Annesreading

She could hear feet hitting the floor, heels clicking on the concrete ground. The sound of guitar strings being plucked and tested, vague and distant laughter that sounded like it was coming from a different building altogether. The way people breathed when they passed by, some quiet and shallow whilst others had a deep, guttural sound that made her cringe.

Each little sound that would have gone in one ear and out the other for anyone else, suddenly sounded prominent and direct, and (Y/n) hated it.

Then it was touch. The moment her fingers ghosted over her jeans to do a last minute check of her outfit, she could have screamed. The feeling of a few small creases in the fabric over her thighs had the equivalent of feeling like the end of the world.

Those little bunches like speed bumps in the road felt horrible, they felt scratchy and rough and odd and out of place. And (Y/n) couldn't smooth them down. She couldn't get rid of them no matter what she did or how hard she tried, they kept popping back up and each time (Y/n) ran her fingers over those bumps, they felt like they were expanding and growing. One humongous crease she couldn't smooth down.

Her hands frantically started to rub up and down her thighs until she was creating friction harsh enough to start a fire.

Then it was (Y/n) herself who didn't feel right. Her sense of touch was distorted, each noise around her had been amplified and taken out of proportion. She could feel her heartbeat pounding in her chest until each throb made her chest ache and felt like her ribs were going to splinter apart beneath the touch.

She could hear herself breathing; she started to focus on the sensation until her throat burned and she was counting each breath that started to become fast and shallow like they were trying to run away from her, petrified.

Nobody seemed to notice the internal panic tormenting (Y/n) or the unease that washed over her face and left her looking stricken and glued to the spot.

Before she knew what she was doing, (Y/n) found herself kneeling on the floor as if gravity had personally sunk its claws into her and yanked her down. Her left hand sunk down into her jeans, nails scratching the fabric until she could feel the sensation in her thigh and started to claw. Jagged motions of her nails streaking up and down her thighs, but she could barely feel it with how numb her skin had turned.

Each time her nails dragged over a crease, shudders tore through (Y/n)'s skin and her actions became furious, desperate to rid the creases and make herself feel some sort of sensation to bring reality back to her.

Her other hand rose until her thumb was pressed against her lips and her teeth sank down into the rough skin that had suffered years and years of biting. (Y/n) couldn't help it. As a child she would nibble on the skin around her thumbs where there was never any nail growth because she bit them to the nub. Then it became persistent, a habit and then a form of stimming until the skin was blistering and layers were stripped away until even the cold air was enough to make the skin sore and ache and throb.

The heel of her shoes began to dig into her skin and her knees felt cold and stuffed with pins and needles from how forcefully she was knelt down on the frozen concrete ground.

The ache dimmed somewhat when (Y/n) subconsciously began to rock back and forth with her chin tucked down and her eyes tightly closed to block out the sensations she was growing to despise.

Ashton's hands began to fiddle with the belt around his waist, making sure it was tucked into the loops properly and that his trousers were pulled as high up on his hips as he could get them. The last thing he needed was to get out on stage and feel uncomfortable or feel like his trousers were sagging around his shoes that would be clashing against the pedals in fury.

He made sure his vest was tucked into the waistband and started to spin one of the rings around on his finger. But when he lifted his head from checking his outfit, his brows raised and his steps slowed.

It took him a few seconds longer than it should have for him to realise what (Y/n) was doing, sat there on the floor only ten paces away from the stairs that would take them up onto the stage that was all prepared for the show.

With furrowed brows and contemplation plastered across his face, Ashton took slow, cautious steps towards her until he was close enough to sit beside her. He eased down to the floor, deciding to sit down rather than to kneel like (Y/n) because that would do nothing good for his knees at this point.

He took the time to observe her, to try and see what she was doing and whether this was something regular or something off-putting.

Sometimes before a show, (Y/n) needed a few minutes to prepare. She needed time to get ready for the sensory overload that would welcome her when she stepped out on stage. She needed to brace herself for the amount of people, for the horrendous noise they would endure for two hours straight. For the illuminating lights, the fast pace, the need to remember the music and follow the rules they created for their shows. Everything about this was overwhelming and (Y/n) needed to build herself up for it.

But Ashton could see that that wasn't what she was doing right now. She wasn't trying to prepare or brace herself; she was drowning.

He was sure he could see a few specks of blood trickling around her thumb between her lips. Her head was starting to tick back and jut her chin forward like someone was constantly hitting her beneath her chin; that was a stim that Ashton hadn't seen her do for a while. She was scratching her thigh through her jeans hard enough that she was going to leave bruises in her wake.

Without saying a word, he edged closer until the edge of his knee brushed hers, but Ashton made sure to keep just a small slither of space between them. He knew that it all depended on (Y/n)'s mood and what kind of overload she was experiencing as to whether or not she would want physical touch.

Sometimes she craved that touch to bring her back to reality, to make the world feel like it had righted itself again and to ground her. Other times, physical touch was too overwhelming just like the rest of her senses. It would make her feel cramped, itchy, confined and restrained.

Ashton would have to gage what kind of mood she was in and whether he could help or if he would have to take a step back.

He knew she could sense him beside her, she knew it was him and she didn't flinch or pull away when their knees brushed; something she had done before which he had to learn not to take to heart.

It was blood that he could see smeared over her lips and around her thumb; she was biting down hard enough to draw blood which meant she had taken a few more layers of skin off her thumb. They were usually raw to the point her fingerprint couldn't be found on the top of her thumbs at any given time.

Reaching out, he gently hooked his finger around her thumb and prized her hand away from her mouth. He knew it was a stim, a form of calming down and regulating her nervous system, but it wasn't a good one when it was harming her like that.

He smoothed his thumb across the back of her hand which he lowered down until their hands were resting on his knee.

She didn't open her eyes or give any inkling as to what was running through her mind, but he didn't really expect her to just yet. Not when she was clearly as unsettled as this.

After a second thought, Ashton pushed forward so he could fish his free hand around in his back pocket. He tried to refrain from smiling when his fingers curled around the small paper and foil pack he knew he'd grabbed earlier when he left the changing room.

He pulled out the packet of gum and brought it to his lips, tearing the paper and grasping one piece with his teeth. Chewing was always a good way to concentrate and focus, it stopped him from becoming so jittery until he was sat behind the drumkit where he could let his tension and energy loose.

Once he'd grabbed another piece, he dropped the pack to the floor somewhere behind him and leant in just a little bit closer to (Y/n).

He uttered a soft "Try this," and pressed the blue rectangle of gum to her lips. If she wanted to grind her teeth or clench her jaw as a form of stimming, gum would be perfect. It would stop her from grinding her teeth too much and give that sensation of gnawing and chewing on something without actually hurting herself.

He was pleased when (Y/n) took the gum but he tried not to cringe when he could hear her teeth clacking each time she chewed and ended up clenching her jaw because she was that unsettled right now.

When her head started to tick back again, (Y/n) clenched her jaw until her muscles strained and threatened to lock in place. She wanted it to stop. She hated that stim because it always ended up making the back of her skull ache, but it was something she did when she was nervous or when she was on her own and her brain decided she needed to do something to occupy herself.

Quite like the strange noises she would hum or the way she would always click her tongue. It happened more often when she was alone because it was a way to fill the silence that she hated and to keep her mind active and give her something to do.

Tilting her head down, (Y/n) tried to press her chin down towards her sternum until the back of her neck ached and her teeth clenched down, catching both the gum and the corner of her mouth between them until the ache made a small nerve within her feel a little less strained.

"What's wrong?" Ashton's voice was calming, full of understanding and it made (Y/n) feel torn between wanting to smile and wanting to cry.

She dug her nails down until she realised that it was Ashton's palm she was pressing on, not her own. And reverted instead to squeeze his hand until she was sure she was cutting off both their circulations.

There was no way to explain what was wrong, because (Y/n) could never always, fully understand it herself.

How could she understand what her body was trying to tell her when the signals were always mixed? Things that were normal suddenly didn't feel right. Sounds were amplified or sped up in her ears. Things that were always there felt off, strange, unhinged.

Her mind was interpreting things differently and (Y/n) didn't like it. That was what was wrong, but there was no further detail she could go into because everything was simply wrong. That was how (Y/n) read the situations when she was overwhelmed.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Everything.

"Don't know… just, just doesn't feel right."

When he watched (Y/n) curl her fingers into her palm and imbed her knuckles down into her thigh, he wondered if it was like fighting off an urge to scratch an itch. She wanted to do something, whether it was rake her fingers down her thighs or have that sensory feeling of her jeans distorted, he wasn't sure, but it looked like she was fighting an inner battle, and he understood.

It was a sensory issue, an overload, not a sense of panic about their upcoming show they were supposed to be doing in about five minutes' time.

He was rather surprised when (Y/n) suddenly leaned towards him and laid her cheek on his shoulder. He hadn't done anything more than hold her hand because he didn't know if he would overwhelm her, clearly she was in that mood for touch, for stimulation. Desperately craving something that felt right and normal unlike everything else that was so out of place. And Ashton was glad she wasn't retreating from his touch.

He was cautious when he moved his left arm to hover behind (Y/n) and he slowly started to drag his index finger up and down her back. The movement was slow, careful, calculated. Not intended or designed to upset or overwhelm her by any means.

The tip of his finger slowly traced the line of her spine, moving over each column with careful precision and slow movements. But when he felt (Y/n) beginning to shiver, he paused. His eyes followed her, watching carefully as (Y/n) started to move around.

(Y/n) didn't care that her teeth were sinking into the inside of her cheek hard enough that it would leave a dent and cause a throbbing pain the moment she released her jaw. It was stopping her from screaming, and the sensation was grounding despite the pain it would undoubtedly cause in a few moments.

With her elbows pinned to her sides and her body as stiff as a plank of wood, (Y/n) leant to the right and shifted round until she could lay her head down on Ashton's lap. Her cheek nuzzled against his jeans, relieved not to feel any bumps or creases in the material that would drive her crazy.

Her knees curled up towards her stomach and her left hand clenched down around her thigh, gripping rather than trying to scratch or rake her nails along her skin. She could feel her heartbeat pulsing in her left thigh already; there would be scratches there when she took her jeans off tonight.

Her right arm felt slightly constricted, pinned between her waist and Ashton's leg, but her hand was free and still interlaced with his and that was the thing she tried to focus on.

Opening her eyes wasn't an option right now; (Y/n) didn't want to do that and try to look at the dim lighting here backstage that would change to overwhelming spotlights the moment they were ready to step onto that stage. She didn't want to open her eyes and be faced with the crew passing by who would undoubtedly stop to stare and ask what she was doing and what was going on.

Keeping her eyes closed meant blocking out the world while her brain tried to recalibrate itself.

When she seemed settled enough, Ashton curved his left hand around her arm. He stayed as still as he could, his right hand squeezing hers every few seconds while he leant forward so it felt like he was curved around her as if he were some sort of comfort blanket.

He would sit here with her for as long as it took for (Y/n) to feel better, for her mind to reset itself and for the world to feel normal again.

Shivers crawled through (Y/n)'s skin and she found herself relaxing just a little when she realised Ashton was humming. She wasn't sure what tune it was, if her mind had been more focused she might have recognised it, but it was probably a good thing that she didn't. Not knowing the tune meant her mind couldn't confuse her and mess it up or make her think that it sounded too slow or too fast or just not quite right.

It gave her something else to focus on and put her mind to rather than focusing on the feeling of her heart pounding against her ribs or counting each breath that passed her lips.

A frown worked its way onto Calum's lips and his boots changed from bashing against the floor to suddenly sliding and shuffling much quieter when he looked ahead of him.

It wasn't very often that he saw his bandmates sitting on the floor. Usually this was a sight for hotel rooms or when they were round at each other's places doing gaming nights. Sitting here right near the stairs, in between sound equipment and boxes, wasn't the kind of place any of them would choose to sit down on the floor for a rest or a chat. And Calum certainly couldn't fathom why either of them would want to sit here when they were about to go on stage.

He wasn't quite sure whether to approach the couple or not or whether to speak and ask if they were okay and what they were doing. Speaking felt like he would be intruding, but standing and staring wasn't something he wanted to do either.

He settled for taking a few cautious steps closer until he was near Ashton's side, who noticed his presence immediately.

Raising his free hand, Ashton pointed towards one of the boxes to the side of the stairs. "Can you pass me that please?"

Wordlessly, Calum reached for the box and as he handed it over, he peeked inside and suddenly understood.

His eyes followed Ashton who found the jet black ear plugs inside which had a white star on each one and the number 5 in the centre. (Y/n)'s ear plugs for when they went out on stage. They each had their own sets, sometimes they had the band logo on, other times they had their initials stamped on them.

Each set was made just for them and the individual shape of their ears so they could still play and listen and sing without feeling deafened or like they couldn't hear what they were playing.

Ashton knew they weren't out on stage yet, but he took a guess that these might just help (Y/n) feel a little better.

He carefully eased his right hand from (Y/n)'s viper grip and cautiously put one ear plug in. When (Y/n) lifted her head, a gentle smile wormed its way onto Ashton's lips and he curved the wire around the back of her head and helped put the other one in too.

If she was going into a overload then blocking out her senses might help dull them back down again and make everything feel easier to go back to normal. And it would give (Y/n) chance to get used to having them in.

