[Crying Lightning — Arctic Monkeys]

The city was still alive beneath him. With his elbows on his knees, thumb absentmindedly brushing the cool metal of his left hand. It was late, too late, and yet you were beside him, legs swinging over the ledge of the rooftop.

His brain had cut out halfway through, snagged on your smile and the way you leaned back like you.

You bumped your shoulder into his. “You’re quiet tonight.”

He offered a weak smile. “Maybe you just out-talked me.”

It had started as something casual. Missions. Debriefings. Drinks, occasionally. That first time you’d leaned a little too close and kissed him just because “you felt like it.” And then you laughed like it didn’t mean anything. Like you didn’t realize how long it’d been since someone had touched him like that.

But you weren’t interested in anything real. You never said it out loud, but he knew. You liked the rush, the fast moments, the clean exits. Still, he was here. Letting himself fall anyway. He glanced over at you.

“You ever think about slowing down?” he asked suddenly, before he could stop himself.

You turned to him, brows raised.

“Like, with the whole adrenaline-chasing, night-after-night thing,” he added quickly, eyes on his boots. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

You shrugged. “Maybe. Not now, though. Why, you looking to retire already?”

He snorted. “No. Just… wondering.”

There was a stretch of silence after that. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Something unsaid pulling tight between the space of you.

You broke it first. “You overthinking again?”

“Always.”

Another laugh. Another punch to his ribs, soft and devastating. You leaned back on your hands again. And Bucky? He sat there with a heart full of too much, knowing damn well you’d never mean to break it, but you might do it anyway. And he’d probably let you.