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It was baby pink with a bold phrase on the front.
“This is the apron you got me, Walker?!” Yelena shrieked, jaw dropping as she looked in the mirror. The words stared back at her.
Okay, maybe she was overreacting and it was typical, some would even call it cliche. But with this unknown confusing delicate territory she was in with Bucky, this was not how she wanted to go about things.
“That’s the only one I could find.” Walker shrugged as he placed soy sauce and sunflower oil down on the kitchen counter.
“Oh, really?” Yelena grabbed a knife from its holder and charged towards him. John reeled back.
“You’re fucking with me,” she accused, before drastically pivoting. Snatching a zucchini, and aggressively slicing it into three thick ribbons as if they wronged her, as if they were John Walker himself. Stupid John Walker! Stupid people always meddling.
This is why she had chosen to cook in Bucky’s apartment in the first place. No outsiders influencing their friendship.
Getting a hold of himself, John started: “You know I think you should actually be saying ‘Thank you, John’,” he primly adjusted the bowls, seasoning and cutlery surrounding the electric grill. "Thank you for running to the store and getting the ingredients my dish depends on. Thank you for bestowing me with your wisdom — your superior knowledge on cooking. Thank you for slicing the onions that I’m too much of a baby to slice on my own.”
“Onions shouldn’t make me cry. That goes against the very principle food stands for. What other food hurts you like that?” Yelena scoffed. “Besides, your gift is being in Bucky’s apartment.”
“Psh… I don’t need you to get into Bucky’s apartment. We’re friends,” he said unconvincingly, walking around the living room.
“Keep telling yourself that.” Yelena murmured. She set aside the zucchinis and turned to wash her hands.
“If we weren’t friends, what would this photo be doing up?” John gestured with his hand. The snap of his phone’s camera rang out.
Yelena was already very aware of it, noticing it as soon as she had walked through the front door. A group photo of the team at the gala a few weeks ago. All with awkward polite smiles on their faces, knowing they were playing dress-up-doll with Valentina.
Her cheeks warmed remembering the heat of Bucky’s hand on her waist. The way he had stuck by her side throughout the night, almost like a bodyguard. It was nice to feel taken care of like that. He shielded her from certain guests, having been through this before. Sometimes he was charming, other times painfully awkward. She giggled, watching the infamous Winter Soldier flip flop between both extremes.
He was her trusted dance partner, grumbling about the fanfare and laughing at her jokes about other guests. Whispering in her ear secrets he knew about certain characters. But then the next day, he stopped talking all at once. Retreated in on himself.
“You are one of many in that photo,” she pointed out.
“Yeah, and you’re front and centre in it. How interesting,” John noted. “You should be thanking me for setting up this date.”
“It is not a date!”
“Keep telling yourself that,” he fired back.
She harrumphed in annoyances. John: 43. Yelena: 257.
John leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Okay, so explain it to me — why this elaborate dinner?”
“He’s the last on my list.” Yelena shrugged. “I figured… it’d be nice to go out with a bang.” She moved to the record player, busying herself with flipping through albums. “Plus, he’s been having long days lately.”
Days where he stayed away. At first, it confused her — left her wondering if she’d done something wrong. Where had her dance partner gone? It got to a point where she tracked down Mel, Val’s assistant. Cozied up at her desk and demanded for answers on what Valentina had done. Mel folded faster than a house of cards.
Val had meddled. Told Bucky their relationship was inappropriate — bad for publicity. Yelena had laughed — sharp and bitter. Of course Val would twist their personal relationship into a PR problem. That was her specialty: to put her foot into situations that didn't concern her.
And it had caused this cold stretch of silence between them. One that infuriated her. How dare Valentina think she could dictate their relationship.
But that left the question. Why did Bucky listen to her? Something was weighing on him. Something he refused to confide in her about. And at first it bothered her, but now she just wanted their friendship back.
“And the rest of us haven’t?” John questioned.
“Hey, he doesn’t ask for much. It’d be nice to give him something good,” she defended. Before her eyes lasered in on him. “And I’ve made all of you your favorite dishes, didn’t I?”
