ve been strange since last night.

Not bad strange. Just bright-eyed. A little slippery. Kissing him longer than usual, smiling into his shoulder like you were keeping something to yourself. When he’d asked what that look meant, you’d only shrugged and told him to go to sleep.

Which, in hindsight, should have tipped him off.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed just as the bedroom door eases open. He looks up fast enough that the motion is nearly a snap.

And there you are.

Soft socks. One of his shirts hanging off you. Hair a little mussed. Two mugs curled carefully in your hands, steam lifting in delicate white ribbons through the dim room.

You stop in the doorway when you find him already sitting up.

A slow smile spreads over your face.

“Well, damn,” you murmur. “There goes my dramatic entrance.”

Some of the tension leaves him so quickly it almost annoys him. He leans back a little, exhaling through his nose.

“You vanish before sunrise and expect me not to notice?”

“I was gone for, like, five minutes.”

“You were not.”

“Okay,” you say, still smiling as you nudge the door shut behind you with your hip. “Maybe seven.”

He watches you cross the room.

The smell reaches him first — coffee, strong and dark, with a little sweet cream. Under that, the clean warmth of your skin and the faint detergent scent of the shirt you stole out of his drawer. His shirt. The dark Henley he likes on you because it swallows your hands and slips off one shoulder if you lean the right way.

His eyes catch on that shoulder now, on the soft line of your collarbone disappearing beneath worn fabric, and something low in his chest eases all the way open.

“You’re staring,” you say quietly.

“You’re trespassing in my clothes.”

“I think you’ll survive.”

You hold one mug out to him. He takes it from you, fingers brushing yours. The ceramic is hot against his palm. Real coffee, not the terrible communal sludge. Made the way he likes it.

Of course it is.

His gaze flicks back up to your face, narrower now.

“What do you want?”

You laugh under your breath.

“That is so rude. Maybe I’m just being nice.”

“Suspicious.”

“Paranoid.”

“Experienced.”

That gets a bigger smile out of you.

You set your own mug down on the nightstand, then climb back onto the bed with the casual confidence of someone who belongs there — which you do. Mattress dipping under your knees, blankets rustling, morning air slipping cold for a second before you tuck yourself in close at his side again.

And just like that, the room feels right.

You settle against him, one arm sliding around his middle, cheek warm against his shoulder. He shifts automatically to make space, setting his mug aside so he can wrap his arm around you. The other arm comes a second later, heavier where it rests over your hip through the blanket.

He tilts his head, pressing his mouth into your hair.

“There,” you mumble. “Much better.”

His lips twitch. “You plan that?”

“Every second.”

He can feel your smile against his skin.

For a minute, neither of you says anything. You just sit there tangled together in the half-light, warm coffee and warmer bodies, the early morning quiet no longer empty but intimate. Familiar. Safe.

Then you tip your head back enough to look at him.

“Happy birthday, Buck.”

There it is.

The words land softly, but not lightly.

He looks at you for a long second, unreadable in that way he gets when something hits deeper than he wants it to. Your face is open, fond, just a little sleepy still. No grand production. No loud grin. Just you, tucked into his side before the sun’s even properly up, saying it like it matters.

Because to you, it does.

His thumb drags once over your hip.

“You remembered.”

You blink at him.

“Of course I remembered.”

He shrugs one shoulder, but there’s no real carelessness in it.

“Didn’t say you wouldn’t.”

“Bucky.” Your voice goes soft around his name. “Come on.”

Something in his chest pulls tight in a way that has nothing to do with old scars and everything to do with being seen too clearly this early in the morning.

“S’just a day.”

“Mm.” You lean in, your nose brushing his jaw. “Maybe.”

He knows that tone. His eyes narrow slightly.

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It means,” you say, shifting higher against him until your mouth is just barely brushing the corner of his, “that maybe it’s just a day to you.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Your lips brush his once. Soft. Testing.

“But to me,” you whisper, “it’s the day you were born. And because of that, I have you.”

That does it.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. But something in his face changes — just a little. Enough that you see it. Enough that his guard slips, not gone, but loosened.

You kiss him again before he can say anything sharp to cover it.

This time he kisses you back immediately.

Slow at first, because everything with him first thing in the morning tends to be slow until it suddenly isn’t. His hand slides from your hip to your waist, fingers spreading like he needs the full feel of you there. Your mouth is warm, and when you shift closer, one knee sliding over his thigh under the blankets, he makes a low sound into the kiss that vibrates straight through you.

You smile against his mouth.

“Still think I’m suspicious?”

“Yes,” he murmurs, chasing another kiss. “Now I think you’re distracting me.”

“And is it working?”

He opens his eyes just enough to look at you. Really look.

Your messy hair. Bare legs tangled in the sheets. His shirt hanging off your body. Sleep-soft mouth already kissed pink. The way you’re looking at him like he’s something worth waking up early for.

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower now. “Little bit.”

You hum like that answer pleases you, then lean in again, sliding your hand up over his chest.

The kiss this time doesn’t feel like a distraction. It feels like a decision.

Your mouth is unhurried on his, the kind of slow that makes his shoulders loosen and his pulse climb all at once. You taste like coffee and the faint sweetness of whatever creamer you put in your cup. He feels the curve of your smile when he deepens the kiss, tilting his head, fingers tightening on your waist.

You make a tiny sound in the back of your throat, an involuntary little noise he feels more than hears. It sparks through him, sharp and bright, settling low in his ribs.

He chases it.

His hand slides up your spine, palm spanning the line of it through the thin fabric of his Henley. The shift pulls you closer, your knee hitching higher over his thigh, the blanket dragging with you. One of your hands braces on his shoulder; the other curls at the nape of his neck, fingers threading into the short hair there.

“Bucky,” you murmur against his mouth, like a complaint and a prayer all at once.

He likes the way you say his name first thing in the morning — still a little scratchy, softer at the edges. It does something to him he doesn’t have a word for, loosens things he spent years soldering shut. He kisses you slower, then deeper, letting himself feel the solid warmth of your body pressed full-length to his, the way your chest rises against his with each uneven breath.

You shift again, swinging a leg fully over so you’re straddling his lap now, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. The Henley rides up a little with the movement, baring a sliver of your waist to the cool air.

He feels that, too.

His metal hand tightens reflexively at your hip. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to keep you there.

You pull back a fraction, lips barely brushing his, breath mingling in the space between you.

“You’re supposed to be relaxing,” you whisper.

“I was,” he points out. “You’re the one climbing all over me.”

You huff a laugh, nose bumping his.

“You’re complaining?”

He looks at you like that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.

“No,” he says simply.

You grin, eyes bright.

“Didn’t think so.”

You kiss him again, quick, then again, slower. You tilt your head, and he feels the slide of your mouth open just enough to let his lower lip catch between yours. His hand moves, thumb brushing a small, lazy circle at your hip. He’s not thinking about anything except the weight of you in his lap, the warmth of you under his hands, the way his heart does that stupid heavy stutter every time you sigh into his mouth.

For a little while, the outside world doesn’t exist.

No Tower, no training, no mission briefings, no ghosts of birthdays that went unmarked or worse. Just the two of you, half tangled in sheets and blankets, the mug on his nightstand cooling as the light at the edges of the curtains shifts from dark gray to something a little softer.

Eventually, you pull back. Reluctantly — he can feel it in the way your lips chase his for a second, in the way your hand lingers at his jaw, thumb tracing the edge of his stubble.

He’s breathing a little harder now. So are you. Your cheeks are warm, eyes bright and a tiny bit dazed, lips kissed pink.

“If you keep that up,” he rumbles, voice gone low and rough, “we’re not leaving this bed.”

You smile like you’re tempted by that thought — really tempted — and for a heartbeat he thinks you might give in and let the day slide off the rails right here.

Then your gaze flicks over his shoulder toward the clock, and something rueful passes through your expression.

“As much as that sounds incredibly appealing,” you say, easing back a little more, “I actually do have to get up.”

He goes still for a fraction of a second.

There it is again. That little note. Have to.

His eyes narrow, suspicion curling back up from wherever the kissing had shoved it.

“Do you?”

You slide off his lap with a soft laugh, your hands trailing over his shoulders as you go.

“Yes, grumpy. Contrary to popular belief, the world does not stop spinning just because you have adorable bedhead.”

He snorts at that despite himself, watching as you stand next to the bed and stretch, arms reaching up over your head. The hem of his Henley drags higher, and his gaze catches briefly on the slice of skin revealed before you drop your arms again.

He looks away, then back, then sighs.

“What do you gotta do this early?”

You’re already moving toward the dresser, bare feet whisper-soft on the floor.

“Couple things,” you say lightly. “Gotta check in with Bob.”

That makes him frown.

“Bob?”

“Mmhm.” You open a drawer and start rifling through it. “He was asking me about something. Yesterday.”

“That’s specific.”

You glance over your shoulder, amused.

“You want specifics before I’ve had breakfast?”

“Yes.”

You just grin and turn back to the drawer.

“You’ll live.”

He watches you pull out a pair of leggings and a long, soft-looking sweater — the one he likes on you because it hangs a little off one shoulder and makes you look cozy and put together at the same time. Not your usual “I’m just going to run errands” shirt. Then you pause, consider, and toss the sweater aside in favour of another one. Darker. Nicer.

His suspicion ratchets up another notch.

“You meeting someone?” he asks.

“Several someones,” you say. “At various points in the day. Like a functioning adult.”

“Sounds fake,” he mutters.

You laugh under your breath.

He studies you more closely now, the way a man trained to see patterns always does when something doesn’t quite line up. You’re moving around the room with a certain purposeful energy, but there’s a bounce to it, a brightness. You’re humming under your breath as you gather your clothes, the tune familiar but not enough for him to place without thinking too hard.

There’s also the way your phone, sitting on your nightstand, lights up once. Twice.

He doesn’t mean to look. But it’s there, screen facing up. Two new messages flash briefly before the screen goes dark again.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice casual.

“Perfect,” you say, tugging open the top drawer to grab a fresh pair of socks. “Why?”

“You’re being weird.”

You straighten up, clothes folded over your arm, and finally turn fully to face him.

He’s still sitting up in the bed, sheet slung low around his hips, coffee cup back in his hand. The morning light through the curtains is catching at the metal of his left arm, turning the edges of it soft. He looks relaxed. Suspicious as hell, but relaxed.

You soften.

“I’m not being weird,” you say gently. “I’m just busy.”

He stares at you. You stare back.

There’s a moment where he could push. Where the old habits are right there, coiled in his spine, telling him to demand answers, dig until there are no unknowns. To assume that whatever he doesn’t know is a threat.

Then your expression shifts — just a little. Something open and warm and stupidly earnest settles there, the same way it does when you’re trying to coax the cat out from under the bed or convince him to watch some terrible movie with you.

“Trust me?” you ask quietly.

He hates how fast that hits.

Not in a bad way. Just…deep.

He looks down at his hands for a second, flexing the flesh one around his mug. The ceramic creaks faintly. When he looks up again, you’re still watching him, not pushing, not backing down.

He exhales through his nose. His mouth twitches. He scrubs a hand over his face, then lets it fall, giving you a long, measuring look.

“What time are you gonna be back?”

“Soon,” you promise. “Couple hours, maybe. We still have the rest of the day, birthday boy.”

He wrinkles his nose.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Birthday boy,” you repeat, tone sing-song, just to irritate him.

“You’re trying to kill me.” He groans.

“Mm, not yet,” you say, crossing back to him long enough to lean in and steal another kiss. It’s quick but grounded, your hand curling at the back of his neck, thumb brushing his hairline. “Later, maybe.”

He raises a brow at that.

“Yeah?”

You pull back with a mischievous little smirk that does awful, wonderful things to his thoughts.

“Later,” you echo. “So behave.”

