Friday Night Evie's Apartment

Evie was on her second glass of wine and her fourth ignored call from Jade when she finally caved and answered. She barely had the phone to her ear before Jade's exasperated voice filled the speaker.

"Okay, what is your deal? You're about to go on a deal with Steve Rogers and you're acting like me about to go to dinner with my parents."

Evie exhaled, stalling as she swirled the wine in her glass. "I don't have a deal, and it's not a date"

Jade snorted. "You clearly have a deal. What are you wearing?"

"A red midi-length dress with the high back and low neckline," She toyed with the silk hem as she spoke.

"Oh. Right. For your non-date." Jade's scoff was incredulous. "So are you going to tell me what the hell your problem is? Clearly you're dressed to make an impression, he asked you out, and this time last week you were all 'super soldier' mania. What gives? Is it because you only get one tonight? Because if that's the case, you're just being greedy."

Evie twirled the stem of her wine glass between her fingers as Jade spoke, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She looked… different. It wasn't just the makeup or the outfit—it was something in her eyes. The lack of her usual carefree glint? The missing mischievous grin? The slight furrow to her brow that gave away her nerves, something she was not accustomed to seeing.

She exhaled. "I don't know. Tonight just feels…" She trailed off, searching for the right words, willing them to come but finding nothing that quite fit.

Jade pounced immediately. "Different?"

Evie groaned. "Yes."

Jade gasped like she had just uncovered the scandal of the century. "Oh my God. You actually like him."

Evie scowled. "Jade."

Jade ignored her completely. "This isn't just some little fun thing for you anymore, is it? Damn, I thought this would happen eventually, but in less than two weeks? You're more of a lovergirl than I thought, Eves."

Evie drained the rest of her wine in one unceremonious gulp. "Ugh, I don't know what's wrong with me."

Jade cackled, full and wicked. "Oh, babe. You are so screwed. It's one thing to want one of them in your bed, two was a little ambitious but you've always been a go-getter so I let it slide. Now you're telling me you've already caught feelings?"

Evie rubbed her temples, already regretting answering the phone. "Why do I tell you things?"

Jade sighed dramatically. "Because if you didn't you'd have too many things swirling around in your genius brain and it would probably combust."

Evie rolled her eyes, but a small smile crept in despite herself. "Alright, prophet of doom, should I be concerned?"

Jade, suddenly serious, replied smoothly, "Only if you're not willing to admit it to yourself."

Evie paused, the words settling uncomfortably in her chest. There was something about the way Jade said it—so sure, so simple—that made it sound…easy. Possible.

Then, before she could process that entirely too real statement—her doorman's voice crackled over the intercom.

"Miss Evie, you have a visitor."

Evie's stomach dropped. She swallowed. Then, after a long second—

"Send him up."

Jade screamed. Evie hung up.

When the knock came, Evie took a deep breath, smoothed the fabric of her dress, and opened the door. And then she promptly forgot how to breathe.

Because Steve Rogers looked good.

Not just 'nice sweater and jeans' good. Not just 'trademark effortless charm' good. No. A button-down. A fitted jacket. Shoes that were polished. A vintage watch that probably had more sentimental value than monetary, which made it that much more attractive. It was all intentional. Deliberate.

He had dressed up. He had put in effort. For her. And worse? He looked nervous.

Steve cleared his throat, visibly trying to play it cool. "Hey," he said, offering a soft smile.

Evie, gripping the doorframe a little tighter than necessary, replied, "Hey."

Steve's eyes flickered down—just for a second. A quick sweep, barely there, taking her in. And when he looked back up, he was blushing. Oh, hell.

Evie smirked, trying to shake off the dangerous warmth creeping in. "So. We're both overdressed."

Steve, still a little flustered, rubbed the back of his neck. "I—uh—figured I should, you know. Clean up a little."

Her stomach flipped. Her teasing faltered. Because that was just plain sweet. She swallowed, pulse kicking up despite herself. "Well. You look good."

Steve smiled, but a little shyly. "So do you."

The air shifted. It wasn't just shooting the shit anymore. It wasn't just playful banter. It wasn't a game. It was something else. Something real.

Evie was terrified. So she did the only thing she knew how to do. She forced a smirk, grabbed her clutch, and stepped past him. "C'mon, Cap," she said lightly. "Before this wine starts going to my head and you have to carry me to the car."

