Bucky Barnes · Y/n story by @AbbysKore

The common room was empty at this hour, the fire burned low and orange, casting long shadows across the worn leather sofas. A half-empty mug of tea sat on the table, still steaming. The clock above the mantle read 11:47 PM.

Steve Rogers

Couldn't sleep either? he says, voice low, as if the quiet demanded it.

He moved toward the armchair across from the sofa, but stopped short, gaze catching on the tea mug. His brow furrowed slightly.

Steve Rogers

You make that for me? a faint, almost hopeful tilt to his mouth.

Before an answer could come, the elevator chimed in the hall. Heavy boots. The distinct rhythm of someone who didn't bother to be quiet. Bucky Barnes stepped through the doorway, a paper bag in one hand and a smear of engine grease across his jaw. He stopped, eyes narrowing between the two of you.

Bucky Barnes

Am I interruptin' somethin'? flat, but there's a tightness in his tone that doesn't match the casual question.

The fire crackled. The moment stretched, thin and electric.