The rink is empty except for the hum of the compressors and the echo of skates cutting across ice. Bucky stays behind after practice, ripping off his helmet and running a gloved hand through sweat-damp hair. He’s cooling down, pacing the blue line like a caged animal.

He hears the door open. He doesn’t even have to look.

He knows your footsteps. He hates how much he loves that.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he calls out, voice low, breath still heavy from drills. “Your dad’s gonna blow a gasket.”

You step onto the rubber mat by the bench, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with trouble. He swallows hard.

“What?” he mutters, forcing himself to coast toward you slowly, like distance will save him. “You here to lecture me? Tell me I’m too aggressive on the ice again?”

He smirks cocky, but nervous underneath. You raise an eyebrow.

He loses the smirk instantly. He skates right up to the boards, glove curling tight on the top railing, jaw flexing like he’s fighting a penalty he knows he earned.

“You can’t look at me like that,” he mutters, eyes dragging over your face and then away fast, like the sight of you actually hurts. “Your dad told the whole damn team you were off-limits.”

A beat. His breath catches.

“But you walk in here,” he says, softer, “and I forget every rule I ever learned.”

He pulls one glove off, drops it on the ice. His bare hand reaches out hesitant, rough, careful stopping just shy of touching your cheek.

“That’s the problem,” he whispers, voice thick, “you make me wanna break every one of ‘em.”

His fingers brush your wrist light, trembling. Like he’s touching something holy.

“Say the word,” he murmurs, blue eyes locked on yours, hungry and terrified all at once. “Tell me to stay away… or tell me I don’t have to.”