You disappear into the bathroom with your clothes, leaving the door half-closed. He hears the rush of water, the soft thump of drawers, you humming again. The ordinary sounds of you getting ready breach the quiet of the room, stretching out the moment.

Bucky sits there for a minute, mug cradled between his hands, staring at the sliver of light between the bathroom door and the frame.

Yelena and Ava texting before dawn. You vibrating with secret energy. Bob “asking about something.”

It stacks up in his head in a pattern he doesn’t quite have the shape of yet.

If this were a mission, he’d already be three layers deep into contingency plans.

But this is…not that.

This is you. On his birthday. Telling him to trust you, eyes wide and sure and annoyingly hard to say no to.

He sighs.

Fine.

He leans back on one hand, takes a sip of his now-lukewarm coffee, and makes a deliberate choice to let it go. For now. To see what happens if he doesn’t interrogate every strange corner of a day that was already going to feel weird.

When you come back out a few minutes later, dressed and put together, hair pulled back the way you wear it when you need to move fast, he notices again how nice you look.

Not like you’re going to war. Like you’re going to…something.

“Okay,” you say, grabbing your phone off the nightstand and tucking it into your pocket. “I gotta run.”

He nods once, watching you.

You pause by the bed, leaning in to press one more kiss to his forehead this time, soft and lingering.

“Seriously,” you murmur there, voice quiet. “Enjoy your morning. Shower. Eat. Yell at Alexei if he touches your coffee stash. I’ll be back.”

“Better,” he says, eyes half-lidded. “You owe me more kisses.”

You smile, thumb brushing his jaw.

“I promise.”

He believes that part easily.

You straighten, give him one last fond look, then head for the door. When it opens, the cooler air of the hallway rolls in, along with a faint, distant clatter from somewhere in the Tower — someone already awake, already causing problems.

“Hey,” he calls just as you’re about to step out.

You glance back. He holds your gaze.

“Be careful.”

Your expression softens, shoulders easing.

“Always.”

Then you’re gone, the door sliding shut behind you with a soft hiss.

The room feels quieter without you, but not empty the way it had for those first few seconds when he woke up alone. Your mug still sits on the nightstand, half-full. The dent in your pillow is still there. The lingering warmth in the sheets beside him hasn’t fully faded.

Bucky sits there a moment longer, listening to the hum of the Tower and the softer, steadier hum of his own pulse, and then pushes to his feet.

He exhales and scrubs a hand over his face again.

“Okay,” he mutters to the empty room. “We’ll do it your way.”

For now.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time your keycard clicks in the door again, he’s already gone through three different ways of convincing himself he’s not waiting for that sound.

He’d done what you said. More or less.

Shower. Check. Food. Sort of. Toast and half a protein bar count. Yelling at Alexei…okay, that part happened on its own.

The Tower feels different on days off. The usual mission tension is dialed down, replaced with a kind of restless quiet that makes his skin buzz if he sits in it too long. So he’d drifted: from the bedroom to the kitchen, to the bedroom again, then finally to the couch like gravity had just won.

Now he’s sprawled there in sweatpants and a clean t-shirt, a book open but half-forgotten on his chest, TV on low with some nature documentary he hasn’t processed a frame of. His eyes are on the screen, but his mind keeps skipping.

You, slipping out with your “couple hours.” Yelena and Ava whispering in the hall when he went to get more coffee, voices dropping instantly when they saw him. Walker wandering through the kitchen whistling off-key, then immediately stopping when Bucky glanced up.

The whole Tower’s got that weird “nothing is happening, why would you ask” energy.

He flips a page without reading it.

When the door opens, he pretends he doesn’t hear it right away.

“Hey, Buck.”

Your voice does that thing to his insides again.

He turns his head on the back of the couch. You’re standing there in the doorway, jacket half unzipped, hair a little wind-tousled, cheeks pink from the cold or the walk or both. You look pleased. Like whatever you’ve been doing went the way you wanted it to.

His suspicion perks up again, but there’s something like relief under it, coiling low and warm.

“You’re late,” he says, even though you aren’t.

You check your watch with an exaggerated squint.

“Pretty sure I’m exactly on time for ‘late morning.’”

“Felt longer.”

You raise a brow, shutting the door behind you.

“Aww. Did you miss me?”

He snorts and looks back at the TV.

“No.”

You walk closer, steps soft on the floor.

“Liar.”

He feels the dip of the cushion near his hip before he sees you sit down. You twist to face him, tucking one leg under you, the other foot bumping his thigh. Up close, he can see the little details the distance had blurred: faint smudge on your hand from a marker, a glittery speck clinging to your sleeve that catches the light when you move.

His eyes narrow.

“Why do you have glitter on you?”

You glance down.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” You brush at it, not even trying to look innocent. “Must have picked it up somewhere.”

“From what?”

“Life,” you say solemnly. “The universe. The great cosmic craft store.”

He stares. You grin.

“How’s the birthday boy?”

“Gonna stop calling me that at some point?”

“Nope.”

You lean in and steal a quick kiss before he can argue, your hand bracing lightly on his chest. It’s just a brush of lips, but it lands heavier than it should, tugging at something behind his ribs. He inhales slowly when you pull back, like he needs to steady himself.

“Whatcha watching?” you ask, nodding at the TV.

He blinks at it. A herd of ungulates is doing something dramatic in slow motion. He has no idea what.

“No clue.”

“Riveting.”

He shrugs one shoulder against the couch.

“You abandoned me with the remote.”

You gasp.

“I left you unsupervised with full media control. My mistake.”

“You leave for a couple hours and the place falls apart.”

“Has Alexei broken anything?”

“He tried to drink my coffee.”

“Okay, that’s a crime.”

You smile, but your eyes are doing a little dance over his face, cataloguing. Checking in. He can feel it — the way you look at him like you’re scanning for fractures, making sure the morning by himself didn’t crack along some old fault line.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, before you can ask.

“I know,” you say softly. “I just like seeing you.”

It hits him like it always does, that simple, unguarded affection. He shifts, looking away under the weight of it, and your foot nudges his thigh in a gentle bump.

“C’mon,” you say, tone changing — a brighter note slipping in. “Enough brooding. You’ve got like, two more hours of grumpy couch time before I start charging you rent.”

He eyes you sidelong.

“You kicking me out of my own living room?”

“I’m upgrading you to a field trip.”

“Pass.”

You ignore that.

“Up. We’re going to the rec room.”

His suspicion perks up again, eyeing you like a wary cat.

“Why?”

“Because I wanna play pool,” you say, popping to your feet in one smooth motion, “and you’re doing the classic Bucky Barnes thing where you sit still but your brain runs a hundred miles an hour, and that’s no way to spend a birthday.”

He looks up at you, unimpressed.

“You don’t know what my brain’s doing.”

“Oh?” you challenge, hands going to your hips. “Okay. What are you thinking about?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. You smile, smug.

“Exactly.”

He scowls, more out of habit than actual annoyance.

“You gonna psychoanalyze me or are we gonna go shoot pool?”

“Both,” you say cheerfully. “Come on. I haven’t beaten you in at least a week. My ego needs this.”

He squints.

“Since when do you want to play pool this bad?”

“Since right now.”

“Mm-hm.”

You roll your eyes, then soften, leaning down to offer him a hand.

“Walk with me, Buck. Worst case, we go, it’s boring, you beat me three times, and I make it up to you later.”

The way you say later does things to his imagination he is definitely not going to keep thinking about.

He looks at your outstretched hand.

He’d told himself this morning he was going to trust you. Let the weirdness breathe. See what happens when he doesn’t try to control every variable like it’s a bomb about to go off.

He sighs, then drops his book on the coffee table and slides his flesh hand into yours.

“Fine.”

Your fingers curl around his, warm and sure. You tug — unnecessarily, because he’s already moving — and he lets himself be pulled up, the couch creaking as his weight leaves it.

“Attaboy,” you murmur under your breath.

He gives you a look.

“What?” you say, innocent. “Motivational language.”

“You’re lucky it’s your face saying that.”

You just grin.

You fall into step together automatically, like you always do — his longer stride adjusting to match yours without him thinking about it, your shoulder brushing his arm as you walk down the hallway. The Tower is awake now, but not buzzing. He hears faint music from someone’s room, the distant whir of the elevator shafts.

You’re quiet for a few steps, the good kind of quiet. Comfortable. But Bucky’s brain, as you so rudely and correctly pointed out, doesn’t just switch off.

“Who texted you earlier?” He asks, as casually as he can manage.

You don’t even pretend not to know what he’s talking about.

“Yelena and Ava.”

“What’d they want?”

“Work stuff.”

He snorts.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, Bucky.” You squeeze his hand. “We do, occasionally, talk about things that are not you.”

“Doubt it.”

You laugh, the sound bright in the hallway.

“Okay, that’s fair. You do come up. But sometimes it’s about spreadsheets. Or surveillance. Or how Bob still hasn’t fixed the coffee machine setting Walker keeps messing with.”

“He does that on purpose,” Bucky mutters.

“Oh, absolutely.”

You round the corner toward the rec wing, boots whispering on the polished floor. He can feel something coiling under your skin now — a buzz he recognizes from missions and mischief both. Your shoulders are a little too straight, your grip on his hand a touch too tight.

“Any particular reason you’re so hellbent on pool instead of, I dunno, dragging me to watch a movie?”

“Because pool is a superior bonding activity.”

“Those are some big words for someone who scratches on the eight ball.”

“That was one time.”

“That was last time.”

You huff.

“And this time, I will crush you.”

“Sure you will.”

You shoot him a look that is one part fond exasperation, one part just wait, and something in his gut twists.

The door to the rec room is at the end of the next hallway, around another corner. He’s walked it a hundred times. Training, downtime, movie nights, late-night debriefs over terrible pizza. Today, the path feels…loaded.

You’re almost there when he notices it.

The light under the rec room door.

Not unusual in itself — people use the space all the time. But it’s the quality of it. Warmer. Softer. Not just the usual overhead fluorescents blazing. And the sound — the faintest murmur that goes abruptly still as your footsteps get closer.

His hand tightens in yours.

“Who’s in there?” he asks.

You don’t answer immediately.

You stop a few steps from the door, turning toward him. Up close, he can see it now — the way your breath is just a little faster than it should be for a casual walk. The way your eyes are bright and nervous and excited all at once.

“Hey,” you say quietly. “One last thing.”

He frowns.

“There’s never just ‘one last thing’ with you.”

You smile, but there’s a softness to it that undercuts the teasing. Your free hand comes up, fingers brushing his wrist where his pulse beats steady under skin. Not like you’re checking it; like you’re reminding him of it.

“I know you hate surprises,” you say.

Every muscle in his back tenses, instinctive, immediate. His jaw sets.

“But,” you go on, your thumb stroking once over his wrist before he can spiral, “I also know you hate being ignored. Even if you say you don’t care. Even if you try to pretend this day doesn’t matter.”

His breathing shifts, just slightly.

“You don’t owe anybody some big birthday performance,” you murmur. “You never will, okay? But there are people here who’re glad you exist. Who wanted a chance to show you that. And I—” You swallow, the words catching for a heartbeat. “—I wanted that too.”

He’s suddenly very aware of his heart, heavy and steady and stupidly loud in his ears.

“So,” you finish, voice softer. “I tried to make it small. And you can walk in, give me ten minutes, and if it’s too much, we bail. No questions asked. We come right back to the couch and you can complain about documentaries for the rest of the day. Deal?”

He looks at you. At your hand on his. At the line of your mouth, trying not to twist into a nervous grimace. At the earnestness there, naked and vulnerable in a way that hits him harder than the prospect of whatever’s behind that door.

The old part of him counts exits. Estimates bodies behind the walls. Measures sound. All the ways this could go wrong.