She had taken up cooking a little over a month ago. A skill she’d never cared for during her Red Room days. Afterall, it had beaten into her that food was simple fuel and not to be indulged in. They had less than a ballerinas diet. More like a test to see how far they could go on the fewest calories possible. No wonder that afterwards, her go-to meals were protein bars, go-go squeeze tunas, and boxed foods. Quick. Efficient. Convenient.
But eating out with her team had cracked something open. Taste. Texture. Pleasure. Suddenly, food wasn’t just a means to an end — it was delicious. It made her indulgent. It made her enjoy it. And thus began her journey in cooking. And a range of knives for cutting into meat and vegetables and not, well — humans.
She had an idea, to make a dish requested from each of her family members. The best motivator. To be able to provide for her family and see their faces light up in — well, agony. Sometimes joy. She was still learning. She didn’t like being confined by recipes. Or orders. Or anyone else’s version of perfection. She liked improvisation — controlled chaos in a skillet.
“Yeah, such an honour that I was your first guinea pig. I got a burnt undercooked pizza doused with hot sauce and jalapenos. How do you get pizza wrong? It’s tomato sauce, cheese, and pepperoni.”
“I was experimenting!” Yelena yelled back. Exhaling her anger, before putting on an Ella Fitzgerald album. John had such a way of getting on the nerves. Poor Bucky dealt with it the most.
“Anyways, I just think it’s interesting that Bucky gets dinner and a show,” he noted. “I mean you can’t mess up fried rice, but won’t you get nervous about the performance.”
She didn’t answer right away, rushing back to the grill and adjusting the ingredients and equipment John no doubt ruined. “It’s just dinner. For a friend,” she murmured, not looking up.
The aggressive ringing of her phone cut through their conversation. Yelena scrambled to pick up.
“Ava?” she asked, “What? He’s here already!? Okay, thank you .”
John threw his hands up in disbelief.
“You need to leave, now!” Yelena commanded.
John had just slipped on his shoes, heading for the front door. But abruptly was pulled by the back of his shirt like a misbehaved cat and shoved towards the balcony.
“Out there!” Yelena pointed.
“Why can’t I go through the front?” He demanded, genuinely baffled.
“You’re gonna muck up the whole vibe. You think Bucky will feel better seeing you ?” Like a shepherd with her sheep she cornered him all the way to the balcony.
Her jab rolled off him; he’d built up immunity since day one. “I don’t care about your vibe.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll say it.” she sighed, massaging the sides of her temple. “ Thank you for everything you did today.”
“It’s nice to finally be appreciated.” he grunted, adjusting his shoulders. Reveling in how much it hurt for her to say it. John: 44. Yelena: 257.
“And you know what,” he started, “I actually don’t want to be here for whatever weird situation you and Bucky have going on.”
“Great,” Yelena nodded, “Now go on and jump down.” Her hands swatted at him as if he was a stubborn fly.
“Right, my bad . Sorry I’m taking my time jumping off this building!” He held his hands up, before promptly pulling himself over the ledge ready to plunge down. At least he could follow orders.
Ava waited at the bottom, a bored expression on her face, arms crossed. His hands left the railing—
The wind left his lungs, he grunted as his body pulled backwards yet again, “Wait, do you think I overseasoned the shrimp and steak?”
“No,” he said, exasperated.
“Thanks for this. I’ll make you a good pizza sometime.”
“I don’t want your sogg—.”
“See ya—”
Then promptly let go.
“That’s for the apron.”
John yelped as he plunged down.
John: 44. Yelena: 258.
💋💋💋
His feet dragged up the stairs, finally at the finish line. He sighed, another day of silence.
A yelp shattered the quiet as Bucky opened the front door. All fatigue drained out his body. Brain alert, he paused at the entrance scanning for threats. But relaxed once he found a familiar pair of combat boots at the front.
Yelena . What was she doing here?
It was just like her — always keeping him on his toes. The sight stirred something warm in his chest, though he couldn’t understand why she’d waste her time on him.
He stepped inside, eyes sweeping the room, trying to decode the setup. Ella Fitzgerald’s voice was no longer eerie but welcoming. Soft pools of light warmed the room like a jazz lounge after midnight, citrus kissed his nose, music transporting him to his mother’s kitchen.
