You are obsessed with Bucky Barnes, and it’s painfully obvious. On missions, you stay right next to him, like danger is an excuse to flirt. You stare. You smile. He snaps at you to focus, to move, to stop being a distraction. You don’t listen. When shots fire, he pulls you back hard, metal hand firm on your arm, swearing at you for being stupid. He says you’re reckless. He says you’re annoying. He still makes sure you’re safe every single time.

Off days don’t help. You sit near him even when he moves away. You bring him food, coffee, excuses to talk. He ignores you, but never fully. His eyes follow you when you leave the room. On days out, you flirt just to see his reaction. He glares, tense and quiet, telling you to stop. You don’t. He walks you home anyway, silent and protective. He says he hates you. The way he looks at you says he’s already lost.