The newer part — the one that’s grown roots in late-night talks and shared coffee and the weight of you in his bed — sees Yelena’s quiet loyalty, Ava’s exasperated fondness, Alexei’s loud, ridiculous pride, Bob’s awe, Walker’s grudging respect. Sees you, up at dawn with glitter on your sleeve.

He exhales, slow.

“Ten minutes,” he agrees.

Relief flashes across your face like sunrise.

“Ten minutes,” you echo.

You turn back to the door, let go of his hand only long enough to curl your fingers around the handle.

He hears it on the other side now — the hushed scramble of bodies moving, someone shushing someone else, the muted thump of something being set down too hard. It should make his shoulders knot.

Instead, he finds himself weirdly braced. Not for danger. For whatever the hell this new kind of ambush is.

You glance at him one last time, checking. He nods once. You push the door open.

The rec room explodes in colour and sound.

“Surprise!”

“AH, HE IS HERE!” Alexei’s voice detonates over everyone else’s, a full beat late and twice as loud.

A confetti popper goes off in his hand at the exact wrong angle, showering the ceiling instead of Bucky. Bits of metallic paper rain down lazily.

Bucky just…stops.

His whole system does that thing it always does when a room goes from quiet to loud in one hit — heart kicking, muscles tightening, eyes scanning before he can consciously decide to. For a split second, all he sees is movement and colour and noise.

Then his brain starts putting names to shapes.

Yelena is front and center on the pool table like a gremlin, boots planted on the green felt, hands cupped around her mouth. Her little paper party hat is crooked and aggressively unnecessary.

“Old man!” she crows. “You are so old now. Disgusting. Happy birthday!”

Ava’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over her chest. She’s wearing a party hat too, but in a way that suggests she might murder whoever convinced her. Her mouth is an even smirk, but there’s the tiniest glint in her eyes.

John is by the dartboard, of all places, a red plastic cup in his hand, grinning like this is hilarious.

“Barnes,” he calls. “You look thrilled, man.”

Bob is hovering by the snack table with the brittle posture of a man who has rehearsed seven different greetings and then forgotten all of them. He’s clutching a cake knife in one hand and a lighter in the other, eyes wide.

And above all of it, crooked as hell across the far wall, is a banner.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BUCKY

The “Y” in BIRTHDAY is smaller than the rest, like they ran out of space. One corner is drooping because someone misjudged the tape.

For a long beat, Bucky just stands in the doorway, you at his side, trying to decide how to feel.

Every instinct in him is yelling too much.

Too many eyes, too much colour, too many unknowns clustered together. There’s the smell of pizza, something sugary, the cheap powder from the confetti popper hanging faintly in the air. Someone’s put music on low — some old rock playlist, crackly through the rec room speakers. It’s a lot.

You feel him go tight beside you. Your fingers slide just a little more firmly into his, grounding pressure at his palm.

“Hey,” you murmur, low enough that it’s for him and not the room. “Remember. Ten minutes. You and me. That’s all this has to be.”

He drags his focus to you for half a second.

You’re watching him, not them. Expression open, careful. Ready to turn on your heel and walk him right back out if he twitches wrong.

Something inside his chest relents a millimeter.

“Bucky!” Bob blurts suddenly, like the silence in his own head got too loud. “Um. Happy birthday! Sir. Uh. Not sir. Just happy birthday!”

Alexei barrels forward before Bob can dig the hole deeper.

“Is great, yes?” he booms, throwing his arms wide, confetti still clinging to his sleeves. “Look! Decorations! I helped with banner. I made Yelena climb furniture. Very fatherly. Very supportive.”

“You spelled his name wrong twice,” Yelena calls from the pool table.

Alexei waves this off.

“Details.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches despite himself.

“You tried,” he says.

“Da!” Alexei beams. “You are team. Team must celebrate moment of birth. Even if it was many, many years ago and you are now ancient creature.”

“Wow,” Walker mutters into his cup. “Harsh.”

“Shut up, fake Captain,” Yelena says pleasantly.

Walker salutes her with his drink, middle finger held out.

You tug gently on Bucky’s hand.

“C’mon,” you say. “At least let them show off.”

He lets you pull him fully into the room.

Up close, the chaos has more shape.

The pool table’s been hastily half-cleared; the rack sits off to one side, a few balls still scattered like someone was playing and dropped everything the second you texted. There are mismatched streamers draped over the lights, one of them already working loose. The snack table is suspiciously well-stocked: chips, something that might be homemade dip, a plate of what looks like Yelena’s idea of cookies (slightly burnt, aggressively iced), and in the middle, on its own place of honor, the cake.

It’s not fancy. The frosting’s a little uneven, the lettering slightly off-center. There’s a crude attempt at a tiny vibranium arm doodled in black icing.

Bucky feels something strange and sharp rise under his breastbone.

“Bob did the cake,” Ava says from her post at the wall, voice dry but not unkind. “After Yelena was banned from the kitchen.”

“She is tyrant,” Yelena protests. “Little fire, no big deal.”

“There was a lot of fire,” Bob says faintly.

“I put it out.”

“You used my—” Bob breaks off, looking at Bucky, then clears his throat. “We have cake. And, uh. Other things. Snacks. We didn’t know what kind you liked, so we got…all of them.”

There’s a small mountain of different chips and cookies, now that he mentions it. A ridiculous amount for seven people.

He swallows.

Walker pushes off the dartboard, wandering over.

“Relax, Barnes,” he says, almost gently for once. “It’s not a hostage situation. Yet.”

“Depends if you throw darts while drunk again,” Ava says.

“That was one time.”

“And yet,” Yelena cuts in. “Wall still has a hole.”

She hops down from the pool table with the casual grace of someone who has never respected rules or furniture. She lands in front of Bucky, hands on her hips, eyes sharp and assessing.

“You look like you want to run away,” she says.

He lifts his chin a fraction.

“Maybe.”

She snorts.

“Too bad. We worked hard. You must endure. It’s tradition.”

“Since when?”

“Since now.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out something small and rectangular, tossing it at his chest. “Here. Present.”

He catches it automatically. It’s a box of some kind, plain, about the size of his palm.

“Yelena,” you scold lightly. “We said cake first.”

“It's a tiny present,” she insists. “Appetizer present.”

Bucky flips the lid open.

Inside is a simple leather bracelet — dark, worn-looking, with a thin band of braided material in the middle. Closer inspection shows faint, engraved lettering on the inside.

You are not alone.

It’s not flashy. Not expensive. Not some high-tech gizmo. Just something…handmade, maybe. Something chosen.

His throat does a weird, tight thing.

Yelena shrugs, suddenly a little awkward under his stare.

“It’s for when you go on a mission with idiots,” she mutters, nodding at Walker and Alexei. “So you remember you have less idiot people. Okay? If you hate it, I kept the receipt.”

He doesn’t even realize his hand has moved until he’s already curling his fingers around the box.

“I don’t hate it,” he says quietly.

“Good.” She eyes him for another beat, then nods dismissively and turns away, as if the intensity of the moment alarms her more than a firefight. “Now we do cake. Bob, light it.”

Bob fumbles with the lighter, nearly drops it, catches it, and somehow eventually manages to coax flames onto a small forest of candles. There are clearly not enough to be accurate, thank god, but there are…more than ten.

“Don’t count them,” you murmur. “I told them if anybody tried to put the full number I was taking the fire extinguisher to the whole thing.”

“Coward,” Alexei says. “Would be glorious inferno.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Which is why you don’t get a vote.”

The candles flare softly, little points of light flickering against Bucky’s face as Bob carries the cake over like it’s made of nitroglycerin.

“Happy birthday to you…”

Someone starts the song. It might be Walker, weirdly enough, or maybe you — it’s hard to tell once everyone joins in, off-key and overlapping and absolutely not in the same tempo.

Yelena is singing too loudly on purpose. Alexei keeps trying to harmonize and failing spectacularly. Ava’s barely mouthing the words, but she’s doing it, and that counts for more than volume. Bob is definitely the one attempting to clap on beat and missing.

You’re next to Bucky, your shoulder pressed against his, your voice soft and steady in the mess of it all.

Heat pricks at the backs of his eyes, sudden and unwelcome.

It’s stupid. It’s just a song. Just a half-burnt cake in a rec room decorated with dollar-store streamers and a banner that looks like it lost a fight with gravity.

But…

He can’t remember the last time people sang this song to him because they wanted to.

By the time they hit the trailing “—to you,” his jaw is tight and he’s staring very hard at the frosting so he doesn’t have to look at anyone else.

“Make wish!” Alexei declares.

Yelena elbows him.

“He can’t say it out loud, old bear, that is the rule. Very bad luck.”

“I know this,” Alexei huffs. “I am not child.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise,” Ava murmurs.

Bucky glances sideways at you.

You’re already looking at him, eyes soft, expression gentle.

You can bail, that look says. Or you can do this. Either way, I’ve got you.

He inhales, lets the air fill his lungs all the way up — right past the old damage, right past the places that still ache when he thinks too hard about years spent in other hands.

For half a second, he lets himself feel it.

Not words. Just a feeling.

This.

You. Them. A room that feels…safe enough.

He exhales and blows the candles out.

The room bursts into applause, mostly Alexei and Walker clapping like idiots, Yelena whooping, Bob jumping a little like he wasn’t sure the fire would comply.

Lights flick back to full. The music bumps up a notch.

“Speech!” Walker calls.

“No,” Bucky says immediately.

“Speech!” Alexei agrees.

“Absolutely not.”

“Compromise,” Yelena says. “No speech. Just—” She makes a vague gesture. “Less murder face. More…not murder.”

“This is my not murder face.”

“God, you’re terrifying,” she deadpans. “Fine. We do presents after cake. Then we let him run away.”

“Hey,” you protest. “We said pool.”

Bucky blinks. “We did?”

You look up at him with that same little smile that keeps undoing him, piece by piece.

“Yeah, Barnes. You think I lied about that part? We are absolutely playing a game.”

He squints.

“You just want to hustle me in front of witnesses.”

“Obviously,” you say. “What’s the point of beating you if no one sees?”

That pulls a short, rough laugh out of him before he can stop it.

The found family chaos rolls on.

Alexei tells an overblown story about some mission that has at least three factual inaccuracies but is very enthusiastic. Yelena keeps cutting him off to correct details, usually in ways that make Bucky look more competent and Alexei more ridiculous. Walker and Ava get into an argument about whether darts or pool is the superior bar sport until Bob, in an act of suicidal bravery, suggests maybe they are equally valid.

You end up at Bucky’s side in all of it, shifting only to grab plates or drinks, always ending back in his orbit. Your hand bumps his now and then, your thigh brushes his when you both end up perched on the edge of the pool table eating cake. Every time his shoulders creep up toward his ears, you’re there with some little touch or quiet comment to smooth them back down.

Someone (probably you) has snuck in a six-pack of the exact beer he doesn’t admit he likes. There’s a bowl of those weird peanut butter candies he mentioned once in passing. The playlist keeps drifting between things the others like and random tracks he recognizes from the ancient mental jukebox in his head, and he realizes with a start that someone must have asked him, at some point, what songs he still goes back to.

It’s clumsy. Imperfect. Loud. It’s also…kind of nice.

He hates that he doesn’t hate it.

At one point, Yelena challenges him to a game of pool and almost wins before scratching on the eight, at which point she accuses the table of treason. Walker tries to give a heartfelt toast and trips over his own ego halfway through, but the sentiment is weirdly genuine under the bravado. Ava hands Bucky a small, neat box containing a set of high-quality earplugs “for when these idiots won’t shut up,” which somehow hits him in a way he really doesn’t want to unpack in public.

And through it all, every time he looks at you, you’ve got that same soft, satisfied little smile, like this is exactly what you hoped it would be.

At around the point where the sugar high is peaking and the noise has tipped from fun to a bit much, you drift closer, tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt to get his attention.

