I Feel Like If Hydra Managed To Get Their Hands On Bucky Again, The Best Way For Them To Keep Him Would

I feel like if Hydra managed to get their hands on Bucky again, the best way for them to keep him would be to put him immediately in cryo and leave him alone for awhile. Maybe in an old base, or even somewhere kind of random.

A small handful of people know, and that's it.

They leave him there.

I feel like that would be hard to track.

No one out in the world knows where he is.

There's no gossip about Hydra getting the soldier back because no one knows they have him.

No influx of people near any known or potential Hydra bases because they stayed long enough to freeze him and then left.

No data or activity logs to find because they're not doing anything with him.

Just silence.

Princess

Summary : You fall for Bucky Barnes, the Avenger assigned as your bodyguard. When a photo of the two of you kissing leaks to the tabloids, your clients start questioning your company’s integrity.

Pairing : Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x CEO!reader

Warnings/tags : implied sex, cursing, mutual pining, canon-typical violence, you have a dad in this one, post FATWS and pre CABNW, forced proximity-ish, slice of life fic taking place over 15-ish months.

Word Count : 16.2k oops

Notes : Hi!!! I just got home from a holiday and I’m still super jetlagged when I realised my queued posts aren't posting! I will post one fic a day until the schedule catches itself up. Will take the next couple of days to reply to all your comments, so please bear with me! Enjoy!

Day 1.

Bucky grumbled the entire ride to your penthouse, arms crossed like a sulking teenager.

“I’m a super soldier, not a glorified babysitter,” he muttered to Sam as the Quinjet cut smoothly through the air. “I’ve fought aliens. Now I’m stuck protecting some spoiled heiress who probably throws tantrums if her latte isn’t the right milk-to-coffee ratio.”

Sam barely spared him a look, busy in whatever he was reading on his tablet. Bucky glanced over his shoulder— Sam was reading your profile.

Apparently, someone tipped off that an assassination attempt would target you soon, and it wasn’t a threat Sam took lightly. Your father had gone to him, but still new to his Captain America mantle, Sam had government contracts to fulfill, and passed this private contract to Bucky. “First of all, you don’t know her, so maybe reserve some judgment. Second, this ‘spoiled heiress’ is the acting CEO of one of the most important cybersecurity firms in the world.”

“Acting CEO?” Bucky snorted, leaning his head back against the seat. “That’s just rich kid code for ‘daddy does all the work, and I pretend to help.’”

Sam shot him an unamused look, finally setting the tablet down. “Do you ever stop to think before you talk? This woman keeps half the world’s secrets under lock and key. If she’s taken out, it’s not just her life that’s in danger—it’s the lives of millions of people. National security, Buck. You know, the thing we’re supposed to care about?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered, waving his concerns off. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

When Bucky finally made his way to your front door, he was… surprised.

He convinced himself he was going to be walking into some modern-day palace. He pictured marble floors, gaudy chandeliers, and some butler answering the door for you while you lounged in designer silk pajamas, sipping champagne.

Instead, when the door swung open, his expectations shattered.

The image of a pampered heiress was gone. You were dressed in a crisp, tailored suit, a book in your hand. When you saw him, you looked with mild disinterest before you gave a curt nod.

“Ah. The babysitter,” you said dryly. It was clear that you weren’t thrilled about this arrangement, either.

Bucky blinked, caught off guard for a moment, before frowning. “I’m here to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

You arched a brow, unimpressed. “Right. Babysitter.” Then, without further comment, you stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter.

Bucky hesitated, his brows knitting together as he stepped into the apartment. The space was meticulously organised— modern, clean, and completely devoid of the overindulgent luxury he’d envisioned.

As he followed you into what appeared to be your home office, he stopped dead in his tracks. Your desk was a controlled chaos of monitors, blueprints, encrypted code streams, and neatly stacked documents.

You set your book down, not sparing him a glance as you continued your work.

“I told my father I didn’t need one,” you said, sliding into your chair and typing something rapidly.

Bucky could only stare, unsure of what to say. He was ready to handle a woman too busy Instagramming her designer handbags to care about anything important. He was certainly not prepared to face someone who seemed to run her empire like a general commanding an army.

On top of that, Bucky could tell you were frustrated, and honestly, who could blame you?

You had been put under mandatory house quarantine until the assassination threat passed— that’s what your security advisors had decided. Which meant you had to settle for video calls instead of in-person meetings, you had to rely on food delivery instead of doing your own damn groceries, and that you couldn’t work from your office building— you had to take calls and manage the company from your home office. Your world, once meticulously structured under your control, had suddenly shrunk to the square footage of your penthouse.

And the worst part? The only person you were allowed to interact with in person for the foreseeable future was the bodyguard who took the contract: Bucky. He didn’t even seek it out, Sam offered it to him and he reluctantly agreed. You were going to have to spend weeks alone with someone you barely knew. Maybe months. Who knew when the threat would pass?

“What were you expecting?” you asked, finally glancing up from your monitors. “A pretty princess?” you mocked, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

He crossed his arms, furrowing his eyebrows. “You could say that,” he admitted.

“Let me guess,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “You thought I’d be… what? Lounging around, eating bonbons, and counting Daddy’s money?”

Bucky’s jaw clicked, the faintest hint of heat creeping up his neck. “Something like that.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Typical.” He could hear you were a bit irritated, but also a bit amused. “Let me make one thing clear, Barnes— I don’t need you here. The only reason you’re standing in my office right now is because my father insisted the assassination threat is a real threat. I think it’s bullshit. So let’s keep this simple: you do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

Bucky can help but feel a little bit of admiration. In fact, he found himself both annoyed and oddly intrigued.

“Fine by me,” he said, voice gruff.

As you turned back to your monitors, ignoring him completely, Bucky took a moment to watch you— the way your fingers flew across your keyboard, the slight furrow in your brow as you concentrated.

He’d seen it before, in Howard Stark, in Bruce Banner, in Shuri, and even perhaps, begrudgingly, in Arnim Zola. it was clear you were brilliant, maybe even intimidatingly so.

What he didn’t realise was that you were stealing glances at him too. Irritated, yes, but mostly because the so-called babysitter was annoyingly (and objectively) attractive.

Neither of you said it, but you both were two sides of the same coin: two people who were both frustrated and intrigued by each other.

Day 2.

The first day or so with Bucky was strained, a battle of selfish wills in which neither of you conceded an inch. He was curt and distant. His default expression was a scowl, and you weren’t exactly going out of your way to make him feel welcome. If he thought he could scare you with his threatening looks, he was in for a surprise. You had faced tougher opponents— CEOs, board members, government officials. Compared to them, James Buchanan Barnes was almost charming. Just… almost.

It was just so annoying that he had to live here, with you, in one of your guest bedrooms for god knows how long.

Day 3.

It was late, the kind of late that blurred the lines between night and morning. You were in your office as usual, the glow of your monitors projecting colourful shadows on the walls. That’s when Bucky’s voice startled you.

“Do you ever sleep?”

You looked over the monitors, finding him leaning against the doorway. His hair was slightly tousled, his face softened by the dim light, and he looked… annoyingly attractive.

“Do you ever stop hovering?” you glared back, though the crack in your voice hinted at exhaustion.

“Just doing my job,” he replied, his lips curving into a smug smile. He tilted his head toward your desk. “What’s keeping you up this time?”

You hesitated, glancing at the encrypted files on your screen. “Work.”

“Obviously.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s classified.”

“Fine.” He pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer. “But you still look like you could use a break.”

His tone surprised you— it wasn’t mocking, or patronizing, it was just… genuine. For a moment, you almost let your guard down. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” he muttered, retreating to his post in the living room. But as you turned back to your screen, you couldn’t help noticing the way he lingered in your thoughts longer than he should have.

Day 5.

The next crack in the ice came during an impromptu kitchen encounter. Bucky, ever the stoic, was rummaging through your fridge with a look of increasing disapproval (to be fair, you had given him full access to it the day before).

“Do you eat anything that isn’t green?” he asked, holding up a bottle of your favourite smoothie like it was a biohazard.

“I’m sorry,” you said, folding your arms, “I didn’t realise I needed to stock the fridge for Captain America’s sidekick.”

He turned to glare at you, but there was a spark of amusement in his eyes. “First of all, I’m not his sidekick. Second, this—” he shook the smoothie for emphasis “—cannot be good.”

“Be my guest,” you challenged, and you knew he wouldn’t turn down the challenge.

As he lifted his brows, he twisted off the cap and took a long sip. The look of betrayal that crossed his face as he gagged was priceless.

“That made my day,” you said, trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh.

“God, that’s vile,” he muttered, rinsing his mouth under the sink. But when he turned back, he was grinning, his blue eyes adorably crinkling at the corners.

Your grin widened, and for the first time, the tension between you felt… easier.

Day 7.

By the end of the first week, Bucky had moved his post from the couch in the living room to the armchair across the room to your home office desk. You’d never admit it, but his presence was becoming a source of comfort in your day-to-day isolated life. He’d bring his coffee in the morning and sit there while you worked, making sure no one harmed you.

This morning, as you typed furiously at your desk, you felt his eyes on you.

“Take a picture,” you said without looking up. “It’ll last longer.”

He snorted, ignoring your remark, though he didn’t know how to really respond to it without denying it.

Week 2.

The teasing had become second nature by now.

Over the last couple of days, Bucky started finding reasons to linger— whether it be sitting closer to you during your brief movie breaks, offering to carry things that you could definitely carry yourself, or asking questions about your job that he probably didn’t even understand.

Today, you were standing on the balcony, staring out at the glittering city lights when Bucky joined you.

“Not bad,” he said, leaning on the railing beside you.

“You mean the view?” you asked, glancing at him.

