The partition was up but it wasn't soundproof, the city lights flickering and disappearing behind tinted windows like ghosts — but the real haunting was happening inside the car.

Bucky had you, his pretty little wife straddling his lap, his coat discarded carelessly beneath you, your breath stuttering against his neck as his large hands gripped your hips like they were molded just for him. Your cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy with the chaos he always left behind in his wake.

He looked up at you, smug and calm in that maddening, possessive way.

“Running again, little wife?” he whispered, lips grazing your jaw. “You think I won’t follow? I’ll burn the whole fucking city to find you.” You whimpered loudly, he was everything you hated and everything you craved at the same time. You clung to him tighter, nails digging into his shoulders like he was the only anchor you had.

And in the front seat — Steve Rogers sat frozen. Hands clenched into fists. Eyes glued to the road. He hadn’t signed up for this. He was supposed to be the right-hand man, the shadow in the corner, the second in command to the most feared man in Eastern Europe — not the unwilling audience to his boss and his bratty wife going at it like animals in the backseat.

“Keep driving,” Bucky had growled lowly when they first passed the gates to the mansion.