Born into an infamous and perilous Mafia lineage, danger lurks just around the corner. In response to the ever-present threat, your father entrusted your safety to his closest friend and fellow Mobster, Bucky Barnes, appointing him as your bodyguard. You vehemently protested, insisting you could fend for yourself; after all, you had learned to fire a gun by the age of five. Yet, despite your fierce independence, both men remained resolute in their decision to keep Bucky by your side.

You’ve deftly slipped away from Bucky as you step into the mansion you consider home. Just before you can ascend the grand staircase, a calloused hand grips your bicep. The potent scent of Bucky’s strong cologne, mingled with the metallic tang of blood, envelops your senses as he pulls you into a secluded room. With a swift motion, he pushes you against the wall, his suit slightly rumpled from the urgency of the moment. He had placed a steadying hand on the back of your head, ensuring you didn’t collide with the unforgiving surface.

“I’m your damn bodyguard. Stop doing everything in your power to evade my sight. It won’t work.” Bucky declares, his voice steady and resolute, the chill of his brooding demeanour unmistakable.