#vickyminajj

“That’s funny,” he replied. “Because that’s exactly what partners usually do.” The tension settled in the room almost instantly—two people already deciding they weren’t going to like working together.

Leon dropped into the chair across from you, the metal legs scraping softly against the floor. He flipped open the folder in front of him, scanning the pages with quick, practiced movements. For a moment the room was quiet except for the rustle of paper. Then he glanced up again, blue eyes sharp.

“So what’s your deal?” he asked. “They don’t usually stick agents on my assignments unless something’s already gone sideways.”

His tone wasn’t exactly hostile—but it wasn’t friendly either. It was the kind of guarded curiosity that came from someone who had learned the hard way not to trust a situation, or the people in it.

You tilted your head slightly, unimpressed by the interrogation. 

“Intel division,” you said, tapping the edge of the file in front of him. 

“Bioweapons trafficking investigation. Which means I’ve been tracking this operation for months.” 

Leon leaned back in his chair, crossing one arm over the other as he studied you like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. “Right,” he said slowly. 

“And now they want the guy who kicks down doors and the person who actually knows what’s going on in the same room.” 

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”

Leon closed the folder with a quiet snap and pushed it back across the table. For a moment he just watched you, like he was measuring something—skill, patience, maybe whether you’d break under pressure. 

Finally he leaned back in the chair, resting his elbows on the armrests.

“Look,” he said, voice lower now, more serious than before.

“When this goes bad—and it will—people hesitate. Partners hesitate. That’s when things fall apart.” His gaze didn’t waver. “So if you’re expecting someone to cover you every second, you should probably ask for a different assignment.”

You held his stare without blinking. “Funny,” you replied evenly. “I was about to say the same thing.” 

Leon’s brow twitched slightly at that, the smallest flicker of surprise crossing his face before it disappeared again. You tapped the folder lightly. “I’ve been following this network for months. Supply routes, contacts, funding. If you charge in without thinking, you’ll blow the whole operation.” 

You leaned forward a little, voice calm but firm. “So if you’re planning to play the lone hero, you should probably get used to the idea that someone’s going to tell you no.”

For a second the room went completely quiet. Then Leon huffed out a short laugh under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “Great,” he muttered, standing up and grabbing the folder again. “A partner who argues.” 

But when he looked back at you, there was something different in his expression now—less dismissal, more interest. Like maybe you weren’t exactly what he expected. He gestured toward the door with the folder.

“Come on,” he said. “If we’re going to prove the suits wrong, we might as well start now.”

You pushed your chair back and stood, grabbing your jacket from the backrest. Leon was already halfway to the door, moving with that easy confidence of someone used to being in control of a situation. You followed him into the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. He slowed just enough for you to walk beside him, glancing sideways for a second. 

“So,” he said casually, like the argument in the briefing room hadn’t just happened, “intel division, huh? That means you’re the one who’s been buried in reports while I’ve been chasing ghosts.”

“Someone has to figure out where the ghosts are coming from,” you replied. 

Leon let out a quiet hum of acknowledgment, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as the two of you reached the elevator. When the doors slid open, he stepped inside and leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting to the glowing floor numbers as they started descending. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then he glanced over again, studying you with that same careful look from earlier.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, voice quieter now, “I don’t do babysitting.”

The elevator slowed with a soft jolt at the ground floor. The doors slid open, revealing the dim parking garage beyond. You stepped out first, turning slightly to face him as he followed. 

“Good,” you said simply. “Because I don’t need one.”

Leon paused for a second, then gave a small, almost reluctant smirk. It vanished just as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual guarded expression. 

“We’ll see about that,” he said, heading toward the row of government vehicles. Even so, something about the way he glanced back at you suggested he wasn’t quite as convinced anymore that this partnership was going to be a mistake.

Several hours later, the quiet hum of the engine filled the space between you as the government sedan cut through a long stretch of empty highway. Night had settled in fully, the road ahead lit only by the sweep of the headlights and the occasional flicker of distant street lamps. Beside you in the driver’s seat, Leon had one hand loosely on the steering wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. He’d barely spoken for most of the drive, his attention fixed on the road while the file from the briefing sat folded in the centre console.

The town you were heading toward barely existed on most maps—a quiet rural place that had recently started showing up in reports connected to suspicious shipments and missing persons… per usual you thought to yourself. According to the intel you’d gathered, something was moving through the area that shouldn’t have been there. Bioweapons, most likely. Leon had read through your notes earlier, silent the entire time, his expression growing more serious with every page. Now, as the highway sign for the town flickered past in the darkness, he finally broke the silence.

“So this is the place,” he said, voice calm but edged with focus. He slowed the car slightly as the road narrowed, trees closing in on either side like dark walls. Leon glanced toward you for a moment before returning his eyes to the road.

“Your intel says shipments started coming through about three weeks ago.” His grip on the wheel tightened just a little. “Tell me something,” he added quietly. “Does any of it remind you of the cases that end with everyone in town turning into something they shouldn’t?”

You glanced out the window at the dark tree line rushing past, the faint glow of the dashboard lighting the inside of the car. “Not exactly,” you said after a moment. 

“Those cases usually leave a mess behind—hospital reports, unexplained deaths, something that raises alarms.” You tapped the edge of the file in the console. 

“This one’s quiet. Too quiet. People disappear, shipments move through the area, and nobody local reports anything.” 

Your eyes shifted back to Leon. “Which usually means someone is making sure they don’t.”

Leon nodded slightly, like that answer confirmed something he was already thinking. The car slowed as the first scattered buildings of the town came into view—dark storefronts, a single gas station still lit under buzzing fluorescent lights, and a long empty street stretching ahead. He pulled the car to the side of the road just before the main intersection and cut the engine. The sudden silence felt heavier than the drive had been. Leon rested his forearms on the steering wheel, staring out through the windshield for a second.

“Place looks dead,” he muttered. Then he glanced toward you again, that focused, calculating look back in his eyes. “First rule in situations like this..?” he said, reaching into the back seat for a small tactical bag. 

“Assume it isn’t.” 

He unzipped it and pulled out a handgun, checking the magazine with practiced ease before sliding it into a holster under his jacket.

He shut the car door quietly when you both stepped out, the cool night air settling around the empty street. Leon scanned the area automatically, eyes moving across rooftops, alleyways, shadows—every possible place someone could be watching. After a second he looked back at you. 

“You said the shipments were coming through an old warehouse near the rail line, right?” he asked. Then he gave a small nod toward the darker part of town. “Guess we’re about to find out if your intel’s as good as you say it is.”

You fell into step beside him as the two of you moved down the quiet street, boots echoing faintly against the pavement. The town felt wrong in a way that was hard to explain—too still, too silent. Even small places usually had something: a television glowing in a window, a dog barking somewhere in the distance, the low rumble of a passing truck. Here there was nothing. Just the wind brushing through the trees and the creak of an old sign swinging outside a closed diner. You noticed Leon noticing it too; his gaze swept across every doorway and alley like he expected something to jump out of them.

“Rail line should be about half a mile that way,” you said quietly, pointing toward the darker edge of town where the streetlights thinned out. Leon nodded once in acknowledgment, though his pace slowed slightly. He tilted his head just a little, listening. For a second you thought you imagined it too—but then you heard it. A faint metallic clatter somewhere in the distance, like something heavy being dragged across concrete.

Leon’s hand moved instinctively to the grip of his handgun under his jacket. He didn’t draw it yet, but his posture shifted immediately, shoulders tightening as he scanned the darkness ahead. 

“Please tell me that’s normal small-town activity,” he muttered under his breath. His eyes flicked briefly toward you, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth despite the tension. 

“Because if it’s not, your ‘quiet investigation’ just got a lot less quiet.”

The sound came again—louder this time. From somewhere past the next block, near where the faint outline of an old warehouse roof could be seen above the trees. Leon stopped walking, listening carefully, then exhaled slowly through his nose. 

“Yeah,” he said, finally pulling the handgun free and checking the street one more time. “Something tells me we’re not the only ones working tonight.” 

He glanced toward you, giving a small nod toward the direction of the noise. “Stay close.”

You didn’t move closer like he suggested. Instead, you stepped ahead of him slightly, already pulling your own handgun from the holster at your side. The motion was smooth and confident, like you’d done it a thousand times before. 

“Relax,” you said quietly, checking the magazine before sliding it back in with a sharp click. 

“I didn’t come all the way out here to hide behind you.” Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Leon pause for half a second, clearly not expecting you to take the lead.

Leon watched as you moved toward the corner of the next building, your steps careful but quick. The faint smirk he’d been wearing earlier returned, though this time it carried a hint of something closer to respect. 

“Didn’t say you had to,” he muttered, falling into step beside you again. His eyes flicked briefly toward the gun in your hand before returning to the dark street ahead. 

“Just making sure you’re still alive when this mission’s over.”

You reached the edge of the block first, pressing your shoulder lightly against the brick wall before peeking around the corner. The source of the noise was clearer now—a wide, rusted warehouse sitting near the rail line exactly where the intel had said it would be. One of the large side doors was partially open, dim light spilling out onto the cracked pavement outside. And just inside, silhouettes were moving. Not many. Maybe three or four.

You leaned back from the corner and looked at Leon. “Looks like a delivery,” you said quietly. 

“Crates, truck parked out back, a couple guys inside.” Your voice stayed calm and controlled, like you were giving a routine report rather than standing a block away from a potential bioweapons exchange. 

“So either we sit here and watch them move the product… or we stop it before it leaves.”

Leon studied you for a moment, clearly weighing the situation. Normally he’d be the one making the call. But the fact that you’d already scoped the building and counted the people inside without hesitation didn’t go unnoticed. He exhaled slowly, glancing back toward the warehouse again. 

“You always this eager to start trouble?” he asked under his breath.

You gave a small shrug, already stepping away from the wall and checking the safety on your weapon. 

“Only when it’s deserved.” Then you looked back at him, a sharp, confident expression settling on your face. 

“You coming, Kennedy? Or are you planning to stand out here all night while the evidence drives away?”

Leon let out a quiet breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he followed after you. 

“You know,” said Leon under his breath, “most people wait for a plan before walking straight into trouble.” 

But he still moved with you, stepping lightly across the cracked pavement toward the warehouse. His eyes scanned the area automatically, covering angles you hadn’t looked at yet, the two of you falling into a rhythm without needing to say it out loud.

You slowed near the side of the building, crouching beside a stack of rusted barrels just outside the open door. From here you could see more clearly inside: wooden crates stacked against the far wall, a truck backed halfway into the loading bay, and three men arguing quietly over something near the cargo. You tilted your head slightly, studying the markings stamped on the side of one crate. 

“Biotech company label,” you whispered. “Front corporation. Definitely illegal.”

Leon leaned down beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours for half a second. He followed your gaze toward the crates, his expression tightening slightly. 

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the kind of logo that usually shows up right before something starts trying to eat people.” His voice was calm, but there was a sharp focus in it now—the same focus that had carried him through worse situations than this.

For a moment the two of you stayed there in the shadows, watching the men move the crates toward the truck. Then Leon glanced sideways at you. 

“Alright, intel,” he said quietly. “Your call. You spotted it first.” The words were casual, but the meaning behind them was clear—he was trusting your read on the situation.

You didn’t hesitate. “We stop the shipment,” you said simply. Then you pointed toward the back corner of the warehouse. 

“You take the two near the truck. I’ll handle the one by the crates.” Your eyes flicked toward him briefly. “Unless you think you can’t keep up.”

Leon’s mouth twitched at that, a small amused smile appearing despite the tension. He adjusted his grip on his handgun and gave a slight nod. “Careful,” he replied quietly. 

“You keep talking like that and I might start thinking you actually like working with me.” Then he glanced back toward the warehouse entrance. 

“Lets go.”

The warehouse was quiet now, the last of the men unconscious on the floor, crates overturned, and the truck left in ruin. Outside, the first light of dawn was beginning to streak across the sky, pale and gray over the small town. You sat against the curb, breathing slowly, letting the tension drain from your muscles. Leon came up beside you, wiping a thin layer of sweat and dust from his forehead. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, just listening to the faint hum of early morning life returning to the streets.

He sank down beside you with a soft thud, close enough that your knees nearly touched. 

“Not bad,” Leon said quietly, glancing at you with that mix of respect and his usual guarded expression. “You handled yourself… better than I expected.” You gave a small shrug, trying to hide the warmth in your chest at the compliment. 

“It’s just a job,” you said, though the smirk tugging at your lips gave you away. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be the hero.”

Leon let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well… heroes don’t usually argue with their partners while crouched behind barrels in a warehouse.” He leaned back, one arm propped on his knee, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. 

“I’ve got to admit,” he continued after a beat, softer this time, “I’m glad you were there. Didn’t think I’d say that by the end of tonight.”

You turned slightly to meet his gaze, the faint light catching the edge of his sharp features. 

“I think we make a decent team,” you said, voice calm but firm. “Even if you don’t want to admit it.” Leon’s lips twitched at the corner again, this time a little more obvious. 

“Decent,” he echoed, eyes flicking toward the horizon. Then, after a pause, he added quietly, almost to himself, “I could get used to this… working with you.”

The silence stretched comfortably between the two of you, the quiet aftermath of the mission settling around you like a soft blanket. Leon leaned back a little more, letting out a slow exhale, and for the first time that night, you saw him relax. Just a little. Enough that it wasn’t only the adrenaline keeping him on edge. You could feel it too—a subtle shift, the sense that maybe this partnership wasn’t just about survival or completing a mission.

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder, teasing, “You know, Kennedy, if you keep staring off like that, people might start thinking you actually enjoy my company.”

He gave a low chuckle, eyes finally meeting yours fully. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, but there was something in the way he said it, a softness under the warning that made you think he already was.

A month later, the two of you were back in a safe house after another mission, crates cleared, files sorted, and the hum of the air conditioning filling the silence. Leon leaned against the edge of the table, cleaning his gun with methodical precision, but there was something different in the way he glanced at you now. Small things had changed over the past weeks—how he’d make an almost imperceptible comment when you handled a tricky situation flawlessly, or how his smirk lingered a little longer when you disagreed with him. The tension that had defined your first meeting had softened into something sharper, teasing, almost playful.

“You know,” he started, glancing up from the handgun in his hands, “I think the intel division might owe me a favor for putting up with your… creative problem-solving today.” His tone was light, but the way his eyes flicked toward yours carried a spark that hadn’t been there before. 

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the wall and folding your arms. “Creative problem-solving, huh?” you said, smirking. 

“You mean the part where I saved your ass while you were staring at the wrong crate?”

Leon’s smirk widened just slightly. “I might’ve been distracted,” he said smoothly, eyes never leaving yours. “But I didn’t mind being saved… not entirely.” The pause after the words was deliberate, charged in a way that made your stomach tighten just a little.

You shook your head, trying to hide the small smile tugging at your lips. 

“Careful, Kennedy,” you teased. “You’re starting to sound like you enjoy my company again.”

He gave a short laugh, leaning just a little closer across the table. 

“Maybe I do,” he said quietly, voice low, almost casual, but his gaze lingered. “Maybe it’s growing on me—working with someone who can keep up.”

You caught the subtle tilt of his head, the way his eyes traced your movements with more attention than necessary. It was slow, quiet flirting—never outright, always just enough to make you aware that the man who’d once rolled his eyes at being partnered with you now wanted to be near you, and for the first time, it wasn’t just about survival or missions.

The next mission came a few days later, a surveillance job in another quiet town that looked just as ordinary as the last one—until you knew what to look for. Night had settled over the street as you and Leon sat inside a parked car across from a small warehouse, the engine off and the windows cracked just enough to let in the cool air. The place you were watching had been quiet for hours, which meant there was nothing to do except wait.

Leon sat back in the driver’s seat, one arm resting casually on the steering wheel while the other drummed lightly against the door. 

“You know,” he said after a while, glancing sideways at you, “most partners would’ve fallen asleep by now.” His voice carried that familiar dry tone, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

You didn’t look away from the binoculars you were using to watch the building. “Most partners probably wouldn’t trust you not to miss something,” you replied calmly.

Leon huffed a quiet laugh at that, shifting a little in his seat. “Wow,” he muttered. “You wound me.” His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary before he looked back toward the warehouse.

“Though I guess I should be used to it by now.”

You lowered the binoculars and glanced at him. “Used to what?”

He met your eyes, that small smirk returning. “You giving me a hard time.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you in the dim light of the dashboard. “It’s kind of becoming your thing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you keep coming back for more.”

Leon didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back in the seat again, eyes drifting toward the windshield like he was thinking something over. Then he looked back at you, the smirk softening into something quieter. 

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “I guess I do.”

The next morning at the agency building was already busy when you stepped into the operations floor, reports being passed between desks and the low hum of conversations filling the room. You had barely set your file down when a familiar voice spoke from behind you.

“Careful,” Leon said casually, leaning one shoulder against the edge of your desk. “If you keep showing up early like this, people are going to start thinking you actually like the job.”

You glanced up to see him holding two coffees. One of them slid across the desk toward you before you could even ask. You raised an eyebrow. 

“You bribing me now?”

Leon shrugged lightly, taking a sip from his own cup. “Not bribing,” he said. “Just making sure my partner stays functional.” His blue eyes flicked down briefly to the report you’d been reading before returning to your face. 

