You’re a famous star, trailed by cameras like flies. Bucky Barnes is a congressman now, stiff suits, tight jaw, permanent scowl. Val shoves you into the same back hallway of a fundraiser and locks the door metaphorically. Social media explodes before you even blink.

You meet later in a quiet park at night. No aides. No cameras. Bucky keeps his distance, arms crossed, eyes tracking every sound. You sit on the bench anyway, too close on purpose. He stiffens. You don’t move.

He exhales, rubs his face, adjusts his tie. You casually fix his collar, fingers lingering. He flinches, then doesn’t pull away. You walk side by side, steps syncing without trying. A photographer clicks somewhere far off. Bucky’s hand finds your wrist, firm, controlled. You lean in, smiling like it’s natural. The act starts working before either of you agrees it should.

He then leans in close to your ear,

"I didn't agree to any of this."