They all knew she hated them. When the band first started out, their old manager hadn't been impressed when (Y/n) would wear noise-cancelling headphones rather than ear plugs. He said it 'ruined her look' and the look of the band when they were out on stage, but he couldn't do anything when the whole band refused to go on stage unless (Y/n) could wear them.

She was autistic, she got overwhelmed in different ways than the rest of them and she coped in different ways too. When she was younger, when the band first started out, (Y/n) couldn't handle the shape or feel of ear plugs, they were irritable and made her ears ring. Headphones had been easier. Over time (Y/n) had adapted and switched, but it took a long time to get used to.

(Y/n) laid her head back down on Ashton's lap once her ear plugs were in, and she wafted her hand out until he took her palm in his again and squeezed tight.

The world needed to quieten down. It needed to rectify itself and make (Y/n) feel calm enough to go out on that stage. She wanted to go out there happy and lively and ready to play music, not with the worry in the back of her mind that the music might not sound right in her strange, fractured mind.

Calum moved ahead a few paces until he was stood near the stairs and promptly leant against the rail. One leg crossed in front of the other and his arms crossed over his chest. It hadn't taken long to realise what was the problem, and he knew if they wanted or needed him to do anything, they would ask. Until then, he would wait patiently and silently until they knew what they wanted to do.

"Are you okay, we can delay a few minutes if you want." Michael crouched down beside them, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, but his voice was calming and full of understanding. So much so that (Y/n) almost winced.

The band had always been the same. If there was something wrong, they would crowd around (Y/n), they would form a human shield that no one could break through. They would answer questions if (Y/n) was too flustered or unsettled to speak. They would deflect anything too personal. They would stand up for her against anyone who probed too deeply or tried to put her down or who made her feel even the slightest bit uncomfortable.

It hurt to open her eyes, to see all the bright colours mixing in front of her eyes like a paint pallet, but (Y/n) forced her eyes into focus. And when she looked over at Michael, she shook her head.

Delaying the concert wasn't what she wanted to do, not at all. (Y/n) didn't want to make people wait or ruin the show, she didn't want things to change or have to adapt for her sake. All she wanted was for this feeling to fade and for the world to right itself again.

With a cautious hand, (Y/n) dragged her fingertips down over her thigh towards her knee and back up again. She felt the creases ruffling the dark blue material and suddenly it didn't feel as horrible as it did before. The material wasn't as bunched or scratchy and the creases felt like small tufts, not horrible bumps in the road.

She felt Ashton leaning over her, like he was trying to gain her attention or simply peering over her shoulder to see how she was fairing. But when he did, (Y/n) suddenly felt the chain hanging around his neck and how it swayed and started to tap against her shoulder from the movement.

The feeling tickled her skin and left goosebumps in her wake, and (Y/n) couldn't stop herself from reaching up to brush her fingertips against the cold metal. It was a new chain, (Y/n) hadn't seen him wearing this one before. It was long; long enough that he didn't have to undo the clasp to get it on, just pull it over his head and it hung low over the bridge of his sternum.

The pendant on the end of the chain was sharp, and (Y/n) suddenly pressed her palm against the bottom of the pendant to feel that sharp point pressing down into her skin like some kind of acupuncture needle.

A curious look flooded Ashton's face as he watched (Y/n) straighten up so she was no longer curled up over his lap, but he could tell she was still looking towards his pendant.

Wordlessly, he lifted the chain over his head and reached down for (Y/n)'s hand.

Her curiosity peaked as Ashton cradled her hand so delicately it was as if he thought he was touching delicate glass that would shatter under the slightest touch. Her eyes were transfixed as Ashton looped the chain around her wrist, then twisted it like a hair bobble and wound it around again. Then he looped the end of the chain over her thumb so it looked like an intricate bracelet, with the pendant hanging and tapping against her palm.

"Something to focus on," Ashton uttered softly, his eyes sparkling with love and amusement when he watched (Y/n) sway her hand from side to side until the pendant crashed against her palm and she could dig the pointed end into the centre of her palm.

With the pendant still tapping and crashing into her palm, (Y/n) leant forward and peppered a quick, sweet kiss to Ashton's cheek that was lightly dusted with stubble. It was a sweet gesture. He was always thinking and observing.

"Okay, are you guys ready to rock?"

***

Her head was pounding. She felt like Ashton's bass drum; as if she had been repeatedly and consistently whacked in the side of the head for near on two hours.

That strange feeling of wrongness that (Y/n) had felt before the show had dimmed down while they were on stage. The music tempo had fluctuated in her ears, but mostly it stayed on point. And being up on stage was a sense of normality to (Y/n) from how many years they had all been performing. That wrong feeling eased away compared to how right and normal it felt to be up on stage with her band.

Coming off of stage was something (Y/n) always struggled with though, and right now, it was becoming hard to bear.

Pins and needles were sparking in her fingertips and started to travel down her hands towards her wrists, making them feel numb and broken. The feeling was resonating in her feet as well and each thundering step down the corridor made (Y/n)'s heart rocket and vibrate in her chest.

Now that they weren't up on stage, consumed by the lights and the roaring crowds, there weren't that many noises for (Y/n) to focus on. It should have made things easier, not having so many distractions and noises around her to overwhelm her, but it was the exact opposite.

Not having so many things to focus on was somehow even more constricting to (Y/n). When she was up on stage, she had things to distract her, she had the crowd to look at and listen to, she had the guys around her to watch and bounce reactions and emotions off of. She had her music that kept her concentrated and in focus.

Now (Y/n) was limited to the chatter of the band and the few members of the stage crew who were following them towards the exit. She had the sound of their boots that stomped and thrashed against the floor so loudly that (Y/n) winced with each step all of them took. None of their steps were in time, it was as if their footsteps were a song and they were all playing the wrong tempo at the wrong time.

Wrong. Again, things were starting to feel wrong and (Y/n) didn't like it.

(Y/n) knew what the problem was. The world had gone from enthusiastically deafening to deathly mellow. It was too much of a sudden change and it actually hurt her ears and her throbbing temples.

At least there were no blinding lights out here in the corridor. All the colours from the stage, the dazzling ocean blue and vibrant jungle green and blood red spotlights weren't out here and it gave (Y/n) the smallest sense of relief, but not very much.

She could barely keep her eyes open from the way her head was aching and felt like it was swelling up like a balloon. She could just about make out Ashton in front of her, at the front like he was leading the pack.

He'd taken off his vest halfway through the set; all the lights and exhersion meant he overheated quickly and the vest felt like a second skin that had been glued to him with sweat.

There was a fresh shirt crumpled in his fist, he was still too hot and sweaty to wear it yet but he knew once they were outside and back on the coach, he would mellow and cool down enough to need a shirt.

Since he seemed to be in the lead, it was Ashton who burst through the exit doors first as if he was stepping back out onto stage with a spring in his step and far too much adrenaline still coursing through his system. (Y/n) could see the way his fingers were curling and flexing towards his hands which meant he was still running high from the adrenaline the show endorsed.

She picked up the pace until she was right behind him, hands settling down on his broad shoulders that felt like she was touching hot coals straight off the fire. (Y/n) stuck close to his back, face tilted down until her nose was practically mushed into his shoulder.

It meant she didn't have to look around. The fans had gathered. They were all crowding round, leaning so far on the metal barriers that they threatened to topple them over. Cameras and phones were flashing, signs and pictures were being held and waved about in the dark night air and security were posted all around the perimeter surrounding the tour bus.

The band didn't usually hang around long after a show, especially not when they were on tour like this. They had to travel to the hotel and leave early in the morning to be on the road to the next city on their tour schedule. Sticking around to sign autographs and take photos wasn't what they did on an evening after a show. They did that beforehand, with the vip packages where fans could ask questions and get pictures and personal autographs before the concerts started.

By the way (Y/n)'s hands were gripping Ashton's shoulders, he could just feel that she was getting overwhelmed again.

The bright smile stayed on Ashton's lips and he let his eyes wander around the fans crowding round the barriers, but his left arm reached behind him until his hand was curled around her hip and his thumb started to stroke along her skin. He continued aiming towards the coach, knowing that stopping for photos or to sign merchandise wasn't going to do (Y/n) any good, he could sense it.

Their fanbase might have changed over the last decade as the band grew and adapted, but the one thing that had always remained the same was how kind and understanding the fans always were towards (Y/n). If the band said things were getting too much for (Y/n), the fans understood.

They didn't try and flash cameras in her face, they didn't reach out to thrust pens and paper towards her for autographs. They didn't crowd her. When taking photos, they were understanding that sometimes (Y/n) didn't want to be touched by the fans or she wouldn't pose like the others or look or feel as calm and relaxed as them.

If (Y/n) got overwhelmed on stage, especially in the early days when this was all new to them, the fans would mellow. The shouting and screaming would lessen, the flashing phone lights would dim down and if (Y/n) needed a break, it was understood.

(Y/n) could feel her heartbeat thundering beneath her skin as she and Ashton walked in tandem and climbed up the steps onto the coach.

The rest of the band followed suit, giving a few waves and big smiles towards the cameras before they all disappeared from sight.

As soon as they were on the coach, (Y/n) sank down into the closest seat on the left; her usual seat that was towards the centre of the coach. She dithered between wanting to coil her knees up to her chest and wanting to lean forwards and curl in on herself. Eventually deciding on leaning forwards with her arms pinned to her waist.

Now that her ear plugs were hanging around her neck like a new fashion trend, (Y/n)'s ears were throbbing. There was no more music to block out, but over two hours with every sound dampened and quietened down around her meant that going back to normal sounded like everything was amplified and overwhelming again.

There was a horrible ringing sensation in her ears and it felt like waves were bouncing and radiating around her head that was pulsing like a boom box.

In an attempt to make everything feel better, (Y/n) closed her eyes. She tried. She tried to keep them closed and hold her breath and her hands reached up to cradle her head like it was about to implode and she was desperately trying to hold herself together.

It wasn't working.

No sooner had the band filtered into the coach, the engine roared to life and immediately, Glen, the driver switched on the radio. It was only quiet in the background, but (Y/n) cringed. The music sounded fast, too fast. It sounded like someone had increased the tempo like clicking increase on a video speed on YouTube. It didn't sound right in (Y/n)'s ears.

Combined with her heartbeat that she was focusing far too much on and the feel of her heart aching horribly in her chest, it made her want to be sick. And then there was her breathing that she had started to focus on for some unknown reason. An automatic habit that now felt strained because she was noticing each intake of breath, each time her chest would expand and deflate.

Everything was so consuming and overwhelming and it made (Y/n) want to scream.

In a feeble attempt to block everything out, (Y/n) reached around her neck for her ear plugs that were hanging there like a necklace. She fumbled to get the black plastic tucked back into her ears, pushing until they were moulded perfectly to the shape of her ears and the noises around her were significantly dampened down.

The radio became distant like (Y/n) was listening to it from under water, but it still sounded two seconds too fast. She could hear the band, but their laughter and exasperated sighs were muffled like the volume in the coach had been turned down to six rather than twelve.

Her heels began to bash into the floor, jittering up and down in rhythm with the pins and needles flowing through her blood. Her arms were brushing against her thighs and the creases in her jeans were starting to feel like mountains she couldn't move or erase. Her skin was itchy. Her body was overcome with heat and sweat and it made her want to scratch and scratch until the feeling passed.

It all felt wrong again.

Tears prickled in the corners of her eyes and she raised one closed hand up to her face and pressed until her mouth and chin were achingly meshed against her fist. It wasn't enough.

Her lips parted and before she could stop herself, (Y/n) sank her teeth down into the flesh on the side of her hand just below her thumb. She bit down until she could feel the bone beneath the edge of her teeth and the flesh that caught between her grip as her jaw locked and a familiar sensation tingled down her arm towards her elbow.

Stretching his arms out behind him, Ashton knitted one hand through his hair and tugged until his scalp burned and his soaked curls were woven between his fingers. He felt like he had been captured in a bubble with no air getting through, just white hot heat licking at his skin and surrounding his entire frame. It was going to take a while for him to cool down, he doubted he would even need to wear the shirt that he had tossed onto the empty seat next to him.

His lips curved into a grin when he heard Calum and Michael joking about something, giving one another shoves until Calum's head almost rebounded off the window he was leaning against.

But when his head turned and he looked ahead of him, the wide smile on Ashton's parted lips began to dampen and shrink down.

(Y/n) was rocking back and forth on her seat, sat close enough on the edge that she looked like she might end up falling to her knees at any given moment. She had put her ear plugs back in, which wasn't like her at all. Her eyes were closed tight and her head was tilted down. But as Ashton leant forward to try and get a better look at her, his blood tingled and turned his hands numb.

His brows furrowed into a concentrated frown and he pushed off his seat quickly, crossing the small distance between the seats in just one large stride. His knees creaked when he dropped down to kneel on the floor with his bare chest pressing against (Y/n)'s knees like he was trying to imbed them into his chest.

"Babe- no, no don't do that."

His tone was almost pleading and he winced as he reached up to curl his hand around hers. Ashton could see just how tightly (Y/n) was clenching her jaw and although the skin on the hands and feet were tough, (Y/n) was close to breaking through it and drawing blood with that pressure.

