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The Avengers Compound didn’t do “small.”
Not when Tony had discovered the joy of online bulk ordering, not when Thor had decided Midgardian Christmas needed “more pageantry,” and definitely not when you, sunshine in a room full of storm clouds, had offered, offhandedly, that you could “probably make it cute.”
Now the common area looked like a holiday card exploded in the best possible way.
Garlands draped the railings in thick, piney swoops. A towering tree, too tall to be reasonable, too perfect to be real, glittered with gold stars and red bows, ornaments catching the warm lights like captured sparks. Candy canes dangled everywhere, as if someone had decided the entire compound needed a peppermint theme and no one had been brave enough to argue.
There were gingerbread men lined up like tiny soldiers on a platter, some with frosting smiles, some with dramatic little X eyes because Peter had “gotten creative.” There were bows tied around chair backs. A set of bells hung near the doorway, and every time someone passed through, they chimed like a happy little tattletale.
You wandered through it all with a mug of hot chocolate in your hands and a grin on your face that made even Sam mutter, “Yeah, okay, fine, it is kinda magical.”
You weren’t even trying to be the center of attention.
You just… were.
Especially tonight.
Your dress had started as a joke, something you’d ordered after a late night scroll, half laughing to yourself, imagining the other Avengers’ faces. A deep green skirt that flared in soft, dramatic folds, trimmed with red accents and tiny white pom-poms like ornaments. The bodice hugged just enough to be flattering without being fussy, and the way it moved made you look like you just stepped straight out of a whimsical holiday story.
Your hair was down, glossy and loose, and you’d clipped a small star-shaped barrette near your temple because Wanda had handed it to you with an innocent little, “Trust me.”
You walked into the party and, predictably, Tony had nearly dropped his drink.
“Oh my God,” he’d announced, loud enough for the entire room. “We have a Christmas tree. Like… an actual one. A sentient one. Somebody get me a camera—no, no, get me five cameras—”
You laughed and stuck your tongue out at him, and the room had warmed around you like it always did, like your presence turned every corner a little softer.
Bucky had been leaning against the counter when you came in.
He hadn’t meant to stare.
He also hadn’t meant to suddenly forget how his lungs worked.
He was in a white button-down shirt that he’d rolled to his elbows, because of course he had, because the universe had decided women everywhere needed to suffer, and suspenders hanging over his shoulders like he belonged in a very specific kind of old timey photo. His hair was falling in dark waves that brushed his jaw, and someone (Natasha probably, since she lived for chaos) had convinced him to unbutton the top few buttons of his shirt.
He looked like he’d been dragged into a holiday party against his will, half-scowling, half-resigned, and then somewhere between the garland and the twinkle lights, had accidentally turned into a full blown thirst trap.
You clocked him the second you walked in and had to physically remind your brain to keep your feet moving.
Slowly, you did a long, appreciating blink and the corner of your mouth tugged up like you’d just spotted a wrapped present with your name on it.
“Wow,” you said, voice pure honey and trouble. “Okay. Didn’t realize we were doing… that.”
He frowned like you’d personally offended him, already bracing for impact. “What?” he grumbled, defensive on instinct, like he didn’t trust the room to be kind to him.
You didn’t answer right away.
You lifted your mug, took a slow, unhurried sip of hot chocolate, eyes staying on his and letting the pause stretch just long enough to make him shift his weight, just long enough to make him wonder what you were about to say.
Then, with absolutely no shame and plenty of time, your gaze dipped.
Not subtle or quick, but a measured, pointed sweep down the open line of his shirt, his collarbone, his chest and the dark patch of hair there, then down to where the suspenders crossed his torso like they’d been designed specifically to ruin women, and then back up again to his face like you owned the moment.
Bucky’s ears went pink so fast it was almost impressive. The flush climbed from the tips downward like a tell, like his body had betrayed him before his mouth could.
His jaw flexed. His eyes narrowed. “What are you—” he started, then stopped, like the words got caught on the fact that you were still looking at him like that.
You set your mug back down, smile widening. “The suspenders,” you clarified, voice calm as if you hadn’t just lit a match in a room full of gasoline. “They’re… festive.”