“Would be a shame if the best agent on my missions collapsed from caffeine withdrawal.”

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “The best agent?” you repeated. “Pretty bold statement coming from the guy who walked into the wrong room during the last raid.”

Leon smirked immediately. “Yeah, well,” he said, leaning a little closer over your desk, lowering his voice just enough that the surrounding agents couldn’t hear, “if I didn’t do that, you wouldn’t have gotten the chance to dramatically save the day.” 

His eyes lingered on yours for a second longer than necessary. “And I know how much you like showing off.”

You scoffed softly, though you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” Leon replied easily. Then he straightened up, pushing himself off the desk. As he walked past you toward the briefing room, he paused just long enough to add over his shoulder, “But you keep agreeing to be my partner, so I must be doing something right.”

About an hour later the office had quieted a little, the earlier rush fading into the usual rhythm of typing keyboards and low conversations. Papers were spread across your desk as you worked through another report, highlighter tapping lightly against the page while you reread a line of intel. You didn’t notice someone approaching until a shadow fell across the desk.

“Still working on that?” Leon asked, his voice amused.

You didn’t look up immediately. “Some of us actually read the reports before missions,” you replied calmly.

Leon pulled out the chair next to your desk and sat down sideways in it, one arm resting across the back like he planned to stay a while. 

“Hey, I read them,” he said. 

“Eventually.”

You finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “Eventually.”

He grinned at that, clearly entertained. “What can I say? I prefer the fieldwork part.” His eyes flicked down to the notes in front of you, then back up again. “Besides… I’ve got you for the detailed stuff.”

You leaned back slightly in your chair, crossing your arms. “So that’s the plan? Let me do all the work?”

Leon tilted his head, studying you for a second like he was considering his answer. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on your desk. 

“Not all the work,” he said, voice lower now. “Just the parts you’re better at.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “And what parts would those be?”

His smirk returned instantly. “Outsmarting people,” he said. Then, after a small pause, his gaze softened just a little. “Keeping me alive.”

The comment hung in the air for a moment longer than expected. You shook your head, trying to hide the smile threatening to appear. 

“Your survival rate was pretty good before I showed up, Kennedy.”

Leon shrugged lightly. “Sure.” His eyes stayed on yours, relaxed but focused. “But it got better.”

He leaned back in the chair again, stretching his arms over his head briefly before standing. As he started to walk away, he paused and glanced back at you.

“Don’t work too hard,” he added casually. “I’d hate for my favourite partner to burn out.” And then he kept walking.

A little later, the office had thinned out even more. A few agents were still at their desks, but most had moved to meetings or headed out for lunch. You were still working through a stack of intel when someone leaned against the edge of your desk again—familiar enough now that you didn’t even look up right away.

“Starting to think you live here,” Leon said casually.

You sighed, finally glancing up from the papers. “Starting to think you don’t have anything better to do than hover around my desk.”

Leon placed a hand dramatically against his chest. “Wow. After I brought you coffee this morning?” he said. “That’s cold.”

“You brought yourself coffee,” you corrected.

He laughed softly at that, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. Instead of leaving like he usually did, he slid into the chair next to your desk again, spinning it slightly so he faced you. “So what are we looking at now?” he asked, nodding toward the files.

You tapped one page with your pen. “Shipments of an item of some sort.. someone’s moving something through three different ports.”

Leon leaned closer to look at the map you’d drawn across the paper, his shoulder brushing yours again. This time neither of you moved away. He studied the page for a moment before pointing lazily at one of the locations. “That one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And your evidence is…?”

He shrugged. “Gut feeling.”

You stared at him for a second. “Your investigative method is incredible.”

“Thank you,” he said immediately.

You shook your head, turning the paper back toward yourself. “You’re impossible.”

Leon rested his elbow on your desk, watching you work instead of leaving. After a moment he said, quieter now, “You know… you say that a lot.”

“That you’re impossible?”

“Yeah.” His lips curved slightly. “But you never actually sound annoyed.”

You paused, pen hovering over the page.

When you looked up again, he was already watching you—relaxed, amused, and just a little too aware of the way the conversation had shifted.

“You flirting with me at work now, Kennedy?” you asked.

Leon didn’t even hesitate.

“Maybe,” he said lightly.

Then his eyes flicked down to the report again, tapping the paper where you’d marked the port.

“But if it helps,” he added, smirk returning, “my gut still says that one.”

The afternoon dragged on, the office quieter now except for the steady tapping of keyboards and the occasional shuffle of papers. You were halfway through organising the shipment reports when someone set another coffee down beside your elbow.

You didn’t even have to look up this time. “Kennedy,” you said flatly.

“I’m impressed,” he said sounding amused as he leaned one hip against your desk. 

“Didn’t even turn around and you already knew it was me.”

You finally looked up at him, eyeing the coffee. “You keep bringing me these like you’re trying to bribe me into liking you.”

Leon raised an eyebrow. “Trying?” he said, feigning surprise. “I thought that part was already going pretty well.”

You stared at him for a second. “Your confidence is concerning.”

“Confidence?” he repeated, crossing his arms casually. “No, that’s observation.” His gaze dropped briefly to the report you were holding before returning to your face. “You don’t roll your eyes nearly as much when I’m around anymore.”

“That’s because I’ve accepted you’re not going away.”

Leon grinned at that. “Exactly.”

You took a sip of your water just to hide the small smile threatening to show, but he clearly caught it anyway. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just a bit.

“You know,” he said, “most partners I’ve had try to avoid me once the mission’s over.”

You tilted your head. “Maybe they had better instincts.”

“Or,” Leon replied smoothly, “maybe they just weren’t as interesting to work with.”

The words hung there for a second.

You set the coffee down slowly. “You calling me interesting now?”

Leon didn’t look away. If anything, he leaned a little closer across the desk.

“I’ve been calling you interesting for weeks,” he said. “You’re just finally noticing.”

You blinked once, clearly not expecting him to be that direct.

He straightened again like he hadn’t just said something bold in the middle of the office, but the smirk on his face gave him away.

“Don’t worry,” he added casually. “I’m pacing myself.”

Your eyebrow lifted. “Pacing yourself for what?”

Leon pushed himself off the desk, starting to walk backward toward the hallway.

“For the day you finally admit you like working with me.”

And then he flashed that annoying, confident grin, before he begun to walk off. 

You called out “You know I don’t even like coffee??” 

Over the next few weeks the routine at the office barely changed—missions, reports, late nights under harsh fluorescent lights. The only thing that slowly shifted was the dynamic between you and Leon S. Kennedy. The flirting never really stopped; if anything, it became easier. More natural. At some point it wasn’t just teasing in passing anymore—he’d stop by your desk just to talk, lean against the doorframe during briefings, find excuses to work through reports with you instead of alone.

The one thing that did stay consistent was the shitty office coffee.

Leon kept bringing it to your desk every morning like clockwork, setting it down with that same smug little smirk like he was doing you a favour. And every morning you pushed it back toward him.

“Still don’t like coffee,” you said one day as he started walking away.

Leon paused mid-step.

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. “I’ve told you that, like, five times now.”

He turned around slowly, looking at the cup like it had personally betrayed him. Then he glanced back at you, squinting slightly. “You’re serious.”

“I hate it.”

There was a short pause.

“Well,” Leon muttered, grabbing the cup back off your desk, “that explains a lot.”

After that the coffee stopped showing up. A few days later he started dropping other things on your desk instead—water bottles, iced tea, sometimes a random snack from the vending machine. He never made a big deal about it, but you noticed.

A few hours later, Leon dropped by your desk… again.

“Your still here?” he asked.

“Your still here,” you replied.

Leon shrugged lightly, glancing around the mostly empty office. “Yeah, well… someone’s got to keep an eye on you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Right.”

He shifted his weight slightly, which immediately caught your attention. Leon didn’t usually look unsure about anything.

He rubbed the back of his neck briefly before speaking again. “So… there’s a diner a couple blocks from here that’s still open.”

You waited.

“And before you say anything,” he added quickly, pointing a finger at you, “they don’t serve coffee. Or at least you don’t have to order it.”

That earned the smallest smile from you.

Leon noticed it immediately.

He exhaled slowly, like he’d just committed to something. “What I’m saying is… maybe you could come with me.” His eyes met yours, a little more serious now. 

“Not for a mission. Just… dinner.”

The office was quiet around you.

Leon gave a small shrug, trying to play it casual even though the tension was obvious.

“So,” he said, “what do you think?”

You studied him for a second, leaning back slightly in your chair. Leon was trying very hard to look casual—hands still in his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed—but you could tell he was waiting for your answer a little more carefully than he wanted to admit.

“You’re asking me out,” you said plainly.

Across the desk, Leon exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Wow,” he muttered. “You make it sound way more intimidating when you say it like that.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

Leon shifted his weight, but he didn’t backtrack. If anything, he looked more certain now. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I’m asking you out.” Then he added, a little more lightly, “Figured I’d try doing it the normal way for once.”

You tapped your pen lightly against the desk, pretending to think it over longer than you needed to.

Leon caught that immediately. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” you admitted.

He huffed out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You know, most people don’t make a guy wait this long after he works up the nerve to ask.”

Your lips curved slightly. “Kennedy, you’ve been flirting with me in this office for two months.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding once. “And look where that got me.” His eyes flicked toward the hallway. “Standing here awkwardly waiting for an answer.”

The small smile on your face finally widened just a little. “Alright,” you said, pushing your chair back and standing up.

Leon blinked once, clearly not expecting you to stand up immediately.

“You coming,” you added, grabbing your jacket from the back of the chair, “or were you planning to keep hovering around my desk all night?”For a second he just watched you, then that familiar confident grin slowly spread across his face.

“See,” he said, falling into step beside you as you walked toward the elevator, “I knew you liked working with me.”

You shift your duffel bag higher on your shoulder and grin. “Hello to you too.”

“This is my room.”

“Our room,” you correct, stepping inside. The door slides shut behind you. “Congrats, roomie.”

His jaw works. “I asked for my own space.”

“Dont worry, me too.”

You dump your bag on the empty bed, toe off your boots, and stretch. His eyes track the movement, then flick away.

“Stark’s an asshole,” he mutters.

“You think?” you roll your eyes. 

It doesn’t take long for the room to become yours.

Bucky keeps his half spartan. Bed perfectly made, blanket folded, boots lined up with military precision. You, meanwhile, create controlled chaos—books stacked precariously, a mug that sits on your bedside table, and when your bored.. occasionally in your sleek black cat form curled on one the biggest sunny patch on the floor.

The first time you shift in front of him, he nearly drops his knife.

“—the fuck?”

The black fur ripples, and you purr lazily, tail flicking. 

He stares. “You just—turned into a cat.”

“Very observant.” 

His brow furrows. Then, very quietly: “…Green eyes.”

You blink at him, slow and feline, before leaping onto your bed and curling up.

From the corner of your eye, you catch his lips twitch. Almost a smile.

The rest of the team catches on quickly.

You’re barely halfway through your first week of forced cohabitation when word spreads like wildfire: Barnes has a roommate. A powered one. A you.

The kitchen is chaos the next morning. Sam is pouring cereal like he’s trying to win a race, Nat is perched catlike on the counter with her coffee, Wanda is quietly reading the news, and Vision is attempting pancakes like he’s defusing a bomb.

You shuffle in, hair messy, one of your oversized sweatshirts drowning you down to mid-thigh. He stalks in two minutes later, jaw set like he’s marching into battle.

Sam notices immediately.

“Wait,” he says, spoon pausing halfway to his mouth. He points at you, then at Bucky. “Your Barnes’s roommate?”

“Unfortunately,” Bucky grumbles, reaching for the coffee pot like it personally owes him something

Nat’s mouth curves, sharp and knowing. She sets down her mug. “How’s that going?”

“Fine,” you say at the same time Bucky mutters, “Nightmare.”

You grin over your mug. “We’re bonding.”

“She floats his stuff when he’s not looking,” Wanda offers without looking up from her tablet, voice calm and amused.

Sam snorts. “Barnes, you’re doomed.”

“I am not—” Bucky starts, then goes rigid as his mug lifts out of his hand and drifts slowly across the kitchen island, steam curling. You sip from it midair.

Everyone watches in silence.

“Okay,” Sam says, deadpan. “Yeah, doomed.”

Bucky glares at you. “Give it back.”

“Ask nicely,” you sing-song, spinning the mug in lazy telekinetic loops.

“Sweetheart—”

“You don’t get to call me sweetheart and also threaten me,” you interrupt, snatching the mug back to him with a flick of your fingers. It lands perfectly in his hand. He blinks. His ears are faintly pink.

Nat notices. Of course she does. “Oh,” she murmurs, smirk spreading. “This is going to be fun.”

Vision sets a plate of slightly smoking pancakes on the counter. “Statistically,” he says thoughtfully, 

“cohabitation increases emotional intimacy by 68%.”

“Vis-, stop,” Bucky mutters into his coffee.

“Statistically,” Sam echoes, grinning. “Barnes is screwed.”

Bucky mutters something under his breath about assassins deserving hazard pay, but he doesn’t correct them. His eyes flick toward you instead—like he can’t help it—and you catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth before he looks away.

A week later, the training room hums with energy—punching bags thud, weights clank, and Sam and Nat are perched on the edge of the sparring mat like sharks waiting for blood.

You stretch lazily, rolling your shoulders. Across from you, Bucky is stripping off his sweatshirt, leaving him in just a black fitted tee that clings unfairly to muscle. His expression is flat. His eyes, however, are not. They’re locked on you like you’re a mission he hasn’t quite figured out how to complete.

“Barnes,” Sam calls, grinning wickedly, “try not to get your ass handed to you by your roommate.”

Bucky doesn’t even look at him. “I won’t.”

“Oh, you will,” Nat says, voice velvet and deadly. “She’s faster than you.”

“Cheats,” Bucky mutters, sliding his metal arm into position.

“Strategises,” you correct, stepping onto the mat. Your voice carries just enough mischief to make his jaw tick.

Wanda leans against the wall nearby, clearly here just to spectate. A faint smile plays on her lips. “This should be good.”

You circle each other.

Bucky moves like controlled thunder: precise, coiled, heavy strikes. You’re pure fluidity—dodging with impossible ease. When he swings, you bend like water. When he lunges, you vanish, reappearing behind him in a ripple of shadow as your form shifts briefly into something smaller and back again mid-roll.

Sam lets out a low whistle. “Okay. That was terrifying.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “Stay still.”

“Make me.”

He lunges. You flick your fingers and his boots skid out from under him with a sharp telekinetic tug. He hits the mat with a grunt.

“Point for me,” you chirp.

He growls low, rolling back to his feet—and stops when he notices he’s floating a few inches off the mat, limbs splayed. Your eyes glow faintly as you hold him aloft like a marionette.

“Having fun up there?” you ask sweetly.

Sam is howling with laughter now. Nat just smirks, exchanging cash with Wanda. Apparently a betting pool already exists.

“Put me down,” Bucky says, low and dangerous.

“Say please.”

His jaw flexes. “…Please.”

You drop him. He lands in a perfect crouch like a damn jungle cat, which would be more impressive if his ears weren’t bright red.

“You’re toast, Barnes,” Sam calls. “She’s in your head.”

“She’s everywhere,” Bucky mutters, brushing off his hands.

You grin, teeth flashing. “You like it.”

His eyes meet yours for half a second. Dark. Sharp. Something burns there, quick and hungry, before he masks it.

Nat catches it. Of course she does. 

“Oh, this is going to be so entertaining.”

Movie night at the compound is never quiet.

The common room hums with voices, the smell of buttered popcorn thick in the warm air, the flicker of an old projector throwing golden light across the room.

Sam and Clint are throwing popcorn at each other like middle schoolers. Nat is curled up on one end of the couch with a blanket and a glass of wine. Wanda and Vision are tucked together on the loveseat, murmuring softly. Bruce is half-asleep under a weighted blanket on a beanbag. Steve is perched upright at the edge of the couch like he’s at a strategy briefing, a bowl of pretzels clutched like a shield.

Bucky is buried in the opposite corner of the couch, hood up, arms crossed, face perfectly neutral. Like a storm cloud pretending to be furniture.

For once, he actually looks calm.

Until the door clicks open.

Sleek and shadow-black, tail swaying low, paws silent. Fur like dark velvet, eyes glowing green in the dim light.

The chaos stops instantly.

“...What the hell,” Clint blurts, straightening. “Why is there a cat here?”

“That’s not just a cat,” Sam says slowly, leaning forward.

Wanda’s lips curve. “Correct.”

Steve’s brows draw together. “Wait. That’s…that’s her?”

Nat smirks. “Took you long enough.”

Bruce pushes his glasses up, blinking rapidly as his mind works through the biological aspects of science. “That’s…is that biologically safe?” 

"You tell me.. your the scientist." Nat says.

Vision tilts his head, fascinated. “She has complete skeletal restructuring. It’s extraordinary.”

“That’s horrifying,” Clint mutters.

“It’s fine.. she can shapeshift,” Wanda says mildly, eyes glinting.

Tony strolls in late with a drink, stops dead, and points. “Why is there a mini panther in the living room? Did Barnes start collecting strays?”

“She is the stray,” Nat murmurs, amused.

“Excuse me,” Steve says faintly, looking alarmed. “Can she—does she still understand us like that?”

