It’s silly, Sam thinks.
He’s too old to be feeling butterflies fluttering around in his stomach when his crush looks at him; he’s too old to feel the growing warmth of his cheeks when his crush steps in too close.
Except, well. It’s not a crush, can’t be. It’s something much bigger, much deeper.
Bucky walks into the kitchen in the morning, hair ruffled and eyes heavy-lidded, voice deep and raspy as he says good morning, and Sam’s entire being warms at the sight of him, something vague that takes a more certain shape inside him with every look, grows and grows, until it’s all he feels, all he is.
And Sam thinks, again: it’s so silly, they’re both so old, but Bucky looks up at him as pours himself a cup of coffee, smiles softly, looks back at his cup, his cheeks reddening.
Then he leaves his cup where it is, steaming over the counter, and walks over to where Sam is, hip leaning against the sharp edge of the counter on the other side of the kitchen, right next to the window.
Bucky’s arms frame his waist, the sunlight making his eyes that much more blue and bright.
Sam takes another sip from his coffee, hides a smile as Bucky leans in closer and closer, until Sam has no choice but to place the cup down.
“Good morning,” he finally replies, sneaking his hand up to push Bucky’s hair away from his face, runs gentle fingers through it, smiles when Bucky leans into the touch, eyes falling shut.
Mornings like this are new and precious, this whole thing is new and precious. It’s something Sam never thought of having, not after everything, but here he is, running his fingers through soft hair, letting Bucky’s body warmth surround him, seep into him.
Bucky steps in even closer, until their chests are practically touching, and he tilts his head down, lips hovering over Sam’s.
Sam closes his eyes, smells the mint of their shared toothpaste, and leans in to close the gap between them for a small, gentle peck, as his hand falls to the nape of Bucky’s neck.
Bucky exhales loudly, presses even closer, deepening the kiss as his hands take hold of Sam’s waist.
And Sam’s heart flutters, again and again, as he wraps his arms around Bucky, because maybe he’s not too old to feel like this, maybe neither of them are.
Bucky hums as he pulls away, and Sam chases his lips just a little; except, he holds Sam in place, presses quick kisses to Sam’s nose, cheek, forehead, before he steps out of his arms, a smile on his face, a little cocky, as he goes to grab his coffee and plops himself down on a chair.
Sam gives him a flat look. “Just for that,” he says, “you’re making breakfast.”
Bucky smiles brightly, as if this was his plan all along, and also that this is not the punishment Sam thinks it is.
Sam rolls his eyes, takes a seat as Bucky gets right back to his feet and goes to the fridge, begins taking out ingredients.
Sam watches, gives instructions every now and then that Bucky mostly ignores, his coffee cooling down and his smile hurting his cheeks.
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