Yeah. That’ll do it.

You flop back into the pillow with an embarrassed groan—even that comes out as a pathetic puff of air. Beside you, Bucky stretches like a smug, over-satisfied cat, metal arm flexing as he rolls onto his back.

“Morning,” he says, voice deliciously rough. “How’s the throat?”

You glare at him. Or… you try. It probably looks more like a pout.

Nothing comes out when you try to respond—absolutely nothing—and Bucky bites back a grin like it’s actually causing him physical pain.

“Aww,” he coos, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Completely shot, huh?”

You smack his chest. It only makes him chuckle deeper.

“Not my fault you begged for it.” He kisses your forehead. “Twice.”

You point aggressively to the door. He knows damn well the team is expecting the two of you at breakfast. He also knows you can’t hide in bed without raising questions.

“Oh, c’mon,” he murmurs, rolling on top of you for a teasing kiss you barely allow. “They won’t notice.”

You give him the look.

He bursts out laughing. “Alright, fine—they’ll notice. I won’t say a word.”

But the glint in his eye says he’ll enjoy every second of it.

Breakfast is a disaster waiting to happen.

You’re barely seated before Sam squints at you. “You good? You sound like a ninety-year-old chain smoker.”

You try to reply, but it comes out as a whispery squeak—one that makes Sam’s eyes widen.

“Whoa. What the hell happened to you?”

Bucky takes a slow sip of his coffee. Smirks into the rim.

Nat tilts her head. “Allergies?”

You shake your head.

“Cold?” Steve adds.

Another head shake.

“Did you fall asleep with the fan on?” Wanda suggests helpfully.

You gesture vaguely—sort of? maybe? no?—you don’t know how to mime “my boyfriend rearranged my soul last night.”

Bucky reaches over and rests a very casual, very possessive hand on your thigh under the table. “She’ll be fine,” he says simply.

You elbow him. He squeezes your thigh. Hard.

“Barnes,” Natasha says suspiciously, eyes narrowing. “Why do you look like you know something?”

He shrugs, like the picture of innocence. “Do I?”

Sam’s gaze bounces between your flushed face and Bucky’s barely-restrained grin. “Hold on—wait—wait a minute.”

You shake your head violently. Nononononono—

Sam slaps the table. “Oh my GOD. You lost your voice from—”

You kick him. Or you try. He’s faster than he looks in the morning.

The blush burns your cheeks hot enough to cook an omelet. Bucky chuckles, drinking his coffee like he’s at a front-row comedy show.

Steve sighs into his plate. “Do we need to start a rule about noise levels in the compound?”

Wanda snorts. “I can make soundproofing spells if it’ll help.”

Nat smirks over her mug. “Or Bucky can simply learn moderation.”

Bucky raises a brow. “She didn’t seem to want moderation.”

You choke on absolutely nothing. If you had a voice, you’d be swearing at him.

Sam hollers. Steve mutters something about respecting communal spaces. Vision deadpans a suggestion about installing decibel monitors.

And Bucky? He just sits there. Calm. Smug. Fingers stroking slow circles on your inner thigh, hidden from view.

You swat his hand away under the table. He just puts it back.

The moment you’re alone—two steps inside the hallway—you whirl on him, mouthing curses.

He laughs. Actually laughs.

“Baby, you should’ve seen your face,” he says, pulling you close by the waist. “You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed.”

You smack his chest again.

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your wrist easily, guiding your hand up to his mouth to kiss your knuckles. “You wanna know something?”

You glare, waiting.

His lips brush your ear, voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “I could fuck you again right now and make sure you don’t get your voice back for a week.”

Your knees actually buckle.

He catches you, one arm steady around your waist. “But,” he adds, gentler now, “I’m gonna be good. Gonna make you tea. Gonna take care of that throat I ruined.”

You narrow your eyes, pointing to yourself. Shower gesture.

He nods. “Go ahead. I’ll bring you something warm.”

Then, right as you turn away, he smacks your ass—hard enough to make you jump.

“Pretty little thing,” he murmurs, watching you walk. “Should’ve known you’d get loud for me.”