“She understands everything,” Wanda says.

“Creepy,” Clint mutters.

“Terrifying,” Bruce echoes.

“Sexy,” Sam adds.

“Sam,” Steve says warningly.

You turn your head towards sam and give him a little blink.. he waves at you.

You pad straight across the room, each step measured and silent, and leap lightly up onto the couch—next to him.

Bucky goes utterly still.

You curl yourself into a perfect circle right up against his thigh, like you’ve done it a hundred times, tail wrapping snug around your body. You let out a slow, deep purr, the sound vibrating through him like a low engine.

The silence is deafening.

Then—

“She just—” Sam is wheezing. “She just— BARNES. She’s literally- basically on- you.”

“She’s warm,” Vision observes.

“She’s purring,” Bruce says, sounding vaguely shell-shocked.

Nat lifts her glass in your direction. “Claimed him.”

Wanda smiles faintly. “She has a habit of doing that.”

“This isn’t normal,” Bucky says flatly, staring straight ahead like a man facing a firing squad.

“Neither are you,” Clint says.

“Welcome to the family,” Tony mutters, dropping into a chair.

“She’s your problem now.”

“She’s not my—”

You flick your tail across his stomach, slow and silky. His breath catches audibly.

The purr in your chest deepens, vibrating against his thighs.

Bucky’s jaw locks like he’s physically holding himself together. His eyes stay glued to the TV, but his ears are crimson.

Wanda hides a grin behind her mug. “He’s trying so hard not to melt.”

“He’s gone,” Sam says, doubled over.

Nat’s eyes gleam. “He never stood a chance.”

Steve clears his throat awkwardly, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “She…seems comfortable.”

“She’s too comfortable,” Bucky mutters, low and strangled.

“She owns you,” Tony says. “Accept it.”

Bucky does not move a single muscle for the rest of the movie.

But his flesh hand never leaves your back, either.

The credits roll in a soft hum of music and static glow.

Sam is the first to break the silence, stretching like a lazy cat and groaning. “Okay. Solid explosions. Terrible dialogue. Eight outta ten.”

“Seven,” Clint says, standing and brushing popcorn off himself. “The villain monologued for ten straight minutes.”

“Classic,” Nat says, smirking.

“Scientifically implausible,” Bruce mumbles, peeling himself off his beanbag like it’s fighting back.

Wanda smiles faintly. “You say that every time.”

Tony tosses his empty glass toward the bar cart like he’s shooting hoops. “Five outta ten. No flying suits.”

“Because it was set in 1992,” Steve says, still somehow sitting like he’s at attention even as he stands.

“Excuses,” Tony mutters.

The room dissolves into the usual post-movie shuffle—blankets tossed aside, glasses gathered, voices low and warm with exhaustion.

No one even tries to get you off him.

They glance once, smirk, and leave you where you are—sleek black fur curled like a shadow right up against Bucky Barnes thigh, tail tucked tight, eyes half-lidded as your head rests on his thigh, purr slow and steady against it.

Wanda is the last to pass, and she just gives him a knowing look that makes his ears go pink.

Then it’s quiet.

Bucky stays very, very still.

The TV clicks off, plunging the room into soft golden lamplight and silence. For a long moment he doesn’t move at all, just stares at the blank screen like he’s trying to process what just happened.

Then, slowly, he exhales. Shoulders lowering like a weight slipped off.

His flesh hand strokes down your back once—hesitant, careful—fingers sinking into your fur.

“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost a whisper.

You don’t move.

He watches his fingers card gently through your fur like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches too hard.

“You just…walk in,” he mutters. “Like you own me.”

A soft, quiet laugh huffs out of him, low and disbelieving. “Maybe you do.”

Your purr deepens, rumbling like a secret.

He sits there with you for a long while more, the whole compound finally quiet around him, hand resting steady and warm on your small body like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

And when he finally stands, he carries you—very carefully, cradled against his chest like you’re made of spun glass—and says nothing at all.

A few weeks later…

The compound is quiet again.

Too quiet.

Not peaceful quiet.

Not gentle or warm or earned.

Just… hollow.

Like someone cut the sound out of the world and left only the ringing behind.

Mission adrenaline still hums faintly in your veins, restless and sharp as glass, like your body hasn’t caught up to the fact that you’re safe now. The ghosts of chaos still cling to you like soot—rain-slick streets flashing under neon signs, boots pounding through puddles, smoke curling off half-collapsed concrete, the tinny crackle of comms chatter slicing through the roar of gunfire.

You can still taste metal on the back of your tongue.

Your muscles twitch like you might need to sprint again at any second.

You’d burned through everything tonight.

Held crumbling walls aloft with nothing but sheer will until your skull throbbed like it might crack.

Bent steel beams out of the way while Natasha dragged civilians through the gap. Flicked rifles out of enemy hands before they could blink, slamming them harmlessly into walls.

Threaded through hostile minds like smoke, forcing them to stutter, to falter, to freeze mid-trigger-pull.

Leapt into their blind spots as a flash of black fur and claws, shadows swallowing you whole until even Steve lost track of where you were.

Every scrap of focus, gone.

Every ounce of strength, spent.

And still, somehow, you’d made it back.

The quinjet’s ramp lowering into the glow of the landing bay. The compound’s doors sliding open to welcome you home. The team dispersing down the halls in silence, all of them bleeding exhaustion in the way they moved, shoulders sagging, voices low.

And now—

Now it’s too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your skin feel thin.

The kind that lets everything you’ve been holding off come crashing back in at once.

You stumble into your room on autopilot.

You Kick your boots off. Throw your jacket ontop of Buckys leather one on the lounge chair.

The second the door clicks shut behind you, your legs feel like water.

The air is thick with static from your frayed control—pens roll lazily across your desk, the curtains shiver as if caught in a draft, your bedside lamp flickers, dims, then flares too bright. Your head buzzes. Every thought frays at the edges, slipping through your fingers like smoke.

You can’t hold yourself together anymore.

So you stop trying.

You let your bones ripple and dissolve, let your skin contract and fold inward in a wash of shadow. Limbs shrink. Breath hitches. The world stretches wide and towering around you.

Then you land lightly on the rug, claws clicking softly against the floor.

A sleek black tail flicks once behind you.

You lift your head, blinking slow with luminous green eyes.

Sleek. Black. Fluffy. Green-eyed. Small.

The air smells sharper like this, cleaner, every sound much more clear and crisp. The buzz in your skull eases. The tension in your shoulders drains away like water down a drain. You pad to your bed, silent and surefooted, and leap up in one smooth motion.

Your paws sink into the blanket. You circle once, twice, tail curling close, and finally collapse in a tight little coil at the foot of the bed. You begin to knead the bed, the first purr rattles out of you thin and shaky.

Then another. Then another—

Until it builds into a steady low hum, warm and rhythmic, echoing faintly in your chest like a heartbeat. You let the sound wrap around you like a cocoon.

Small is easier. Small is quiet. Safe.

You close your eyes, and for the first time all night, you start to feel almost still.

The door creaks. Your ears twitch toward it instantly. Claws flex against the blanket.

But it’s only him.

Bucky stands in the doorway like a shadow cut out of the dim hallway light. His boots are unlaced, dark with grime and rainwater. His tac pants are still on, streaked with mud, but his black undershirt is clean and damp, clinging to the lines of his shoulders from a too-quick shower. There’s a thin cut on his jaw, cleaned but angry red. His hair is wet, dark strands dripping slowly onto the fabric clinging to his collarbones.

He leans against the frame, silent.

His expression is the same steel mask he always wears after missions, the one that says nothing can touch him.

But his eyes…

His eyes give him away.

They’re soft. Worried.

Bleeding some quiet, private thing he doesn’t know how to name.

He stops dead when he sees you.

For a long, still moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just looks at you like he’s not sure you’re real.

Your purr fades to a soft, uncertain rumble. Then he exhales through his nose, slow and shaky, and steps inside. His boots silent on the rug. Movements careful, measured, like approaching something wild and wounded.

The door clicks shut behind him. He says nothing.

Doesn’t ask why you’re like this. Doesn’t tell you to stop. Doesn’t demand you be fine.

He just unknots the thick black sweatshirt from around his waist.

It’s the same one he’d had on the quinjet after the fight, when everyone else had been laughing too loud, pretending their hands weren’t still shaking. The same one that still smells faintly of clean soap and steel and him—darker and warm underneath, like burnt sugar and rain.

He crosses the room.

And then, so carefully it makes your chest ache, he drapes it over you.

Like a shield.

Like he’s trying to guard you from everything, even now.

The weight of it is soft and warm and smells like him, and the moment it settles over your tiny body, your whole frame sags with relief.

His metal hand hovers for a second before he lowers it to your head.

The touch is barely there.

Just a brush down the line of your small furry head, gentle enough that your fur stands on end from the lightness of it.

“Get some rest, trouble,” he murmurs, voice low and rough and quiet.

Something in the way he says it makes your chest squeeze. Like what he means is: Please be here tomorrow.

His thumb lingers a second longer. Then he straightens, silent again. 

He glances back once at the door, like he’s making sure no one else is coming, and then at you again.

You pretend to be asleep, purring steady.

Something in his expression softens.

Cracks.

Then he switches off the lamp and slips back out into the hall, closing the door with a soft click.

Your purrs are so loud now the mattress hums beneath you.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself sleep.

The world is grey and still when you wake.

For a long, hazy moment, you don’t move.

Don’t even breathe.

The quiet is soft this time.

Not hollow.

Just…gentle.

Your body is a loose curl of warmth under the weight of his sweatshirt, your tail tucked around your paws. You’re still small, still furred, sleek black against rumpled sheets. The exhaustion has seeped out of your bones in the night like poison leaching from a wound.

Your purr is a low hum under the silence.

Slow. Steady.

Then—

A sound.

The faintest rasp of breath, close.

Your ears flick.

You lift your head, blinking sleep-heavy green eyes, and peer over the edge of the mattress.

And there he is.

Bucky.

Asleep on the floor beside your bed.

He’s slumped sideways like he meant to sit watch and lost the fight. One arm is draped limply across the mattress within inches of your paws, palm up, fingers slack. His head rests on the edge of your blanket, cheek half-buried in the fabric, lashes casting soft shadows over bruised half-moons beneath his eyes.

He must have come back.

Sometime in the small hours when the compound was dead silent.

He must’ve sat down to make sure you were still breathing— and just… never left… never walked back to his bed across the room from yours.

His boots are gone, but he’s still in his tac pants, belt undone. The black shirt he’d been wearing earlier is rumpled, sleeves shoved to his elbows, revealing the dark burnished gleam of his metal arm where the dawn light kisses it. His flesh hand twitches faintly in his sleep, a ghost of movement.

You stay very still, watching him.

Your heart gives a strange, soft ache.

There’s something unguarded about him like this. All the sharp edges dulled. All the weight he carries smoothed from his face.

Just…human. Just Bucky.

Your tail flicks once. Then, slowly, carefully, you unfold from yourself.

Your small body shivers like dark water, shape unraveling, fur melting back into skin, paws stretching into fingers. The air ripples faintly with the echo of your power as your limbs lengthen, spine straightens, and the world shrinks back down to your size again.

You crouch on the mattress in your human form, knees tucked under you, his sweatshirt slipping down one shoulder. It’s big on you, the sleeves hanging past your fingers as you crawl forward.

Careful not to wake him.

Careful not to breathe too loud.

You stop just above where he’s sprawled, and—very gently— you reach down and brush your fingertips through his hair.

It’s soft.

Damp at the ends still from his shower. Messy from sleep.

He stirs.

Brows twitching, lashes fluttering.

His voice is rough when it comes, barely awake.

“Sweetheart?”

The word is thick with sleep, low and unguarded and so tender it makes your breath hitch.

He blinks up at you, confused at first—like he’s not sure if he’s dreaming— then his eyes clear.

They flick over your human shape in his hoodie.

Then back to your face.

His lips twitch.

Just the faintest hint of a smile, like it’s trying to sneak past him.

“Figured you’d be curled up on my floor,” he rasps.

You smile, soft.

“Thought about it.”

His eyes linger on you a moment longer, warm and bleary and too soft for someone who’s spent years sharpening himself into steel.

Then he exhales, slow.

Like something heavy just slipped off his shoulders.

And his fingers—still draped across your mattress—curl slowly, deliberately, until they hook loosely around yours.

Not pulling.

Just holding. Just… anchoring.

Something shifts. It’s not loud or obvious or anything anyone could point to and name. It’s just… there. This quiet, constant hum under your skin, like the faint buzz of static before a storm. Like the air holding its breath.

Bucky is everywhere now. Not in the literal sense—he still keeps to himself most of the time, still disappears into the gym at dawn or the training mats after dinner, still walks through the compound like he’s trying not to leave footprints, but you can feel him. You feel him. The faint brush at the edge of your mind sometimes when your shields are down, just the whisper of surface thoughts you never mean to catch—flashes of steel and snow and silence edged with something you can’t quite name, like the ghost of heat bleeding through frost. You tell yourself you’re imagining it. Then you catch him staring.

It happens one early morning, the kitchen still quiet and grey with half-light. You’re standing at the counter, hair mussed from sleep, idly floating a ceramic bowl across the room toward the sink with nothing but your mind. The thing glides through the air smooth and weightless, steam curling from your tea, your eyes half-lidded with fatigue. When you glance over, he’s leaning against the fridge, coffee mug cradled in his flesh hand, watching you. Not startled. 

Not even particularly interested. 

Just watching. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“You always this lazy,” he mutters, voice low and rough from sleep, “or is it just before breakfast?”

You don’t even look at him, letting the bowl clink down softly in the sink. “Saving my hands for the important stuff.”

There’s a pause. Then a sound—a small, soft huff of laughter. When you glance back, he’s still looking at his coffee, lips twitching like he’s trying to hide it.

It keeps happening. Your powers slipping around the edges when you’re distracted. A pen floating lazy spirals above your notebook while you daydream in the common room. A stack of files sliding themselves into neat piles on the table while you scroll through a mission brief. The TV remote zipping through the air into your palm before Steve finishes asking who’s got it. Every time, you see Bucky’s eyes flick toward it, just for a second.

A muscle jumping in his jaw. Nothing more. But once, when you flick the fridge shut with your mind and walk away without touching it, he stares at your back like he’s trying to solve an equation he’s been stuck on for days. The ceramic mug creaks faintly in his metal hand.

The others start noticing too.

You pad silently into the common room one night as a sleek black blur, paws soft against the rug, tail flicking. The room smells like butter and sugar, half a bowl of popcorn forgotten on the table. You’d slipped out for air earlier, prowling the dark grounds to bleed off the last edge of adrenaline still gnawing at your nerves. Nat glances up from her book first.

 Her eyes track your shadowed shape. Her lips curve. 

“Well,” she says smoothly, shutting her book on one finger. “Back from your secret missions, little shadow?”

Sam turns—and chokes on his popcorn. “Wait—holy— is that you?” he sputters, pointing at you like you’re an apparition.

You leap lightly onto the arm of the couch, settling with a delicate flick of your tail.

“Yup,” Wanda says before you can even blink, not looking away from her tea. “She does that.”

“She—” Sam blinks at you, at Wanda, at you again. “She cattifies? Like—just casually?”

“She’s more coordinated like that than you are on two feet,” Clint mutters, deadpan, eyes still on the TV.

"Hey!! look I knew she could- like- she did it the other day with the movie- but yknow- didnt know it was this regular occurrence-“ Sam tried to defend himself.. but did it terribly.

You yawn, long and silent, baring sharp white teeth. Sam stares. Wanda sips her tea. Nat is still smirking. Bucky doesn’t look up. He’s slouched in the corner armchair, long legs sprawled, boots crossed at the ankle, a battered paperback in his hand. 

“Don’t let her near the laser pointer,” he says without glancing up.

Sam’s head snaps toward him. “You knew about this?”

Bucky flips a page. “She sleeps like that.”

The room goes still. Nat blinks. Her smirk sharpens. “Oh?”

Your tail freezes mid-flick.

Wanda’s mouth twitches around her mug. Steve looks over slowly from the armchair, brows furrowing like he’s replaying the words in his head. Clint starts grinning like he’s just scented gossip from a mile away. Sam goes very still, then breaks into a grin like the sun coming up.

“Ohhh,” he says, dragging it out. “Ohhhhhh.”

Bucky’s ears go faintly pink. “Shut up,” he says flatly, not looking up from his book.

“Wait-wait wait—” Clint leans forward, pointing between you and him. “So, what—you curl up at the end of his bed? Like an actual—”

“Don’t,” Bucky warns, eyes lifting just enough to pin him with a look.

“Oh, this is adorable,” Nat murmurs, delighted.

Sam’s grinning like a fox. “This is better than I could’ve hoped for.”

Bucky mutters something, most likely an insult, and hes gripping the book so tightly the spine is bending.

You flick your tail once, trying to look bored. But you can feel the pulse of his surface thoughts brush your mind like a spark.

“god.. shes so pretty”

Your purr hiccups once mid-breath. You pretend it’s nothing.

The compound is finally still.

Hours later, after the teasing died down, after the laughter faded and the others retreated off to their rooms, the halls have gone hollow and dark. The only sound is the distant hum of the air system and the faint click of your claws on tile as you prowl the corridor in your sleek black cat form.

