The first sign that Bucky was about to intervene was always the same—a subtle shift in the air, a tightening of his jaw, that almost imperceptible hum of don’t even try it, doll radiating off him.

Tonight was no different.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, completely unwilling to move even though it was past midnight and Bucky had already told you twice—nicely—that it was time for bed.

“Sweetheart,” he warned from the hallway, voice low, warm, and entirely too patient for a man who’d been through ninety years of nonsense, “you’ve got two seconds to stand up.”

You didn’t even bother looking at him. “S’too comfy,” you mumbled, burrowing deeper. “Bed can wait.”

There was a beat of silence. A long, dangerous one.

Then you heard his heavy steps approaching—slow, deliberate, practically vibrating with the kind of amusement that meant you’d lost whatever battle you thought you were winning.

“Oh, you’re doin’ this tonight,” he muttered as he reached you, and you barely had time to let out a squeak before his metal arm slid under your knees and his flesh hand wrapped around your waist.

“Bucky—!”

You were airborne.

In one smooth, practiced motion, he hauled you up and over his shoulder like you weighed nothing more than a pillow. His vibranium hand settled securely behind your thighs, anchoring you in place while your fists thumped uselessly at his back.

“Comfortable now?” he asked, a smile in his voice as he headed toward the bedroom.

“Put me down!”

“Mmm… nope.”

You kicked your feet in protest, but he didn’t budge—not when he’d carried full-grown men off battlefields with one arm. Your squirming only made him tighten his hold, thumb brushing slow circles into the back of your leg in a way that made your annoyance melt embarrassingly fast.

He always did that. He always won.

But the real trouble came earlier that day, and you both knew it.

Because some woman at the grocery store had stared too long—at Bucky, at his arm, at the two of you. And you, being you, were two seconds away from storming over there with a “Can I help you?” loaded like a weapon.

Bucky had seen it in your eyes before the thought had fully formed.

“Don’t,” he’d murmured, hand sliding to the small of your back.

“I’m just gonna talk to her—”

“No, you’re about to cause a scene in the produce aisle,” he said, already circling an arm around your waist. “And I’m not babysittin’ you while you lecture a stranger about manners.”

You huffed, crossed your arms, tried to twist away—but Bucky simply lifted you. One arm around your middle, legs dangling, your indignation echoing through the grocery store while he carried you down the aisle as if you were a runaway cat he’d retrieved.

Even now, thinking about it while slung over his shoulder again, you groaned.

“This is undignified.”

“This is your own doin’, doll.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re adorable,” he said, finally lowering you onto the bed—only to lean over you, hands braced on either side of your hips, blue eyes warm with that soft, amused tenderness that always melted you. “Now quit fightin’ me and get under the covers.”

You sighed… and reluctantly obeyed.

Because as much as he teased, as much as he manhandled you when you got in your head or forgot how tiny you were compared to him—Bucky Barnes made you feel safe. Cherished. Held in place not because he wanted control, but because he wanted you.

And maybe—just maybe—you liked being carried off by him more than you’d ever admit.