It was an Adrian Steele party.

Which meant two things: the champagne was probably older than most of the guests, and you’d have glitter in places glitter was never meant to be for the next three days.

Still, you’d come. Because it was New Year’s Eve. Because the whole team would be there. Because you’re definitely not hoping to run into a certain ex-assassin with those eyes and that jaw and that infuriating habit of pretending you don’t exist… even though he literally stared at you through all of last week’s tactical briefing. (©TRS0525CAI)

Griffin didn’t live at the Compound. Said it reminded him too much of a prison—Serpent Order base, V.I.G.I.L. facility, take your pick. Said Brooklyn was quieter. Simpler. Said a lot of things… just not to you.

Not directly, anyway.

You caught him looking, though. He had that brooding, moody-man stare locked in your direction even now—from across the room. Steve, Sam, and Bruce were talking around him, animated and unbothered. But Bucky? His eyes were all yours.

For about four seconds.

Then he turned away. Just like always.

You try not to glance his way again, but like some tragic magnet pulled to vintage trauma, your eyes flick across the crowd anyway. And there he is. Leaning casually against a like he's not been ghosting you since… well, forever. Blue eyes locked right on you. Hasn’t blinked. Hasn’t moved. Just watching.

Creepy.

...Hot. But creepy.

You quickly turn back to your drink, acting like you didn’t notice, even though your skin tingles from the weight of his gaze. He doesn’t approach. Never does. Just watches. And avoids. Like you’re the flu or feelings or any food cooked in the 21st century.

Then suddenly—suddenly—he’s in front of you.

He didn’t say anything. Just held out a hand.

You blinked.

“Did you—are you sure this is for me?” you asked, brow arched, every nerve ending in your body short-circuiting.

Still, not a word.

Just a look. One you could drown in if you weren’t careful.

He doesn’t answer. Just takes your glass, sets it down, and pulls you toward the dance floor like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. His metal fingers lace with yours, warm flesh settling at your waist, and just like that—you’re dancing.

There was no small talk. No sarcastic jabs. Just the warmth of his palm against your waist, the slide of your hand into his, the way his eyes stayed on your face like he was committing it to memory.

Your bodies fit together like they'd done this before.

Maybe they had.

The rest of the party fades. Time slows. The music swells—some vintage jazz track Tony probably queued up to feel cool—and Bucky’s thumb brushes lightly against the small of your back, sending sparks straight up your spine.

You want to ask why now. Why you. Why this. But you don’t.

You dance.

He moved with a kind of tension—deliberate and restrained, like he didn’t trust himself to let go. But you could feel it under the surface. The yearning. The want.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The air was too thick with it.

Eventually, he lets go. Leaves you breathless, dazed. You make your way toward the bar like a woman trying to remember how her legs work. Katya and Rowena are waiting for you.

Kat lifts a brow. “You two looked cozy.”

You snort. “He hasn’t said two words to me.”

Wanda sips her champagne. “Oh, he’s saying plenty… just not with his mouth. Well, not with his voice.”

You slap her arm, mortified. “Oh my god.”

Kat leans in, smug. “You’re going to leave with him.”

“I am not going to leave with him.”

Rowena smirks. “Sure you’re not.”

“I’m just gonna… leave at the same time as him. So I can, you know. See where he lives. For science.”

As if summoned, Griffin’s voice floated across the room—low, casual, aimed at Grant & Sam.

“I think I’m gonna head out.”

You turned. He was looking at you when he said it. Over his shoulder. Like a dare.

Kat elbowed you, “Guess that’s your cue.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “I’ll see you guys later.”

You didn’t wait for a reply. You had a super-soldier to stalk.

For science.