The adrenaline from the mission hasn’t completely left your blood. It never does, not right away. There’s still a faint buzz in your chest, like you’re too sharp to sleep. So instead, you prowl. The shape feels good—small, fast, silent. Your senses sharpen to razor edges; the world is bigger and softer at once.

The kitchen smells faintly of coffee grounds and warm metal. A single dim light glows above the stove, the only illumination in the cavernous space. You hop silently onto the counter, tail flicking, and nudge open a cabinet with your head. The rustle of a half-empty bag of crackers makes your ears perk.

You are halfway through clawing it open when the voice comes from the shadows.

“Y’know,” Bucky says quietly, “most people use their hands.”

Slowly, you turn around.

He’s there—leaning in the doorway like he’s been waiting, half his body swallowed in shadow. The low golden light cuts across his face, carving sharp lines into his jaw, glinting off his metal arm. His hair is damp, curling faintly at the ends, and he’s dressed down in sweats and a soft black shirt that hangs loose on his shoulders.

Your heart lurches.

He crosses the room with that infuriating, unhurried prowl of his, every movement loose and quiet, like he’s made of coiled wire under silk. His boots make no sound on the tiles.

You let out a soft, warning hiss. It sounds more like a nervous squeak.

“Don’t start,” he murmurs, and there’s a curl of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Caught you red-handed. Or… pawed.”

You flick your tail sharply and crouch, ready to bolt.

But he’s faster.

His flesh hand closes gently but firmly around the scruff of your neck, lifting you up like you weigh nothing. You let out a startled meow, legs dangling.

“Mmhm,” he hums, holding you at arm’s length, inspecting you like you’re a puzzle piece that’s just clicked into place. His eyes gleam dark and sharp in the dim light. “Thought so.”

You try to glare. It comes out as a furious green-eyed glare and a pitiful mrrp noise.

And then before you can even react, he sets you back down on the counter.

“Go on,” he says softly, stepping back and leaning against the opposite counter, crossing his arms. “Do it.”

Your ears twitch.

“Change back,” he clarifies, his voice low, rough like gravel. “Wanna see it.”

Your chest tightens.

For a second, you hesitate—just staring at him, at the way his gaze fixes on you like he’s been starving quietly and you’re the only thing that could fill him. His expression is steady, almost blank, but his pulse is thudding hard enough you can hear it.

Then you exhale and let go.

Your body ripples, stretches, twists. Fur flows back into skin. Limbs lengthen. Bone reshapes under muscle. There’s a soft rush of air and the faint crackle of energy as your human form settles like smoke clearing.

You are suddenly sitting on the counter, hair a little mussed, in one of your oversized shirts, skin still humming faintly with leftover magic.

Bucky doesn’t move.

His eyes drag up your body like they’re caught on every inch. Slowly. Deliberately.

You hop down lightly, “Satisfied?” you murmur, trying to sound bored even though your heart is hammering so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

His lips twitch. “Not even close.”

Your breath catches.

He pushes off the counter, closing the space between you in two slow steps, close enough that the heat from his body cuts through the cool air. He smells like soap and warm steel and something darker beneath, something that makes your knees want to bend.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, voice like smoke and velvet, “you drive me insane.”

You blink up at him. “I’m not doing anything.”

“That’s the problem,” he says, almost gently, like it’s an admission he didn’t mean to let slip. His eyes are dark, wrecked, flinty with restraint. His hands trap you against the counter. 

“You float things around like it’s nothing. Walk around barefoot at two a.m. like you don’t know what you do to people. To me.”

Your stomach flips.

You manage, barely, “You never said anything.”

“Couldn’t,” he says, low and rough. “Wouldn’t stop if I did.”

Silence pools between you, thick and molten.

You swallow. “And now?”

He leans in just slightly, close enough his breath skims your cheek. “Now,” he murmurs, “I’m done pretending I don’t want to touch you.”

You don’t breathe.

And then his metal hand skims your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, gentle in a way that makes your whole body go still.

His thumb traces the corner of your mouth like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it. The cool brush of metal sends a shiver down your spine. You hold perfectly still, muscles taut as wire, every nerve drawn tight with the kind of tension that’s too sharp to move through.

“Bucky,” you whisper, barely audible, like saying his name too loud might shatter this.

“Yeah,” he rasps, his gaze pinned to your lips like he can’t look anywhere else. “Say it again.”

Your pulse skitters. “Bucky.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, and then he’s kissing you.

It’s slow. Careful at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. His mouth is warm and soft, brushing yours like a secret. The contact burns through you, a low, steady flame that licks up your spine and curls behind your ribs.

You melt into it.

Your fingers fist in the fabric at his waist as your mind stutters, power crackling instinctively in response. A stray glass on the counter rattles faintly. The air hums around you. He pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “Easy, trouble. Don’t burn the place down yet.”

You huff a shaky laugh, and he swallows the sound in another kiss—deeper this time, hungrier, his flesh hand sliding to your hip, the metal one bracing firm at the small of your back.

Your knees go weak.

Energy sparks under your skin. The dim kitchen light flickers once, sharply. You can feel the pull of his thoughts against your mind like the edge of a magnetic field—his control fraying just enough that you catch the flashes bleeding through: heat, want, restraint straining like pulled wire.

He breaks the kiss with a soft curse, resting his forehead against yours. His breath is ragged. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, “how long I’ve been trying not to do that.”

Your lips curve. “Could’ve fooled me.”

His eyes snap open—blue, blown dark, unreadable. Then he scoffs, low and sharp. “Smart mouth,” he mutters, and the way he says it makes your stomach clench.

His hands are on you again before you can reply, hauling you up with effortless strength. You gasp and instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, arms looped over his shoulders. He walks you backward until your spine hits the cool metal of the fridge door, the vibration of the impact humming through you.

“Still think you can tease me and walk away?” he murmurs, kissing the hollow beneath your jaw.

You can’t even form words. Your powers flutter wild in response—utensils clatter in drawers, a stack of plates slides an inch across the counter.

He notices.

He pulls back just enough to watch your eyes glow faintly, your breath hitching. “Careful,” he says softly, wicked amusement curling at the edges of his voice. “You’re leaking.”

“Shut up,” you breathe, and drag his mouth back to yours.

This kiss isn’t careful.

It’s heat and teeth and hunger. He groans low in his chest when your fingers tangle in his hair, and the sound sends lightning through your bloodstream. His metal hand fists in the back of your shirt and pulls you tighter against him until there’s not a millimeter of space left between your bodies.

The air hums sharp around you, flickering with your power, your control fraying with every brush of his mouth on your skin.

There was no humour in it. Just quiet finality, the kind that made your throat tighten. You’d known Bucky for years, long enough to read every flicker in his eyes — every emotion he tried to bury behind those walls. And right now, his gaze burned with something you didn’t dare name.

“You don’t always have to be the hero,” you whispered, taping the bandage down.

He caught your wrist — gently, but firm enough to make you freeze. His voice dropped, low and quiet. “And you don’t get it, do you?”

You frowned, meeting his eyes. “Get what?”

“That I’d take every damn bullet for you.”

Your heart stuttered. The room went silent, save for the sound of his breath — steady, deep, controlled. But his jaw was tight. His fingers trembled just slightly against your skin.

“Bucky…”

“Don’t,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Don’t say my name like that. Not when you don’t mean it the way I want you to.”

Something in your chest cracked. You tried to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. “And how’s that?”

He met your gaze, unflinching. “Like you feel it too.”

And that was it — the dam broke. The thing you’d both been dancing around for months, the tension simmering in every glance, every brush of your fingers, every night spent too close but never close enough.

You stepped forward, slowly, like moving toward a live wire. “Maybe I do.”

Bucky’s breath hitched. “Say it.”

You swallowed. “I feel it too.”

He moved before you could blink. One hand cupped your jaw, the other finding your waist, and his mouth crashed into yours — hot, hungry, desperate. The kiss tore a sound from your throat you didn’t recognise, something between a gasp and a whimper.

His metal hand splayed against your back, dragging you flush against him. Every touch was feverish, every breath laced with years of longing he couldn’t hold back anymore. You tasted salt and heat and something that felt like home.

“Been wantin’ this for so long,” he murmured against your lips.

You tugged him closer. “Then stop waiting.”

The rest was a blur — the soft thud of your back hitting the mattress, the rasp of his voice as he whispered your name like a prayer. He worshipped you with every touch, every kiss, every breathless sound he pulled from your lips. And when he finally slid inside you, eyes locked on yours, it felt less like lust and more like a confession.

He moved slow, reverent. Whispering things you’d never thought you’d hear from him.

“So perfect for me.”

“You have no idea what you do to me, doll.”

“I love you.”

You froze, breath catching — and he saw it. Panic flickered across his face until you cupped his cheek, tears stinging your eyes.

“I love you too.”

He kissed you like it was oxygen, like saying it out loud had unlocked something in both of you. The rest of the night was a blur of heat and tenderness, soft laughter tangled between gasps, his name falling from your lips like a promise.

When you finally collapsed against him, chest pressed to his, his heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” you whispered.

He smiled against your hair, voice rough. “Can’t promise that, doll. Not when it’s you.”

You fell asleep in his arms, thinking everything had finally fallen into place.

You didn’t know yet how quickly one careless sentence could shatter it.

The sun had barely risen when Bucky stirred beside you. For a moment, he didn’t move. Just lay there, eyes half-lidded, watching the soft rise and fall of your chest against him.

You looked peaceful — hair fanned out on his pillow, lips parted in the faintest smile. His heart clenched at the sight.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, whispering a quiet “I love you” into your hair before slipping out of bed. You murmured something in your sleep, nuzzling into the sheets, and he had to fight the urge to crawl back in.

Later, he told himself. He’d come back later.

He grabbed his shirt, wincing at the pull in his shoulder, and made his way down the hall. The compound was already awake — Sam and Tony were sitting at the kitchen counter, coffee mugs in hand.

“Morning, Barnes,” Sam greeted, eyes glinting. “Rough night?”

Bucky froze mid-step. “What?”

Tony smirked. “Come on, man. You disappeared after the mission, didn’t show for debrief. You’ve got that… post-battle glow.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “Uh-huh. And a few scratches that weren’t from combat. You wanna tell us who?”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He could still feel the warmth of your skin under his hands, the sound of your voice whispering his name — and the thought of dragging that into this room, into their teasing, made something twist in his chest.

Steve walked in just in time to hear Tony add, “C’mon, Buck. We won’t judge. Well — not much.”

Sam grinned. “You finally make a move on her?”

Bucky’s pulse stuttered. His heart kicked hard against his ribs. Her. You.

The three of them were watching him now — waiting. Expecting.

He wanted to tell them the truth — that it wasn’t just a hook-up, that you were his, that he’d fallen for you long before last night. But his throat closed around the words.

Because they’d laugh. Because they’d turn it into something casual, a joke, something it wasn’t.

He felt heat crawl up his neck and muttered, “Relax. It was just one night.”

The words hit the air before he could stop them.

Tony whistled low, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Damn. Didn’t think you had it in you, Barnes.”

Sam snorted into his coffee. “Man’s full of surprises,” he said, but his tone softened when he glanced up at Bucky. The guy wasn’t smirking, wasn’t rolling his eyes — just standing there, stiff, like the air had gone out of the room.

Steve caught it too. His brows drew together, just slightly. He knew Bucky better than anyone — knew the tells, the way his jaw tightened when he was lying, the way his eyes flickered like he wanted to be anywhere else.

Something was wrong.

But Tony kept talking, oblivious. “Well, good for you. Gotta blow off steam somehow, right?”

Sam and Steve exchanged a look. They didn’t say anything — not yet — but both of them could feel it. Whatever had just happened, it wasn’t the victory Tony thought it was.

And Bucky… he could feel their eyes on him, could feel the weight of his own words echoing back in his chest like a gunshot.

Just one night.

It tasted bitter already.

But the sound barely registered. Because all Bucky could hear was the echo of his own voice — just one night.

And the faint sound of something behind him.

He turned just in time to see you standing in the doorway.

You were holding two mugs of coffee — one for him — but your hands were trembling.

Your eyes met his, wide and glassy, and he felt his heart drop straight to his ass.

You didn’t say a word. You just turned and walked away.

He called your name out, “ — wait—”

Bucky didn’t sleep that night.

He tried. He paced the halls. He replayed your face — the look when you heard him say it — over and over until it hollowed him out.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you walking away. Heard his own voice again.

“Relax. It was just one night.”

He wanted to rip the words back out of the air. Wanted to take the bullet instead. By morning, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He found you in the gym, knuckles red from the punching bag, jaw set. You didn’t even glance his way when he stepped inside.

“Doll…” His voice cracked. “Please.”

You ignored him. Another punch. Another.

He tried again. “You can hit me if you want.”

That got a small, humourless laugh out of you. “Not worth the effort.”

“Then tell me what to do,” he said softly. “Tell me how to fix this.”

You froze mid-swing, chest heaving. “You can’t.”

Bucky took a step closer. “I didn’t mean it. You know that.”

“Do I?” you asked, turning to face him. “Because from where I was standing, it sounded pretty damn easy for you to say.”

He swallowed hard. “They were—”

“Teasing you. Yeah. You’ve said that.” You threw the gloves down, eyes shining. “And instead of shutting them down, you said it meant nothing. That I meant nothing.”

His voice broke. “You don’t.”

“Then why did you say it?”

He hesitated, and you saw the flicker of shame cross his face. “Because I’m not used to this,” he  admitted quietly. “People don’t… look at me like you do. They don’t see me like you do.”

He stepped closer, cautiously, as if afraid you’d disappear. “I spent so long being told I was a weapon. A monster. So when they started joking, I panicked. I thought if I laughed it off, they’d stop. I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

Your eyes softened, just slightly. “You already did.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I know. And I hate myself for it.”

You looked away, blinking fast. “You made me believe it was real.”

“It was real,” he said fiercely. “Every second.”

Silence settled, thick and heavy.

He stepped closer — slow, deliberate — until he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath. “Please look at me.”

You did.

What you saw wasn’t the confident soldier who had swept you off your feet the night before. It was a man unraveling. His eyes were red, his mouth drawn tight, and when he reached for you, his hand trembled.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I didn’t say it because I thought it’d fix anything. I said it because it’s true. Because I’ve loved you for a long damn time.”

Your breath hitched. “Then why would you—”

“Because I’m an idiot,” he said simply. “Because I let pride and fear get in the way of the best thing that ever happened to me.”

You felt your throat tighten again.

He cupped your face gently, eyes searching yours. “Let me show you how sorry I am.”

The words hung there — not a demand, not a plea. Just quiet, aching sincerity.

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him — the man who had broken your heart without meaning to, who was standing in front of you stripped bare, desperate to put the pieces back together.

Finally, you exhaled. 

He kissed you slowly this time. No rush, no hunger — just a deep, steady ache that built with every heartbeat. His hands cradled your face like you might shatter, and when you melted into him, he sighed against your lips, like he’d been holding his breath since the moment you walked away.

Every touch was an apology — the way his thumb traced your cheekbone, the way his forehead pressed to yours as he whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

When his lips brushed your jaw, down your neck, his voice trembled against your skin. “I don’t deserve you.”

You caught his chin, making him meet your eyes. “Then earn me.”

Something flickered in his gaze — reverence, determination, love.

He moved slowly, reverently, as though memorizing every sound you made, every way your body leaned into his. It wasn’t about claiming or proving anything — it was about showing you, piece by piece, how much you meant to him.

When he whispered your name, it came out like a promise.

“Never again.”

“You’re it for me, doll.”

“I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”

The words melted between kisses, soft gasps, and shivers of breath until everything into warmth and forgiveness.

When the world finally stilled, you were curled against his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns over the scars on his arm.

“You really scared me,” you whispered.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I know. And I’ll spend the rest of my life makin’ sure I never do again.”

You smiled faintly, eyes fluttering shut. “You’d better.”

He chuckled, low and soft. “Guess I’ve got some makin’ up to do.”

You tilted your head to look at him. “You already are.”

Bucky brushed a thumb over your lip, his voice barely above a whisper. “I love you, you know that?”

You smiled. “Yeah. I do.”

And this time, you believed it, completely.

Leon let out a quiet laugh as you pushed through the glass doors into the cool night air. The street outside was mostly empty, the soft glow of streetlights stretching down the block toward the diner he’d mentioned. For a few steps you walked side by side in comfortable silence.

Then Leon glanced over again. “Just to be clear,” he said, “this isn’t secretly still a mission, right? You’re not going to suddenly pull out a file halfway through dinner.”

“Disappointed?” you asked.

“Maybe a little.” He smirked. “I like knowing what I’m walking into.”

You looked at him sideways. “You asked me out.”

“Yeah,” Leon said, nodding. “Still getting used to the idea that you said yes.”

You rolled your eyes slightly, but the small smile tugging at your lips gave you away.

A few minutes later the warm neon glow of the diner sign came into view. Leon reached the door first, holding it open for you without saying anything. When you stepped inside, he followed, glancing around the mostly empty booths before nodding toward one near the window.

As you both slid into opposite sides of the booth, he leaned back against the seat, looking a little more relaxed than you’d ever seen him in the office.

“So,” Leon said, resting his arm along the back of the booth, eyes settling on you again.