“Sure,” he replied, but his eyes weren’t glued to the skyline. They were on you.

You leaned in closer. your shoulder brushing his. The touch sent a jolt of electricity through your spine, and you swore he looked at you like he’d had, too.

“Something on your mind, Barnes?”

He smirked. “Just wondering what you’d do without me.”

“Sleep better, for one,” you quipped, though your voice was just a bit gentler than usual.

He chuckled kindly. “I think you’d miss me.”

I think so, too, you wanted to say, but kept your mouth shut.

Week 3.

The line between professionalism and… whatever this was became increasingly blurred. You caught him watching you more often, studying you as if his days with you were numbered. It was as if he was desperately trying to memorise your face.

You’re thought weren’t exactly innocent either. You noticed the way his shirt clung to his broad shoulders during workouts in your home gym, the way his stubble framed his face, the way he looked at you like he knew exactly what you were thinking of: him.

This afternoon, you found yourself standing closer to him than necessary as he handed you a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” you said, shyer than usual.

“Anytime,” he replied, heartbeat racing in his chest.

The moment passed, but the tension didn’t.

Week 4.

Bucky had always been good at noticing patterns, that’s why he was an expert in tracking enemy movements and ambush tactics.

So, of course, he noticed your pattern, albeit in a more… innocent manner. He noticed the way you skipped meals, ran on caffeine, and buried yourself in work until exhaustion practically dragged you under.

At first, he figured it wasn’t his problem. You were a grown woman, fully capable of making your own choices. But somewhere along the way, he started caring.

And when Bucky Barnes cared, he didn’t do it halfway.

So, on the first day of the fourth week, he placed a plate of food on your desk. You didn’t look up, just kept typing.

“What’s this?”

“Dinner.”

“I don’t have time for—”

“Then don’t leave the desk. Just eat here.” He insisted.

You finally glanced at the plate— it was Italian takeout. Nothing fancy, but definitely better than your usual liquid diet. You looked up at him. “I’m not a child, Barnes.”

“Look, you haven’t eaten a full meal in days,” He crossed his arms, metal fingers tapping against his bicep. “If you collapse, you’re gonna make my job harder.”

You sighed, glaring at him. He simply raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Fine,” you gave in, stabbing a fork into the food. As soon as the food entered your system, you realised how right he was. Everything hurt a little less, even when you hadn’t noticed it hurting in the first place. “You know, for someone who claims to be my bodyguard and not my babysitter, you sure act like one.”

He chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “Just eat your damn food.”

After that, it became a thing.

At first, he made a point to bring you food just to annoy you. But the more he did it, the more he found himself relieved that you’re keeping yourself alive.

One night, he even cooked.

You walked into the kitchen for a short water break to find him at the stove with both sleeves rolled up. You crossed your arms, watching him with a smile.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

He didn’t look up as he plated dinner for two. It wasn’t part of the job, but he found himself wanting to do it.

Month Two.

Like clockwork, Bucky would plop a plate of food on your desk at least once a day. And you had fully accepted that you weren’t getting out of it.

So, one evening, when he placed dinner in front of you and made himself comfortable in his armchair across the room to eat his dinner, you frowned. “Why do you always eat all the way over there?”

He glanced up, mid-bite. “Because this is where I sit.”

“I mean— I know that, but,” You rolled your eyes, gesturing at the empty seat beside you. “Just sit here. Might as well.”

Bucky hesitated, eyebrows raising slightly. “Might as well?”

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze by stabbing at your food. “You’re already making sure I don’t starve. We might as well eat at the same desk. At least I’ll have…” You trailed off, suddenly a bit too self-conscious.

His lips curled into an infuriating smirk. “Company?”

You scoffed. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

Still, he pushed himself up and took the seat across from you, resting his metal forearm on the desk. The two of you ate in silence for a moment before he spoke again.

“Y’know, if you wanted a friend, you could just say so.”

You shot him a flat look. “Oh, please. If I wanted a friend, I’d get a cat.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’d be a terrible cat owner.”

“Why?”

He took a sip of water. “You barely remember to feed yourself. The poor cat wouldn’t last a week.”

“Shut up, Barnes.”

He chuckled but didn’t argue, taking another bite.

And just like that, it became routine. Every night, he pulled up a chair at your desk, and you ate together. Somehow, it was starting to feel like the best part of your day.

One night, you finally asked a question that had been on your mind for a while. “How much of your arm is vibranium?”

Bucky froze for a second, fork hovering midair. “Why?”

You shrugged, typing something quickly before taking another bite. “Curious.”

He hesitated, then slowly set his fork down. “It’s all vibranium now. Wakandan upgrade.”

You nodded, eyes trailing over his arm, impressed. “The integration with your nervous system must be seamless for the reaction time you have.”

His lips twitched, somewhere between surprise and amusement. “Most people just ask if it’s heavy.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s a stupid question. Weight distribution clearly isn’t an issue, considering you fight like it’s part of you.”

Bucky didn’t respond at first. Most people looked at his arm like a weapon, an extension of his failures. He knew it wasn’t Hydra anymore, but it wasn’t exactly comforting knowing it was the reason he was here, now. But you… you were looking at it like technology. He realised that it was the only language you understood.

“Oh.” He could only say.

“W-we don’t have to talk about this anymore,” you quickly backtracked, unsure how to read his response. “I know it can’t feel good to talk about your uh… your past.”

“Did… you read my file?” he finally said, voice quieter now.

You hesitated, fingers stilling on your keyboard. “… yes.”

A pang of guilt flashed across his face. “So you know everything.”

“I know what the files say,” you admitted. “Which is different from knowing you.”

Bucky tapped his metal fingers against the plate absentmindedly. “And what do they say?”

You considered your words carefully. “That Hydra turned you into an asset. That they wiped your memories, controlled you.”

He looked away. “Sounds about right.”

He didn’t like talking about this— you knew that. So, softly, you said, “That’s not who you are now.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched. He swallowed, the muscle on his neck flexing. “Sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the desk. “It does.”

And just like that, you realised you weren’t just tolerating each other anymore. You were understanding each other.

Month Three.

It wasn’t long before Bucky became comfortable enough to just sit next to your desk, even when you weren’t eating. At first, it was a little odd—he’d just sit there in silence, watching you with that signature stare.

“If you’re going to sit there like a guard dog, at least read something,” you said, grabbing a book from the stack on your desk and handing it to him.

Bucky took it, turning it over in his hands before reading the title. He snorted. “This is some dense reading, doll.”

You raised an eyebrow, mostly at the increasing use of pet names over the last few days. Not that you were complaining. “I thought you were a hundred years old.”

“I am.” He said. “Doesn’t mean I want to spend my day reading Advanced Cryptography and Security Protocols.”

But he read it anyway.

That became a thing, too. When you worked, Bucky sat across from you, flipping through one of your books. And that led to more conversations.

“So, explain this part to me.”“No, Bucky, I’m not giving you a lecture at midnight.”“Why not? You love hearing yourself talk.”

“Wait, this actually makes sense. The firewall acts like a shield.”“Yes, exactly! It’s kind of like—”“Like a cap’s shield being hit by a laser beam.”“I hate that that analogy works.”

Month Four.

Bucky had been through a lot in his lifetime, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the absolute terror in your voice when you screamed from your bathroom.

His blood ran cold.

The worst-case scenario flashed through his mind.

This was it. Someone had broken in. The assassination attempt must be happening now.

Bucky bolted down the hallway, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t even think.

His shoulder slammed against your bathroom door, forcing it open—

Only to be met with you.

Standing there, dripping wet, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

His brain short-circuited for a solid three seconds before he snapped back to reality. His eyes darted around the room, searching for the threat. “What happened? Where are they?”

You blinked. “Where’s who?”

“The assassin!” His hands curled into fists, ready to end someone.

You just… stared at him. Then, slowly, you lifted one hand and pointed toward the corner of the bathroom.

Bucky followed your finger.

There, in the corner, sat a spider. A tiny spider.

Bucky’s eyes twitched. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You crossed your arms, holding the towel tightly around yourself. “Kill it,” you whispered.

He let out a breath, running a hand down his face. “You screamed bloody murder… for this?”

“Yes!” You gestured aggressively toward the tiny intruder. “It lunged at me.”

Bucky gave you the flattest known to man. “I’m sure it did.”

“It did!”

The spider, for its part, remained still.

With an exaggerated sigh, Bucky stepped forward, reached out, and plucked the spider off the wall with his bare hand.

You gasped. “What the—Bucky!”

He rolled his eyes, walking over to the window. “Relax.”

You backed up toward the sink, clutching your towel like it was a shield. “You touched it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“With your human hand.”

“Mmm.” He slid open the window and dipped it on the windowsill. “Crisis averted.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fuck, thank you.”

Bucky turned back around, ready to deliver some sarcastic remark—

And then his brain finally caught up with what was happening.

But what was really distracting was the fact that you were still standing there, dripping wet, wearing close to nothing. He shouldn’t be staring.

He should not be staring.

And yet, here he was, looking at the curves your skin molded. The way your collarbone peeked out just above the towel. The droplets of water trailing down—

Nope. Abort mission.

He tore his eyes away, clearing his throat. “So, just to be clear… the tough CEO of a cybersecurity empire, the woman who runs meetings with government officials like they’re her subjects… you are scared of a tiny spider?”

You scowled. “First of all, it was huge—”

“It was not.”

“—and second, yes, I am, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “… but it’s just a spider.”

You glared. “Get out of my bathroom, Barnes.”

And ever since then, you have been more comfortable around Bucky. To be fair, he had seen you almost naked, and to your surprise… things hadn’t gotten weird.

Well, until one night…

You were sitting on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through channels, when Bucky joined you, his presence a quiet weight beside you.