He stared at you for a beat, frozen between indignation and the very obvious reality that he didn’t know what to do with you.
“…They’re just suspenders,” he muttered, like if he said it flat enough it would stop being true that you’d just made his pulse visibly jump in his throat.
You hummed, tilting your head, eyes still shining. “Mm. Right. Just suspenders.”
His gaze flicked down, quick and involuntary, like he was suddenly aware of his own chest and didn’t know where to put his hands. He shifted again, shoulders squaring like armor. Like he could muscle his way out of embarrassment.
But the pink in his ears only deepened.
You leaned in just a fraction, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “Who talked you into those?”
Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked like he wanted to lie and couldn’t think fast enough.
“…Nat,” he admitted reluctantly, and the way he said it sounded like a personal betrayal.
You laughed, soft and delighted. “Of course it was Natasha.”
Bucky grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “She’s gonna pay for this.”
You took another sip of your cocoa, eyes never leaving his. “No,” you said lightly, “I think I am.”
Sam made a choking sound into his drink while Wanda laughed like she’d been waiting for this exact moment all evening.
And Bucky looked at you like you were a lit match near gasoline.
And you, who could walk into any room and make it kinder, brighter, louder, just beamed at him like you hadn’t noticed the way he was suddenly standing too still, like he was afraid any movement might give him away.
The party swirled around them for a while after that.
Music played from speakers Tony insisted were “state of the art,” despite the fact that Peter kept trying to hijack the playlist with movie soundtracks. People mingled, ate, laughed. Steve got roped into hanging a star on the tree and pretended it didn’t make him emotional. Thor tried eggnog and declared it “suspicious but bold.”
And all the while, Bucky kept finding you.
Or maybe you kept finding him.
You floated through the room, bright as tinsel, and somehow you always ended up close enough that Bucky could smell your shampoo, warm and clean, under the sugary scent of cookies. Close enough that your skirt brushed his knee when you leaned past him to reach for something. Close enough that every time you laughed, it felt like it landed directly in his chest.
He tried to act normal about it.
He was not succeeding.
At some point you drifted toward the snack table like it had gravitational pull.
It wasn’t even hunger, not really. It was the display.
A whole winter battlefield of sugar and frosting: trays of cookies stacked like ammunition, peppermint bark arranged in neat little rows, candy canes spilling out of a glass jar like they’d been dumped there in a hurry. And in the center of it all, like the main attraction, a plate of gingerbread men lined up shoulder-to-shoulder. Some smiling, some frowning, all of them iced with dramatic little personalities.
You hovered at the edge of the table, mug warm in your hands, scanning them like you were about to make a very important decision.
Like you were choosing your next victim.
And then, because of course, Bucky was there too.
Not announcing himself. Not trying to be obvious. Just… suddenly occupying the space beside you like his feet had decided all on their own that they belonged wherever you were standing from now on.
You felt him before you looked at him: the heat of him, the quiet presence, the way the air seemed to settle when he was close. His shoulder angled subtly toward you, like he was shielding you from the chaos of the room without even thinking about it.
You glanced up at him from under your lashes and caught him already watching you, like he’d been doing that all night, like he couldn’t help it.
His face was carefully neutral, but his ears were still faintly pink from earlier and you loved that. Loved the way he tried to act unimpressed by you when his body had clearly already decided you were a problem.
You turned back to the plate, pretending to deliberate, then reached out and picked up a gingerbread man by the head with two fingers like you were holding something mildly suspicious.
You tilted it, considered the frosting, then turned it again, slow and thoughtful, as if you were analyzing a crime scene.
Then you looked at Bucky with a long, wicked smile that felt like a dare.
“This one’s you,” you announced.
Bucky’s brows knit immediately, suspicion sharpening his face on instinct. “How’s that?”
You lifted the cookie higher, angling it toward him like evidence in court.
“Look,” you said, voice lowering as if you were sharing state secrets.
You pointed with your pinky to the frosting details: thick little eyebrows iced on like a permanent scowl. A stern mouth, straight line, no nonsense. And then, on the right side, a tiny frosting “arm” that someone had carefully decorated silver, complete with little lines like joints.