“Hey,” you say, voice pitched just for him again. “How you doing?”

He takes a breath, checks in with himself. Old habit now. Heart still steady. Hands not shaking. Head not buzzing with that too-far, too-bright hum that means he’s about to tip into a bad place.

He’s okay.

More than okay, if he’s honest with himself.

“Tolerating,” he says. Then, after a beat, lower: “It’s not terrible.”

Your smile brightens just a little.

“High praise.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.” You bump his shoulder with yours. “You wanna play that game I promised you, birthday boy? Or you ready to cash in your escape clause?”

He glances around.

Yelena is arguing with Walker over the correct way to rack the balls, despite neither of them being anywhere near the table. Alexei is trying to show Bob something on his phone that Bob is clearly too polite to claim disinterest in. Ava is leaning in the doorway, watching the whole mess with an expression that says she’s invested despite herself.

They’re loud. Messy. Too much.

They’re also his.

At least today.

“I’ll play,” he says.

You arch a brow, pleasantly surprised.

“Yeah?”

He nods once.

“Gotta give you a chance to embarrass yourself before I leave.”

You gasp.

“Bold talk.”

He steps closer, voice dropping just enough that only you can hear.

“Besides,” he adds, “you did all this. Figure I can stick around long enough to let you win a game on my birthday.”

Your eyes flare.

“That sounds like a challenge, Barnes.”

“Maybe it is.”

You grin, bright and wicked and full of love.

“Rude. Rack ’em.”

You pull him toward the table, fingers laced with his, weaving him through the chaos you helped build.

He hates parties. He does.

But as he watches you laugh with his messed-up little team, chalking your cue with practiced ease, his bracelet from Yelena pressing warm at his wrist, Ava’s earplugs box peeking out of his pocket, Bob’s uneven cake still sweet on his tongue…

He thinks maybe, just this once, he can make an exception.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time the cake is half-gone and the music’s playing softer, the rec room has thinned out.

Alexei leaves first, making a big show of loudly announcing that “old man needs rest” before Yelena physically drags him away by the sleeve. Bob leaves in the wake of that chaos with a flustered promise to “handle the dishes later.” Ava slips out sometime after Walker, leaving only the echo of a goodnight and the box of earplugs she shoved into Bucky’s hand.

And then it’s quiet.

Just you and Bucky and the dimmed lights over the pool table, the banner still lopsided on the wall.

You look up at him, mouth soft, eyes warmer than the room.

“Ready to call it?” you ask.

He should be exhausted. In a way, he is — there’s a low, buzzing fatigue under his skin that he recognizes from long days and longer nights. But it’s not the sharp, jangling kind he used to get from crowds. The edges are softer. Smoothed over by laughter and bad singing and the ridiculous image of Alexei firing confetti directly at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Think I’m done.”

You step in close, fingers brushing his wrist.

“Come home with me, then.”

He huffs a breath that isn’t quite a laugh and lets you lead him.

The walk back through the Tower feels different than it did that morning. He’s not watching every doorway now, not cataloguing every distant sound. His bracelet sits warm and solid against the inside of his wrist, the faint weight of it a constant reminder: You are not alone.

You swipe your keycard. The door unlocks with a soft hiss.

Inside, the quarters are dim — not dark. You’d left one lamp on low, and the string of small soft lights you insisted on tacking along the wall over the bed glows gentle gold from the bedroom. The kind of light that doesn’t feel like an interrogation, just a place to land.

You shut the door behind you with a quiet click.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

He stands there just inside the doorway, shoulders loose but heavy, eyes adjusting to the softer light. The hum of the Tower outside becomes a muted backdrop — distant, unimportant. It’s just the two of you in this little pocket of space you’ve carved out of steel and glass and ghosts.

You turn to face him fully.

That look is back on your face. The one that always hits him low and deep — like you’re seeing all of him at once and still choosing to stay.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Hey,” he echoes.

You step into his space, hands coming up to rest lightly on his chest. His shirt is still the one he threw on after the shower — soft cotton, a little stretched at the collar. You curl your fingers in the fabric for a second, feeling the warmth beneath before smoothing your palms flat over the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

He frowns slightly.

“For what?”

“For letting us do that. For staying.” Your thumbs trace small arcs over his ribs. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking away.

“Wasn’t that bad.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But it still cost you something.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that, so he doesn’t try. His throat feels too tight anyway.

You step closer, until your chest is pressed to his, until he can feel every point of contact — your hands, your body, the faint brush of your breath against his throat when you tilt your head back to look at him.

“I want to celebrate you now,” you say quietly.

He swallows.

“You already did,” he mutters. “Cake. Surprises. Glitter. Psychological warfare.”

You smile, small and fond.

“I meant in here. Just you and me.”

Your fingers lift, skimming up his chest to the line of his shoulders. Something in his chest gives an uncomfortable, familiar twist.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” Your voice stays soft, steady. “I want to. If you’ll let me.”

He looks down at you.

The part of him that still remembers rooms like cages, hands that took instead of gave, flinches at the offer on instinct. The rest of him — the part that’s spent months unlearning the past and relearning what touch can be under your hands — hears what you’re actually saying.

Let me love you.

He nods once.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Okay.”

You smile like he just handed you something precious.

“Good,” you murmur. “Then come here.”

You back up a step, guiding him with you, your hands sliding down his arms to lace with his fingers again. You walk him toward the bedroom, toward the bed with its rumpled sheets and your combined mess at the foot — a discarded hoodie, one of his Henleys, your socks kicked half-under the frame.

The string lights on the wall send a warm pool of light across the mattress. The rest of the room stays in soft shadow.

You stop him at the edge of the bed and let one of his hands go so you can reach up, fingers brushing the line of his jaw.

“Bucky, let me take care of you,” you say, like it’s a vow.

He could argue. Make some self-deprecating comment. Tell you he doesn’t need taking care of.

He doesn’t.

“I trust you,” he says instead.

Your eyes go shiny for a heartbeat, like that does something to you.

“Good,” you whisper.

You lean up and kiss him.

It’s not the eager, distracted heat from the morning. This is slower, deeper from the first touch. Your mouth meets his like you have all the time in the world and every intention of using it.

He lets his eyes fall shut.

Your hands slide from his jaw to the back of his neck, then down over his shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscle there. He feels the long exhale leave his body almost without permission, the tension in his back easing under your touch.

When you finally pull back, his pulse is already climbing, but it’s not the sharp spike of adrenaline. It’s something warmer. Thicker. Heavy in his veins.

You keep one hand at the back of his neck, thumb stroking the short hair there. The other comes down, skimming over his chest, catching on the hem of his shirt.

“Can I?” you ask.

It’s his shirt. His body. His choice.

That still catches him off guard sometimes.

“Yeah,” he says, rougher than he means to.

You smile a little at the sound.

Carefully, unhurried, you slip your fingers under the hem and start to lift. He raises his arms when you prompt him with a gentle tug. The fabric slides up over his stomach, over the planes of his chest, catching briefly on his dog tags before you work it free and pull it over his head.

Cool air whispers across his bare skin.

You drop the shirt somewhere behind you without looking, your eyes already back on him.

You always look at him like this — like you’re studying him, but in a way that feels nothing like the cold assessments he’s endured in other lives. Your gaze drifts over the scars, the lines of muscle, the places where metal meets skin. Not fast. Not flinching.

“God,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. Your fingertips follow your gaze, tracing a path over the thick lines carved into his shoulder, down the curve of his chest. “You’re so beautiful.”

He huffs out an incredulous breath.

“Beautiful,” he repeats.

“Yeah.” Your eyes flick up to his. “You heard me.”

He shifts, the old discomfort surfacing.

“You don’t know—”

“I do know.” Your hand moves, palm flattening over a puckered scar near his ribs. “I know what you’ve survived. I know what they did to you. And I know what I see standing in front of me right now.”

He swallows.

You lean in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the scar under your palm. Then another, a little higher. Then one to the edge of metal where his arm joins flesh, your lips soft against the cool vibranium and the raised, twisted lines of skin.

He flinches, just a little, at that contact. Not away. Just that reflexive jerk of a place that’s been hurt too often to take touch easily.

You feel it. You soften even more.

“I love this arm,” you say quietly, trailing your mouth along the edge where metal plates curve over his shoulder. “Not because of what it can do. Not because of what it’s done. Because it’s yours.”

His jaw tightens.

“Because it’s part of you now,” you continue. “Because you choose, every day, to use it for something better.” Your mouth twitches. “Because I’ve watched you hold me with it. Gentle. Careful. Like you’re afraid you might break me if you don’t pay attention.”

He lets out a shaky breath.

“I love the way it looks when you’re relaxed,” you murmur, fingertips skimming over the plates. “I love the way the light catches the gold. I love that you let me touch it when it used to be something you hated anyone even looking at.” Your eyes meet his again. “I love you. All of you. Including this.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

He’s been called a lot of things. Asset. Weapon. Ghost. Monster.

Beautiful isn’t one of them.

You don’t give him time to build walls around it.

You straighten a little, palms smoothing down over his chest again, mapping the lines of muscle, the dips and rises of scars. Every place your hands move, your mouth eventually follows — a kiss to the hollow of his throat, to the notch of his collarbone, to the spot just over his heart where you like to rest your head at night.

“I love this chest,” you murmur against his skin. “Because it’s where I sleep. Where I listen to you breathe. Where I can feel your heart when you get annoyed and try to pretend you aren’t getting sleepy.”

He snorts, the sound breaking on a breath when your lips find a particularly sensitive patch above a scar.

You smile against him, then keep going, slower now.

“I love your shoulders,” you say, hands squeezing gently there, thumbs digging into knots of muscle. “The way you carry so much and still straighten up when someone needs you.”

“You make me sound like a pack mule,” he mutters.

You lift your head just long enough to give him a look.

“I make you sound like someone strong enough to hold up the world and soft enough to put it down for a while when I ask.”

His heart does that heavy, uneven thing again.

Your hands slide down his sides, fingers catching on his belt.

He tenses instinctively. Your eyes flick up at once.

“Okay?”

He nods, throat thick.

“Yeah. Keep goin’.”

You take your time.

You unbuckle his belt slowly, the faint jingle of metal loud in the quiet room. You don’t make a show of it, don’t turn it into something sharp or performative. It’s just another layer between him and rest, and you’re stripping it away piece by piece.

You pop the button of his jeans. Ease the zipper down. The backs of your knuckles brush the sensitive skin of his lower stomach, and he swallows hard, muscles jumping under your touch.

“You know what else I love?” you ask softly.

He forces himself to breathe.

“You’re gonna tell me anyway.”

“I love that you let yourself want things now.”

He goes still. You hook your fingers in his waistband, not pushing, just holding.

“I love that you say when you want a quiet night in instead of pretending you’re fine. I love when you come find me instead of locking yourself away. I love when you steal my blanket, and when you get grumpy that the coffee’s gone, and when you look at me across a room like I’m the only thing keeping you from walking out of it.”

His vision goes a little fuzzy at the edges.

“You’re allowed to want things, Bucky,” you whisper. “You’re allowed to want me.”

That cracks something open.

He doesn’t realize he’s reached for you until his hands are on your waist, pulling you closer, until his forehead is pressed to yours and his breath is rough against your lips.

“Doll, I…I can’t…” He says, voice frayed.

“I’ve got you,” you answer.

You push his jeans down his hips, helping him step out of them, leaving him in soft, worn boxers. Everything below that, you treat like it’s just him. No lingering in a way that makes him feel examined. Just a natural continuation of undressing someone you intend to hold.

You guide him to sit on the edge of the bed and drop to a crouch to deal with his socks, your fingers wrapping around his ankles, his calves. Even here, you don’t waste the chance.