An out-of-place grill sat on the counter.
Bucky laughed — soft, astonished. He’d been quietly tracking her cooking journey, amused by every misstep and triumph. Seems it was his turn now. This elaborate set up sang to something in his heart. Brushed aside the voice inside his head that whispered Valentina’s criticisms.
🎵 I'll chase the blues away
I'll laugh and sing all day
I've found my lover, someone who'll be true 🎵
“Yelena?” He called out softly, slipping off his shoes and dropping his bag. He’d only seen her in passing for weeks, but now here she was of her own accord. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
Said women darted in from his balcony. Strange ?
“Hi,” she smiled warmly, shuffling from side to side. Keeping a distance from him he couldn’t help but want to bridge. She held her hands behind her back, bringing his attention to her apron—
“Kiss the cook?” he chuckled in question. In a flash, she had crossed her arms, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘stupid apron’ and rolling her eyes. “Uh… what’s happening?” he asked, half amused, half confused.
Bucky noted her movement, she was uncharacteristically jittery.
“Um… well… we haven’t gotten to properly hang out in a few weeks, and you seemed down lately,” Yelena said, before tucking her hair behind her ear as she made her way to the kitchen, and began washing her hands. “So, I thought a home cooked meal would make you feel better.”
So Yelena had noticed his mood, his disappearance. He’d assumed he’d naturally fade to the background, but her standing here conflicted with that belief.
He watched her glance at the grill, fingers fidgeting at her sides. He smiled. He couldn’t help but be endeared by this unexpected shyness.
“Cooking? From you ?” He raised his brows in surprise. Teasing her brought a lightness to his heart. He could feel himself slipping into this easy back and forth naturally. “I’m not sure if I should be excited or terrified.”
“Hey, I have gotten better over the past few weeks,” she pouted. Eliciting a reaction brought delight. “Come on sit, you’ll enjoy it!”
He hesitantly sat, torn between belief and the quiet pull of possibility.
She spun dramatically and plopped a red chef hat onto her head, grinning like she’d won Top Chef.
“Oh wow!” Bucky laughed, and sank into his seat. His stresses and worries were sinking away. His focus settled fully on Yelena — ready for whatever show she had planned.
🎵I've traveled far
In search of someone like you
For what you are
Is the dream that I've prayed would soon come true 🎵
She cleared her throat, adopting a professional tone. “いらっしゃいませ. Mr. Barnes, welcome to at-home Hibachi! I am your chef today, Yelena. Today I’ll be serving you the Splash ‘N Meadow which is shrimp and steak. As well as Fried Rice. Let us begin.”
By the end of her speech, he hadn’t noticed how much his smile had widened. He was astounded by her speech and demeanor. So professional like. That ridiculous tall hat felt like it was meant to be on her head. She’d been improving with her cooking, despite the occasional misstep. The Walker dish he had suspicions she had purposely sabotaged. The others exaggerated her failures. He’d snuck a taste or two when no one was looking and it was not bad, promising in fact.
Yelena wielded a metal spatula in one hand and set a meat fork on the grill. She began to twirl the metal spatula in a circular motion around her hand. Forward. Reverse. Forward. Reverse. Then like a catapult, she flicked the spatula beneath the meat fork, launching it skyward and catching it in one fluid motion. She tapped the grill with her tools like a drummer making a beat. Before performing a series of tricks. Juggle. Flip. Reverse flip. Twirl.
Her eyes sparkled with light as they met his. Bucky watched her every movement entranced, as if she was a swan doing an intricate dance for him. Clang ! as the metal spatula hit the grill, before being tossed in the air so high it almost touched the ceiling, she caught it swiftly with one hand. Clang ! Doing the same with the meat fork. Before bouncing both items on the grill itself, and ending with a bow.
Eyes flickering up to meet his, she found Bucky smiling the widest she had ever seen in a while. Her cheeks colored a faint red, but she held his gaze.
His applause rang out loud and sincere. Bucky hadn’t felt this alive in weeks. The cursive lettering of ‘Kiss the Cook’ and lipstick mark blinked back at him across the counter.