You blinked.
Then you leaned closer, eyes widening with sheer delighted disbelief.
“Oh my God,” you whispered, like you couldn’t not be obsessed with this. “They gave him a metal arm. That’s so… disrespectful.”
Your grin broke wider, thrilled. “I love it.”
Bucky made a sound that could’ve been a groan or a prayer and rubbed the bridge of his nose like he was already exhausted. “Don’t.”
You ignored him on purpose, because it was fun, because you were feeling brave, because his grumpy refusal was exactly the kind of thing that made you want to poke him.
You held the gingerbread man up in front of his face and made it “wave” with the frosted silver arm.
“Hi, James,” you said in the tiniest, most polite voice you could muster, like you were playing with a puppet for a toddler.
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t do that.”
You leaned in conspiratorially, head tilted toward the cookie like it was whispering something scandalous into your ear.
“Oh?” you gasped, dramatic. “You’re emotionally unavailable and you’ve had seventy-three years of trauma? That’s crazy! Me too!”
From across the counter, Sam absolutely lost it.
It wasn’t just a laugh. it was full-body, doubled-over, wheezing laughter, like you’d hit him in the exact spot that made him short circuit. He slapped the counter once, stumbling back like he needed support.
“Oh my God—” he choked out. “OH MY—”
“Wilson,” Bucky warned, eyes flashing toward him with the kind of look that usually made grown men straighten up.
Sam didn’t even try. He just pointed at you with tears in his eyes, still dying. “She—she said—seventy-three years—”
You held the cookie up again, like it deserved applause.
Bucky’s mouth twitched despite himself. Just the smallest, reluctant pull at the corner, an almost-smile, a betrayal of warmth he clearly hadn’t meant to show.
You caught it instantly.
Of course you did.
Your own voice softened without you meaning it to, like the teasing had flicked into something gentler the second you saw him crack.
“There he is,” you murmured, pleased and quiet, like it was a private victory. “There’s your smile.”
Bucky went still.
Not dramatic, just… a pause, like your words landed somewhere deeper than they were supposed to. Like they found a place in him he didn’t let people touch.
His throat bobbed and his gaze flicked away for half a second like he suddenly needed something else to focus on.
You were so good at noticing things. At seeing the smallest shifts, the tiny moments when he forgot to be guarded. At naming them out loud like it was safe to exist that way.
He didn’t know what to do with that.
So he did the only thing he could do.
He reached out and stole the gingerbread man right out of your fingers and took a bite straight through its frosting face like he was executing it.
You made a sound of pure outrage.
It wasn’t even a gasp. It was a noise. A scandalized, offended little sound that turned heads.
“You—” you sputtered, half laughing, half horrified. “You ate him! Right in front of me!”
Bucky chewed slowly, staring right at you while he did it, like he was making a point. “He was talkin’ too much.”
Your laugh burst out of you so bright it felt like it lit up your chest from the inside. The kind of laugh you couldn’t hide even if you tried, the kind that made your shoulders shake and your eyes water a little.
And you saw it in him, too.
The way something in Bucky’s face softened. The way his posture loosened a fraction. The way his eyes warmed, just for a moment, like your laughter did something good to him.
It made something in his chest ache sweetly, an ache he didn’t have language for, only that he wanted it again.
You grabbed another gingerbread man immediately, clutching it possessively like you were protecting a small child. You held it up like a warning.
“Touch this one,” you threatened, voice gleeful, “and I’ll end you.”
Bucky’s gaze involuntarily dipped again, down the line of your dress where the green fabric flared, where the red accents made you look like something festive and dangerous.
Then his eyes came back up to yours, darker now, rougher around the edges.
“I think you’ve been threatenin’ to end me for weeks,” he said, and his voice came out lower than before. Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just… honest enough to make your stomach flip.
Your smile stuttered, just for half a second, long enough for him to see that the words landed.
Then you recovered like you always did, tilting your head, pretending to consider it like a joke.
“Have I?” you asked softly, eyes bright with trouble.
You let the pause stretch a beat, then two, until the air between you felt thicker, charged.
Then you added, quieter, almost gentle: “Maybe you like it.”