“I love these legs,” you say, a small smile in your voice. “Because they always bring you back to me. No matter where you go.”

He huffs something that might be a laugh or a choked sound. Maybe both.

You strip the last sock off and smooth your hands up over his shins, then back to his knees, rising as you go until you’re standing between his parted thighs again.

He’s down to skin and scars and metal and the thin barrier of soft fabric.

You’re still dressed, and somehow that makes him feel less exposed, not more. Like you’ve chosen to put all the focus on him tonight.

You reach out, cupping his face in your hands.

“I love your ridiculously pretty eyes,” you say, and he actually snorts at that. Your thumbs brush under them, gentle. “Even when you roll them at me. I love the way they crinkle when you laugh. I love the lines we’re getting here—“ you tap lightly at the corners “—because it means we’re getting years. Together.”

That hits him somewhere deep and aching.

“And I love this mouth,” you add more quietly, your thumbs sliding to his jaw, your gaze dropping to his lips. “For all the things it says and all the things it doesn’t. For the way you say my name. For the way you’ve learned to ask. For the way you kiss me like you’re still trying to memorize how.”

He swallows.

“You’re…something else,” he manages.

“I’m yours,” you say simply. “And you are so loved, Bucky. More than you know. More than you think you deserve. More than you’re ever going to talk me out of.”

The words land like a series of carefully placed blows — each one knocking loose a little more of the armor he wears out of habit.

He doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until you catch one in both of yours.

Your fingers wrap around his, firm and steady.

“I love these hands,” you murmur, bringing his knuckles to your mouth. You press a kiss to each one, flesh and metal alike. “Because they still choose to do good ones. Because they make coffee and fix leaky sinks and pet cats and hold me when I cry. Because they’re careful even when you don’t feel like you are.”

His chest feels too tight and too open at the same time.

“I love you,” you finish, right there, no hedging, no softening. “Exactly like this. Right now. Not some future version. Not some cleaned-up idea. You.”

He’s not sure when his vision blurred, but there’s heat at the backs of his eyes, and his throat refuses to work properly.

“Say it again,” he hears himself rasp.

You don’t hesitate.

“I love you, Bucky Barnes.”

His jaw clenches. His fingers curl around yours like they’re afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

“Today, tomorrow,” you whisper, leaning in, your forehead pressing against his. “I’d pick you every day.”

He inhales sharply.

And then, finally, the fight goes out of him.

He lets himself tip back when you press him gently, your hands guiding him until he’s stretched out along the mattress. You climb after him, bracing one knee on the bed, hands never leaving his skin — one on his chest, feeling his heart, the other on his arm, where metal meets flesh.

“Let me worship you for a while,” you murmur, mouth ghosting over his. “Let me show you what I see.”

He doesn’t argue.

He lets you kiss him slow, lets the warmth of your body sink into his, lets every word you just said soak into all the places that still feel cold. Your hands move over him in long, reverent strokes — chest, shoulders, arm, ribs — like a litany you’re learning by touch.

Every insecurity he’s ever had, you find and smooth over with lips and fingers and quiet promises: You are not a weapon to me. You are not too much. You are not too broken. You are mine. I am yours. You are loved.

At some point the words blur into sound, into breath, into the press of your body against his as the evening shifts from worship into something deeper, more desperate.

You love him with your hands and mouth and the slow, deliberate way you move against him until all he can do is feel. Until his thoughts burn away and there’s nothing left but you and the bed and the soft lamplight and the wild, impossible truth that he is still here, still wanted.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The room is quiet in that way it only ever gets after.

The string of lights on the wall still throw a soft circle of light over the bed, catching on the faint sheen of sweat on his chest and the mess of sheets twisted around your legs. The rest of the quarters are dim, distant — just the low hum of the Tower through the walls, the occasional distant thump of someone moving on another floor.

You’re half sprawled over him, cheek pressed to the center of his chest, one leg hooked lazy over his thigh. His arm — flesh — is wrapped around your back, hand splayed between your shoulder blades. The vibranium one lies heavy and still along your waist, fingers resting at your hip like an anchor.

His heartbeat is finally slowing, thump-thump-thump steady under your ear.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

You just breathe together. His chest rises, your cheek lifts with it. His fingers trace idle patterns on your skin, your thumb strokes absentmindedly at the inside of his wrist where that little bracelet sits, warm from his body heat.

You could stay like this forever.

He’s the one who breaks first.

“Y’know,” he rasps, voice low and wrecked, “if this is what birthdays are now…I might stop pretending I don’t have one.”

You smile into his skin.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.” His fingers flex at your back. “Think I’ve been missin’ out.”

You shift, just enough to turn your head and press a slow kiss over his sternum. His breath stutters, then steadies again.

“Good,” you murmur. “That’s kind of the point.”

He huffs a quiet almost-laugh, but there’s a tension under it that wasn’t there a second ago. You feel it in the way his chest tightens under your cheek, the way his hand pauses mid-stroke before starting again.

You know that rhythm by now. The way his brain circles back to things once the heat burns off and there’s nothing between him and the thoughts he’s been dodging.

“Bucky?” you ask softly.

“Yeah.”

You tilt your head enough to look up at him. His hair’s a mess, dark against the pillow. His eyes are on the ceiling, unfocused, jaw tight like he’s bracing.

“Where’d you go?” you ask.

He’s quiet for a long beat.

Then he exhales through his nose, slow.

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Today,” he says. “You. Them. All of it.”

You lift yourself up onto your elbow so you can really see him. The string lights paint his face in soft gold — the lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint crease between his brows, the way his mouth is set like he’s trying not to give anything away and failing.

You slide your hand up, resting your palm over his heart.

“Talk to me.”

He swallows. You feel it under your hand, the little jump of his swallow against your fingers.

“I, uh…” He breaks off, a humorless little huff leaving him. “This is the part where I’m supposed to say some normal, well-adjusted thing, right?”

You snort quietly.

“Have you met you?”

“Unfortunately.”

His mouth twitches, but his eyes stay serious.

“I don’t…” He frowns, searching for words. “I don’t really know how to do this part. The ‘I had a good day and it didn’t feel like a trap’ speech.”

“Start there,” you say. “That’s already a pretty big sentence.”

His gaze flicks down to yours. You hold it. You’re not pushing. You’re just there, in his space, warm and steady and painfully, stubbornly patient.

He looks away first.

“The party,” he says finally, voice quieter. “That was a lot.”

You nod.

“I know.”

“I kinda hated it,” he adds.

You smile softly.

“I know.”

He hesitates.

“I also…kinda didn’t.”

There it is.

Your chest aches a little.

“Tell me.”

He’s quiet for a beat, thumb moving in slow circles at the small of your back.

“I walked in and every old instinct I’ve got lit up,” he admits. “Too bright, too loud, too many people moving at once. Felt like my brain was two seconds from calling it and dragging us outta there.”

“I was willing to go,” you say. “You know that, right? I meant what I said.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says immediately. “I know you did. That’s…” His jaw works. “That’s kinda what kept me there.”

You blink.

“Yeah?”

He nods, still staring somewhere above you.

“Didn’t feel like I was trapped. Felt like I was choosing. ‘Cause you gave me an out. You always—” He stops, scrubs his flesh hand over his face, then lets it fall again. “You always give me a way out that doesn’t feel like I’m failing.”

Your throat gets a little tight.

“Bucky…”

“I’m serious,” he mutters. “You…you get that? How big that is for me?”

You shift closer, pressing your body along his, your hand sliding up to cradle the side of his neck.

“I do,” you say.

He huffs, frustrated with his own words.

“I don’t—I’m not used to people lettin’ me have…boundaries.” The word sounds awkward on his tongue, like a new language. “Not like that. Not where I can say ‘this is too much’ and it doesn’t turn into an argument or a mission parameter I get overruled on or—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

You smooth your thumb along his throat, soothing.

“Or a punishment,” you finish quietly.

His eyes flick to yours again, sharp and a little wounded. You don’t look away.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Or that.”

The silence stretches for a second, full and heavy. Then he blows out a breath.

“It was weird. Standing in there with all of ‘em. Hearing ‘happy birthday’ and not…” He trails off, searching. “Not flinching ‘cause I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

You swallow.

“You didn’t expect to feel that. Or, well, not feel that…”

He lets out a rough little laugh.

“Doll, for a long time, the only people who remembered this day did it to remind me I was theirs. A useful piece of inventory.” His gaze goes distant for half a heartbeat, then clears. “If they marked it at all, it was just a box on a chart. One more thing they owned.”

Your hand tightens on him, just a bit. He notices. His metal fingers flex at your hip in answer, the subtle weight grounding both of you.

“Then afterward,” he goes on, voice softer, “I started forgetting on purpose. ‘Cause every year I made it felt like an accident. Just another thing that happened to me, not something I had any say in. It was easier to just move on. Pretend it was any other day.”

“And now?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

He’s quiet for a long moment.

“Now,” he says eventually, “I’m lying here in a bed I share with someone who bought glitter and let Alexei near confetti…all for me.”

You snort in spite of everything.

“A dangerous act of love.”

“Reckless, really,” he agrees, mouth tugging up for a second before flattening again. “And I got a cake with crooked writing on it, and a bracelet that says I’m not alone, and earplugs from a woman who pretends she doesn’t give a shit about any of us.” His lips twitch. “And I got you, crawling outta bed at the ass crack of dawn to bring me coffee and spend the whole day running around making sure every person in that room showed up with something that would mean something to me.”

Your eyes sting.

“And then,” he adds, voice dropping, “I come home with you and you…you do this.” His hand lifts, vague, encompassing the bed, the room, your bodies still pressed together. “You say all those things. You…touch me like that. You tell me you love the parts I’ve spent my whole fuckin’ life trying not to look at.”

“Bucky—”

“I don’t get it,” he blurts, and it’s not sharp, it’s raw. Honest. “I don’t…I don’t know what version of me you’re seeing in your head, but it sure as hell ain’t the file I’ve got.”

You sit up a little more, straddling one of his legs now, so you can cup his face in both hands. His stubble scrapes your palms, his eyes are bright, guarded and glassy all at once.

“I’m looking at you,” you say. “Right now. This you. The one in front of me. Not some cleaned-up fantasy. Not a mission report. Not a file. You.”

He swallows, throat bobbing against your thumbs.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs. “I keep…trying to believe it.”

“You don’t have to try tonight,” you say. “Just let it sit there. You can doubt it tomorrow if you want. But right now, let it exist.”

He stares at you like you’re asking him to walk off a ledge and promising he’ll fly.

“I don’t know how to do that,” he admits.

Your heart twists.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I’ll go first.”

You lean in and brush your lips over his, just a brief touch, more grounding than anything else.

“I love you,” you whisper. “I love you when you’re good. I love you when you’re grumpy and suspicious and pacing the tower like a haunted cat. I love you when you wake up from nightmares and stare at the ceiling for an hour thinking I don’t notice. I love you when you’re laughing with Yelena over something stupid, when you don’t toss Alexei out the nearest window, when you’re quiet with Ava, when you let John win an argument because you know he needs it, when you listen to Bob ramble even though you could walk away.”

His eyes close, lashes damp.

“I love you when you’re soft,” you go on, voice barely more than a breath. “When you tuck your chin on my head in crowded places so I feel safe. When you stand between me and doors without thinking about it. When you make my coffee the way I like it even if you’re not having any. When you let me put those stupid fairy lights up because they make me happy even though you’d rather sleep in the dark.”

He huffs something that might be a laugh and might be a sob.

“And I love you when you’re not okay,” you add. “When you snap. When you shut down. When you don’t have the words yet. When you flinch at your own reflection. When you need to leave a room and you don’t know how to say it. None of that makes you less worthy of this.” You squeeze his face gently, making sure he’s looking at you. “Of cake, and glitter, and people singing badly, and me…” Your voice shakes. “Me laying you down and telling you every single thing about you that I adore until your brain finally stops trying to argue with me.”