You whirl around, mouthing something obscene.

He just grins wider. “Can’t hear you, doll.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re wrapped in a towel, sipping honey tea when he joins you.

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, tilting your chin up to inspect your throat like he’s a doctor.

“Mm,” he hums, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. “Still red.”

You swat him with a pillow.

He laughs and loops his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. “Hey,” he murmurs, kissing your hair. “You tell me to slow down next time, okay?”

You shake your head. Then shrug. Then tilt your hand—maybe keep going but also maybe not.

He bursts out laughing again.

“You’re impossible,” he says.

But the way he cups your face? The softness in his eyes when he presses his forehead to yours?

He’s already planning to buy you throat lozenges. Already planning soup. A movie. A nap.

And definitely, definitely planning round two when your voice comes back.

He kisses you, slow and sweet.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “Even when you sound like a squeaky toy.”

You elbow him in the ribs.

He kisses your forehead again.

She stood with a second gin and tonic in her hand, flowy short dress lightly moving with the evening breeze. The warm light next to the bar made her skin glow in this glittery, almost ominous shimmer that became visible when she relaxed. Yelena was stealing an olive from the barman’s stash behind the bar, and when it turned out to be too easy, she picked up the whole container and set it between them. Kate squinted at the intense smell and took a step back, making Yelena’s eyes roll.

People were scattered in different corners of the bar. A few of the guys sat on the tall chairs near the small dance floor; someone walked from one table to another looking for an easy chat. Sam, Joaquin, and Bucky stood on the opposite end, near the railing, which gave her a perfect view of how he relaxed. His blue eyes would travel across the room every now and then, silently checking in on her, but he did so while still smiling at something Sam said. Back still straight, but with shoulders a bit lower than a few hours ago; muscles almost straining his shirt, but not painfully so. One hand holding a beer that would have no effect on him, the other loosely tucked in his pocket. Utterly handsome.

“Stop ogling Barnes. He’s already your boyfriend,” Yelena muttered, chuckling, making her turn back to the bar. She didn’t hide the smile that grew on her face, just sipped on her drink. “Unusually calm, might I add. Didn’t threaten Walker yet.”

“Walker is harmless,” Ava appeared next to them, stealing an olive.

“You know what else is harmless? Having fun.” Kate downed her drink and jumped down from her high chair. “The DJ is playing bangers for a reason. Please, join me.” She pulled on her and Yelena’s hands, tugging them towards the dance floor.

“I don’t dance, Kate Bishop.”

“Oh for god’s sake, Yelena. Live a little,” Ava muttered, but took the spot near the bar instead.

The song changed. It was no longer a dance bop, but a dramatic opening with those staple drums and sax. Kate’s eyes opened wide, mouth splitting into a grin of excitement.

“Oh my GOD! This is our anthem!” Her hands started flying dramatically to the rhythm, acting like the conductor of an orchestra.

Her hips were already lightly swaying to the rhythm, but when the words “where the hell is my husband?” screamed at them, something clenched around her heart. A group of agents on the other side of the room started sing-screaming the words. Ava chuckled, Yelena nodded in respect.

“Honest words. Good song,” she muttered, but then lit up like a lightbulb. “Sparkles, you should sing it to your lover boy!”

“What?” She chuckled, forehead scrunching. “No way, Lena. That’s uncomfortable.”

“Can be, if he doesn’t want to marry you.” Kate swirled to the rhythm, but smiled sweetly.

Ava snorted at that. “Right. I bet he already rehearsed his speech and is just waiting. You’ve had that ‘married couple’ energy ever since I met you.”

Her throat tightened at that, and she swallowed, trying not to react.

“Go on, have fun. Sing it to him. Make it a field test.”

She shook her head. “Absolutely not.” Side-stepping to the beat, her eyes traveled to the oblivious Bucky, still deep in the conversation, unaware of the spiral she was going through. Her heart was doing backflips because deep down, she knew.