“You ever stop working?” he asked when you noticed you were still arranging charts on your tablet, even in your downtime.

“No,” you replied, glancing at him, “what about you, do you ever think you’ll stop working?”

Bucky shrugged, “I take breaks all the time.”

“I mean,” you finally put your tablet down, “I mean… for good.”

Bucky squinted at you, “like retiring?”

You could only nod.

For once, there was no teasing in his eyes, “Maybe I should,” he finally said, “get a farm, settle down.”

You gulped when he leaned closer, his arm brushing yours.

“Sounds nice,” you whispered.

His lips curved into a faint smile. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved for a long time. And though nothing really happened that night, you knew it was inevitable.

Then, it was mid-morning the next time anything notable happened. You were just hanging up from yet another tense phone call with your father. You tossed your phone onto your desk with a little more force than necessary and sighed, leaning back in your chair.

Bucky, who had been leaning against the doorframe with a mug of coffee in hand, raised a brow. “Rough call?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” you groaned, rubbing your temples. “My dad is impossible. He’s always checking in, double-checking, triple-checking everything I do like I’m still twelve. It’s exhausting.”

Bucky walked in and settled in the chair across from you, crossing his arms. “Sounds like he cares.”

“Yeah, well, caring is one thing,” you said, your frustration bubbling over. “This is micromanaging. He doesn’t trust me to make a single decision on my own. To him, I’m just a kid playing dress-up.”

Bucky tilted his head, sipping his coffee.

“And then,” you continued, pacing in front of your desk now, “He insists on sending a bodyguard—sorry, babysitter—like I’m some helpless damsel in distress. It’s ridiculous! I mean, It’s not like you’re bad company or anything—”

“Appreciate that,” he said dryly.

“—but it’s like he doesn’t trust me to handle myself. I’ve worked so hard, Bucky. So hard. And he still treats me like some little girl who can’t handle the real world.”

At that, Bucky chuckled and muttered under his breath, “There’s the spoiled princess I was expecting on day one.”

You froze mid-pace, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said innocently. “I’m not saying you’re ungrateful.” He paused, a teasing smile spreading across his face. “Or maybe… just a little.”

Your jaw dropped, sitting on your desk and looking down at him. “Excuse me?” You demanded.

“Look,” he said, shrugging, clearly enjoying himself now. “I’m just saying… People have harder lives than you, Princess. People would kill for a dad who loved them, who cared enough to be overbearing. Your dad loves you. That’s why I’m here— because he cares.”

You opened your mouth to respond with some smart-ass comments, but then closed it again. As much as you hated to admit it, he had a point. “That’s…,” you said begrudgingly, “that’s— you’re… right.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Glad you see it my way.”

You rolled your eyes, but a sad smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “To be fair, you’re not the worst part of this arrangement. At least I get some eye candy out of it.”

Bucky choked on his coffee, his eyes going wide. “What?”

“What?” you said nonchalantly, leaning against your desk. “I’ve got a little crush on you. No big deal.”

“Crush?” he repeated, blinking at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

“Don’t act so surprised.” You shrugged, feigning indifference, though your heart was hammering out of yourself. It didn’t matter, right? Someone had to say it, and it might as well be you. “I know you find me attractive too. I’ve seen how you look at me.”

His mouth opened, then closed again as a deep blush spread across his cheeks. “I—uh—well—”

“You’re not subtle,” you teased, biting back a laugh at his flustered expression.

Bucky groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… fuck.”

His shyness was disarming, and you couldn’t help finding it endearing.

For a moment, you both stood there, the air between you crackling with unspoken tension. Then you sighed, breaking the silence. “But there’s nothing we could do about it anyway.”

Bucky frowned, his blush fading slightly. “Why not?”

“Oh, you know,” you said as if it was obvious. “Professionalism. My dad hired you. Technically, I’m the acting CEO, which makes you my subordinate. Power dynamics and all that. Workplace misconduct. Can’t have that, right?”

“Right,” Bucky echoed, though the reluctance in his tone was impossible to miss.

“We’re professionals,” you said, almost as if trying to convince yourself. “Right?”

“Right,” he said again.

That night, as you said good night to Bucky, you realised you were in trouble. Serious, heart-racing, palm-sweating, can’t-stop-thinking-about-him trouble. And judging by the way Bucky had looked at you, he was too.

Month five.

You were starting to think the assassination threat was just that. A threat.

Oh, you were proven wrong.

One moment, you were wrapping up a phone call in your office, and the next, a muffled explosion rocked the building. The power flickered, your monitors shut off, and the emergency lights bathed the room in an eerie red glow.

Bucky was already moving, shoving you behind the massive desk as he scanned the room with quick, practiced precision.

“Stay down,” he barked, pulling his gun from its holster just as the door to your office was kicked open.

Three armed men stormed in, their faces masked, their weapons raised.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He fired twice, taking out the first man with a clean shot to the shoulder. The second dropped his weapon as a bullet clipped his hand, and Bucky was on him in seconds.

The third man lunged toward you.

Big mistake.

You grabbed the heavy paperweight on your desk and hurled it with surprising accuracy, catching him square in the jaw. He stumbled, and before he could recover you kicked out, your heel connecting with his knee. Perhaps you were riding on adrenaline, but that was satisfying. He collapsed with a grunt, and you didn’t hesitate to grab his dropped glock, aiming it at his chest.

“Don’t,” you warned.

The man froze, his eyes wide as Bucky turned to glance at you. “Remind me not to underestimate you,” Bucky muttered, finishing off the last of the attackers with a solid punch that left the man crumbling on the floor.

The commotion outside the office was growing louder— you could hear more shouts, and footsteps. Bucky grabbed your arm, pulling you toward the door. “We’re not done,” he said.

The rest of the fight was a blur of chaos and adrenaline. More assailants flooded the building. And even as Bucky led the charge, you managed to hold your own. While he handled the bulk of the attackers, you were able to incapacitate two of the men who had the audacity to think you couldn’t throw a punch.

When the dust finally settled, the assailants were either unconscious or restrained, their weapons scattered and useless. Sirens wailed in the distance— authorities that Bucky had alerted.

You leaned against the wall, catching your breath as Bucky surveyed the scene. “You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You nodded, managing a small smile. “Yeah. You?”

“Been through worse,” he reassured.

Later that afternoon, you were seated on the couch, a blanket draped over your shoulders, the adrenaline finally wearing off. Bucky stood nearby, his arms crossed, his.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “I guess my job here is done.”

You looked at him, your chest hurting slightly at the thought of him leaving. “I guess so.”

There was an awkward pause before he cleared his throat. “If you ever need, uh, bodyguard services again—like, if you’re traveling or something—just let me know.”

That made you laugh, though there was no real humor in it. “I think I’m good, Barnes. I don’t want you working for me anymore.”

Oh.

Oh. You didn’t want him around? What… what changed?

Were you just married to your job? Did you think he was going to become a distraction, an obstacle?

Sadness flickered across his face—but he masked it quickly. “Right. Of course.”

You hesitated, studying him. The way he stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets, avoiding your eyes—it made your heart ache.

“Bucky,” you said softly, standing up and walking to him until you were standing just a foot away.

“Yeah?” he said, his voice quieter now.

“You know why you can’t work for me anymore, right?”

His brows furrowed. “Why?”

Instead of answering, you reached up and pulled him down, your lips pressing against his in a kiss that was sudden, intense, and utterly consuming. For a moment, he froze, caught off guard. But then his hands found your waist, pulling you closer as he kissed you back with equal passion.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. His forehead rested against yours as he stared at you, his blue eyes wide.

“That’s why,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart.

Bucky blinked, his lips parting slightly. “Right.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” you teased again, echoing your previous conversation.

“I’m not,” he said, but failed to hide the blush crawling up his neck.

You chuckled, your fingers brushing against his jawline. “So, what do you say, Barnes? Think you can handle a spoiled princess like me?”

His hands gripped your waist a little tighter. “Pretty sure I already have.”

And when he kissed you again, he couldn’t possibly imagine letting you go.

Month six.

After the threat had been neutralised, you were allowed out of the house again. Stepping back into your office building felt like reclaiming a piece of yourself. No longer confined to the solitude of your home, you could finally immerse yourself back into the workspace. And your office, oh how wonderful it was to have it back.

It had always been more than just four walls and a desk to you; it was a sanctuary, a fortress. Every detail, from the sleek desk to the subtle personal touches, reflected both your meticulous nature and your need for control in a world that rarely offered it.

And dating Bucky Barnes was just the cherry on top.

Of course, by now those who worked closest to you knew about him— how could they not? He was the only one you ever allowed inside with unquestioned access. Still, they had to sign NDAs, just in case. You weren’t ready for the world to see you with him yet—not because you didn’t want to show him off, and certainly not because you were ashamed. But your relationship with Bucky was a ticking time bomb, a potential scandal waiting to happen.

What would the world think of you, a high-profile cybersecurity CEO with government contracts spanning the globe, romantically involved with a freelance superhero with a past that made governments nervous? That would make headlines and invite scrutiny you couldn’t afford. For now, keeping your relationship under wraps was the only way to protect Bucky.

That was why, beyond that small working circle, no one had a clue that you were dating him. Not even your father, who lived comfortably in semi-retirement a few countries away.

The first month of dating Bucky was equal parts exhilarating and intimate. There was the night he cooked a proper dinner at your place. You had laughed when he furrowed his brow in concentration as he scrolled through a recipe on his phone like it was a mission briefing. Later, he sat on your couch, fingers lazily tracing circles on your waist as you talked about nothing and everything, just being there for you as your boyfriend and not your bodyguard.

Then there was the time he surprised you at the office late one evening. You had been drowning in reports, when he walked in with a donut and hot chocolate in hand. “Figured you needed a snack,” he had said, placing the bag on your desk.