Yelena turned on the propane grill. She blinked at the sizzling grill, spatula still in hand like a sword without a target. “Uh… what was I doing again?”
The excitement of the moment swiftly settled into something authentically Yelena. He leaned against the counter, still smiling. “I’m not sure. But I think you have a promising career in Hibachi performance.”
She preened at his praise, then spun back around — weapons raised in the air — to a notebook sitting at his back counter. One he had gifted her. “Ah… fried rice. Egg roll,” she murmured to herself as if studying for a test. He’d never seen Yelena take notes like this. He felt touched at her preparation.
“Okay.” Yelena smiled, bashful yet determined, and took her place behind the grill. Sunflower oil sizzled as it hit the surface. Vegetables followed.
She held up an egg to the light, grandly gesturing to it before setting it under a bowl turned upside down.
“Any additional eggs will cost ya?” she pointed.
“What will it cost me? A kiss?” Bucky quirked a brow at her. He had meant it as a joke, but Yelena turned as still as a statue, eyes widening at him. She sputtered, blush heating her cheeks. His own eyes widened in response. Had he been blind? Convincing himself of something different. Her flustered reaction lit a quiet spark in his chest — something warm, something undeniable.
“Uh…” Her movement was robotic as she flipped the bowl upright with her spatula. Clang ! It revolved in a circle as two eggs were revealed. “Actually there’s another one under here. Hibachi trick. Ta-da.”
“Wha—? Where did that egg come from?” He leaned forward against the counter, a bright grin on his face, watching the eggs twirl like they were part of the show.
“A magician never reveals her secrets,” she stated proudly, recovering. Before, cracking the eggs and tossing them in the bowl with practiced flair.
Scramble. Oil to grill and pour. A rhythm, a ritual. Her kind of magic.
He recalled an early morning, a sleepy Yelena cozy in pajamas, eggs on the stove. It was the only thing she knew how to cook then. Finding his sleepy figure, she had offered to share. It was when they first became friends. Back then, eggs were clumsily scrambled and slightly burnt.
Now? Her spatula danced with purpose, expertly folding the egg into a roll. Before chopping it into thin pieces. Mixing it with the vegetables. Her brow furrowed in concentration, lips pressed together, completely immersed. She introduced rice, pouring it on the heat of the grill. Adding seasoning with flourish. Her melody was almost complete. The air filling with its fragrance.
It wasn’t just the show that filled his heart with something close to hope. It was the notebook he’d given her, the recipe she'd memorized, the effort she’d stitched into every flick of the spatula.
She swiped some butter, plopping it onto the bed of rice. She grabbed the soy sauce as her next weapon of choice, “Low sodium,” she began with the bottle low to the rice, then extended it up into the air, “high sodium.” She giggled, amused at her own joke.
What was so special about him that she would do this? His chest tightened with something like gratitude, and awe. He had forgotten how it felt like to receive her effort. Her attention. Her magic.
He had convinced himself he didn’t deserve it. Valentina’s words had shaken his friendship with Yelena more than he cared to admit. But it wasn’t just her. There was always a voice from the outside trying to define him. Hydra had rewritten him. The government had used him. The government had used him — again and again. Hell they were still under their thumb. Valentina was just another name on the list, trying to manipulate his every move, every choice.
He almost wanted to shake himself. Why was he still letting other people’s orders decide for him? Decide who he was allowed to care about? He was so stupid. This was something special. A relationship he would guard with his life.
She piled the rice into a big bowl before serving it to him.
“Fried Rice,” she presented.
Bucky took the bowl with deliberate care, like touching something sacred. The aroma hit first — warm, savory. His gaze lingered on Yelena for a moment longer than it should have. She stood across from him, arms crossed, teeth worrying her lower lip. He wanted to take that lip and sooth it.
He scooped a bite, the spoon sinking into buttery rice and crisp vegetables.
“Wow, this is really good.” His tone held more awe than surprise. He blinked at her as if trying to add this version of her — the chef, the magician, the quiet architect of his comfort — with the chaotic assassin he knows.