“First official non-mission with my partner.”

A small grin appeared.

“Should I be worried?”

You picked up the menu but didn’t open it yet, resting your elbows on the table as you looked across at him. “You’re the one who asked me out,” you said. “If anyone should be worried, it’s me.”

Across the booth, Leon S. Kennedy leaned back slightly, clearly amused. “Wow,” he said. “And here I thought I was doing something nice.”

“You are,” you replied calmly. “I’m just surprised you managed to do it without turning it into a tactical briefing.”

Leon chuckled under his breath, glancing down at the menu before flipping it open. “Give me time. We’ve only been here thirty seconds.”

A waitress stopped by to take your orders, and once she left, Leon set the menu aside completely. Instead of looking around the diner like most people would, he just rested his forearms on the table and watched you.

You noticed immediately.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, though the small smile on his face didn’t disappear. After a second he added, “Just realising this is the first time I’ve seen you without a stack of reports in front of you.”

“That disappointing?”

“Actually?” Leon tilted his head slightly. “Kind of the opposite.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Careful, Kennedy.”

“Why?” he asked lightly.

“Because you’re flirting again.”

He didn’t even try to deny it this time.

Instead, Leon leaned back in the booth again, one arm resting casually along the seat behind him.

“Yeah,” he said simply.

Then he looked at you, expression softer but still playful.

“Turns out I like doing that.”

You shook your head slightly, though the smile tugging at your lips gave away that you weren’t actually annoyed. “You’re unbelievable.”

Leon looked completely unbothered by the accusation, leaning back comfortably in the booth like he had nowhere else he needed to be.

“That’s not the first time you’ve said that to me,” he pointed out.

“That’s because it keeps being true.”

He chuckled under his breath at that, resting his forearms on the table as he looked at you. The diner was quiet around you—just the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen and the low hum of an old radio somewhere behind the counter. For a moment he just studied you, like he was taking in the fact that this was actually happening.

“You know,” he said eventually, “when they first told me I was getting a partner, I was already planning how long it would take before I asked for a reassignment.”

Your eyebrow lifted immediately. “Wow. That’s comforting.”

“Hey,” he said quickly, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “In my defense, I didn’t know it was going to be you.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

Leon laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Alright, fair.” His eyes flicked down to the table for a second before coming back to you. “But if it makes you feel better, that plan lasted about… one mission.”

“One?” you repeated.

“Maybe less.” His mouth curved into a small, amused smile. “Turns out you’re a lot harder to get rid of than I expected.”

You leaned back slightly in your seat. “Pretty sure you’re the one who keeps showing up at my desk.”

Leon didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging lightly, “that part’s intentional.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, but he could see the corner of your mouth twitch.

“Careful,” you warned. “You’re flirting again.”

He tilted his head slightly, like he was considering that.

“Again?” he repeated. “That implies I stopped.”

You rolled your eyes, though you were clearly fighting a smile now.

The waitress came by with your food, setting the plates down before heading back toward the counter. Leon glanced down briefly before picking up his fork, but he didn’t start eating right away. Instead, he looked back up at you.

“So,” he said casually.

“That tone sounds dangerous,” you replied.

He grinned slightly. “Relax. It’s not a mission question.”

You gestured for him to go on.

Leon leaned back in the booth again, one arm resting along the back of the seat as he watched you across the table.

“I’m just wondering something,” he said. “When I asked you out tonight… were you actually planning on saying yes?”

You took a slow sip of your drink before answering, clearly enjoying the suspense.

“Why?”

He shrugged lightly, though the small smile on his face said he was very aware of what he was asking.

“Because,” he said, “you looked like you were thinking about making me suffer for a minute there.”

You set the glass down and looked at him calmly.

“Maybe I was.”

Leon laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” he said. “That checks out.”

Then he leaned forward slightly across the table, lowering his voice just a little.

“But you still said yes,” he added, eyes holding yours.

“And I’m going to take that as a good sign.”

Leon held your gaze for a second longer after saying it, like he was trying to read your reaction. When you didn’t immediately respond, he leaned back again, finally picking up his fork.

“Don’t worry,” he added casually. “I’m not going to overanalyse it. Yet.”

You scoffed softly, cutting into your food. “Good. I’d hate to think you asked me out just to start collecting data.”

“Hey,” Leon said, pointing his fork at you, “old habits.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he replied smoothly, “you’re having dinner with me.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real bite to it. Across the table, Leon seemed more relaxed than you’d ever seen him in the office. No reports, no weapons, no mission clock counting down. Just him leaning back in a diner booth, watching you with that same amused focus he usually had when the two of you were arguing over intel.

“So,” he said after a few bites of food, “be honest.”

“That’s already a dangerous start.”

Leon smirked slightly. “When they first told you that you’d be partnered with me… what did you think?”

You didn’t answer right away, taking a moment to sip your drink instead.

“That depends,” you said eventually.

“On what?”

“On whether you want the honest answer or the nice one.”

Leon leaned forward slightly, clearly entertained now. “Oh no, we’re not doing the nice one. I definitely want the honest one.”

You tilted your head, studying him like you had during your first briefing together.

“I thought you were going to be insufferable.”

Leon blinked once, then laughed.

“Wow.”

“You asked.”

“I did,” he admitted, still grinning. “But I thought you’d at least pretend to be polite about it.”

You shrugged.

He leaned back again, shaking his head slightly as he took another bite of food. “That’s fair, though,” he said after a moment. “I probably thought the same thing about you.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah,” Leon said easily. “I figured you were going to be one of those by-the-book agents who’d lecture me every five minutes.”

You gave him a look. “I do lecture you.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But now I kind of like it.”

You paused mid-bite, raising an eyebrow.

Leon didn’t look even slightly embarrassed about what he’d just said.

“What?” he asked.

“You just admitted you like when I argue with you.”

He shrugged again, completely relaxed. “It keeps things interesting.”

You shook your head slightly, trying to hide the smile threatening to appear again.

For a moment the conversation faded into something quieter while you both ate, the comfortable kind of silence that only happened when two people were used to being around each other.

Leon eventually set his fork down, leaning his elbow on the table.

“You know what the weird part is?” he said.

“What?”

He watched you for a second before answering.

“The first mission we had together, I was convinced this partnership was going to be a disaster.”

“And now?”

Leon’s mouth curved into a small, confident smile.

“Now I’m wondering why I didn’t ask you out sooner.”

A few months later, the dynamic between you and Leon had changed in ways that were both obvious and strangely subtle. Missions still happened. Reports still piled up. The agency still ran the same way it always had. But somewhere along the line, the line between partners and something more had quietly disappeared.

Now it was normal to find Leon leaning against your desk in the morning, waiting for you to finish whatever report you were reading so the two of you could grab lunch together. Sometimes he’d show up with a drink in his hand—never coffee anymore—and slide it across the desk without a word.

“You know,” he said one afternoon, settling into the chair beside you, “most people in this building still think you’re the serious one.”

You glanced up from your laptop. “I am the serious one.”

Leon raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because last mission you threatened to throw my comms out a window.”

“You wouldn’t stop talking.”

“That’s because you were ignoring me.”

“I was busy.”

He leaned back in the chair, watching you with that familiar amused look. “Yeah,” he said, “busy pretending you weren’t smiling every time I annoyed you.”

You tried to focus on your screen again, but the small grin on your face betrayed you.

Leon noticed immediately.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured.

A moment later he stood up, walking around behind your chair before resting his hands on the back of it and leaning slightly closer.

“You almost done with that?” he asked quietly.

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “Why?”

His mouth curved into an easy smile.

“Because,” Leon said, “I was planning on stealing you away for lunch before someone assigns us another mission.”

You tilted your head slightly. “You’re very confident I’d say yes.”

Leon didn’t even hesitate.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

You shut the laptop with a soft click.

Leon’s grin widened immediately.

“See?” he said. “I know you.”

A year later, things had settled into something steady between you and Leon—something that felt a lot less like the chaos of your first missions together and more like a rhythm you both fit into without trying. It had been a year and four months since that first dinner at the diner, and somehow the teasing, the arguing, and the flirting had never really gone away. It had just… softened into something more comfortable.

That night, you were sitting on Leon’s couch, one of his jackets thrown over the armrest while some movie played quietly on the TV. Neither of you were really watching it. You had your legs tucked under you, scrolling through something on your phone while Leon leaned back beside you, one arm stretched along the back of the couch.

After a few minutes, he glanced over.

“You know,” Leon said casually, “you’re here a lot.”

You didn’t look up from your phone. “That’s what happens when you keep inviting me over.”

“Yeah, but,” he said, shifting slightly so he was angled toward you now, “I mean really here.”

That made you glance up.

Leon rubbed the back of his neck for a second, a small habit he still had whenever he was about to say something he’d clearly been thinking about for a while.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he said.

Your eyebrow lifted slightly. “That sounds serious.”

“It’s not that serious,” he replied quickly. Then he paused. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You set your phone down on the coffee table.

Leon watched you for a moment, then exhaled quietly before continuing.

“Look… you’re here most nights anyway,” he said. “Half your stuff is already in my apartment. My closet’s basically become shared territory.”

You smiled slightly at that.

“And,” he added, “I kind of like waking up and knowing you’re going to be there.”

For a second the room was quiet except for the TV in the background.

Leon met your eyes.

“So,” he said, a little softer now, “why don’t you just move in?”

You blinked once, clearly surprised by how straightforward he’d been about it.

Leon immediately lifted his hands slightly. “No pressure,” he added quickly. “I just—”

“Yes.”

He stopped.

“What?”

You leaned back against the couch again, completely calm.

“I said yes.”

Leon stared at you for a second like he was processing that.

“That was… fast,” he said.

You shrugged slightly.

“I’ve basically been living here already.”

A slow grin spread across his face.

“Yeah,” Leon said, leaning back again and draping his arm along the back of the couch behind you as he leaned in.

“That’s kind of what I was hoping you’d say.,. and you didn’t even think about it,” he said, half amused, half surprised.

You shrugged a little, leaning back into the couch. “I did think about it.”

“When?”

“Every time I stayed here for three nights in a row.”

Leon laughed quietly at that, shaking his head before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You know, I had this whole speech ready,” he admitted. “Something about how it makes sense logistically, and how we already spend most of our time together anyway.”

“And you didn’t get to use it,” you said.

“Tragic,” he replied dryly.

You nudged his shoulder lightly with yours. “You’ll survive.”

He glanced at you again then, the joking expression softening just a little. For a moment neither of you said anything. The quiet in the apartment felt comfortable, familiar—the kind that only came after spending a long time around someone.

“Come here,” Leon murmured suddenly.

You looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Just come here.”

You shifted closer on the couch, and before you could ask anything else, Leon reached over and gently pulled you the rest of the way toward him. One of his arms wrapped loosely around your waist as he looked down at you with that small, amused smile he always got when you pretended to be annoyed with him.

“You realise,” he said softly, “that means you’re stuck with me now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you’re the one who asked.”

“Yeah,” Leon said. “Best decision I’ve made in a while.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he leaned in first, closing the small space between you. The kiss was easy and familiar, the kind that came from months of knowing each other—warm, unhurried, and comfortable in a way that made you forget whatever you were about to say.

When he pulled back slightly, his hand was still resting against your side.

“Told you I liked having you around,” he said quietly.

You shook your head a little, though you were smiling now.

Your telekinesis flared again, shivering through the air. Lights flickered inside the compound windows, the glasses and plates on the counter rattling as well

Bucky didn’t even blink. His hand slid down your side, gripping your thigh, hauling it up around his hip like he couldn’t stand space between you.

The kiss turned messy, frantic.

You tugged at his shirt until he stripped it over his head, tossing it aside. Scars and muscle gleamed in the dim light, his chest rising fast. He crowded back into you, metal fingers trailing down your ribs — cold and sharp against your heated skin.

You shuddered.

“Doesn’t scare you?” he asked, voice low, testing.

You smirked, tilting your head. “Try me.”

He growled. And then his mouth was back on yours, his hand sliding under your top, palm hot against your bare skin.

Your powers hummed dangerously, but you pulled them back, focusing on him — on the taste of him, the weight of him, the way he kissed like he’d been waiting a lifetime.

“My room." he muttered against your lips. “Now.”

You didn’t argue.

He scooped you up effortlessly, carrying you through the hall of the compound. You half-laughed, half-gasped into his mouth, clutching his shoulders, telekinesis rattling the picture frames on the walls as he carried you straight to his room.

The door slammed shut.

He pressed you back against it, kissing you hard, almost punishing, like he hated how much he needed you.

You tugged his belt open with shaking fingers, shoving the leather free. He caught your wrists in his hand, pinning them above your head against the wall. His metal arm held firm — unmovable — and the sight of him holding you there, all strength and restraint, sent a shock straight through your core.

“Behave,” he rasped, eyes flicking down your body.

“Make me.”

His jaw clenched.

And then he did.

He kissed down your throat, biting and soothing in turns, while his free hand slid under your shirt. You gasped when his thumb brushed over your breast, circling slow before squeezing. Your knees buckled; he held you up effortlessly, grinding his hips into yours until you moaned into his mouth.

Your telekinesis snapped — the lamp shattered in a burst of light.

“Control it,” he growled, lips brushing your ear.

“Can’t,” you whispered. “Not with you doing this to me-”

Something feral flashed in his eyes. He lifted you, wrapped your legs around his waist, and carried you to the bed.

The mattress groaned as he dropped you onto it, climbing over you, caging you in with his body. His dog tags dangled, brushing your chest, and you tugged him down by them until your mouths crashed together again. Clothes came off in a frantic blur — your top, his jeans, his boxers sliding low, your nails dragging down his back. He kissed every new strip of skin he uncovered, like he couldn’t decide between worshipping you or devouring you.

When his hand slipped under your waistband and found how ready you were for him, his groan vibrated against your throat.

“Fuck..” he moaned your name.

Your hips jerked against his hand. “Please.”

The word broke him.

He ripped the last barrier between you aside and pressed into you with a slow, deliberate thrust that made your whole body arch. Your powers flared out uncontrolled — the curtains snapped shut, shadows rippling across the walls, the bed frame rattling beneath you.

“Eyes on me,” he growled, gripping your chin when your head fell back.

You obeyed. And the look in his eyes — hungry, desperate, reverent — made you clench around him so hard he cursed, burying himself deeper.

“Good girl..” he growled, and you whined.

He set a brutal pace, hips slamming into yours, every thrust driving you higher. Your nails carved lines down his back, and he grunted at the sting, metal hand gripping the headboard so hard the wood splintered.

“Too much?” he panted, forehead pressed to yours.

“Not enough,” you gasped, pulling him back in for a kiss.

His hand slid down, thumb circling exactly where you needed it, and your powers exploded. The dresser shook, a picture frame crashed to the floor, and Bucky groaned like he didn’t care if the whole compound knew.

It built fast, unstoppable. You clung to him, breathless pleas tumbling from your lips. He buried his face against your throat, groaning your codename, your real name, like he couldn’t decide which one owned him more. And when you came apart, your powers surged — the lights blew out, the headboard cracked, the air around you humming like a storm.

He followed with a ragged curse, hips stuttering as he spilled into you, collapsing against you with a shuddering breath.

The room was wrecked — furniture crooked, clothes and various items on the floor, air still tingling with your power.

But neither of you cared.

He stayed pressed to you, chest heaving, his arm tight around your waist like he was terrified you’d vanish. When his breath steadied, he pressed a slow, reverent kiss to your temple.

He murmured your name, softer now. “You undo me.”

You smiled against his skin.

“Guess you like losing, Barnes.”

His laugh was low, dark, against your throat.

“Only to you.”

The first thing you noticed was the heat.

Not the sunlight, not the soreness in your body — but the sheer warmth of Bucky Barnes pressed against you like he had no intention of letting go.

His arm was slung across your waist, his metal hand resting over your stomach, thumb brushing unconsciously against your skin as he slept. His breath ghosted against your neck, slow and steady, like you’d been his anchor through the night.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The chaos of last night replayed in flashes — his mouth on yours, the sound of your name torn from his throat, the way the entire room had seemed to bend around the two of you when your powers snapped loose.

Your cheeks burned at the memory.

When you finally shifted, his grip tightened instantly.

“Don’t,” he muttered, voice still rough from sleep.

You froze. “You’re awake.”

“Have been,” he lied. His lips brushed your shoulder. “Stay.”

You turned your head just enough to catch his half-lidded eyes, the faint crease in his brow like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You’re clingy in the morning,” you whispered, a teasing edge to cover your thundering heartbeat.

“Deal with it,” he muttered, pulling you even closer, burying his face in your hair.

You thought you’d be smart. Quiet. Slip back to your own room before anyone noticed.

Big mistake.

The second you opened the door, you walked straight into the firing squad.

Natasha, Tony, and Sam were all casually stationed in the hallway like they’d been waiting for hours. Wanda leaned against the wall with a cup of tea, hiding her smile. Clint strolled up from the other end with a bagel, eyes lighting up like he’d stumbled into Christmas morning.

“Well, well, well,” Tony drawled, arms folded, smirk dangerous. “What do we have here? A shadow slinking out of Barnes’ room at—” he checked his watch dramatically, “—oh, nine hundred hours sharp. Very efficient.”

Your face burned hot. “We weren’t—”

Natasha cut you off with a knowing smirk. “Finally. I was this close to locking you both in the armory.”