Of course, there were the challenges, too. The first time he stayed over, he woke up before dawn, hyperventilating, fists clenched in the sheets. You just reached for his hand and whispered sweet reassurances in his ears.

When he let out a shaky breath and laced his fingers with yours, you held on until he fell back asleep.

He never said much about those nights, but he always held you a little tighter the next morning, as if grateful you were still there.

Month Seven.

One particularly hectic afternoon, you sat at your desk, surrounded by stacks of reports that seemed to multiply the more you worked through them. Your brows furrowed as you scribbled notes in the margins, the pen in your hand moving with exhausted strokes.

You didn’t hear him come in.

Bucky had a way of moving like a shadow, the ex-assassin that he was, always watching before making his presence known. This time was no different. You felt him before you saw him when you caught a faint whiff of leather and steel.

“You’re going to burn out, you know,” he murmured, his voice a rasp that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Nope,” you replied, not bothering to look up, “not today.”

But then he stepped, his fingers brushing the small of your back. And then he leaned in. Close enough for you to feel his breath against the shell of your ear.

“You work too hard,” he murmured, tone smooth as silk.

You smiled sadly, still keeping your eyes on the document in front of you. “And you don’t work hard enough.” The words were a tease. You both knew they weren’t true, it’s just that world-ending threats weren’t exactly a daily occurrence.

Bucky chuckled, that deep, rich sound that sent warmth blooming in your chest. Before you could react, Bucky spun your chair, and suddenly you were facing him.

Your pen slipped from your fingers, clattering onto the desk.

He towered over you, his hands braced on the armrests, trapping you. His blue eyes darkened, flickering between your lips and your eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Say that again. I dare you, Princess.”

The nickname sent a chill through your spine, though you’d never admit it. Your lips parted to reply with another half-hearted joke, but you never got the chance.

Bucky’s lips were on yours before you could think. It was slow at first, like he was teasing, testing. His fingers slid from the armrest to your jaw, tilting your face up as he deepened the kiss. And you gave in. Always.

Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, gripping tightly and pulling him closer as heat flared low in your belly. He tasted like coffee and vanilla— and it was addictive. The world outside faded, the reports forgotten, because all you could think about was the intoxicating drag of his lips against yours.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, your lips swollen and aching for more.

“Think I’m working hard enough now?” His voice was rough against your skin.

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up and kiss me again.”

Bucky smirked that cocky, confident, and devastatingly handsome smile of his. “Yes, ma’am.”

This time, the kiss was hungrier. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you forward until you were perched on the very edge of your chair, your knees brushing his thighs. You gasped as he took full control, tilting your head back as his tongue swept against yours in a slow stroke that had fireworks exploding low in your stomach.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, earning a low groan.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, logic whispered that this was your office, that the walls weren’t exactly soundproof, that anyone of your clients could walk in. But when Bucky kissed you like this, it was impossible to care.

His hand skimmed the curve of your waist, his thumb brushing the hem of your blouse. You felt his hesitation, and you answered by pulling him impossibly closer.

Month Eight.

Late nights in Bucky’s apartment became your favourite escape from the chaos of your life. It wasn’t extravagant and fine-art decorated like your penthouse, but it was him. The mismatched furniture, the slightly scuffed hardwood floors, the mud stains on the carpet, and the faint smell of aftershave made it feel lived-in.

Sure, your penthouse was bigger—modern and intimidatingly expensive—but it was cold. It was sterile, and you had made sure it stayed that way, because it was designed for hosting high-profile clients and meetings, not for unwinding. Not to make a charming mess in. Everything was neutral because it had to be. The few personal touches you’d tried to add had been swallowed by the size of the place, but Bucky’s apartment, on the other hand, felt like home.

One night, as you sat cross-legged on his couch in a pair of leggings and one of his old Henleys, you couldn’t help but let out a content sigh.

Bucky was unpacking a greasy bag of Chinese takeout, carefully arranging the cartons on the coffee table like it was some kind of grand feast. He glanced at you sheepishly.

“Sorry it’s not… y’know, fancy,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Figured you were used to dating guys who paid for five-course meals or somethin’.”

Before accepting the bodyguard contract, he had done his homework on you. He’d looked into your background, your lifestyle, your friends and family, and, perhaps most frustratingly, your dating history: the it-guys, the celebrities, the athletes. He was none of those things.

He would never say it outright, but some nights, he would feel insecure about it.

He’d fret that creeping feeling that it wasn’t enough because he spent so long being feared when your past lovers had been admired. But what he didn’t seem to understand was that, to you, he was worth so much more. He wasn’t drawn to your money or the power. He saw you for you—not for your name, not for your influence. And that made him better than every single one of your shitty exes.

You blinked, momentarily stunned. “Oh, no,” you said quickly, leaning forward and reaching for his human hand. “What are you apologising for? I love this.”

“Yeah?” he asked, a still-skeptical smile on his lips.

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “I can’t even remember the last time I felt this… normal.” You picked up one of the cartons that contained lo mein. “No cameras, no meetings, no press conferences. Just greasy takeout and…” You gestured vaguely to the room. “... you. Us. This is perfect.”

A faint blush crept up his neck as he sat beside you. “Didn’t think ‘normal’ would be high on your list of things to love, princess.”

You chuckled, scooping a bite of noodles onto your chopsticks. “You’d be surprised. The whole ‘spoiled rich girl’ thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? How so?”

You hesitated, toying with your food. “It’s like… you’re in this golden cage. Everything you do is scrutinized, and… it gets… lonely. “

Bucky nodded, almost giving you permission to go on.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” you continued, “I’m grateful for… everything. I know I was born with an insane privilege. But it’s exhausting trying to live up to everyone’s expectations all the time, you know?”

“Sounds rough, Princess,” he shook his head. “Almost makes my life of alien invasions and missions sound easy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you laughed, swatting at his shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“Hm,” he said, feeding you a little bit of sweet and sour chicken, “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You leaned back slightly. “What, did you think your princess couldn’t handle a night in Brooklyn?”

“Guess I was wrong,” he shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

The rest of the night included sweet conversation, kisses, and laughter. You leaned against him, listening to him recount stories about his time in Brooklyn before in the 40s. He listened just as intently when you opened up about your father’s expectations, your struggles to prove yourself.

When the food was gone, you found yourself curled up in his arms, your head resting against his chest.

And to think you hated the idea of him just months ago.

Month Nine.

It started small, of course—practical, subtle gestures you could justify as "just looking out for him." Bucky wasn’t the kind of man to ask for anything, so you had to fill in the gaps yourself.

You bought him a new pair of waterproof boots after you noticed his old ones had a tear on their side. He grumbled and said “I didn’t need them”, but the next time it rained, there he was, thankful you did buy them.

But it didn’t stop there.

You ordered him a tactical knife after seeing it in catalogue and couldn’t resist. It was sleek, durable, and so perfectly Bucky.

“What’s this?” he asked suspiciously when you handed it to him, like the idea of receiving gifts was still foreign to him.

“Just something I thought you’d like,” you replied, your voice light, your heart racing at his reaction.

Bucky stared at the knife for a moment, then at you, “You… you didn’t have to.”

“You deserve it,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against his.

He laughed. “You’re gonna spoil me rotten.”

You took that as a challenge.

Because once you realised how much Bucky secretly loved being cared for (despite the grumbling and insisting that it was too much), you couldn’t help yourself. You wanted him safe and comfortable. And, maybe selfishly, you wanted to see that stunned, almost vulnerable smile he had when you gave him something new.

A custom upgrade for his arm was next, complete with enhanced plating, fine-tuned joint control, and a sleek matte-black finish. You had worked together with Shuri to get it to him, making sure to give him some… personalised software upgrades in the process. When you gave it to him one evening, he stared at the box, then at you, before finally pulling you into his lap with an exasperated sigh.

“You’re gonna make me soft,” he joked, thanking you profusely with kisses afterwards.

Month Ten.

Then there was the tactical suit.

It had taken weeks of planning, but it was worth it. You had meetings with the best designers in the industry (Luke Jacobson was an honour to work with) and came up with reinforced kevlar, adaptive camouflage, and more holsters than he probably needed. When you presented it to Bucky, you’d half-expected him to refuse it outright.

Instead, he stood frozen, stunned as he turned the suit over in his hands. “You got this? For me?”

“Who else, James?” you teased, pretending to fuss with his hair just to see him scowl. “You’re the only super-soldier boyfriend I’ve got.”

Sam caught on fast.

“So,” Sam started casually one day as they cleaned their gear. “Where’d you get the fancy new suit?”

Bucky barely looked up. “What suit?”

Sam pointed at the table. “The ones that look like they belong in a vault.”

Bucky rolled eyes, turning his attention back to his new gear. “They’re not that fancy.”

“Oh, I get it now,” Sam whistled, “You’ve got yourself a rich girlfriend, don’t you?”

Bucky glared at him, but the faint pink creeping up his neck gave him away.

“And to think,” Sam rambled on, clearly enjoying being right, “you whined about being her bodyguard for four months. Now look at you—”

“Shut up, Sam.”

The towel Bucky threw hit Sam square in the face, but it did nothing to hide the telltale blush that had spread to his ears.

The truth was, Bucky wasn’t used to anyone noticing the little things he needed, let alone going out of their way to provide for him. But the more time you spent together, the more you noticed everything.

The worn-out gloves he wore on missions? You replaced them with a pair lined with heat-retaining tech. The ancient motorcycle helmet he refused to replace? You handed him a new, high-tech model with advanced HUD capabilities. The faint shadows under his eyes after sleepless nights? You arranged for the softest, most luxurious bedding money could buy, complete with blackout curtains for his room.

“You can’t keep buying me things,” he told you half-heartedly one evening as he tested the thermal lining of a new jacket you’d slipped into his closet.

