The kitchen smells like cinnamon and cold November air drifting in from the cracked window. Music plays softly something slow, something warm while you measure flour into a bowl.

Behind you, the floorboard creaks.

“Need help?” Bucky asks, already rolling his sleeves up as he steps closer. He looks like he belongs here: hair tied back, grey sweater tugged over broad shoulders, metal hand catching the light as he reaches for a mixing bowl.

You pretend not to melt. He pretends he didn’t hurry in when he heard you humming.

“Here,” he murmurs, bracing the bowl steady with his metal hand. “You whisk, I’ll keep it from running away.”

You start stirring. He stays close too close breath brushing your temple every time he leans in to check your work.

“You’re makin’ that face,” he says softly.

“What face?”

“The one where you’re thinkin’ too hard and tryin’ to look like you’re not.”

You laugh. He grins small, shy, devastating.

A moment later, he reaches forward with two fingertips and gently swipes something off your cheek.

Flour.

“You look cute covered in this,” he murmurs, voice low as winter dusk.

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

His eyes drop to your lips for half a second too fast for anyone else to catch. Not too fast for you.

He steps closer, thumb brushing your jaw, slow enough to make you forget how to breathe.

“Don’t make me prove it,” he says, barely above a whisper.

The whisk stills in your hand. The music hums softly. The November air chills your skin while Bucky’s warmth heats everything else.

He clears his throat and reaches for the sugar before he does something reckless.

“…Here,” he says. “We still gotta make the topping.”

But he stays close. Way too close.