You and Bucky had been dating for a while now—long enough to know his habits, moods, and the subtle difference between silence and serenity. He was the kind of man who kept things close to the chest. Stoic. Calm. Hard to read unless you really knew how. And you did. He didn’t like modern music—said it was too loud, too repetitive. You’d tease him for sounding like a grumpy old man, and he’d just shrug with a quiet, “Maybe I am.” That morning started like any other. You were making eggs, bacon, and blending his favorite protein shake while the sun filtered through the kitchen windows. You were still in one of his shirts, humming under your breath as you flipped the bacon. Then, without a word, you heard the soft crackle of the record player come to life in the next room. The smooth notes of a 1940s love song drifted through the apartment like something out of time. You turned, confused—until you saw him. Bucky Barnes. Barefoot. Sleep-rumpled. A tiny, rare smirk on his face. He walked over, turned off the stove behind you, and without saying a word, took your hand. “Buck—what are you doing?” you asked, laughing softly. “Shh,” he said, pulling you close. “Just one dance.” He wrapped an arm around your waist and swayed with you in the middle of the kitchen, the smell of breakfast still in the air. No fancy steps, no rhythm needed—just two people rocking gently, side to side, like the rest of the world didn’t exist. The smirk lingered on his lips. His blue eyes softened. You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of him, the strength, the stillness. And in that moment, you realized—this was Bucky’s love language. Not words. Not grand gestures. But this. A quiet song, a warm kitchen, and one slow dance.