Long tables were pushed against the walls, laden with casseroles, pies, and a giant pot of something steaming. Kids weaved between the legs of adults, shrieking with laughter. Old Mr. Genarro played a slightly off-key tune on an accordion in the corner.

You, Y/n, were near the punch bowl, holding a cup of something red and sweet. Across the crowded room, leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, was James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky. He was in his army-issue trousers and a simple white t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up over his forearms. He had a faint, easy smile on his face as he watched the scene, but his eyes weren't on the general chaos.

They were on you.