"You know you don't have to do this, right?" Bucky's voice is low, hesitant, as he watches you skim through the list of modern slang he needs to memorize for your next session.

You glance up, raising an eyebrow. "Do what?"

"Babysit me. Play therapist. Whatever this is." He gestures vaguely, his expression unreadable.

"First of all, I'm not your babysitter," you retort, smirking. "Second, it's called helping, Bucky. People do it all the time."

"Not for me," he mutters, his gaze dropping.

You set the papers aside, leaning forward. "Well, maybe it's about time someone did. Besides," you continue, trying to lighten the mood, "someone's got to teach you not to respond to text messages with 'okay' periods. It's terrifying."

"What's wrong with 'Okay.? It's clear and direct," Bucky said, his tone flat, as if he genuinely couldn't understand the problem.

"It's serial killer behavior," you shot back, exasperated. "It screams, 'I'm mad, and I might be sharpening a knife."

"Well, that tracks," he replied with a shrug, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

"You're impossible," you muttered, shaking your head. "But lucky for you, I'm stubborn." Grabbing your notebook, you started scribbling furiously.

"What are you writing now?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.

'Bucky Barnes: Doesn't know how to say lol,"' you replied, barely glancing up from your page.

"What's 'lol' again?"

"Laughing out loud," you explained patiently. "You can also use lmao'-laughing my ass off."

"So... people lie in their texts about laughing? That's great," he said, deadpan.

You huffed. "N-, you know what, then next time someone texts you a joke, just reply with a smiley face emoji."

He froze, his expression shifting to mild horror. "What the hell is an emoji?"

"Oh, we are so doomed," you groaned, pulling out your phone. Swiping through the screen, you brought up the emoji keyboard and held it out to him.

Bucky leaned forward, squinting at the array of symbols. "Why does that one have hearts for eyes? That's... unsettling."