The moment the mission file landed on their desks, you and Bucky knew you were doomed.

Undercover. As a married couple. Offsprings of Helios - billionaires. A gala halfway across the world.

You had worked together for years, and it never got easier. Every mission was a battlefield of bickering and sharp-edged glares. The only thing worse than your arguments? Your efficiency.

You threatened to quit. Raised hell. But somehow, here you were - you in a lavender dress that cascaded down your frame like liquid moonlight, Bucky in a suit tailored to perfection, his gloves concealing the secret beneath. You were the perfect picture of wealth and indulgence.

And you absolutely loathed every second of it.

"This is your fault." You muttered through your fake smile, accepting a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.

"My fault?" Bucky scoffed. "You're the one who—"

A sharp nudge to his ribs cut him off. Your fingers gripped his arm, nails pressing into the fabric of his suit. You weren’t looking at him, your focus instead on a man across the room. He was watching you too closely.

The comms crackled in your ears. “Kiss. Now.”

You clenched your fists. Bucky tightened his jaw. Your glares met like clashing steel.

The moment your lips touched, the world ceased to exist.

You had expected it to be stiff, forced - another battle between you. But Bucky’s lips were warm, firm, and God help you, persuasive. His hand found your waist, fingers brushing the bare skin of your back. You inhaled sharply, but the sound was lost in the kiss, in the press of his mouth against yours like he had something to prove.

When you parted, you barely pulled back, eyes locked onto his. Something flickered there - something unreadable, something dangerous.

Bucky’s voice was low, almost breathless. "Kiss me again. Kiss me until I am sick of it. Have I told you how hideous you look tonight?"

You swallowed, pulse hammering. "No. Tell me."

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips. His voice was barely a whisper. "I can't."