Fics🫶

“You remembered.”

Dean shrugs, trying for casual, but his eyes soften in a way that gives him away completely. “Kinda hard not to when you make that face every time you see one.”

You scoot over to make room for him, the mattress dipping as he sits close enough that your knees brush. He sets the pie between you like it’s something precious, like this small moment matters.

You eat straight from the container, passing the fork back and forth without really thinking about it. There’s no rush. No tension. Just quiet comfort — the kind that settles into your bones.

From the other bed, Sam looks up with thinly veiled disgust. “You know there are two forks, right?”

Dean doesn’t even spare him a glance. “Yeah, so?”

You laugh, leaning into Dean’s shoulder without hesitation. It’s instinctive — natural. With him, you never have to brace yourself. No matter how dangerous the job gets, you always know he’s close. Watching your back. Ready.

You ride in the Impala with your feet on the dash while Dean pretends to yell at you about it. You patch him up after hunts, fingers careful as they trace familiar scars, lingering just a second longer than necessary. He makes you coffee in the mornings exactly the way you like it, never mentioning that he hates it that way himself.

Sometimes, late at night, you sit outside the motel together, backs against the railing, watching the stars blink in and out of existence.

“Ever think about stopping?” you ask once. “All of this?”

Dean snorts. “And do what?”

You shrug. “Something normal.”

He’s quiet longer than usual, gaze fixed on the sky.

“Long as I’ve got you and Sammy,” he says finally, voice lower, steadier. “I’m good.”

You believe him.

The next job comes quickly.

A small town. Too many disappearances. Not enough answers. No clear patterns. No lore that fits neatly. Just rumors, half-truths, and locals who won’t meet your eyes for too long.

Dean hates it. You can tell.

“Whatever it is, it’s careful,” Sam says, scrolling through his laptop. “Smart.”

Dean snorts. “Great. Love that.”

You offer him a look and a half-smile. “We’ll figure it out.”

He glances at you, something warm flickering across his expression. “Yeah. We always do.”

That’s the last normal moment you remember.

You split up to cover more ground. Sam heads to the local library — again — while you and Dean take opposite neighborhoods, talking to locals, knocking on doors, chasing rumors that don’t quite go anywhere.

It’s late by the time you’re walking back toward the motel, keys cold in your hand. The parking lot is dim, lit only by a flickering streetlamp and the buzz of a neon sign across the road.

You hear footsteps behind you.

You turn — already alert, ready to face whoever’s been trailing you for the last two blocks — and stop short.

It’s Dean.

Dean Winchester. Leather jacket. Familiar stance. Even the faint crease between his brows, like he’s worried.

“There you are,” he says. “Sam said you were grabbing—”

Relief hits you so fast it leaves you lightheaded.

“Jesus,” you exhale. “You scared me. I thought you were still talking to that elderly couple. Did you hear anything useful?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I think I might know where its lair is, but I didn’t wanna go in alone.”

That gives you pause. If there’s one thing you know about Dean, it’s that patience isn’t exactly his strong suit. But you’ve asked him before — begged him — not to rush into danger without backup.

You smile, warmth spreading through your chest. “Good of you to ask for help,” you tease, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Finally got some sense.”

He smiles back.

You follow him toward the edge of town, to an abandoned industrial building half-swallowed by weeds and shadow. If you hadn’t grown up in this life, the place might’ve given you chills. He told you he thinks it’s ghost possession, so you had loaded your shotgun with rocksalt, while dean had gotten the salt and lighter. Just like any job.

You turn away from Dean for just a moment, scanning the structure for signs of movement —

Pain explodes at the back of your head.

The world tilts. Your vision blurs. Strong arms catch you before you hit the ground.

As everything fades, the last thing you see is his face.

Empty.

Watching.

You wake up in the dark.

Your wrists ache. Your head throbs. The air smells wrong — damp and metallic and old. You try to move and metal scrapes against metal, the sound loud in the silence. Chains. Thick ones. Your arms are pulled back behind a chair, shoulders screaming in protest. Your head throbs with every heartbeat, pain blooming behind your eyes like something alive.

“Dean?” you call hoarsely. Your mouth is dry when you speak. Your voice comes out broken.

A figure steps into the weak spill of light from a single bulb hanging overhead, swaying slightly. Relief crashes into you so hard it almost knocks the air from your lungs. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up — shoulders sagging, breath hitching, eyes burning.

“Thank God,” you breathe. “You found me.”

He doesn’t rush to you. Doesn’t curse or swear or grab the chains like Dean always would. He just tilts his head. Studies you.

“Oh,” he says softly. “You really thought that?”

“What—?” Your throat tightens. “Dean, please. I—I can’t get free. Can you just— can you untie me?”

He steps closer, boots echoing against concrete. Then he crouches in front of you, elbows resting on his knees, close enough that you can see every familiar detail of his face.

“I don’t think so,” he says calmly. “I think you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Your heart begins to pound. Too fast. Too loud. Confusion scrambles into something sharper, colder, when his eyes flicker. Yellow.

Just for a second — long enough.

“Oh,” you breathe, horror crawling up your spine. “You’re not Dean.”

“No, sweetheart,” he says, smiling — Dean’s smile, wrong and cruel on his face. “And I won’t be nice like he pretends to be.” He straightens, circling you slowly. You feel him behind you before his hands land on your shoulders.

Familiar hands. Unsafe hands.

Your body betrays you, flinching, shivering as his grip tightens just enough to hurt.

“God,” the shifter murmurs near your ear. “You should hear the thoughts he has about you. The doubts. The fear. The way he’s always wondering if you’re going to be the reason he dies.”

Your breath comes in shallow gasps.

“He thinks he ruins everything he touches,” the shifter continues lightly. “Especially you. Thinks you’d be better off without him. Isn’t that funny?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. “Stop. He would never—”

“Oh, he does,” the shifter interrupts. “Every night. Lying awake beside you, wondering when you’ll finally see him for what he really is.”

He moves back in front of you, kneeling again, fingers hooking under your chin and forcing your gaze up. You look into those beautiful green eyes that you remember yet don’t recognize.

“Oh, love,” he says softly. “We’re gonna have so much fun together.”

He leaves you there.

Hours pass — you think. It’s impossible to tell. Your wrists ache until your fingers go numb. Your head lolls forward, exhaustion dragging at you no matter how hard you fight it. You tell yourself the truth over and over.

It’s not him. Dean will come. Sam will come. This won’t last.

But when the door opens the next day, you know instantly it’s the shifter who walks in, and not the hunter on which you’re waiting. That becomes the pattern: The shifter comes, tortures you, taunts you, cuts you up and bruises you while making damn sure you see Deans face the entire time. It breaks you. And that seems to be exactly his goal.

Bruises bloom. Cuts sting. Your body becomes a map of pain.

But it’s the talking that does the most damage.

He wears Dean’s face every time.

He tells you things Dean has never said — things that sound just believable enough to burrow under your skin. That Dean resents you. That he’s tired. That you’re a burden he wants to get rid of.

He makes sure you look at him while he does it.

Days blur together. Maybe weeks. Time stops meaning anything when there’s no sunlight, no clocks, no mercy.

Sometimes it’s Dean who comes to see you. Sometimes it’s someone else — a man with too many teeth in his smile, eyes burning sulfur-bright. He never touches you, just watches. Listens.

“Dean’s unraveling,” the demon says one day, amused. “Did you know that? He’s tearing towns apart looking for you.” You had learned that that was their goal all along. It was never about you, it was about him.

The shifter beside him smirks.

Your chest tightens painfully.

They leave you alone after that. Alone with the knowledge that the man you trust most in the world is out there somewhere, breaking himself apart trying to save you.

Dean hasn’t slept.

Not really. Not the kind that does anything but drag him under for ten, twenty minutes at a time before he jerks awake again — gasping, hand flying to the gun under his pillow, eyes wild like he’s already mid-fight.

Sam stops commenting on it by day three.

By day eight, Dean barely blinks.

Sam notices it in the way Dean moves now — all sharp edges and restless energy, like a coiled wire pulled too tight. He paces when they stop. Checks locks twice. Reloads weapons that don’t need it. Drinks coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, black and scalding, one cup after another.

He doesn’t eat unless Sam puts food directly in his hand.

Even then, half the time, it goes untouched.

The Impala smells wrong. Not just the usual mix of leather and gasoline and gun oil — but something heavier. Sweat. Blood that didn’t fully wash out. Grief sitting thick in the air, clinging to the seats, the dashboard, the silence between them.

They’ve been hunting nonstop for eight days.

Eight days of empty motel rooms and towns that blur together. Eight days of dead ends, lies, and witnesses who swear they saw Dean Winchester somewhere Dean has never been — smiling too wide, acting too cold, saying things Dean would never say.

Sam feels it settle in his gut before he says it out loud.

A shapeshifter.

He stares at his laptop, lore spread across the screen, throat tight as the realization clicks into place. He hates that it fits. Hates how neatly it explains everything.

“Dean,” Sam says quietly.

Dean doesn’t look at him. His eyes stay locked on the road, jaw set so hard it looks like it might crack.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “I know.”

Sam swallows. “You do?”

Dean nods once. Slow. Controlled.

“It wore my face,” he says, voice low and steady in a way that scares Sam more than if he’d been yelling. “That’s why people didn’t question it. That’s why—” He stops himself, breath hitching just enough to notice. “She would’ve trusted it.”

The words hang heavy between them.

Sam watches Dean’s hands tighten around the steering wheel until his knuckles bleach white. The car drifts slightly before Dean corrects it, sharp and sudden.

“She wouldn’t blame you,” Sam says carefully. Gently. Like he’s handling a live wire. “You know that. She knows you.”

Dean lets out a short, broken laugh that sounds more like a breath forced through shattered glass.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “I still let it happen.”

From that moment on, Dean stops pretending.

He stops cracking jokes that don’t land. Stops pretending he’s fine, that he just needs more coffee, more leads, more time. The mask drops, and underneath it is something raw and dangerous and barely held together.

Dean runs on instinct and rage and a gnawing fear that never shuts up.

Every mile they put between themselves and the last place she was seen feels like another failure. Every empty room they search, every overturned chair, every bloodstain that isn’t hers but could’ve been twists something tighter in his chest.

He replays it constantly.

Her laugh echoing through cheap motel rooms. Her feet on the Impala’s dashboard while she argues with him about it. The weight of her head on his shoulder during late-night drives, trusting him completely to get them somewhere safe.

And somewhere out there, something is wearing his face.

Touching her. Talking to her. Hurting her.

Dean kills monsters faster than he ever has before. He doesn’t savor it. Doesn’t check his work. He goes in hard and brutal, silver flashing, blood spraying, finishing fights before Sam can even step in.

Sloppier. Angrier.

More than once, Sam has to grab him by the jacket and drag him back before he does something reckless.

After one hunt — a nest cleared, bodies cooling — Sam finally snaps.

“Dean!” he shouts, shoving him back. “You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

Dean turns on him, eyes burning, chest heaving.

“Good,” he says without hesitation. “Then at least I won’t be standing around doing nothing.”

Sam freezes. Because that’s when he realizes the worst part.

Dean isn’t afraid of dying. He’s afraid of surviving without her.

They find the demon on day nine.

Not because it wants to hide — but because it wants to be found.

It starts with a pattern Sam almost misses. A string of deaths that don’t fit the shifter’s MO. No copying. No mimicry. Just bodies drained dry of hope, eyes burned black, the kind of calling card that screams demon to anyone who knows what to look for.

Sam circles the map in red.

“Dean,” he says slowly. “This isn’t collateral. Someone’s cleaning up witnesses. Someone who knows what we’re chasing.”

Dean doesn’t respond right away. He’s sitting on the edge of the motel bed, elbows on his knees, sharpening a blade that’s already razor-perfect.

“Good,” Dean mutters. “Then they’ll know I’m coming.”

They track the demon to a half-condemned church on the outskirts of town — the kind that looks forgotten by God and everyone else. Broken stained glass. Burned-out candles. Sulfur thick in the air like rot.

Dean kicks the door in without hesitation.

The demon is waiting.

He’s lounging in one of the pews like it’s a recliner, boots up on the wood, hands folded behind his head. He’s wearing a man in his thirties — clean-cut, expensive suit, eyes glowing faintly gold even before he looks up.

“Well,” the demon drawls, slow and amused. “If it isn’t the Winchester greatest hits.”

He grins, lazy and sharp.

“You’re looking rough, Dean.”

Dean crosses the distance in three steps.

He grabs the demon by the collar and slams him into the wall hard enough to crack tile and shake dust from the rafters. The sound echoes — violent, final.

“Where is she,” Dean snarl, rather a demand than a question.

The demon only laughs, black eyes flicking over Dean’s face with something close to delight. “Oh, she’s alive,” he says lightly. “For now.”

Dean’s grip tightens.

“You should see how the shifter wears you,” the demon continues, voice silky. “Perfect posture. That stupid little crease between your brows when you’re worried. She hates it, you know. Seeing you look at her like that.”

Dean roars and slams him again.

Sam rushes forward, grabbing Dean’s arm before he can do real damage. “Dean—!”

The demon coughs, still smiling. “Careful,” he says. “If you kill me, you won’t know where she is.”

Sam steps in fully now, gun raised, voice shaking with restrained fury. “Tell us where. Now. Or you’re done.”

The demon sighs, long and theatrical, straightening his jacket like he’s bored. “Honestly, Winchesters. No appreciation for art.” He tilts his head, eyes burning brighter. “This wasn’t random,” he says. “Did you really think it was?”

Dean freezes.

The demon’s smile widens. “My boss wanted to hurt you,” he says plainly. “Not kill her — not yet. Just… use her.”

Sam’s blood runs cold. “Your boss.”

The demon chuckles. “Oh, come on. Yellow eyes? Ring a bell?”

Dean’s breath stutters.

Azazel.

“Thought so,” the demon says smugly. “He said you were getting soft. Too human. Too attached.” He leans in closer, lowering his voice like a secret. “So he sent a shifter to wear your face and tear the ground out from under you. Thought it’d remind you who you really are.”

Dean’s hands are shaking now. “Where,” he growls again, voice wrecked. “Is. She.”

The demon raises his hands mockingly. “Fine, fine. Abandoned industrial park. Edge of town. Old processing plant. Real charming place.”

He smirks. “You’re late, though.”

That’s all it takes.

Dean doesn’t wait for more.

He turns and storms out, Sam right behind him, the echo of the demon’s laughter following them into the night.

And somewhere, in a dark building at the edge of town, you’re still alive.

Terrified.

Waiting.

They reach the industrial park just after midnight.

The place is dead — long-abandoned warehouses hunched like corpses under flickering security lights. Rusted chain-link fences. Broken windows. The air smells like oil and rot and old rain.

Dean barely slows the car before he’s out of it.

“Dean— wait,” Sam calls, grabbing for a weapon in the trunk.

Dean doesn’t wait.

He kicks in the first door they find, shotgun raised, eyes wild. The echo of the impact rings through the empty building, followed by silence so thick it presses against his skull.

“She’s here,” Dean mutters. Not hope — certainty. “I can feel it.”

They move through the place room by room. Bloodstains. Drag marks. Scraps of cloth caught on jagged metal. Every sign hits Dean like a punch to the ribs.

Sam swallows hard. “Dean…”

“Don’t,” Dean snaps, already moving again. “Just— don’t.”

They hear it then. A sound so small it almost doesn’t register. A breath. A whimper.

Dean freezes.

“Did you hear that?” Sam whispers.

Dean is already running.

They find you in the far back room.

Chained to a chair bolted into the concrete. Head slumped forward. Wrists raw and red and swollen, skin broken where the metal’s bitten too deep. Bruises blooming dark and ugly beneath torn fabric. Cuts — too many to count — some fresh, some half-healed.

Too many.

“—oh God,” Sam breathes.

Dean’s world narrows until there’s nothing but you.

He drops to his knees in front of you, hands shaking so badly he has to clench them into fists to keep from touching you too fast.

“It’s me,” he says hoarsely. “Hey. Hey, sweetheart. It’s me.”

Your head lifts slowly.

Your eyes find his.

And then—

You scream. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just raw and broken and full of terror. You try to scramble back, chains rattling violently as you shove against them, breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps.

“No— no, don’t— please—”

Dean recoils like he’s been struck.

“No,” he says desperately. “No, no, no— it’s me. It’s Dean. It’s really me.”

You’re shaking violently now, eyes wide, unfocused, darting over his face like you’re looking for cracks. For proof. For the lie.

“Don’t,” you sob. “Don’t do that. Don’t use his voice.”

Dean’s chest caves in.

Sam kneels beside him, voice gentle but firm. “It’s okay. You’re safe. The shifter’s dead. It can’t hurt you anymore.”

Your gaze flicks to Sam — really flicks — like you’re grounding yourself.

Then back to Dean.