Wanda tilted her head, eyes twinkling. “You rattled the entire building. I thought it was an earthquake.”

Sam whistled. “Explains the power surge. Stark’s generator readings spiked at, what, three a.m.? Thought we were under attack.”

Your jaw dropped. “It wasn’t that bad—”

The door behind you creaked. Bucky stepped out, shirtless, hair a complete mess, eyes murderous at the scene in front of him.

“Not. A. Word,” he growled.

The hallway erupted in laughter.

Breakfast was worse.

By the time you made it to the kitchen, the entire team had heard. Vision politely pretended to read the newspaper, but his eyes flicked up every so often with a curious hum. Thor clapped Bucky on the back so hard the poor man almost dropped his coffee.

“Congratulations, friend Barnes!” Thor boomed. “You have been most uptight of late — it is good you finally released such tension. You clearly needed the se-”

You choked on your coffee. Clint actually fell off his chair laughing. Wanda covered her mouth, eyes wide.

“Thor,” Steve groaned cutting him off before he continued, rubbing his face. “We don’t need details.”

But Thor only nodded, completely serious. “Details are unnecessary. It is plain for all to see — Barnes walks lighter this morning.”

Bucky’s ears turned scarlet. He growled, “I’m going to kill you.”

Natasha smirked into her cup. “He’s not wrong, though.”

Tony nearly spit out his orange juice. “Oh my God, Thor, never change.”

Nat sipped her coffee like a queen. “You both looked tense for weeks. I’m just glad you didn’t kill each other before finally giving in.”

“Kill each other?” Tony snorted. “She nearly killed my infrastructure. Do you know how much StarkTech shorted out last night?” He tapped at his tablet. “Sparks flying, bedframe cracking, breaker box fried. Honestly, I should start charging you two rent.”

You buried your face in your hands.

“Im sorry!!! My powers arent exactly that controlled!!”

Tony chuckled “i figured that one out last night.”

Bucky muttered darkly, “I will throw every single one of you out a window.”

“Promises, promises,” Sam shot back, grinning.

It didn’t take long. Fury had barely given the briefing before you realised how bad this was going to be.

A Hydra cell had resurfaced in Berlin, and the team was being sent to take it down. You and Bucky were paired as point team — infiltration, recon, neutralisation.

“Your inside,” Fury said. “You both know the drill. Don’t get compromised.”

Tony smirked across the table. “Compromised? Please. They’ve been compromised for weeks.”

Laughter rippled around the room. Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. Wanda smothered a grin behind her hand.

Your cheeks burned. Bucky’s jaw ticked.

“Can we focus?” he growled.

Natasha leaned back in her chair. “Sure, husband.”

The team roared.

The quinjet hummed with quiet chatter, but your row was silent. You sat across from Bucky, eyes fixed on your gloves, trying not to think about how his gaze kept flicking to your mouth like he couldn’t stop himself.

Sam broke the silence.

“So, Barnes,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “you gonna be able to keep your head in the game? Or you gonna be distracted thinking about—”

“Finish that sentence,” Bucky warned, voice lethal.

Sam raised his hands and smirked.

You wanted to sink into the floor.

The warehouse stank of oil and mildew, shadows stretching long under the broken skylights. You kept your powers tight and coiled, telekinesis steadying the tools in your hands as you worked the lock. Bucky stood close, knife already drawn, watching every corner like the walls themselves might come alive.

The door clicked. You slipped inside together, boots silent on the concrete.

“Left corridor,” you whispered.

He nodded. His hand brushed the small of your back — fleeting, but deliberate — before he took point.

The deeper you went, the louder the hum of servers grew. Hydra had turned this place into a nest, wires crawling over the walls, crates stacked like barricades.

Then you heard it — voices ahead.

Bucky held up a hand. You froze, focusing, letting your telekinesis spread just enough to “feel” the space. Six men. Armed.

You shaped your power like invisible fingers, flicking one of the lights overhead. It shattered, glass raining down, and in the chaos you and Bucky moved as one. His knife sank into the first soldier’s shoulder as your telekinesis ripped the gun from another’s hand, slamming it across his face. Within moments, the floor was littered with groaning bodies.

“Clear,” Bucky muttered, chest heaving.

But the last man standing wasn’t just another soldier. He was waiting.

The lieutenant stepped out from the shadows with a slow clap. His uniform was pressed, Hydra insignia sharp against the collar. But it was his smile that chilled you.

“Barnes,” he drawled. “The Asset. And his… partner.” His gaze slid to you, lingering far too long. “Or should I say, the experiment?”

Your blood ran cold.

Bucky was on him in a blink, knife at his throat. “Say one more word.”

The lieutenant chuckled, unfazed. “They’re already looking for her, you know. The one with the mind. The one with the power to bend the world. Hydra doesn’t forget. And we always collect what’s ours.”

Your stomach twisted. You hadn’t told the team everything — how Hydra operatives had tracked your family before, how your powers made you a target.

“Enough,” you snapped, pressing his mind with a push of your power. His eyes glazed for a second, fighting it — but Bucky’s knife dug deeper, silencing him with a hiss.

“Bucky,” you warned softly. “Focus.”

His jaw clenched, chest rising fast. He looked at the man like he wasn’t just an enemy — he was a threat to you.

When you finally dragged the knocked out lieutenant outside, Steve’s voice cracked over comms.

“Report.”

“Lieutenant secured,” you answered, keeping your tone even.

“And your intact?” Steve pressed.

“Of course she’s intact—” Bucky snapped before you could speak.

“Relax, Barnes,” Natasha purred. “We know you’ve got her covered.”

“Covered, under, over—” Sam started.

“Wilson,” Bucky growled, voice lethal.

“Alright, children,” Tony cut in. “Focus on the op. Then you can get back to whatever Olympic sport you’re training for in Barnes’ room.”

You groaned, ripping the comm from your ear.

But when Bucky’s hand brushed yours as you loaded the lieutenant onto the jet, your pulse betrayed you. Hydra might have wanted to claim you, but the truth was simple: the only one who had you was Bucky.

The quinjet touched down well past midnight. Everyone filed out, tired and restless, but the teasing still hadn’t stopped.

“Good work, you two,” Steve said evenly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

Sam smirked as he walked by. “Yeah, real seamless coordination. Almost like you’ve been practicing behind closed doors.”

“Sam,” you snapped.

Natasha’s smirk was lazier, deadlier. “Don’t be too hard on him. We all saw it. The way you covered each other? You fight like people who’ve undressed each other- oh wait you already ha-“

You nearly choked. “Nat—”

Bucky’s metal fist clenched, the plates whining under pressure. “Enough.”

The laughter followed you down the hall anyway.

Your door barely shut before Bucky was inside. He leaned against it, shoulders tense, breathing like he’d sprinted the length of the compound.

“You’re letting them get to you,” you said carefully.

“I don’t care about them,” he shot back. His eyes caught yours, raw and burning. “I care about this. About us. And I don’t even know what the hell this is.”

Silence stretched. Your heartbeat roared in your ears.

“Last night…” His voice dropped. “That wasn’t just… release. Not for me.”

Your throat tightened. “Then what was it?”

His jaw flexed. “It was me finally touching something I wanted for so long I thought it would kill me.”

The air crackled. You stepped closer, your power sparking faintly at your fingertips. “Bucky…”

“Tell me you don’t want this too,” he rasped, crowding closer. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. But if you don’t—” His metal hand slid to your hip, hot and unyielding. “I’m not letting go.”

Your answer came in the form of your mouth on his, urgent and rough. His growl rumbled against your lips as he lifted you effortlessly, slamming your back against the door.

The kiss was all teeth and need, a continuation of everything you hadn’t said in the field. His hands mapped you like he was claiming territory, like if he pressed hard enough he could brand you into his memory.

“Bucky—” you gasped when his lips trailed fire down your throat.

“You’ve been mine since the first time you looked at me like I wasn’t a monster,” he groaned against your skin. “Don’t think I don’t know it.”

Your powers flared, telekinetic sparks rattling the lamp on your desk. He smirked against your pulse. “Can’t even control it, can you? Drives you crazy the same way it drives me.”

The door suddenly rattled — someone knocking, too loudly.

“HEY, lovebirds!” Sam’s voice. “Keep it down, some of us actually like to sleep!”

Bucky’s forehead dropped to your shoulder with a murderous groan.

You laughed breathlessly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We’re never living this down.”

His metal hand tipped your chin back up, his expression fierce. “Let ‘em talk. They don’t get to have you. I do.”

“You and your pretty little blue XR8.”

“I love her, she’s my child.” you hummed as you undid the straps holding the car down.

You and Bucky got your car unloaded, pushing her into his garage, the fresh, pristine glossed tires squealing slightly on the concrete. 

Bucky circled it like a cat, hands on his hips, eyes scanning every curve. “Every time I see this thing, I think I know it… and every time, it surprises me.”

“It’s called maintenance, Barnes,” you shot back as you popped the hood.

“Something you might want to take notes on.” 

He chuckled, stepping closer, just close enough that your shoulders nearly touched as he leaned over to inspect the engine. “You’re not exactly subtle, are you?”

“Not when I’m proving a point,” you said, eyes narrowing as you adjusted a wire. “Besides, I like to see you try to keep up.”

Bucky smirked, leaning against the edge of the hood, watching your fingers move over the engine with practiced ease. “I think you underestimate me.”

“I think you’re enjoying being underestimated,” you said, climbing down and wiping your hands. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

He laughed low, shaking his head, that half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you said, stepping back to admire your handiwork. “But at least I know what I’m doing.”

Bucky’s eyes followed you as you stood there, confident and capable, and he couldn’t help but grin. 

“Yeah… yeah, I can see that.”

You disappear down the driveway in your tow truck, leaving the garage quieter than it had been a second ago. The XR8 sits in front of Bucky, sleek and perfect, and he can’t help but run his hands over the hood, smudging fingerprints across the glossy blue paint.

God, he thinks, she’s good. Not just with cars — with this car, with everything you do. You move like you own the place, like nothing could rattle you. Except… maybe him.

Bucky leans over the engine bay, trying to focus, but his eyes keep flicking to where you had been standing. The way you adjusted the wiring like you had done it a thousand times. He shakes his head, muttering under his breath. Focus, Barnes. Just the engine.

Picking up the wrench, his fingers brush metal and grease, and he can’t stop thinking about how you’d handled it yourself. You left him a mess to sort out, sure, but part of him likes that you trusts you to handle it. Not many people do.

The engine rumbles under his hands as he runs a diagnostic. Smooth. Too smooth. Almost like you had already done most of the work and just wanted him to follow along. He smirks, wiping sweat from his brow. Cheeky little hellion.

Leaning back, Bucky ran his fingers through his hair, he can’t help the grin tugging at his lips. When you come back, your going to find everything perfect. And maybe… he’ll leave a little subtle reminder that hes been thinking about you the whole time.

The rumble of your tow truck returning made Bucky straighten, wiping his hands on a rag. You stepped out, tossing him a grin that made his chest tighten more than he cared to admit.

“You’re back sooner than I expected,” he said, leaning against the fender, pretending to inspect the XR8 but really just watching you move.

“I had to drop off the others,” you replied, lowering the ramps and hopping down to the garage floor. 

“Can’t let the junkers pile up.”

He smirked. “Of course not. Someone’s got to keep the chaos in check.”

You shot him a sharp look, one eyebrow raised. “And that’s me?”

“You? Definitely. Me? Maybe,” he teased, leaning over the engine bay again. “But it helps that you left me something to do while you were gone.”

“Oh? And what exactly did I leave you?” you asked, stepping closer and picking up a wrench from the bench.

Bucky tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Proof that you’re annoyingly good at this. And that I might’ve been thinking about you the whole time.”

You quirked a mischievous smile, shaking your head. “Good. Keep thinking. Maybe it’ll motivate you to finish before I take over again.”

He chuckled, brushing past you as you both leaned over the hood, your hands occasionally bumping. The air between you felt electric—every glance, every movement a challenge neither of you wanted to lose, yet neither willing to back down.

His arm brushed against yours again, deliberate this time, and you felt the faintest hitch in your breath. You didn’t look up, though—you weren’t going to give him that satisfaction.

“Careful, Barnes,” you said lightly, tightening a bolt with a little extra force. “Wouldn’t want you getting distracted.”

“Too late,” he murmured, voice low enough that you almost missed it under the hum of tools and the faint echo of metal.

You glanced up at him, meeting his eyes for half a second longer than necessary. He was already smirking, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Typical.

You straightened, setting the wrench down with a clink. “You always this confident, or is it just when I’m around?”

Bucky leaned back against the car, arms crossed, grease smudged along the curve of his forearm. 

“Only when I’ve got someone worth showing off for.”

You huffed out a laugh, stepping closer until you were toe to toe. “You call that showing off? You haven’t even finished the tune-up.”

He tilted his head, eyes flicking from your face to your hands. “Didn’t say I was done yet.”

The silence between you thickened, filled with the smell of oil and heat. You could hear his breathing, steady but a little rougher now.

Finally, you reached past him—deliberately slow—to grab a rag from the shelf behind him. “Well,” you said, brushing against his chest as you pulled back, “don’t keep me waiting too long. I’d hate to have to take over again.”

Bucky caught your wrist before you could turn away, his touch gentle but firm. “You could,” he said quietly, thumb grazing over your pulse, “but I think you like watching me work.”

Your lips curved. “Maybe I do.”

He grinned, low and dangerous. “Then don’t go anywhere.”

And as you leaned against the fender beside him, pretending to watch his hands at work, you both knew there was no fixing this kind of tension—only stoking it.

He went back to work—at least, that’s what it looked like. But every movement felt calculated, deliberate. The way his shoulders rolled as he leaned under the hood, the quiet rasp of his breath when he exhaled, the faint twitch of his jaw when he caught you watching.

You pretended not to be, of course. You crossed your arms and leaned against the bench, tracing idle patterns in the dust with your fingertip. 

“You know,” you said casually, “for someone who talks a big game, you sure take your time finishing the job.”

He chuckled low, a sound that vibrated in your chest more than your ears. “Some things are worth taking slow.”

You glanced at him then, a spark of amusement lighting your face. “That supposed to be about the car?”

“Maybe.” He looked over his shoulder, smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe not.”

You shook your head, biting back a smile as you stepped closer again. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes soft. There was a beat—a small one—where neither of you said anything. His gaze lingered on you, drifting from your eyes down to your mouth and back again.

Your pulse jumped, though you kept your expression even. “You sure you’re not overheating, Barnes?”

He grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had that effect on me.”

That earned him an eye roll, but you didn’t move away this time. In fact, you found yourself standing close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, to smell the mix of metal and something faintly like cedar on his skin.

“Careful,” you murmured. “You keep talking like that and I might start believing you.”

“Maybe that’s the plan,” he replied quietly, his voice dipping into something softer, more sincere.

For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between you—the soft hum of the lights, the steady tick of cooling metal, the almost-sound of his heartbeat matching your own. His hand brushed yours, just barely, and the contact sent a pulse of heat through your chest.

You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

Then, with a wry half-smile, you broke the spell. “Finish the tune-up first, Casanova,” you said, your voice light but your eyes giving you away.

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he turned back to the engine. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

“Good,” you said, leaning back against the car beside him. “At least I’ll go down in history as your favourite bad idea.”

And the sound of his soft, genuine laugh—mixed with the low rumble of the car coming back to life—was enough to tell you he didn’t disagree.

The hum of the city outside was distant now—muted by the thick walls and the scent of motor oil that clung to the air. Only one light remained on above the workbench, casting long shadows across the concrete floor.

You were still there, sitting on the edge of one of the busted cars hood, legs dangling, and a faded black tank top sticking to your skin. Bucky was across from you, sleeves rolled up, a few strands of hair fallen loose over his forehead. The quiet between you had grown… comfortable. Dangerous, even.

“Should’ve gone home an hour ago,” you murmured, watching him pack up tools.

He didn’t look up. “Could say the same to you.”

“Yeah, but I had a reason.”

That got his attention. He raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh yeah? What reason’s that?”

You shrugged, pretending to think about it. “Didn’t trust you not to mess with my work on my own car.”

He snorted. “Sure. That’s why you’re still sitting here at—” he glanced at the clock “—midnight.”

You tilted your head, the corner of your mouth lifting. “Maybe I just like the company.”

That earned a quiet laugh. Not the teasing kind he usually gave you, but something deeper—almost surprised. He leaned back against the wall, wiping his hands with a rag, his gaze never leaving you.

The air thickened again, slow and heavy. You could hear the tick of the clock on the wall, and the faint buzz of the light above. He didn’t move closer, but somehow it still felt like he did.

“You know,” he said finally, voice low and rough around the edges, “you’ve got this way of making everything feel like it’s about to catch fire.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. “And that’s a bad thing?”

He pushed off the wall, walking toward you—slowly, deliberately. “Didn’t say it was.”

He stopped just short of touching you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. His gloved hand rested on the hood beside your thigh, metal fingers brushing the denim of your jeans, light as a whisper.

You looked up at him, your pulse hammering. “You planning on testing that theory?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up, jaw tightening. “If I did,” he said, barely above a whisper, “I don’t think either of us would get any sleep tonight.”

