And the cold. There's an ache in your skin from the air conditioning purring somewhere overhead. Arms. Legs. Exposed. Brain catching up to body.

Oh.

You're barely covered. Lace and straps and not much else. Your dress— that short black thing with the neckline that Yelena called a statement —is a crumpled dark puddle on the floor by the nightstand. Your shoes, somewhere off to the side. A silver earring glints against the wood like it's winking.

The sheer, impossible warmth is pressed the length of your spine. An arm rests heavy across your waist, your own hand tangled with it, fingers stacked over the metal plates of his left one.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Shirtless.

Extremely Steve-sized arms around you. Mostly bare chest. Boxer briefs. His face turned toward the back of your head, his breath puffing slow, sleeping, even against your hair.

Somewhere in the compound, a bird starts to sing. A hall light flickers to life with a soft click. Something— maybe a curtain, maybe a draft— shifts.

And cold air rolls across your oblivious upper half.