The engine rumbled beneath you, echoing in your ears like a steady, growling heartbeat. The night was cool, wind cutting through the empty road as the streetlights blurred past. You leaned forward slightly over the handlebars. Behind you, Bucky Barnes was losing his mind. Not visibly. No. To an outside observer, he looked exactly like the stoic, brooding man he always was. But internally, panic.

His gloved hands hovered awkwardly a few inches away from your waist. You felt him shift again, a little more rigid than the last turn.

“Barnes,” you called over the roar of wind, loud enough for him to hear. “You’re allowed to hold on.”

“I’m fine,” came the flat reply, shouted right into your shoulder.

“No, you’re stiff as hell and I can feel you trying not to fall off.”

Silence. You felt his hands lower a little…then hover again. God, he was too polite.

“Bucky,” you added, a little amused now. “This isn’t a date. You’re not gonna dishonor me if you grab my jacket.”

“That’s not—” He stopped. “I don’t know where to—what’s the protocol?”

You snorted and swerved slightly on purpose. It made him jolt forward instinctively and finally grab your sides.

You felt the weight of his arms settle now, bracing. He was warm, steady despite the hesitance. You were starting to think he’d rather be thrown into enemy fire than accidentally wrap an arm around someone.