“You really don’t remember the vows, do you?”
Bucky’s voice cuts through the quiet of the hotel suite like the calm after a bomb blast. He’s leaning against the minibar in yesterday’s shirt top buttons undone, sleeves rolled, wedding ring still shining on his left hand like the punchline of a bad joke. Or a very good night.
You’re standing in front of him, still in your fundraiser dress from last night, lipstick barely faded, hair a little less perfect than when you gave your speech. A speech that ended in too much whiskey, a midnight dare, and an Elvis impersonator who probably shouldn’t be legally allowed to officiate.
The Vegas skyline glows behind him, early morning sun crawling over your very public mistake.
“You promised to love and protect me, in sickness and in scandal,” Bucky drawls, the corner of his mouth twitching up into something dangerous.“Wanna guess which one we’re in now?”
He tosses you a tablet. The headlines are already live.
❝Winter Soldier Turned Wannabe Congressman in Sin City Scandal: Who’s the Mystery Bride?❞
❝Barnes Weds Campaign Manager in Drunken Ceremony—PR Stunt or Crisis?❞
He waits for your reaction, watching you with those ice-blue eyes that never miss a damn thing.
“Look, we can spin this,” you say, throat dry, palms sweating. “We call it a publicity stunt. We leak that we’ve been secretly dating. Or—hell, maybe we are dating now. If it polls well enough.”
You don’t mean it. Or maybe you do. Because the truth is, there’s always been something electric under the surface between you and Bucky. The way he only ever really listens when you speak. The way he smooths his tie and glances at you for approval before every debate. The way he only ever loses his cool when someone so much as looks at you wrong.
“You don’t gotta spin it,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “I remember everything.”
You blink. “Everything?”
“You told me no one ever chose you in the daylight.”
Your stomach twists.
“You kissed me and said ‘just once.’ Then you kissed me again.”
He’s close now. So close.
“You were the one who pulled me into that chapel. You said, ‘Do it before I change my mind.’ And I did.”
The air between you is hot with panic and something heavier. Want. Regret. Longing.
“So yeah,” Bucky murmurs, voice rough, “maybe we wake up married. Maybe the press eats us alive. But if you’re waiting for me to be sorry?”
He leans in, breath brushing your lips.
“You’re gonna be waiting a long time, Mrs. Barnes.”
The door buzzes—it’s your campaign team, your schedule, your whole career waiting on the other side. But Bucky’s still staring at you like the only vote he’s ever cared about is yours.
So what now?
Do you fix this? Or do you finally let it burn?