It wasn’t an if question. She knew he wanted this. Hell, she wouldn’t hesitate and take him as a husband right there and then. But she waited, allowed him to make the move, take the step toward their future. Knowing how his thought process worked, he was probably overthinking every scenario, every angle, and worrying about a possible doomsday popping in before they could tie the knot. It was definitely not a doubt whether he wanted it. It was a question of when—what the right time would be.

But when she tried to explain him away in her head and dismiss the hints from the girls, RAYE’s words hit a bit harder.

Why is this beautiful man waiting for me to get old? Why he already testing my patience?

It was all jokes and fun until she looked back at him. He was painfully unaware of the craving, of the gin speaking, and of the overwhelming thunder of her heart every time her eyes scanned his body and understood his language.

“Screw it,” she mumbled finally, and in a split second, downed the last few sips of her drink. The empty glass landed in Yelena’s hand. “If I cringe to death, I will smother you with sparkles.”

“I want to live to see that.”

The chorus gave her confidence. Her steps, magically, fit the rhythm when she crossed the dance floor. The words travelled through her body, but also started coming out of her mouth; at first in a whisper, a quiet sing-along just to herself. By the time she reached him, she already had his posture memorized; the sharp edge of his jawline engraved in her brain and making her wish she could just claim it as hers.

Sam was in the middle of telling a story when she stepped into Bucky’s space. She locked eyes with their friend just briefly before her hands travelled up to Bucky’s neck. Automatically, he put his hand around her waist and leaned down.

“Hey,” he smiled down at her, “do you need—” He didn’t finish the sentence. She rudely interrupted him, because the chorus was loud and vibrating in her head. One hand hugged his neck, the other pulled him down by the collar of his shirt. Her lips landed near his ear, and the smell of his cologne made her whisper shake with every syllable.

Baby, where the hell is my husband? What is taking him so long to find me?

That was all it took.

Sam stopped mid-sentence and whistled wickedly. Joaquin deliberately turned away, pretending to inspect the bottle on the table.

Bucky’s breathing stopped. He felt her glued to him, begging for his attention. Her breath sweetly covered his cheek, her fingers tugged at his collar, and those whispers dangerously made his heart rate ricochet.

Husband.

She left a wet kiss beneath his ear and pulled away, just enough to look at his face. His eyes travelled across her features, trying to brace for whatever she had in store for him. He tried to smile, but gulped instead.

“Seen him anywhere?” The wicked grin on her face could be his undoing. He breathed in and licked his lips. His eyes told a story of panic, excitement, and a system rebooting all at the same time.

“Uh,” he started, and his fingers lightly dug into her hip. “Should I… I mean, I think I, uh… have some leads?” he uttered at last, the question mark landing even softer when he cracked a nervous smile.

“Then why are we still standing here, Sergeant?” She bit her lip, tugging him even closer. Their breaths mixed together for a moment. “They’re playing a true manifesto. I need you with me.”

The hand that was tugging his collar travelled just a few inches lower, to grab a fistful of the undone top of his shirt. The cotton was so tightly glued to his broad chest that she had to use a bit of force; he could swear she used a few sparkles to help herself.

She walked backwards, leading him away from Sam and Joaquin, who only wished him luck and toasted to each other in the background. She didn’t let go of him, stayed glued to his front, and continued to sing along.

Is he far away?

“I’m right here.”

Is he okay?

“Nope.”

This man is testing me, Help me, help me, help me Lord

“You’ve got this wrong, doll. You’re the one testing me now.” He interrupted again, making her grin. Both his hands were now holding her waist, allowing her to pull him close and pretend the world didn’t exist beyond their bubble. Her hips swayed to the rhythm, face moving from left to right, breath hitching when his touch got bolder or his voice interrupted the song.

“Those are important questions.”

She smiled through it, letting a little bit of teasing seep through. But the way her knuckles kept holding his shirt close told him a completely different story. She was chief of mischief now, all smiles and sweet giggles. Yet, the strain in her body and urgency in keeping him close were what convinced him that there was something real tugging at her heartstrings.

The bridge hit next, and she couldn’t catch up with all of the words. But the key message stayed, and it made him exhale with a kiss to her temple.