Bucky’s whole body went too warm, too fast.
It was visible in him: the way his shoulders tightened like he needed to lock down his reaction, the way his jaw flexed, the way his eyes flicked away like he suddenly needed air, needed distance, needed anything other than the way you were looking at him.
It should’ve been a game.
It was starting to feel like something else.
Later, when the party got louder and the lights got softer and the room smelled like cinnamon and warmth, you disappeared toward the hallway, slipping away with the easy excuse of “I’m gonna go grab something.”
Bucky didn’t mean to follow.
He also didn’t mean to spend the next thirty seconds staring at the doorway like a man possessed.
He told himself he was just checking. Making sure you were fine. The compound was safe, obviously, but old habits didn’t care about logic. His body moved before his brain gave permission.
So he went.
The hallway was quieter, the sounds of the party muffled behind him like a blanket. The lights were dimmer here, the glow of the tree still reaching out in warm patches across the floor.
He found you near the side room where someone had set up a little “photo corner”, a spot Tony had clearly designed for maximum chaos. There was a Polaroid camera on a table, a string of little paper stars taped to the wall, and a ridiculous pile of props: Santa hats, reindeer antlers, feather boas, even a plastic mistletoe wand.
You stood with your back partially to him, angled toward the table, hands busy near your neckline as if you were trying to manage something delicate.
Bucky’s steps slowed.
For half a second, he just watched you.
Not in a creepy way, just… in that quiet, instinctive way that happened when you were in his orbit. The line of your shoulders in the soft light. The way your fingers moved with small, frustrated patience. The way you looked more real here, away from the noise.
His chest tightened.
He didn’t know what it was about you that did that to him, that made him feel too aware of his hands, his breath, the space between them.
He cleared his throat like it might reset his brain.
You glanced back over your shoulder and saw him.
Your eyes lit up instantly, warmth and surprise blooming across your face like sunrise.
“Oh,” you said, bright and easy. “Hey.”
Bucky’s voice came out rougher than he intended, like he hadn’t used it properly in a while. “Hey.”
You turned a little more, and he saw what you were fussing with: a thin chain pinched between your fingers, delicate gold catching the light when you moved. The clasp hung stubbornly out of reach, taunting you.
“My clasp’s being a jerk,” you said, half laughing at yourself. “I wanted to put this on for pictures, but it’s like… actively fighting me.”
Bucky took a step closer without thinking, the distance between you closed like a door softly shutting.
“Lemme,” he said, simple as breathing.
Your brows lifted slightly, just a flicker of surprise, not suspicion. Then you turned fully, presenting your back to him with an ease that made something in his chest pull tight.
You swept your hair over one shoulder to expose your neck, the skin there warm in the dim light, and stood still.
Bucky’s hands hovered for a second.
Not because he didn’t want to touch you.
Because he did… and wanting it made him careful.
He was always careful with you, like you were something precious and breakable, even though you were anything but. You were sharp and confident and fearless, the kind of woman who could walk into a room full of Avengers and make them feel like they were the ones being evaluated.
But still… he handled you like glass.
Like he didn’t want to be the reason you ever flinched.
His metal hand was steadier than his flesh one, it always was. So he brought it up first, fingers gentle as he took the chain from you. The gold felt cool against his fingertips, light as a breath.
He used his other hand too, warm fingers bracing the clasp, trying to guide it where it needed to go. His brow furrowed in concentration, tongue pressing briefly to the inside of his cheek like he did when he was focused.
You didn’t move.
Not even when his knuckles brushed the back of your neck. Not even when the tips of his fingers accidentally grazed your skin and his pulse jumped like he’d been shocked.
He tried again, carefully aligning the clasp.
The tiny metal loop slipped.
He inhaled slowly through his nose, steadying himself.
You shifted a fraction, just enough to help, not enough to break the moment.
And even that small movement made his hand pause, as if he was recalibrating.
“You okay?” you asked softly, voice gentle, like you could feel the tension rolling off him in waves.
Bucky swallowed, his throat feeling too tight. “Yeah.”
Your head tilted slightly, hair still gathered over your shoulder. “You don’t sound okay.”