The last thing he wanted to do was upset or unsettle (Y/n) when she was in the middle of a meltdown, he didn't want to make her feel any worse. But he didn't want to sit and watch, useless, as she harmed herself either.

His fingers pressed down on her wrist close to her mouth and gave a firm tug, his thumb drumming away on the inside of her hand until (Y/n) relented and unleashed her teeth from her skin.

He quickly pulled her hand down towards her lap and glanced down to see what the damage was. There was a bubble of skin appearing from the pressure she'd inflicted, and large dents in the shape of teeth marks were forming an oval in her skin. He was sure blood wheels would be bubbling beneath the surface soon enough and there was one small break in the skin, but no blood. Thankfully.

Wasting no time, he interlaced their fingers together and gave a few short squeezes of (Y/n)'s palm until she took his hint. She could squeeze his hand until there was no more blood left in his fingers. She could pull, yank and clench his hand and wrist for as long as she liked, because doing that would give (Y/n) some sense of relief and it wouldn't hurt her. Ashton would rather have an aching, bruised hand than have (Y/n) harm herself like that.

He didn't care how firm her grip was or what she would do to his hand, as long as it made her feel better.

"Oh- hey, hey." Michael gave another shove to Calum's shoulder, but this time it was less playful and more affirmative as he pointed towards the couple ahead of them. He leant to the right and tried to look ahead towards Ashton and (Y/n) because that didn't look like a sweet couple's moment happening between them.

They all knew the signs when (Y/n) was starting to have a meltdown or suffer a sensory overload and it looked like she was starting to shut down.

Luke downed what was left in his water bottle before tossing it onto a spare seat; they would empty the rubbish when they pulled up at the hotel. But when he looked towards what had caught Michael's attention, he straightened his shoulders and pushed up to his feet.

As soon as he saw (Y/n)'s head drop forward onto Ashton's shoulder and a muffled scream erupted from her lips, Luke carefully walked past them towards the front of the coach.

"Can you turn the radio off please?" Luke knew that if (Y/n) was becoming overwhelmed, listening to more noise wasn't going to make her feel any better. A bit of peace and quiet and some time to adjust to all the new sounds and senses might make her feel better.

Their concerts were always loud and the come down was hard. Going from such a volume to sudden tepid tones was hard enough for the rest of them, let alone (Y/n) with how sensitive she was to sounds and touch.

Once the radio was turned off, Luke moved towards the little sofa seat that (Y/n) was on and perched himself on the arm rest furthest away from her. He didn't want to be too close and make her feel crowded or penned in, but he wanted to be nearby in case she needed anything.

Understanding seemed to flood all of their eyes and mellow across their expressions as they tried not to stare, but at the same time they wanted to know whether (Y/n) was calming down or if they needed to do anything to make it easier for her.

They watched through small, sneaking glances, taking in how (Y/n) was shaking and the way she had her and Ashton's interlaced hands pressed so tightly against her sternum that it must have hurt. She was tapping their hands against her chest, almost as if she was trying to imitate her heartbeat, but Calum figured it was a way of stimming and to ground herself back to reality.

Her forehead and the crease of her nose were meshed down against Ashton's shoulder and she was rocking her upper body back and forth. She hadn't screamed again though, and they were all taking that as a good sign. They knew things were bad if (Y/n) started to scream or shout, she only did that if she was in a proper meltdown, not just a sensory overload.

After a second thought, Michael shifted in his seat and clambered up so he was standing on the chair with one hand braced against the window. He leant up until his free hand scratched the top of the window and he pulled the little handle which opened the small rectangular vent at the top of the window. Allowing a cold breeze to filter through the coach.

The windows would be a quicker way to cool down the temperature in the coach rather than having the air con switched on, and the night air always felt better than artificial.

"Babe, maybe you should take the ear plugs out… it's all quiet now. Hm?" Ashton meshed his lips against the top of (Y/n)'s head while his left hand curved around her back to trace his fingers up and down her spine.

He knew his own ears would ache after wearing the plugs for so long, but it wasn't loud in here anymore. The longer she wore them, the worse it was going to feel once she finally decided to take them out. Her ears would stop ringing after a few minutes after she adjusted.

Ashton paused his administrations, holding his arm out to one side when (Y/n) fumbled to yank the ear plugs out and toss them somewhere on the floor. Which Luke promptly grabbed and tossed onto a free chair so no one trod on them and broke them.

It had been a while since the band had witnessed (Y/n) having a meltdown like this after a show.

This used to happen a lot in the early days. On their first tour, after almost every show, (Y/n) would feel overwhelmed and panicked or so hyped up that she would bite her skin or lash out because she couldn't stop her fluctuating moods.

After one particular show, the five of them had ended up laid on the floor backstage at an arena when (Y/n) had a meltdown. They'd all sat down together and ended up laid in a strange kind of circle, humming different melodies to try and calm (Y/n) down. Their manager at the time thought it had been a sweet moment and took a picture; something that had exploded on the internet as a 'calming circle'.

"How are we doin'?" Ashton murmured quietly and tried to crane his head to the left so he could look at (Y/n). She was still rocking against him and gripping his hand like it was her lifeline, but he could hear that her erratic breathing had mellowed out somewhat.

(Y/n) couldn't find the will to answer, she didn't have the words either, but that didn't matter.

She slowly turned her head so it was her cheek meshed against Ashton's shoulder, leaving her lips and nose turned towards his neck where her breaths heated up and dampened his skin.

She pushed forward towards him and slid off the edge of the seat until she was slumped down on the floor, cramped in between him and the chair. She finally released his hand which (Y/n) knew had to be throbbing because of how her own hand was aching with tension. Both arms huddled towards her chest so she could lean against Ashton.

And when (Y/n) opened her eyes, blinking slowly and looking through fuzzy, hazy vision, she saw that Luke had moved closer. She had heard him nearby, she could hear his slow breaths and sense him beside her, but he wasn't perched on the arm rest anymore. He had slid down onto the seat so he was now sat behind her, legs crossed beneath him and arms laid out on his lap while a tender grin lit up his face.

At the sound of another voice, (Y/n) turned a little to look behind her while she felt Ashton's arms carefully circling around her waist, keeping her tucked safely into his bare chest.

Michael and Calum had joined them on the floor, sitting close enough to be embroiled in conversation, but still with a few inches between them just so they didn't overwhelm (Y/n) with too much too soon.

"What do you need, a quiet ride home or a bit of chatter?"

If (Y/n) felt like she needed as little noise as possible and a calm journey back to the hotel, they would all happily oblige. They would wear their ear phones or huddle together and talk quietly and back away so they didn't overwhelm her. But if she wanted a bit of noise, some fun to lift the mood or even a melody in the air to take her mind off of things, they would do that too.

“hard to rest when it sounds like world war three in the kitchen,” you mumble, sitting up and pushing your hair back.

he huffs, disappearing again, muttering something about “perfectly fine eggs.”

you pull on one of his shirts—it hangs halfway down your thighs—and pad barefoot into the kitchen. it looks… mostly intact. there’s a pan of slightly overdone scrambled eggs, toast that’s a little too golden, and a glass of juice sitting on the counter.

he looks up as you walk in, instantly softening. “hey. i was gonna bring it to you.”

you lean against the counter, smirking. “breakfast in bed?”

“yeah. figured i’d start practicing for when you can’t chase me down the hallway anymore.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s warmth creeping up your chest. “i’m pregnant, not made of glass.”

“yeah, well,” he says, stepping closer, his hands finding your waist like they always do, “you’re still my glass.”

you tilt your chin up, trying not to smile but failing miserably. “that’s the worst metaphor you’ve ever used.”

“and yet,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek, “you’re smiling.”

you are. you hate that you are, but you can’t help it.

“you’re ridiculous,” you whisper.

“you married ridiculous.”

you look up at him then—at the stubble he missed shaving, the faint bruise under his eye from last week’s case, the way his whole face softens when he looks at you.

“yeah,” you murmur, “i did.”

he grins, presses another kiss to your temple, and guides you to the table. there’s a vase with one single flower in it, lopsided and slightly wilted, and it’s the smallest, dumbest, sweetest thing.

“you bought a flower?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“stole it,” he admits. “from the neighbor’s garden.”

you laugh, covering your face. “adam.”

“what?” he shrugs, sitting across from you. “it’s symbolic.”

“of what?”

“how i’d commit minor crimes for you.”

you laugh harder now, that kind of laugh that makes your stomach ache, and he just sits there watching you, like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

breakfast is simple, messy, a little overdone—but it’s perfect.

halfway through, you look up at him and say softly, “you know you don’t have to do all this every morning.”

“i know,” he says, eyes still fixed on you. “but i want to.”

you reach across the table, threading your fingers through his. his hand is warm, rough, grounding.

“you’re gonna drive me crazy, you know that?”

“already there,” he says, and that grin—god, that grin—makes your heart do that stupid flip again.

-

the drive to the precinct is quiet, at least at first. your hand rests lazily on the center console, and adam’s fingers keep finding yours every few minutes like he can’t help it. he’s focused on the road, jaw set, eyes flicking to you every time the car slows at a light. you know that look—half protective, half suspicion that the world might try something the second he looks away.

you watch the city roll past the window, sunlight hitting glass and concrete in patches. “you’re tense,” you say finally, eyes still on the street.

“you’re working a case,” he answers without missing a beat.

“we’re working the same case,” you correct.

“doesn’t make me less tense.”

you turn your head toward him, smile tugging at your mouth. “you do realize i carry a badge too, right? i’ve been doing this longer than you.”

“and yet,” he says, eyes flicking toward your stomach for a fraction of a second, “you’ve never done it while carrying a baby.”

you sigh, leaning your head back. “you act like i’m about to run into a burning building.”

“if there was one,” he says dryly, “you’d probably do it.”

you don’t answer that because he’s not entirely wrong.

when you pull into the parking lot, the usual chaos of the precinct greets you—sirens somewhere nearby, a handful of uniforms arguing over reports.

adam parks, but doesn’t immediately get out. instead, he sits there, hand still holding yours, thumb tracing small, thoughtless circles against your skin. “just… stay out of anything that looks like it might explode, yeah?”

you smile. “define explode.”

“you know exactly what i mean.”

you lean over and kiss his cheek before opening the door. “relax, karadec. i’m pregnant, not cursed.”

“debatable,” he mutters under his breath, but follows you out anyway.

inside, the hum of chatter fills the open floor, and heads turn almost immediately—partly because you rarely come in with him, and partly because, well, you’re you.

oz spots you first, setting down the evidence boxes. “well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” he grins. “karadec actually let you out of the house?”

“she didn’t need to be out of the house,” adam says flatly, already regretting bringing you.

you shoot oz a look. “he’s been like this all morning.”

“all morning? try all week,” daphne adds from her desk, sipping from a water bottle. “i caught him triple-checking the elevator cables yesterday.”

“you did not,” adam protests, but the flush in his face gives him away.

morgan walks in then, balancing a pile of folders and a sandwich in one hand. “good, everyone’s here. i have updates—” she stops mid-sentence when she notices you, eyes lighting up. “oh! hi! you look amazing.”

“thanks,” you say, smiling. “trying to keep this one from bubble-wrapping me.”

morgan laughs. “good luck. he’s already threatened to install child locks on the bullpen doors.”

“not true,” adam says, then pauses. “...mostly.”

the room erupts into laughter, and you shake your head, hiding your smile behind your hand. he’s glaring at them, but you can see the corners of his mouth twitch.

you take your seat across from morgan, pulling out your file. “so. where were we with the mall burglary case?”

adam’s still standing behind you, arms crossed, like your personal security detail. you glance up at him. “you planning to hover all day?”

“maybe.”

you give him a look, sharp but affectionate. “then grab a chair. you’re making everyone nervous.”

oz leans toward daphne and whispers, “she’s scarier than him.”

“yeah,” she murmurs, “but he likes it.”

you pretend not to hear them, flipping open your folder. “okay. let’s get started.”

and even though adam stays close—too close, really—you don’t tell him to move. you know it’s how he breathes easier. and maybe, if you’re honest, it’s how you do too.

the board in the middle of the room is a mess of photos, scribbled notes, and half-connected red lines. morgan’s handwriting dominates one corner and your neat, deliberate notes fill the other. the contrast almost makes you laugh.

oz is pacing with a file in hand, reading off timestamps. “security footage puts him near the loading dock at 2:17 a.m.,” he says. “but the guard didn’t clock him leaving.”

“because he didn’t leave through the front,” you reply, flipping through your own copy. “the back exit leads to the service alley. no cameras there.”

morgan looks up, eyes bright. “and the alley connects to the old laundromat two buildings down, which has been shut for months.”

you nod, tapping your pen. “he used it as a passage. probably stashed the goods there.”

adam leans over your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him even through your jacket. “we can check it out.”

you glance up at him. “we?”

“yeah, we,” he says, like it’s not even up for debate.

you raise an eyebrow. “you’re not dragging me into another dirty, half-collapsed building.”

“you’re not going alone.”

“who said anything about alone?” you shoot back. “daphne’s coming.”

daphne looks up from her laptop. “wait, i am?”

“yes,” you say, “because apparently someone thinks i can’t handle stairs.”

