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The smell of coffee is what pulls you from the bedroom. That, and the faint sizzle of something on the stove. Your bare feet pad softly across the hardwood, sunlight slanting through the windows and catching on the hem of his shirt — his shirt — hanging loose and low on your body. The collar hangs wide, exposing your shoulder. No pants. Just warm skin and last night’s glow.
In the kitchen, Bucky’s already up. Shirtless. Hair a lazy mess, barely shoved back off his face. There’s music playing low from his phone on the counter — something bluesy and old-school. He’s focused, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other, sweatpants slung dangerously low. You could eat him for breakfast.
“Morning, baby,” he drawls, voice still rough from sleep. “Made your coffee just the way you like it.”
He nods at a steaming cup on the kitchen island. But instead, you move closer to him. Quiet. You step up behind him and slide your arms around his waist, press a soft kiss between his shoulder blades.
“Thanks, lover boy,” you murmur, lips brushing warm skin.
He stops. Completely.
You feel it instantly — the way his whole body goes still under your touch. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just…short-circuits. Like someone yanked the plug on him mid-motion.
“Bucky?” you mumble against his back, half-smiling, unaware of the bomb you just dropped.
He clears his throat. Tries to recover. “Yeah. Yep. Eggs are, uh…they’re almost done.”
You peek around him.
Sure enough, one hand’s still holding the spatula over the pan — though the eggs are now bordering on crispy. His jaw is tight. His eyes, when he finally cuts you a glance over his shoulder, are dark.
But he’s holding it together. Just barely.
“You okay?”
“Peachy.” He turns back to the stove with a tight smile. “Just…didn’t expect that.”
You tilt your head. “What, breakfast?”
He lets out a breathy laugh — more a groan if you’re honest. “No. That thing you called me.”
“What thing?” you say innocently, moving toward the kitchen island to slide onto the stool.
“You know what.”
You rest your chin on your hand. Bat your lashes.
“Lover boy?”
CRACK.
He drops the spatula. You bite back a laugh.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, leaning down to retrieve it. His ears are red. His hands are gripping the counter like they owe him money.
You sip your coffee — made exactly the way you like it, just how he always does — and grin into the rim of the mug.
“You’re so easy to break in the mornings,” you say softly.
His eyes meet yours again — this time, slowly.
“Keep testing me, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Breakfast’s gonna be the second thing I devour.”
You walk into the grocery store, hand nestled in the crook of his arm. He’s in full don’t-look-at-me mode — hoodie up, sunglasses on, jaw set like he’s ready to duck and bolt. He hates the risk of being recognized, especially when you’re with him. Protective to a fault. But you’d both agreed it’d be a quick run — milk, bread, a few snacks — nothing flashy.
He keeps close, always between you and anyone else in the aisle, scanning like a bodyguard and a boyfriend rolled into one.
You reach up on tiptoe to grab a box from the top shelf — and he takes it from you without a word. Tosses it in the basket. Keeps moving.
“Thanks, lover boy,” you murmur under your breath.
He stops dead.
One hand tightens on the basket handle. His head doesn’t turn — but you see the shift in his body, the way his jaw clenches, shoulders square. Like the word hit him in the spine.
You bite your lip, pretending to study a row of pasta.
“Did you just—” His voice is low, quiet, edged with disbelief.
“I said—” You turn with a sweet smile. "—thank you, lover boy.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. Like he’s trying to blow out the fuse you just lit.
“You’re gonna make me lose my mind,” he mutters, following you down the aisle like a man headed for the gallows.
“You’re doing great,” you whisper, voice sugar-sweet as you glance back. “Very composed. Very famous-rockstar-trying-not-to-murder-his-girlfriend-in-a-grocery-store.”
“Keep talking like that,” he growls, “and you’re not making it to checkout. I’ll bend you over the trunk in the parking lot.”
You smirk. “Promises, promises.”
He groans. “You are insufferable.”
But you see it — feel it — the way his eyes darken, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He’s turned on. Wound tight. And there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.
Not here. Not yet.
So you lean up and whisper, right against his ear, “Behave...”
And then you walk off toward the checkout like nothing happened. You don’t need to look back to know he’s following.
He unloads the basket with perfect control. Places the bread gently. Sets the eggs down like they’re precious. He’s fighting for his life with every item.
You lean against the checkout counter, one hip cocked, looking at gum flavors like it’s the most riveting part of your day. Every now and then, you hum a little tune. Innocent. Sweet. Deadly.
He knows what you're doing.
You wait until he’s sliding a frozen pizza onto the belt, and that’s when you do it.
“Need any help, lover boy?”
His shoulders visibly tense. The pizza slaps onto the belt.
“Stop it,” he mutters.
“Stop what?”
He glares at the gum. “You know what.”
You step a little closer, let your hand ghost along the hem of his hoodie.
“You’re being very grumpy. Need some help?”
“You wanna get fucked on the hood of the car in the parking lot?”
The words come out low. Dangerous. Barely audible. Like a threat wrapped in velvet.
Your eyes go wide.
Then the cashier calls out, “Next!” and you step forward like nothing happened.
Bucky follows, dead silent — like a man holding a bomb in his mouth.
You bag a few items. Smile sweetly at the teen behind the counter. Bucky taps his card, signs with the flair of a pissed-off rockstar.
You grab the last bag. “Thanks for the help, lover boy.”
He turns around so fast, jaw tight, eyes blazing.
“I swear to God—”
You cut him off with a look. Wide-eyed. Playful. Defiant. He groans so loud it echoes across the front of the store. Shoves his sunglasses back on.
“You are so dead when we get home.”
But his ears? Bright red.
You walk alongside him with a grin. “Can’t wait.”
You’re putting away the last box of pasta when you feel it — the heat of his body right behind you. Not touching. Just hovering.
Like he’s waiting. Like he’s plotting.
You hum to yourself, trying to play it off.
“That wasn’t so bad,” you murmur, sliding the box into the cabinet. “Got most of what we needed.”
No response.
You shift to reach for the produce bag and—
A hand slams down on the counter beside you.
The sound makes you jump. He’s still behind you. Still not touching. But his voice is low.
“You think you’re funny, huh?”
You blink. “What?”
“‘Lover boy,’” he growls. “In public. Where I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”
You swallow. Slowly turn. “You’re still mad about that?”
His mouth twitches — not a smile. A warning. Then he takes a single step closer.
You’re backed against the counter now, cornered between the fridge and the sink. Your breath catches.
“You know what I wanted to do to you?” he rasps. “Right there? On top of that checkout counter?”
“Let me guess—” you start.
“No.” His finger lifts. Presses to your lips. “No more talking.”
He leans in, breath hot against your cheek. His other hand snakes up your thigh, slow and possessive.
“Strip. Right here. Kitchen. Now.”
You blink.
“The groceries—”
He kisses your jaw. “They can wait.”
You hesitate for half a second — and he’s already pulling your shirt over your head.
Groceries forgotten. Fridge still open.
And Bucky?
Bucky’s finally getting even.