You took one last sip from the already half-cold cup of coffee you had bought about two hours ago. Twelve unread emails stared right back at you as your phone burnt with all the calls from possible sponsors.

All day had you spent sitting at your desk, typing non-stop, going over files and writing to company members. You leaned back in your chair, looking out the window. The sun reflected off the various skyscrapers of New York City. Damned be your husband, who had got you the office with the best view.

Speaking of your beloved spouse, James Barnes, who was probably still deeply engrossed in paperwork. That man worked from sunup to sundown⎯and all to make sure his beloved wife lived a comfortable life.

You blinked three times, pushing any signs of sleep away. The last twenty minutes had been a futile attempt at dealing with the ungodly amount of emails and proposals Barnes & Rogers Inc. received each day. You shut your laptop down, slipping it into its case. You glanced at the clock, 17:30⎯your shift had just ended.

From the hatstand next to the door, you grabbed your beige cashmere coat and slipped it over your shoulders. Grabbing your purse and locking the door, you exited your office and took off in the direction of the place where you knew you were needed most.

The beginning of your work as the head of PR & Human Resources had been around the time Bucky and you had reached the milestone of seven months together. He had seen how desperately you had been seeking a job, and knowing how you had denied his idea of him taking care of all your expenses, he had no better idea than to hire you.

And now, years after that, it was perfect. You entered and left the building together almost every day. Some nights, however, Bucky would stay longer because of the piles of unfinished paperwork, and tonight was exactly one of those nights. You knew he was not returning home with you at six in the afternoon the moment you spotted his furrowed brow and small biting of his nails in the car that same morning. Those two signs meant one thing: your husband was stressed.

His office was on the top floor, next door to his best friend, Steven Rogers. You pushed the door open, delicately manicured hands against wood. There he was, fist clenched as he rested his chin over it, those gorgeous blue eyes staring at the words on the paper files in his hands. Without making a sound, you made your way to the back of his chair, slipping your hands over his chest and resting your chin on his shoulder. James didn't flinch; he had caught the sweet scent of your perfume just before you leaned in.

He hummed, tilting his head back to be closer to you. “Missed you.” His voice was rough, a clear sign of having remained seated all day long, with no human interaction. His hand found yours over his chest, wedding bands glistening in the light of the sunset.