“you shouldn’t be handling stairs,” adam mutters.

oz snorts. “she’s gonna throw her pen at you in about three seconds.”

“two,” morgan adds.

you do, in fact, throw the pen—lightly, just enough for it to bounce off adam’s chest.

he catches it before it hits the floor, smirking. “assaulting an officer?”

“correcting a husband,” you reply.

the others laugh, but he only grins wider.

an hour later, the team piles into the cars, and you end up in the passenger seat with adam driving.

the laundromat is exactly what you expected—dusty, dark, and barely standing. adam gets out first, scanning the perimeter with that sharp, automatic precision.

“stay here,” he says immediately, glancing over his shoulder.

you’re already out of the car. “no.”

he exhales, quietly counting to three like it might help. “you’re unbelievable.”

“you married unbelievable,” you shoot back, brushing past him and ducking under the caution tape.

inside, the air smells like mildew and old detergent. the floor creaks under every step. you sweep your flashlight across the cracked tiles, landing on a half-open maintenance hatch near the back.

“there,” you say.

adam’s already beside you before the word leaves your mouth. “don’t touch it.”

you ignore him and crouch anyway, peering down. “looks like he used this for storage.”

“looks like it’s unstable,” adam says, his hand hovering close to your arm without actually touching you.

oz appears behind you with a grin. “you two need a couples’ therapist or a bomb squad?”

“both,” daphne says.

morgan kneels beside you, peering in. “bags. three of them. jewelry, electronics, a few watches—definitely stolen.” she glances up at adam. “guess she was right.”

you give him a look that says told you so without saying a word.

he just shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “yeah, yeah. don’t get smug.”

later, when the scene’s wrapped and the evidence’s logged, he helps you back into the car like you’ve just survived a warzone.

“you didn’t even break a sweat,” you tease, watching him fuss with your seatbelt.

“you could’ve fallen through that hatch.”

“i could’ve also won the lottery,” you say. “doesn’t mean it was gonna happen.”

he closes the door, leans down just enough to meet your eyes through the window. “you drive me insane.”

“join the club,” you say, smiling as he shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side.

and when you look at him—really look—you can see it: the tension that only comes from loving someone too much and not knowing how to keep them safe.

so you reach out, resting your hand over his on the gearshift once he sits down. “hey,” you say softly. “we’re fine. both of us.”

he nods, jaw unclenching. “yeah.”

-

you barely make it through the door before he’s already easing the strap of your bag off your shoulder, setting it down like it’s too heavy for you. you’re halfway to telling him that you’re pregnant, not made of glass—but then you catch the look on his face. that quiet kind of soft that only shows up when you’re home.

the lights are dim, the sky outside still streaked with a fading orange glow. you toe your shoes off, stretch your arms, and exhale like you’re finally done holding your breath all day.

adam lingers behind you, hands in his pockets, watching. always watching.

“what?” you ask, a small smile tugging at your lips as you glance over your shoulder.

“nothing,” he says softly, stepping closer. “just… making sure you’re real.”

you turn fully, eyebrows raised. “you saw me literally all day, karadec.”

“doesn’t count,” he murmurs, hands finding your waist, thumbs brushing over your hips. “you were in work mode. all sharp edges and orders.”

“and now?” you ask, voice teasing.

“now you’re soft again.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re already smiling, leaning into him. “you’re such a sap.”

“your sap.”

you laugh quietly and press your forehead against his chest. his heartbeat is steady beneath your cheek, grounding, the only sound that really matters right now.

he wraps his arms around you, slow and careful, like you’re something precious—and maybe you are. “you scared me today,” he says after a moment.

“i scared you?” you look up at him, half amused. “adam, i found stolen jewelry, not a grenade.”

“it could’ve been a trapdoor, or unstable flooring, or—”

you cut him off with a kiss, just a small one. “you worry too much.”

“yeah,” he says against your lips, “and i’m gonna keep doing it.”

you pull back, smirking. “fine. but only if you worry while you make dinner.”

“dinner?” he repeats, pretending to look offended. “i thought that was your specialty.”

“i’m pregnant,” you remind him, feigning seriousness. “which means i’m officially retired from kitchen duty.”

he chuckles, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “convenient.”

“strategic,” you correct, poking his chest before heading toward the couch.

you sink into the cushions, tugging one of the blankets around you, and he joins you a moment later, still smelling faintly like aftershave. he sits too close, as always, and you don’t complain when he pulls you into his side.

your head finds his shoulder easily. “you’re warm,” you mumble.

“you’re tired,” he says, running his hand gently over your stomach, tracing the faint curve that wasn’t there a few months ago.

“mm,” you hum, eyes fluttering shut. “we’re both tired.”

“speak for yourself,” he says, but his voice is soft now, slow, the kind of voice he only uses when it’s just you two.

you peek up at him. “admit it. you’re exhausted.”

“maybe a little.”

you smile, fingers brushing along his jaw. “you should sleep.”

“not yet,” he whispers. “just—stay like this a bit longer.”

you do. the room fades into quiet again, the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours. at some point, he starts tracing small circles over your belly, whispering things you can barely hear—something about the baby, about how he can’t wait, about how he’s already so stupidly in love.

you pretend you’re half-asleep, but you’re listening to every word.

when he finally looks up, you meet his gaze. “you’re gonna be a great dad,” you say softly.

his expression cracks just a little—like the words hit somewhere deep. “yeah?”

“yeah.” you nod, sleepy and sure. “the best.”

he kisses you then—slow, lingering, filled with every quiet promise he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

“i...” he starts, eyes dropping to your stomach for just a second. “i’m just realizing how close this is getting.”

you glance down too, your hand joining his as his fingers trace slow circles over the soft curve there. he’s so careful—always so careful—like the slightest wrong touch could break something.

“you talk about it like we’re about to defuse a bomb,” you tease quietly.

he huffs a laugh, but there’s something real behind it. “yeah, well, i’m not exactly trained for this kind of thing.”

you tilt your head. “you mean fatherhood?”

he nods, eyes still fixed on your belly. “every case, every chase, every interrogation—i know how to handle that. but this?” his thumb brushes over the spot just below your ribs, soft and reverent. “this is the one thing i don’t ever want to mess up.”

you feel the lump rise in your throat before you can stop it. “you won’t.”

“you don’t know that.”

“i do,” you whisper. “you’ll be the kind of dad who reads bedtime stories too seriously, who checks under the bed three times just to make sure, who pretends not to cry when they take their first steps.”

he looks up at you, eyes warm and shining. “you think so?”

“i know so,” you say, smiling. “you already treat this baby like it’s made of gold. you’ll probably follow them around the playground with a first aid kit.”

“i will,” he says immediately, dead serious. “and sunscreen. and snacks.”

you laugh, leaning into his chest. “see? you’re ready.”

he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close enough that you can hear his heartbeat. it’s steady, strong, safe. “you’re gonna be the brave one,” he murmurs against your hair. “the one who teaches them to stand up for themselves. i’ll just… make sure they never fall.”

you close your eyes, the sound of his voice wrapping around you like a promise. “they’re gonna be lucky,” you whisper. “so, so lucky.”

he kisses the top of your head, lingering there for a long moment. “no,” he says softly. “i’m the lucky one.”

you laugh into his chest, the kind of laugh that comes out quiet and full at once.

later, you end up curled together on the couch, wrapped under a blanket. the tv hums in the background, but neither of you are really watching. adam’s got one hand resting on your belly again, thumb moving in slow, absent circles. every few minutes, he says something low—half to you, half to the little life growing between you.

“you’re gonna have her smile,” he murmurs once.

“and your stubbornness,” you mumble back, eyes half closed.

“god help us,” he says, and you both start laughing.

by the time you drift off, his hand is still there, his thumb still moving, his voice still whispering things you can barely hear, about building cribs, and baby shoes, and late-night walks when they can’t sleep.

     You turned your back for only a second, just to grab something from the medkit. Buck and Eddie are doing their best to coax the patient onto the gurney, gritting their teeth as he hurls slurred curses their way. Hen quietly asks you to grab the pulse oximeter out of the bag, and so you turn, crouching down at the edge of the dock to rummage through the kit.

     You’re not sure what causes it. Why the patient decided to lash out at that exact moment. But there’s a gruff roar behind you and the man flails, edging around Eddie to give you an almighty shove. Crouched like this, your center of gravity suddenly shifts. You lose your balance.

     And then you're in the water.

     Panic floods your body as you breach the surface. It's instinct to gasp for air, except there isn't any; you take in a lungful of the lake instead, sputtering and hacking beneath the water as you try to kick towards daylight.

     It’s deeper than you thought it would be, so close to the shore. You keep kicking and kicking, but your boots never scrape the bottom, nor do you find the surface. It’s cold, too. Colder than you thought possible, in a lake in the middle of Los Angeles. But it’s winter now, you suppose. A grim, chilly February. Most of it has been spent curled up beneath a blanket with Buck, the pair of you ensconced in your cosy apartment.

     The past week has been overcast and windy. And the water is never as warm as the air temperature. Buck laughs every time you run into the surf at the beach, squealing at the sudden, sharp chill of it lapping at your skin.

     How cold can a human body become before it’s dangerous?

     You try to remember, but cold water curls around your limbs like heavy iron shackles, dragging you down. You can’t remember. Buck would know. Buck wouldn’t even have to think about it, he’d just reel off the answer in a heartbeat, and you’d smile proudly and kiss his cheek and insist, once again, that you should do a quiz night at your wedding reception.

     Your lungs are burning. God, your whole body’s just screaming for air, but you can’t find it. There isn’t any. Just endless, depthless water and the occasional wink of sunlight, mocking you from high above, then gone again. Never around long enough for you to find it. Never long enough to save you.

     Instinctively, you suck in another breath. Another barrage of lakewater floods your lungs. Dark spots start speckling across your vision.

     On the dock, Buck is screaming.

     He’d had one hand on the patient’s shoulder, his grip firm but gentle as he helped Eddie guide the guy onto the stretcher. You’d ducked out of sight for a moment, but Buck had been focused on subduing the patient. He tried not to grimace as waves of hot, rancid beer breath crashed over him.

     Then, with a strength that surprised them, the man wrenched out of Buck’s grasp and staggered away from them. Buck doesn’t think he shoved you on purpose, but it didn’t matter; one moment you were suspended, wobbling dangerously close to the edge of the dock, and the next—

     The next, you were gone.

     The patient’s still yelling nonsensically, curses and insults blending together into one unintelligible mess, but all Buck can hear is white noise. He blinks, but you’re still missing. He sees the gurney, the patient, Chimney’s pale face, the ripples spreading over the surface of the lake.

     But no you.

     Terror bolts through him, and without hesitation he’s sprinting to the edge of the dock. No, no, no. Ragged breaths tear out of his lungs as he scans the surface of the water, frantically searching for any sign of you.

     You’re okay, you’re okay, he repeats under his breath, over and over. Any moment now, your head will bob into view, and you’ll shoot him a waterlogged scowl, and he’ll laugh at you doing your best impression of a drowned cat, and everything will be okay.

     But the seconds tick by, one excruciating breath after another. There’s no sign of you.

     Buck shouts your name. A heart-wrenching cry. No, no, no.

     The rest of the team leap into action. Some of them load the patient quickly into the ambulance while Bobby radios for another RA unit. Eddie scrambles to grab the life preserver as Buck tears off his jacket, kicks the heavy boots off his feet. Hen and Chimney prepare their equipment for the worst.

     Please. Please. Buck doesn’t believe in God, but he spares a moment to pray before diving into the lake after you.

     The current catches him off-guard, tugging harshly at his clothes. It rained a lot earlier this week, so the lakes and rivers around Los Angeles are more swollen than usual, but the strength of it sends a spark of fear zipping up his spine. Falling in here, disoriented and panicking…

     He can barely make out your figure through the water’s murky gloom. Kicking hard, he swims down to you, loops strong arms around your waist. Wrapped in Buck’s unrelenting grip, he drags you back to the surface.

     “Eddie!” Buck calls out as he breaks through. Eddie wastes no time in tossing the life preserver towards him, who grabs hold of it with one hand, his other arm coiled tightly around your limp body, trying to keep your head above water.

     Bile rises in his throat as your clammy skin presses against his. You’re so cold. Panic wraps a hand around his throat and squeezes, hard, with every inch he gets closer to shore.

     Eddie and Bobby are quick to pull you both back to the dock, using the life preserver as a tow line. Hauling you out of the water, Buck lowers you gently to the ground. Your head rolls limply sideways, your face unnaturally pale, lips tinged blue from lack of oxygen.

     “They’re not breathing,” Hen murmurs worriedly. She sets the pulse ox on your finger while Chimney tries a sternal rub. You don’t flinch. “Respiratory arrest. Starting CPR.”

     Buck hovers at the edge of things. His chest is tight like a vise, steadily squeezing all the air of his lungs and replacing it with cold, slippery dread. He watches Hen and Chimney work over you, counts the reps in his head alongside them.

     He can’t tear his focus from your hands. They’re so still. Like a doll.

     Or a corpse.

     Please. You can’t leave him. You can’t. He hasn’t had enough time. You’re supposed to be getting married. Walk down the aisle together, spend a lifetime together. You were talking about getting a dog just last night. Planned a trip to the shelter for your next Saturday off. You were going to ask Chris to come with.

