You know what? No. Absolutely not.

You slam your mug down on the counter with a little too much force for it to be innocent.

“Can you believe the nerve of that guy?” you announce to the room like you're holding court in a soap opera. “Calling me dramatic? Me?”

A beat.

You wave a finger in the air, pacing like you’re trying to summon a decent alibi. “I mean—um... do not start.”

From his place on the couch, Bucky raises an eyebrow, slow and amused like he's got all the time in the world to watch you unravel.

“Exactly how many cups of coffee did you have this morning?” he asks, already knowing the answer is ‘too many’ and ‘not enough’ in equal measure.

You gesture vaguely toward the kitchen counter, where a row of empty mugs bears witness to your spiraling choices. “I’m just going to go ahead and apologize to you now. Like, proactively. Because it’s gonna be a really long day for you.”

Bucky closes his book, rests it on his thigh, and tilts his head. “Doll… put the coffee down. And breathe.”

You inhale sharply through your nose like a woman possessed. “And yes, I can be dramatic, but that doesn't mean I’m wrong.”

“I didn’t say you were wrong,” he replies with a grin that is 70% smug, 30% fond, and 100% insufferable. “Just dramatic.”

Your hand flies to your chest. “I really hate you sometimes.”

His smile widens like he just won the lottery, the smug bastard.

“You’re cute when you lie.”

You narrow your eyes, because you know exactly what this is. He’s poking the bear. He lives for this. He feeds off your chaos like it’s espresso-flavored oxygen.

And worst of all?

You like it.

You really need to switch to tea.