He huffed out a quiet, frustrated breath, the kind that wasn’t anger so much as… an attempt to keep himself controlled. “I’m fine, Sunshine.”
The nickname landed between you like something warm.
You smiled, not even trying to hide it, and that did something to him. Something small and stupid and sweet that made his fingers slip for half a second on the clasp.
Because of course they did.
You laughed softly, not unkind. Not teasing in a sharp way. Just… amused and tender, like you weren’t laughing at him, you were laughing because you could see him.
“You’re shaking,” you murmured.
“I am not,” he said immediately, defensive on reflex.
But his voice didn’t have any real bite in it, just stubbornness.
You didn’t let it go, because you never did when it mattered. Gentle but relentless, the way you always were when you wanted the truth.
“You are,” you said softly. “Why?”
Bucky got the clasp closed finally, exhaling like he’d just disarmed a bomb. The chain settled against your skin, a fine line of gold curving at the base of your throat. It glinted once in the dim hallway light before slipping beneath the edge of your dress, disappearing like a secret you’d tucked away.
He should’ve stepped back.
That was the normal thing. The polite thing. The “act like a person” thing.
Instead, he stayed close enough that he could feel the warmth of you through the thin fabric, close enough that the whole world narrowed to the space between the two of you.
For a second, neither of you moved.
The party noise behind him was distant now, muffled to a low, steady thrum. The hallway was quiet except for the faint buzz of Christmas lights and the soft shift of your skirt when you adjusted your shoulders.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to the back of your neck where the chain met the clasp, then lingered, like he couldn’t stop himself from taking in the bare curve of your skin, the faint pulse there, the way your hair spilled over one shoulder.
His fingers were still hovering, barely an inch from you, as if his hands hadn’t gotten the memo that the job was finished.
You stayed still too, patient in a way that wasn’t passive.
Waiting.
Bucky swallowed. His throat felt too tight for how quiet the hallway was.
“It’s your dress,” he admitted finally, voice low and rough around the edges, as if the truth scraped a little on the way out. “And… the way you’ve been lookin’ at me all night.”
You didn’t turn fully at first.
Just tilted your head slowly so he could catch the curve of your cheek, the slight lift of your brow. The glint in your eyes wasn’t surprise, it was amusement.
“How have I been looking at you?” you asked, voice sweet as cocoa and twice as dangerous, as if you didn’t already have the answer memorized.
Bucky’s jaw flexed. He stared at the spot where your shoulder met your neck like it might keep him safe from the way your voice did things to him.
“Like you’re tryin’ to get me in trouble,” he said, the words barely a murmur.
Your smile widened, bright and wicked and soft all at once, like you loved him flustered, but you also loved him honest.
“Maybe you need a little trouble,” you whispered.
The words slid under his skin.
Bucky’s heart thudded hard, loud enough he was sure you could hear it.
His body moved before his brain could negotiate.
He leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently to the side of your head, an almost-touch, a near-kiss, something intimate without quite crossing the line.
Like a quiet confession.
Like he didn’t know how to say I want you out loud without it sounding like too much, so he let his body say it instead.
You inhaled, slow and steady, and the sound of your breath seemed to pull him closer all on its own.
For a moment, the world narrowed to warmth and light and the faint scent of you, something clean and sweet under the holiday cinnamon. Bucky shut his eyes for half a second like he needed the darkness to keep himself under control.
Then you turned fully, facing him now, and the hallway light caught your eyes in a way that made them look warm and deep and endlessly alive.
Bucky stared like he couldn’t help it.
Like your face was the only thing that made sense.
You stared back like you weren’t afraid of what you might find in him.
Your voice was soft when you spoke. “You’re being cute,” you said, like it was the simplest fact in the world.
Bucky made a low sound in his throat, half laugh, half surrender, like he didn’t know whether to deny it or let it happen.
“I’m not,” he muttered, but the refusal lacked conviction.
You smiled like you heard that and didn’t believe a word of it.
“You are,” you insisted, gentle but unapologetic. “All grumpy and flustered. Like a big… Christmas grinch who doesn’t know what to do with feelings.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched despite himself, a reluctant almost smile trying to break through.