     And between one breath and the next, all of that could just be… gone.

     “Buck.” Eddie clasps a hand on Buck’s shoulder, wrapping a blanket around him to stave off the chill. Oh. He’s shivering, hands quivering at his sides, soaked clothes clinging to his skin. The blanket is tiny compared to Buck’s broad frame, but it’s something, at least. “Buck, breathe.”

    On the ground, Hen keeps administering rescue breaths. Every few seconds, she'll pause to check your response, but you remain frighteningly still every time.

     Buck can’t breathe until you do. He can’t.

     He feels so hyper-aware of everything around, the onslaught hitting all at once. The crowd of nosy onlookers gathered at the end of the dock, held back by frazzled park employees and a few other members of the 118. The wind ghosting over his skin, chilled gusts that ruffle his damp curls and creep beneath the blanket seeking wet skin to freeze.

     But most all, you. Always you. He can’t look away.

     Eddie’s hand on his shoulder feels like a tether, not quite breaking him from his thoughts completely but keeping him from falling over the edge of the precipice.

     “Buck, breathe.”

     His whole body shudders as does, finally, sucking a ragged breath into screaming lungs. His vision blurs just slightly. He blinks to clear it.

     You’ll make it. He cannot allow himself to think the worst. He won’t give up on you, won’t acknowledge the dark thoughts creeping in from the corners of his mind. You’ll make it. You have to.

     "Come on, kid," Chimney whispers as Hen administers another round of rescue breaths. "Come on, kid, you've got this—"

     And then between one second and the next, your whole body jolts, and you're vomiting out lungfuls of water. Hen rolls you onto your side, rubbing a soothing palm along your back as you wretch onto the ground.

     "That's it, baby, get it all out," she murmurs. You're gasping and hacking and sputtering lakewater all over the place, still not quite conscious, lips still a little blue and face still startlingly pale, but at least you're breathing.

     A wave of relief crashes over Buck and it almost takes him out at the knees. His heart’s still racing dangerously in his chest, trying to break past his ribs to reach you, and his hands still shake, but you’re breathing again.

     You’re breathing.

     He sways a little as his legs go weak. Buck feels lightheaded just witnessing you expel all that water, and sudden nausea grips his stomach in a vice. But he fights through it, unwilling to take his eyes off you for even a moment, even as his vision begins to blur again.

     Tears gather along his lash line, threatening to fall. He remains silent, not trusting that he won’t dissolve into tears the moment he opens his mouth.

     You’re still gagging, heaving onto the deck, but at least there’s no more water.

     He’s itching to reach out, touch you, feel your pulse flutter beneath his fingers to prove he’s not hallucinating. His hand twitches just slightly, like he almost does, but he feels rooted to the ground.

     Body wracked with violent tremors, you start to relax back onto the ground, limbs limp and leaden, throat and lungs burning like wildfire from the water you expelled. Your breath hitches every few seconds, still shallow and slow, so Hen fixes an oxygen mask to your face as Chimney mutters something about getting you to a hospital just as the second ambulance arrives on scene.

     You don't hear any of that. Blinking once, twice, the light is bright enough to make you squint as your mind swims hazily between waking and unconsciousness. Your head is pounding. You feel like you got hit by a goddamn truck. A pained moan whines out of you as you squeeze your eyes closed again to block out the weak, grey daylight.

     Buck bites his lip bloody as he watches you drift, your eyelids fluttering and your slow, stuttering breaths. His eyes are fixed on the oxygen mask. With every exhale, it turns foggy with condensation, and another knot of worry in his chest starts to loosen, but it’s not enough to put him at ease. Not yet.

     He’ll calm down only once you’ve been checked over at the hospital. Preferably with a second (or third) opinion, just in case.

     “Buck.” Eddie’s grip on his shoulder tightens momentarily as he nudges Buck gently forward. “They need you.”

     On the ground, you're only semi-conscious, still not fully aware of your surroundings. But you feel like you're looking for someone. Like there's someone missing, and you reach out blindly with one cold, trembling hand.

     Buck’s own fingers flex in response, but his legs still feel too heavy. He looks to Eddie, who nods at him, before Buck allows himself to be pushed towards you.

     Eddie’s right. You need him.

     Stumbling forward, he drops down to his knees, a dull thud echoing up from the wood that nearly makes him wince. He edges closer, eyes flicking all over your face, taking in your gaunt, washed out features, that cyan tint to your lips, the way you’re reaching out to him.

     Slowly, so slowly, he hesitantly takes your hand in his, curling careful fingers around yours. He squeezes tightly, and then it’s like he’s afraid someone will steal you away from him, because his grip turns almost tight enough to bruise.

     “I’m here, baby.”

     The hand encircling yours is warm and huge and comfortingly familiar, and when his voice drifts over you, something in your mind flickers with recognition. Your eyes flutter as you search for him, ignoring the way the light feels like skewers in your brain. "Buck?" Muffled by the oxygen mask, your voice is barely more than a whisper, throat rubbed raw from expelling the water.

     "Let's get you on a gurney." Hen is all business, but there's a soft, relieved smile on her face. "We'll start an IV of warm fluids in the ambulance to bring your body temp up. You weren’t down for too long, but I want to get you checked by a doctor soon in case there's any neurological issues."

     She’s addressing you, but it’s Buck who’s listening, taking in what she’s saying. He squeezes your hand again, trying to be a tether to consciousness as you weakly nod. He watches as your eyes search for him again.

     “You’re okay, you’re okay. You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs softly, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand.

     It’s more to reassure himself than anything.

     They're quick to transfer you to a gurney, and soon you're being wheeled towards the ambulance. Buck's hand in yours is a comforting anchor to reality, even as your whole body aches with pain.

     "Cold," you mutter once the doors have closed. Chimney's driving. Buck's in the back with you and Hen. You wouldn't have let go of his hand if they'd even tried to separate you, but they didn’t.

     Buck watches over you like he’s scared you’ll stop breathing if looks away. The lines of his fave are still creased with worry, but his thumb is soft, tracing soothing, mindless circles over your skin.

     When you speak his head snaps up slightly, eyes immediately locking with yours as you call out for him, murmuring in a raspy voice that you’re cold.

     “I know, it’s okay. Here, let me.” Hen wordlessly passes him a heated blanket and he’s gentle as he strips you of your wet shirt. Expertly avoiding the leads and tubes attached to your body, he tucks it around you, still holding your hand all the while.

     "Mm." You make a small, pleased noise as the blanket's warmth envelops you. It barely registers when Hen reaches across to take your other hand, wincing a little as she inserts a cannula to start you on an IV of warm fluids.

     "ER is ten minutes out," she murmurs quietly, and settles back to monitor your vital signs, offering you and Buck a little privacy.

     You're still shivering beneath the blanket, even as the warmth of it starts seeping into your bones, but that's more of an aftereffect of drowning than actual cold. You squeeze your fiancé's hand as hard as you can. "Buck?"

     “Right here, baby,” he murmurs softly, squeezing right back. His free hand moves to your head, fingers gently running through your damp, tangled hair.

     "Wanna marry you."

     The words that spill out of you are little more than a mumble, your eyes still closed, face still hidden beneath the oxygen mask. Soaked strands of hair drip murky lake water onto the floor.

     Buck is already your fiancé. You're already engaged. But there's an urgency settling in your gut, twisting up your insides in the worst way.

     You want— no, need to marry him.

     As soon as possible.

     It takes a few seconds to understand what you said, but when the words finally register, it feels like they’ve grown talons that tear right into his chest. The urgency in your tone makes his eyes still, and his heart starts to race all over again, threatening to beat right out of his chest so it can live next to yours.

     Eyes softening, he moves his hand from your hair to rest his index finger under your chin, gently tracing his thumb over your lip.

     “Marry me, huh?” he mumbles softly. You’d never be able to tell that on the inside, his brain is screaming gleefully that he’d marry you right now if Hen were ordained.

     He taps your nose over the oxygen mask, and if you were a little more awake (and not encumbered by the oxygen mask), you’d nip at his finger, a playful smile toying at your lips.

     Instead, you make the cutest grumbling sound he’s ever heard. "Mm. Now.” Your engagement ring is tucked safely in your locker back at the station, replaced on shift by a black silicone band that won't get damaged on a call.

     You squeeze his hand again, tugging insistently on it. Blinking against the harsh light of the ambulance, your gaze finds his, eyes still foggy and unfocused. “Marry me.”

     If another day passes before you’re married to this man, you may actually lose your mind.

     Butterflies swirl around Buck’s stomach, a far cry from nausea that rolled through him not that long ago. The small smile on your lips and the way you’re tugging on his hand make him feel all warm and gooey.

     He laughs softly at you, tapping his finger against your nose again. “Right now? We’re gonna get married right now? With you in the hospital?” He’s got no hope of masking the amusement in his tone. He wants to marry you yesterday. His eyes sparkle as he looks down at you with a quirked brow.

     You nod a little, trying not to wince as that sets off the pounding in your head. God, you pity those who get regular migraines. This is torture, and you only suffered a little oxygen deprivation!

     But Buck is smiling.

     He’s smiling and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. You thought you'd never see it again. You want to see that smile every moment for the rest of your life

     "Mm-hm," you mumble, leaning into his touch. "Eddie can be flower girl. Wedding night in a hospital room. Scandalise the nurses."

     You're not sure how much of that was coherent, but you hear Hen snort, so you figure it was mostly audible.

     Buck’s grin broadens at your suggestion, but he bites his tongue to stifle the laugh bubbling in his chest. “Scandalise the nurses, huh.” He glances at Hen out of the corner of his eye, catching her trying to smother a similar smile.

     You huff at him, as if he’s being particularly difficult. As if you didn’t almost die twenty minutes ago. As if there aren’t more important things to focus on than the elopement you’ve suddenly decided you need.

     Besides. They’re nurses. You’re pretty sure they’ve seen worse.

     “Sucked your dick in the broom closet at work,” you mutter, your eyes falling closed again as warmth and safety wrap you up like a swaddled baby. “We’re pretty scandalous, baby.”

     Hen is barely able to muffle her squawk in time, hand clapped over her mouth, and you can't help but smile at the bright sound of it. You're sleepy, and you've got no filter, but at least everyone else gets to enjoy it.

     Buck, meanwhile, almost chokes on his own saliva. Eyes wide, jaw slack, a rosy flush creeps up his neck. It’s Hen’s reaction that makes him laugh, though, and he finally lets it out, quiet but affectionate as it tumbles from his lips.

     He shakes his head a little as he looks back down at you. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” His thumb keeps tracing lightly over the back of your hand, and the expression on his face is impossibly soft, his heart still racing in his chest.

     "Eddie in a pretty pink flower girl dress," you mumble, nonsensical images flitting through your mind of your friend drowning in tulle. You sigh. "You'd still be prettier. Just wanna marry you."

     The way he’s looking at you makes you feel warmer than any blanket. You feel like you’re floating on a cloud instead of stretched out on a gurney in the back of an ambulance.

     You want nothing more than to curl up in his arms right now, at home in your bed. This situation is certainly not ideal.

     "Bet we could get Eddie to wear a dress." More sleepy grumbles. You try to roll over, shuffle closer to your fiancé, but annoyingly, your body feels far too heavy to cooperate. "Play the I nearly drowned card. That would work. Bobby can officiate. Hen gets the cake. Can't wait another day."

     Buck snorts at the idea of Eddie in a dress, but his heart feels so full it’s like his body can barely contain it. The urge to wrap you up in his arms, to hold you close and never let go, hits him like a baseball bat to the head.

     “We gotta wait until you’re able to talk without being a smartass,” he says teasingly, tapping your nose again.

     You whine, frowning like a grumpy, tired child. “Then we’ll never get married.”

     Truly, if you have to wait for until the day you stop being a smartass, the world might end first.

     You look over at Hen through sleepy, puppy dog eyes. "Back me up here, Hen." You're so drowsy, exhaustion pulling you into its delicious embrace, but you’re pretty sure you'll remember all of this when you wake up.

     Hen certainly will, at least.

     A slow, sly smile creeps onto her face. Buck feels distinctly like he’s being ganged up on. For once, he really doesn’t mind.

     "Well, we as a firehouse are well-known for our impromptu party planning..." Hen recalls her vow renewal, and Chimney's wedding to Maddie, and every back-to-work celebration she ever organised. They are pretty damn good at this. "As long as the doctors clear you, I don't see why we can't plan a shotgun wedding in your hospital room."

     A triumphant, extremely sleepy grin spreads across your face, and you look back at Buck. "So marry me, hotshot."

     He huffs a melodramatic sigh, as if this is the world’s biggest inconvenience for him, but he cannot hide the way his ears turn pink, the way his whole body lights up like a sparkler on the Fourth of July.

     “A shotgun hospital wedding it is,” he says, bright with glee as he lifts your hand to his mouth, brushing a sweet kiss to your knuckles.

The echo of fists hitting leather filled the empty gym. Your skin ached, knuckles red despite the worn wraps you’d tried to protect them with. Sweat clung to your shirt, your lungs burned, but you didn’t stop. Every harsh word you’d overheard earlier replayed in your head with every strike.