I want it, want it, want it, want it, want it I would like a ring, I would like a ring I would like a diamond ring on my wedding finger

“You want a big fat diamond, huh?” He chuckled into her skin, making her also shake with laughter. She kissed his ear again, stopping the sing-along mumble for a moment.

“The ring, your name, the whole package.”

He hummed in response, the sound vibrating through her skin. He lightly massaged her waist before engulfing her in his arms, not leaving a breath of space.

“You know I want that too, right?” A squeeze to her sides. “No need to give me a heart attack in public.”

“I like to keep you on your toes, Barnes.” That made him chuckle. “I got encouraged to play with you,” she admitted, moving her face again to look straight into his blue, shiny eyes. “I don’t want to rush you or push you into anything. But I’m also saying that, if it ever comes to this, you won’t have to wonder what my answer is.”

“Good. I can scratch all the worst-case scenarios from my action plan.”

The smile they shared was electric. For a brief second, her eyes shone in that deep blue shade—the one that glowed with her sparkles. The one that kept on shining in his orbs.

“You know you can’t just throw around the words ring and husband in public, right?”

Someone sang along louder than before. A clink of glasses filled the background noise. A cheer they knew nothing about; it was only them.

“Why not?” She smirked. “Malfunctioning already?”

“Could’ve called it a bluff. Some people would whisper that you won’t take a husband.”

“And yet, here I am, asking the world where my husband is.” She chuckled and leaned in, pressing a kiss to his sternum.

His eyes closed for half a beat, like he was restraining himself from doing or saying too much. One of his hands travelled up to her cheek, lifting her head up and lining it up perfectly to give her a long, soaring kiss. A sealed deal, a promise. He was right here.

Back at the bar, Yelena munched on another olive. 

“Barnes is so gone.”

“You’re wrong, Kate,” she pointed a toothpick at her. “He has been gone for years.”

Ava nodded in full agreement. “We are witnessing a trailer to their proposal.”

He blinks at you from where he’s sprawled across your dorm bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting over his stomach. “Doll,” he drawls, slow and amused, “that’s either the best pickup line I’ve ever heard or the weirdest.”

You finally glance up, unimpressed. “I’m serious. We have a practical next week. I need to memorize muscle groups, landmarks, palpation points… diagrams aren’t cutting it anymore.”

A beat.

Then his mouth curves, soft and a little dangerous. “So you need a… hands-on approach?”

You sigh, already knowing this was a mistake. “If you’re going to be insufferable, I’ll just ask Steve—”

“I’m already taking my shirt off,” he interrupts quickly, sitting up.

You don’t even try to hide the way your eyes track the movement.

Because—God—he’s unfair. Broad shoulders, defined lines, the kind of body that makes your textbook diagrams feel like sad little sketches in comparison. When his shirt hits the floor, you swallow, grip tightening around your pen.

“This strictly educational?” he asks, voice quieter now, watching you watch him.

You nod, a little too fast. “Strictly.”

He doesn’t believe you. You can tell by the way his eyes soften.

“C’mere, doc.”

---

You start with his chest.

“Okay,” you murmur, shifting closer on your knees, notebook abandoned beside you. “Pectoralis major.”

Your fingers hover for a second before making contact—light, careful, like you’re afraid he might break.

He doesn’t.

If anything, he stills.

“Origin,” you continue, more to yourself than him. “Clavicle, sternum… inserts into the humerus…”

You trace the line, mapping it out in your head, then glance up. He’s already looking at you.

Not just looking.

Watching.

Soft. Warm. Completely gone.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothin’,” he says, but his voice is rougher now. “Keep going.”

You narrow your eyes but continue, shifting slightly. “Deltoid.”

Your fingers slide up, outlining the curve of his shoulder. He inhales—barely noticeable, but you feel it under your palm.

“Three heads,” you mumble, focused. “Anterior, lateral, posterior…”

“Say that again,” he murmurs.

You blink. “What?”

“The way you sound when you’re concentrating,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Keep talkin’.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “You’re not supposed to be flirting right now.”

