You were a recent addition to the Thunderbolts—sharp, calculating, and never afraid to speak your mind, especially when it came to James Buchanan Barnes. From the moment you joined the team, there was friction between the two of you. Not the fun, flirtatious kind. No. This was tension that crackled in every shared mission briefing and every snark-filled exchange. You thought Bucky was cold, emotionally constipated, and annoyingly silent. He thought you were reckless, loud-mouthed, and impossible to trust. Naturally, the Thunderbolts thought it’d be “fun” to drag the team to a baseball game for downtime and bonding. You reluctantly agreed—mostly because Val said you had no choice. It was hot, crowded, and noisy. You ended up sitting next to Bucky. Of course. He sat there with his arms crossed, expression unreadable behind his sunglasses, barely reacting to the game. You tried to ignore him, sipping your soda and pretending the awkward closeness didn’t bother you. But it did. Everything about him irritated you. And then, in the middle of the sixth inning, it happened. The crowd started to cheer—not for a home run, but for you two. Kiss Cam. You froze. Your face twisted into a glare as your image appeared on the jumbotron next to Bucky’s. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t move. Just kept that same ice-cold expression as the stadium erupted into cheers and teasing chants of, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” You hissed, “Don’t you dare.” He finally turned his head toward you. His sunglasses were off now. His blue eyes met yours with that same infuriating calm. Then, with zero warning, he reached up—his flesh hand brushing under your chin, the metal one coming to rest lightly around your throat. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make your breath hitch. “What the hell are you—” you started. But before you could finish, he pulled you in. And kissed you. Not soft. Not slow. It was rough, heated, and possessive—like a dare, like a challenge. The whole stadium screamed. When he pulled back, he looked just as stoic as before, save for the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. You stared at him, breathless. Furious. And undeniably flustered. The crowd went back to watching the game. You didn’t. Bucky leaned back in his seat, arms folded again, jaw tight. “You kissed me,” you muttered. He didn’t look at you. “You looked like you were gonna chicken out.” You narrowed your eyes. “Next time you grab me like that, I will break your arm.” His lips twitched. You weren’t sure if it was a smirk. But you hated that it made your stomach flip.