"She’s so weak."

"Why would they waste their time with her?"

"She can’t even defend herself."

The voices haunted you, and so you’d thrown yourself into the bag for hours, chasing strength you weren’t sure you’d ever find.

You didn’t notice the time. You didn’t notice your stomach growling. You didn’t notice the sound of heavy boots behind you, until the bag suddenly stopped swinging, one broad hand bracing it still.

Bucky.

“You’re gonna break your damn hands,” he muttered, voice low and gruff. His metal fingers tightened around the chain of the bag, steadying it as he peered at you. His hair was messy, his Henley sleeves shoved up, jaw tight with concern.

Behind him came Steve, his presence softer but no less worried. His arms were crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable at first glance, but his eyes were sharp, watching every detail. “Doll…do you have any idea what time it is?”

You blinked, startled. “I...uh…no?”

“It’s past midnight.” Steve’s voice was calm, but there was steel under it. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. The truth was, you couldn’t remember.

Bucky’s frown deepened. “That answers that.” He let go of the bag and gently pried the wraps from your aching hands, his flesh thumb brushing over the raw skin. “Doll, your knuckles are gonna be shot if you keep this up.”

“I have to,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Both of them froze. Steve tilted his head slightly, stepping closer. “You have to?”

You swallowed, heat creeping into your cheeks. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “…Because people are right.”

“Right about what?” Steve’s voice was firmer now, like he already knew he wasn’t going to like the answer.

You looked down at your raw hands. “They’re saying things. About me. That I’m not strong, that I can’t defend myself, that I don’t…deserve you two.” Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out. “So I thought if I trained more, if I worked harder, maybe-”

“That’s enough.” Steve’s words were sharp, cutting off your spiral. He stepped right in front of you, tilting your chin up with a finger so you couldn’t avoid his eyes. “Not another word.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. He looked furious, though not at you. His voice was low and dangerous when he spoke. “Who the hell is talking about you like that?”

You shook your head quickly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t,” Bucky growled, pacing a step away like he needed to keep from punching the wall. “People think they can run their mouths about our girl? They’re lucky I don’t-”

“Buck,” Steve warned, though his own shoulders were tense, fists clenched. He turned back to you, softening. “You listen to me. You don’t have to prove a damn thing. Not to them, and especially not to us. You hear me?”

Tears stung your eyes, the tension in your chest finally cracking. “But-”

“No.” Steve’s thumb brushed your cheek. “You’re ours. That’s all that matters. You think strength is only about fighting? Doll, the strongest thing in this world is the heart you’ve got. That’s what keeps us going. That’s why we’re with you.”

“Damn right,” Bucky muttered, finally coming back over. He slid his metal arm around your waist, tugging you against his chest while Steve’s warmth pressed in on the other side. Sandwiched between them, you felt the last of your trembling ease.

Bucky’s voice dropped lower, possessive. “Anyone stupid enough to say otherwise? They’ll answer to us.”

Steve leaned down, pressing a firm kiss to your temple. “Let us take care of you tonight. You’ve pushed yourself enough.”

Before you could protest, Bucky scooped you up with ease, ignoring your startled squeak. “C’mon, baby. Kitchen. You’re getting real food in you, not protein shakes and stubbornness.”

They sat you at the table while Steve busied himself at the stove, moving with that easy precision he always had. Soon, the rich smell of broth and vegetables filled the air, comforting and warm. Bucky stayed close, rubbing circles into your sore hands, muttering under his breath about idiots who didn’t know what they were talking about.

When Steve set the steaming bowl of soup in front of you, he crouched so you had to meet his eyes. “Eat, sweetheart. Let us take care of you. That’s what we’re here for.”

After dinner, Steve gathered your empty bowl and set it in the sink while Bucky guided you toward the hallway with a gentle hand on your back.

Bucky kissed the top of your head, voice gruff but tender. “And next time you hear crap like that? You tell us. Don’t you ever carry it alone again.”

“Shower,” Bucky said firmly, though his thumb stroked over your hip gently. “Get out of these sweaty clothes before you catch a cold.”

Steve pressed a kiss to your hairline. “We’ll be here when you’re done, sweetheart. Take your time, and when you're done we can cuddle.”

You nodded obediently, though something in your chest still felt heavy. The kind of weight no amount of soup or soft touches could shake.

In the bathroom, steam began to rise as you twisted the knobs, then you caught your reflection. You froze.

Sweaty, hair sticking to your temples, gym clothes clinging in all the wrong ways. Your eyes trailed down to your tummy, the curve of your hips. Not hard, not toned, not what you thought people expected of someone standing at the sides of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes.

The cruel voices whispered again, and your chest tightened.

You turned the water back off, bracing your hands on the sink, staring. Tugging lightly at your shirt. Tilting sideways. Picking apart every inch that didn’t look like theirs. Sharp muscle, honed edges, battlefield strength. You were soft. Curvy. Not enough.

The door creaked softly, then a knock.

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice, low and careful. “You okay in there? We don’t hear the water.”

You didn’t answer quickly enough. A moment later, the door opened. Bucky stepped inside, Steve right behind him.

They both stopped when they saw you, standing in front of the mirror, shirt lifted just slightly, frowning down at yourself with tears threatening to spill.

“Sweetheart,” Steve murmured, his voice breaking just a little.

You flinched, quickly tugging your shirt down, shame flooding you. “I-I was just-”

Bucky crossed the room quickly, catching your wrists before you could hide completely. His metal hand was cool, but his grip was steady, grounding. “Don’t. Don’t you dare hide from us.”

Steve moved behind you, his hands settling gently on your shoulders. You felt his warmth, the steady heat of his chest against your back. “Is this what those words did to you?” His tone was soft, but there was an edge of fury beneath it, not at you, but at those who said those nasty things.

Tears spilled before you could stop them. “I just…I don’t look like either of you. I’m not pretty or strong, I’m not-”

“You’re wrong,” Bucky cut in, voice rough. He turned you to face him fully, his blue eyes blazing. “You think we give a damn about skinny? About muscles? About looking like us? Doll, you’re out of your mind if you think that’s why we’re here.”

Steve’s arms wrapped around your waist from behind, anchoring you between them. “Strength isn’t about how you look. And you are strong. Stronger than you realize. Do you know what it takes to live with us, to love us, to put up with all our scars, our nightmares, our baggage? That takes more strength than any soldier on the field.”

Bucky cupped your face, thumb brushing away a tear. His voice dropped, possessive and raw. “And as for your body…Doll, we worship every inch of you. These curves? They drive me insane. This softness? It’s home. You’re home. Don’t you ever stand in front of this mirror and think you’re not good enough.”

Steve pressed a kiss to your temple, then your shoulder, whispering against your skin. “You’re more than enough. You’re ours. And that’s never going to change.”

You choked on a sob, collapsing forward into Bucky’s chest as Steve held you tighter from behind. The weight of their bodies around you, the sincerity in their voices, began to melt the cruel words echoing in your head.

Bucky kissed your forehead fiercely. “Let those idiots talk. They don’t know a damn thing, but we do. You’re everything to us. Everything.”

Steve’s hand rubbed over your tummy, deliberately lingering there, warm and soft. “This? This is perfect. This is you. And we wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.”

Bucky bent and pressed his lips to yours, slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to remind you of your worth. Behind you, Steve brushed your hair from your face, his touch tender, his lips finding your jawline.

The tears finally broke into shaky laughter as they both crowded you in closer, two walls of heat and devotion.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Steve murmured. His voice was low, coaxing. “Come to bed with us.”

Bucky didn’t wait for an answer; he simply scooped you into his arms, carrying you toward their shared room. You curled into his chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart as Steve followed close behind.

When Bucky set you down on the bed, Steve crawled up beside you, his big hand stroking your cheek. “We’re gonna show you, sweetheart. Exactly what you mean to us.”

Bucky’s metal fingers hooked under the hem of your shirt, sliding it up with slow precision. His flesh hand trailed your waist, lingering deliberately over your curves. “God, look at you,” he whispered. “Every inch of you’s perfect.”

You trembled as they undressed you piece by piece, kisses following every new patch of skin revealed. Steve kissed along your shoulder while Bucky kissed down your tummy, each touch anchoring you to them, banishing the harsh words you’d heard.

When you were bare, you tried to cover yourself, instinct kicking in, but Steve caught your wrists and pressed them to the mattress, leaning down to kiss your lips softly. “Nuh uh, doll. Let us see you.”

The heat between your thighs grew as their devotion deepened, but your breath caught when you noticed Steve glance toward Bucky. Something silent passed between them, something intimate and old as time.

Then Steve leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate, it was sweet, full of love, a kind of kiss that spoke of decades of knowing each other, of battles fought side by side. Bucky’s hand cupped Steve’s jaw, their lips moving together slowly, tenderly.

You gasped softly at the sight, arousal flaring hotter. The two men you loved most in the world, kissing each other with such affection, touching like it was second nature. Steve’s hand slid into Bucky’s hair, tugging gently, while Bucky’s flesh hand pressed to Steve’s chest.

They broke apart only when they heard your little whimper. Bucky smirked, his eyes dark with heat as he looked back at you. “That turning you on, baby?”

Your cheeks burned, but you nodded, thighs pressing together instinctively.

Steve chuckled, that warm, low sound that always made your stomach flip. “Good. Because we’re just getting started.”

They both turned back to you then. Steve’s mouth covered yours while Bucky kissed down your throat, his metal hand sliding between your thighs to part them. Every touch was a reminder that you were theirs, adored and worshipped.

Steve’s mouth claimed yours again, firmer this time, his tongue sweeping past your lips in a slow, commanding kiss that made you melt into the mattress. Bucky trailed his kisses lower, his lips moving down the soft curve of your stomach, lingering like he was memorizing your body.

“God, princess …” he muttered against your skin. “You’re so fuckin' pretty.” His metal hand slid between your thighs, prying them open, while his warm flesh hand stroked up your side, fingers curving possessively over your hip.

You whimpered when his cool fingers dipped into your pussy, teasing, while Steve deepened the kiss above, swallowing every sound you made. Steve finally pulled back, leaving you gasping, and glanced down at Bucky. Their eyes met, heat sparking, and Steve leaned down, catching Bucky’s mouth in another kiss right in front of you.

It was messier this time. Hungrier. Bucky groaned into it, his tongue sliding against Steve’s, their mouths moving together while Bucky’s fingers slid over your clit in slow, steady circles. The sight made your hips jerk, a needy moan spilling from you.

They broke apart only when Steve dragged his lips down to your ear. “That’s it, sweetheart.”

Bucky’s grin was wicked as he pushed two fingers inside you, his metal thumb still stroking your clit. “She’s so damn wet, Steve. She’s loving this.”

You cried out, clutching at the sheets, the sight of them kissing burned into your mind as pleasure built fast and hot.

Steve kissed your throat, his hand stroking over your tummy, slowly, tenderly. “This,” he murmured against your skin, “is ours. All of you. Every curve. Every soft part. And we’re gonna worship you until you believe it.”

Bucky curled his fingers inside you just right, making your back arch. His mouth returned to your stomach, kissing the swell of it before moving lower. “Gonna taste you, doll,” he growled. “Gonna eat this pretty pussy until you forget every word those assholes said.”

Steve caught your hands, pinning them above your head as Bucky’s tongue replaced his fingers. The sudden wet heat of his mouth made you cry out, your thighs trembling. Steve pressed his forehead to yours, kissing you between moans, grounding you. “Gonna cum on Bucky’s face, baby? His mouth feels amazing, doesn't it?”

Bucky sucked your clit hard, groaning against you like he couldn’t get enough. Steve kissed you deep again, swallowing the broken sounds spilling from your lips. Your body shuddered between them, the orgasm ripping through you sharply.

But they didn’t stop.

Steve slid down beside Bucky, and to your dazed shock, Steve kissed him again, this time messy with your taste still on Bucky’s lips. The sight alone made you clench, another wave of arousal hitting hard.

When Steve pulled back, he licked his lips, eyes burning with heat. “She’s delicious.”

“Always is,” Bucky rasped, smirking up at you before diving back between your thighs, tongue relentless.

Steve stroked your hair back, kissing your flushed cheeks. “We’re not done, sweetheart. Not even close. We’re gonna take turns showing you just how much we love this body, every curve, every inch.”

Maybe that’s what caught his attention in the first place. You didn’t flinch when his voice came out clipped, and you didn’t shrink away when his stare lingered a beat too long. Instead, you treated him like, well, like a man. Not a wall. Not a rank. Just Tim.

He told himself it was nothing. He’d seen a hundred smiles before. But yours was different, unguarded, soft in a way the world rarely allowed. And God help him, every time you laughed, it did something to him he couldn’t put words to.

The first real conversation between you and Tim wasn’t remarkable on paper. Just a breakroom exchange, the kind everyone forgets within an hour. Only, he didn’t forget.

You had been standing at the counter, pouring yourself coffee, when he walked in with a folder under his arm. He didn’t bother with small talk; he never did. Just went straight to the machine, filled his mug, and leaned against the counter as he flipped through reports.

“Bradford,” you said, tilting your head, “do you ever smile?”

He glanced up, brow arched, that stern look already in place. “Smiling doesn’t get the job done.”