He hasn’t moved closer. Hasn’t touched you. He’s kneeling there, hands open, palms up, like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might break you.

“I know I look like him,” Dean whispers. “I know. But I swear to you — I swear on everything I am — that wasn’t me. I would never—”

His voice breaks. “I would never hurt you.”

You stare at him for a long, horrible moment.

Then your strength gives out. You sag forward against the chains, sobbing into your chest, body wracked with exhaustion and pain and too much fear stored up for too long.

Dean moves then — slow. Careful. Like approaching a wounded animal.

“I’m gonna unlock these,” he says softly. “Okay? I’ll tell you before I touch you. You don’t have to look at me if you don’t want to.”

He carefully breaks the chains while he talks to you the entire time — grounding, gentle, steady.

“There we go… almost… you’re doing great… I’ve got you… you’re not alone anymore.”

When the last chain falls, you slump forward.

Dean catches you instinctively — and immediately freezes.

You stiffen in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice shredded. “I know it’s not you. I know that. I just—”

“It’s okay,” Dean says, choking. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be okay.”

He shifts so Sam can wrap a blanket around you, covering your shaking body.

Dean doesn’t let go.

He can’t.

You bury your face against his chest anyway — like your body knows something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet — and the second you do, Dean loses it.

Silent tears streak down his face as he presses his forehead to your hair, arms tightening just enough to be real, not enough to trap.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers over and over. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve known. I should’ve—”

You shake your head weakly. “Not… your fault.”

But the words don’t fix the way he feels you flinch every time his grip shifts.

They don’t fix the way your breathing spikes whenever you hear his voice too close to your ear.

They don’t fix the fact that the monster wore his face.

Dean carries you out of that building like something sacred.

And even as the night air hits you, even as Sam says “You’re safe now,” even as the Impala comes into view—

Dean knows.

Saving you was only the beginning.

Because the hardest part hasn’t even started yet.

The motel bathroom light is too bright. It’s unforgiving. Harsh. It leaves nowhere to hide.

It shows everything.

The bruises blooming across your skin in shades you don’t have names for anymore. The shallow cuts and deeper ones, some stitched, some not. The way your wrists are still ringed red, like the chains are etched into you permanently. The way your hands shake so badly you have to brace them against the sink just to stay upright.

You barely recognize the person staring back at you. Your eyes look older. Hollowed out. Like something vital was scooped clean away.

You grip the edge of the sink harder and breathe.

In. Out.

You know it wasn’t Dean. You know that — in the logical, hunter part of your brain. You know about shapeshifters. You’ve killed them. You’ve watched their faces melt and warp and peel away.

You know.

So why does your chest tighten like a trap snapping shut every time you hear his footsteps? Why does your skin crawl like it’s bracing for impact? Why does your body still remember his face doing those things?

The door creaks softly behind you. The sound is quiet. Careful.

Still, your heart rockets into your throat. Your breath stutters. Your shoulders tense. Every muscle locks like you’re bracing for pain that doesn’t come.

“Hey,” Dean says quietly from the doorway. “It’s just me. I— Sam asked me to check on you.”

Just me.

Your fingers curl into the porcelain so hard your knuckles ache.

You freeze. Your body reacts before your mind can stop it — breath catching sharp and panicked, pulse hammering so loud you swear he can hear it. Your reflection looks terrified, eyes blown wide.

Dean sees it. He always sees it. And the look on his face—

God.

It’s not anger. Not hurt. It’s worse. It’s devastation.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, words tumbling over each other like if you don’t say them fast enough they’ll choke you. “I’m so sorry. I know it’s you. I know that. I just— my brain won’t— it won’t stop—” Your voice cracks. Tears burn hot behind your eyes.

Dean takes a step back immediately, like your fear physically pushed him away. His hands come up in surrender, palms open, empty. “Hey. Hey, no,” he says softly, urgently. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. You don’t owe me anything. Not a damn thing.”

“But I’m scared,” you whisper, the words barely audible. Saying them feels like betrayal. “And I hate that. I hate that it’s you. I hate that my body doesn’t know the difference.”

The silence after is brutal. Dean swallows hard, throat bobbing. His jaw tightens like he’s holding something back with sheer force of will.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice low and rough. “I get it.”

It sounds like he really does.

You risk looking at him then — really looking — and it makes your chest ache.

He looks exhausted beyond words. Dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes. His shoulders slumped, like he’s been carrying too much for too long and finally ran out of strength to pretend otherwise. He looks like someone who hasn’t slept, hasn’t rested, hasn’t forgiven himself for a single second since you disappeared.

He looks like he’s barely holding together.

“I don’t want to be afraid of you,” you say, voice shaking. “I don’t want that to be what this becomes.”

His breath hitches. “I know,” he whispers. And this time his voice cracks, just slightly. Enough to break something open in your chest. “I know.”

The silence that follows stretches and stretches — thick and fragile and full of everything neither of you knows how to say.

Dean breaks it first.

“I’ll stay out here,” he says quickly, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t speak now, he won’t be able to at all. “Sam too. You want the room to yourself, it’s yours. Bathroom, bed, everything. I promise.”

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t ask for anything. Doesn’t even look hurt — just resigned.

You nod, because you don’t trust your voice anymore.

As he turns to leave, you catch the way his shoulders sag just a little more. Like stepping away from you costs him something he doesn’t know how to get back.

The door closes softly behind him. The click of the lock sounds final.

You slide down against the door, knees pulling in, forehead resting against the cool wood. Your breath comes apart completely then — ragged, uneven, painful. You press a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound of your sobs. You cry until your chest aches. Until your head pounds. Until the tears burn your eyes raw.

Dean doesn’t go far.

He makes it three steps outside the bathroom door before his chest locks up and he has to stop, one hand braced against the peeling wallpaper like the ground might give out otherwise.

She flinched. Not big. Not dramatic. Just enough. That’s the part that guts him.

He’s seen fear before — real fear, monster fear, end-of-the-world fear. But this was different. This was quiet. Instinctive. Like her body learned something her mind hasn’t forgiven yet. And it learned it from his face.

Dean drags a hand through his hair and stares at the carpet, jaw tight. He doesn’t let himself swear. Doesn’t let himself punch the wall. He doesn’t get that luxury.

He had weeks to imagine what finding her would be like. He never imagined this.

He’d pictured blood. Screaming. Fighting. Carrying her out broken but reaching for him. Clinging to him like she always did.

Instead, he watched her shoulders tense when he spoke. Watched her eyes flick to the door. Watched himself become something she had to survive.

Dean sinks down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands dangling uselessly between them. They look wrong to him. Too familiar. Too much like the ones that hurt her.

“I didn’t do it,” he whispers to no one. It doesn’t matter. Something did. Something that wore him. Something that knew exactly how to hurt her by using everything she trusted.

Dean presses his thumb into the scar on his palm until the pain sharpens his thoughts.

He’ll take this. All of it. The distance. The fear. The way she couldn’t look at him for too long.

If it means she’s alive. If it means she’s breathing in the next room.

He stays right where he is, not moving, not sleeping, listening for every sound through the thin motel walls.

Her footsteps. Her breathing. Proof.

That’s his job now.

Not to fix it. Not to make it better.

Just to stay.

So Dean keeps his distance. Not because Sam asked him to. Not because she did. Because the way she looked at him rewired something deep and animal in his brain: don’t get closer or you’ll make it worse.

So he becomes careful. He knocks before entering rooms he used to walk into without thinking. He stays on the other side of doorframes. He gives warnings before he speaks, like noise itself might hurt her.

“It’s just me,” he says, every time. Even when it shouldn’t be necessary. Especially when it shouldn’t be.

He watches her out of the corner of his eye, never straight on. The way she startles at footsteps. The way her hands curl inward when she’s tired, like she’s bracing for something that isn’t there anymore.

Every instinct in him screams to fix it. To joke. To touch her shoulder. To pull her into his chest and promise she’s safe. He doesn’t do any of it. Because the last thing he wants is to teach her body another reason not to trust him.

At night, when Sam’s asleep, Dean sits in the chair by the window and keeps watch. The neon motel sign bleeds red light across the walls, over her blanket, over the faint rise and fall of her breathing.

He counts it.

In.

Out.

Sometimes she whimpers in her sleep. Not loud enough to wake Sam. Loud enough to carve something hollow into Dean’s ribs.

He doesn’t move. He learned that lesson already. Instead, he stares at his reflection in the dark window — the same face that smiled at her while hurting her — and tries to separate himself from it.

That wasn’t me, he thinks. But it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that she’s alive. What matters is that tomorrow, when she wakes up, he’ll still be here — steady, predictable, not asking for anything.

If fear is the price of her survival, he’ll carry it. Quietly. Without complaint. Forever, if that’s what it takes.

The next night, it’s the sound that wakes him.

A sharp intake of breath. Too fast. Too panicked.

Dean is on his feet instantly, heart slamming against his ribs. He doesn’t think — just moves, then stops himself at the edge of the bed like he always does now.

You’re thrashing, caught somewhere deep under. Hands clawing at the sheets. A broken sound trapped in your throat.

“No— no, please—”

Dean swallows. “Hey,” he says softly, keeping his voice low, steady. “Hey. You’re okay.”

Your eyes fly open.

For half a second, you don’t see him — you see him. The same face. The same mouth that smiled while it hurt you. You scramble back with a gasp, slamming into the headboard, breath ripping out of you in panicked sobs.

“Don’t—!” Your hands come up instinctively. “Don’t touch me!”

Dean freezes. Hands up. One step back. Then another.

“Okay,” he says immediately. “I’m not. I won’t. I promise.”

The room is quiet except for your breathing — too fast, too shallow. Panic buzzes through your veins like electricity.

“It’s just me,” he adds, softer now. “Dean. You’re in the motel. Sam’s asleep in the other room. The door’s locked.”

You shake your head like you’re trying to shake the nightmare loose. Tears spill anyway.

“You— you looked at me,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Just like that.”

Dean nods once. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t correct you. “I know,” he says. His throat tightens. “I’m sorry.” The word hangs there — heavy, unnecessary, sincere anyway.

You drag in a shaky breath. Then another. Your eyes flick to the door. The walls. The window. Reality slowly stitches itself back together.

“You’re—” You swallow hard. “You’re standing too close.”

Dean steps back immediately, until his shoulders hit the opposite wall. “Better?”

You nod. Barely.

Minutes stretch. The clock ticks too loud. Your heartbeat slowly stops trying to escape your chest.

Then, quietly:

“Can you… talk?”

Dean blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

“Just— something normal.”

He lets out a soft, rough huff of a laugh. “Uh. Okay. Sam ate all the good donuts earlier. Left me the weird coconut one.”

A ghost of a smile pulls at your mouth before you can stop it.

“He always does that.”

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs. “It’s a sickness.”

The silence that follows is different now. Still fragile — but not sharp.

You hesitate. Then:

“Can you… sit?”

His heart stutters. “Where?”

“On the floor,” you say quickly. “By the bed. Just— so I know where you are.”

“Yeah,” he says instantly. “Of course.” He lowers himself slowly, back against the bed, careful not to move too suddenly. He keeps his hands where you can see them. Open. Still.

You watch him for a long moment.

“You don’t look like him right now,” you murmur.

Dean closes his eyes briefly, like the words hit somewhere deep. When he opens them again— “I’ll take it.”

Your breathing evens out. Your shoulders loosen, inch by inch.

Time passes. You don’t know how much.

Then, softer than before:

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“…Can you come closer?”

He doesn’t move right away.

“Tell me how,” he says gently.

Your fingers curl into the blanket. “Just— sit up here. But slow. Please.”

“Okay,” he murmurs. He shifts carefully, sitting on the edge of the bed, giving you space. Waiting.

Your heart pounds as you reach out — tentative, trembling — and touch his sleeve. Just fabric. Just proof.

He doesn’t move.

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

“Yes,” he answers immediately. “Yeah. I’ve got you.”

You hesitate one last second… then lean forward, resting your forehead against his chest.

Dean goes still — like he’s afraid breathing wrong might scare you away.

“Can I—?” he asks quietly.

You nod, pressing closer.

His arms come around you slowly, carefully, like you’re something breakable. One hand settles between your shoulder blades. Warm. Solid. Real.

You exhale into him, a shaky sound that feels like something finally giving way.

He doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t trap you. Just holds you there, steady and patient, like he’ll let go the second you ask.

Your fingers clutch the back of his shirt.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

And for the first time since it happened… your body believes him. When sleep pulls you under again, it doesn’t drag you screaming.

Dean stays exactly where he is. Arms around you. Heart breaking quietly. Holding on anyway.

Morning comes and you wake up warm.

Dean’s arm is still around you, loose but protective, like he fell asleep afraid you might vanish if he let go. You don’t pull away this time. You breathe him in — soap, motel sheets, something familiar that doesn’t hurt the way it used to.

When you shift, Dean stirs immediately.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

You nod against his chest. “Yeah. I think… yeah.”

He doesn’t smile, but something eases in his shoulders. He stays still until you’re ready to sit up.

Sam clears his throat gently from across the room. “Hey.”

You flinch — just a little — then force yourself to look at him. He’s sitting with his hands wrapped around a coffee cup, posture careful, eyes kind.

“Morning,” he says. “I, uh… Dean said you might be up for talking today. If not, that’s okay.”

You hesitate. Your fingers twist in the blanket.

“I want to,” you say quietly. “I just… don’t know where to start.”

Dean shifts beside you, close enough that your knees touch.

“Anywhere,” he says softly. “We’re listening.”

That’s when it hits you — the space they’re giving you. No pressure. No demands. Just patience.

You swallow.

“He looked like you,” you begin, staring at your hands. “Sounded like you. Knew things only you would know.” Your voice trembles. “At first I thought… I thought you’d finally snapped.”

Dean’s breath stutters beside you, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“He kept saying things,” you continue. “About what you ‘really thought’ of me. About how I was a weakness. How I slowed you down.” A tear slips free. “I know it wasn’t true. I know that. But when you hear it enough times, in his voice—”

Sam leans forward slightly. “It messes with your head.”

You nod. “Yeah. And then when I realized it wasn’t you… it almost made it worse. Because he knew you so well. He used that.”

Dean’s hands clench in his jeans.

“I should’ve protected you,” he mutters.

You look up sharply. “No.”

Both brothers go still.

“That thing chose you because I trusted you,” you say, firmer now. “That’s not your fault. That’s just… monsters being cruel.”

Dean looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face. Like he doesn’t quite believe he’s allowed this forgiveness.

Sam exhales quietly. “Thank you for telling us.”

After a moment, Sam stands. “I’m gonna grab breakfast. Real food. No gas station crap.” He hesitates. “I’ll give you guys some space.”

When the door closes, the room feels smaller.

Safer.

Dean shifts closer instinctively, then pauses. “Is this okay?”

You reach out first this time, resting your hand on his knee.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I need you close.”

Something in Dean breaks open quietly.

He slides an arm around you, careful, grounding. You lean into him without fear, your head finding that familiar place against his shoulder.

“I missed you,” he admits, voice rough. “Even when you were right there… I felt like I’d lost you.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt. “I missed you too. I was just… scared of what it meant if I didn’t.”

He presses his forehead to yours. “We’ll take it slow. As slow as you need.”

Later, when exhaustion catches up to you again, you crawl back into bed together. This time, there’s no hesitation.

Dean pulls you against him, one arm around your waist, the other tucked beneath your head. Your legs tangle naturally, like muscle memory taking over where fear once lived.

You sigh — deep, relieved — and relax fully into him.

“This helps,” you murmur. “Sleeping like this.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”

His thumb traces slow, absent circles against your side. Every touch is deliberate. Every breath shared feels like proof that you’re still here. That he is too.

As sleep drags you under again, safe and warm, Dean presses a kiss to the top of your head. And for the first time in a long while, you both sleep without nightmares.

The road feels different after that.

Not lighter — the past doesn’t vanish that easily — but quieter. Like the world has finally stopped bracing for impact.

You’re riding shotgun, curled slightly toward the door, watching the scenery blur past. Dean drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console between you.

After a while, you place your hand over his.

He stills for half a second — then his fingers curl around yours, firm and warm.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes flicking to you and back to the road.

You nod. “Yeah. I am.” And you mean it.

That night, the motel isn’t just a stop — it’s a pause. A place to breathe. Sam heads out for food, tactfully loud about it, and you and Dean end up sitting on the edge of the bed together, knees touching.

There’s no rush to fill the silence.

“I keep thinking I should say something profound,” Dean admits quietly. “Like… make up for everything.”

You smile faintly. “You don’t have to.”

He looks at you then — really looks — and there’s no fear in your chest this time. No flinch. Just warmth.

“I’m still here,” you say. “I didn’t break.”

His throat works. “Neither did I. Not completely. Because of you.”

You lean forward first.

The kiss is slow. Careful. Not hungry, not desperate — just certain. Dean cups your face like it’s something precious, thumbs brushing away ghosts that no longer live there.

