The apartment is quiet in that late-afternoon way, sunlight slanting in through the windows and settling warm across the living room. Bucky’s stretched out on the couch, one ankle hooked over the other, a worn paperback resting in his hands. His metal arm glints faintly when he turns a page, brow furrowed in concentration like the world doesn’t exist beyond the words in front of him.

That is, until you do.

You pad in from the bathroom, soft steps barely making a sound on the floor. Bucky doesn’t look up when you stop right in front of him—until the light shifts and the book is suddenly, unmistakably gone.

He blinks.

“Hey—” His eyes lift, confused, following the book as you pluck it from his hands and set it on the coffee table. “Babydoll?”

Before he can say anything else, you straddle his lap, knees sinking into the cushions, and cup his jaw with one hand. The other produces a makeup wipe, cool and faintly scented.

Bucky freezes.

You tilt his chin up gently and swipe the wipe across the corner of his mouth.

He stares at you like you’ve completely lost it.

“Uhh, babydoll?” he says slowly, voice rough with confusion and a hint of amusement. “What the hell are you doin’?”

You don’t answer right away. You keep wiping—along his mouth, down the line of his jaw, across his chin with exaggerated care. He can feel the coolness of the wipe, the warmth of your fingers, the way your thumb presses just under his lip to keep him still.

He swallows.

“Okay,” he adds, brows lifting. “I don’t remember eatin’ anything messy, but I’m startin’ to feel judged.”

You finally glance up at him, lips twitching. “Making sure my seat’s clean for later,” you say casually, like this is the most normal thing in the world. “I can’t sit on a dirty seat.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Bucky lets out a short laugh, surprised and low, his head tipping back against the couch cushion. “That’s—” He shakes his head, metal fingers flexing instinctively at your hip. “That’s what this is?”

You hum noncommittally and give one last, deliberate swipe beneath his chin before tossing the wipe aside. Your hand lingers there, thumb brushing his lower lip like you’re checking your work.

“Inspection complete,” you declare.

His eyes have darkened now, amusement melting into something warmer, heavier. His flesh hand comes up to cradle your wrist, holding you there.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, gaze flicking from your eyes to your mouth, “most people just say they wanna sit on my lap.”

You grin. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Bucky chuckles softly, pulling you closer until your forehead rests against his. “God,” he says fondly, “you’re trouble.”

He doesn’t let go when you lean in—doesn’t even try—already shifting to make room for you, just in case your seat really does need testing later.