Steve huffed out a quiet laugh, following her down the hall. But Evie could feel it. She wasn't fooling either of them.

They rode down to the lobby, strode through, and strode toward the front drive where Steve's car was waiting. Steve held the door open, and when Evie stepped past him, his gaze flickered over her, just for a second—nothing obvious, nothing exaggerated. But she felt it.

Felt the way his eyes softened. Felt the way his breath hitched just slightly before he cleared his throat and took a step forward.

He offered his arm, the movement so natural it didn't seem like a second thought. "Shall we?"

She slid her hand into the crook of his arm. "Alright, Cap. Let's see your idea of a good time." The warmth of him—solid, steady, grounding—sent an unexpected shiver up her spine.

Steve led her to his car, the classic black Jeep that suited him more than she expected. He opened the door for her without a word, the movement so effortless it didn't feel like some performative act of chivalry—it was just who he was. Evie hesitated again, watching him for just a moment before she slipped inside.

The ride started in comfortable silence. Steve navigated the streets with the same deliberate, calculated ease with which he seemed to approach everything. Evie watched his hands on the wheel—the way his fingers flexed, the way his knuckles shifted when he turned. It was oddly mesmerizing.

She expected herself to break the silence with something teasing, something sarcastic—because wasn't that what she always did?

But she didn't. Instead, she found herself saying, "How was your week?"

It wasn't a deflection. It wasn't a distraction. It was genuine.

Steve glanced at her, surprised by the question, before shifting his focus back on the road. "Busy," he admitted after a moment. "Meetings, briefings, training... the usual. Mission weeks are always a little chaotic, even when things go well."

Evie hummed. "And outside of work?"

Steve exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Not much. I went running with Sam a few mornings, sparred with Bucky..." He hesitated for a fraction of a second before adding, "Had a conversation I wasn't expecting."

Evie arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Steve kept his eyes on the road. "With Bucky."

Something in his tone made her sit up a little straighter. "About?"

Steve's grip on the wheel tightened slightly, like he was debating what to say. Finally, he let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "He called me out, basically."

Evie tilted her head, intrigued. "Called you out how?"

Steve hesitated again. Then, with something careful in his voice, he said, "He asked me why I asked you to dinner."

Evie's breath caught, just for a second. She forced her voice to stay light. "And what did you say?"

Steve glanced at her, just briefly, before turning his attention back to the road. "The truth." He didn't elaborate. Didn't offer more.

And for once, Evie didn't press. Because something about the way he said it—the quiet certainty in his voice, the way he didn't rush to explain himself—unsettled her in a way she wasn't prepared for. It made her pulse pick up. It made her want to be worthy of that truth.

She swallowed, looking out the window, trying to shake off the warmth creeping into her chest. "Well," she said after a beat, trying to ground herself. "I'm glad you did. Ask me to dinner, that is."

Steve smiled, soft but sure. "Me too."

Steve had picked the perfect place.

An old-school Italian restaurant, tucked away from the main streets, nestled between historic brick buildings. The kind of place that didn't need flashy signs or modern gimmicks to draw people in—because the food, the atmosphere, the history spoke for itself.

Warm lighting glowed from the sconces lining the walls, casting a golden hue over dark wood tables draped in crisp white linens. The air was thick with the scent of simmering garlic, fresh basil, and something rich and slow-cooked, the kind of meal that had been perfected over generations. The low murmur of conversation filled the space, punctuated only by the gentle clink of glasses and silverware. A few heads turned when they walked in, and before Evie could flatter herself thinking her dress was doing her favors, one older gentleman gave a salute. Right, I'm here with Captain America.

Thankfully, all of the patrons were considerate enough to turn back to their conversations, giving them the gift of privacy as the hostess escorted them to a table in the back. The buzz of the restaurant was still there, enough to mask their conversation from nearby tables, but not enough to drown it out from each other. And beneath it all, Sinatra crooned softly from an old jukebox in the corner, his voice warm and smooth, weaving effortlessly through the air.

It was quiet. Romantic.

Steve sat across from her, looking so at ease in this setting that Evie couldn't help but smirk.

"This feels exactly like the kind of place you'd pick," she teased, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hands. "Classic. Refined. Very proper gentleman of you."

Steve gave a small chuckle, shaking his head. "I wasn't aware picking a restaurant made me proper. You said you liked Italian. I asked around."

Evie swallowed the teasing remark she had queued up and tilted her head. "You remembered."