When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Stay,” he murmurs. Not a command. A hope.

You lace your fingers with his. “I am.”

Later, you fall asleep tangled together, the steady rhythm of his breathing anchoring you to the present. No nightmares come. If they try, his arms hold you through them before they can take shape.

Morning arrives gently.

Sunlight spills across the room. Dean’s still asleep, hair a mess, arm draped protectively over your waist. You watch him for a moment — the man who never gave up, even when it nearly destroyed him.

You press a soft kiss to his shoulder. He smiles in his sleep.

And you realize something, quietly and without fear this time:

Right now, you’re sitting on the floor of the common room, back against the couch, papers spread out around you in neat, organized piles. Mission intel, schedules, notes — all arranged in a system that only makes sense to you. You’ve kicked your shoes off, one knee pulled up to your chest as you mark something on a tablet.

Bucky is on the couch behind you, boots stretched out, metal hand resting idly against his knee. He’s been there for a while. You noticed him when he came in — the quiet shift in the air, the familiar weight of his presence — but neither of you said anything. You don’t need to.

“You’re color-coding,” he finally says.

You don’t look up. “It helps.”

He leans forward a little, peering down at your work. “It’s all black and white.”

“…Exactly.”

For a second, there’s silence. Then he huffs out a quiet laugh — low and soft, like he hadn’t meant to let it escape. It’s rare enough that it still makes your chest do something strange, a flutter you immediately ignore.

“You always do this,” he adds. “Take something stressful and make it manageable.”

You shrug, tapping your stylus against the screen. “If I don’t, who will?”

You glance up at him then, just briefly — and catch the way he’s looking at you. Not intense. Not obvious. Just thoughtful. Like he’s filing the moment away, committing it to memory without even realizing it.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how close he feels, even from the couch.

“Are you just gonna sit there?” you ask, tone light. “Might as well help. Or were you planning on watching me like a creep?”

He chuckles at that — an actual chuckle this time — and pushes himself up. He shrugs out of his jacket and drops it over the arm of the couch before lowering himself down beside you on the floor.

His knee brushes yours as he settles in. It’s small. Barely anything. But it’s warm. Familiar. Comforting.

You shift slightly to make room, pretending not to notice how easily your bodies fit side by side. He reaches for one of the piles, glancing at you for silent instruction.

You don’t actually need his help. You know you’ll triple-check everything he sorts later, just out of habit. But you wanted him here. Close. And you couldn’t think of a better excuse that wouldn’t sound like what it really was.

So you hand him a stack of papers and keep working, focusing very hard on not thinking about how much easier it feels to breathe with him next to you.

And you definitely don’t think too hard about why you wanted him there in the first place

------

“Why did you want my help,” Bucky asks after a few minutes, mild accusation in his voice, “if you’re just gonna keep checking everything I do?”

You glance over at his pile, then at the card he’s holding up between two fingers. Your mouth twitches.

“Because I actually thought you’d be helpful,” you say, deadpan. “C’mon, this is purple. And that,” you add, tapping the card in his hand, “is pink. Pay attention, Barnes.”

He squints at it, holding it closer to his face like the answer might change if he looks hard enough. “Those are basically the same.”

“They are not,” you protest, reaching over to snatch the card from him. Your fingers brush his — just barely — and you ignore the little jolt it sends up your arm. “One is muted. The other is warm. There’s a system.”

He looks at you, unimpressed. “There’s a problem.”

“You’re the problem,” you shoot back, but you’re smiling now.

Bucky shakes his head, a corner of his mouth lifting. “You’re ruthless.”

“You knew that already.”

He lets out a quiet laugh — softer than his chuckles usually are — and something about it pulls a giggle out of you before you can stop yourself. It’s not loud or dramatic, just light, like the moment caught you off guard.

Bucky glances at you, surprised — and then he smiles too. Really smiles.

And that’s exactly how Tony finds you.

“Barnes,” Tony says, strolling into the room like he owns the place.

He doesn’t continue right away.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, knees almost touching, surrounded by color-coded cards and half-sorted piles of intel. Bucky’s leaned in closer than necessary, one arm resting behind you on the floor, both of you too focused on each other to notice anyone else at first.

Tony clears his throat. Neither of you moves.

That’s what really catches his attention.

His eyes narrow slightly, something calculating sparking behind them as he takes it all in — the proximity, the ease, the quiet laughter that lingers in the air like an echo.

Interesting.

“I need you,” Tony says finally, breaking the moment. “For a night of smiling, mingling, and not terrifying world leaders.”

The shift in Bucky is immediate. The warmth drains from his expression as he leans back, folding his arms across his chest like a shield snapping into place.

“Hard pass.”

Tony doesn’t miss a beat. “You don’t get one,” he replies cheerfully, already glancing down at the tablet in his hand. “There’s a Stark Foundation gala next week. Press, donors, political types. The works. You know how it is.”

Bucky scowls, jaw tightening. “Why me?”

Tony looks up again, expression mild — too mild. “Because people still see you as the Winter Soldier.” He shrugs, like he’s commenting on the weather. “We’d like them to see you as… a guy who has friends. A life.” His gaze flicks meaningfully between the two of you. “Maybe a date.”

Bucky goes completely still. The word seems to land somewhere deep, knocking the air out of his lungs.

“…A what.”

Tony’s eyes drift to you then — really look at you — and back to Bucky. Something sharp and satisfied lights up his expression, like a puzzle piece sliding neatly into place.

“Well,” he says slowly, voice edged with amusement, “that problem might already be solved.”

Your stomach drops. You finally look up, pulse suddenly loud in your ears. “Absolutely not.”

Tony’s grin only widens, delighted and entirely unrepentant.

------

A few minutes later, Tony herds you into the hallway outside the common room with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s very used to not taking no for an answer. The door slides shut behind you with a soft hiss, muffling the sounds inside.

You cross your arms immediately, a defensive reflex you don’t bother hiding.

“Before you say it,” you start, “the answer is no.”

Tony sighs dramatically. “You always say that. And then you always end up being right for the job.”

“This isn’t a job,” you say. “This is… whatever that was in there.”

He leans back against the wall, unfazed. “It’s optics. And it works.”

You narrow your eyes. “On who?”

“Everyone,” Tony says easily. “The press. The donors. The people still looking at Barnes like he’s one bad day away from snapping.”

You stiffen. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Tony agrees. “But it’s reality.”

He straightens, gaze softening just a fraction. “Look — Bucky’s a good guy. We know that. You know that. But he’s not… charming. Not in a room full of politicians and billionaires who need to feel comfortable before they open their wallets.”

“And you think I am?” you ask flatly.

Tony smiles, not teasing this time. “You’re likable. People relax around you. You talk to them like they matter. You make them forget they’re supposed to be scared.”

You scoff. “And Barnes doesn’t?”

Tony snorts. “Barnes makes them think twice about their life choices.”

You bite back a smile.

“That’s why this works,” Tony continues. “You soften the room. He grounds it. You’re the charm. He’s the reassurance. Together?” He gestures vaguely. “Power couple energy.”

You hesitate.

“It’s one night,” Tony presses. “You don’t even have to lie much. Just… be what you already are. His friend.”

Your chest tightens at that.

“And if it gets weird?” you ask quietly.

Tony’s expression turns serious. “Then you stop. No one gets hurt. I promise.”

You exhale slowly. “…You’re a menace.”

“I prefer visionary.”

----------

When you step back into the common room a few minutes later, Bucky is already there — leaning against the wall, shoulders tense, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets like he doesn’t know what else to do with them.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says again, softer this time. “I mean it. I can handle Stark being pissed at me.”

You shake your head. “It’s not just for him. It’s… fine. Really. One night. We’re good at this.” At us, you almost say — but don’t. “We’re friends,” you add, like you’re reminding both of you.

Bucky nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah. Friends.”

The word lands heavier than before. There’s a pause. The quiet hum of the compound fills the space between you. Somewhere far away, someone laughs. It feels oddly distant.

“Okay,” Bucky says finally, pushing off the wall and facing you fully. “If we’re doing this, we need rules. Clear ones.”

You fold your arms loosely, trying to keep your voice steady. “Lay them on me.”

“Rule one,” he starts, thoughtful. “This stays fake. We don’t… blur things.”

You tilt your head. “Define blur.”

His jaw works, like he hadn’t expected you to challenge him. “I mean — no mixed signals. No acting one way in public and another in private.”

You nod slowly. Sensible. Safe. “So… fake is fake. All the time.”

“All the time,” he agrees, though something in his expression flickers.

“Okay,” you say. “Rule two?”

He hesitates. “Physical stuff stays minimal. Hand-holding. An arm around your waist. Whatever sells it.”

A beat.

“Nothing else.”

Your stomach does a small, traitorous flip.

“Right,” you say, forcing lightness. “PG-13. Got it.”

Bucky almost smiles at that — almost.

“And rule three,” he adds quietly, “if it starts to feel wrong for either of us, we stop. No explanations required.”

That one catches you off guard.

You meet his eyes. “You’d really walk away?”

“Immediately,” he says. “I don’t want this hurting you. Or… changing things between us.”

You swallow. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Silence stretches again — thicker now. Charged.

“What about after?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Bucky frowns slightly. “After?”

“After the gala,” you clarify. “We just… go back to normal?”

He studies you, searching for something in your face. “That’s the idea.”

You nod. “Okay. Then that’s the last rule.”

“Which is?”

“No catching feelings,” you say, attempting a smile.

Something unsteady flashes across his face — gone almost instantly.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s a good one.”

You both know it’s the most unrealistic rule of all.

He offers his hand then, tentative — not the Winter Soldier, not the Avenger. Just Bucky.

“Deal?”

You take it.

“Deal.”

His grip lingers, thumb brushing your knuckles like he’s grounding himself. For a second, neither of you lets go. The air between you feels charged, alive with everything you’re not saying.

Eventually, he releases your hand, stepping back like distance might help.

It doesn’t.

Because even as you walk away, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just agreed to something that’s going to change everything.

And he knows it too.

-----

Natasha’s room smells faintly of perfume and clean fabric when you step inside, dress bag hooked carefully over your arm. The door closes softly behind you, shutting out the noise of the tower — and somehow making this feel more intimate than you expected.

“Okay,” Nat says, already circling you like she’s assessing a mission. “Let’s see what Stark picked out.”

You unzip the bag and slide the dress free.

It’s elegant without being loud — deep, rich fabric in your favorite color, that catches the light just enough. Fitted at the waist, soft lines everywhere else. The kind of dress that doesn’t demand attention… but quietly commands it.

Nat’s eyebrows lift before she can stop herself. “Oh,” she says. “He’s going to lose his mind.”

“Tony?” you ask dryly.

“No,” she says. “Barnes.”

You groan, heat rising to your cheeks. “Nat—”

“I’m not teasing,” she says, softer now. “I’m observing.”

She helps you change, hands quick and practiced as she smooths the fabric over your hips, adjusts the straps, steps back to look at you fully dressed.

“You clean up well,” she says after she’s finished.

You study yourself in the mirror. You look… different. Not like someone pretending. Like someone stepping into something she fits.

“Is it too much?” you ask quietly.

Nat meets your eyes in the reflection. “For a fake date? Yeah. Probably.”

Your stomach flips. “Great.”

“For you?” she continues. “It’s perfect.”

She gestures for you to sit, already reaching for makeup. The room fills with quiet, comfortable silence broken only by soft brushes and the click of compacts.

“So,” Nat says casually, “how fake is this, really?”

You sigh. “Very.”

She hums. “Because the way he looks at you says otherwise.”

Your lips press together. “He’s just… being careful.”

“Mm,” she murmurs, sweeping eyeliner across your lid. “He’s terrible at pretending. You should know that.”

You swallow. “I don’t want to make it weird.”

Nat pauses, then rests her hand lightly on your shoulder. “You already did,” she says gently. “By caring.” She meets your gaze in the mirror. “You don’t get halfway invested. And neither does he. You just hide it better.”

She finishes your makeup — soft but striking, highlighting instead of hiding. Then she moves to your hair, fingers nimble as she twists and pins until it falls just right. Effortless. Intimate. When she’s done, she steps back and tilts her head.

“Yeah,” she says. “He’s done for.”

You laugh nervously. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest.” She meets your gaze, serious now. “Just… don’t disappear into this, okay? Fake or not.”

You nod. “I won’t.”

But you’re not entirely sure you believe it.

-----

Bucky’s leaning against the wall outside Natasha’s room, jacket already on, tie sitting wrong no matter how many times he’s adjusted it. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. Tells himself this is just a job. A role. One night.

Still, he checks his reflection in the dark glass of the window — the suit fits well enough, tailored clean and sharp. Too clean, maybe. He doesn’t look like himself. He looks like someone people might trust.

He exhales slowly.

Get it together.

The door opens.

And his brain just… stops.

For a second, everything goes quiet — like the world has pulled back to give him room to react. You step out, heels soft against the floor, dress catching the light in a way that makes his chest tighten painfully.

“Oh,” he says, before he can stop himself.

It’s barely a sound. Not enough to be smooth. Not enough to be anything but honest.

You hesitate. “Is it… okay?”

He straightens instantly, instinct kicking in — posture locking, expression carefully neutral. But his eyes betray him, dragging over you like he’s trying to memorize the moment before it’s taken away.

“Yeah,” he says, too quickly. Then softer, more real. “Yeah. It’s… you look incredible.”

The word feels inadequate the second it leaves his mouth.

Your smile is small, unsure. And somehow that makes it worse.

“Not too much?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “No. Not at all.” A pause. “It’s just—”

He stops himself. Because just doesn’t cover the way his heart is suddenly in his throat. The way something protective and aching settles in his chest.

Nat steps past you then, already smirking. “Try not to stare, Barnes. Cameras.”

He clears his throat, jaw tightening. “Right. Yeah.”

She walks off, leaving the two of you standing there — alone in the hallway, tension thick and humming.

You look at him then. Really look.

The suit does something unfair to him. Dark, tailored, clean lines that make him look older — steadier. The tie, a little crooked. The faint scar at his jaw somehow more noticeable against the crisp white shirt.

“Oh,” you say now.

His lips twitch. “That bad, huh?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Just— I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Good or bad?” he asks, quiet.

You swallow. “Very good.”

Something in his shoulders loosens at that. Relief, maybe. Or something more dangerous.

“You okay?” he asks, searching your face the way he always does — like he’s checking for cracks.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… taking it in.”

He hesitates. Then, carefully, he offers his arm. The movement is slow, deliberate — giving you time to pull away if you want to.

You don’t. Your hand settles against his sleeve, warm even through the fabric. The contact sends a spark up his arm, sharp and unexpected. He stiffens for half a second — then forces himself to relax.

Rules, he reminds himself. This is fake.

But as you walk down the hallway together, steps falling into sync like they always do, it already feels like something else. And Bucky realizes, with a quiet sense of dread and wonder, that this might be harder than he thought.

------

The gala is already in full swing by the time you arrive.

Light spills through towering windows, chandeliers casting a soft gold glow over polished floors and well-dressed bodies. Music hums low and elegant beneath the murmur of conversation. Laughter drifts from every corner, practiced and effortless.

You hesitate the moment you step inside.

Bucky feels it instantly.

His arm is already bent for you, but now his hand shifts — fingers brushing yours, then settling fully around your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You good?” he murmurs, close enough that only you can hear.

You nod automatically. “Yeah. Just… a lot.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It is.”

Before you can say anything else, Tony appears in front of you, tuxedo impeccable, drink already in hand. He looks between the two of you — your joined hands, the way you’re standing just a little too close — and grins.

“Well,” he says. “Damn. You two clean up even better together than I thought.”

You roll your eyes. “Please don’t make this weird.”

Tony raises his hands. “Hey, I live to make things weird. But seriously — you look great. Very… believable.”

Bucky huffs. “We’re standing right here.”

“I know,” Tony says brightly. “That’s part of the fun.”

He leans in, lowering his voice. “Relax. Smile. Let them see you’re human.” His eyes flick to you. “Both of you.”

Then he’s gone, swept away by donors and duty.

Bucky stays close — closer than strictly necessary — and you’re acutely aware of him in a way that makes it hard to focus on anything else.

His hand rests at your lower back.

At first, you think it’s intentional — part of the act. Something he’s reminding himself to do. But as the night goes on, you realize he never looks at his hand. Never checks where it is. It moves naturally when you step forward, shifts when someone brushes past you, steady and warm like it’s always belonged there.

The awareness of it sends a slow heat through your chest.

You feel him before you see him — the solid presence at your side, the subtle way he angles his body to shield you from the press of the crowd. When someone speaks to you, he leans in just enough that your shoulders nearly touch. When you laugh, his thumb traces an absent-minded arc against your spine.

You glance up at him without meaning to.

He’s already looking at you.

