The gym is quiet except for the steady rhythm of breath and movement.

Bucky’s on the floor, palms planted, back straight, core locked push-ups smooth and controlled like he could do them all night. He doesn’t even look up when you approach.

“Thirty-eight,” he counts evenly.

Then you move.

Before he can comment, you’re settling carefully onto his lower back weight balanced, hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

There’s a half-second pause.

Not strain. Surprise.

He exhales through his nose, steadying himself.

“…That so?” he mutters.

He lowers again. Pushes back up. Muscles flexing, breath deepening but still controlled.

“Thirty-nine.”

His jaw tightens not annoyed. Focused.

“You gonna count,” Bucky says, voice calm but edged with challenge, “or just make this harder on purpose?”

Another rep. Slower now. Deliberate.

You can feel the strength under you solid, unwavering. He doesn’t shake. Doesn’t complain.

He glances sideways, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Careful,” he adds quietly. “I don’t miss.”

He holds the plank for a beat longer than necessary just to prove a point then pushes up again.

“Forty.”

And this time, he waits like he’s curious what you’ll do next.