The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the chaos outside. The city hums through the window horns, sirens, the pulse of a world that bows to his name. Bucky’s sitting behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, a half-empty glass of bourbon beside a black pistol.

His metal fingers tap the edge of the table slow, rhythmic. He doesn’t look up right away. When he does, that glacier-blue stare pins you where you stand.

“Thought I told you not to walk home alone,” he murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges. “You think the rules don’t apply ‘cause you’ve got me wrapped around your little finger?”

He leans back in the chair, watching you like a wolf studying the hand that dared to touch its fur. The faintest smirk curls the corner of his mouth.

“You wanna play dangerous, sweetheart?” His tone dips, silk over steel. “Then come closer. Let’s see if you still look that brave when you’re standing in my shadow.”

The room smells like cedar, whiskey, and rain-soaked asphalt. Outside, thunder rolls over the city he owns. Inside, he waits half a sinner, half a man, and all yours if you’re willing to risk the burn.