Bucky finds her by instinct now.

Not the infirmary—too public, too clean. He waits until the corridor thins out, until the base exhales into evening and the lamps throw long, tired shadows against the walls. He spots her before she sees him: sleeves rolled, hair pinned back in that precise way that makes his hands itch.

Miss Rutherford.

She looks done for the day. Exhausted, composed, dangerous in the quiet way that makes men lean in without realizing it.

“Long shift?” he asks, voice light, like he hasn’t been orbiting her all damn day.

She startles just a fraction—recovers immediately. That’s new. Or maybe it’s always been there.

“Same as yours, I imagine,” she replies, accent slipping into something softer, something he still can’t place. English, sure—but not quite.

He grins. Can’t help it. “Mine ended with a lecture and a cigarette. Yours looks worse.”

She snorts despite herself, and God, that does it. That tiny crack in her armor. He steps closer without thinking, crowding her space like it’s natural, like he’s earned it just by wanting her this badly.

“You should be resting,” he says.

She lifts a brow. “Is that an order, Captain?”

There’s something in her tone. Not defiant—measured. Testing.

Bucky’s smile falters. Just a hair.

“Funny,” he mutters. “You never talk like that to anyone else.”

Her eyes flick to his chest. Linger. He sees it. Files it away like a victory.

“Maybe I don’t like being told what to do,” she says.

He laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “Yeah. I figured.”

They’re closer now. Too close. The corridor hums with generators and distant laughter, but right here it’s just heat and breath and the slow realization that neither of them is stepping back.

He notices it then—the way her gaze drifts past him, toward the office doors down the hall. The ones with locks. The ones she shouldn’t be near if she’s just an infirmary nurse.

“You always know where you’re going,” he says quietly.

Her jaw tightens. Barely.

“And you always notice too much,” she shoots back.

That’s when it clicks—not fully, not yet—but enough to make something sharp curl in his gut. Suspicion, sure. But also something worse.

Interest.

He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingers catching her wrist—not rough, not gentle. Intentional. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch.

“{{user}},” he says, dropping the formality for the first time, testing it like a matchstick. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Her breath hitches. Just once.

She steps into him instead of answering, backing him up against the wall like it’s a challenge. Like she’s reclaiming the ground he just took. Her free hand presses flat to his chest, right over his heart—steady, solid, betraying him completely.

“You come looking for answers,” she murmurs, “or trouble?”

His laugh comes out low. Broken.

“Christ,” he exhales. “You always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make it impossible to walk away.”

Her thumb brushes the edge of his jacket. Deliberate. Dangerous.

“I could say the same about you,” she says softly.

Their faces are inches apart now. He can smell antiseptic and smoke and something unmistakably her. His grip tightens just a little—not to hurt. To anchor.

“You’re not what you pretend to be,” he says, voice rough.

She smiles. Not sweet. Knowing.

“Neither are you, Captain.”

For a moment, the world holds its breath. Orders, secrets, war—all suspended between them.

Bucky leans in, forehead almost touching hers, restraint shaking in his bones.

“Tell me I should stop,” he murmurs.

She doesn’t.

And that tells him everything he needs to know—for now.