The moment your eyes meet, his expression shifts — something easing, something warm — and he smiles at you. Not the tight, polite smile he’s been wearing all evening. The real one. Small. Crooked. Just for you.

Your heart stutters. The room fades slightly at the edges.

Oh.

The realization lands quietly, but it’s heavy enough to steal your breath.

You’re falling for him.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… steadily. In the way he notices when you need space. In the way his touch grounds you without asking. In the way he looks at you like you’re not something to perform for — just someone he wants to stand next to.

The thought makes your stomach twist.

This was supposed to be fake.

You swallow, nerves creeping in, and look away before he can read too much on your face. You tell yourself it’s just the setting. The lights. The closeness. That it will pass once the night is over.

“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You wanna step aside?”

“I’m okay,” you say — then sigh. “Actually… yeah. Maybe.”

He guides you toward a quieter edge of the room, near one of the tall windows. The city stretches out below, lights soft and distant.

“You don’t have to be ‘on’ all the time,” he says gently.

You laugh quietly. “Kind of the point of being here.”

“Not with me,” he replies.

He takes your hand fully now, lacing your fingers together like it’s instinct. The tension in your shoulders eases almost immediately.

“You’re doing great,” he adds. “But if it gets too much, we can disappear for a bit. Grab water. Hide behind a plant. I’m very good at hiding.”

That earns a real laugh from you — soft and breathless.

“Thank you,” you say. “For… noticing.”

He shrugs, but his thumb tightens around yours. “You always notice when I’m uncomfortable. Figured it was my turn.”

He squeezes your hand once more before letting go, but he doesn’t fully step away. When you move back toward the center of the room, his hand returns to your back without hesitation, fingers settling there like muscle memory. Like he’s forgotten there was ever a rule about touching at all.

The noise swells again as you rejoin the crowd — voices, music, laughter — but it feels different now. Manageable. Because every time the room presses in, Bucky is right there.

And apparently, Tony has been watching.

He intercepts you near one of the cocktail tables, glass in hand, eyes bright with satisfaction as he looks between the two of you.

“Well,” he says, dragging the word out. “You two are doing great.”

Bucky raises a brow. “We are?”

“Oh yeah,” Tony says. “People are eating it up. Donors are relaxed. Press is bored — which is exactly what we want.” He glances pointedly at the way Bucky’s hand is still resting at your back. “Very believable.”

You feel heat creep into your cheeks.

Tony leans in a little closer, lowering his voice. “Only note?” he adds. “You might wanna turn it up just a notch.”

Bucky stiffens. “Turn it up how.”

Tony grins. “Couples touch. Couples linger. Couples”—he wiggles his fingers vaguely—“kiss. Every now and then. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to sell it.”

Your heart stumbles.

You feel Bucky’s thumb still against your spine — suddenly very noticeable.

Tony straightens, already backing away. “No pressure. You’re doing fantastic. Just… sprinkle in a little romance.”

And then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd.

Neither of you moves for a second.

“Well,” you say lightly, even though your pulse is racing. “That’s… a note.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “He’s impossible.”

You glance up at him. “We don’t have to. You know that, right?”

“I know,” he says quickly. Then softer, more careful. “But if it helps… we can. Only if you’re okay with it.”

Your chest tightens — at the way he asks, not assumes.

You nod, slow. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

His hand shifts — tentative now — brushing from your back to your waist. He doesn’t pull you closer. Just waits.

You look at him again, really look this time. The crease between his brows. The way his eyes search yours, checking, always checking.

The music shifts — something slower now, smoother — and the crowd seems to adjust with it, bodies drifting closer together, conversations softening. Bucky turns toward you fully, his hand still at your waist, steady but suddenly aware.

He studies your face, searching.

“You okay?” he asks quietly. “We don’t have to—”

“I know,” you say, quickly. Too quickly. “I just— Tony’s watching. Everyone’s watching.”

His mouth curves into a small, almost apologetic smile. “Yeah. He does that.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Charged.

You’re aware of everything — the warmth of his palm through the fabric of your dress, the faint scent of his cologne, the way his shoulders relax when you don’t step away.

“If we do this,” he says carefully, “we do it slow. Just enough to sell it.”

You nod, heart racing. “Okay.”

He leans in — not all the way. Just close enough that his forehead brushes yours. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“Still okay?” he murmurs.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

So he kisses you.

It’s gentle. Almost hesitant. A soft press that feels more like a question than a statement. His lips are warm, steady — respectful.

For a second, it really does feel like pretending.

Then your fingers curl into the front of his jacket.

Just slightly.

And something shifts.

Bucky exhales against your mouth, the sound barely there, and his hand tightens at your waist — grounding, protective. The kiss lingers, deepens just a fraction, no rush but no distance either. Like he’s allowing himself to feel it, just this once.

Your chest aches.

Because it’s not scripted.

It’s not careful anymore.

It’s the way he stays close even when he doesn’t have to. The way his thumb moves without thinking. The way your body leans into him like it knows exactly where it belongs.

This isn’t fake.

The realization hits hard and fast.

Your heart stutters. Panic flares — sharp, sudden, overwhelming.

You pull back.

“I—” You shake your head, breath unsteady. “I’m sorry. I can’t—”

Bucky’s expression changes instantly — concern replacing warmth, his hand loosening like he’s afraid he’s crossed a line.

“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay. We can stop. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s not you,” you rush out. “It’s me. I just— I thought I could do this, but I can’t pretend like that.”

The room feels too bright. Too close.

“I need air,” you say, already stepping back. “I’m really sorry.”

He reaches for you — not to stop you, just instinct — but his hand falls back to his side when you don’t look at him.

“Hey,” he calls gently. “You don’t have to run.”

But you already are.

You disappear into the crowd, heels moving too fast, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape your chest.

Bucky stays where he is. The music continues. Laughter swells. Someone bumps into his shoulder, apologizing absently. He barely notices.

His hand lingers in the space where you were, fingers curling slowly, like if he just holds still long enough, the feeling might come back.

He swallows hard. For a moment — just a moment — he’d let himself believe it could be real. Now all he can do is hope he didn’t scare you away for good.

-------

A week passes.

At first, Bucky tells himself it’s nothing. Schedules shift. People get busy. You’ve both done this before — moved around each other without meaning anything by it.

But then it keeps happening.

You stop showing up for late-night coffee.

You change your training slots.

You answer his texts hours later — polite, brief, distant.

And every time he sees you across the common room, you look right past him like he isn’t there.

By the seventh day, it feels like something hollow has settled in his chest.

He misses you.

Not just the almost-relationship. Not the kiss.

He misses you. The easy quiet. The shared looks. The way you used to sit next to him like it was instinct.

So when he hears the sharp rhythm of strikes echoing from the training room, he already knows it’s you.

He pauses in the doorway, watching.

You’re sparring with Natasha, movements fast and precise — too precise. Like you’re trying to burn something out of your system. Sweat darkens your shirt, hair pulled back tight, jaw clenched in concentration.

Nat catches sight of him in the reflection of the mirrors.

She blocks one of your strikes, steps back, and lowers her hands. “Five-minute break,” she says calmly. “Hydrate.”

“I’m fine,” you start, breathless.

Nat raises a brow. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

She grabs her water bottle, walks past Bucky, and murmurs under her breath, “Don’t screw this up,” before slipping out and closing the door behind her.

The room goes quiet.

You turn slowly, towel in hand, already bracing yourself. “If this is about the gala—”

“It is,” Bucky says. His voice is steady, but there’s something tired underneath it. “But it’s also about the week since.”

You sigh and look away, wiping your face. “I told myself I’d talk to you. I just—”

“You didn’t,” he says gently. “And that’s okay. But I need to know why.”

You finally meet his eyes.

He doesn’t look angry. He looks… hurt. Careful. Like he’s approaching something fragile.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” you say quietly. “I just needed space.”

“I know,” he replies. “And I gave it to you.” He pauses. “But I miss you.”

The words land heavier than anything else he could’ve said.

You swallow hard and sit down on the bench, towel twisting in your hands like you’re wringing yourself out. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Then talk to me,” he says, stepping closer — slow, deliberate. “Please.”

There’s a long silence.

Then you breathe out. “I panicked.”

He waits.

“I told myself it was fake,” you continue. “That it was just for the gala. But then you kissed me and it didn’t feel like pretending anymore. It felt… real.” Your voice wavers. “And I’m bad at that. I get attached. I fall hard. And I didn’t know if you—”

He exhales softly, almost a laugh. “If I felt it too?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He rubs a hand over his face, then lets it drop. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice how bad I was at hiding it.”

You look up, startled. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “I tried to keep it light. Tried to make sure you had space. But the truth is…” He hesitates, then meets your eyes. “I missed you the moment you walked away.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“I thought I scared you,” he adds. “Thought I crossed a line.”

“No,” you say immediately. “You were gentle. You always are.” You stand slowly, closing the space between you. “I was scared because I wanted more. And I didn’t know if I was allowed.”

He takes a step closer. “You could’ve asked.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But what if the answer was no?”

He considers that. Then shakes his head. “It wouldn’t have been.”

You blink. “It wouldn’t?”

“No,” he says softly. “Because I was already there. I just didn’t want to be the guy who made things complicated for you.”

A beat passes.

Then you let out a small, shaky laugh. “We’re both idiots.”

His mouth curves into a familiar half-smile. “Yeah. Kinda seems that way.”

The space between you feels different now — not tense, not fragile. Just honest.

“So,” he says gently, “what happens now?”

You take a breath. “Now… we stop pretending. But we take it slow. I don’t want to run. I just need to know we’re on the same page.”

He nods immediately. “We are.”

Your chest tightens, anticipation rising. You step even closer. He mirrors you. Only inches apart.

“Can we… finally call this real?” you whisper.

His smile falters just slightly, warm and tender. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, we can.”

And then he leans in.

This time, there’s no hesitation. No pretending.

Your lips meet, soft at first, testing. Then deeper, natural, urgent in a way you’ve both been holding back for weeks.

When you pull away just slightly, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, Bucky murmurs, “About time.”

You laugh softly, heart finally unburdened. “Yeah. About time.”

And for the first time since the gala, it doesn’t feel fake.

Briefing at nine. Training after. Help Sam recalibrate the scanners. Finish the report you didn’t get to last night. Answer the messages you left unread because you didn’t have the energy to form sentences that sounded normal. Your body feels heavy, but your mind won’t slow down. It never does anymore.  

You push yourself out of bed before you can think too hard about how much you don’t want to. The days seem to bleed together these days. 

You move through the compound on autopilot, responding when spoken to, smiling when expected. You’re good at it — you’ve always been good at it. Being reliable. Being useful. Being the one people can count on. 

Someone asks if you want to sit down.  You shake your head. “I’m fine.”  Someone offers to take something off your plate.  You wave it away. “It’s okay, I’ve got it.” 

You tell yourself you’ll rest later. After this mission. After this week. After things calm down. They never do. 

Stillness feels wrong now. When you stop moving, your thoughts get louder. Doubts creep in, sharp and uninvited. So you stay busy. You volunteer. You help. You keep going even when your hands tremble from too much caffeine and not enough food. 

Especially then. 

You don’t remember the last time you ate because you were hungry instead of because you should. Or the last time you slept without waking up exhausted anyway. You just keep on going and going and going. Even though you know this cannot go on forever. 

------ 

Bucky noticed it long before anyone else did. 

It was the way you lingered a second too long after meetings, like you had to convince your body to move. The way you laughed when Sam cracked a joke, but your eyes stayed dull, unfocused. The way you said “I’m good” every single time someone asked, even when you clearly weren’t. 

You were always busy. Always doing something. Always helping but never resting. You had said you couldn’t sit still a couple of times when asked if you’d like to sit down and take a break, brushing it off with a shrug and a half-smile, like rest was something you hadn’t earned yet. 

Bucky saw how your hands fidgeted when you finally did stop moving. How your leg bounced uncontrollably when you were forced to sit through briefings. Like stillness made your skin itch. Like if you stopped for too long, everything you were holding back might catch up to you. 

“You okay?” Bucky asked one evening, leaning against the kitchen counter as you poured what had to be your third cup of coffee since dinner. 

The compound was quieter than usual — most of the team had turned in for the night. The overhead lights hummed softly, too bright for the hour. You didn’t look at him when you answered. 

You smiled automatically. “Yeah. Just tired.” The words came out smooth, practiced. Too easy. 

He hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push. He never did. Bucky knew what it felt like to be cornered by concern, to feel like admitting weakness would make everything collapse at once. So he stayed where he was, metal fingers curling lightly against the edge of the counter, eyes tracking the way your shoulders stayed drawn up even as you moved away. 

As you walked past him, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, he felt something twist in his chest. 

Because he knew that kind of tired. 

The kind that settled deep in your bones. The kind that sleep didn’t touch. The kind that made your thoughts heavy and your body feel like it was moving through water. The kind that whispered you just had to push a little longer — until suddenly you couldn’t anymore. 

He watched you disappear down the hallway, coffee mug clenched like a lifeline, and exhaled slowly through his nose.  

----- 

Bucky starts ending up near you more often. Not close enough to be obvious. Just close enough to notice. He falls into step beside you in the hallway, walks a little slower when you slow, waits a beat before turning corners like he’s making sure you don’t disappear behind him. 

You pretend not to notice. 

One afternoon, you’re seated at one of the worktables in the common area, laptop open, notes scattered in uneven piles. You’ve reread the same sentence three times and still can’t tell what it’s saying. 

Your leg bounces under the table. 

Bucky sets a mug down beside you. You glance at it. Tea. You sigh quietly. “I’m okay, you know.” 

“I know,” he says easily. “Didn’t say you weren’t.” 

You hum, unconvinced, and turn back to the screen. He takes the chair across from you, movements unhurried. 

“You’ve been here a while,” he says. 

“So?” 

“So… just saying.” 

You type a few words, then delete them. “I’m almost done.” 

He nods. “Didn’t say you weren’t.” 

That again. 

Your jaw tightens slightly. “You always talk in circles like this?” 

A corner of his mouth twitches. “Only when I’m trying not to annoy someone.” 

“Well,” you mutter, “you’re failing a little.” 

He chuckles softly but doesn’t leave.  

Silence settles. Not uncomfortable. Just a little bit heavy. 

“You don’t sit still much,” Bucky says after a moment. 

You pause. “I sit.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Just… not for long.” 

You exhale through your nose. “I don’t see the problem.” 

“Wasn’t saying there was one.” 

You finally look at him. He’s calm. Not accusing. That almost makes it worse. “I’m just busy,” you say. “People get busy.” 

“I know.” 

“Okay.” You gesture at the screen. “Then can I get back to it?” 

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I’ll leave you to it.” 

He stands, but before walking away, he adds quietly, “If you want help with the report, I’m around.” 

You don’t answer. You just give a brief nod and keep typing. 

Bucky walks off, but the quiet feels different after he’s gone. Thicker. Harder to breathe through. 

Your leg keeps bouncing. And despite yourself, you catch your reflection in the dark screen for a second — tired eyes, clenched jaw, shoulders pulled too tight. 

You frown. 

Not because he was wrong — because that would imply there was something to be wrong about. But because he’d been watching. Because he’d lingered. Because you didn’t like the feeling of being examined when there was nothing to examine. 

You straighten in your chair, force your leg to still, and turn your attention back to the screen. There’s work to do. You’re fine. And you don’t need anyone hovering over you to prove it. 

---- 

Bucky makes a point not to bring it up again. 

At least, not directly. 

He gives you space after that — a few days where he keeps his distance, watches from across rooms instead of from beside you. You seem to relax a little. Your shoulders lower. You move faster again, like you’re proving something. 

It doesn’t make him feel better. 

He starts helping in smaller ways. The kind you can’t really argue with, like bringing you coffee or making you breakfast. 

One evening, he finds you in the training room long after everyone else has cleared out. The lights are dimmed, mats scattered across the floor. You’re running drills alone, movements sharp but sloppy around the edges. 

You miss a step. Catch yourself. Keep going. 

Bucky leans against the doorway, arms crossed, and watches for a moment longer than he should. 

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he says finally. 

You glance at him, breath a little too fast. “I’m fine.” 

He almost smiles at the predictability of it. “Didn’t say you weren’t,” he replies, echoing his earlier words. 

You scowl faintly but don’t stop. He pushes off the wall and steps inside, keeping his distance. 

“Mind if I join?” he asks. 

You hesitate, then shrug. “Suit yourself.” 

You run the drill together. Slower this time. More controlled. He adjusts his pace to match yours without saying anything, notices the way your form tightens when you’re tired, the way you grit your teeth instead of taking a break. When you finally stop, you bend forward slightly, hands braced on your knees. You straighten too quickly when you realize he’s watching. 

“I don’t need a lecture,” you say. 

“I know,” Bucky answers easily. “Wasn’t planning on one.” He grabs a water bottle from the rack and rolls it across the mat toward you. It stops near your foot. “You should hydrate,” he adds, tone casual. “That’s not an accusation.” 

