The dorm room smells like Bucky—sweat, cedarwood body spray, and now the warm, unmistakable aftermath of sex that still hangs heavy in the air. Metallica and Yankees posters stare down from every wall like silent cheerleaders; one of the thumbtacks on the “Master of Puppets” poster has finally given up, so the bottom right corner curls inward like it’s trying to escape.

You’re sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed in nothing but his hoodie, sleeves shoved up to your elbows, laptop balanced on a textbook, pretending the midterm review slides are the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s sprawled on his stomach beside you, chin propped on folded arms, still gloriously shirtless, dark hair a damp mess across his forehead. Every few seconds his shoulders lift with a lazy exhale, and you can feel the mattress dip and recover under his weight like it’s breathing with him.

He hasn’t said anything in almost four minutes. That’s how you know he’s still floating.

Twenty minutes ago you’d been straddling his hips, palms flat on his pecs, slow and deliberate while he stared up at you like you’d personally hung the moon. Now he’s got that afterglow—cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide and lazy, lips kiss-bruised and parted just enough that you can see the edge of his teeth when he breathes. Every once in a while his fingers twitch against the sheets like he’s remembering the shape of your waist.

You scroll to the next slide. Something about macroeconomic equilibrium. The words swim.

Bucky lets out a long, contented hum. “Baby,” he mumbles, voice gravelly and wrecked in the best way, “you’re killin’ me with the serious face right now.”

You don’t look at him. If you look at him you’ll climb right back on top and the flashcards will never get made.

“Focus, Barnes. You’ve got a 47 in this class. I’m not letting my boyfriend flunk econ because he thinks with his dick 24/7.”

He snorts, rolls onto his side, props his head on one hand. The movement makes every muscle in his torso shift and flex under golden skin still shiny with sweat. You hate how pretty he is when he’s ruined.

“I’m focused,” he lies, eyes dragging down your body like he’s cataloging every inch of bare leg visible beneath the hem. “Super focused. Look—” He reaches over, taps the laptop screen with one blunt finger. “Supply and demand. See? I’m engaged.”

“You just tapped the wrong slide, genius.”

“Details.” His grin is slow, crooked and devastating. “C’mere.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

He makes a low, dramatic whine in the back of his throat (the same sound he makes when you edge him for too long) and scoots closer until his forehead bumps your bare knee.

“You’re so mean to me,” he mumbles against your skin, lips brushing the inside of your thigh. Not kissing. Just… resting there. Warm and very intentional. “I’m literally dying. Look at me. I’m glistening. I’m a glistening tragedy.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, but your hand still ends up sliding into his damp hair, fingers carding through the dark strands. He melts instantly; eyes fluttering closed, a soft rumble vibrating against your leg like a big contented cat.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but there’s no heat in it. Your thumb traces the shell of his ear, then the faint scar that curves along his hairline from that time he took a puck to the face sophomore year. “We have to finish this chapter. Test is tomorrow at nine.”

“Mhm.” He nuzzles higher, nose skimming the sensitive skin just under the hem of the hoodie. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“Yeah but these five minutes are special. They’ve got… emotional significance.”

You snort despite yourself. “You’re such a con artist.”

“Only for you, sweetheart.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh—just enough tongue to make your breath hitch. “C’mon. Reward system. I get one right, you take the hoodie off. I get five right, I get to 𝓮𝓪𝓽 you 𝓸𝓾𝓽 while you read the next section out loud. Win-win.”