"I'm not a bad listener." His smile was soft, eyes warm.

She bit the inside of her cheek, studying him. "Good to know," she mused. "Remind me to censor myself a little bit more."

Steve chuckled. "I'm starting to think you think I'm boring."

Evie pretended to consider it, eyes flickering toward him playfully. "Not boring. Just… polite."

Steve lifted a brow, feigning mild offense. "Says the woman who orders the same coffee every morning, from the same place, and tips with a twenty-dollar bill every time."

Evie stilled for half a second, caught off guard. "How do you—"

He shrugged. "I pay attention."

Her stomach flipped. Had he followed her?

Seeming to read the confusion on her face, he chuckled. "Don't freak out, that sounded more ominous than it is. When you gave me that coffee, Sam gave me a hard time for thinking it was good. Something about 'real men are supposed to drink black coffee'."

"Quite antiquated," Evie commented, waiting for the rest.

"Right," Steve agreed. "I recognized the logo on the cup from the place around the block. So Sam and I went, we ordered another one and when he went to put a few bucks in the tip jar, we saw a twenty dollar bill on top. I called him cheap, you know, giving him a hard time," His eyes flicked to her as he justified his joke.

"Right, naturally," She was amused now.

"But the barista noticed and laughed, said there's been a girl that comes in here every morning, orders the same thing we did, and always tips with a twenty dollar bill. Said she wanted to 'have it like that one day'. I asked if she happened to have red hair," His eyes met hers. "The barista said yes."

Evie bit her lip, fidgeting with her napkin. "Well, surely I'm not the only redhead in Manhattan."

He ignored her obvious bluff. "Why do you tip so much?"

Evie sighed. Too personal, too fast. She itched to change the subject, but the way Steve was watching her—curious, patient, not at all judgemental—made her hesitate. He actually wanted to know. That threw her off completely.

She shifted slightly in her seat, fingers smoothing over the linen napkin. "Because… I make more money than I could ever hope to spend. I have residuals coming in from patents I filed years ago. My family is set for life. I'm set for life." She shrugged, voice breezy, but her fingers still toying with the edge of the napkin betrayed her. "Some people aren't."

Steve's eyes crinkled slightly, his gaze unwavering. The candlelight flickered between them, catching the blue of his eyes in a way that made her pulse kick up. He didn't say anything right away. Didn't offer praise, didn't make some grand declaration about how noble that was. He just took her in, his jaw shifting slightly, his fingers trailing along the rim of his wine glass in slow, thoughtful circles.

And damn it, that was worse. Because Evie wasn't looking for applause. She didn't need a round of thanks for doing something small, something natural, something she had the means to do. But the way Steve was looking at her? Like he was really seeing her—like he was filing this piece of her away, tucking it somewhere important—that made her squirm.

She shifted in her seat, clearing her throat. "Well, Rogers," she teased, forcing a smirk, "Congratulations. You cracked the case."

Steve's lips twitched in a half smile. Mercifully, the server joined them at that moment, launching into her speech about the wine selection. It was all Evie could do to tear her eyes from Steve's and feign interest.

The conversation flowed from there—easily, effortlessly. They talked about work, about Tony's latest antics, about Sam's very unsubtle attempts to play matchmaker with anyone and everyone. Somewhere in the middle of it, somewhere between a lingering glance over the rim of his wine glass and his quiet, amused chuckle when she called him out for polishing off his plate like an overachiever, she realized—

She really, really liked him.

It was a stupid realization. A reckless, dangerous one. But it was also undeniable.

The warmth of the wine, the candlelight, the way he looked at her when she spoke—Evie felt herself soften, ease into the absolute and terrifying comfort of him.

Evie was too comfortable.

That was the problem.

The candlelight, the wine, the way Steve's voice wrapped around her like something warm and steady—it was too terrifying, sinking realization that she really liked him had settled in her chest, and if she sat with it for even a second longer, she was going to do something reckless.

So she did what she always did.

She changed the subject.

"Let's play a game."

Steve blinked, caught mid-sip of his wine. "A game?"

Evie leaned forward, smirking just enough to cover up the way her pulse was racing. "Yeah. A game. Three questions each. Drink if the answer is yes. Don't drink if it's no."

Steve huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "So this is like Never Have I Ever?"

Evie grinned. "Look who's not so out-of-date after all."