You smirked, sipping from your cup. “Neither does frowning. But you seem to have that covered.”

It was quick, casual, the kind of quip most people would brush off. But you saw it, just barely, the twitch at the corner of his mouth like he might laugh if he let himself. He didn’t, of course. Tim Bradford didn’t hand out laughs freely. But the moment stuck, and when you left the room, he caught himself staring at the door longer than he should have.

That night, he replayed it. He hated that he did, but the memory followed him into the quiet of his apartment. He sat on his couch, TV on but ignored, thinking about your voice, your expression, the way you hadn’t backed down.

It’s nothing, he told himself. Just banter. Just another day. But deep down, he knew better. Something about you was slipping past the defences he’d spent years perfecting. He thought about the rules he lived by. Rules kept him sharp, safe, in control. Rules made sure no one got too close, because close meant vulnerable. Vulnerable meant hurt. And he’d had enough of that to last a lifetime. Still… when he closed his eyes that night, the last thing he saw was your smile. And for the first time in a long time, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, his walls weren’t as unbreakable as he thought.

Tim Bradford didn’t notice it at first. The little ways he softened around you. The subtle shifts in his behavior that, to anyone else, might have seemed insignificant. But to you? They stood out like sparks in the dark.

He’d hold the door a beat longer when you walked in behind him. He’d pour an extra coffee without being asked, sliding it across the table in your direction with a gruff, “Don’t say I never do anything for you.” He’d position himself on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic when you two left the station at the same time, as if it were instinct.

Small things. Tiny cracks in the armour. And maybe he didn’t intend for you to notice, but you did.

One evening, after a long shift, you found yourself waiting out front with him. The air was heavy with the scent of rain, streetlights casting orange halos over the wet pavement.

“You walking home?” he asked, glancing sideways at you as he jingled his keys in hand.

“Yeah, it’s not far.”

His brow furrowed. “It’s late. I’ll drive you.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “What, worried about me, Bradford?”

His jaw flexed, the way it always did when he wanted to deny something but couldn’t. “It’s common sense,” he muttered. “Not safe walking alone at this hour.”

You smiled knowingly. “Uh-huh. Common sense.”

The ride was quiet at first, but not uncomfortable. His truck smelled faintly of coffee and leather, and you found yourself sneaking glances at him. The strong line of his profile, the way his hands rested on the wheel, steady, certain. It was strange how a man so closed-off could still make you feel safe just by sitting beside him.

When he pulled up outside your place, you reached for the handle, but his voice stopped you.

“Text me when you’re inside,” he said, eyes still on the road ahead.

You blinked, warmth spreading in your chest. “Okay, Dad.”

That earned you a look, sharp and unimpressed. But then, just as you were about to step out, you saw it again that almost-smile, quickly smothered.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said, voice low.

“Goodnight, Tim.”

Back in his apartment, Tim tossed his keys on the counter and rubbed a hand over his face. He didn’t know what he was doing anymore. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t get involved, not again. Life was simpler with lines drawn and walls intact.

But you… you kept showing up in the cracks.

The way you laughed at his dry humor, the way you looked at him like he wasn’t just a badge and a bulletproof vest. Like maybe you could see the man he’d buried under years of discipline and detachment. And when he thought about you walking home alone, a heaviness settled in his chest. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want to care. But he did. More than he’d admit.

Lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, the thought pressed into him like a truth he wasn’t ready for: You’re dangerous to me, Y/N. But God help me, I don’t want to stay away.

Tim had always prided himself on control. He controlled his tone, his expression, his schedule, even his own damn heartbeat if the job demanded it. But lately? Around you, that control felt slippery.

It was the little things like how your hand brushed against his when you both reached for the same file, how your laugh carried across the room and made him look up every single time, how you always seemed to notice when he needed quiet but never asked for it.

The world didn’t stop when you were around. But for him, it slowed down just enough to notice.

One night, you both ended up stuck with late paperwork. The station was quiet, most people gone, only the low hum of fluorescent lights filling the silence. Tim sat across from you, scribbling in reports, his posture as rigid as ever. You chewed on your pen cap, pretending to focus but fully aware of him across the table.

“You always this fun after hours?” you teased, breaking the silence.

He glanced up, unimpressed. “Paperwork isn’t supposed to be fun.”

You grinned. “You should try it my way. Music, snacks, maybe a little sarcasm to keep the mood alive.”

His brow lifted. “That explains your reports.”

You gasped dramatically, hand to your chest. “Insulting my paperwork? That’s low, Bradford.”

And there it was again, just the faintest twitch of his lips, gone before it could fully form a smile. But you saw it. You always saw it. The tension sat between you like static, not loud, not overwhelming, but enough to prickle at your skin. When the clock finally ticked past midnight, you stretched and gathered your things. Tim rose too, and when you both walked out into the parking lot, the cool night air wrapped around you.

“Which way are you headed?” he asked.

“East. Why, you offering me another ride?”

His eyes flicked toward you, steady, unreadable. “It’s late. I’ll drive you.”

You smirked. “You really do care.”

“Don’t push it.” But his voice lacked the bite it once had.

The ride was quiet, the kind of silence thick with unsaid things. You stole glances at him, his hand gripping the wheel, the way the dashboard light softened the hard edges of his face. He looked… peaceful, almost.

When he pulled up outside your place, you lingered a moment before getting out. “You know,” you said softly, “you don’t have to keep pretending you don’t like me.”

That made him turn, his eyes locking onto yours. And for a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The air felt charged, heavy with something unspoken.

But then he cleared his throat, looked away, and muttered, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

You smiled to yourself as you stepped out. He could fight it all he wanted, but you’d seen it, the way his guard cracked, even if just for a second. And Tim Bradford? He was losing his control, one stolen glance at a time.

It had been an ordinary day. At least, it started that way. Patrol, paperwork, the usual grind. You and Tim had slipped into your easy rhythm, your teasing remarks, his deadpan comebacks, the small silences that felt strangely comfortable. Nothing out of place. Nothing that hinted at how quickly everything could change.

The call came in fast. A disturbance in a back alley, possible armed suspect. Routine, but routine could turn dangerous in a heartbeat. Tim knew that better than anyone.

“You stay behind me,” he said as you both moved in, his voice low but firm.

You rolled your eyes. “I know the drill, Bradford.”

“Just-” His jaw tightened. “Stay close.”

The alley was dim, shadows stretching long against the walls. Your flashlight cut through the darkness, your footsteps echoing too loud in your ears. And then it happened, movement, a figure darting out from behind a dumpster, something glinting in his hand.

Everything exploded in seconds.

“Gun!” Tim barked, pushing you back instinctively as he raised his weapon.

The suspect bolted, dropping the weapon as he fled, but in the scramble, you stumbled, your shoulder catching the edge of a dumpster hard enough to knock you off balance. You hit the ground with a sharp gasp.

“Y/N!” Tim’s voice cracked, fear slicing through the calm control he always carried. He was at your side in seconds, kneeling, scanning for injuries with shaking hands. “Where are you hit?”

You winced, clutching your shoulder. “Not hit. Just bruised. I’m fine.”

His eyes searched yours, frantic, disbelieving. “Don’t say you’re fine. You went down hard.”

You swallowed, touched by the raw panic in his expression. You’d seen Tim Bradford composed through gunfire, explosions, chaos, but now, kneeling in the dirt beside you, he looked like a man on the edge of unravelling.

“I said I’m okay,” you whispered, softer this time. “Really.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. His hand lingered on your arm, steady, grounding, as if letting go might make you disappear. His breathing was uneven, his jaw clenched tight, and you realized: this wasn’t just about the job. Tim Bradford was scared of losing you.

Later, back at the station, the report filed and the suspect in custody, Tim kept his distance. Too much distance. He buried himself in paperwork, avoiding your eyes, answering your questions with one-word replies. But the tension buzzed in the air, heavy and undeniable.

Finally, you cornered him in the hall. “Okay, what is your deal?”

He looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve barely looked at me since we got back.” You crossed your arms. “If you’re mad because I tripped, I’m sorry for being human.”

His expression cracked then, just a little. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it.”

Silence stretched. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. And then, in a voice low and rough, he said:

“I can’t watch you get hurt. I-” He stopped, exhaled hard. “I can handle danger. I can handle the job. But you? If something happened to you…” His eyes finally met yours, raw and unguarded. “That’s the one thing I don’t think I could handle.”

Your chest tightened, the truth of his words hitting harder than any bullet ever could.

For the first time, Tim Bradford wasn’t just a fortress of stone and discipline. He was a man stripped bare, his fear laid out in the open. And standing there in that dimly lit hallway, you realized you weren’t the only one falling.

Tim didn’t sleep that night. He tossed, turned, stared at the ceiling until the shadows began to bleed into morning. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it, you on the ground, breathless, his chest caving in at the thought of losing you. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be steady, unshakable. He wasn’t supposed to need. But you had carved yourself into him, quietly, without permission. And now? Now you were in every thought, every fear, every ache he didn’t want to name.

The next few days, Tim tried to bury it. He threw himself into work, doubled down on discipline, clipped his words shorter than usual. But if he thought distance would protect him, he was wrong. Because you didn’t let him hide.

You caught him in the locker room one evening, leaning against the doorframe with that soft smile he hated how much he craved. “You know,” you said, “for a guy who claims he’s fine, you’ve been avoiding me an awful lot.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” he muttered, shoving things into his bag.

“Uh-huh. So this is you being social?”

He sighed, shoulders sagging, and for once he didn’t fight. “I just… needed space.”

You stepped closer, your voice gentler now. “Space from me?”

His throat worked, but no words came. Because the truth was too much. Space wasn’t the answer. The thought of distance made his chest ache.

So instead of lying, he just looked at you. Really looked. And whatever you saw in his eyes made your teasing fade, replaced with something softer. Something knowing.

“Come on,” you said after a moment, tugging lightly at his sleeve. “You owe me dinner. My shoulder still hurts from your dramatic rescue.”

Against his better judgment, he let you lead him out.

Dinner turned into walking you home. Walking you home turned into sitting on your couch, a movie playing in the background, neither of you really watching. You curled up beside him, your head on his shoulder, and for once, he didn’t fight the instinct to hold you close. His arm wrapped around you, steady, protective, and he felt something inside him loosen like a knot he hadn’t realized was choking him finally let go.

“Why me?” you asked quietly, breaking the silence.

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You could push everyone away. You do. But then you let me in, at least a little. Why?”

He stared at the screen, jaw tight, fighting himself. But the words slipped out anyway, raw and unpolished.

“Because you make me forget,” he admitted. “Forget the job. Forget all the crap I’ve seen. Forget that I’m supposed to keep walls up.” He glanced down at you, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re even real.”

Your heart twisted at the vulnerability in his tone, the confession he probably hadn’t meant to give. You shifted closer, your fingers brushing his chest, and felt the way his heart thudded hard beneath your touch.

“I’m real,” you whispered back.

And when his eyes met yours, stormy and unguarded, you knew this was it. The shift. The moment when slow burn became something undeniable.

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. Tim Bradford wasn’t the kind of man who rushed. But the way he held you tighter that night, the way he let himself breathe in your presence, told you everything you needed to know. For him, you were real. Maybe the only real thing he’d had in a long, long time.

Tim Bradford never imagined this moment. Not like this.

He sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the small velvet box in his hand, the world outside fading into a blur. The streetlights cast soft glows across your apartment, and you were curled up beside him, half-asleep, the weight of your trust settling against him.

It was terrifying. Not the act itself, but the thought of everything he had to risk. Vulnerability. Rejection. The possibility that you might say no. And yet, every instinct in him, the part of him that had always been buried under years of discipline and fear, was screaming that he couldn’t wait any longer.

He cleared his throat softly. “Y/N,” he said, voice low, almost rough. You stirred, blinking up at him with sleepy eyes that made his chest tighten.

“You’re awake,” you murmured.

“I… I need to say something.” His hands were steady now, even as his heart raced. He shifted, reaching out to gently cup your face. “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you exactly how much you mean to me. I’m not good at this stuff. Never have been. But I can’t hide it anymore.”

You stayed quiet, letting him continue, your hand brushing over his.

“You’ve… changed me. Made me want things I didn’t think I deserved. Made me… softer, better. And I don’t want to imagine my life without you in it.” He swallowed hard, lifting the small box. “So I’m not going to dance around it. I’m not going to fight it anymore. I need to know…”

He opened the box to reveal a simple, elegant ring, catching the dim light. “Y/N… will you marry me?”

The world seemed to pause. Your breath caught, tears welling in your eyes as the magnitude of the moment settled over you. Tim Bradford, the man who had once been untouchable, unshakable, and unyielding, sat before you, completely exposed, giving you the most beautiful gift: his heart, in its entirety.

“Yes,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Yes, Tim. Of course.”

His eyes widened in relief, then softened into something so tender it made your chest ache. He slipped the ring onto your finger, his hands lingering on yours as if to memorize the moment forever. He leaned down then, gently, brushing his lips to yours in a kiss that wasn’t hurried or desperate, but careful and full of promise. A slow, steady seal on everything that had been building between you.

“I can’t believe you’re real,” he murmured against your hair, resting his forehead on yours.

“I’m real,” you said softly, and this time, he believed it.