“That’s not a thing,” he said, tone flat like it might protect him.
“It is now,” you declared, and then, because you were fearless, you lifted your hands.
Your fingers caught lightly on the suspenders at his chest, giving them a tiny tug that made the elastic pull back against his body. The motion was tiny but made his breath hitch like you’d reached inside him and tightened a string.
Bucky’s eyes widened, offended on principle and a little stunned by how easily you made him react.
You watched it happen with a pleased little glint, like you enjoyed knowing you had that effect.
“And you’re wearing these,” you murmured, voice lower now, “like you want someone to commit a sin.”
Bucky’s stare snapped to yours, sharp, flustered, almost disbelieving.
“I—” he started, then stopped, like his brain couldn’t decide whether to scold you or kiss you for saying it.
You leaned in slightly, smiling like you were about to ruin his entire life and sleep schedule.
“Relax,” you whispered, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath. “I’m just gonna take a picture with you.”
Bucky blinked, thrown. “What?”
You stepped back just enough to break the spell and reached for the Polaroid camera on the table like this was the most normal thing in the world. You held it up with casual confidence, finger already hovering near the button.
“Come here,” you said.
Bucky didn’t move right away.
He stood there like a man staring down the edge of something he wanted and didn’t trust himself to take. Like stepping closer would change the shape of his life.
Your smile softened, not teasing now. Just warm. Just real.
“Please?” you said quietly.
That word, so soft and simple, hit him harder than any flirtation.
It wasn’t a dare.
It was an invitation.
And it undid him faster than any tease ever could.
Bucky’s shoulders dropped like he’d finally let himself stop fighting and he took a step toward you, like saying no had never been an option at all.
You tucked yourself close to him, shoulder pressing into the solid plane of his chest, your skirt brushing his legs in a soft sweep of fabric and trim. The little pom-poms along the hem bounced lightly with the movement, ridiculous and cute and somehow perfect against the fact that he looked like a man who’d been born to brood in black and white.
Bucky went rigid the moment you touched him.
Not because he didn’t want it.
Because he did.
Because he didn’t know what to do with how much.
His arm hovered awkwardly at his side for a second like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to put it around you, like he didn’t trust himself not to hold too tight. His jaw clenched once, a tiny reflex to lock down whatever was rising in him.
You lifted the Polaroid camera with one hand, angling it out in front of you, wrist tilting until you found the right frame. The little viewfinder was finicky, the kind of old-school thing that forced you to get close and make it work, no perfect retakes, no filters, just one moment captured exactly as it was.
“Okay,” you murmured, adjusting, your voice softer now. “Here.”
And then because you couldn’t help yourself, you used your free hand to reach up.
Your fingers brushed his cheek first, featherlight, as if you were testing the reality of him. The faint scruff there caught against your fingertips, warm and rough in a way that made your stomach flip.
Bucky froze.
You felt it in the way his breath stalled, in the sudden stillness of his body, like he’d been turned to stone by the simplest touch.
Your thumb moved on instinct, sweeping gently just under his eye, barely there, a tender little stroke that somehow felt more intimate than a kiss. Like you were saying I see you without words.
Something tightened in Bucky’s throat so hard it burned. His eyes flicked down to your mouth for a split second, then back up again, as if he had to remind himself where he was.
“Smile,” you murmured.
Bucky’s mouth twitched like it didn’t remember how to do that on command. He tried to pull it together, to give you something normal and easy, but the effort made it worse for a second, like his face didn’t trust happiness.
Then he looked at you and something in him… loosened.
The smile that came wasn’t polished, wasn’t practiced.
It was crooked and reluctant and real, like it surprised him as much as it surprised everyone else when it showed up.
Your grin went immediately triumphant, the kind of smile that said you’d just won something precious.
“There,” you whispered, pleased. “That’s it.”
And right then, right when his guard was down just enough, you clicked the button.
The camera snapped with that sharp little sound that felt louder in the quiet hallway than it should’ve been.
Bucky blinked, caught.
You laughed softly, leaning into him a fraction more as if you could anchor the moment in place.