Yelena’s face lit up so fast it caught him off guard. She tried to mask it with a shrug, but her lips couldn’t hide the smile creeping through.
“Yeah?” she asked, almost too casual.
He nodded slowly, chewing. “This is Michelin star worthy.”
She looked down, the blush already blooming on her cheeks. “It’s fried rice. Not rocket science.”
“No,” Bucky said, softer now. “It’s more than that.”
“Oh no. Don’t get all dopey on me now,” she teased, busying herself with cleaning the grill.
“Here, try it,” he offered the spoon to her over that infuriating counter. She leaned forward, avoiding his eyes as he watched her take a bite. Her eyes lit up in satisfaction.
“Damn, I’m good.”
“Right! Come and sit with me,” he pleaded.
“Bucky, I’m only one-fourths done with the show.”
He felt a bit torn — wanting her beside him, yet eager to see what she’d do next. She’d planned a whole show for him. The least he could do was stay for the full performance. But he’d offer her something in return — the words he’d swallowed for weeks. He was done being a coward.
“What’s the next act — fire juggling or interpretive shrimp dance?”
“Wait — How’d you figure that out?” She darted to the fridge, yanked the door open, and stuck her whole head inside to search around. ”Are you paranoid enough to put a camera in the fridge?”
Bucky blinked, trying not to laugh. She was chaos wrapped in charm — and he adored every bit of it. “Remember you told me that early.”
She pulled her head out and turned with a tray of shrimp. “Oh, right — I did say that.”
“Alright, Barnes,” she announced, spatula raised like a painter’s paint brush and shrimp tray like a palette. “Prepare yourself for act two: dancing shrimp, onion volcano... and zucchini .” She wiggled her brows, using the spatula to set each ingredient on the grill from right to left.
Smoke curled upward as the grill hissed to life. “Impressive titles,” he said, lips quirking. “Every single one of them.”
“Zuchini holds its own,” she shrugged. “Now we assemble the volcano.”
Bucky leaned in, elbows on the counter, “Lead the way, chef.”
“We are entering sacred terrain,” she said solemnly. Her focus was sharp as she used her spatula and meat fork to delicately place the onion rings atop each other like a pyramid, beginning with the largest ring and down to the smallest.
Bucky observed: the shrimp sizzle, the onion crowned in its place, and the zucchini laying flat — just being a vegetable.
“Did someone ask for fire?”
“No…?”
“Sorry, that line was in the video I watched.”
Bucky blinked. “Is fire... actually part of this?” He looked around at the lack of ventilation in his apartment.
“Yes!” And then she whipped out a lighter. A sad tiny flicker atop the onion hill.
Bucky stared at the flicker. “Is... is that the eruption?”
“It’s a slow burn,” she said, waving the lighter around before setting it down. “Here’s the actual show. Open your mouth!”
Bucky’s face pinched in confusion, a crease between his brows, but strangely his mouth dropped open, easily following her orders.
“Ah…” He garbled in surprise as water was squirted in his mouth. He closed his mouth and sputtered when the water sprayed in his face.
“Should’ve kept that mouth open, Bucky boy,” she teased, “Sit back.”
He followed instructions again.
Her movements were fluid and rapid. Pouring sunflower oil in the onion ring and she met his eyes, a devious grin on her face as she doused the volcano with water — wait a minute.
“Yelena, the ala—!”
“Fire!” As if armed with a gun, she clicked the trigger and a flame exploded in his face.
“Holy shit!” he cried, covering his face with his metal arm. The heat licked close, and he braced for the shriek of the fire alarm — but silence. Just crackle and chaos.
“Oh, don’t worry. I took the batteries out of your alarm.”
“Did you just do this so you could play with fire?” He asked baffled and still reeling from the quick succession of events. His heart was beating out his chest, the fire in his heart roaring and melting the long winter away from her.
“No, it was for you.” Yelena said, as she poured more oil and water in the volcano, and set it off again. The fire in her eyes made him question that, a maniacal grin on her face.
“Okay, maybe a bit for me too. But mostly for you!” she comforted, swirling the onion rings with her meat fork, creating a smoke tornado.
His eyes slightly watered from the smoke.