The words hung there, electric. You didn’t flinch, didn’t move—just met his gaze head-on, letting the silence say what neither of you would.

After a long, charged beat, you leaned forward slightly, your voice soft but sure.

“Then maybe it’s better we don’t.”

His smile was faint, restrained. “Yeah,” he said quietly, stepping back a fraction. “Maybe.”

But he didn’t leave. Neither of you did. You just stayed there, the space between you alive with everything unsaid—both of you pretending it wasn’t dangerous to want more.

And when the light finally flickered out, neither of you bothered to turn it back on.

The silence stretched long after, broken only by the soft creak of the cooling cars around you both and the low rhythm of your breaths syncing in the dark. The garage wasn’t cold, but the air felt heavy—thick enough that even moving seemed like it might shatter something fragile hanging between you.

You could barely see him now, just the faint outline of his shoulders, the sheen of metal where his arm caught the dim glow from the streetlight bleeding through the window.

“Y’know,” you said quietly, voice cutting through the stillness, “you’re terrible at pretending you don’t want to say something.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah? And you’re terrible at pretending you don’t know what it is.”

You smiled in the dark, small and sharp. “Maybe I don’t.”

“Liar,” he murmured.

You heard the faint scrape of his boots on the concrete as he shifted closer again. Not enough to touch, but enough that your breath hitched on instinct. He smelled like oil and soap and something warmer underneath—something that pulled you in before you could help it.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward—it just was. That tense, electric space where everything mattered but no one was willing to move first.

Finally, Bucky sighed softly, the sound low and rough. “If I say what I’m thinking,” he said, “I don’t think I’ll be able to take it back.”

You turned your head toward him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Then don’t.”

He went still, and even in the darkness you could feel the way he was looking at you.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say it,” you replied. “Not if it’s gonna ruin this.”

A long pause. You could almost hear his heartbeat—steady, restrained.

Then, quietly: “You think this is safe?”

You gave a soft, humourless laugh. “No. That’s why I’m still here.”

Something in him seemed to ease, and at the same time, coil tighter. He leaned in—not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin, warm and unsteady.

“Someday,” he said, his voice just a rasp now, “you’re gonna push me too far.”

You swallowed hard, meeting his gaze through the dark. “Someday, you’re gonna let me.”

The air hung between you, thick with everything unsaid—want, restraint, danger, and the ache of almost.

Then he stepped back, slow and deliberate, the sound of his boots echoing in the quiet. “Lock up when you leave,” he murmured, grabbing his jacket from the bench.

You didn’t stop him. You just nodded, watching the faint glint of his metal arm disappear into the shadows near the door.

When the heavy door finally slid shut behind him, the garage felt too quiet. You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms to the edge of the hood, trying to ground yourself.

The air still buzzed where he’d been.

And somewhere deep down, you knew—this wasn’t over.

The garage felt different once he was gone.

Quieter. Colder. The kind of silence that didn’t fill the room—it emptied it.

You stayed where you were, perched on the edge of the hood, fingers tracing idle lines through a smear of grease on the metal. Every sound seemed too loud—the soft hum of the streetlight outside, the faint tick of the cooling engine, your own heartbeat. 

You should’ve gone home.

You told yourself that twice, maybe three times. But your body didn’t listen.

Instead, you stared at the empty doorway where he’d been standing a minute ago, his voice still echoing faintly in your head. Someday, you’re gonna push me too far.

You laughed under your breath, but it wasn’t really amusement. It was disbelief—at him, at yourself, at whatever the hell that moment had been.

You’d danced around this for weeks, maybe months. The teasing, the stolen looks, the quiet competitiveness that was really just a flimsy cover for everything else simmering beneath. It had always been a game—safe as long as neither of you called it what it was.

But tonight… it didn’t feel like a game anymore.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, eyes closing for a second. The smell of oil and sweat and metal clung to your skin, grounding you. And beneath it all, you could still smell him—that faint mix of cedar and machine oil that always lingered long after he’d gone.

You hated how much you liked it.

After a while, you slid off the hood, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. You turned off the last light and stood there in the dim white glow leaking through the window. For a second, you thought about calling him back—saying something, anything—but the thought fizzled as fast as it came.

Because if he came back now, you weren’t sure you’d keep your distance this time.

You locked the door behind you, pocketed the key, and glanced back at your car, the blue XR8. Humming softly in the dark.

It reminded you of the two of you. Unfinished. Waiting.

And burning quietly underneath it all.

You exhaled through your nose, a faint, wry smile curving your lips.

“Too far, huh?” you murmured to yourself, then turned and disappeared into the night— the heat of him still lingering like the ghost of a touch you weren’t ready to forget.

The following morning came far too quickly.

You hadn’t slept much—barely at all, really. Every time you closed your eyes, you were back in that garage, the smell of oil in your lungs, the weight of his stare lingering just a breath away. It wasn’t the kind of memory that faded overnight. It clung.

By the time you walked into the garage again, sunlight was streaming through the high windows, cutting through the dust in soft golden streaks. The same car sat where you’d left it, gleaming faintly under the light. It looked… calmer. Like the night hadn’t even happened.

You wished you could say the same for yourself.

“Morning.”

His voice came from the far corner—low, rough, like he’d been up since dawn. You turned, and there he was. Bucky. Sleeves rolled again, hair damp from a quick rinse, metal arm catching the light. He looked good. Unfairly so.

You forced a neutral tone. “You’re here early.”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You froze for half a second—just enough for him to notice, though he pretended not to.

“Guess we both had a long night,” you said finally, reaching for a tool you didn’t need just to have something to do with your hands.

He chuckled quietly, the sound low and warm. “Yeah, something like that.”

The silence that followed was different from last night’s. Lighter, but no less charged. Every word, every glance felt like tiptoeing around a live wire.

You crouched beside the car, pretending to check something under the hood. He came up beside you a moment later, crouching too. Close. Too close. His arm brushed yours again—accidentally this time, but the spark it sent through you was the same.

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel him looking at you.

“Did you think about it?” he asked quietly.

Your throat tightened. “About what?”

He gave a small, knowing smile. “About what I said.”

You set the wrench down a little too hard, metal clinking against the floor. “You mean the part where you warned me?”

He tilted his head, eyes catching yours. “The part where I meant it.”

You held his gaze, your pulse quickening despite yourself. The sunlight framed him in gold, and you hated that it made him look softer. More human. It would’ve been easier if he’d stayed behind the teasing, the armour.

“You’re really bad at pretending, you know that?” you said, voice quieter than you meant.

He smiled faintly. “Only around you.”

For a long second, you both stayed there—kneeling beside the car, eyes locked, breathing slow and even but nowhere near calm. The world outside the garage went on—distant chatter, the low hum of the city—but it didn’t reach you.

Finally, you looked away, grabbing a rag to wipe your hands. “You should get back to work before someone thinks we’re actually talking.”

“Pretty sure they already know,” he said, standing up, his tone caught between a smirk and a sigh.

You followed suit, tossing the rag on the bench. “Then let’s not give them a reason to be right.”

He hesitated for half a second, then nodded, turning back to the car.

But before you stepped away, he said it—soft enough that only you could hear

“Someday’s getting closer.”

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to.

Because the way your heart skipped told you he was right.

The garage door rumbled open mid-morning, sunlight cutting across your blue XR8, making the paint shimmer. You were wiping your hands on a rag when the car pulled in—a sleek black sports car, flawless, and absurdly expensive. The man stepping out was the same: tailored suit, perfect hair, and a grin that was all charm.

“Morning,” he said smoothly, leaning casually against the hood of your XR8. “Now that’s a car. She’s… stunning.”

You froze for half a second. The car was yours, and you’d spent years tuning it, making sure every inch was perfect. You weren’t used to people leaning on her. “Uh… careful,” you said, setting the rag down. 

“She’s worth more to me than she looks.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’m gentle.” But he stayed leaned against it, resting his weight on the hood, looking over it like he owned the place.

Bucky, leaning across a cars engine bay a few feet away, stiffened immediately. His jaw tightened, and you saw his metal arm flex slightly as he gave the man a sharp look. The protective energy radiating off him made the air thicken.

You crossed your arms, stepping a little closer to the XR8. “Maybe don’t put your elbows there,” you said, voice measured but firm. “She’s… particular about her space.”

Maxwell tilted his head, smirk tugging at his lips. “Particular, huh? I like that. She has standards… like her owner.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Are you flirting with my car, or me?”

He laughed softly, finally stepping off the hood, hands raised slightly as if apologising to both of you. 

“Fair. No harm done. I promise.”

You exhaled, brushing a hand along the hood to check for any smudges or scratches, your eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Bucky’s gaze never left the man, sharp and unwavering, but there was an edge of amusement in it too.

Maxwell stepped closer to you now, deliberately keeping just enough distance to be teasing. “And I have to say… not just the car. You’ve got skill written all over you. That’s… rare.”

You tilted your head, smirk tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Rare, huh? That’s supposed to be a compliment?”

“Absolutely,” he said, voice dipping lower, warm. “Confidence, talent, precision… and you know exactly how to use it.”

You let a small laugh escape, brushing some imaginary dust off your hands. “Flattery’s one thing. Let’s see if your car troubles are another.”

He nodded, eyes lighting up at the shift. “Right. Well, the problem’s with the engine—starts up fine, but it hesitates under load. Sometimes it stalls at lower RPMs, especially in traffic. Also… there’s a weird vibration in the front end when I take it over sixty.”

You stepped closer to the black car, crouching to inspect, Bucky right beside you, giving a subtle warning glance at the client every few seconds. Maxwell hovered near the hood but respected the space now, leaning casually against the side rather than the top. You crouched beside the front end of Maxwell’s sleek black sports car, checking the suspension and tracing the lines of the engine, Bucky a few feet behind you, silent but alert. 

Maxwell hovered at the edge of the workspace, leaning slightly against his car, arms crossed, eyes never leaving you. “Sounds like a few issues stacked together,” you said, frowning slightly as you traced the suspension. 

“We can fix it, but someone’s been a little aggressive with the throttle, haven’t they?”

He grinned, not missing a beat. “Guilty as charged. I like to feel the car, see what she can do. But I trust someone like you to tame her.”

Bucky’s hand brushed the engine bay behind you, and you felt his silent warning—but somehow, between the thrill of Maxwell’s flirting and the tension of Bucky’s gaze, it was electric.

You looked up at Maxwell, one eyebrow raised. “Tame her? Careful—you might be talking about me.”

He smiled, low and teasing. “And maybe that’s exactly what I mean.”

Bucky shifted slightly behind you, scraping a boot against the concrete. Protective, yes—but there was an amused glint in his eyes too, like he was enjoying seeing you handle this situation on your own terms. You leaned over the engine, pretending to focus fully on the work, but the heat in the air—Maxwell’s smooth teasing and Bucky’s quiet intensity—made it impossible to ignore.

“So,” Maxwell murmured after a beat, leaning a little closer, “how long have you been doing this? Fixing cars, I mean. You make it look… natural.”

You smirked without looking up. “Long enough to know how to spot a problem… and how to deal with someone who thinks charm can fix it.”

He laughed softly, low and deliberate. “I like a challenge.”

And just like that, the garage felt smaller, tighter, the three of you circling each other through glances, posture, and words—the air thick with flirtation, skill, and a tension that refused to dissipate.

You knelt over Maxwell’s engine, hands moving with practiced ease, though every now and then you felt his gaze on you. He stayed near the side of the car, leaning slightly, casual—but the way he watched you made it impossible not to notice.

“So,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “do you do this for fun, or is it all business?”

You smirked, tightening a bolt. “Depends on the client. Some cars are worth flirting with.”

He chuckled, stepping a fraction closer, letting the faint scent of his cologne drift over you. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Bucky, across the engine bay, tensed slightly. His metal arm flexed subtly, and you caught the faint glint of his eyes as they flicked toward Maxwell. Not a word—just that unmistakable watching, waiting energy. You could feel it like static in the air, and you had to suppress a shiver.

“Looks like you’ve got some issues here,” you said aloud, shifting to peer into the intake manifold. “Your throttle response is lagging, and the vibration is likely from the front subframe bushings. Nothing catastrophic, just… neglected.”

Maxwell leaned forward, hands resting lightly on the fender, watching you work. “Neglected? I like that you don’t sugarcoat it. Honesty is… rare.” You glanced up briefly, smirk in place, eyebrow raised. “Careful, or your ego might need fixing too.”

He laughed softly, the kind of low, warm laugh that made your chest tighten. “You know exactly how to keep someone on their toes. Dangerous.”

You shook your head, refocusing on the engine, though your pulse was definitely faster. “Dangerous’s not always bad. Just… selective.” He leaned a little closer, eyes tracing your hands over the components. “Selective, huh? Sounds like you know what you want… and aren’t afraid to make people notice.”

Bucky shifted behind you, clearing his throat subtly. His presence was quiet but commanding, like a silent tether to keep Maxwell from crossing any lines. You felt the heat of it behind you—protective, intense, and somehow thrilling.

“I like to know what I’m dealing with,” you said lightly, not looking up. “Cars, people… the kind that need attention. Yours falls into both categories.”

Maxwell’s grin widened, leaning closer toward you without touching, letting the tension stretch between you. “You’re good at this,” he murmured. “And I can’t tell if that’s… purely skill, or if you like showing off a little for me.”

You let out a short laugh, shrugging without looking up. “Maybe a bit of both. Keeps the work interesting.”

He shifted, leaning a little more, gaze lingering on the line of your shoulders, the angle of your hands, the curve of your ass. 

“Interesting…” he repeated, low and deliberate. his eyes roaming everywhere as you bent over to check the engine.

Bucky moved subtly, close, but not overbearing. He noticed Maxwell’s staring, he wasn’t dumb, and Maxwell caught it, a brief flicker in his eyes, but didn’t comment. Instead, he smirked, clearly enjoying the game.

You felt the tension coil in the space between the three of you—Maxwell’s charm teasing, your skills undeniable, and Bucky’s quiet presence anchoring everything, keeping the line between flirtation and trouble razor-thin.

Bucky’s gaze flicked between you and Maxwell, sharp and assessing, but there was a small corner of amusement there too. You caught it, smirking inwardly.

The garage felt alive, electric, charged with engine hum, sunlight, and tension—three people, one car, and no one quite willing to break the unspoken rules.

You crouched under the hood of Maxwell’s car, running your hands carefully along the components, checking each connection, each fluid line. Bucky leaned a few feet behind you, silently observing, arms crossed, the edge of his metal arm catching the light.

“Hmm,” you murmured, frowning as your fingers traced a vibration point near the transmission.

You realised the issue was much bigger than you thought. “This isn’t minor. Whoever’s been driving this has been… pushing it harder than I expected. Front subframe bushings are shot, mounts are cracked, and there’s some serious wear in the throttle linkage. This isn’t a quick fix.”

Maxwell leaned a little closer, eyes catching the glint of the parts you were inspecting. “Serious, huh? So…” he paused, grin tugging at his lips, “you’re saying I can’t just take her for a spin today?”

You shook your head, frowning. “Not today. Honestly… she’ll need to stay overnight. We can fix it, but it’s not going anywhere until tomorrow morning at least.”

“Oh, overnight?” he said, pretending to think it over, then smirked. “Guess I’ll need a rental then.”

You looked up at him, already a little wary. “We can set you up with one—something reliable, gets you where you need to go.”

He let out a playful sigh, glancing at your XR8 parked nearby. “Yeah? Think I could take the blue one instead?”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, amused but shaking your head. “Nice try,” you said, smirking. “My car’s not part of the rental plan.”

“Worth a shot,” he said, laughing softly. “But I’ll settle for the rental… for now.”

Bucky shifted slightly behind you, a silent warning, but you didn’t need it. You had this. Maxwell was charming, but you were in control of both the car and the conversation. You bent back over the engine, letting him linger, his easy presence mixing with Bucky’s steady watchfulness, tension coiling lightly in the garage, but the kind that made you grin more than it annoyed.

“Alright,” you muttered as you tightened the last bolt you’d checked, “let’s see if I can get this fixed for you by tomorrow morning. Then you can take your car for a proper spin, take her on the freeway, push her a little, she needs it.”

Maxwell grinned, leaning casually back against his car, arms crossed. “I’ll be counting on you… and maybe taking notes on how effortlessly you do all of this.”

You shook your head with a laugh. “Just make sure you stay out of trouble until tomorrow.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked between the two of you, his jaw tight, but a faint smirk tugged at his lips. The quiet tension in the garage had settled into a rhythm, charged, playful—and far from over.

You gave a small, amused smile, glancing at Bucky behind you, who was leaning on the workbench with that unreadable stare of his. Maxwell noticed it too and straightened slightly, hands raised in mock surrender.

Sunlight streamed into the garage, glinting off your polished XR8, the other clean, mint condition cars in the garage, and the sleek black sports car you’d spent the last night working on. You were already there, wiping your hands on a rag and doing a final check of the engine bay. Bucky was leaning casually against the workbench, arms crossed, but his posture screamed alert, as always.

Maxwell walked in. “Morning,” he called smoothly, stepping out of the car with that practiced grin. “Looking good, I have to say.” 

You straightened, brushing off your hands. “Morning. And yes, she’s all fixed. Should run perfectly now.”

He circled the car, letting his fingers lightly trail along the hood as he inspected your work. “Wow… you weren’t kidding. Looks flawless.”