A second later, the Polaroid whirred and spit out the photo, sliding into your hand like a secret being revealed. The small square was warm from the machine, blank at first except for the faintest shadow of shapes waiting to emerge.
You grabbed it immediately, holding it by the edges like it was delicate, like the moment inside it mattered too much to smudge.
You waved it gently in the air, impatient and excited, eyes sparkling as you watched the image slowly bloom into existence. The outlines sharpened: the sweep of your dress, the bright curve of your smile, the angle of Bucky’s body turned toward you like he couldn’t help it.
You made a tiny, pleased sound under your breath, like you couldn’t believe it was real.
Bucky didn’t look at the photo.
He watched you instead.
Watched the way your nose crinkled when you smiled. Watched the way your shoulders lifted with quiet joy. Watched the way you looked at the photo like it mattered, like he mattered.
Your expression softened when you finally glanced up at him.
“See?” you murmured, voice gentle as a blanket. You held the Polaroid up between you for a second, the little square still warm, the colors finally settling. “That’s you. That’s real.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to it like he didn’t quite know what to do with proof. Like he didn’t trust happiness when it showed up in a tangible form.
Then his gaze came back to you, and something in his face shifted, something raw and careful.
He swallowed hard. “You make it easy,” he said, as if the admission cost him something. As if he’d been bracing for a fight his whole life and you’d just… opened your hand instead.
Your eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the softness of it.
And then your smile changed, turning into something warm and quiet that made Bucky feel like he’d stepped too close to a fire and didn’t want to move away.
“I like you,” you said simply.
Bucky’s breath caught like it hit a wall on the way out. His shoulders went tight for half a second, like his body had forgotten how to take good things without flinching.
His eyes searched yours, intense and almost disbelieving.
Your gaze dropped to his mouth for half a heartbeat and when it lifted again, it was steady. Sure.
“And,” you added, voice quieter now, softer around the edges, “I think you like me too.”
Bucky let out a shaky little laugh that sounded like disbelief wearing a smile. Like he couldn’t believe he’d been seen so clearly.
“Yeah,” he admitted, coming out rougher than he meant it to. “Yeah, Sunshine. I do.”
Your whole face lit up, bright and relieved, like you’d been holding your own breath too.
And then you moved.
No hesitation, no overthinking.
You rose onto your toes and reached for him, fingers brushing his jaw as you kissed him, quick and warm and sweet as sugar, right there in the quiet hallway while the party hummed distantly behind you like the rest of the world had agreed to give you privacy.
Bucky went still for half a heartbeat.
It wasn’t rejection.
It was the stunned, reverent stillness of a man who’d been starving and didn’t want to scare the food away.
Then his hand found your waist, careful at first, like he was asking permission even without words. His palm settled against the curve of you, steadying you, anchoring you, and when you made that soft little sound against his mouth, content, something in him finally loosened.
He kissed you back like he was finally letting himself sink into it.
His other hand lifted, metal fingers gentler than anyone ever expected, and slid up your back, spreading across your shoulder blade through the fabric of your dress. He pulled you closer by inches, not yanking, just guiding, until you could feel the solid warmth of him from collarbone to hip and there was no space left for doubt.
Your lips parted instinctively when his mouth tilted, and Bucky followed it like he’d been waiting for that permission all night. His kiss slowed, deepened, turned into something unhurried, like he wanted to learn the shape of you properly, like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted like cocoa and peppermint and something undeniably you.
He didn’t take too much.
He just… stayed.
Stayed in the kiss long enough that your fingers curled slightly in his shirt, long enough that his breath warmed your cheek, long enough that the world narrowed down to the quiet press of mouths and the steady hold of his hands.
When you finally pulled back, it was only because you needed air.
You stayed close anyway, foreheads nearly touching, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. Bucky’s eyes were open now, fixed on your face like he was afraid you might vanish the second he blinked.
His thumb moved at your waist, a small, grounding stroke, like he couldn’t help checking that you were still there.
Your eyes shone when you looked up at him, dazed and delighted, like you’d found something you’d been hoping for.
Bucky’s voice came out rough, almost wrecked. “You’re gonna drive me crazy.”
