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By movie three, you were full of sugar and exactly one soaring instrumental montage away from falling asleep.
You didn’t cry at films. That was a known fact. Bucky had learned it early on - explosions were your thing. Tragic backstories, noble sacrifices, the boy/girl next door… none of them moved you beyond a nod of acknowledgement.
Die Hard was your Christmas movie of choice.
So when he picked the next one, you didn’t pay much attention. You let him have at it and went for more snacks.
Then the opening credits rolled.
The movie was somewhat funny, as usual leaning on its leading women being too much or not enough of something.
But just under an hour in, you shifted in your seat and watched a little more intently.
“This timeline is wildly inaccurate,” you muttered, trying to feign disinterest without actually tearing your eyes from the screen.
“They must have a lot of air miles for all this travelling…”
Two hours in, you were sitting bolt upright.
By the time the end credits rolled, Bucky was watching you instead of the screen.
You were staring forward with your jaw tight and your eyes suspiciously glassy.
You told yourself you were just tired.
Bucky had glanced over when you went very still, but hadn't ventured a word.
A second later, you sniffed.
He froze.
Slowly, like he was afraid to spook you, he reached for the remote and stopped the movie.
“…Are you crying?”
“No.”
A tear slid down your cheek.
“That one? That's the one that gets you?” he asked, incredulous. “I never would’ve guessed.”
“It’s not my favourite,” you said immediately, swiping at your face. “I don’t even like this movie.”
“You’re actively crying at Kate Winslet in a cottage. It had a happy ending?”
“She deserved better,” you snapped, voice wobbling. “And the house was beautiful, and the music ambushed me.”
He smiled fondly, a little stunned by your reaction.
“Sweetheart, you watch Die Hard every year,” he said gently. “And you're gonna let a romcom take you out?”
You leaned into his side with a huff, hiding your face against his shoulder. “Don’t tell anyone.”
His arm came around you without hesitation, pulling you close.
“Your secret’s safe,” he murmured. “But I’m picking this one again next year.”
You groaned. “You’re evil.”
He pressed a kiss to your temple, still smiling.
“Yeah,” he said. “But now I know you're a total softy for The Holiday.”