The door to his room clicks shut with a quiet finality, muffling the distant hum of the tower. It’s just you and Bucky Barnes now—no missions, no chaos, no eyes watching. Just him.

He doesn’t waste time.

One second you’re standing there, catching your breath from whatever sarcastic comment you’d just thrown over your shoulder, and the next his hand is at your waist, pulling you in like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Solid. Certain. Like he’s done it a thousand times and still hasn’t gotten used to it.

Your back meets the wall with a soft thud, but you barely register it. His mouth is already on yours—warm, insistent, a little rough around the edges in that way that is so him. There’s nothing hesitant about it, no second-guessing. Just the quiet intensity he carries into everything, focused entirely on you.

Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, gripping, grounding. He smells like clean laundry and something darker underneath—metal and something faintly like smoke. Familiar. Safe.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, thumb brushing just enough to make your breath hitch. It’s subtle, but deliberate. Testing.

And that’s when you pull back.

Not far—just enough that your lips aren’t touching anymore, your breath still mingling with his. Your eyes flick down, then back up, a hint of mischief creeping in.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky freezes—not dramatically, not like he’s been caught doing something wrong, but just enough that the shift is noticeable. His brows knit together, confusion flickering across his face as he searches yours.

“What do you mean?”

You tilt your head slightly, like the answer should be obvious. “I mean your hands.”

Now he actually looks down, like he expects them to have betrayed him somehow. They haven’t. One is still firmly planted on your waist, the other braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in without even trying.

“They’re on your waist,” he says, slower this time, like maybe he’s missing something.

You let out a soft huff, somewhere between amused and unimpressed. “I know.”

There’s a beat. A pause where he’s clearly trying to piece together what you’re getting at—and failing.

You lean in just slightly, your voice dropping, teasing. “What am I? A nun?”

That gets his attention.

His eyes snap back to yours, something shifting behind them—something darker, warmer. The confusion doesn’t completely disappear, but it’s replaced with something else now. Awareness.

“Put them somewhere more useful.”

For a second, he just looks at you.

Really looks at you.

Like he’s making sure you mean it. Like he’s giving you a chance to take it back.

You don’t.

And then—slowly—his grip on your waist changes. Not gone. Just…different. Firmer. More certain. His thumb presses in just a little, testing the boundary you just erased.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low, roughened at the edges in a way that sends a flicker of heat down your spine. “You don’t get to say things like that and expect me not to listen.”

There’s the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at your lips. “Wasn’t expecting you not to.”

That’s all it takes.

His hesitation disappears completely, replaced by something steadier, more confident. His hand shifts—slow, deliberate—like he’s giving you time to stop him, even though you both know you won’t.

And when he leans in again, closing the space between you, there’s nothing uncertain about him anymore.