Your laugh was soft and thrilled, the sound bright even in a whisper. You brushed your nose lightly against his, a tiny affectionate nudge.
“Merry Christmas to you too.” you murmured, like the words were a gift, like the moment was one.
Then from the doorway behind you, Sam’s voice exploded into the hallway like a grenade full of joy and absolutely zero shame.
“OH MY GOD. ARE Y’ALL KISSING BACK HERE?!”
The words ricocheted off the walls, loud enough that you could practically feel them, and your whole body jolted on instinct.
For half a second, you and Bucky just froze.
Caught.
Like teenagers.
Then you broke first, head tipping back as laughter burst out of you, bright and uncontrollable, the kind that comes from being startled and happy at the same time. Your shoulders shook and the sound filled the quiet corridor so completely it felt like its own kind of music.
Bucky, on the other hand, swore under his breath, low and vicious, pure Brooklyn.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, like Sam had personally offended every nerve in his body.
Sam leaned one shoulder against the doorframe with the audacity of a man who absolutely did not live there but acted like the hallways belonged to him anyway. His grin was huge, wide and delighted and unbearably smug.
“I knew it,” Sam crowed, pointing at the two of you like a ref calling a game. “I knew it. I been tellin’ y’all. Someone owes me twenty bucks!”
Bucky’s head snapped toward him so fast it was almost a blur.
The look he gave Sam could’ve killed a lesser man.
It was a true, genuine, murderous glare, sharp enough to cut glass, dark with threat, loaded with the kind of promise that said, Say one more word and I will throw you out a window.
Sam wasn’t scared.
Sam was thriving.
You were still laughing, cheeks warm, breath a little unsteady from the kiss and now from the ambush. You wiped at the corner of your eye like your laughter had turned into happy tears. Then you looked between the two of them, Bucky ready to commit a felony, Sam ready to narrate it, and somehow you found it even funnier.
Bucky glanced at you, like he was checking if you were embarrassed.
You weren’t. Not even a little.
Instead, you lifted the Polaroid with a grin, holding it up like a trophy, like proof, like a prize you’d won.
“Don’t worry,” you called sweetly, voice dripping with innocence you absolutely did not possess. “We’re coming back.”
Sam’s face lit up like you’d just told him Christmas came early.
“WITH EVIDENCE?!” he practically shouted, eyes going wide. “OH MY GOD—”
You winked at him, slow and shameless. “Always.”
You turned your head slightly, glancing up at Bucky, eyes bright, lips still swollen just a little, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth like you were delighted by him.
And Bucky looked at you.
Not at Sam, not at the stupid props on the table, not at the party down the hall.
At you.
This ridiculous, bright, fearless ball of sunshine in a Christmas tree dress, laughing like the world hadn’t hurt you, standing close like you weren’t afraid of him, holding onto evidence like you were proud.
And something in him settled with stunned certainty.
He was never going to be able to pretend he was fine around you again.
He was never going to be able to pretend you didn’t get under his skin, into his chest, into places he’d kept locked up for years.
And maybe…
Maybe he didn’t want to.
Because standing there with you felt like exhaling after holding his breath for too long.
Felt like warmth.
Felt like home, in a way he didn’t know how to explain.
You reached for his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, fingers warm and sure, sliding into his palm without hesitation, fitting there perfectly.
Bucky’s hand tightened around yours automatically.
You gave him a little tug, playful but firm, like you were guiding a stubborn cat back into a room full of people.
“C’mon,” you murmured, eyes dancing. “Let’s go before he starts charging admission.”
Sam immediately pointed at you both. “TOO LATE. IT’S FIVE DOLLARS A HEAD—”
“Samuel,” Bucky warned again, voice deadly.
Sam held up both hands, laughing. “Okay, okay! I’m done. I’m done.”
You glanced back at Sam with a grin. “You’re not done.”
Sam grinned right back. “Never.”
Bucky shook his head like he was suffering, but he didn’t let go of your hand. Not for a second.
He let you pull him forward.
Because somehow, walking back into that loud, bright room didn’t feel nearly as unbearable now that you were beside him.
And because, whether he was ready to admit it or not, he did belong next to you.
He belonged right where your fingers were laced through his.