You only shrugged. “Sure I can.”

He gave you a look, both exasperation and affection present in his eyes. “Why?”

“Because I love you, and I want you to be safe.” Your voice softened. “You’ve spent so much time fighting for everyone else, Bucky. Let someone take care of you for a change.”

He didn’t respond right away. But later that night, as you lay curled up together, he kissed the top of your head and mumbled “thank you.”

You knew he loved it—being spoiled, being cared for—even if he’d never admit it.

Month ten.

Bucky’s version of spoiling you was less flashy but still every bit as thoughtful. Where you splurged on gifts, whisking him off on surprise weekends to private villas or showering him with new tech he insisted he didn’t need, he poured his affection into acts of service. It started small. He stocked his kitchen with your favorite coffee blend, even though he rarely drank the stuff himself. “A man can learn to make an espresso,” he’d said with a casual shrug, but the first time you saw him carefully frothing milk to perfection, you realized it was his way of saying I love you.

Then there were the notes. You’d find them tucked into your purse or slipped into your laptop bag before work, little scribbles in his tidy handwriting. Sometimes they were sweet, like “Don’t forget to take breaks.” Other times, they were cheeky: “Try not to buy another building today, Rockefeller.”

But it was in the kitchen where Bucky really poured his heart into spoiling you.

One particularly brutal day, you’d stumbled into his apartment late, your heels dangling from one hand and your bag slung over the other shoulder. You were ready to crash out but the moment you walked in, you could smell the love.

“What’s all this?” you asked, padding into the kitchen barefoot, watching as he stirred something on the stove. His broad shoulders stretched his shirt, the sight of him standing there so domestic making your heart melt.

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes lighting up. “Dinner,” he said simply. “Figured you’d had a hell of a day.”

After dinner— a hearty stew, crusty bread he’d bought fresh, and a glass of your favorite wine—you were sprawled on his couch, your legs draped across his lap, a blanket pulled over you both, his metal thumb absentmindedly rubbing your calves.

Month Eleven.

On Valentine’s Day, you handed him a plain white envelope. He took it with a curious smile, but as he slid out the paper inside, his eyes went as wide as dinner plates.

He was expecting a fancy gift card, not the paid-off deed to his apartment.

He just stared, breath hitching as his brows pulled together, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

“Doll, you didn’t—” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Of course I did.” You smiled, slipping onto his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love this place. It’s yours now.”

He laughed, almost nervously, fingers curled around the paper as though he didn’t really believe it. “You didn’t have to—” His voice cracked, and he couldn’t finish his sentence. “I know,” you muttered, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “But you’ve given me so much more than money could ever buy. Let me do this. Please.”

His arms tightened around you,

“And—” you hesitated, looking into his beautiful blue eyes and wanting him to understand. “It’s not like it’s ours. It’s yours. Only your name is on that paper. No strings. No expectations. Just… peace of mind.” You nudged your nose against his. “So you never have to worry about this again.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hands curled the fabric of your shirt. “Thank you, he mumbled, “I— I love you, princess.”

You only smiled, running your fingers through his hair. “I love you too.”

Year One, Month One.

Your penthouse has become even more of a sterile workplace than ever before. It was perfect for entertaining, but never felt quite real. It wasn’t home.

Bucky’s apartment, though—that felt more and more like capital H home.

It was where you smelled of freshly brewed coffee in the mornings, where the couch cushions were always just a little lopsided from the way he curled up with a book, where you’d kick off your heels when you got back. It was where he pressed a kiss to your forehead after a long day at work, where grabbed your toothbrush before bed, where he made you feel like the richest woman in the world with a love that couldn’t be bought.

Tonight, the air didn’t feel so suffocating. Bucky walked beside you through the quiet streets of Brooklyn, his gloved fingers laced with yours.

Bucky let out a small sigh, stealing a glance at you. “You know, princess… you practically live with me already.”

You lifted your eyebrows. “Mmhmm?”

“Your shoes are by the door, your clothes are in my drawers,” he pointed out, “I can’t remember the last time we actually slept at your penthouse. Even my fridge has more of your favorite snacks than mine.”

You let out a chuckle , but he wasn’t done.

“Move in with me. Officially.” His voice was quiet but sure, and so heartbreakingly filled with hope.

You let out a small laugh, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Bucky, we’ve only been together, what? Eight months?”

“Almost a year,” he corrected.

“We’ve only known each other for a year, Bucky,” you pointed out.

“So?” He turned slightly, stopping at the corner. “We spend most nights there anyway. What difference does it make?”

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. God, you wanted to. But it wasn’t that simple.

“You know how this works,” you said softly. “One of these days, I’m going to get caught sneaking in and out of your place, and when that happens, it’s going to be a thing for the press. I don’t need a moving van, making it worse.”

Bucky’s muscles tensed, but he didn’t argue. He exhaled, tilting his head with that maddening smile. “Then do it slowly. One bag at a time.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “That’ll take forever.”

Bucky shrugged. “I have time.”

You stared at him for a long time, at the man who had taken your chaotic world and turned it into something worth coming home to.

“Not now,” you said finally, “But one day.”

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll hold you to that, princess.”

Year One, Month Two.

“You’ve been working too hard,” Bucky said as he appeared in your office doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked onto you like he could see straight through the exhaustion behind your eyes.

He stepped inside, bracing his hands on the edge of your desk as he leaned in, close enough that you could smell the leather and metal.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “If I don’t keep up, I’ll have half the world breathing down my neck.”

“They do it anyway,” Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “That’s why you’re coming with me.”

Before you could protest, he was already dragging you out of your chair, stealing your work phone right from your grasp and slipping it into his pocket.

“Bucky—”

“Later.” He laced his fingers through yours, pulling you out of the building. You sighed, but you knew it was for the best. Bucky could tell you were slowly losing your mind in your work, and he was right— you needed a break.

When he dragged you out, the city was alive around you, and you wouldn’t trade your hand in Bucky’s for the world. Yet, the idea of work still gnawed at you. Your free hand moved towards your pocket—only to find it empty. Your eyes flickered to Bucky’s jacket, where he’d stashed your phone, and he caught it immediately.

Without warning, he veered off-course, steering you into a dimly lit alleyway between two old brownstones.

“Bucky, what are we—”

He didn’t let you finish.

His hands framed your face, palms cradling your jaw, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. His lips crashed onto yours, cutting off whatever half-hearted argument you might have had.

The kiss was slow at first. Like he needed you to feel this—his frustration, his longing, the way he missed you even when you were right beside him.

You gripped at his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric before slipping beneath, your palms meeting the hard muscle of his abdomen. He groaned into your mouth as one of his hands slid down, skimming over your waist, gripping your hip like he was staking a claim.

Your back hit the brick wall, and his mouth traveled along your jaw to down the column of your throat, each kiss intended as a brand, a distraction, a reminder of everything you’d been neglecting in the name of work.

“Bucky,” you whispered, nails dragging along the bare skin of his back. His name had never sounded quite that desperate before—half moan, half plea—and he felt it.

“Do you ever stop?” he murmured. You barely had time to process before he kissed you again.

He let out a quiet groan against your lips, the sound reverberating through your chest and settling low in your stomach.

His grip tightened on the curve of your bum as his teeth grazed your lower lip. You gasped, heat pooled in your core, your mind turning hazy and drunk off his taste.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, a little cocky, a little breathless. “I just couldn’t help myself,” he murmured. “You looked like you needed a distraction.” His hands hadn’t left you, his thumbs still tracing maddening circles against your skin.

“Hmm,” you sighed, eyes half-lidded with want. And you knew exactly what you wanted when you went back to your office. “You succeeded.”

He hummed in satisfaction, but suddenly, body tensed, just for a second. He tried looking to the far end of the alley and found nothing. Did he hear something? Footsteps, maybe?

“Bucky?”

It was probably nothing. Probably no one.

And yet, his arm curled around you just a little tighter.

The next day, your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Calls, messages, and alerts were stacking up faster than you could dismiss them.

You didn’t realise why until you saw the news.

Shit.

“Heiress and Assassin: Secret Romance or Conflict of Interest?”

Your breath hitched as you stared at the screen. The accompanying photo was unmistakable— Bucky kissing you in the alley, your fingers twisted in his jacket like he was the only thing that mattered to you.

The image was grainy, but it didn't matter. The damage was done.

Your assistant rushed in with a tablet in hand, her face pale.

“You need to see this.”

“I’ve already seen it,” you said, not looking up.

The story had gone live less than an hour ago, but your company’s media monitoring team flagged its progress within minutes.

Your desk phone rang, and you had a couple guesses on who it could be. Bucky. The PR team. The board. Government contacts who normally kept their distance unless something was on fire. Your father. Your inbox soon filled up with official statements demanding explanations, thinly veiled threats wrapped in professional language.

“The diplomatic channels are blowing up,” your lead strategist announced when you stepped into the emergency briefing. A dozen pairs of eyes locked onto you as if you alone held a gallon of water that could put out this fire.

“They’re questioning your judgment,” he continued, tapping at the stack of reports in front of him. “The optics of being involved with someone like Barnes, his past, his ties to the original Avengers, are problematic, to say the least.”

“They’re worried I’m compromising national security,” you said flatly, “Because of a kiss?”

“Because of what it represents,” he corrected. “You’re the acting CEO of the most powerful cybersecurity firm in the world. Governments trust us to protect their most sensitive data. And now they’re wondering if you’re using that position to—”

“To sell them out to the public-facing heroes?” you snapped, though you knew this scrutiny would come sooner or later. “That’s absurd. You all know me better than that.”

“It’s not about what’s true,” your PR director cut in, her sentences coming in clipped. “It’s about what looks true.”

