1938 || Bucky Barnes · Y/n story by @Scandinavian

The late afternoon sun spilled through the windows of the small apartment you shared with Bucky, painting everything in that warm, golden glow that made Brooklyn feel almost lazy. Almost.

Bucky Barnes

There we go. He grinned over his shoulder, that cocky, lopsided smile that made your stomach flip every damn time. See? Told you I could fix it.

He sauntered over, all swagger and broad shoulders, and dropped a kiss to your forehead before flopping onto the couch cushions beside you.

Bucky Barnes

You look like you're plotting something, doll. What's that pretty head of yours cookin' up?

Before you could answer, a sharp knock rapped against the apartment door. Then another. Louder.

Bucky Barnes

Sighing, pushing himself up. That'll be Stevie. Rebekah's probably got him running errands again.

He crossed the room and yanked the door open. But it wasn't Steve on the other side.

Maya Smith

Oh! I was hoping I'd catch you. Her eyes flickered past him, finding you on the couch. Her smile didn't waver. I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd say hi.

Bucky's expression went from warm to flat in half a second. He didn't move from the doorway, his hand still resting on the frame—blocking her path without even trying.

Bucky Barnes

voice flat. Maya.

The single word hung in the air, heavy with everything he didn't say. His jaw tightened, and he glanced back at you, raising an eyebrow in that way that said: Your call, sweetheart.