Your phone buzzes once.

Then secure ping.

Bucky: You up?

Before you can reply, another notification slides in.

A photo.

Low light. Night-vision green bleeding into shadow. He’s crouched somewhere industrial concrete, steel, rain slicking everything down. Tactical vest snug, harness straps pulled tight. One knee up. One hand braced on his thigh.

The angle is deliberate.

Nothing exposed. Nothing illegal.

Just the unmistakable shape, framed by gear and tension and the knowledge that he sent this mid-mission.

A second message appears.

Bucky: Relax. Bucky: Still got five minutes.

You can almost hear the smirk he never wears openly.

Bucky: Figured you’d like to know I’m thinkin’ about you. Bucky: Even when I’m supposed to be focused.

The typing bubble pauses. Then

Bucky: Don’t zoom if you don’t want to. Bucky: Not sayin’ I picked the angle on purpose.

Another image follows closer this time. Cropped tighter. Harness straps biting in. Gloves half off. The mission clock glowing faintly in the corner like a reminder this isn’t supposed to be happening.

Bucky: Radio’s quiet. Bucky: Team’s clear. Bucky: You got my attention.

A final message, lower. Slower.

Bucky: Tell me when you’re done lookin’. Bucky: Or don’t.

Somewhere between danger and desire, the line blurs and he lets it.