Steve leaned back in his chair, watching her, clearly debating whether or not to entertain this. But Evie knew him well enough now to see it—the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, the telltale sign that he was already in.

"Alright," he said, swirling his wine. "Go ahead, Langston. Ask away."

Evie tapped a finger against her glass, pretending to think. "Let's start easy." She lifted a brow. "You ever broken the law?"

Steve exhaled, amused, and immediately took a sip.

Evie gasped. "Captain America! I am shocked."

Steve smirked, setting his glass down. "Really?"

Evie snorted. "No." She tilted her head. "Your turn."

Steve studied her for a beat, blue eyes sharp and considering. Then—too casually—"Have you ever been in love?"

Evie stilled. Her fingers curled slightly against her glass. For a split second, she raced through her own past. She thought about the almosts and the maybes and the what-could-have-beens. Then, deliberately, she let go of the glass without raising it.

Steve's expression didn't change, but something in his gaze flickered. He tilted his head, just slightly. "Interesting."

Evie forced a smirk. "Maybe I'm just not the 'falling in love' type."

Steve's lips quirked like he didn't quite believe her, but he let it go. "Your turn."

Evie tapped a nail against the stem of her glass. "You ever had a one-night stand?"

Steve didn't answer immediately. He hesitated. Then, slowly, he lifted his glass and took a sip.

Evie's stomach flipped. She hadn't actually expected him to drink for that one. Her voice came out a little too amused, a little too warm. "And here I was thinking you were all sweet and old-fashioned."

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. "Old-fashioned doesn't mean inexperienced, Evie."

Oh, hell. She definitely shouldn't be this warm. She cleared her throat, shifting in her seat. "Alright, Cap. Your turn."

Steve hummed, studying her like he was waiting for her to slip up. Then, voice easy, "Have you ever wanted something you knew you shouldn't?"

Evie knew her answer before he even finished the question. And she knew Steve knew her answer, too. Her pulse kicked up as she lifted her glass, the stem cool beneath her fingers. And then, without breaking eye contact—she drank.

The air between them changed.

Steve's grip on his glass tightened slightly, his jaw shifting just a fraction as he watched her. He didn't press, didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. Because the way he was looking at her said he was thinking the exact same thing. Evie, suddenly too warm, sat back in her chair, hoping the flush creeping up her neck wasn't as obvious as it felt.

"Your turn," she said, a little too casually. After pausing, she asked, "Have you ever been in love before?" She already knew the answer. She just wanted, needed, to see it. Evie's breath caught, just for a second.

Steve lifted his glass—slow, deliberate. And as Evie watched him drink, something in her stomach tightened, But this time, there was something different in his eyes. Something almost… regretful. Like drinking to this wasn't something he wanted to do. Like admitting it meant something.

Evie swallowed, and before she could analyze it, before she could let the moment get too heavy—She smirked. "Okay. Your turn. Last one. Make it count."

Steve's fingers tapped lightly against the table, his expression thoughtful. Then, softly, he asked, "What would make you happy?"

Evie's breath caught. It wasn't just a question. It was personal and made her really think. She shouldn't be surprised, what the hell question was she expecting from him? 'What color is your underwear?'

Her first instinct was to dodge, to say something easy, something light. But Steve was looking at her—really looking at her in the way that only he seemed to do—and for once, she didn't feel the need to deflect.

She exhaled, swirling the last bit of wine in her glass. "I think…" She hesitated, just for a second. Then, quietly, honestly, she said, "Feeling understood would make me happy."

Steve's brows pulled slightly, but he didn't speak. He just listened.

"My whole life, people have liked me. Respected me. Wanted things from me. But they've never understood me." Evie's voice was steady, measured. "Even my parents. They've always loved me, supported me—but they never quite knew what to do with me. I was always ten steps ahead of kids my age, always thinking about things that didn't interest them, always looking for more. I thought maybe, when I got to MIT, I'd finally find my people. That there'd be someone who got me."

She gave a short, humorless laugh. "But I was just competition. Just the girl who set the curve. And when I started my career? I became the girl with the ideas people wanted, the one they wanted on their team. And dating? That's a joke. Men see the version of me they want—fun, confident, pretty—but they don't want the rest of me. They want my brain at cocktail parties for their law firm to impress the partners, but they don't want it when I'm up at two in the morning because I had a dream about a new kind of schematic I want to design." Her gaze was distant in a way that told Steve her examples weren't hypothetical.