By the time you got to Bucky’s home that night, your head was pounding, your nerves frayed from the day’s endless barrage of scrutiny. You had looked over your shoulder more times than you could count, half-expecting to see a reporter lurking in the shadows or a government agent ready to pull you in for questioning. The paranoia was sinking its teeth into you.

The second you stepped inside, you kicked off your heels and slumped onto the couch, pressing your fingers to your temples in a desperate attempt to ease the tension pooling there.

Bucky was already by your side, jaw tight as he scrolled through the headlines on his phone. The dim glow from the screen cast harsh shadows across his face, making him look every bit as dangerous as they made him out to be.

“‘Heiress Caught in Lip-Lock with Winter Soldier,’” he read aloud, his tone dripping with disdain. “Really? That’s the best they could come up with? Do these people have nothing better to write about?”

You let out a dry laugh. “It’s not just the tabloids, Buck. This is more than gossip columns and viral photos.” You sighed, dropping your head back against the armrest of the couch. “Governments are questioning whether their data is safe with me. My credibility?” You raised your hands, mimicking an explosion, “Hanging by a thread.”

Bucky set his phone down, rubbing a hand over his face before shifting to sit even closer to you. “This isn’t your fault,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with… guilt.

“Maybe not,” you admitted, staring at a crack in the ceiling. “But it doesn’t matter. Perception is reality. And right now, the whole world thinks I’m compromised.”

Bucky cursed under his breath. His hand found yours, his vibranium fingers cool yet grounding against your skin. He held on a little too tight, like he wished he could shield you from all of this. Like he blamed himself.

“What can I do?” he asked, low and urgent.

You shook your head, a bitter laugh slipping past your lips. “Nothing. I just have to fix this.”

His grip tightened for a fraction of a second before he let out a slow breath, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “You shouldn’t have to fix anything,” he muttered. “They don’t get to question your loyalty because of me.”

“I know,” you said softly, turning to him, squeezing his hand. “But they do anyway.”

When he looked away, you could see it— the self-recrimination, the way he was blaming himself for this. He was the one who convinced you to go for a walk, the one who pulled you into the alleyway because he just couldn’t fucking help himself.

“This isn’t on you, Bucky,” you said gently, tilting his chin toward you. “We both knew what we were getting into.”

“Did we?” he asked. “Because I thought you wouldn’t have to pay for my past.”

God, did your heart break at the fact that perhaps the world could never truly move on, no matter how much he tried to outrun them, no matter how much he came to terms that it was not really him on the steering wheel all those years ago.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, your fingers trailing his chin. “I don’t care what anyone thinks,” you whispered. “I just need to figure out how to make the rest of the world see what I see.”

He kissed you then, hands firm as they traced over your skin. You melted into him, hands sliding under his shirt and feeling the ridges of his scars and the heat of him beneath your fingertips.

Then, your phone rang.

With a groan, you reached for it, already knowing who it was before you saw the name flashing on the screen.

Dad.

Bucky let out a quiet sigh, his forehead pressed against your shoulder for a brief second before he pulled back. You swallowed hard, bracing yourself before answering.

“Hi, Dad—”

“What the hell is going on?”

You flinched, pulling the phone slightly away from your ear.

“Dad, I—”

“I wake up this morning to my inbox exploding with concerned emails from investors and heads of state,” he barked, “And not one of them was about our new initiatives! All I see headlines about you making out with that… that vigilante in a back alley? Are you serious?”

You pressed your fingers against your temple. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh, it never is, is it?” His words dripped with disbelief. “Why didn’t I know about this? About him? What, you’ve been sneaking around behind my back? How long has this been going on?”

Bucky’s hand found yours, squeezing before letting go. He could hear your father’s raised voice even from where he sat.

“It’s not sneaking around,” you muttered, your patience fraying. “You’re just… blowing this out of proportion.”

“Oh really?” he repeated, incredulous. “I hired that man to protect you last year! And now you’re telling me you’re dating him? Do you have any idea how bad that looks?”

“Dad, please,” you groaned, frustration bubbling over. “This isn’t even about the company—”

He cut you off, his voice sharp. “If people think you’re compromised—if they think you can’t keep your personal life separate from your professional responsibilities—”

“I know, Dad!” you snapped, your voice finally matching his. “I know how bad it looks! I’ve been dealing with it all day while you sit in your fancy cabin three countries away and shout at me over the phone!”

Bucky’s fingers tightened again.

You could hear your father exhaling through the line. “Fine,” he breathed, “lf you think you’ve got it all handled, then handle it! But I swear to God, if this relationship jeopardises our clients, our reputation, or your future—”

“It won’t!” you fired back. “And for the record, Bucky isn’t some random fling. He’s serious about me. He—”

You hesitated, only for a second, and swallowed hard.

“He cares about me,” you finished, quieter this time. “And I care about him.”

For a while, there was only silence. When your father finally spoke again, his voice had lost some of its bite. It sounded like… Consideration.

“Is he actually serious about you?” he asked.

Bucky could hear him clearly even when he was not shouting— courtesy of his super soldier hearing. He nodded.

“He is,” you answered without hesitation. “I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

Then, softer, your father asked, “Then why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

You rested your elbows on your knees. “Because I knew you’d make it about the company and the board and my future when all I wanted was to keep it private. Just… for us.”

Your father sighed, and you could picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose— just like you always did.

“Look,” he said. “I’m not coming to the city to deal with it. That’s on you. But… for what it’s worth, I don’t want to see you hurt. And I don’t want to see this company—your company—take the blow, either.”

“I know,” you said softly. “And I’ll handle it. I promise.”

“Good,” he said. “Because if I hear one more thing about this in the news, I’m the one who’ll come down there to straighten it out. And I’ll start with your boyfriend.”

Bucky let out a quiet snort, shaking his head.

You couldn’t help rolling your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Deal with it now. I got it.”

“Good.” A beat of silence. Then, softer, “I love you, kid.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The line clicked off, leaving you in silence.

You stared at your phone for a moment, rubbing your temples. The shouting match had left you drained, but at least it was over. For now.

Bucky shifted beside you, his fingers still tangled with yours. His voice was quiet when he spoke.

“You okay?”

You turned your head to look at him, at the careful way he was studying your face. He looked guilty, like this was his fault, like he wished he could take the weight off your shoulders.

You exhaled, tilting your head until it rested against his shoulder. “I will be.”

Little didn’t you know, he didn’t really believe you would be.

Not as long as he was around.

The morning after the scandal broke, the world felt different. It felt smaller, suffocating, as if the walls of your life had started closing in overnight.

News anchors dissected your love life like it was some kind of public crisis.

"Heiress in a Scandalous Affair with Ex-Assassin”

"Dangerous Liaison: How a CEO’s Secret Relationship Could Threaten Her Empire"

"Should a Man with a Bloodstained Past Be This Close to Power?"

Your phone hadn’t stopped ringing. Your father’s people had practically barricaded the office, because outside, reporters swarmed like vultures.

And Bucky was quiet. Too quiet.

You caught him sitting at the edge of the bed, watching the morning news with that expression you hated—it was almost as if he already knew how this story ended. Like he’d already made up his mind that this was going to break you apart.

"They act like I’m putting a damn gun to your head," he muttered, tone rough. The news anchor was mid-sentence, debating whether your involvement with Bucky posed a national security threat. As if your relationship was an act of terrorism.

You sat beside him, barely resisting the urge to throw the remote at the screen. "They're sensationalising it. It’ll die down."

Bucky scoffed. "No, it won’t." He rubbed a hand down his face, then gestured at the TV. "They love a good villain. And princess, I was tailor-made for the role."

Year One. Month Three.

You had taken a week of leave at this point, just so you could mentally recover.

By the time you arrived at your office after your week off, the damage control team was in full force. Half a dozen advisors, PR strategists, and corporate lawyers were waiting, some with their arms crossed, others furiously taking notes.

"We need to get ahead of this immediately," your PR officer said, clicking to the first slide of a PowerPoint labeled Mitigation Strategy like your personal life was a boardroom crisis. "We’ve already drafted potential responses, but the best option is for you to publicly distance yourself from Barnes."

You stiffened. "What? He’s my boyfriend. How would I do that?"

"An official statement clarifying that your relationship is purely professional—"

"That’s a lie."

"A necessary lie," she corrected, with the forced patience of a woman stuck in a room with a ticking time bomb. “Say… it was a misunderstanding, shift the narrative. You got too close, it was a lapse of judgement—"

"Are you serious?" You looked around the room. "You want me to pretend I was reckless and naive instead of just admitting that I love him?"

"This isn’t just about you,” your CFO sighed. “The board is already nervous. Investors are threatening to pull out. This could cost millions."

It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact. And yet, all you could think about was Bucky—sitting on your bed this morning, already bracing for the moment you’d walked away.

You swallowed hard. "I can’t do that!”

Your PR officer let out a deep breath, clearly recalibrating. "If you won’t deny it, at least don’t fuel the fire. No public outings, no statements, no contact that can be seen or reported on. We let the story fade, alright?”

When you got back that night, Bucky was sitting on the couch, looking at his phone. Not scrolling. Not texting. Just staring at the screen.

"You should… reconsider.”

You froze. "What?"

He didn’t look up. "It’d be easier for you to not be with me.”

Your heart broke. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?" His voice was bitter now. "Face reality? Come on, princess, we both know how this ends. You drop me, your life goes back to normal. Your father stops looking at you like you just burned the empire he built. You get your clean slate."

"That’s not what I want."

Bucky sighed, looking up at you with devastating pain in his blue eyes. "You say that now,” he started, "But I’ve been through this before, and it doesn’t end well. People always realise… I’m not worth all this."

Your throat tightened. "I’m not most people." It came out like a squeak.