His breath shudders out of him.

“You keep saying you don’t understand why I love you,” you finish softly. “But maybe you don’t have to. Maybe it’s enough that I do.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is his breathing.

Then he laughs.

It’s a broken little sound, wet and shaky at the edges, but it’s real. He lifts one hand — the metal one — and covers yours where they cradle his face, his fingers dwarfing yours, the cool plates a contrast to your warm skin.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says hoarsely. “You know that?”

You smile through the heat in your eyes.

“Bit late to worry about that now.”

He snorts, then goes quiet again.

When he speaks next, his voice is rougher. Smaller.

“I, uh…” He looks away for half a second, then drags his gaze back to yours like it costs him. “I know I don’t say it enough. Or at the right times. Or the right way.”

You shake your head. “You say it, Bucky. All the time. Just not always with words.”

“Yeah, well.” His mouth twists. “I wanna say it now. Out loud. So you don’t ever have to wonder.”

Your breath catches.

He takes a moment, gathering himself. His fingers tighten on your hand, his eyes searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“I love you,” he says.

No hesitation. No qualifiers.

It hits you like a physical thing.

“I love you,” he repeats, like he wants there to be no misunderstanding. “More than I thought I was still capable of. More than I wanna admit most days ‘cause it scares the hell outta me.” His throat works. “And it…it scares me how good today felt. ‘Cause that means I want more of it.”

Your chest feels too full.

“I want…” He swallows. “I want more birthdays with you. More mornings. More stupid parties with bad cake and worse singing. More nights where you touch me like you did and say things like that about a guy who spent most of his life being told he was nothin’ but a weapon.”

You can’t stop the tears now. They slip hot and silent down your cheeks.

“I don’t know what I did to get this,” he admits. “To get you. To get them. To get a day that didn’t feel like something I was surviving.” He exhales, shaky. “But I know I don’t wanna go back.”

You lean down and kiss him, slow and sure, letting every bit of what you feel pour into it. He kisses you back like a man clutching a lifeline he’s finally decided he’s allowed to hold.

When you pull back, your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling.

“You’re not going back,” you whisper. “You hear me? This is your life now. Messy, loud, glittery, emotionally confusing. Mine. Yours. Ours. You get to keep it.”

His eyes slip shut. A tear slides from the corner of one. You catch it with your thumb.

“Happy birthday, Bucky,” you say softly. “I’m really, really glad you were born.”

He lets out a long, helpless breath, like something inside him finally, finally unclenches.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice wrecked but settled. He turns his head just enough to press a kiss into your palm. “For the first time in a long time…me too.”

You smile, climbing down to curl back into his side, tucking yourself into the space over his heart where you belong. His arms come around you automatically, holding you close like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.

You can feel his pulse under your cheek, steady and strong.

He breathes in the scent of your hair, the faint lingering sweetness of cake and your skin and the day you built for him, and for the first time he can remember, the thought that comes isn’t I made it.

It’s I want more.

As the room settles around you, soft and dim and safe, his voice rumbles low through his chest.

“Hey,” he mutters.

“Yeah?” you murmur back, already half-asleep in the warmth of him.

“Next year,” he says, like he’s making a decision. “Same thing. You, me, bad cake. Maybe less confetti.”

You smile against his skin, heart stuttering in that happy, aching way.

“It’s a date.”

He squeezes you closer.

“Happy birthday to me,” he says under his breath, like he can’t quite believe he means it.

You toe off your shoes with a shaky breath.

You don’t even have the strength to call out I’m home.

Bucky finds you anyway—he always does.

“Doll?” He rounds the corner, drying his hands on a kitchen towel, and the moment he sees your face he drops it to the floor. “Hey, hey. What happened?”

You try for a shrug but it collapses halfway. “Just… tired. Bad day. Everything sucks. I wanna evaporate.”

Bucky steps in front of you, hands warm as they cradle your cheeks and tilt your head up. “You look dead on your feet.” His thumb sweeps under your eye. “Did you eat? At all?”

You blink. That’s answer enough.

He sighs, but it’s soft—so soft it almost breaks you. “C’mere.”

He pulls you into his chest and the moment his arms wrap around you, your body caves. You melt into him like gravity finally won. His hoodie smells like laundry soap and home and Bucky, and the relief of being held after days of forcing yourself upright makes your eyes sting.

“I just want today to be over,” you whisper into his sternum.

Bucky kisses the top of your head. “It’s already over, sweetheart. You’re with me now. I got you.”

But then it hits: a sharp, sudden spasm in your right hand. It jerks violently, fingers twitching like they’ve been shocked. You gasp and pull back, staring at it like it betrayed you.

“Hey.” Bucky catches your wrist gently. “What’s that?”

“I—I don’t know,” you say, breath picking up. “It just started. I’m so tired, Buck, I feel weird—”

“Okay, okay, slow down.” He cups your hand between both of his, grounding. “It’s just exhaustion, baby. Your body’s been redlining for weeks. Caffeine instead of food, four hours of sleep a night—this is it cashing the check.”

You swallow hard. “It feels scary.”

“I know.” His voice drops to that low, steady warmth that always cuts through your panic. “But I’m right here. Nothing bad’s happening. Let me take care of you.”

He leads you to the couch, guiding you down like you might break. Your twitching hand is still held carefully between his palms; every time it jumps, he soothes it with a slow stroke.

“Hydration first,” he murmurs. “Your muscles are screaming for it.”

He grabs your water bottle, twists it open, and holds it to your lips. You take a few sips, then more when he gives you that look. The one that says please listen to me.

When you’re done, he pushes your hair back and studies your face with worried eyes.

“You’ve been burning yourself alive trying to keep up,” he says quietly. “And I’m proud of you, really—but you can’t keep doing this alone. Let me be here for the messy parts too.”

The words crack something fragile inside you.

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me?” He huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Sweetheart, you’re my whole damn world. You being exhausted is not a bother. You suffering silently is.”

You look down at your twitching hand, which has finally started to ease under his warmth. “I just didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it.”

Bucky leans forward until his forehead rests against yours.

“Needing rest doesn’t mean you can’t handle things. It means you’re human.” His fingers lace with yours carefully. “And if your body’s shutting down, we listen to it. Together.”

You exhale shakily. He kisses your knuckles.

“Lie down,” he whispers, pulling you gently into his lap. “Let me hold you. No thinking, no classes, no professors. Just you and me.”

You curl against him, head on his chest, his metal hand stroking your back in slow, steady lines while his other hand keeps yours warm and still. The twitching fades. Your breathing evens. His heartbeat settles you in a way nothing else can.

“I’ve got dinner warming,” he murmurs against your hair. “And after you eat, you’re going straight to bed. I’ll be right beside you all night.”

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, baby.”

“Thank you. For seeing me.”

His grip tightens around your waist. “Always.”

You’re halfway through your cup of coffee when you finally notice the decorations.

They’re subtle, but unmistakable: a banner of tiny red hearts strung between two overhead beams in the Tower lounge, a glittery centerpiece awkwardly jammed into the vase of always-dying flowers, and — most ridiculous of all — a massive glass bowl sitting on the counter, filled to the brim with pastel conversation hearts.

You cock your head, squinting at the crooked placement of a foam “Be Mine” sign stuck behind it.

“Bob,” you mutter, amused.

You drift closer, fingertips brushing the rim of the bowl. You can’t help it — you pluck a candy heart from the pile. It’s cracked down the middle, faded text barely readable: “TOO HOT”.

A quiet huff of laughter slips out. Figures.

You pop it in your mouth, immediately regretting it. Chalky, dry, artificial watermelon maybe?

“You’re gonna break a tooth on those,” comes a voice behind you.

You turn.

Bucky’s leaning in the doorway, arms folded, black T-shirt clinging to his chest, hair just barely tied back like he gave up halfway through doing it. He looks tired. Still gorgeous. And he’s watching you like he always does — like he’s taking inventory of every blink, every shift of your expression, every bite you take.

“Then I’ll sue Bob,” you grin, crunching the candy loudly between your teeth. “Emotional damages too.”

One of his eyebrows lifts. “I’ll back you up.”

He’s smiling faintly, but there’s something behind his eyes — something flickering and unsure.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The peace doesn’t last.

First it’s Ava, slinking into the lounge like she’s just here for coffee but can’t resist muttering, “Jesus Christ. Did Cupid vomit in here?”

Then John shows up, dead silent, just nodding once in acknowledgment before taking a chair and popping candy hearts one by one like they’re punishment. Yelena trails in behind him, eyeing the decorations like they’ve personally offended her, and yet somehow she finds the glitter cannon Bob left behind and fires it into the ceiling.

But it’s Alexei who truly sets things off.

He barrels into the lounge with his usual booming energy and zero sense of subtlety. His coat is already off, tossed haphazardly onto a random chair. There’s a platter of pink-frosted cookies in his hands — store-bought, slightly smushed — and a proud grin on his face like he’s just saved the day.

“We are having a party!” he declares.

Bucky, who’s still leaning by the door like he might bolt at any second, stiffens visibly.

“A what?” you ask, trying not to laugh.

“A Valentine’s Day party! For the team! Because we are all sad and emotionally repressed!” Alexei plants the cookie tray on the counter beside the candy hearts. “Except you two.” He waves vaguely in your direction, then turns to the rest. “But the rest of us—pathetic! Tonight, we drink. We dance. We suffer together.”

You bite back a smile, glancing at Bucky.

He looks...betrayed.

“We don’t have to do this, right?” he mutters under his breath, low enough that only you catch it.

“I dunno,” you whisper, nudging his arm. “You might have to suffer.”

His gaze drops to you. The corners of his mouth twitch. But there’s still that flicker of something in his expression — an edge of discomfort he’s trying to mask.

As Alexei launches into a loud, rambling breakdown of how the evening will go (“Drinks at 7. Karaoke at 8. Tearful confessions by 10. Maybe brawl by 11.”), Bucky leans closer to you.

“This is gonna be a disaster,” he mutters.

But he hasn’t moved. And he’s still standing close. Close enough that your shoulder brushes his.

And when you glance up at him, you could swear — just for a second — he looks like he’s trying not to smile.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You’ve never seen this many shades of red in one room.

The Tower lounge has been fully transformed. Red string lights buzz weakly above, casting everything in a warm but suspicious glow. Yelena found yet another glitter cannon. Heart-shaped confetti is everywhere. No, really. Everywhere. You’ve found it on the couch, in your boots, in Bucky’s hair.

He still hasn’t forgiven you for laughing at that.

Bob’s responsible for the music. A full playlist blaring from a cheap Bluetooth speaker tucked behind a plant. So far, it’s been three power ballads, one 90s breakup anthem, and something that might’ve been a Skrillex remix of “My Heart Will Go On.”

John’s in the corner playing darts with candy hearts and looking vaguely like he wishes this were a mission. Yelena’s nursing a drink and watching everything with amused disapproval. Ava is somehow beating Alexei at drunken arm-wrestling, and he’s demanding a rematch.

“I was distracted by your devastatingly beautiful aura,” he cries. “Start over!”

You and Bucky are huddled near the snack table, caught somewhere between observer and participant. You can feel the tension in his body — like he’s waiting for something to explode. Possibly himself.

You nudge a glittery glass toward him. “Drink?”

“I’m not drinking anything that sparkles,” he mutters, eyeing the pink cocktail with deep suspicion.

You’re grinning. “You survived Hydra. You can survive Bob’s Cupid Cosmo.”

He looks down at you, faintly exasperated, faintly fond. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

Another song kicks in — something cheesy, something undeniably romantic — and suddenly Alexei’s yelling, “DANCE TIME!” while dragging Yelena toward the cleared space in the middle of the room that apparently now qualifies as a dance floor.

