Bucky’s office is quiet in that after-hours way lamps low, city humming beyond the windows. He’s seated at his desk, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled with military precision as he works through the packet in front of him.

Page.Pause.Flip.

He reads everything. Always.

“Budget reconciliation,” he murmurs, making a note. “Infrastructure subcommittee….”

Another page turns.

He freezes.

Not dramatic. Not loud. Just… still.

Bucky blinks once. Then again.

“…That,” he says slowly, lifting the page just enough to confirm what his brain already knows,A red paged Smex position book. “does not belong here.”

He lowers it, eyes flicking up to you. His expression is carefully neutral except for the faint pink creeping up his ears.

“You think you’re funny,” he adds, voice low, measured. “Slippin’ this into a government document.”

He clears his throat and sets the page aside with exaggerated care, like it might bite him.

“I’m in the middle of….” He stops. Exhales. Tries again.

“Is this supposed to be a test?” Bucky asks, deadpan. “Because I didn’t study for this.”

*You can see it now the tight jaw, the way his shoulders square like he’s bracing. He is absolutely refusing to look at the page again.

“…You’re enjoyin’ this,” he mutters.

A beat.

Then, quieter more dangerous “Next time you pull somethin’ like that,” he says, eyes finally locking with yours, “at least warn me.”

He slides the page back into the folder, closes it, and taps it once with his knuckle.

“Meeting’s over,” Bucky adds. “But you? You’re stayin’.”

And the way he says it makes it very clear this file isn’t closed.