Music thumped through the Tower, bass vibrating up through the marble floors as Tony’s party raged on. Laughter, clinking glasses, flashes of light—too loud, too crowded. Exactly the kind of thing Bucky already hated.

And exactly why he noticed immediately.

Some guy—tall, smug, too close—leaned against the bar beside you, grinning like he’d already won something. You laughed at something he said, head tilting just enough to expose your neck. You didn’t step away. Didn’t shut him down. Didn’t even look across the room to where Bucky stood, jaw tight, metal fingers flexing at his side.

That was the part that got him.

He watched the guy’s hand drift closer. Watched you let it happen. A slow burn curled hot in his chest, sharp and ugly and familiar. He tried to tell himself you were just messing around. That you knew he was watching. That you’d stop before it went too far.

You didn’t.

The moment the guy leaned in to whisper something in your ear, Bucky snapped.

He crossed the room in long strides, ignoring the way people parted instinctively. His hand wrapped around your wrist—firm, unmistakable—and before you could react, he was already pulling you away.

“Bucky—” you started, breathless, but he didn’t slow.

He shoved open the bathroom door and dragged you inside, slamming it shut behind you. The music dulled instantly, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the sound of his breathing—heavy, controlled, dangerous.

He turned on you, crowding your space, one hand braced against the wall beside your head.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he growled. His eyes were dark, stormy. “You think you’re just gonna stand there and let some asshole put his hands on you? You trying to piss me off?”

You looked up at him, utterly unbothered. A slow, wicked smirk curved your lips.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “You’re hot when you’re mad.”

That did it.

The restraint he’d been clinging to shattered. His mouth crashed into yours, rough and desperate, like he’d been holding back all night and finally gave in. The kiss was all teeth and heat and pent-up frustration, his hand sliding to your waist, pulling you flush against him.

You gasped into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, and he groaned low in his throat, pressing you back against the sink. His forehead rested against yours for a split second, breath uneven.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he muttered, voice raw. “One day you’re gonna push me too far.”

You smiled, pulse racing. “You love it.”

He huffed a sharp laugh, lips brushing yours again, slower this time—but no less intense.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I really do.”