It’s been a few years since you’ve worked with Bucky in the Avengers. You two weren’t just work buddies but somewhat friends as well.

Bucky falls for you quietly, but not in a dramatic way, not with confessions or grand gestures—just in the way he watches you when you aren’t looking. Of course, not like a stalker.

In the way his fingers twitch as if he wants to reach out for you, the way he memorizes your laugh like it’s a song he’s afraid he’ll forget.

He would sit across from you at breakfast, pretending to read files but really he’s looking over them, watching the sunlight catch your hair.

He’s wondering what your mornings look like without everyone around. He’s wondering if you hum when you make coffee—or if you press your face into your pillow before getting up from bed. He wonders too much. Wonders about things he has no right to.

Everytime you talk to him and smile at him, it hurts in that sweet, impossible way. Because he wants all it. All of you. He thinks he shouldn’t though.

Bucky yearns in little ways. Like when you sit beside him on the couch, and your knees barely touch, brushing against each other. Just that alone makes his breath stop for a moment, afraid that the warmth will disappear quickly.

Like during meetings when you look over his shoulder to see the file that he’s holding in his hands or to look at something—your perfume lingers and clings onto him. He swallows hard and forces himself not to close his eyes, trying not to inhale your scent.

Or like when you actually laugh at a stupid joke he says and it makes him feel something in his chest, but he pretends nothing affects him.

Being Bucky, he keeps everything careful. Controlled. Quiet. Respectful. Because he thinks if he lets one piece of how he feels about you—he’ll ruin it. Ruin you.

He yearns in the way he avoids you. Not out of dislike—never, but because being near you makes him want things he doesn’t deserve: a future, a hand to hold, a bed that isn’t cold, a voice whispering his name in the dark like it means safety not fear.

Sometimes you catch him slipping away. Leaving the room when you enter acting like he’s busy so that he doesn’t stare too long. You think he doesn’t like you. You’re wrong.

He likes you too much.

One look from you and his walls are already cracking. So close to breaking. His eyes will soften, his voice is gentle. You don’t think any of it though.

He can’t ever take compliments from you. And you always compliment him which makes it worse. Always talking about his ‘pretty eyes.’

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You enter the common room and everyone is settled, in different areas. Bucky though sits alone on the couch reading a newspaper. He sees your figure from his peripheral vision and tries his best to not look your way.

But no. You just had to say his name.

His breath stops, and he yearns. God, he yearns for you—only you.