You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself. “You always talk like that?” 

“Only when I’m trying not to mess things up.” 

You take the bottle. Don’t look at him when you do. 

You sit on the edge of the mat after, not touching, not talking much. Just sharing the quiet. Bucky feels it when your breathing finally evens out, when the tension in the room softens a fraction. 

“You don’t have to keep pushing this hard,” he says eventually, staring straight ahead. 

You stiffen. Just a little. “I’m not pushing,” you reply. “I’m training.” 

“Okay,” he says simply. 

That’s it. No argument. No pressure. 

But as he stands to leave, he adds, softer, “If you ever want company… I’m around.” 

You nod once, eyes fixed on the floor, eyes unfocused. 

Bucky leaves the room with a familiar weight in his chest. You’re not ready to hear it yet. But you’re letting him stay close. And for now, that’s enough. 

-----

It happens on a day that should have been manageable. 

That’s the worst part. 

It’s not a mission gone wrong or a crisis alarm blaring through the compound. It’s a briefing that runs too long, a list of tasks that keeps growing, and a comment that lands a little sharper than intended. 

“Can you handle that too?” someone asks, already moving on before you answer. You nod automatically. Of course you can. You always do. 

By the time you reach the common area, your head is pounding. The lights feel too bright. The noise — chairs scraping, voices overlapping — crawls under your skin. 

You set your tablet down on the table. 

It slips. 

Not far. Barely even makes a sound. But something in you snaps clean through. 

“—damn it,” you breathe, hands shaking as you grab it again. 

Your chest tightens. Breathing suddenly feels like work. Too much air, not enough of it. The room tilts just slightly, like you’re standing on something unsteady. 

Someone says your name. 

You don’t answer. 

Bucky looks up instantly. 

He sees it — the way your shoulders are drawn up to your ears, the way your eyes look unfocused, like you’re trying to keep everything inside by sheer force of will. 

“You okay?” Sam asks, closer now. 

“I’m fine,” you say automatically. But your voice cracks. 

That’s what does it. You laugh — a short, sharp sound that doesn’t belong to you. “I said I’m fine.” 

Your hands curl into fists on the table. You’re suddenly furious — at the noise, at the questions, at yourself. “Can everyone just—” Your breath stutters. “Just give me a second?” 

The room goes quiet. Too quiet. You press a hand to your chest like you can physically hold everything in, but it keeps spilling over. Tears blur your vision before you can stop them, hot and humiliating. 

“I just—” You swallow hard. “I can’t—” You break off, breath hitching, words dissolving into nothing. 

Bucky is beside you immediately. “Hey,” he says quietly, firmly — grounding. Not loud. Not panicked. “C’mon. Let’s go.” 

He doesn’t ask. 

He places a hand at your back, solid and warm, guiding you away from the table and toward the hallway before anyone can say anything else. You don’t resist. You don’t have the energy. 

The door to his apartment closes softly behind you. 

The quiet hits all at once. 

You crumble. 

Your knees give out halfway across the room, and Bucky catches you easily, easing you down onto the couch. You curl in on yourself, arms wrapped tight around your torso, breath coming in short, broken pulls. 

“I didn’t mean to—” you whisper, voice shaking. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

Bucky kneels in front of you, close but not crowding. “Hey,” he says again, softer this time. “Nothing’s wrong with you.” 

You shake your head, tears spilling freely now. “I can’t stop. I don’t know how to stop.” 

“I know,” he says simply. He sits beside you and opens his arm just slightly — an invitation, not an assumption. 

You hesitate for half a second. Then you lean into him, forehead pressing against his shoulder as a sob tears out of your chest. His arm comes around you fully, strong and steady, pulling you close without squeezing. 

He lets you cry. Doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t shush you. Just anchors you there, one hand rubbing slow circles against your back, the other warm and solid at your side. “Breathe with me,” he murmurs. “Okay? In through your nose. Slow.” 

You try. Fail. Try again. He keeps pace with you until your breaths start to match his. “There you go,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.” 

Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Eventually, your crying quiets into shaky exhales. Your body feels heavy, like everything you’ve been holding up has finally dropped. 

“I didn’t tell anyone,” you say weakly. “I thought I could just… push through it.” 

Bucky’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays gentle. “Yeah. I figured.” 

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and exhausted. “I didn’t want to be a problem.” 

He cups your cheek before he can stop himself, thumb brushing away a tear. “You’re not a problem. You’re burned out.” 

The word lands softly. Not accusatory. Not cruel. Just true. “And we’re gonna take care of you,” he adds. “Together. But right now? You rest.” 

Your breathing has slowed, the shaking mostly gone, but your eyes stay open, heavy-lidded and unfocused. Everything feels distant, like your body is a step behind your thoughts. 

Bucky notices. “Hey,” he murmurs. “You with me?” 

You nod faintly. 

“I can take you back to your room,” he says carefully. “Or—” He hesitates. “You can stay here tonight. Whatever’s easier.” 

The idea of walking all the way back to your room feels impossible. The thought alone makes your chest tighten again. 

“Here,” you whisper. “Please.” 

He doesn’t comment on it. Just nods once, like the decision makes sense. 

“Okay.” 

He helps you up slowly, one hand steady at your elbow, the other at your back. You lean into him without thinking, your weight heavy and unguarded. He adjusts immediately, grounding you, never letting you feel like you’re too much. 

His bedroom is quiet and dim, the lights low and warm. He eases you onto the bed and pulls the covers back for you. 

“You good?” he asks. He tucks the blanket around you, movements slow and careful, like he’s afraid of startling you back into panic. You watch him through half-closed eyes. 

“Yes, Thank you,” you murmur. It comes out thicker than you expect. 

Bucky pauses. “You don’t have to thank me.” 

You nod anyway. 

Bucky leaves the door cracked and settles onto the couch, exhaustion of a different kind catching up to him. It doesn't take long for him to fall asleep. 

---- 

You wake sometime later to unfamiliar quiet. 

The room is dark, shadows stretching long across the walls. For a moment, panic flares in your chest — disoriented, alone — until you remember where you are. Still, the bed feels too big. Too empty. Your throat tightens. 

You pad softly into the living room, blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Bucky is asleep on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, breathing slow and even. 

You hesitate. 

Then, quietly, “Bucky?” 

He’s awake instantly. “You okay?” he asks, already sitting up. 

“I—” You swallow. “I can’t sleep. Not like this.” 

He studies your face, concern softening into something warmer. “You want me to stay?” 

You nod, embarrassed. “Could you… maybe sleep next to me? Just for tonight.” 

He doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t tease. “Yeah,” he says gently. “Of course.” 

He follows you back to the bedroom, careful to keep his distance until you crawl back under the covers and shift closer on instinct, making room for him. 

He hesitates for only a second before settling in beside you, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. The bed dips under his weight, and you feel it immediately — the solid presence of him, close enough to anchor you. 

You shift toward him without thinking, drawn by warmth and familiarity. Your forehead brushes his shoulder, and you mumble a quiet apology before you can stop yourself. 

“Don’t,” Bucky murmurs. “You’re fine.” 

His arm comes around you slowly, deliberately, like he’s giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. Instead, you tuck yourself closer, your hand resting lightly against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat — steady, calm — and it does something to ease the last tight knot in your chest. 

Bucky exhales, long and slow. He hadn’t realized how tense he was until now. His muscles loosen one by one as he adjusts, shifting just enough to make you more comfortable. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head, his metal arm careful where it settles, flesh hand warm and reassuring as it rubs slow circles into your back. 

You sigh softly, the sound barely there. 

“That okay?” he asks, voice rough with sleep. 

“Mhm,” you hum, already drifting again. “Feels… safe.” 

The word hits him harder than he expects.  

Bucky swallows, tightening his arm around you just a fraction — protective, not possessive. He focuses on the steady rhythm of your breathing, the way your body slowly relaxes against his like it trusts him completely. 

He presses a barely-there kiss into your hair before he can second-guess himself, then stills, waiting. You don’t stir. So he lets himself stay like that, holding you as sleep finally creeps in, heavy and welcome. His breathing evens out, matching yours, and his grip loosens into something easy and natural. 

When he finally falls asleep, it’s deep and dreamless and peaceful. 

---- 

Morning comes slowly. 

You wake first — not with panic, not with confusion, but with warmth. The curtains glow with weak daylight, soft and harmless. Bucky’s arm is still around your waist, solid and steady, his body curved around yours like he’s been standing guard even in sleep. His heartbeat is slow, calm, grounding. 

For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re already failing before the day even starts. 

You just breathe. 

Eventually, Bucky stirs, his breath shifting against your shoulder. His voice comes out gravelly with sleep. “You okay?” 

Normally you’d lie. Default to survival mode.  But something in you is too tired — or maybe just tired of pretending. 

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t think I am.” 

There’s no judgment in the silence that follows. Just the quiet weight of truth settling between you. Bucky tightens his arm, gentle and protective. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “For trusting me with that.” 

You swallow, turning slowly to face him. His hair is a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep, concern written plain across his features. “What now?” Your voice cracks despite yourself. “I can’t keep pretending I’m fine. I can’t keep… drowning like this.” 

“You’re not gonna drown,” Bucky says, like it’s a promise. “Not while I’m here.” He hesitates, searching your face. And then, quietly, almost like it hurts to say, “I know what it’s like. To feel like you have to hold everything together alone. To be scared that if someone sees the cracks, they’ll decide you’re broken for good.” 

You blink, surprised by the rawness in his voice. 

He looks down for a second, thumb absently brushing over the back of your hand. “There were days I didn’t think I deserved help. Or that anyone would want to give it. I thought pushing people away made me strong.” His jaw flexes. “It just made me lonely.” 

Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking — anchoring both of you. 

“But you…” he exhales, eyes meeting yours again. “You make me want to stay. You make me want to try. And I don’t want you to go through this the way I did.” 

The words settle in your chest like something warm, something unfamiliar, something dangerously close to hope. 

You whisper, “Why? Why do you care so much?” 

His answer is simple. Honest. No drama, no hesitation. 

“Because I care about you.”  A breath, soft but certain.  “More than I should. More than I tried to. More than I can hide.” 

Your heart stumbles. Your fingers tighten in his shirt. You’re close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, close enough that the space between you feels like a question waiting for an answer. 

“Bucky…” It’s not a protest. It’s barely even a word. 

He lifts a hand to your jaw, fingertips warm and careful. “If you don’t want this, tell me. I’ll pull back.” 

But you don’t.  You lean in. 

The kiss starts soft — a brush of lips, hesitant and aching with all the things you haven’t said. Bucky freezes, just for a heartbeat, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Then he kisses you back, deeper, a quiet exhale against your mouth that feels like relief, like found instead of lost. 

It isn’t desperate.  It isn’t rushed.  It’s two tired souls finding a place to land. 

When you part, you stay close, foreheads pressed together, breaths shared. 

“That okay?” he whispers. 

You swallow, eyes burning — not with panic this time, but something warmer. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s… okay.” 

Bucky smiles, small and real and a little shaky. “Good. Because I want to be here. With you. For you.” 

You curl into him, head tucked against his chest as he wraps both arms around you, holding you like something he doesn’t want to lose. He presses one more kiss to your temple — softer, slower, more sure this time. A promise, not a question. 

“From now on,” Bucky murmurs into your hair, “you don’t have to do any of this alone. Not anymore.” Your fingers find his, and he laces them together without hesitation. The contact isn’t heavy or demanding — just steady. A lifeline instead of a leash. 

You breathe, really breathe, for the first time in what feels like forever. “So what now?” you ask quietly, not afraid of the answer this time. 

“Now,” Bucky says, voice warm and steady, “we get through it together. One morning at a time. One step at a time. I’ve got you.” His thumb strokes over the back of your hand, an absent, comforting motion. It feels like safety. Like relief. Like a future you didn’t think you’d get to have. 

You close your eyes and melt closer, letting yourself believe it. For once, there is no rush to get up. No weight pressing down on your chest. Just Bucky’s heartbeat under your ear, his breath in your hair, his arms around you like a shield you never realized you needed. 

This isn’t victory. It isn’t a cure. It’s the first moment you stop pretending to be okay and finally let someone stay. And wrapped in him, warm and tired and held, you know — maybe for the first time — that things can get better. 

Not all at once. But together. 

And that feels like enough. More than enough. 

It feels like a beginning. 

Outside the window, the city blurred past in streaks of gold and red, headlights and neon signs smearing against the night, but you didn’t really see it. Your gaze stayed fixed on nothing at all, eyes wide but unfocused, as though if you didn’t look at anything too closely, it wouldn’t hurt so much. Your hands were tucked beneath the jacket, fingers clenched tight into fists against your ribs, like you were trying to hold yourself together from the inside out.

Bucky kept glancing over at you — quick, almost nervous flicks of his eyes, as though he wasn’t sure if looking too long would break you more. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles pale beneath the skin, jaw set hard like he was biting back every word he wanted to say but couldn’t find the shape for.

He hated this — the silence, the distance, the weight of everything he couldn’t fix with a punch or a glare. He’d seen you scared at that party. He’d seen the shadows in your eyes. But this? This quiet, hollow version of you sitting beside him, too still, too silent — this was worse.

He cleared his throat once, softly, like he might try to speak, but the words caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth, and all that came out was a breath.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. If you did, you were afraid you’d break. That the dam you’d been holding up by sheer will alone would crack, and you wouldn’t be able to stop it — the tears, the shaking, the flood of everything you weren’t ready to feel.

So you kept your gaze on the road ahead, on the blur of night, on nothing at all.

And Bucky drove — steady, careful, like the car itself was something fragile, like the world might shatter if he wasn’t gentle enough.

When the compound finally came into view — all steel and glass and soft-lit windows glowing in the dark — he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The gates opened silently as they approached, and the quiet of the car felt even heavier now, like it had followed you both inside.

He pulled up to the front entrance, shifted the car into park, but didn’t move to get out right away. Instead, he sat there for a beat longer, fingers drumming once against the steering wheel before he forced them still.

“Hey,” he said finally, voice low, careful, as though he didn’t want to startle you. “We’re here. You’re safe now, okay?”

You nodded — just once, small, almost mechanical — and your voice came out thin, cracked around the edges. “Okay.”

The compound was quiet when you stepped inside — the kind of quiet that felt different from your apartment. Not tense. Not waiting for the next storm. Just… peaceful. The soft hum of distant machinery, the low flicker of lights along the floor. Bucky stayed close, but not too close. Like he didn’t want to crowd you. Like he didn’t want to risk being one more thing you had to brace yourself against.

“C’mon,” he said gently, motioning toward the elevator. “I’ll show you to your room.”

The ride up was silent. You stared at the floor numbers as they ticked by, hands clenched around the sleeves of the sweatshirt someone had given you — his, maybe, though you didn’t remember when he’d draped it over your shoulders. It smelled faintly of him. Clean. Warm. Safe.

---

The next few days passed in a blur.

At first, you barely left your room. The space was bigger than you were used to, but it didn’t feel like yours — not yet. The bed was soft, the blankets thick, and the view outside the window was endless sky and trees instead of city streets. It should’ve been calming. Sometimes it was. Other times, it felt too big, too open, like you didn’t know where to put yourself.

The nightmares didn’t stop.

Most nights, you jolted awake, breath ragged, heart pounding so loud you were sure it echoed down the halls. But no one came. No one yelled. No one grabbed your arm and dragged you back into the fight. And slowly — slowly — that started to mean something.

Bucky didn’t push. He’d check in, soft knocks on your door in the morning, sometimes with coffee, sometimes just to ask how you were sleeping — though the answer was written all over your face. You’d meet his eyes sometimes, offer a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. But that was okay. He never expected more than you could give.

And somewhere between those quiet mornings and long afternoons wandering the edges of the compound, you started to feel your shoulders drop. Just a little. You started sitting with him in the common room when he was there — on the other side of the couch at first, but close enough to feel the calm he carried. You started joining him on walks around the grounds, even if you didn’t say much. He didn’t seem to mind the silence.

Sometimes, at night, you’d find yourself standing by the window, watching the stars. And you’d think about how he’d stood between you and Josh. About how his voice had been steady, sure, when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

You weren’t ready to talk about it. Not yet. But being near him — that felt like a beginning.

And Bucky?

Bucky noticed every small step. Every time your voice came a little stronger, every time your laugh — quiet, fleeting — slipped out like it surprised you. He noticed the way your eyes started to hold his a little longer before darting away. The way your hands stopped trembling quite so much when you reached for the coffee cup he offered.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

He was just there.

And for now, that was enough.

---

It was late. The compound had gone quiet for the night, the kind of quiet that felt heavier somehow, like the walls themselves were exhaling. You couldn’t sleep — not really. Restless, you’d found your way to the kitchen, and now you sat at the small table near the window, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long gone cold.