“Can’t help it.”

You roll your eyes, but your hand doesn’t leave him.

“Biceps brachii,” you continue, moving down his arm. “Two heads. Responsible for—”

“Making my girlfriend stare at me like that?”

You smack his arm lightly. “Flexion of the elbow.”

He grins, entirely unrepentant.

You try to stay professional. You really do.

But somewhere between labeling his muscles with a washable marker — carefully writing along the lines of his skin — and the way he watches you like you’ve hung the stars, it gets… harder.

“Hold still,” you mumble, leaning closer to write along his clavicle.

“I am still.”

“You’re breathing.”

“Can’t really help that one, doll.”

You huff, but your lips twitch.

You finish the label, then hesitate.

Just for a second.

And then—because you want to, because you’ve been thinking about it since you started—you lean in and press a soft kiss just beneath the word.

Bucky freezes.

You pull back immediately, pretending to focus on your marker. “Next is—uh—sternum—”

“You kiss all your study materials like that?” he asks quietly.

Your heart stumbles. “Only the important ones.”

There’s a pause.

Then his hand comes up, brushing lightly against your wrist. Not stopping you—just there.

“Keep going,” he says.

So you do.

Every section you label, you follow with a small, absentminded kiss. Shoulder. Arm. Collarbone. Each one softer than the last, like a habit forming right under your own awareness.

By the time you reach his abdomen, your voice has gone a little quieter, your focus slipping.

“Rectus abdominis,” you murmur, tracing the lines, your fingers slower now.

“Yeah?” he whispers.

You nod, then press another kiss just above his navel.

His breath catches this time, obvious.

“Doc,” he says, a warning threaded through warmth.

You blink up at him, suddenly very aware of what you’re doing.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

He shakes his head, hand sliding to the back of your neck, gentle. “Don’t be.”

---

The second part of your studying is supposed to be more structured.

A recorded head-to-toe assessment.

You set your phone up on the desk, press record, and turn back to Bucky—who is now sitting on the edge of your bed, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Okay,” you say, trying to slip back into professionalism. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions.”

“Shoot.”

You take a breath. “State your name and date of birth.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “James Buchanan Barnes. Born March 10th, 1917.”

You pause, blinking. “Wait—seriously?”

He smirks. “Told you I’m a great study resource.”

You shake your head, fighting a smile. “Okay… do you have any current complaints?”

“Yeah.”

Your pen hovers. “Go ahead.”

“My girlfriend keeps touching me and then acting like it’s not affecting me.”

You choke. “That is not a medical complaint.”

“It is to me.”

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. “Focus.”

“I am focused.”

“Bucky.”

“Sweetheart.”

You glare at him.

He softens instantly, holding up his hands. “Alright, alright. No complaints.”

You nod, regaining your rhythm. “Any pain?”

“Only when you stop kissing me.”

You drop your pen. “I’m turning this in.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

He leans forward, catching your wrist before you can move away, tugging you gently closer.

“You’re cute when you’re serious,” he murmurs.

“You’re impossible when I’m trying to pass,” you shoot back.

“C’mere,” he says again, softer now.

You hesitate—just for a second—before stepping into the space between his knees.

His hands settle at your waist, grounding you.

“You’re gonna ace that exam,” he says, like it’s a fact. “You know this stuff better than anyone.”

You search his face. “Even with you distracting me?”

He smiles, all fondness now. “Especially with me distracting you.”

You huff a quiet laugh, resting your forehead against his.

“Can I finish my assessment?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “But I’m still gonna flirt.”

“Of course you are.”

“And you’re still gonna kiss me after every muscle?”

You pretend to think about it.

“…maybe.”

His grin is immediate.

And the worst part?

You are terrible at expressing emotion.

Not bad. Not awkward.

No—profoundly, catastrophically bad.

You hide everything. Crushes. Compliments. Feelings. You are a vault sealed with adamantium and emotional incompetence.

So of course the universe pairs you with him. Bucky Barnes, walking menace, human temptation, smirking devil who is very aware that you combust if he so much as looks at you for too long.