He was still watching her, quiet and unreadable. Taking it in.

Evie ran her thumb along the base of her glass, shrugging slightly. "Tony gets it. Not all of it, but enough. He knows what it's like to have people want what you can produce, not who you are. And Jade—my best friend, she sees me, completely, and she stays. That makes me happy." She paused, tilting her head, her voice softer now. "I want more of that."

The weight of her own admission settled between them. Steve didn't look away. Didn't rush to fill the space with easy words. He just sat with it. Then, quietly—so quietly she almost didn't hear it—he murmured, "I get it."

Evie's stomach flipped. She wanted to ask—Do you? But she already knew the answer. Because when she looked at him, at the way his eyes softened in that rare, rare way—she saw it. He did.

She hit her quota of personal confessions and shifted, sitting up straight as if the intimacy of the previous question would roll off of her. "I have a bonus question."

Steve exhaled, shaking his head with an amused grin. "That's not how the game works, Evie."

"Yeah, well, I make the rules."

Steve's grin softened, his eyes still holding something unreadable as he rested an arm on the table. "Alright. What's your question?"

Evie leaned forward, propping her chin in her hand. Then, pulling her sweetest doe-eyed look—

"Do you like my dress?"

For a second, Steve just looked at her. And not in the way he usually did. No, this was slower. He let his gaze drift—from the plunging neckline, to the way the deep red fabric clung to her, to the way her lips curled in anticipation. Then, without looking away—

He lifted his glass. And completely emptied it.

Evie's stomach plummeted. Because that was more than the reaction she expected. That was not Steve being careful or respectful or playing it safe. That was something else entirely. Something bold, brazen, hungry, and unapologetic.

Her head was spinning now, warmth curling in her chest. She was already too far gone and she simply didn't give a shit because Steve was taking her home. And if she reached for him, she knew—knew—he wouldn't let go.

She was still buzzing as he paid the bill, tipped generously, and held his arm out to escort her out of the restaurant. Her skin was warm, her stomach light, the evening air crisp enough to make her keenly aware of the wine humming in her veins.

Steve was right there, solid and warm beside her, and she was already picturing it—the easy silence of the car ride back, the low rumble of the engine, the way his hand might settle on the gear shift between them, close enough to touch. She was more than ready for it.

She stepped into the valet circle and saw…Bucky?

Leaning against a blacked-out, ridiculously nice truck. Hands in his jacket pockets. Expression unreadable. Waiting.

The air shifted instantly, the comfortable ease of the night snapping like a rubber band stretched too far. Evie's stomach plummeted as her brain, foggy from the wine and the moment, tried to piece it together.

Steve sighed beside her, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, so… about that ride home."

Evie's fingers tightened around her clutch as she snapped her head to look at him.

Steve, looking a little sheepish now, admitted, "Bucky and I—uh—made a deal."

A deal. Evie blinked, head still spinning, trying to grasp what he was saying.

Steve winced slightly. "The Friday pact. We thought, it would be fair if we—"

She didn't even hear the rest. She was already fuming. The tension coiling in her stomach had no outlet now that her time with Steve had unexpectedly been cut short, and she felt it manifesting in anger as her eyes narrowed on the ghost of a smirk on Bucky's face.

The weight of his stare knotted her stomach, igniting something hot, sharp, and completely uninvited. Her pulse jumped. A second ago, she had been melting into Steve, her heart too soft, her body too warm, her mind drunk on the slow unraveling of the night.

Now? Now she felt sober. Sober, and off balance. And angry.

Steve cleared his throat. "Evie…are you okay with this?"

Evie snapped out of it, plastering on a too-bright smile. "I'm great. I just didn't realize shift change happened after dinner."

Steve exhaled, eyes pleading. It was clear he was as frustrated as she was, maybe even more, but she didn't care. This was half his fault. "Evie—"

But she was already turning, heels clicking against the pavement, heading straight for Bucky. The second she was close enough, she snarled.

"Tell me, Barnes," she tilted her head, crossing her arms. "Do I get a say in which one of you gets custody of me, or did you just plan to pass me off like a goddamn relay baton?"

Bucky's jaw ticked. His voice was calm, even. "You could just say thank you for the ride."

Evie let out a sharp laugh, one that wasn't quite as controlled as she wanted. "Oh, right. Where are my manners? Thank you so much for interrupting my evening, deciding where I go, and making deals about me without me."

