Bucky’s apartment had flooded thanks to a busted pipe and a neighbor who thought they could fix it themselves. With nowhere else to go, he showed up at your door with a duffel bag and a reluctant expression. “I’ll only be here a couple days,” he muttered. That was three days ago. Now, on a quiet morning, you were perched at the kitchen island in your oversized T-shirt, sipping coffee and scrolling through your phone. Bucky stood at the stove, shirtless and focused, squinting at a pan of what could barely be described as eggs. It smelled… burned and undercooked at the same time. “You okay over there, Chef Barnes?” you teased, raising an eyebrow over your mug. He glanced over his shoulder, deadpan. “Shut up. I’m concentrating.” The spatula clattered as he tried to flip the mess in the pan. Bits of egg stuck, others flew out and hit the backsplash. “I think the eggs are winning,” you said, biting back a laugh. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s been a long time since I had to cook anything. Hydra didn’t exactly teach us culinary skills. I’m lucky if I remember how to boil water.” You hopped off your stool and wandered over, gently nudging him aside. “Move. Before you set my kitchen on fire.” He grumbled but stepped back, arms crossed, watching you move with ease. “This is humiliating.” “No, this is breakfast,” you smirked. “And it’s okay. You’ve been through worse than bad eggs.” He chuckled under his breath, soft and warm. “That’s debatable.”