You heard him before you saw him — the soft tread of his boots, the familiar rhythm of his steps. And then he was there, standing in the doorway, watching you for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he should intrude.

“You okay?” His voice was low, careful.

You didn’t look at him right away. Just nodded a little, eyes on the dark outside. “Yeah. Just couldn’t sleep.”

He hesitated, then crossed the room, settling into the chair across from you. He didn’t say anything else — didn’t try to fill the silence. Just sat, close enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

For a long time, that was all there was. The quiet hum of the fridge. The faint creak of the walls as they settled in the night.

And then, without really planning to, you spoke.

“I didn’t think it’d ever end up like this.”

Your voice was soft, barely louder than a whisper. But Bucky heard you. His gaze lifted, steady and patient, giving you space to keep going if you wanted.

“It wasn’t always bad,” you said, fingers tracing the rim of your mug, as if the words might slip away if you didn’t hold onto something. “He… he wasn’t like that when we met. I mean — he was sweet. Charming. The kind of person who makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room.”

You laughed, but it was small, sad. “God, I fell so hard for him. I thought I’d found it. You know? That forever thing.”

Bucky didn’t interrupt. He didn’t tell you what you should’ve done, or how you should’ve seen it. He just listened.

“The first argument — it was stupid. About something small. I can’t even remember what. But I remember how it felt. Like it came out of nowhere. Like I’d said the wrong thing and didn’t even know why it was wrong. And I told myself it was just stress. Just a bad day.”

You paused, throat tight, the memories thick and sharp at the edges.

“And then it happened again. And again. Louder. Meaner. Like… like he was testing how far he could push. And I kept thinking, if I could just do better — if I could just make him happy again — it’d go back to how it was.”

Bucky’s hands were on the table now, folded together. His knuckles were pale, but his face was calm, listening.

“The first time he hit me… I knew it was bad. I knew. But — I didn’t want to give up. I kept thinking, maybe it was just once. Maybe it was just a mistake. I didn’t want to be the person who failed. Who walked away.”

Your voice cracked then, and you blinked hard, willing the tears not to fall.

And Bucky — god, Bucky — he didn’t say a word. He just reached across the table, slow enough that you could see it coming, could pull away if you needed to. His hand covered yours, warm and solid and steady. No pressure. No demand. Just there.

“You didn’t fail,” he said, voice rough around the edges, like it hurt him to even hear you say it. “You didn’t fail, doll. You survived. That’s what you did.”

You let out a shaky breath, one you hadn’t even realized you were holding. His hand over yours felt like an anchor — not heavy, not trapping. Just steady. Safe.

“I kept thinking I could fix it,” you said, voice small. “That if I loved him enough, he’d stop. That maybe it was my fault. I must’ve done something to make him that way.”

Bucky shook his head, slow and sure. His thumb brushed lightly over the back of your hand — a quiet reassurance, like he was trying to wipe the thought away.

“No,” he said, and his voice was so certain, so solid, it made your chest ache. “That’s not on you. None of it. I don’t care what he said, what he made you think — that’s on him. You didn’t deserve a second of it.”

Your eyes burned, tears blurring the room, but you didn’t look away. Somehow, you couldn’t.

And Bucky, who usually seemed so careful to keep his distance, leaned in just a little. Just enough so you could see the softness in his eyes beneath the storm.

“I saw you at those parties,” he said quietly. “The first time, I couldn’t stop looking. You lit up the whole damn room, you know that? And not because of how you looked — though, god, you were beautiful — but because of the way you smiled. Like you wanted everyone to feel at ease. Like you were trying to hold it all together.”

You swallowed hard. “You noticed that?”

He gave a breath of a laugh — but it wasn’t amused. It was sad, gentle. “Yeah. I noticed. I couldn’t stop. And then… then I saw him. The way he looked at you. Like he owned you. Like you were his to control. And I hated it. I hated seeing him dim your light. Every time you smiled, it didn’t reach your eyes. And I kept thinking, why isn’t anyone doing anything? Why aren’t I doing anything?”

His hand tightened just a little on yours — not enough to scare, just enough to ground.

“And when I saw him with you that last time—” His jaw clenched, voice dropping low. “I wanted to kill him. I swear, I’ve never felt that kind of rage. Not since… not since before.”

You could see it now — the guilt, the weight of it. He’d been carrying it just like you had.

“You did something,” you said, and your voice broke on the words. “You saved me.”

Bucky’s gaze softened even more, like he didn’t know what to do with the way you were looking at him. Like he didn’t think he deserved it.

“I’m just glad I was there in time,” he said. “I should’ve seen it sooner. Should’ve—”

“Don’t,” you cut in gently, shaking your head. “Please. Don’t do that to yourself.”

For a beat, neither of you spoke. The night stretched out around you, quiet and heavy, but not in the way it had before. This was a different kind of quiet. The kind that felt shared.

Bucky exhaled slowly. “You don’t have to talk about any of it if you don’t want to. But if you ever do — I’ll be here. Every time.”

The room had gone still, but Bucky didn’t move.

He didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to risk breaking the fragile peace that had settled between you — like the two of you had stumbled onto something sacred in the middle of all the wreckage. You were still holding his hand, fingers small and trembling in his, but you hadn’t let go. And that felt like the most important thing in the world right now.

He kept his breathing even, slow, like maybe if he stayed calm enough, it would help you stay calm too.

His eyes drifted over you — the way your shoulders were still curled inward, like you were trying to make yourself small. The faint bruise at your jaw, already fading but still too loud in his mind. The tear tracks drying on your cheeks.

God. His heart hurt.

He’d seen pain before. Hell, he’d caused more than his share. But this — watching you try to piece yourself back together, watching you fight so hard to stay upright when everything inside you must’ve felt like it was breaking apart — it gutted him.

And the worst part? He hadn’t even known the full truth. Not until now. All those parties, all those times he’d watched you from across the room, too afraid to step in, too afraid to make it worse — he’d known something wasn’t right. But he hadn’t known this.

If he had… no. He couldn’t think like that. It would eat him alive.

You shifted a little, wiping at your eyes with your free hand, and he loosened his grip just enough to let you move — but didn’t let go.

Didn’t want to let go.

Bucky cleared his throat quietly. His voice felt rough when he finally spoke, like it had rusted from disuse.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he said, and the words weren’t meant to be out loud. But they were true. And maybe you needed to hear them.

You glanced at him, eyes red and tired but clearer now, and for a second — just a second — he thought he saw that spark again. That quiet kind of bravery that had caught him off guard the first time he’d met you.

“I don’t feel strong,” you said, and your voice was soft. Honest.

Bucky gave a small, sad smile. “That’s usually when you are.”

You let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, shaky but real. And that — that sound — it felt like the first crack of sunlight after too many days of storm.

So he stayed there with you, in the quiet. He didn’t rush you, didn’t try to fill the space with empty words. He just sat, your hand in his, listening to the soft hum of the compound at night, and let the weight of the moment settle.

---

The days that followed were slow and gentle, like the world around you had finally remembered how to be kind. The compound became a strange kind of sanctuary — wide, quiet halls, sunlit rooms, and people who smiled at you without asking for anything in return. And Bucky… Bucky was there. Always.

He didn’t hover. He didn’t push.

But somehow, he was never far.

Some mornings, you’d find him in the kitchen before anyone else was awake, making too much coffee and pretending not to wait for you. His hair would still be messy, the sleeves of his t-shirt shoved up to his elbows, metal fingers curled around a steaming mug. He’d glance up when you came in — and every time, without fail, that quiet, crooked smile would tug at the corner of his mouth like he couldn’t quite stop it.

And you’d smile back. At first small, uncertain. But it got easier. Brighter.

You were healing. Slowly, messily, but surely.

There were still nights when the shadows crept in, when your mind played cruel tricks and your heart raced for reasons it shouldn’t have to. But the weight on your chest wasn’t as heavy as it had been. Not with Bucky there — with his steady presence, his easy patience, the way he could make you laugh without even trying.

Like that afternoon on the balcony.

The sun was setting, casting everything in gold, and you were sitting side by side on a bench, sharing a bowl of strawberries Bucky had swiped from the kitchen like it was some grand heist.

“I think you’re officially the world’s worst thief,” you teased, popping one into your mouth. “Pretty sure Tony saw you do it.”

Bucky smirked, leaning back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Please. I’m an excellent thief. You just distract me.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you tried to hide your smile behind the rim of your glass. “Oh? I’m a distraction now?”

“The best kind,” he said, and the look in his eyes made your heart stumble a little. There was something soft there. Something that made you want to lean closer.

And for a moment, you both just sat in the glow of it — the unspoken, the almost — and it felt good. Safe. Like maybe the future didn’t seem so impossible after all.

He bumped your knee lightly with his. “You’re getting better at this, you know.”

You raised a brow. “At what?”

He gestured between you. “Smiling. Laughing. Living.”

You smiled at him then — really smiled — and for the first time in too long, it felt natural.

Bucky didn’t rush anything. He let the slow burn of trust build between you. A friendship, steady and real. A shelter.

And somewhere inside you, that small spark of yourself — the one you thought was gone — began to glow again.

---

The days blurred together in the best way. Easy, quiet hours filled with little pieces of normal that neither of you had realized you were craving. Bucky never said it out loud — not really — but you could feel it in the way he looked at you, in the way he lingered, in the way he seemed to need these moments just as much as you did.

Like that afternoon in the garage.

You’d wandered down there on a whim, curious about the clatter and low hum of music that floated up through the compound. And there he was — crouched beside his bike, grease on his fingers, hair tied back loosely, a smudge across his cheek. He looked up when he heard you, and the way his face lit up was so unguarded that it made your chest ache.

“Hey,” he said, like it was the best part of his day.

“Hey yourself,” you teased, stepping closer. “What’s the damage?”

He grinned. “Nothing I can’t handle. But since you’re here…” He stood, wiping his hands on a rag, and handed it to you without thinking.

Your fingers brushed — just for a second — and it was like time paused. His hand was warm, steady. Yours trembled, just a little.

Neither of you pulled away right away.

And when you finally did, it was with that same lingering softness that seemed to fill the space between you more and more lately.

“You ever work on one of these?” Bucky asked, nodding toward the bike.

You shook your head. “No. But I’m a fast learner.”

That earned you a look — one that said he believed you. One that said he wanted to teach you.

And he did. For hours, you worked side by side — his hands guiding yours, showing you how to fit a part just right, how to listen for the engine’s rhythm like it was a language. Every so often his arm would brush yours, or his fingers would graze your wrist as he reached for a tool. Small touches. Not-so-accidental. And every one of them set your heart racing in a way you weren’t ready to admit.

There were other moments, too.

Like the time he found you curled up on one of the couches in the common room, reading a book in the late afternoon sun. He sat down at the other end — at first — but somehow, over the course of lazy conversation, you ended up closer. His knee brushed yours, and neither of you moved. His arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingertips so close to your shoulder that you could feel the warmth of him, even without contact.

Or the night you both stayed up too late watching old movies. He’d handed you a blanket, and when you pulled it over you both, his metal hand rested beside yours on the couch — close enough that your pinkies touched. And you didn’t pull away. Neither did he. Not even when the credits rolled and the room fell into soft silence, filled only by the sound of his steady breathing.

Bucky was falling for you — hard. You saw it in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. In the way he listened to you, really listened, like every word mattered. And you… you were starting to let yourself hope. To want.

The scars were still there. The nightmares still came. But in these moments, wrapped in stolen glances and soft laughter and not-so-accidental touches, it felt like you were both finding your way back to the light.

---

AN: Once again, thank you so much for reading! I wanted to finish it all in this part, but I feel like this story deserves another. I'll be working on it soon, you'll hear from me

Like she was dressed for someone else’s night. 

What caught his eye wasn’t her looks — though she was striking in that quiet, effortless way — but her posture. Straight, still. Composed. 

But her hands… her hands fidgeted slightly at her sides, fingers brushing her glass over and over. And her smile — polite, soft — didn’t reach her eyes. 

He remembered thinking she looked tired. But still… present. Still trying. And for some reason, that stuck with him. 

Then came the second party. And the third. And each time, she was there. And each time, Bucky found himself watching a little longer than he meant to. 

Not staring. Just… observing. 

He didn’t even realize it at first. Just caught glimpses — her standing near the bar, or laughing softly at something someone said, but never too loud. Never drawing attention. 

And always near him. 

Josh. 

Josh with his designer suit and easy smirk. Always holding a drink. Always surrounded by people who laughed a little too eagerly. There was something about him — too polished, too rehearsed — that immediately rubbed Bucky the wrong way. 

And the way she stood beside him? Not close. Not affectionate. Just… present. Like a shadow. 

Bucky noticed the small things. How Josh always walked ahead of her. How she never interrupted him. How her shoulders tensed whenever he leaned too close. 

She didn’t cling, didn’t whimper, didn’t show any obvious distress. 

But she was always checking the room. Like someone waiting for the ground to shift beneath their feet. It wasn’t discomfort. It was strategy. 

And that’s what stayed with him. Not fear. Not sadness. 

Control. 

The kind of control that comes from surviving something too many times. 

--- 

By the fourth party, Bucky stopped pretending it was just curiosity. He kept a quiet eye on her the whole night. 

And then he saw it. It happened in the span of a breath. 

Josh leaned in. Whispered something, fast and low, lips too close to her ear. Her expression didn’t change — not much. But her shoulders flinched. Barely. Her chin dipped. Eyes lowered. She nodded quickly. 

And Bucky’s jaw locked so tight his teeth ached. 

He felt that heat in his chest — slow, bitter. The same kind he used to feel back in HYDRA’s cells, when he couldn’t do anything. 

He didn’t know her. Had barely spoken a word to her, aside from that one moment by the drinks table. 

But now he couldn’t not see her. The more he noticed, the more he understood. 

And then — The bruise. 

She wore makeup. Clean, professional. Not too heavy. But you can’t fool someone who’s spent years noticing damage. 

Faint, barely visible under her cheekbone. The kind you only see in certain light. The kind meant to be hidden. 

The kind that always had a story. 

He knew bruises like that. Had seen them on women in safehouses. On civilians in war zones. On colleagues who never said a word. 

Josh never touched her in public. Never smiled at her, either.  

And that night, when Bucky looked across the room and accidentally met her gaze, Josh was watching him. 

She wasn’t at the next party. 

--- 

He told himself not to think about it. Maybe she was sick. Maybe she was out of town. Maybe— 

“She's not coming,” Stark said, handing him a drink without looking up from his watch. 

“Josh said she’s staying home. Didn’t say why.” 

The words landed heavier than they should’ve. Something tightened behind Bucky’s ribs. He stayed for another hour. Made the rounds. Chatted when he had to. 

But the whole time, his focus drifted. To the space where she should’ve been. To the voice in his head that wouldn’t shut up. So after the party, he waited outside for a while. 

Just in case. Just to see. 

She didn’t come. 

And that ache in his chest didn’t go away. 

--- 

Two days later, he did something he hadn’t done in a long, long time. He asked Tony for help. 

“I need an address,” he said, voice steady. Quiet. Firm. 

Tony looked up from his tablet, brow lifted. “That so?” 

Bucky didn’t explain. Didn’t need to. 

Tony studied him for a moment. Then sighed, muttering under his breath as he tapped on his screen. 

“I’m not saying this is a good idea,” he said eventually, glancing at Bucky over the rim of his glasses. “But I trust your gut.” 

Bucky nodded once. 

That was all he needed. 

--- 

When he got there, it was quiet. 

Too quiet. 

The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful — just… still. Like something was holding its breath. 

The building itself was nothing remarkable. Peeling paint, a broken intercom button, half-lit hallway through scratched glass. A place people passed through, not stayed in. The kind of place no one asked questions. 

But something about it itched beneath his skin. 

Bucky stood in front of the door for a long moment, his hands deep in his coat pockets, jaw set tight. Wind whispered down the street behind him, carrying the faint hum of city traffic. Normal. Background noise. 

But this… this wasn’t.  

He buzzed once. No answer. 

He tilted his head back, eyes scanning the upper windows. Third floor. Apartment 3B. Curtains closed. Not even a flicker of movement behind them. 

The weight in his chest didn’t budge. 

He tried the handle — locked. So he waited. 

Ten minutes. Maybe more. He lost track. The cold crept through his sleeves, biting at his fingertips, but he didn’t move. Just stood there, watching. Listening. Muscles coiled tight beneath his skin. 

He’d told himself it was probably nothing. That maybe she was sick. Or asleep. That she’d finally gotten a break from Josh and was using it to breathe. 

But he didn’t believe it. 

And then— A thud. 

Dull. Heavy. Like furniture. Or a body. 

He went still. 

Then came the voice. A man’s voice. Josh. 

Sharp. Loud. Filled with that particular kind of rage that wasn’t loud because it wanted to be heard — but because it wanted to hurt. 

“You think you can talk to me like that?” 

A pause. 