“Oooh… okay maybe I went a bit overboard. And didn’t think the ventilation through.” she cringed. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” he chuckled at the absurdity. “It just surprised me. You’re really good at keeping me on my toes.”
“That’s why you keep me around,” she winked. Picking up the seasoning and finally giving her attention to the zucchini. Butter and soy sauce melted together. Zucchini flipped to infuse the flavors. The shrimp followed.
“Among other things,” he said. It landed charged and heavy.
Yelena went quiet, absorbed in her task of slicing the zucchini and cutting the tails off the shrimp. Before plating those too.
What he didn’t say — what sat heavy behind his eyes — was this: How could it be me who keeps you around? I was an idiot to ever leave your side. I’m so glad I met you. You make me feel alive. He knew better than to say it out loud. Not yet. Yelena would shell up if he did. It was all about timing. But the pressure inside him built, slow and inevitable, like a pot on the stove left unwatched. The longer he kept it inside, the closer he came to boiling over. And he needed to say it — needed her to know or he’d regret it for the rest of his miserable life.
“We’re on the third act, Barnes,” Yelena smiled, revealing steak and mushrooms. Before placing them on the grill with a sear.
He’d act after the final. It wasn’t just pressure anymore. It was grief for the words he hadn’t said, building steam behind his ribs. If he didn’t tell her — if he let it fester — he’d carry that weight into every quiet moment that followed. And he couldn’t bear another lifetime of silence.
Perhaps Yelena could feel his desperation. She carried the third act in utter silence — the same way she would to move across battlefields, reading his mood without a word, their eyes speaking louder than their mouths ever could.
The tension crackled between them.
“Next time, I’ll take you out to Habachi so we can experience the explosion together,” he said, breaking the stillness.
She kept her eyes on the grill. “Oh so we’ll hang out again?” Her voice was quiet.
“God yes, Lena. Of course any day you’d like.”
“Oh, I’d like that.” she smiled to herself, but her eyes remained stuck on the steak. “But why did we stop hanging out in the first place?”
He pushed off the counter, walking around it to finally cross that maddening barrier between them. “Valentina—”
“Valentina called our friendship inappropriate and a PR nightmare. Yeah, Mel told me. But why did you pull away?” she turned to face him, and there was this hurt in her eyes, that he wanted to sooth away.
“Lena. I’m sorry.” He walked forward, eyes never leaving hers. “I was an idiot. I got in my head. Thought you would be better off without me. What could I offer you?”
“You already offer me enough. You're my dance partner, the person I can talk to about anything. The person I eat eggs with at the break of dawn. You’re always looking out for the team and I wish you would let me look out for you.” Yelena said, earnest and honest. Like she always is. “And I saw how sad you’ve been lately and it broke my heart. I wanted to make something special. For you. Because you do the same for me. I missed you.”
He approached her quietly, slowly pulling the spatula away from her to set on the counter. His hand hovered above her shoulder — unsure, but wanting to be close
“When I got home I was so ready for another day of mundanity. But then I saw your combat boots at the door and all this fire lit back inside of me. When I see you, it’s like all my stresses and worries quiet away. All I’ve known is pain but you offered joy. And it scared me. How you offer so much to me. How you give me the privilege of seeing this side of you.”
“You do the same for me,” she smiled.
“Then you perform this amazing routine in front of me — just for me. And I think to myself, how can I be so lucky to have you in my life. Lena, you make me feel alive. And I won’t let another person come between us. This — you — are something I have to protect.”
She didn’t speak right away. Her hand raised from the counter, fingertips brushing his wrist. The steam hissed, but the air between them went quiet — charged and trembling.
His hands stroked the top of her apron. ''I really want to kiss you right now.''
Yelena’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes flickering from his hand to his face. Bucky was hovering so close, the blues in his eyes sparkled.
He leaned closer, whispering in the space between their mouths. Eyes searching her widened ones. “Tell me, Yelena, do you want me to kiss you?”
Her lips parted, but no words came. The tilt of her head, the slightest nod.
He closed the distance. The distance that once felt insurmountable.
