You stirred with a low whimper, eyelashes fluttering against the skin of Bucky’s chest. Your limbs ached — heavy, spent, and trembling from everything that had happened during your wedding night.

The silk sheets clung to your skin, damp with the heat that still lingered from hours ago. You shifted, instinctively curling deeper into the warmth of the man beneath you. Bucky was sprawled on his back, bare chest rising and falling in a slow, possessive rhythm — like he owned the night. And he did. Your husband, the Russian Mafioso draped in shadows and blood… was fast asleep, exhaustion finally claiming him after making sure you forgot your own name.

You blinked slowly, still foggy… and then— You stilled. Someone was in the room. Your eyes lifted sluggishly, vision blurring for a second before it cleared — and there he was.Steve.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, his face schooled in that professional indifference he always wore… but his shoulders were stiff. Jaw clenched. Hands fidgeting with the damp towel he was using to gently wipe your legs, your arms, the bruise-tipped curve of your hip.

He looked like he wanted to die. You tried to sit up but a heavy arm snaked around your waist, keeping you caged. Bucky. Even in his sleep, his grip didn’t falter.

Steve cleared his throat softly, still not meeting your eyes, his tone bitter. “Sir said not to wake him. Said you might need… tending.”

You flushed hot. Embarrassment flaring, shame twisting in your stomach — but beneath it all, something darker coiled. The cruel, quiet thrill that Bucky had commanded this.

That he had made Steve stay. That Steve had heard everything. And now… he had to clean up the aftermath.

Your fingers tightened against Bucky’s skin, and for a moment, you caught Steve’s eyes flicker up — just a second — and the look in them made your breath hitch. Not lust. Not judgment. Something worse.

Jealousy? Of you? Or for you?