Then— A cry. Soft. Muffled. Fragile. But not ignorable. 

“You think he gives a damn about you?” 

Something inside Bucky snapped. Not like a bone — clean and sharp — but like a cable pulled too tight for too long. 

Everything in him went still. And cold. The kind of cold that didn’t shake. 

He stepped back from the door, glanced once around the street — no one close — then braced himself. 

One solid kick. The door rattled. 

Another. The lock cracked. 

The third — The door slammed open with a bang, bouncing off the inside wall. 

He didn’t hesitate. 

He was already moving, boots pounding up the narrow stairwell, each step like a loaded gun. 3B. Third floor. Left side. 

Another noise — a crash, glass shattering. The sound turned his stomach. 

And then — her voice again. Soft. Strangled. Desperate. 

He reached the apartment door and didn’t pause. 

One slam with his shoulder. The frame groaned. 

Second hit — deeper. Harder. 

The third — 

The door burst inward. 

And what he saw made his blood run ice cold. 

Josh, towering over her. One hand still raised. The other gripping her arm so hard her skin had gone white beneath his fingers. 

Her face — pale, drawn, wide-eyed. A smear of blood at her lip. 

Bucky didn’t remember crossing the room. Only the sound of his own voice. 

Low. Dark. Absolute. 

Your POV, three days earlier

“Get your hands off her.” 

It started the way it always did — quiet. Small. 

Too small to justify what followed. 

You’d been sitting at your vanity, brushing concealer gently under your eyes, when you mentioned it. 

“I think I’m actually looking forward to the next Stark party,” you said, trying to sound casual. “I miss being out around people.” 

Josh was buttoning up his shirt in the reflection behind you. He didn’t look up. 

“You’re not coming.” 

The brush paused midair. “…What?” 

“I said, you’re not coming,” he repeated, like you were hard of hearing. “I’m not letting you parade yourself around in front of them again.” 

You turned slowly to face him, your stomach twisting. “I wasn’t—parading. I was just talking.” 

He scoffed. “Talking. Right.” A bitter smile tugged at his mouth. “You mean flirting. With Barnes. You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you?” 

Your mouth opened — and closed again. It was always a trap. Whatever you said would be wrong. Still, you tried. “I barely even spoke to him.” 

“That’s not what I saw.” He turned to you now, and there it was — that look. The one that made your blood run cold. 

Not fury. Not sadness. Entitlement. 

“I saw how you looked back at him,” Josh said, voice low and tight. “You forget who you belong to?” 

The words hit harder than any slap. “I wasn’t—” you whispered, breath caught in your throat. “I wasn’t trying to upset you.” 

He stepped forward. His hand wrapped around your arm. Not hard. But firm. Possessive. 

And then— 

Crack. 

His palm met your face. Not hard enough to knock you down. But hard enough to make your ears ring. 

Hard enough to change things. 

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just stood there, frozen, while your skin burned under his fingerprints. 

Later, you sat on the bed, legs drawn to your chest, fingers hovering over the swelling. It throbbed under your touch — angry, red, alive. 

Josh had stormed out. Slammed the door like you were the one who’d lost control. You told yourself it was stress. Just a bad moment. Just a misstep. 

But the excuses felt thinner than ever. And they were wearing through. 

This wasn’t the first time. But it was the first time it felt intentional. Measured. As if he wanted you to feel it. Not just physically. 

You weren’t shocked. And that was the worst part. You were just… tired. 

Tired of navigating the minefield. Tired of swallowing your words. Tired of watching yourself vanish. 

Your fingers curled into the bedsheet. You closed your eyes — and saw his face again. Not Josh’s. 

Bucky’s. 

You didn’t even know him, not really. Just a few brief conversations. A handful of glances. But something about him had stuck with you. Something steady. 

He hadn’t looked at you like a problem. He’d looked at you like a person. 

--- 

The night of the party passed in silence. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, cheek throbbing under a layer of concealer, pretending not to wonder who was there. Pretending not to care. 

Josh came home late. Smelled like whiskey and self-satisfaction. He didn’t say much — just grunted something about how “nobody missed you.” 

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. 

You spent the next day floating. 

Making tea you didn’t drink. Staring at the TV. Not really watching. Not really thinking, either — just existing in that numb, shaky limbo your body retreats to when it’s too scared to feel. 

The swelling faded slowly. The ache didn’t. 

--- 

Josh was already slamming things before you even heard the door close. 

Cabinets. Drawers. The fridge. Each bang louder than the last, like punctuation marks in a one-sided argument you hadn’t even entered yet. 

He muttered under his breath as he moved through the kitchen — angry, venomous things just loud enough for you to hear but not quite clear enough to respond to. 

“Nothing’s done. Fucking useless.” 

You stayed on the couch, still. Small. Aware of every sound. 

When you finally spoke, your voice was light. Careful. Edges rounded like stones in a river. 

“I was just about to start dinner.” 

Wrong answer. 

He whipped around, eyes flashing. 

“Just about to? I've been out working my ass off and you’re just sitting there?” 

You kept your gaze low. Kept your tone soft. 

“I didn’t know when you’d be back…” 

“Oh, so it’s my fault now?” 

You shook your head. “No. I just meant—” 

He cut you off with a scoff. Bitter. Sharp. 

“You know what I think?” He started walking — slowly, purposefully — across the room. “I think you like playing house until there’s actual shit to do. But show you a room full of men, and suddenly you’re all smiles.” 

Your stomach turned. 

“Josh—” 

“You embarrassed me.” 

His hand moved. Fast. Thoughtless. 

The words hit like a slap before the real one came. His jaw clenched. He was close now — too close — and the air between you went thin. 

“You think he gives a damn about you?” 

Crack. 

It was louder this time. The sound bounced off the walls like it didn’t know where to settle. Your head snapped to the side, a gasp escaping your lips before you could swallow it back. The sting spread across your cheek like fire — hot, immediate, and blinding. 

But what hurt more was knowing it was deliberate. He hadn’t lashed out. He’d chosen it. 

And this time… you saw no hesitation. No regret. Only rage, and power, and something cold behind his eyes that told you: This was no longer a warning. 

It was ownership. 

The second slap landed harder than the first. So much harder. 

It whipped your head to the side with brutal force, the sound of it cracking through the room like a gunshot. Your ears rang — high, shrill, almost like someone screaming underwater. But the world stayed eerily still. 

Your breath caught halfway up your throat. Your vision blurred. The taste of metal bloomed on your tongue. 

It was sharp and ugly, sitting heavy behind your teeth like something that didn’t belong. 

And Josh… he didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. 

You could see it all in his face — the twist of his mouth, the set of his jaw. That cold, dead look in his eyes that didn’t match the man you once thought you loved. 

There was no guilt. No hesitation. Just— Disgust. Like you were the one who’d crossed a line. Like this wasn’t just something he could do — but something he was entitled to. 

You stumbled back a step, breath ragged, a hand instinctively rising to your cheek. The skin there throbbed, already swelling. It radiated heat. 

Don’t cry. 

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard. Tears would only make it worse. Tears would mean weakness. An excuse. And that was all Josh ever needed — an excuse to do it again. 

His hand twitched like he was debating it. And then— 

CRASH. 

The front door exploded inward. 

It slammed open with such violent force that the doorknob cracked the wall behind it, wood splintering as the hinges screamed in protest. 

The noise didn’t just interrupt the room — it shattered it. 

Josh spun, already halfway to a shout. “What the fuck—” He didn’t finish the sentence. 

Because Bucky Barnes stepped through the doorway like a goddamn storm — eyes wild, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides like he’d been holding them back for miles. 

He moved with terrifying stillness — the kind of stillness that came right before a bomb went off. Every step was slow, deliberate, heavy enough to shake the air. 

He didn’t glance around. Didn’t scan the room. His eyes went straight to Josh. Laser-focused. Unblinking. Ice cold. Like a wolf finding the thing that hurt something small. 

“Get your hands off her.” 

The words weren’t shouted. They didn’t have to be. They dropped into the room like slabs of concrete — unshakable. Final. 

Josh took a half-step back. “This isn’t your business.” His voice tried for confidence but cracked at the edges, brittle like glass about to break. 

Bucky’s stare didn’t waver. “It is now.” He stepped forward. One slow, solid pace. Then another. 

Josh’s chest puffed up like he was still holding on to something — pride, maybe. Or panic. 

“You think this is your girl now?” he spat. “That it? You gonna steal her from me?” 

Still, Bucky didn’t look at you. Didn’t so much as flick his gaze in your direction. Because right now, you weren’t the point. Josh was. 

And Bucky was rage, compressed into human form. “She was never yours.” The sentence dropped like a hammer. 

Josh snapped. His body lunged — a last-ditch effort, messy and desperate. 

But Bucky didn’t even flinch. His fist came like a shot — fast, brutal, precise. 

One punch. 

It connected with a sound that would echo in your bones for days — sickening, final. Josh crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. He hit the floor hard. Limbs slack. Mouth open in shock. 

Silence. 

The kind that rings after lightning strikes.  

The only sound left was your breathing — sharp, shallow, on the verge of sobs — and the faint hum of blood in your ears. 

And then, finally— Bucky turned to you. The moment his eyes met yours, something inside you gave out. 

His expression shifted instantly — fury melting into something softer. Something agonized. Like seeing you like this physically hurt him. He took a step toward you, slow now, as if afraid to startle you. 

“Hey…” he said, voice low, steady — but shaken underneath. “You okay?” 

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight. But you were crying now, tears falling hot and silent down your face, soaking into the collar of your shirt. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just broken. 

Bucky’s hand came up — slowly, carefully — and hovered beside your cheek. “Can I…?” he asked, not finishing the question. 

You nodded, barely. 

His fingers brushed against the side of your face — the side that didn’t hurt — gentle and warm, like he was trying to undo the damage with touch alone. 

You flinched without meaning to. 

And he froze. Pulled his hand back like it burned him. His jaw tightened. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have waited this long.” 

Another tear fell. But you managed a whisper. “I didn’t think anyone would come.” 

Bucky shook his head, chest tightening visibly. “I wasn't going to come,” he admitted, voice rough. “But I couldn't stop thinking about you. About that look in your eyes the last time I saw you. And then when you weren’t at the party…” 

He swallowed hard. “I just knew.” 

You looked at him. Really looked. And for the first time in a long, long time — you felt safe. 

He offered his hand, palm up. 

“Let’s get you out of here.” 

And this time, when you reached for him — 

your hand didn’t shake. 

You let him lead you to the door. 

You didn’t look back. 

Not once. 

----

AN: hey everyone! Thank you so much for reading this. There will be another part with a happy ending for Bucky and reader, so keep your eyes peeled. I'll post as soon as possible.

The next morning, you were brushing your teeth when Josh came in. He was still damp from the shower, towel slung low on his hips, halfway into his dress shirt.

He paused in the doorway, frowning. His gaze fixed on the sink.

At first, he didn’t say anything. Just stared.

Then: “Seriously?”

You blinked at him in the mirror. Foam still in your mouth. “What?”

He stepped inside, picked up the earrings like they were something offensive. “I’ve asked you so many times not to leave your stuff everywhere.”

“It’s just my earrings—”

“That’s not the point,” he snapped, tossing them onto the dresser with a clink that made your stomach tighten. “You never think about the little things. It’s always a mess with you.”

Your hand paused mid-air, toothbrush still gripped loosely in your fingers. “Josh, I didn’t do it on purpose—”

He paced away from you, shaking his head like he was trying to physically throw the frustration off his shoulders. “You never do. That’s the problem.”

Then came the sigh. The shift in tone. The part you hated even more than the outburst.

“Shit. Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just… I’ve got a lot going on. Work’s been stressful, Stark’s barely noticing me, and it feels like every time I try to step up, I’m just… stuck.”

You hovered near the doorframe, unsure whether to come closer or stay still. His whole posture was different now — like he wanted to fold in on himself.

Then he turned and reached for your hand. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

You swallowed. Your chest ached. You looked down at his hand wrapping around yours, warm and familiar and still a little cold from the bathroom tiles.

“I just want to help you,” you murmured.

“I know.” He kissed your palm. “You’re the only one who really gets it.”He tugged you in gently, resting his hands on your hips. The apology was in his touch now — soft, practiced, sincere on the surface.

“There’s another party,” he added, voice low. “This weekend. It could be important. And I want you there. With me.”

You hesitated. Just a fraction of a second. But it was enough. His hands tightened slightly. His smile thinned.

“You’ll come,” he said, voice quieter. “Right?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

---

The party was even grander than the last.

Held on the upper floors of Stark Tower this time, it spilled onto a wide terrace that overlooked the glittering Manhattan skyline. Floating lights hovered overhead like fireflies suspended in glass, casting everyone in a soft, cinematic glow. Champagne flowed like water. Laughter danced along the marble floors.

You wore navy blue.

Josh had chosen the dress days ago — said it made you look “like someone who belonged.” He’d zipped it up himself, kissed your bare shoulder before you left, whispered something about how beautiful you looked. You almost believed him.

At first, he was sweet. Attentive. He held your hand as you walked in, smiled easily, introduced you to people like he was proud of you. He even brought you a drink, his arm around your waist.

But it didn’t last.

The moment he caught sight of Stark across the room, something shifted in his expression — his grip slackened, his voice grew distant.

“Just a minute,” he said under his breath. “Don’t go anywhere.”

And just like that, he was gone.

You were alone again.

---

The terrace called to you.

You stepped outside, drawn by the cool air and the silence that stretched just beyond the music. The night wrapped around the building like a velvet curtain, city lights sparkling far below like stars that had forgotten how to sleep.

You made your way to the railing, fingers brushing the cool metal, heart gradually settling into a slower rhythm. For a moment, you allowed yourself to just be.

“You found the best spot.”

The voice came from your left — smooth, grounded, unassuming.

You turned your head slightly.

There he was.

James Buchanan Barnes. Leaning casually against the railing a few steps away, hands resting in his pockets, drink forgotten on the ledge beside him. His dark shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled to the forearms. The shadows softened the hard lines of his face, made him look somehow both older and younger at once.

You gave a soft smile. “It’s quieter out here.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “That’s why I come out here too.”

You turned back to the city, trying to breathe normally. Trying not to overthink the fact that Bucky Barnes was standing less than two feet away from you.

“Back again?” he asked.

You glanced sideways at him. “You remember me?”

“Hard to forget someone who doesn’t bother pretending.”

A laugh slipped from you before you could stop it — short and quiet. “Guess I need a better mask.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “Or maybe everyone else needs worse ones.”

You smiled, warmer this time. The silence between you was gentle. A hush with weight.

“I’m Y/N,” you said, half-turning toward him.

“I know,” he replied.

You raised a brow, half amused, half unsure.

He shrugged lightly. “Some people stand out.”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t look away either.

Inside, someone called his name — sharp and impatient. A party voice. He didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed on you, thoughtful.

“Enjoy your night,” he said quietly. Then he turned and slipped inside.

You stayed at the railing, hands resting still, heart not quite calm. You weren’t sure what had just happened.

But you knew, somehow, that it mattered.

---

Josh found you a few minutes later as you stepped back inside. His eyes scanned your face. “Where’ve you been?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Just needed some air.”

His gaze narrowed. “Alone?”

“Yeah.”

He looked at you for a moment too long. Measured. Cold. You didn’t flinch.

Josh forced a smile, all teeth. “Next time, tell me.” You nodded once, slowly. Later, when he kissed you goodnight — too firmly, too long — your eyes stayed open.

You were still thinking of silver-blue eyes, a quiet voice, and the kind of silence that didn’t feel like punishment.

---

Josh had started checking your phone.

At first, it had seemed like nothing.

Just a glance. A flicker of curiosity when your fingers moved across the screen. A casual, “Who’s that?” when your screen lit up with a message. A soft hum if he didn’t recognize the name.

Little questions.

Little moments.

So small, they felt harmless.

You told yourself he was just being present. Attentive. Maybe even sweet. Most people would be flattered, wouldn’t they?

But it didn’t stop.

The glances turned into pauses.

Then longer looks.

Then fingers—his fingers—reaching for your phone when it buzzed, even if it wasn’t near him.

“You left it unlocked,” he’d say, like it excused it.

You told yourself it was fine. That you had nothing to hide. That relationships were about trust… weren’t they?

But then came the questions. The ones with sharp edges.

“Why does he text you so much?”

“Why do you put that emoji in your replies?”

“Who’s Emily again?”

You laughed it off at first. Tried to answer honestly. Tried to smooth it over.

But they grew. Fast.

He’d ask where you were — even when he already knew. He’d call twice, then text three more times if you didn’t respond within minutes. And when you finally answered, you’d hear the edge in his voice. That carefully controlled disappointment.

Once, when you were late coming home from a grocery run, you found him already pacing the kitchen.

Pacing.

Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Steps heavy on the tile. The air around him felt charged, like the seconds before a thunderstorm.