A soft sigh. The slow exhalation of finally. His lips brushed hers — gentle, purposeful — before he caught her plush bottom lip between his. Fire pulsed in his chest, hotter than the grill’s roaring flame. If Yelena was a fire conductor, his heart was her most loyal patron.
His left arm wrapped firmly around her waist; his right cradled her jaw. Her sighs unravelled him, pulling heat through every nerve until the taste of her made thought impossible. “Lena.” He guided her backward, fingers combing protectively through her hair as he pressed her gently to the fridge. Her red hat slipped off. He didn’t care.
Seemed she did, a bit.
“You sabotaged my third act?” she murmured, breathless, lips brushing his. Her hands settled on his shoulders. “Well — technically my second. I was supposed to…” she kissed him once, then again, voice flickering between laughter and longing. “Put shrimp tails—” kiss “—in my hat.” kiss, “But then you got all dopey.”
He pulled back, cradling her face in both hands. His brows lifted — teasing, firm. “Less talking, more kissing.” He tilted her head up, kissed across her top lip, then returned to the bottom — warm, buttery soft beneath his tongue.
He nibbled at her bottom lip. Soothing it with his tongue. Yelena licked into his mouth, earning a sigh from him. Her hands raked through his hair, playing with the ends. Sending a shiver down his spine. He could stay like this forever.
He deepened the kiss — hunger and reverence. Each movement was slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing her. His fingers traced the edge of her jaw, brushing against the skin just beneath her ear. Yelena pulled him closer, lips parting more against his in silent invitation. Her breath hitched as he licked into her mouth, and her fingertips curled into his shirt like an anchor.
The grill sizzled harshly in the background.
Yelena’s grip loosened, body standing upright. The crackling and popping registering to her ears. “The steak,” she cried.
“I don’t care about the steak,” he said. Trying to capture those lips again, but Yelena had already slipped away. She wielded the spatula once more, attempting to save it. Quickly platting it.
“Clearly,” her eyes flickered to him in subdued anger, “You stopped eating after the fried rice.“
“I was ready to kiss you then. Even before then, your apron kept mocking me and calling me a coward,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the fridge.
“So you don’t like my cooking?” she accused.
Bucky caught her hand mid-motion, grounding her with a quiet squeeze. “I love everything you made but I was kind of losing my mind over here. You could cook me fried rice every day for the rest of my life... and I’d never want anything else.”
Her anger left her in a breath, she turned to grab her notebook and pushed it against his chest. “You know I was going to kiss you. But you ruined my step by step plan.”
“Really? Because it felt like you were shelling up like an armadillo at my every advance.” Bucky teased. His eyes scanned her notes, smile tugging at his lips when he saw the final step — kiss after dessert? He stalked toward her, hands finding her waist. He pressed against her back. leaning in, his voice against her ear. “Second act? The final? Chef Lena... we can kiss whenever you want now. I’d love to taste whatever you make off of your lips.”
FicInspo:
day in my life living with my brothers in LA by Jalin Siu @5:38 — the apron idea. Yelena definitely got her and Bucky matching aprons saying "I like her buns" and "I like his meat." And the boys cooking dinner for her because she's stressed out, originally the concept was Yelena surprise cooking dinner for Bucky because he'd been having bad days. I mean he still has been having bad days, but there's a bigger emotional arc and angst/pining with how I reworked the idea. Also hibachi idea came from this video @6:12 (and other passing funny tiktoks of babies reacting to the fire. I loved the idea of Yelena not just cooking for Bucky but performing for him to lift his spirits.
Let Her Cook Series by Sydeon — the whole concept of a cooking arc and making dishes for friends.
I Became A Hibachi Chef by Joshua Weissman - Yelena ripped the routine off of this guy, not I. Certainlt not I.
Promo:
DISCORD: If you love BuckLena and would like to chat with other shippers — Join our discord! https://discord.gg/AWvdQYZ9eg</p>
BuckLena Week: yasmjn (my wonderful fellow admin of the discord) created a BuckLena week. We are currently celebrating from July 21, 2027 - July 27, 2027. If you are interested please check out this post.
My tumblr: gahdamnit. And the @bucklenaweek blog.