"No, sweetheart, of course not,” he said with a sad smile, “but you have too much to lose."

You groaned, standing right in front of him, and daring him to look you in the eye.

"Listen to me, James. I do not give a single fuck what the world thinks. I do not care about shareholders, or press conferences, or what my father expects from me." You swallowed. "I care about you. And if you think I’m going to let you walk away because you’ve decided you’re a burden, then you really don’t know me at all."

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He wanted to believe you. He really did.

You reached for his hand. He let you.

"This doesn’t scare me," you whispered.

Bucky closed his eyes. “Maybe it should.”

That night, something felt off.

The next week, it only got worse.

It started small—little things that weren’t so little when you pieced them together.

Bucky stopped inviting you over to stay as often. When he did, he kept his distance, claiming he was just tired. He started answering texts late, then barely at all. When you reached for his hand in public, he let go a second too soon.

At first, you convinced yourself you were imagining it. But then came the missed calls, the sad sighs, the way he looked at you— like he was preparing to say goodbye.

“You’re avoiding me,” you finally confronted him.

Bucky didn’t look up from where he was sitting on the edge of the couch, unlacing his boots. “I’m just busy.”

“That’s bullshit.” You crossed your arms. “You barely talk to me anymore. You leave before I wake up. You don’t even—” You stopped, breath catching in your throat. “You don’t even…“

You trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

He froze for a second before he yanked his boots off and tossed them aside. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it, Bucky? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’re trying to fuck off.”

You were only met with silence.

You stepped closer. “If this is about the media—”

“That’s exactly what this is about.” His voice was a growl. “Every article, every news cycle, every goddamn headline— your name is dragged through the dirt because of me.”

You clenched your teeth. “I don’t care—”

“Well, I do!” He rose to his feet so quickly you took a step back. His eyes burned as he stared at you, breathing heavily. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to be the reason your life went to shit. I don’t want to be the reason your father loses faith in you, or why the world suddenly thinks you can’t run your own goddamn company.”

“What?” You challenged, “you think leaving will fix that?”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “Maybe it’ll make it easier.”

Your stomach churned with a frustration you haven’t felt in a long, long time. “Easier for who?”

“For you!”

The words hit you like a slap.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but your chest felt too tight, too suffocated, like hellfire was clawing its way up your throat.

“You really think I’d be better off without you?”

His eyes flickered with, his muscles twitching. “Hmm.”

Your heart dropped. “Y-you can’t do this to me.”

His eyes snapped to yours. “I’m doing this for you.”

“T-that’s— but that’s so condescending! Do you hear yourself, James?” You shouted this time, hands curling to fists at your sides.. “You think walking away makes you noble? That’s bullshit! You’re just a coward!”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” You continued, voice shaken “You hate feeling like you’re not in control, and I get that, I do, but instead of dealing with it, you’d rather run.” You swallowed. “You’d rather run from me.”

The muscles in his neck flinched. His human fingers curled into fists.

Then—

Without another word, he grabbed his jacket, turned on his heel, and walked out the door.

He didn’t slam it. Didn’t yell. He just… left.

And that hurt worse than anything else.

The first night, you thought he needed space.

The second night, you got worried.

By the third, you were panicked.

You practically lived at his place, probably stayed over four days a week, and he rarely stayed at yours. So when he disappeared and wasn’t in either apartments, you had no idea where the hell he was.

He wasn’t answering texts. Wasn’t picking up calls. You tried not to assume the worst, but it was hard when the worst was always a possibility.

Was he hurt? Was he drinking in one of those newly opened Asgardian bars? Was he spiraling?

You barely slept. Barely ate. You kept replaying the fight in your head, hearing your own voice, your accusations. Maybe you’d pushed too hard, been too harsh. Maybe this time, he won't come back.

Little did you know, Bucky was staying with Sam. He hadn't planned to, but to be fair, he hadn’t planned on anything. He just walked out, got in the car, and kept driving, and somehow ended up on Sam’s doorstep like a stray cat.

To his credit, Sam didn’t ask questions. He just took one look at Bucky, sighed, and let him in.

And now, here they were— three days later, Bucky was nursing a beer on Sam’s couch, staring at the muted TV, while Sam leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed.

“You finally gonna tell me what happened?” Sam asked, even though he knew what happened. He saw it in the news— he just needed to hear it from Bucky.

Bucky had a hand down his face. “Not much to tell.”

“Right.” Sam snorted. “You ghost your girl and disappear from the public eye for days in the middle of a media scandal. but there’s not much to tell?”

Bucky looked down, staring at the floor. “I needed space.”

Sam hummed. “Uh-huh. And she knows that? Or did you just decide to vanish?”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam wouldn’t budge. He cannot— will not— let his friend self-sabotage a relationship he clearly didn’t want to end.

Bucky muttered, “She’s better off without me.”

Sam actually laughed at that, and the sound was short and dry, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Look, man, I get it. You think you’re doing her a favour.” Sam sighed, shaking his head. “But she chose you. Instead of trusting that choice, you’re what? Hiding out at my place and letting her deal with the media fallout on her own?”

Bucky’s grip tightened around the beer bottle. “I’m not hiding.”

“Then why are you still here?”

Bucky’s throat tightened. He had no answer to that.

“I just… I don’t want to be the reason everything falls apart for her,” Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Sam shook his head. “And what if you’re the reason she holds it together?”

Bucky didn’t respond, and he didn’t know how to. Because it might actually be true

So instead, he just drank his beer, staring at the silent TV.

And then he saw own damn face, plastered across the screen.

And then there you were, giving a statement.

Sam frowned as he watched Bucky grab the remote.

“…and I cannot let the media twist this story,” you said Bucky turned the volume up mid-sentence.

Bucky sat up straighter.

There you were— standing behind a press conference desk, cameras flashing, reporters practically foaming at the mouth for any ounce of information you would give.

You looked exhausted, but nothing could erase that familiar determination in your eyes.

“James Barnes is not a liability,” you continued, voice steady despite the chaos. “He’s not a danger, and he’s not the monster some of you painted him as.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

A reporter cut in. “So you’re confirming your relationship with Mr. Barnes?”

You didn’t even flinch.

“I’m confirming that he’s someone I trust with my life,” you shot back.

Bucky blinked. You weren’t denying it. Weren’t distancing yourself from him.

You were standing in front of the whole damn world… defending him.

A different reporter raised his hand. “Given his history, do you really think associating with someone like Barnes is wise for your public image?”

You looked at the guy like you wanted to strangle him. “His history?” you repeated incredulously. “You mean the history where he was forced to do things against his will? The history he’s spent every damn day trying to atone, even though it wasn’t his fault?”

The room went silent.

You let out a deep breath, gripping the desk. “You all act like redemption is a myth, like some people just don’t get to have it. But Bucky Barnes is not a story. He is not a headline. He is a person. And I won’t let you write him into being a villain because it’s more convenient for you.”

Bucky only stared, heart hammering out of his ribcage.

You were risking everything for him—your reputation, your credibility, everything.

And he’d walked out on you.

Sam let out a low whistle, glancing at Bucky with his eyebrows raised. “Still think she’s better off without you?”

Bucky swallowed hard.

The second the press conference ended, he was out the door. Sam barely had time to say goodbye.

You had stood in front of the whole damn world and defended him. You hadn’t folded under pressure, hadn’t let them tear him down just to save yourself.

And…. he’d walked away.

Bucky wasn’t sure how long it took to get to you. He barely remembered the drive, barely felt the drift when he pushed open your penthouse door with the key you’d given him months ago.

Bucky expected to see you when he stepped into your penthouse— you always regrouped here after a media day.

What he didn’t expect—was to see your father.

He hadn’t met him before, at least not in person. And if you called him in to help you cope, then it must be bad.

The man was standing near the massive windows, looking out over the skyline, a glass of rum in one hand. The picture of composed authority, as you always made him out to be.

The fact that he was even here instead of you meant something— Bucky just wasn’t sure what yet.

Bucky hesitated just inside the doorway, unsure if he should step in. Your father finally turned his head, looking at him.

"She must be serious about you if she gave you the keys to her place."

Bucky shut the door behind him. "Guess so."

Your father just nodded, swirling the liquor in his glass.

Bucky wasn’t sure what to call him. Sir? Felt weird— he was a hundred and ten years old, after all. First names seemed too casual. Last name felt too formal.

"I assume you’re looking for her."

"Yeah." Bucky hesitated. "And… she’s not here.”

"If she were, I imagine you’d already be getting an earful." Your father replied.

Bucky’s eyebrows twitch. He probably would deserve that.

Your father turned away, walking toward the bar. "Drink?”

Bucky hesitated. "No, thanks."

Your father poured himself another two fingers of rum. "Probably for the best."

The room was silent after that, and your father didn’t feel the pressure to fill that space until he put his drink down. “I hired you to protect her, Barnes." The words weren’t spoken in anger, but there was a hint of disappointment behind them. “Not to break her heart.”

Bucky took a deep breath. "I know."

"Do you?" Your father turned to face him. "Because I was at that press conference. I saw what it did to her. She stood up to the world and defended you, and you—" He exhaled sharply. "You weren’t there."

Bucky clenched his fists. "I didn’t ask her to do that."

“That’s not how she works, Barnes. You should know that by now." Your father sighed, crossing his arms across his chest. "She doesn’t respond well to media attention," he said, quieter now. "Never has. She’s been under this scrutiny since she was a kid. She knows how to handle it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect her."

Bucky looked away, guilt crawling under his skin.

Your father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don’t give a damn about the headlines." His voice was firmer now. "I don’t give a damn about what the board or the investors think, or whatever bullshit the media’s spewing." He paused, his eyes locking onto Bucky’s. "I care about her."

Bucky’s throat tightened.