You barely had the door open when his voice snapped through the tension.

“You said you’d be twenty minutes.”

You blinked, still holding the grocery bag. “There was traffic,” you murmured, lifting it slightly. “I got your stuff.”

He yanked the bag from your hands.

A little too hard.

Enough to make your wrist sting.

Enough to make your chest clench.

And then… silence.

He turned his back on you. You stood frozen in the doorway, heart hammering. The groceries still swaying in the plastic.

The next morning, he apologized.

Not right away.

First came the silence again — the cold, polite kind that makes you question everything you’ve done. Then, over coffee, he leaned into you like nothing had happened.

“I just… worry, okay?” he said, voice lower now. Softer. “You know how messed up the world is. I want to make sure you're safe.”

He slipped an arm around you, kissed the side of your head.

And like always… you nodded. Because what else could you do?

You started leaving your phone face-down. You stopped saving certain messages — ones that might provoke more questions. Ones from people you used to speak to freely.

You practiced sounding casual when you talked to anyone around him. Like nothing was ever too interesting.

You started flinching at loud noises. Not big ones. Just… cabinet doors that closed a little too hard. A dropped glass. The vibration of your phone across the table.

You told yourself it was fine. That he loved you. That it was just stress. Pressure. That everyone had bad weeks.

---

It happened on a Wednesday.

Not that the day mattered. Not really. But your brain logged it anyway, like it wanted a timestamp to go with the moment everything shifted.

You’d said the wrong thing.

You didn’t even remember what — something small. Something about how he shouldn't try so hard with Stark. Or maybe it was your tone. Maybe it was just the way you looked away when he was talking.

But whatever it was—

His hand connected with your face before you could finish the sentence.

It wasn’t hard enough to knock you down.

But it was sharp. Sudden. Enough to snap your head sideways and leave your skin burning.

Enough to leave you breathless.

Time slowed.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t scream.

You just stood there.

Frozen.

One hand rising to your cheek, the heat of it already blooming beneath your skin. You weren’t thinking. You weren’t breathing. You were just waiting.

Waiting for what would come next.

A second strike?

A shout?

A threat?

But all you got was silence.

Josh stood across from you, arm still slightly raised — like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d done. His face pale. His eyes wide, like he didn’t recognize himself.

And then, like always, he reached for you.

The same pattern.

The same script.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered, stepping closer. “I swear, I just… You know how much pressure I’m under.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

You let him pull you into a hug, your body stiff as stone. His arms wrapped around you like he was trying to erase what just happened. Like the right pressure would push the memory out of your skin.

But you knew better.

Because you didn’t flinch from loud noises anymore.

You flinched from him.

---

Two days later, you stood in line at a small café not far from your apartment, your shoulders hunched slightly against the chill in the air, your face turned just enough away from the streetlamp light bleeding through the café windows.

You had on sunglasses — even though it was cloudy. Even though the sky was a dull, featureless grey that didn’t warrant them.

You told yourself it didn’t look suspicious.

Maybe you were being paranoid.

Maybe no one would look too closely.

But the bruise was still there. Not a vivid purple anymore — it had faded into something more yellow-grey, something you could almost pass off as exhaustion under enough concealer. Almost.

You didn’t want to see anyone.

You hadn’t said more than a few words to anyone since that night. You hadn’t smiled — not really. Your throat still burned when you swallowed. You were tired in that deep, dangerous way that made the world feel too loud and too close.

All you wanted was coffee. Something hot. Something simple. Something normal.

But fate didn’t ask.

“Y/N?”

You froze.

Everything in your body locked up — like your spine had turned to ice. The sound of your name, spoken so gently, hit you like a dropped glass. Familiar and foreign at the same time.

That voice. Low. Careful. Rumbling with a kind of warmth that didn’t match the coldness in your chest.

You turned slowly. And there he was.

Bucky Barnes.

Henley. Jacket. Hair tied back at the nape of his neck, a few wisps loose near his ears. A book tucked under one arm. A half-empty coffee cup in the other. His posture relaxed, but his eyes—

His eyes weren’t relaxed at all.

They moved across your face like a quiet current, catching on the details you didn’t want anyone to notice.

You watched it happen.

The flicker.

The pause.

The subtle shift as his gaze caught on the faint shadow blooming just beneath your sunglasses. That bruised crescent under your cheekbone, still tender if you so much as touched it.

His eyes didn’t widen. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t flinch.

But you felt it anyway — that stillness, that tightening. Like something inside him had clicked into place. Like a puzzle piece that made too much sense.

You forced a smile. A weak, brittle thing. “Hey.”

His tone was gentle. Lower than usual. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You shrugged, your hands buried in your sleeves, gripping your elbows. “Needed caffeine.” You hesitated. “Long week.”

Understatement of the century.

There was a pause — a long one. Not uncomfortable. Just… waiting.

His eyes didn’t move from your face, but they weren’t sharp. Weren’t invasive. They were soft. Watching you the way someone watches a skittish animal, afraid to startle it.

“Everything okay?” he asked, voice even softer now. Like he knew the answer already but didn’t want to say it out loud.

You hesitated. The lie rose in your throat like bile.

You could feel it. Feel the pressure of it sitting heavy behind your ribs, pressing up into your lungs.

You opened your mouth — and for a second, the truth almost escaped. But then you blinked.

And swallowed.

And said, “Yeah. Just tired.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t nod. Didn’t accept it. But he didn’t press, either. He just stayed.

And somehow that was worse.

Because it meant he knew. Not the details — not the whole story — but enough. And that made your chest ache.

“I like this place,” he said eventually, tilting his head slightly toward the counter. “They make terrible muffins but good coffee.”

The shift in subject was subtle. Gentle. Like he was handing you an escape route without forcing you to take it.

You let out a breath. A sound that almost passed for a laugh. “I’ll skip the muffins, then.”

“Probably smart,” he said, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

You stepped up to the counter and ordered, your voice still hoarse from disuse. The barista didn’t seem to notice. You were grateful for that.

When you moved aside to wait, Bucky didn’t leave. He didn’t even pretend to. He just moved with you — fluid, quiet, unassuming.

Close. But not too close.

There was space. He made sure of it. Enough that you didn’t feel boxed in. Enough that you could still breathe.

But he was there.

And for the first time in days, you felt like you weren’t entirely alone inside your own skin.

“You coming to the next party?” he asked after a beat.

His voice was steady, but not casual. Like he was offering you a lifeline wrapped in a simple question.

You stared down at your shoes.

The answer was obvious — Josh expects me to.

But your voice caught in your throat again.

“Probably,” you said finally, quiet.

Another pause. He nodded once. “Then I’ll see you there.” No push. No expectation. No follow-up.

He didn’t ask for your number.

He didn’t ask what happened.

He didn’t ask if you were safe.

But he stayed. Just long enough to make it matter.

When your name was called, you stepped forward and took your coffee. Your fingers trembled slightly around the cup, the warmth seeping into your skin in small, fragile waves.

You turned to go. But before you could take a step, you looked up one more time. He was still watching you.

Not staring.

Not pitying.

Just… aware.

Like he already knew. Like he’d seen the signs before — and wasn’t going to look away this time.

Josh had been working for S.H.I.E.L.D. for about four months now. You’d never seen him this ambitious before. He’d always been confident, yes, but now it was sharpened — focused. He saw these events as stepping stones. Tools. And Tony Stark? He was the ultimate rung on the ladder.

You’d smiled at him that morning, pretending not to feel the pressure. “I’ll be ready by seven,” you’d promised.

And you were.

You wore your favorite dress — dark green, satin, with off-the-shoulder sleeves that made you feel elegant and just a little exposed. You styled your hair in a way that framed your face the way Josh liked, and did your makeup soft but flawless. You had to admit, when you looked in the mirror, you felt beautiful.

When Josh finally came to pick you up, he’d looked at you for all of three seconds and said, “Nice.”

That was it.

No smile. No compliment. Just that one word.

You didn’t say anything. You just swallowed the lump forming in your throat, told yourself you were overreacting, and followed him out the door.

---

The party was even grander than you expected — marble floors, glowing chandeliers, walls of glass overlooking the skyline. You were hit by a wave of sound and light and perfume the moment you stepped inside. People were laughing, flirting, dressed like magazine covers come to life. Even the waiters looked like models.

Josh seemed to light up the moment he walked in. “Told you this would be big,” he murmured in your ear, giving your waist a quick squeeze. His eyes were already scanning the room. Hunting. “This could be the one.”

You gave him a soft smile. “I’m proud of you, you know. No matter what happens.”

He smiled back — distracted. “Grab me a drink, would you? I see someone I need to talk to.”

You nodded, watching him disappear before you'd even moved.

You made your way to a passing waiter and took two glasses from the silver tray. Champagne, you assumed, though you couldn’t taste it past the tightness in your chest.

You found a spot near the edge of the room — not quite in the way, not quite invisible. Your heels already ached, and you suddenly wished you’d worn something with sleeves. It was cold, despite the heat of the crowd.

Josh knew these people. You didn’t.

You were a schoolteacher. Your world was parent-teacher nights, lunch duty, correcting essays until your hand cramped. This world — crystal glasses, practiced laughter, names you didn’t recognize but probably should — it felt like a stage play. And you hadn’t been given a script.

You took a sip of your champagne. It was dry. Too fizzy. You hated it.

---

That’s when you saw him.

He was standing near one of the wide marble columns, half-hidden by shadow, one hand tucked into the pocket of his black suit. His hair was pulled back, neat and low at the nape of his neck, and his eyes scanned the room with calm, calculated stillness.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Even if you didn’t know him, you knew him. The Winter Soldier. The headlines. The history. The mystery.

But he looked nothing like the man the media painted.

He looked... tired. And grounded. And maybe — just maybe — like he wished he wasn’t here either.

Your eyes met.

Just for a second.

And it shouldn’t have meant anything. You’d been making eye contact with strangers all night. But this wasn’t polite or fleeting.

This was... still.

You blinked, and he turned his head away.

And yet, even after the connection broke, you felt different. Like some invisible thread had been tugged between you and him — subtle, but real.

---

“Hey.”

Josh’s voice snapped you out of your daze. You turned and found him beside you, drink already gone, jacket slightly wrinkled from where he’d shoved his hand into the pocket.

“There you are,” he said, leaning down to kiss your cheek, though he barely touched you. “You wouldn’t believe who I just talked to.”

“Tony Stark?” you asked, forcing a smile.

Josh grinned. “Damn right. Brief chat, but I planted the seed. He knows my name now.”

You smiled and nodded. “That’s great, Josh. I’m happy for you.”

He gave a soft laugh and glanced around again. “You could’ve mingled a bit more. People notice when someone just stands around holding a glass.”

The words stung, even though his tone was casual.

“I didn’t really know anyone,” you said, voice barely above the music.

“You knew me,” he replied, not unkindly, but not gently either.

You looked away, pretending to admire the ceiling. “It’s just... a lot of people.”

Josh exhaled. “You’ll get used to it.”

---

The car ride home was quiet. Josh spent most of it texting. You leaned your head against the cool window, watching the lights blur past like smeared paint.

Your feet hurt. Your heart more.

You didn’t say much, and neither did he.

But somewhere in your mind — just under the surface — there were steel-blue eyes and a look that made you feel, for one second, like you weren’t completely alone in that glittering room.

You didn’t know it yet, but that one glance was the start of something.

Something slow.

Something dangerous.

Something true.

---

The second party came quicker than you’d expected.

You had barely recovered from the last one — the aching heels, the buzzing nerves, the strange, unreadable expression in Bucky’s eyes — when Josh brought home another invitation.

“Another one?” you asked, taking the thick envelope from his hand.

“Bigger crowd this time,” he said, shrugging off his jacket. “Stark’s opening that new satellite office or something. Everyone who’s anyone will be there.”

You turned the envelope over in your hands, the gold embossing glinting in the kitchen light.

Josh walked past you, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. “Wear that black dress this time. The tight one.”

You hesitated. “The one with the slit up the side?”

He nodded without looking up. “You look good in it. Makes people notice you.”

You wanted to ask which people. You wanted to ask why it mattered. But instead you said, “Okay,” and tucked the invitation into the fruit bowl like it didn’t weigh ten tons.

---

The night of the party, you sat on the edge of the bed in silence while Josh finished tying his tie in the mirror.

The black dress hugged your figure just like he liked. You’d paired it with simple heels and a red lip, hoping the bolder look would make you feel stronger than you actually felt.

Josh looked at you for a moment. “Perfect,” he said, leaning in to kiss your shoulder. “You clean up so well.”

The compliment felt hollow. Mechanical. Like he’d practiced it.

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

He didn’t notice your tone.

---

This party was even louder. More crowded. The music pulsed through your chest as soon as you stepped inside. People were already half-drunk, laughing, shouting, clinking glasses.

Josh was swept up immediately — a firm handshake here, a backslap there. You followed him for a while, until he gave you the same look as before. That you’ll be fine on your own look.

He handed you a drink and vanished into the crowd.

You didn’t try to follow.

Instead, you wandered through the ballroom, trailing your fingers along the cool surface of the bar, letting the chatter and laughter wash over you. The room glittered with sharp edges — glasses, jewelry, voices too loud to be genuine.

You found a quieter spot near the back, where the lights were dimmer and the air wasn’t so thick with perfume.

That’s when you saw him again.

He stood near a set of French doors that opened onto a terrace, the cool evening breeze tugging faintly at the white curtains. He wasn’t trying to draw attention to himself — in fact, he seemed to be avoiding it — but something about him still pulled your eye.

Black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal a glimpse of metal. Hair slicked back neatly. Posture relaxed, yet alert. He looked like he belonged and didn’t, all at once.

James Buchanan Barnes.

You didn’t know why your chest tightened at the sight of him, or why your feet carried you slightly closer — not directly toward him, but to a tall table nearby. Just close enough that the noise of the party dulled behind you, and the air felt clearer.

You glanced over at him once.

To your surprise, his eyes were already on you.

He didn’t look away this time.

There was something steady in his gaze — something calm and unreadable. Not flirtatious. Not curious. Just… observant. As if he was taking you in, trying to figure something out.

You looked away quickly, heat rising to your cheeks. You took a sip of your drink to cover the sudden fluster, heart picking up in your chest.

A few minutes passed in silence.

Then — footsteps.

Slow, deliberate. Soft enough that you barely heard them.

You turned your head, and he was there.

Not right beside you, but closer. Just a few feet away, standing with a clear view of the terrace behind the glass. He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

But then his voice, low and calm, broke the silence.

“You okay?”

You blinked. “What?”

He glanced at you, then back at the glass. “You’ve been standing here for a while.”

You swallowed. “Yeah, just… needed some air.”

He nodded slightly, like he understood. Like he really understood.

“I get that,” he murmured. “Crowds can be… loud.”

The corner of your mouth lifted — not quite a smile, more like a reflex. “That obvious, huh?”

He didn’t smile either, but something softened around his eyes. “Only to people who are looking.”

Before you could respond, someone called your name. Josh’s voice had cut through the air like a blade.

“Y/N!”

You’d turned toward it instinctively, the way you always did when he used that tone — clipped, impatient, like you were a child who had wandered off in the grocery store. When you looked back, Bucky was gone.

Almost like he hadn’t been there at all.

Almost.

But the echo of his voice lingered in your mind as you crossed the ballroom again, as you stood by Josh while he exchanged laughs and clinks of glasses with a few agents you didn’t know. You said almost nothing. You didn’t need to — Josh didn’t notice either way.

He was buzzing with adrenaline on the way home.

“You saw me with Stark, right?” he said as he pulled the car onto the highway. “I actually got a minute with him. Real talk. Think I made an impression.”

You nodded, keeping your gaze fixed on the blur of streetlights through the window.

“That’s good,” you said softly.

He didn’t seem to notice your tone — or maybe he didn’t care. “If I get invited again, I need you to do better next time.”

Your brows drew together slightly. “Do better?”

“You barely said anything to anyone. Just stood around like you were lost.” He scoffed. “You know how that reflects on me?”

Your stomach twisted.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” you said carefully. “I stayed back so I wouldn’t get in the way.”

“You were in the way,” he muttered. “You could’ve smiled a little. Talked to someone. You looked miserable the whole time.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure you could without your voice shaking.

The car was quiet for a while after that, filled only by the low hum of the engine and the quiet storm inside your head.

But your thoughts weren’t with Josh.

They were on a man in a black shirt, standing beside a window like he didn’t belong either.

“Only to people who are looking.”

There’d been something in his voice — something solid. Kind. Real.

It had only been a few words, a few seconds. But the difference was blinding.

Bucky hadn’t looked through you. He hadn’t brushed you off. He’d seen you — not the woman Josh brought to shine up his image — you.

And that moment had felt safer than the entire night you’d spent clinging to Josh’s side.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers against your temple as Josh continued to ramble about connections and rankings and opportunities.

You weren’t listening anymore.