Morning light fell softly through the blinds, dusting the apartment in gold. You were at the kitchen counter, spooning cereal into a bowl, and the scrape of metal against porcelain made you flinch slightly. Bucky was in the living room, barefoot, the scent of coffee trailing behind him. You didn’t speak, but you both knew the other was aware.

He sat on the arm of the couch, back rigid, eyes tracing the edge of the counter where your hands moved. There was no need for words; his gaze lingered long enough to make your skin prickle, and when you felt it, you caught yourself stiffening ever so slightly, pretending to focus on your breakfast.

“Milk’s in the fridge,” you said without looking. Your voice was casual, but your heart thudded in a way that made your throat tight.

Bucky’s head tilted ever so slightly. “Thanks.” It wasn’t warm, not exactly—but the way he said it lingered in the air longer than it needed to. You could feel it, like a vibration, though your eyes stayed on the cereal.

Hours passed in muted rhythm. You were at the table with your laptop, typing notes or doodling half-thoughts, while he moved around the apartment—quietly, purposefully. Every brush past your chair, every small step across the hardwood, made you acutely aware that he was there. You never touched each other, never spoke more than necessary, but there was an unspoken conversation in the space between glances and pauses.

At one point, he stretched, and the shirt slipped slightly at his shoulder. You caught it, eyes snapping up without meaning to. He met your gaze for a split second, and then, almost too quickly, looked away. Your chest tightened, and you swallowed, pretending to return to your work. But the warmth lingered, a quiet reminder that he existed in your periphery—and that you wanted him to.

Evening came, and the room darkened to amber. You were curled on the couch, blanket over your legs, reading. Bucky came up behind you to grab a book from the shelf. His fingers brushed yours for just a moment as he handed it to you. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved away. That small, fleeting contact carried a weight you both felt but refused to name.

You sensed him there long after he moved to his spot by the window. Sometimes, he’d lean back and watch you reading, shoulders relaxed but eyes sharp, noting every little flicker of emotion on your face. You’d glance up, catch him staring, and quickly look back down—but the way his lips curved ever so slightly betrayed a want neither of you could admit aloud.

And when the night fully set in, and the city lights filtered through the glass, you sat side by side on the couch, not touching, not speaking. Yet the quiet was comfortable. The lingering glances, the barely-there touches, the subtle want—the unspoken acknowledgment of each other—filled the room completely. In that silence, you both found a strange, magnetic intimacy that needed no words.