Doll. // Bucky Barnes X OC

TWENTY-SIX

Morning came quietly.

Not the sharp, blaring kind that dragged them out of bed for briefings or emergencies—but the slow, pale kind that crept through the curtains and warmed the edges of the room.

Melany stood in the doorway at the top of the stairs, coffee mug cradled between both hands, watching the compound wake up below. The training yard was already active—agents stretching, jogging, sparring in controlled bursts. It all felt oddly distant, like she was observing a life she'd only recently stepped back into.

Behind her, the bed shifted.

She didn't turn right away. She didn't need to.

Bucky's presence was something she felt more than heard now—the subtle change in the air, the quiet pull at her spine. A moment later, his arm slid around her waist, careful by habit, solid by instinct. His forehead rested between her shoulder blades, breath warm through the thin fabric of her shirt.

"You're up early," he murmured, voice still rough with sleep.

She leaned back into him automatically. "Couldn't shut my brain off."

"Mm," he hummed, lips brushing her shoulder. Not a kiss—just there. Lingering. Familiar.

Her body reacted before her mind could catch up.

It had been months.

Too long to pretend the awareness between them had faded. Too long pretending that wanting him—this close—didn't still send heat pooling low in her stomach. She stayed still, afraid that if she shifted even an inch, it would tip into something they both knew they couldn't finish.

Bucky noticed anyway.

His hand tightened just slightly at her waist. A fraction. Enough to say I feel it too.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

She nodded. "Yeah. Just... sore."

He immediately eased back—too fast, like he was afraid he'd crossed a line. The space between them felt colder for it.

"Hey," she said, turning this time, catching his wrist before he could fully pull away. "You didn't do anything wrong."

His jaw flexed. "I know. I just—"

"I know," she repeated softly.

They stood there for a beat, inches apart. Close enough that she could see the faint scar near his hairline, the slow rise and fall of his chest. Close enough to remember exactly what it felt like to have him pressed against her—not careful, not restrained.

His eyes dropped to her mouth.

The tension snapped tight.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, a quiet, frustrated sound. "This is harder than I thought it'd be."

A smile tugged at her lips. "Used to wanting something and not being able to have it?"

He gave a breathless huff. "I've waited seventy years for things. This is... different."

Her chest warmed at that—at the honesty, the restraint. She reached up, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt, not pulling him closer. Just touching.

"I miss you," she said simply. Not the idea of him. Him.

His hand came up, cupping her jaw, thumb brushing along her cheekbone. He didn't kiss her—not quite. His forehead rested against hers instead, eyes closed like he was grounding himself.

"I miss you too," he said. "Every damn day."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was heavy. Charged. Full of things they weren't saying out loud.