Bucky winces. “I vote we leave.”

You laugh, catching his wrist when he turns. “You sure you don’t wanna dance?”

He freezes at the touch. Looks at you.

You expect another dry, sarcastic reply. But instead — something flickers in his expression. His gaze softens. His jaw tics.

“I was actually gonna ask you that later,” he says quietly.

Your heart skips.

But then he clears his throat, looking away.

“Before all this,” he adds, vaguely gesturing toward Alexei, who is now trying to convince Bob to do a trust fall.

You smile slowly. “You still can, y’know.”

He meets your eyes again — and this time, he doesn’t look away.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You catch the shift before you fully register it.

One second, Bucky’s at your side — stoic, twitchy, sipping a drink he still insists he doesn’t like. The next?

Gone.

No word. No sound. Just…missing.

You blink. Glance toward the door. He’s not there. You frown, scanning the room.

Where the hell did he go?

You’re just about to excuse yourself to find him when a very large arm hooks around your shoulders and hauls you backward into a chest that smells like cologne, cookies, and chaos.

“THERE YOU ARE!” Alexei bellows. “We need one more person or the game doesn’t work!”

You're pulled toward the couch, where Bob is giggling over a deck of novelty cards, Yelena is watching with narrowed eyes like she's calculating which limb to break first, and John Walker is already regretting every life decision that led him to this moment.

“What even is this?” you ask warily.

Bob beams. “It’s a team-building Valentine’s Day icebreaker! I got it at the pop-up in the street!”

Yelena snorts. “You mean the one with the discount lingerie display and the chocolate lube samples?”

Ava shrugs. “Love takes many forms.”

“I want a refund,” John mutters.

Alexei throws a fuzzy red heart pillow at him. “No refunds! Only romance! Now—circle up!”

You hesitate, casting one last look toward the hallway where Bucky vanished. But Alexei’s already dragging you down between Ava and Bob, and someone puts a pink boa around your neck for reasons unknown. Yelena is now holding a card that says, in aggressive glitter script: “TRUTH OR DARE, LOVEBIRDS.”

“Dare.” John sighs.

“I dare you,” Yelena declares, with far too much glee, “to eat a candy heart off Ava’s boot.”

Ava doesn’t even blink. She kicks her leg onto the coffee table and drops a green heart dead center. It says “LUV U.”

You nearly choke laughing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Alexei is on the floor by now — possibly asleep, possibly preparing to recite Russian poetry to the couch cushions. Yelena has a crown of confetti on her head like she’s been anointed Queen of the Bullshit. Bob has started humming the Titanic theme in the background. No one knows why.

You feel it.

A shift in the air. A tug on your awareness.

You glance up.

Bucky’s back.

He’s hovering near the edge of the lounge — not in the doorway, but not quite inside either. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like he’s been thinking too hard about something. His hands are in his pockets. His jaw tight. But when his eyes meet yours, something softens.

You’re already half-rising when he makes his way to you. No one else seems to notice.

He leans in close, his voice barely above a murmur beneath the laughter and shouting.

“Hey. Can I—” He hesitates, gaze flicking to the group, then back to you. “Can I steal you?”

Your heart flips.

He looks nervous. And serious. Like this matters to him more than he wants to admit.

You nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

He steps back, just enough for you to rise, and you follow him out of the lounge — leaving behind the noise, the glitter, and Alexei’s loud snoring.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The moment the door to your quarters swings open, you know something’s different.

The lights are off, but it isn’t dark. Soft candlelight flickers from within, golden and warm, casting shadows across the walls and pooling on the floor like spilled honey.

Your breath catches as you spot them.

Rose petals.

A trail of them, scattered with delicate care from the entryway to the bedroom, and beyond. Reds and pinks and a few white ones too, like he couldn’t decide on a colour scheme and gave up halfway through.

You step forward slowly, heart rising into your throat. Bucky stays behind you — close enough to feel the weight of his presence, but not touching.

Like he’s letting you take it in first. Letting you decide.

You follow the petal path into the bedroom.

Oh.

It’s glowing.

More candles line the windowsill, the dresser, the nightstand. Their light dances on the walls, glimmering over the sheets, over the floor, until it leads to the bathroom.

Steam fogs the glass, the door cracked open just enough to spill the warm scent of vanilla and something deeper — woodsy, grounding. You ease it open with trembling fingers.

And there it is.

The tub is full, bubbling gently, lit from all sides by more candlelight. There are more rose petals floating on the surface. A bottle  and two glasses sit nearby. The air is warm, inviting, private. A little dreamy. A little unreal.

You turn slowly, and he’s right there.

Bucky’s jaw is tight, his arms loose at his sides like he’s ready to bolt if you don’t say something soon. He won’t meet your eyes — not yet. He looks like a soldier bracing for orders he knows he won’t like.

“I didn’t know how to do this,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t sure what would feel right. Or...too much. Or not enough. I just—” His voice breaks off. He shrugs. “I wanted to try.”

You just stare at him for a beat, chest tightening around your ribs.

“Oh, Bucky,” you whisper.

His eyes flick up.

You take a step closer. Then another. Until you’re close enough to reach out, press your palm flat to his chest, feel the heartbeat underneath.

“This is amazing.”

Finally he breathes. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.

When his hand comes up to cradle your cheek, it’s warm — not just from the heat of the room, but from him. Rough fingertips brush along your jaw, thumb tracing just below your lip as if committing it to memory. Like he might forget what it feels like if he doesn’t touch it now.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

The kiss starts soft.

Not shy. Just...steady. Grounding. His lips against yours with purpose and patience, not claiming you like a man starving — but savouring you like he finally has time. Like this is the first Valentine’s he’s ever let himself have. Ever let himself want.

You lean into it. Let it stretch long and quiet. Let it deepen with the sound of his sigh against your mouth.

When you pull back, his forehead presses to yours.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he whispers.

His fingers slide over the hem of your shirt. He lifts it gently, eyes tracking every inch of skin revealed as though he’s unwrapping something rare.

You let him.

His hands don’t tremble — they linger. Over your hips. Along your ribs. He kneels briefly to help you out of your pants, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee on the way back up, like it’s instinct.

And then you do the same.

You slowly tug his shirt up and over his head. Feel his chest rise with each breath. Run your palms down the curve of his arms — his flesh one, his metal one — feeling him all the way down.

He watches you undress him like he can’t believe it’s real.

And then there you are. Both of you. Bare to the candlelight. To the steam rising from the bath.

To each other.

His voice is low when he speaks again, almost reverent. “You still sure?”

You nod, throat thick. “Always.”

He reaches for your hand.

“Then come in with me.”

The tub welcomes you with a sigh of steam, skin slipping into the heat as Bucky settles behind you, pulling you into the cradle of his thighs.

His arms find your waist. Your hips. You lean back against him, and for a moment, it’s quiet — just the sound of water shifting around your bodies, candlelight flickering along the tile, and the steady rhythm of his breath against your neck.

But his hands don’t stay still.

They wander.

Slowly. Reverently. One calloused palm slides up your stomach, under the surface, until he’s cupping you — thumb just grazing the underside of your breast, while his lips press to the place where your neck meets your shoulder.

You arch slightly, back pressing to his chest.

“This okay?” he murmurs, voice low and rough in your ear.

You nod, humming softly.

His vibranium hand slides down, curling around your thigh beneath the water. His thumb strokes gently along the inside — then firmer. Higher.

Your breath hitches.

“You feel that?” he whispers, mouth grazing your jaw now. “How warm you are for me?”

He shifts behind you, adjusting just enough to slide your legs open further between his — cradling you in his lap like something to be unraveled.

His fingers are a study in restraint.

They stroke gently at first, grazing between your thighs, dipping just enough to make you whimper — then retreating. Over and over. A tormenting rhythm beneath the water, made worse by the fact that you can’t see anything.

You can only feel him.

“You’re squirming,” he murmurs against your neck, voice rough, full of dark amusement. “You that needy for it already, doll?”

Your hips twitch in answer.

He presses a kiss just beneath your ear. “You gonna come like this? In the water? Just from my fingers?”

But you don’t answer.

Not with words.

Instead, you shift.

You reach for the rim of the tub with one hand, the other bracing against his chest, and slowly — deliberately — you rise onto your knees, turning in the water until you’re facing him.

Until you’re straddling his lap, skin flushed from heat and arousal and the way his jaw goes slack when he realizes what you’re doing.

His hands catch your hips. Hard.

“You—”

“You’ve been teasing me,” you murmur, mouth ghosting over his. “I think it’s my turn.”

He swallows hard. “Fuck.”

You settle into his lap, slow and sure, grinding against the hard length of him under the water. The way he groans — low and guttural, like the sound’s been building in his chest all night — makes your toes curl.

Candlelight dances off his cheekbones. Steam curls in his hair. His eyes stay locked on yours like he’s trying to memorize every second.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

The water moves with you, rippling around your thighs as you roll your hips in his lap — teasing him, torturing him, making him feel just how ready you are.

His grip on your hips tightens.

“You keep doing that,” he growls, “and I’m not gonna last long enough to take my time.”

You lean in, lips brushing his as you whisper, “Then don’t.”

That’s all it takes.

One hand braces under your thigh while the other slips between you both — lining himself up, eyes locked on yours like a vow. And then he’s there. Pressing into you.

Slow. Thick. Deep.

You moan — more like a gasp, like your whole body stutters at the stretch of him. His head falls back, mouth parted, jaw clenched like he’s trying to hold on by a thread.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You feel…so fuckin’ good.”

You settle fully onto him, hips grinding down, water sloshing up the sides of the tub. Candlelight flickers wildly, casting your silhouettes in gold.

Then you start to move.

Your hands grip his shoulders. His slide down your back, your waist, everywhere. Every glide of your hips sends another groan from his throat, every clench around him earns you a muttered curse, a praise, a plea.

“Look at you,” he whispers, eyes glazed and reverent. “Look at you riding me like you own me.”

And you do.

Right now, in this bath, in this moment — he’s yours.

He meets your rhythm, rising to meet every thrust, every roll, fingers splayed across your back as he gasps against your mouth.

“Gonna come, baby. You’re gonna come for me first, yeah? Wanna feel you lose it around me—wanna feel how pretty you sound when you fall apart.”

And when your body gives in — heat flooding, pulse stuttering, thighs trembling around him — he holds you through it.

Then he follows.

With a broken sound and a kiss that says thank you.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He helps you out of the tub with slow, careful hands.

There’s no rush anymore. Just quiet. Steam still clinging to the air, your limbs loose with afterglow, your heart beating like it’s been kissed from the inside out.

He wraps you in a towel first — pressing it gently to your skin, drying you with reverent strokes. Then one for himself. Then he scoops you into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

No teasing. No smugness.

Just Bucky.

Soft-eyed, silent, carrying you down the petal trail he made himself.

The bed is already turned down. The sheets are warm from the room’s glow. He lays you there like you’re made of something fragile and priceless, then slips in beside you — pulling the blanket up, tucking you in, wrapping himself around you like a shield.

Your back pressed to his chest. His hand flat against your stomach. His nose tucked into the curve of your neck, still damp hair brushing your skin.

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then—

“I didn’t know if I could do it right,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Valentine’s. All of it. I didn’t even know if I should.”

You turn in his arms, facing him. Your hand rests against his chest, over the slow, steady thud of his heart.

“You did it right,” you whisper. “You do every day.”

His eyes shine in the candlelight.

He leans forward. Kisses your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your lips — slow and sure and sleepy.

And when he pulls back, he doesn’t let you go.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says, breath warm against your skin.

“Happy first of many,” you whisper back. “I love you, Buck.”

When you open the fridge, there’s a presence at your side. A solid warmth at your back. A tiny hand tugs the hem of your shirt.

