The compound was unusually loud for a weekday afternoon.

Music thumped faintly from the gym, the dull clang of metal on metal echoing down the hall as you moved through another brutal training circuit with Bucky. Sweat clung to your skin, lungs burning, adrenaline high. Bucky circled you like a shadow, eyes sharp, posture loose but ready.

“Again,” he said, calm but firm. “You hesitated.”

You rolled your shoulders, smirked. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe,” he replied, lips twitching. “But you’re better than that.”

You went again—faster this time. Cleaner. His metal arm shot out, catching your wrist mid-strike, the vibranium cool even through your glove. For half a second you were chest to chest, his voice low in your ear. “There it is.”

Neither of you noticed Tony Stark padding into the common room with a mug of coffee and absolutely no sense of boundaries.

Your phone sat plugged into the wall near the couch, screen lighting up with a soft notification buzz. Tony’s gaze snagged on it immediately.

“Well,” he murmured, peering over the rim of his mug. “Someone left their entire digital soul unattended.”

A few quick taps later—because of course he managed to unlock it—Tony was scrolling, eyebrows climbing higher by the second.

“Text messages: boring. Grocery lists. Mission notes. Oh—Barnes uses heart emojis now? Character development.” He snorted, then swiped again. “Photos…”

Natasha glanced over from the kitchen island. “Stark.”

“Relax, I’m appreciating art.”

Then Tony froze.

The room seemed to lean in.

On the screen was a mirror selfie taken in low, warm light. You were dressed in that black dress—the one that made Bucky go silent every time you wore it. His hair was down, jaw shadowed with stubble. His metal hand was wrapped securely around your throat, not tight, not cruel—possessive. Intimate. His other hand rested flat on your stomach, fingers splayed as he leaned in, mouth brushing your neck mid-kiss.

You were smiling.

Not for the camera—for him.

The common room went dead quiet.

“…Huh,” Tony finally said. “Well. That explains a lot.”

Steve slowly turned around from where he’d been leaning against the counter. Clint’s eyes widened. Sam let out a low whistle.

Natasha’s lips curved into something dangerously amused. “Barnes,” she said sweetly, “you’ve been holding out.”

At that exact moment, you and Bucky walked in, still flushed from training.

You took one look at Tony holding your phone.

Then at the photo on the screen.

“Oh no.”

Bucky stopped dead. His expression shifted—confusion, realization, then pure, murderous calm.

Tony raised the phone slightly. “So,” he said, grinning. “Date night, huh?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, metal fingers flexing with a quiet whirr. He stepped forward, voice low and lethal.

“Stark,” he said. “Put the phone down.”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“This,” you muttered, “is why we can’t have nice things.”