Today is no different.

You’re in the training room pretending to stretch, pretending not to stare at him, pretending to be normal when nothing about your internal state is anything close.

Bucky lifts his arms again.

That damn shirt rises, revealing a sliver of stomach, the trail of hair dipping into his waistband, and—

Nope. You’re done. Over. Deceased.

You whip your gaze to the opposite corner so fast you probably give yourself whiplash.

Behind you, he laughs. Not loudly. Quietly. Like he can’t help it. Like he loves seeing you squirm.

“You good over there, doll?” Bucky asks, and the doll is said with the kind of softness that should not, under any circumstances, make your brain short-circuit… and yet.

“I’m fine,” you say too fast, too stiffly, too everything.

Bucky hums, which is possibly worse. He strolls closer, slow and deliberate, until you feel the shift in the air—warmth and gravity and the subtle scent of his cologne that makes your pulse sprint.

“You sure?” he murmurs. “You seem jumpy.”

“I’m not,” you lie, because telling him the truth would require emotion, and you would literally rather walk into oncoming gunfire.

He stands beside you, far too close, hands on his hips as he looks over the training equipment. “You barely said a word during warm-ups.”

“I was concentrating,” you insist.

“On what?” he asks, tilting his head.

You should be given an award for how fast you come up with, “The floor.”

Bucky smiles.

Smiles.

It is slow, knowing, wicked around the edges. “The floor’s real interesting today, huh?”

Your face feels like it’s on fire. “Can you… maybe go stand somewhere else?”

He actually has the audacity to look offended. “Why? This spot’s great. Good lighting.”

“Exactly,” you mutter.

“Oh?” His brows lift, eyes sparkling. “Why should the lighting bother you?”

“It doesn’t,” you say immediately.

He taps his fingers gently against your elbow, lowering his voice: “Sweetheart… do I make you nervous?”

You might spontaneously combust. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely?”

“Bucky—”

“Because,” he says, leaning down just enough for his breath to ghost your cheek, “I was starting to think you might actually like me.”

You stop breathing.

Not metaphorically. Not dramatically.

You forget to breathe.

Your throat closes. Your mind becomes static. Your limbs lock like you’ve been hit with a stun dart.

Bucky notices—because of course he does—and his smirk softens into something gentler, something almost hesitant.

“I’d hope you know,” he murmurs, “that you don’t gotta hide things from me.”

You stare at him. Silent. Horrified. Unable to access a single word in the English language.

He chuckles quietly. “There it is.”

“There what is?” you croak.

“The panic. The shutdown. The ‘if I ignore my own feelings maybe they’ll go away’ look.”

Your jaw drops. “I do not have that look.”

“You definitely do,” he says. “I’ve seen it every time I stretch.”

“OH MY GOD—”

He laughs again, bright and pleased. “Hey. I’m not teasing to be cruel.”

“You literally are.”

“Fine,” he concedes with an amused shrug. “Maybe a little. But only because you’re cute when you’re flustered.”

You think your soul leaves your body entirely.

“Bucky,” you whisper, “please stop.”

He steps closer—close enough that you feel the heat of him seep into your skin. “Sweetheart… I’m only pushing because I want to make something real clear.”

You swallow hard. “What?”

His voice softens. Drops low. “I like you.”

The world tilts.

He raises a hand—slowly, giving you time to pull away—and brushes his knuckles along your cheek.

“You don’t have to say anything back,” he promises. “You don’t even have to show it. Just… let me know if I should back off.”

Words finally stumble out of you.

“Don’t.”

He freezes. “Don’t back off?”

You nod, tiny and mortified.

A smile spreads across his face—warm, relieved, stunned.

“Well,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that his lips graze the shell of your ear, “in that case… sweetheart, I’m gonna keep stretching right in front of you.”

You groan. “Please don’t.”

“Oh, I absolutely will.”

You shove him, cheeks flaming, but he only laughs and catches your wrist, tugging you gently into his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “You don’t have to say the words. I see you.”

And the terrible thing is…