Bucky leaned in, just slightly, voice low, words measured. "You finished dinner, didn't you?"

Evie's eyes narrowed. "What's your point?"

Bucky's mouth curved—just barely. "My point is, I didn't interrupt anything. You're here. The night's not over."

Oh, he was insufferable. The part of her that previously thought he was mysterious and handsome now wanted to scream in his stupid, stoic face. Evie exhaled through her nose, too aware of the heat licking at the base of her spine, too aware of the way her skin prickled under his stare.

The worst part? She didn't even know if she was mad at him for ruining her night. She wasn't even sure if it was ruined at all.

She stepped past him, yanking open the passenger door a little too forcefully. "Fine. Whatever." She climbed in, slamming the door shut behind her and crossing her arms, refusing to look at him or Steve, still lingering by the valet as the fallout unfolded. Bucky didn't move right away.

For a second, she thought—hoped—he'd let it go. Let her get back out and finish the evening with Steve. Except, is that really what she hoped for? Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she tried to sort through her thoughts. She was angry. At Bucky? For interrupting the night she felt was so strongly going perfectly? Or for choosing not to be involved in their plans at all, but crashing them at the end? Maybe it was Steve she was mad at. For luring her in with soft eyes and easy charm, coaxing her into letting her guard down, for looking at her across the table all night like he had every intention of seeing his fantasies through later that night. All while knowing he wasn't the one taking her home.

Ultimately, she was mad at herself. This was her idea, her pact, her game. She was supposed to be the one writing the script and flipping it whenever she so desired. It was her fault for letting Steve disarm her and her fault for letting her emotions overpower her logic. It was her fault that she was sitting, hot blooded and tightly wound in Bucky Barnes' passenger seat, knowing she was far from the headspace to make good decisions. Fuck.

Bucky rounded the truck, slid into the driver's seat, and started the engine. The air between them was stifling, suffocating, and they hadn't even pulled out of the parking lot yet. Watching her the whole time, Bucky shook his head once—like she was exactly who he thought she was.

He drove without saying a word. Evie stared out the window, arms crossed. The silence stretched and stretched.

Finally, Bucky muttered, "You're pissed."

Evie scoffed. "Wow. Look at that deduction."

Bucky's grip on the wheel tightened.

She turned her head toward him now, eyes sharp. "You know, Rogers at least asked me to dinner. You just showed up, uninvited, and you expect the privilege of my company without ever acting like it was something you wanted."

Bucky spoke slowly. "I didn't force you into the truck, Evie."

"No," she agreed. "You just made a deal. Why ask me what I want when you can just decide?"

Bucky's jaw flexed. "Would you have said yes if I'd asked?"

Evie paused.

"Steve already asked you to dinner. You already said yes. Would you prefer for me to politely request your time another week from now and wait until then to see if you happen to be free, or if he beat me to the punch again?"

Understanding dawning, she tilted her head, smirking just a little too sweetly. "Careful, Barnes," she cooed. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous."

Bucky's fingers curled on the wheel. Then—his voice lower, rougher— "Maybe you don't know better."

Evie's breath caught. There it was. Not playful. Not teasing. Not subtle. Her heart pounded. Instead of backing down, she leaned in slightly, daring him. "Then say it."

Bucky's eyes flickered toward her. Dark. Unreadable. And then—just as quickly—he looked away. Focused on the road. Voice clipped, low. "Not gonna play that game with you."

Evie exhaled sharply, staring at him.

Bucky's grip on the wheel was tight. Tighter than it needed to be. The weight of everything unsaid filled the cab—heavy, pressing, suffocating.

When she spoke next, her voice was low, gravelly, something barely above a whisper.

"What games would you play with me?"

Bucky's jaw locked. Silence. The kind that wasn't empty. The kind that was thick with things neither of them were ready to say, but both hoped the other would. Evie, still watching him carefully, let the pause linger—let the question hang.

Then, quieter this time—deadly precise—

"You weren't a fan of air hockey."

She shifted slightly, leaning further across her armrest toward him, not caring that her plunging neckline fell open ever so slightly.

"But you didn't seem to mind the darts."

Bucky exhaled slowly.

And fuck.

Fuck.

She was pushing now. Really pushing. Some part of him wanted to let her. Bucky's eyes flickered toward her. She was watching him, waiting, a challenge in her gaze. Like she was daring him to cross the line she was so very carefully drawing between them.