“Gave her a little clean as well.” you hummed.

Bucky shifted slightly behind you, eyes narrowing just a fraction, metal arm catching the light. Maxwell caught the movement, and his grin flickered toward Bucky briefly, like he noticed the quiet intensity, then back to you.

“I appreciate you taking care of it,” he said, turning his attention fully back to you. “And the rental idea? Solid choice. Reliable. But honestly…” He leaned just slightly closer, voice dropping, “I’d rather be driving this beauty.” Looking over at your XR8.

You smirked, brushing past him to pop the hood and do a final fluid check. “Glad you like it, and You wont be driving my car anytime soon.” 

He leaned casually against the side, arms crossed, watching you move with easy admiration. “You really do make this look effortless.”

Bucky’s presence behind you didn’t go unnoticed. You could feel the

You stepped back from Maxwell’s car, wiping your hands on a rag and brushing a faint smear off your jeans. The morning sun glinted off the polished black paint, making it look almost brand new, and you let yourself take a small, satisfied breath.

Maxwell, however, wasn’t in any rush to leave. He leaned casually against the side of the car, hand brushing lightly along the fender as he smiled at you. “I really can’t thank you enough,” he said, voice smooth, teasing. “You really know what you’re doing. It’s… impressive.”

You stiffened slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Glad it’s all sorted. Just… don’t push her too hard on the road,” you said, trying to keep your tone professional.

He smirked, letting that hand linger just a moment longer than necessary before moving it to rest casually on the roof of the car. “I was thinking… maybe I should watch you work more often. You make it look… effortless.”

You froze for half a second, then bent slightly over the hood again, checking the fluid levels, trying to keep your focus sharp. “Effortless, huh? You keep saying that. Maybe you should pay more attention to your own car than me.”

He chuckled softly, letting his hand brush your arm lightly as he leaned forward, pointing at a component in the engine bay. “Oh, I am paying attention… I just like being near the person doing the real work. Makes it more… interesting.”

You froze, your hand on the dipstick, and straightened just enough to subtly nudge his hand away. “Interesting, huh? Careful—you’re dangerously close to being a distraction.”

Maxwell’s grin widened, leaning in just slightly, the kind of close that made the hairs on your arms prickle. “I like a little danger. Keeps things exciting. And… well,” he added with a playful smirk, “I can’t help noticing it’s not just the car that’s impressive.”

Bucky, who had been silent this whole time, shifted beside you, jaw tight, metal arm flexing lightly. Finally, he stepped a little closer, voice low but firm, and directed at Maxwell: “Okay… that’s enough. Hands off the mechanic while she’s working.”

Maxwell blinked, momentarily caught off guard, and his grin faltered just slightly. “Whoa… did I cross a line?”

Bucky didn’t answer, just gave him a flat look, a warning that was unmistakable even without words. Maxwell’s eyes flicked from Bucky to you, and he raised his hands in mock surrender, though the playful smirk never left his face.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “See? That’s what I mean. Keep the flirting light while I work, and the hands to yourself unless you want me to start charging for repairs to your sense of touch.”

He chuckled, stepping back just slightly, still leaning near the car. “Fair enough… for now. But it’s hard not to be impressed.”

Bucky’s voice cut in again, quieter this time, but firm, almost protective. “Yeah, impressive. Don’t push it, man. She knows what she’s doing.”

Maxwell glanced at him, a spark of amusement in his eyes, and then back at you. “Alright, alright, I get it. I’ll behave… mostly.”

You went back to the engine, hands steady, but you couldn’t help the corner of your eye catching him lingering, still watching, still teasing—while Bucky stayed a steady, silent anchor behind you, his presence adding a charged, electric layer to the tension in the garage.

For a moment, everything was still—Maxwell leaning a little too close, Bucky watching like a hawk, and you right in the middle, smirking and shaking your head, secretly enjoying the game even as you prepared to finish handing over the car.

Maxwell leaned against his car, smirking, hands in his pockets. “You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, “it’s really unfair how good you are at this. Makes me… well, makes me want to stick around longer.”

Bucky stepped closer, the metallic arm glinting in the sunlight, voice firm. “You’re here to pick up your car, not hang around distracting her.”

Maxwell glanced at Bucky, amusement flickering across his face. “Oh? And you’re the mechanic’s—uh—guardian now?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m the one making sure no one gets too… comfortable. That includes you.”

You snorted softly, bending over to check the brakes again. “He’s just being thorough,” you said over your shoulder, smirking at Maxwell. “Consider it part of the service.”

Maxwell laughed, leaning a little closer to you, brushing the sleeve of your t-shirt with the back of his hand as he pointed to a small detail in the engine bay. “I swear, you make everything look easy. Even the tough parts…”

Bucky’s voice dropped, low and almost warning. “Touch her again, and I’ll move your hands for you.”

Maxwell froze just a fraction, eyes flicking between you and Bucky, and then back at you. “Alright, alright… point taken. No more touching. But I can admire from over here, right?”

You raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at your lips. “Sure. Admire, but don’t expect me to go easy on you because you’re charming.”

Bucky leaned against the engine bay, arms crossed, gaze sharp. “And if you get any ideas about her car, think again. You want to flirt—fine. But her car stays hers.”

Maxwell’s grin softened, amused and a little impressed. “Alright, Barnes. Point taken. You really don’t play around.”

“I don’t,” Bucky said simply, his tone steady, eyes fixed on Maxwell. “Not with cars. Not with her.”

Maxwell chuckled, leaning back on his car. “Competition, huh? I like a challenge.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, just slightly—amused, protective, and a little smug.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped as you stood up, stretching. The air in the garage was electric, thick with tension, and suddenly, both men—one protective and silent, the other teasing and bold—made the morning feel anything but ordinary. 

Maxwell pushed off his car with that trademark grin, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave you two to your… whatever this is,” he said, smirking.

You rolled your eyes, but before you could answer, Bucky’s sharp stare flicked back to him—cool, measured. Maxwell just chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, you really don’t play around.”

“I told you,” Bucky said simply, tone even but firm. “Not with her.”

Maxwell raised his hands in surrender. “Yeah, yeah. Message received, Sergeant.” He gave you a quick grin, a little more careful this time. “See you around, sweetheart.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t say anything as Maxwell slid into his car. The engine revved once, low and throaty, before he backed out of the bay. You both watched the taillights disappear down the road, the sound of the engine fading into the distance. The moment it was quiet again, you sighed and turned toward Bucky, arms crossing as you looked at him with that teasing glint in your eye. 

“You didn’t have to chase him off like that, you know.”

Bucky glanced at you, a hint of smugness in his smirk. “Didn’t chase him off. He left on his own.”

“Oh, please,” you scoffed, stepping closer. “You were about two seconds away from growling at him.” He tilted his head at your words, pretending to think. “Could’ve. Didn’t.”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re so mean sometimes. The guy was just talking.”

“Talking?” Bucky arched a brow. “That’s what you call it?”

You gave him a playful shove. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping just a little, the smirk softening into something more real. “But you still stick around.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t fight the grin creeping up. “Maybe because someone’s gotta make sure you don’t scare off every person who says hi to me.” He leaned a little closer, that familiar spark dancing in his eyes. 

“Maybe I just like making sure people know what’s mine.” 

You raised a brow, amused. “Your tools maybe. But I don’t recall being listed under your inventory, Barnes.”

Bucky’s smirk widened, quiet and knowing. “Could fix that.”

You gave a soft laugh, heat rising in your chest. “Keep dreaming, mechanic.”

“Always do, doll.”

You shook your head, trying to bite back a smile, but it was useless—he was enjoying this way too much.

“God, you’re insufferable,” you muttered, turning back toward the workbench to grab your rag. “You scare off Maxwell and now you’re talking like you own the place.”

Behind you, Bucky’s voice came low, lazy, and warm. “I kinda do. Fixed half the cars in here.” You turned around, rag in hand, giving him a look. “That’s not what I meant.”

He smirked, wiping his hands on a cloth, then stepped closer—close enough that the smell of grease and motor oil mixed with that faint, earthy cologne he wore. “I know,” he said quietly. “But admit it—you liked when I said it.”

You snorted. “Oh, sure. Super hot when you go all caveman over a conversation.”

“Didn’t see you stopping me.”

“I was trying not to laugh,” you shot back, but your voice came out lighter than you meant it to.

“Also, you looked a little jealous when he called me sweetheart.”

He froze for half a second, then tilted his chin up. “Jealous? Of Maxwell? Please. He flirts with anything that breathes.”

“But Still,” Bucky sighed, leaning on the workbench beside you, arms crossed. “Didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable. You don’t like the way anyone looks at me.”

“That’s not true,” he said, pretending to think. 

“I like it when you look at me.” he purred lowly.

You tossed the rag at his chest, laughing when he caught it effortlessly. “You’re impossible, Barnes.”

He shrugged, eyes twinkling. “And yet, here you are. Still working next to me. Still putting up with me.”

You gave him a small, amused smile. “Yeah, well… maybe I just like fixing things with someone who makes the day interesting.”

His gaze softened—less teasing now, more genuine. “Guess I can live with that.”

For a moment, the sound of tools, engines, and city noise outside faded, replaced by a quiet sort of ease between you—charged, familiar, and warm. Then Bucky broke it with a small grin. “So… we finishing that tune-up, or you planning to argue with me all day?”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze with that teasing spark that always seemed to push his buttons. “I can multitask,” you said softly, the grin on your lips just daring enough to test him.

Bucky’s smirk curved slow, deliberate. “Yeah? ’Cause all I’ve seen you do is get me worked up.”

You took a step closer, just to prove you could. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Something flickered in his eyes — the easy playfulness dimming into something darker, heavier. He leaned in a little, close enough that you could feel the warmth rolling off him, the faint smell of oil and aftershave clinging to his skin.

“Careful, doll,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “You start saying things like that, and I might forget we’re talkin’ about cars.”

You swallowed, pulse thudding as your back brushed the cool edge of the workbench. “Maybe I wasn’t talking about cars.”

For a beat, everything stilled — the air, the distant city hum, even the ticking metal cooling behind you. Just the two of you, standing too close, saying too little.

His hand lifted, slow and steady, until his fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from your cheek. “You know,” he said, almost a whisper, “you make it real hard to think straight.”

Your breath caught. “Good,” you said quietly.

His thumb traced your jaw, feather-light, and his gaze dropped to your mouth — a small, involuntary shift that made your stomach twist. The garage felt smaller somehow, the air hotter, every breath shared.

Then he smiled, that faint, crooked half-smile that made your chest tighten. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

You smiled back, barely more than a breath. “Takes one to know one.”

The silence that followed wasn’t really silence — it was the hum of something alive, something waiting. His hand lingered by your face, his breath warm against your skin, the space between you thinning to almost nothing.

Your eyes met his, and for a heartbeat neither of you moved. Then, slowly, he leaned in — hesitant at first, like he was giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t.

His lips brushed yours, light as a breath. A question.

You answered without words, leaning in just a little more, deepening it — soft, uncertain, and so full of everything you’d both been holding back. His hand found the curve of your jaw, fingers trembling slightly before steadying, while your own curled into the fabric of his shirt.

The kiss quickly heated up as he begun to walk backwards, you following him into the shops little living room.

Bucky fell back onto the couch with a soft grunt, his arms wrapping around you as you climbed on top of him. He kissed you back deeply, his hands moving to grip your hips tightly as you made out with him passionately. The couch creaked under yours and his combined weight as you made out.

The make-out session turned heated quickly. Hands roaming, breaths hitching. He broke the kiss to trail open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his hands sliding under your shirt. He was hard as a rock already, pressed against you through his clothes. Suddenly, he froze.

He looked up at you with intense blue eyes, his hand still under your shirt on your bare skin. "Condom," he panted out, not moving but also not stopping you from continuing either. His hand was already working under your shirt further upwards.

 Need a condom."

“No- ngh- no condom-“ you said

His eyes widened slightly as he realised what you meant. No condom. He swallowed hard, his hand instantly moving lower instead of up your shirt.

"Baby,"

“mghmm..” you whined.

A low groan escaped his throat at your little whine. His hands gripped your hips firmly, fingers digging in slightly as he lifted you up and positioned himself between your legs. He kissed you deeply, passionately, before breaking away to whisper against your lips,

“You sure baby- raw?”

You simply nodded.

He groaned deeply, his hands moving to your ass and pulling you down against him. His hips lifted again, pressing against you more firmly.

“Fuck," he muttered, kissing you deeply as he started to unbuckle his belt. 

His eyes darkened with desire as he watched you lay back on the couch, completely exposed from the waist up. He quickly shrugged out of his own shirt, revealing his muscular torso. Without hesitation, he moved between your legs, his hands spreading them wider apart.

He grabbed your legs and held them up. He had an incredible view of your wet, inviting pussy. He wrapped his large hand around his thick, long dick, and pressed the head against your wet entrance.

"Fuck..” he muttered 

He groaned loudly as he watched your wet pussy swallow the head of his dick. He pushed forward slowly, watching as inch after inch disappeared inside you. He was big, really big, and you were taking it like a pro. He bottomed out inside you with a loud grunt.

“Your so big Bucky- god- oh-“

Your dirty talk had him losing it. He started snapping his hips, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. 

“Shit... You feel too good..." 

He covered your mouth with his hand to muffle your moans as he pounded into you hard and fast on the couch.  

“Quiet..."

“no-“ you whined out as you pushed his hand away.

He cut off your protest by slamming his mouth against yours, swallowing your moans as he fucked you brutally on the couch. His hand moved from your mouth to your throat, squeezing gently as he hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back. 

“Shut up and take it," he purred as he kissed your jawline. You moaned out loudly in response.

"There she is," he growled, loving your needy whines. 

“My girl taking this big dick..." He reached down and rubbed your clit. You whined.

"M’ gonna make you cum so hard on this cock."

You moaned and whined, close to cumming as he pounded into you.

“Gonna cum already? M’ not even close gorgeous.” he purred as his hands gripped your boobs, running his fingers over your hardened nipples.

“asshole-“ you managed to get out.

He chuckled darkly, loving how feisty you were even when he was basically using you as his fuck toy on the couch. 

"Yeah? You wanna be a smartass while my balls are slapping against your sweet little pussy?" 

He spanked your other cheek hard.

You whined out 

"That's right, whine for me."

 He leaned down and bit your neck hard as he pounded into you even harder, the couch creaking loudly under yours and his combined weight.

“I’m gonna fuck this attitude right out of you.." His hand moved from your throat to your mouth.

“Open.”

He hissed in pain and pleasure simultaneously, his fingers curling inside your mouth as you bit down hard. Without warning, he pulled his fingers out and pounded into you hard, the couch moved a few more inches.

“Fucking brat.” You growled in response to that comment.

"Keep it up. I love a good challenge." He leaned down and growled back in your face, his hips snapping forward hard enough to make the couch slide a few inches across the floor. 

"You're gonna be so fucking sore after this..” he growled as he took both your hands in his.

He laughed darkly as you struggled beneath him, your hands pushing at his chest and arms trying to free yourself. He easily overpowered you, grabbing both your wrists in one of his large hands and pinning them above your head against the couch cushion. 

"Stop fighting me." He snarled. 

The moan that escaped you when he pinned you down was music to his ears. He knew he had you right where he wanted you-helpless and at his mercy. He started moving his hips in a slow, deep grind, his thick length rubbing against that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back.

“Thats it… good girl take all of me..” he growled. 

Your sudden orgasm made your entire body convulse and your inner walls clamp down hard around his length. He groaned deeply, "Fuck..." His hand immediately covered your mouth to muffle any loud noises you might make. He started fucking you through your orgasm roughly and deeply. "Shh..."

As he fucked you through your orgasm, he leaned down and started sucking hickies onto your neck and collarbone, marking you as his. His hips never stopped moving, his thick length still hard as steel inside your still-pulsing pussy. "So fucking tight," he muttered against your skin. "Need to fill this pretty cunt up..."

“Oh fuck- fuuck.” He said with a growl as he came.

He collapsed on top of you, his arms and legs the only thing keeping his weight from fully sinking into you. His breath was hot and uneven against your neck, the air between you thick and buzzing with the aftermath.

“God—damn—” he managed, voice rough and low.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you, your fingers brushing lazily through his damp hair. “That good, huh?” you teased, your voice still breathless.

“Yeah—fuck—” he exhaled, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You could say that, sweetheart.” His hand dragged down his face before resting at your waist, thumb idly tracing your skin like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

“Alright, soldier,” you said with a playful huff, slipping out from under him, skin brushing his as you sat up. “Let’s get back to work.”

He groaned dramatically, “You’re kidding me. We just—”

You tossed him a look over your shoulder as you began getting dressed, a slow smirk forming. “Orders are orders.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, eyes following the curve of your back as you pulled on your shirt. “You give the worst orders, y’know that?”

“You don’t seem to mind following them,” you shot back, pulling your hair into a messy tie.

He laughed softly, then stood, crossing the space between you. His hands found your hips, tugging you back against him. “That’s because I like the consequences,” he murmured against your ear.

You turned your head slightly, your breath catching. “Careful, Barnes. Keep talking like that and we’ll never get anything done.”

His lips brushed your neck, slow and deliberate. “Maybe that’s the point.”