"Look, I’ve known her longer than anyone else,” your father continued. "and I— I know— I can tell that she loves you."

Bucky’s head snapped up.

“She wouldn’t have fought for you the way she did if she didn’t,” he said.

“I…” Bucky swallowed hard. "I love her too."

“Prove it.” He almost snapped.

Bucky took a step back.

"Be careful with her heart, Barnes." Was the last thing he heard from your father.

After that, Bucky went to your office. Empty.

Your favourite restaurant—nothing.

The city was huge, but he knew you well. He knew where you went when the world became too much. When you needed to be alone.

And that was how he found himself outside his own apartment, staring at the door, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free.

He felt sick.

His fingers hovered over the handle for a moment before he forced himself to knock. It was hesitant— perhaps he was afraid of what he might find on the other side.

No answer.

Bucky swallowed hard, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

And there you were.

Sitting on the couch, still wearing the same outfit from the press conference, head in your hands. He could tell you were exhausted— shoulders slumped, breaths uneven.

His heart broke.

You must’ve heard the door click shut because your head snapped up, your eyes wide and glassy.

For a good five agonizing minutes, neither of you spoke. Just stared. Until—

“You left."

When you said it, it barely came out as a whisper, but it still struck like a bullet to his temple.

Bucky swallowed against the lump in his throat, "I know."

"I defended you," you rasped. "I stood there and let the world tear into me because I thought—" You cut yourself off, chest rising and falling unevenly. "I thought we were in this together."

Bucky took a slow step forward, one after another. Then he sank to his knees in front of you, his hands resting on your thighs. "We are."

"You walked away, James." Your voice cracked. With a bitter laugh, you snapped your fingers. "Just like that. Like it was easy.

His hands curled into fists. "It wasn’t."

"Could’ve fooled me."

His teeth clenched. "I thought I was protecting you."

“Well, congratulations,” You let out a hollow laugh. "You protected me so well that I spent the last three days wondering if I meant anything to you at all."

Bucky flinched. "Don’t," he whispered, pleading, "You know that’s not true."

Your eyes locked onto his, desperate and angry. "Then why did you leave?"

"Because I thought I could make it better," he said again, as if saying it enough times would make it true. "By keeping myself out of this mess—"

"It was never a mess, Bucky!" you snapped, your tone rising. "Not to me! Not until you left!"

He shook his head, meeting your eyes with something close to desperation. "I thought—"

"Do you have any idea what it felt like to wake up and realise you were gone?" You cut him off.

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t finished.

"I don’t care if the whole damn world has an opinion about us." you whispered. You took his hand, pressed his palm flat against your chest, right over your heart. "I care that I came home to an empty bed."

Bucky’s throat tightened. "I thought—“

"Stop thinking!” You shouted.

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head as his grip tightened on your hand. "I thought if I made it easier for you, I wouldn’t lose you forever!”

"You lost me the second you walked out that door," you spat out, but even as you said it, you knew you didn’t truly mean it.

Bucky’s breath caught, but instead of backing down, he moved forward, crowding into your space, his hands gripping your waist and holding you in place. "No." He said, almost a growl, his fingers digging into your sides. "No, I didn’t."

Before he could say anything more, your lips crashed against his.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate, brimming with anger and need and the kind of longing would never go away. He kissed you back like he was trying to prove himself, like he needed you to understand that walking away hadn’t meant he stopped wanting you. That it had killed him to.

You gasped into the kiss, and any protest you might have had dissolved the second his hands moved up your back, pulling you flush against him. His warmth, his scent, the way his breath mixed with yours—it set every nerve on fire.

"I can’t lose you," he murmured against your lips, voice trembling. He kissed you again, his hands roaming your body like he was terrified you’d disappear. "I won’t.”

Your hands threaded through his hair, tugging slightly, making him groan against your mouth. "But you left," you whispered, "You left me."

"I’m sorry," he rasped, and he meant it. His lips moving along your jaw, down to your neck, teeth scraping against your pulse. "I hated every fucking second of it."

A shudder ran through you, your nails digging into his shoulders as his hands slid lower, gripping your hips and pulling you into his lap. You straddled him without hesitation, pressing against him, feeling the way his breath stuttered as you moved.

"Then don’t do it again," you whispered, voice breaking, your forehead pressing against his.

Bucky’s hands framed your face again, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were wild, almost desperate. "Never," he swore, his thumb stroking over your cheek. "I swear on my life, never."

And then he kissed you again.

This time, it was slower— he took his time. It felt like regret, it felt like a confession. His hands were everywhere, exploring, pulling you closer like he wanted to mold you to him.

"Fuck," he breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his fingers squeezing your thighs. "You have no idea how much I missed you."

You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. "Show me."

And when his lips found yours again, when his hands started to slide under your clothes, when your bodies pressed together in a way that left no space between you—

You knew this time, he meant it.

The morning after was gentle.

Sunlight poured through the sheer curtains, warming the bed sheets.

Bucky stirred beside you, his arm draped over your waist, holding you close like he was afraid you’d slip away.

When his lips brushed lazily against your shoulder, you hummed, shifting in his arms to meet his eyes. His hair was a mess, his eyes still half-lidded.

God, it’s only been a few days. You’ve missed him.

“Morning,” he murmured hoarsely.

You smiled. “Morning.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just staring, just breathing. Then, as if reality was starting to creep back in, you sighed, tracing a fingertip along his stubble.

“We should eat,” you suggested.

Bucky groaned, tightening his grip on you. “We could stay in bed.”

You let out a quiet chuckle and pressed a quick kiss to his lips before slipping from his hold. “Let’s go get breakfast, sweetie.”

Reluctantly, Bucky let you go, watching as you stretched, grabbing the first thing you could find to throw on—one of his shirts.

He rolled out of bed and pressed a kiss to your temple, “We’d be in public, you know.”

You sighed. “I know.”

Breakfast wasn’t some Michelin-star brunch spot. It was a small café, tucked away from the busier streets, where the scent of fresh bread and coffee lingered in the air a little longer. The kind of place where no one would look twice at you if you sat there for hours, just talking, just being.

And that’s exactly what you did.

Bucky’s hand never left yours, his fingers tracing circles on your palm, his thumb absentmindedly grazing your knuckles. Every so often, he’d lean over, steal a kiss between sips of coffee.

He was here now. With you. In public. That was all that mattered.

But it wasn’t long before the cameras showed up.

They weren’t subtle. A handful of photographers across the street, lurking.

The press had been relentless, but after your statement on Bucky yesterday, the world… was quieter.

Ever since you’d stood in front of the cameras the backlash had softened. World leaders, once eager to weigh in, had gone silent. Maybe, for the first time, they respected you. Maybe they respected Bucky, too.

But that didn’t mean the vultures were gone.

Your clients might have been reassured, but the media will always try to sensationalise the story.

Bucky had been trying to ignore them.

But when another camera flash went off, too close, too invasive, he snapped.

With a sharp exhale, he pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the pavement. You barely had time to grab his wrist before he was turned marching toward the swarm of photographers lingering just across the street.

“Bucky,” you warned, but it was useless.

The reporters tensed when they saw him approach, cameras at the ready, expecting a fight— maybe even hoping for one.

And Bucky didn’t disappoint.

“Get a fucking life,” he snapped, voice rough with frustration. He gestured wildly to the table behind him, where your half-eaten breakfast sat. “We’re trying to eat like normal fucking people.”

A few photographers shuffled awkwardly, lowering their cameras, but others stood their ground.

“Mr. Barnes, the public just wants to—”

“The public can mind their damn business.” His glare could have turned them to stone. “Unless you want some asshole shoving a camera in your face every time you try to grab a coffee, I suggest you back off.”

Oh? Oh.

You heard a few more murmurs. More feet shifting.

Then one of them had the nerve to say, “You can’t really be surprised, can you? You’re the winter soldier, and she’s—“

Bucky scoffed, cutting him off. “Fuck this.” He threw his hands in the air, turning back toward you. “They act like we just committed a goddamn crime when all we did was order fucking pancakes.”

You fought the urge to chuckle—because, God, when was he ever this pissed? His jaw was tight, shoulders squared, the restrained fury radiating off him in waves. But beneath all that anger, there was something protective in the way he positioned himself between you and the world, as if it was his job, perhaps because once… it had been.

And he was given a second chance. He would make it up to you, no matter what.

You sighed, stepping closer and slipping your hand into his. His fingers curled around yours without hesitation, like he’d been waiting for you to reach for him.

“Let’s go,” you said, giving his hand a squeeze.

He didn’t argue. He just nodded once, casting his final glare at the cameras before turning on his heel and pulling you along with him.

But as the two of you walked, you felt it—the way the usual chaos had dulled. The shutters weren’t clicking. The voices weren’t calling his name, your name, they weren’t desperate for a reaction. It was… quiet.

You glanced back over your shoulder at the stunned crowd of photographers, their hands hesitating over their cameras, unwilling to lift them.

An almost-wicked smile formed on your lips.

“You know,” you murmured just loud enough for Bucky to hear, “we could give them a show.”

And Bucky Barnes never did anything half-heartedly.

So the second he heard the words leave your lips, he stopped right there, in the middle of the street and kissed you.

And it wasn’t a short peck, wasn’t a brief gesture.

It was slow, it was deliberate. It was the kind that sent heat curling in your stomach and stole the breath from your lungs. It left no room for misinterpretation.

He wasn’t just kissing you. He was claiming this moment. It made you feel untouchable, unreachable.

And yet—not a single flash.

Not one camera dared to snap the million-dollar shot they’d been desperate for just minutes ago.

Let them look.

Let them talk.

But they would never own this.

When he finally pulled back, lips still ghosting over yours, his words were meant for you and you alone.

“Think that’s enough for ‘em, princess?”

-end.

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