Bucky did something reckless. He let go of the wheel with one hand. Just for a second. Just long enough to reach over, his fingers barely grazing the inside of her knee.

A simple, light touch. A warning. A reminder.

Evie felt it like a lightning strike. Bucky felt the way she stopped breathing. The way she didn't pull away. The way she just… waited. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low, almost unreadable.

"Darts is a precision game."

Evie's pulse hammered. Bucky's fingers didn't move.

"And you?" His thumb brushed against the seam of her dress. "You like precision, don't you?"

Evie swallowed. She should stop this. She should. But instead? Instead, she didn't back down—steadily, deliberately—holding his gaze dead-on.

"Only when it counts."

Bucky's fingers tightened, just barely.

And fuck. Fuck. This was bad. Because he could see it now. The way her lips parted slightly. The way her breathing had changed, slowed, deepened. The way she was leaning just a little closer—just enough to let him know that if he moved in… she wouldn't stop him.

The air was scorching now.

Bucky's fingers ghosted higher on her thigh, just slightly. His voice was still low. Still edged with something dangerous.

"And this?"

Evie's breath caught.

Bucky's fingers barely curled, pressing lightly—just enough to remind her that she was the one who started this.

Evie held his gaze.

"Not quite a bullseye," she murmured. "But you're getting closer,"

Bucky's throat worked. His grip on the wheel flexed. Because damn her.

Damn her.

Damn her.

Damn her.

This wasn't a game anymore. This was a losing battle. So Bucky did the only thing he could do.

He let go.

His hand left her leg and he turned his eyes back to the road. His voice was quiet. Gruff. Final. "We're almost there."

Evie let out a slow breath, pressing her lips together. She didn't push again.

Bucky pulled up to her building and shut off the engine. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. They just sat there. Silent. Staring straight ahead.

And then—Evie broke it.

Her voice was quiet. Smooth. A statement, not a request. "Steve picked me up at my door."

Bucky exhaled slowly. Then—still looking ahead, voice unreadable— "Wouldn't want to mess up my end of the deal." And with that, he climbed out of the truck.

Evie followed.

They walked across the lobby in silence, both pointedly ignoring the way the doorman's eyes flicked between them. Evie could practically hear the man's thoughts. Didn't she leave with a different guy earlier?

But she ignored it. Because there was only one man who mattered right now. Bucky. And the way he was walking beside her like he was barely holding something back.

The elevator doors slid shut behind them. The space was too small. Too quiet. Too charged. Evie pressed her floor button, arms folded across her chest. Bucky stood beside her, hands shoved in his pockets, staring straight ahead. Neither of them spoke.

Every second felt like a challenge. The lights above dinged softly as the floors counted up. And still—the tension didn't break. Not even when the doors finally slid open. Not even when they stepped out together, side by side.

They stopped outside her apartment and Evie turned to him, tilting her head. Bucky held her gaze. Neither of them moved. Neither of them said it. But it was right there. Between them. Something undeniable. Something barely restrained.

Bucky's eyes flickered down—just for a second, and Evie knew. She knew if she leaned in—even an inch—he'd kiss her. If she said his name the right way—soft, breathless—he'd crumble.

And he knew it, too. Which was why he pulled back. His voice, low, rough. "Goodnight, Evie."

He turned. Started to leave. But—

"Bucky."

He froze. His hands clenched. His shoulders tightened. Slowly, he turned back.

Evie tilted her head, innocent. "Could you help me with the back of my dress?"

Bucky stared at her. His expression was absolutely wrecked.

"I can't reach it." Her voice was light. Casual. A power move. A challenge.

Bucky exhaled through his nose. Then, silently, he stepped forward. Evie turned, facing the door. Cold metal against her spine. Bucky's fingers—deliberate, slow—finding the zipper.

Evie's breath hitched. Bucky's fingers didn't shake. Didn't rush. Didn't retreat. The zipper slid down, inch by agonizing inch. His knuckles grazed the skin between her shoulder blades.

Evie felt the way her entire body responded, shivering under his touch, despite her desperate attempts to stay composed. Bucky felt it, too. The final inch. Then—a pause. Bucky's fingers hovered. Like he wasn't ready to step away. Like he was waiting.

Evie smiled. Soft. Triumphant. Then, without turning around—

"Thank you for the ride."

And she closed the door.