“Hi,” Bucky says, like he hasn’t been caught red-handed.

You glance down. Both kids are standing directly behind you, eyes bright, one clutching a stuffed dinosaur, the other already crouching to sit on your foot like it’s assigned seating.

“…Why are you all in my personal bubble?” you ask gently.

Bucky shrugs. “You were walking.”

That is, apparently, explanation enough.

From the doorway, Sam lets out a low whistle. “Wow. Look at that formation.”

Natasha leans against the counter, arms crossed, smirk sharp. “Textbook imprinting.”

You turn, eyebrow raised. “I’m standing still.”

“And yet,” Steve says from the table, coffee in hand, “they remain.”

Bucky doesn’t even deny it. One arm slips around your waist automatically, chin hovering near your shoulder, like gravity itself has decided you’re the center of his universe.

The kids shuffle closer.

Sam grins. “Barnes, you and your offspring look like baby ducks following their mama.”

Bucky bristles. “Hey—”

Natasha points at you. “She walks, you walk. She stops, you stop. She breathes—”

“Okay, that one’s rude,” you interrupt, laughing.

But the thing is… it’s not wrong.

It gets worse over the course of the day.

You move to the living room to fold laundry. Within seconds, the couch is occupied. One kid on the floor leaning against your shin. The other halfway in your lap, pretending not to be. Bucky sprawled behind you, long legs bracketing your body, chin resting on your shoulder again like it belongs there.

You reach for a sock. A hand beats you to it.

“I got it,” Bucky murmurs, folding it with exaggerated care.

“You don’t know how to fold socks.”

“I’m learning,” he says, earnest.

Steve watches from the doorway, expression fond but amused. “You know, Buck, you don’t have to be attached at the hip.”

Bucky doesn’t look up. “I want to be.”

The kids nod solemnly, as if this is a deeply held family value.

Later, you head down the hallway to grab your tablet from the bedroom.

You hear the footsteps again.

Soft. Soft. Heavy.

You pause at the doorway and turn slowly.

All three of them stop.

Frozen.

Caught.

“…You’re following me,” you say.

Bucky blinks. “No.”

The kids blink too. In sync.

You lift a brow. “Really.”

Bucky exhales, defeated. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You step into the bedroom.

They follow.

Every single one.

The moment you sit on the bed, it’s chaos in the best way.

One kid climbs up beside you, immediately curling into your side. The other plops onto the floor with a dramatic sigh, back against the mattress, feet kicking gently. Bucky sits behind you, arms wrapping around your waist like muscle memory, pulling you back against his chest.

You laugh, overwhelmed and warm and full all at once. “Do any of you need something?”

Silence.

Then, softly, “No,” from Bucky.

The kids shake their heads.

Sam appears in the doorway, phone already up. “This is unbelievable.”

“Delete that,” Bucky warns.

Sam zooms in. “No way. This is going in the group chat under ‘Mama Duck and Her Flock.’”

Natasha leans on the doorframe, softer now. “You okay with this?” she asks you, genuinely.

You look down at the kid in your lap, fingers fisted in your shirt. At the other one leaning against the bed, completely content. At Bucky, chin resting on your shoulder, eyes half-closed like this is the safest place he’s ever known.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Bucky tightens his arms just a little.

Later that night, when the kids are finally asleep—one tucked into bed, the other passed out halfway through a story—you slip into the kitchen for a quiet moment.

You make it exactly three steps before arms wrap around you from behind.

“I didn’t mean to,” Bucky murmurs.

You smile. “I know.”

“I just… when you’re moving, I want to be where you are.”

You turn in his arms, hands settling against his chest. “You know you don’t have to follow me everywhere.”

He looks down at you, expression open and vulnerable and so very Bucky. “I know. I just want to.”

From the hallway, a small sleepy voice calls your name.

Another one echoes it.

You glance past him.

Bucky sighs, already resigned. “See?”

You laugh softly, kissing his cheek. “Come on, Duck Dad.”

He snorts. “Don’t call me that.”

But he follows you anyway.

“Oh no,” you say gently, padding over in your socks. “You look like someone who needs to be horizontal for at least twelve hours.”

He exhales a long breath, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Busy week,” he mutters. “Think my soul left my body around Wednesday.”

You hum sympathetically and then—smile.

“Perfect,” you say.

That gets his attention. He squints at you. “That tone scares me.”

“Don’t worry,” you say sweetly, already taking his hand and tugging him down the hallway. “I scheduled something very important.”

“What did you schedule?” he asks, suspicious.

“Our at-home spa day.”

He stops walking.

“…Our what.”

You turn, hands on hips, grinning like you’ve been waiting all week to spring this on him. “We’ve both been running on fumes. No missions. No emails. No being emotionally repressed. Just self-care.”

Bucky stares at you for a long moment.

Then, very quietly, “Am I allowed to nap.”

“Encouraged,” you reply.

He lets you drag him the rest of the way without protest.

The bathroom looks… different.

Candles are lit. The lights are dimmed. Soft music hums from a speaker on the counter—nothing fancy, just something calm and warm. There’s a fluffy towel folded on the sink, a basket of skincare products, and a suspiciously pink face mask packet sitting front and center.

Bucky eyes it like it might bite him.

“You’re not putting that on me,” he says immediately.

You hold it up. “It’s hydrating.”

“I don’t need hydration.”

“You’re literally seventy percent tension.”

He sighs, defeated already. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“…I do.”

You start with a shower—warm water, steam curling around the room, your fingers gentle as you help wash the week off his skin. He relaxes visibly under your touch, shoulders lowering inch by inch as you work shampoo through his hair, thumbs pressing lightly at the base of his skull.

He melts.

By the time you step out, wrapped in towels, he’s already quieter. Softer. Like his nervous system finally got the memo that it’s allowed to stand down.

You sit him on the edge of the tub and press a headband into his hands.

“What’s this.”

“So your hair doesn’t get wet.”

He stares at it.

It’s pink. With little clouds on it.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses.

“Immensely.”

He puts it on anyway.

You cleanse his face carefully, slow and deliberate, explaining each step like you’re hosting a tutorial. He keeps his eyes closed the entire time, trusting you completely, only flinching once when something feels cold.

“That’s toner,” you reassure. “It’s supposed to do that.”

“Mmm,” he hums, unconvinced but compliant.

Then comes the face mask.

You smooth it on with your fingers, trying not to laugh as he wrinkles his nose.

“I feel ridiculous,” he mutters.

“You look radiant.”

“You’re lying.”

“You’re glowing,” you insist. “Absolutely dewy.”

He cracks one eye open, catches your grin, and snorts despite himself. “You’re never letting me live this down, are you.”

“Absolutely not.”

You leave the masks on and guide him to the couch, where you pile blankets over both of you like you’re fortifying a nest. He sprawls immediately, head dropping into your lap with a quiet, content sigh.

There’s no tension left in him now. Just warmth. Familiarity. The steady rhythm of his breathing as your fingers drift through his hair.

“This… is nice,” he admits after a while.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “We should do this more.”

Your chest softens. “I know.”

When the timer goes off, he groans like you’ve personally betrayed him.

You peel the masks off, clean up, and then herd him back toward the bedroom, where fresh sheets wait and the world feels very far away.

He curls around you the second you lie down, metal arm careful, flesh hand warm at your waist. His forehead presses to yours.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “For today.”

You kiss his nose. “Anytime, Sergeant Spa Day.”

He huffs a laugh and tucks you closer.

Within minutes, he’s asleep.

Then shake your head.

Then shrug.

It’s messy, it’s contradictory, but it’s honest—so he treats it like the truth it is. He sits up, feet on the floor, giving you space while making it clear you have his full attention.

“Come here,” he says quietly. “If you want.”

You do. Slowly. Each step small, careful, like the floor might break beneath you. When you reach him, he doesn’t touch you—not yet. He waits. His breathing stays steady and audible, something you can match if you need to.

When your knees brush his, you whisper, “I think… I’m ready to try. Maybe.”

Bucky’s face changes—not surprise, not excitement, just a wave of tenderness so deep you feel it before you see it.

“Okay,” he says, voice hushed and reverent. “Thank you for telling me.”

Your throat tightens. “But if we do—you have to go slow. Really slow. And tell me everything. Before you—before anything.”

“I will,” he promises instantly. “I swear it. Nothing happens unless you say yes. And you can change your mind at any second. You say stop, and we stop. No questions, no guilt.”

Your shoulders drop, some quiet piece of tension easing.

He rises—slowly, deliberately—so you can track every movement. His palms lift, hovering near your arms.

“Can I touch you?” he asks.

You exhale. “Yes.”

His hands settle on your upper arms, warm and steady. No pulling. No guiding. Just there. Just grounding.

“Let’s sit,” he suggests, nodding toward the bed. “Only if you’re good with that.”

You let him take your hand—another permission asked, another permission given—and sit beside him. Your thigh presses faintly against his. He doesn’t adjust to close the gap, doesn’t shift to make it more. He stays exactly where you’ve allowed him.

Your fingers tremble. His don’t.

“Tell me what feels okay,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “Just… your hands. On me. But not—just here. Arms. Shoulders.”

“Alright.” His voice is so low it’s almost a heartbeat. “I’m gonna lift my hand to your shoulder now. You ready?”

You nod.

He moves slow enough that you see every inch of it. His fingertips barely graze your hoodie before pressing gently into your shoulder muscle, warm and firm. Your breath shudders, but not from fear—from relief.

“That okay?” he checks.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He rubs small, careful circles. “If anything changes, you tell me right away. Doesn’t matter how small.”

You lean into him without realizing it, your temple brushing his shoulder. A tiny moment, instinctive and fragile. Bucky freezes—not because he’s scared, but because he refuses to assume you want more.

“You leaning on me…” He whispers it like a question. “Is that okay for you?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Feels… nice.”

He melts a little.

“I’m glad,” he admits.

Minutes pass like that—quiet, slow, nothing but breathing and the faint brush of his thumb. His touch never roams further than you allow.

Then, softly: “Can I hold your waist? Just with one hand. Not pulling you anywhere.”

You think. You feel. You check your body, your pulse, your breath.

“Yes.”

He shifts—slow, slow, slow—and his hand cups your waist through the fabric, the weight of it protective rather than confining. The moment your breath hitches, he stills.

“Too much?”

“No,” you answer quickly. “No, it’s good. I just… it’s been a while.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so well. I’m proud of you for listening to yourself.”

You close your eyes, shoulders loosening further. You trust him. You know you do. And maybe tonight you can trust your own body again, too.

“Bucky,” you whisper, “can you… kiss me?”

He inhales sharply—not from shock, but from how carefully he treats the request.

“I’d love to,” he answers, thumb brushing the fabric at your hips. “I’m gonna lift your chin first so you can see me coming, okay?”

“Okay.”

His fingers come up—not fast, not even steady, but intentionally slow—until they rest beneath your jaw. He lifts your face just enough to meet his eyes.

“You’re safe,” he promises. “With me, with this, with everything. Nothing’s gonna happen that you don’t want.”

You nod, heart fluttering.

“I’m gonna lean in now,” he warns gently.

When he does, you feel every second of the movement. His lips press to yours in the softest shape—a kiss more like a vow than anything else.

It’s not hungry.

It’s not demanding.

It’s patient.

When you exhale into him, he lets out a shaky breath of his own, one he must’ve been holding while he waited for your reaction.

“That okay?” he murmurs against your lips.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “More?”

He smiles—small, relieved, adoring.

“I’ll give you anything you want, doll. Just keep telling me.”

You do. Every step of the way. Every touch, every pause, every place you need him to slow, to reassure, to breathe with you. And Bucky follows your lead with a devotion that never falters—asking, listening, adjusting, loving you with a patience you didn’t know you were allowed to receive.

Because tonight isn’t about getting back to what you used to have.