The other half of the job was babysitting the incoming video lines that never stopped flashing. You’d learned to multitask with one hand on your keyboard, one hand on your cup, muttering polite “Avengers Tower, how can I direct your call?” like it was a prayer.

But then that call came in.

The line ID read U.S. Military Command. Not unusual—they called a lot. You sighed, hit accept, and pasted on your customer-service smile.

“This is Avengers Tower,” you said. “How can I help you today?”

The man on the other end wasn’t smiling back. He looked like every arrogant middle-aged officer you’d ever seen in movies—square jaw, pressed uniform, enough medals on his chest to make him lean forward from the weight. His voice was clipped, official.

“I need to be connected with the Winter Soldier.”

You froze. For a second you thought maybe you’d misheard. Then your brain caught up, and the audacity of it made your jaw drop.

“Excuse me?” you said, blinking.

“You heard me,” he said. “The Winter Soldier. We’ve been informed he’s housed at your facility. We require immediate access to—”

You didn’t let him finish. Your finger slammed end call so hard the screen went black before he could blink.

The silence in the comms room rang loud, your pulse still thudding in your ears.

Winter Soldier. Like Bucky was nothing more than a weapon they could check out of an armory. Like he wasn’t a person who lived here, breathed here, healed here.

“Oh, absolutely not,” you muttered, shoving your coffee aside.

Another beep lit the screen. Same ID. You hit accept again, fire already in your chest.

“Avengers Tower,” you said, sugar-sweet, “and before you ask, no sir, we do not have anyone by that name. Perhaps you should try your nearest HYDRA office, see if they’re still taking calls.”

The officer’s face darkened. “Do you have any idea who you’re speaking to—”

“Do you have any idea how insulting you sound?” you shot back. “We don’t traffic in ghosts of war criminals here. We take care of people. So unless you’ve got a request for Captain America or literally anyone else, this call is over.”

And with that, you hung up again.

What you didn’t realize was that across the tower, in the gym, Bucky Barnes had seen the whole thing.

The internal system auto-mirrored active calls onto any common room screen, in case field agents needed to jump in. So there he was, dripping sweat, towel over his neck, when your feed lit up in the corner of the monitor. He’d caught every word.

The way the officer demanded the Winter Soldier. The way your face pinched with offense. The way you spat back with enough venom to make the man squirm.

By the time you hung up, Bucky was frozen mid-stride on the treadmill, chest heaving with something that wasn’t from exercise.

No one—no one—had ever defended him like that.

Not five minutes later, the door to the comms room creaked open.

You didn’t even look up from your screen. “If that guy calls back again, I swear I’m blocking the whole Pentagon.”

There was a chuckle. Deep, low.

“Doll,” Bucky’s voice rasped, and you whipped your head around.

He was leaning in the doorway, gray t-shirt darkened with sweat, hair damp at the temples. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“Oh,” you said, cheeks heating. “Uh—hi.”

“Hi,” he echoed softly.

You cleared your throat, fingers fiddling with your headset cord. “You, uh, saw that, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said. His lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. “I saw.”

“Listen,” you started, words tumbling fast, “I just—he called you that like it was nothing. Like you were some… some thing he could requisition. And it pissed me off, so I—”

“You hung up on him.”

You bit your lip. “Twice.”

That finally broke his composure. His laugh spilled out, startled and warm, filling the little room. “You told a U.S. general to try Hydra customer service.”

“Maybe not my most professional moment,” you admitted, but your chin lifted stubbornly. “But he had no right.”

Bucky stepped closer. Each pace was slow, deliberate, until he was right beside your chair, towering but gentle. His vibranium fingers tapped the edge of the desk.

“No one’s ever done that for me before,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him. “Done what?”

“Shut them down. Said I wasn’t…” He hesitated, eyes flicking to the dark screen. “That I wasn’t him anymore.”

Your chest squeezed. “Because you’re not. You’re Bucky Barnes. My friend. The guy who leaves protein bar wrappers in the elevator and hogs the washer on Sundays.”

A breath of laughter left him, shaky. “You make me sound real domestic.”

“Well,” you teased, “it’s better than sounding like a Hydra asset.”

The softness in his eyes nearly knocked you flat. “You don’t know what it means, hearing you say that.”

“Then tell me,” you said quietly.

He crouched so you were eye level. His flesh hand ghosted near yours, not quite touching, as if waiting for permission.

“It means,” he said slowly, “that every time someone calls me that name, I feel like I’m drowning. And then you come along, all fire and attitude, telling them I’m not theirs to call. You throw me a lifeline without even knowing it.”

Your throat tightened. Instinctively, you set your hand over his. Warm skin to warm skin.

“Then I’ll keep doing it,” you whispered. “Every damn time.”

For a long beat, neither of you moved. The comms screen stayed dark. The tower outside hummed with life. But in that little room, it was just you and him, steadying each other.

Finally Bucky huffed a breath, trying to lighten the mood. “You know you’re probably on some watch list now, right? Guy’s gonna file a complaint.”

“Let him,” you said. “What’s he gonna write? Secretary of Defense offended that Avengers receptionist called him a Hydra groupie?”

That pulled another laugh out of him, this one freer. His shoulders eased, and when he straightened up, some of the weight seemed gone from them.

“You’re something else, you know that?” he said.

You smirked. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

He shook his head, fond. “C’mon. Let’s grab lunch. My treat. Least I can do for my personal bodyguard on the phone lines.”

You stood, grabbing your coffee. “Only if you promise not to hog the washer this weekend.”

“Deal.”

The next morning, when the same ID flashed on the comms line, you didn’t even flinch.

You hit accept, leaned back, and said sweet as sugar:

“Avengers Tower. How can I help you? Oh, the Winter Soldier? No, sir, still no one here by that name. But if you’d like to speak with Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, decorated war hero, full human being, and man who makes an excellent grilled cheese… I’d be happy to connect you.”

From the corner of the room, Bucky’s laugh rang out.

Night- 1:47 AM

You turned the front doorknob with all the delicacy of a trained assassin—which, to be fair, you were.

No sound. Good.

You stepped inside, sliding your shoes off silently and tiptoeing like the floorboards might narc on you. You could practically hear your heartbeat in your ears.

He’d be asleep. He had to be.

You could get to the bathroom, clean up, hide the worst of it. He didn’t have to know. You didn’t want him to worry, to spiral. Not again.

You made it three steps down the hallway.

Then— “Don’t move.”

Shit.

His voice cut through the silence, low and lethal. It came from the living room.

You closed your eyes. "Hi, honey. I'm home."

A light flipped on.

Bucky stood by the couch, arms crossed, half in shadow. The sight of him—barefoot, hoodie loose over his broad chest, hair tousled from waiting up—would’ve been comforting, if not for the look in his eyes.

His gaze traveled from your face to your arms, your ribs, where blood had started to seep through your shirt.

He didn’t say a word.

You tried to play it off. “Before you say anything, it looks worse than it is—”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Who did this to you?”

You exhaled slowly. “Buck—”

“Don’t. Just…” His jaw clenched. “Stay right there.”

“Bucky, it’s fine. I dodn’t even need stitches—”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice trembled with something dangerous. “You’re limping. You snuck into your own damn house like a thief because you knew I’d lose it if I saw you like this. And guess what? You were right.”

He was in front of you in three long strides.

His hands—warm, shaking—came up to cup your face, careful to avoid the bruises.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” you whispered. “You’d only worry.”

“I worry when you’re five minutes late for lunch. You think this is gonna lessen that?”

“I’m not made of glass—”

“You’re made of everything I live for.”

Your breath caught.

He scanned your injuries with haunted eyes. “Who did this?”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

You sighed. “I didn’t want you to spiral. Last time you saw me with a busted lip, you threatened to drown a guy in the Hudson.”

“I should’ve.”

“Bucky—”

“Tell me his name.”

You met his eyes. “If I do, you’ll find him.”

He didn’t deny it.

“And if I don’t?” you added.

“I’ll find him anyway.”

You groaned. “You are the most dramatic man I’ve ever met.”

He lifted you into his arms like it was nothing—like you didn’t have two working legs—and carried you down the hall.

“I’m intense,” he corrected. “Not dramatic.”

“You literally brooded in the dark waiting for me to get home.”

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice? Like my wife could come home hurt and I wouldn’t feel it in my chest?”

You let out a weak laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”

“You married me, doll. That’s on you.”

Twenty Minutes Later...

You sat on the bathroom counter while Bucky dabbed antiseptic over the cuts along your ribs, his brows furrowed like each mark physically hurt him more than it hurt you.

He hadn’t stopped touching you.

Even now, his thumb rubbed soft circles into your thigh as he worked.

“Doesn’t even sting,” you said.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, placing another bandage carefully. “You came home bleeding. You flinched when you took your shirt off. You snuck in.”

“I didn’t want to see your sad little kicked puppy face,” you teased.

He glared. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“No, you’re lucky I love you. You’re high maintenance.”

“Says the woman who took on a six-foot mercenary solo and got cracked in the jaw for it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t win?”

He paused. “Wait. You won?”

“Cracked three of his ribs and made him cry.”

He stared.

Then—slowly—he grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

You tried not to bask in it, but you totally basked in it.

Still, he wasn’t done.

As he finished wrapping the final gauze, he stood between your legs and stared at you like you held gravity in your hands.“I breathe for you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “That’s it. That’s the only reason I get up in the morning.”

Your throat went tight. “Bucky—”

“You come home hurt, and it feels like the world’s off its axis. I can’t think. Can’t function. You’re not fragile, babe. You’re the strongest person I know. But the thought of losing you? I’d lose everything.”

God.

You buried your face in his chest, arms tight around him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Too late. You did. You always do.”

You looked up. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned and kissed your forehead.

Next Day – 2:00 PM

You woke up to an empty bed and a note on the pillow:

Had to step out. Be back soon. Don’t move too much or I’ll find out and carry you around like a baby until you learn your lesson. I love you more than oxygen.

—B <3

You rolled your eyes.

And sighed.

And smiled.

He came back at sunset. Calm. Too calm.

You didn’t even have to ask.

“You found him, didn’t you?”

He dropped his jacket. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“He’s not gonna be walking straight for a while.”

“Bucky…”

“And probably won’t be talking much either.”

You stared at him.

“He’ll live. Probably,” Bucky said with a shrug. “I was nice. For the first ten seconds.”

“Jesus—”

“He laid a hand on you. You really think I wasn’t gonna rearrange his face?”

You huffed, arms crossed, but you were secretly touched. And maybe a little turned on.

“You are so dramatic.”

“No. Dramatic is you sneaking past your literal super soldier husband with blood dripping down your shirt.”

“Fine,” you muttered, walking toward him. “You win.”

He caught you easily, arms pulling you in.

“I always win, doll,” he murmured, kissing your bruised temple. “Especially when it comes to you.”

The Next Morning – 9:07 AM

Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, painting golden stripes over the bed where you were curled up like a cat. One leg over the sheet. A little sore. A little achy. But warm.

Bucky stirred beside you, his metal arm slung protectively over your waist.

“You awake?” you mumbled.

“Was watching you breathe,” he rasped, voice still sleep-rough. “You twitch your nose when you’re dreaming.”

“You’re creepy.”

“You married me, sweetheart. This is your fault.”

You snorted, rolling to face him, wincing a little. He was already awake, already watching you with that look. Like you were sacred. Untouchable. His.

“You hurting?” he asked immediately, shifting to sit up. “Need painkillers? Water? I can carry you to the bath—”

“Bucky.”

He blinked.

“I’m okay. It’s just a bruise, not a broken limb. Stop hovering.”

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re three seconds from spoon-feeding me cereal.”

“…Is that an option?”

You groaned and buried your face in his chest.

“You’re insufferable.”

He chuckled, warm and smug, tucking you tighter under his chin. You stayed like that for a while. Tangled limbs. Warm sheets. His fingers trailing soft patterns on your back like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered finally.

You didn’t pretend to not hear it. “Okay.”

“I know you’re strong. I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens to you—I stop breathing. You get that?”

You swallowed hard. “I get it.”

“I love you so much it makes me a little insane.”

“Only a little?”

“I toned it down for your sake.”

You giggled. “You’re cute when you’re crazy.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

You looked up, brushed the hair from his forehead, kissed him slow.

---

Your hands were shaking slightly when you put down your phone. You’d just ended a call with your mother, where she’d demanded that her and your father come and stay for a week with you and your husband while they were visiting LA. It’d been about a year since you’d seen them – probably around last Christmas. With them living in New York while you lived in California, visits were rare. An intentional fact, something you’d chosen very purposefully when you’d decided to join the LAPD instead of the NYPD. Not that you would’ve ever joined the NYPD in the first place. Partly because your parents would’ve done everything they could to lock you out, but mainly because you had no faith in the department after hearing your entire childhood about how your parents could get the police captain to do ‘anything they wanted.’

You set your phone on the sofa and took a steadying breath. Your husband, Tim Bradford, would be getting out of the shower soon, and while he knew some things about what your childhood was like, he didn’t know the full story (and never would). It’s not even that you thought he wouldn’t believe you, you knew he would, but how could you possibly complain about your upbringing when his had been… undeniably worse? So, you took a breath to steady yourself, and waiting for Tim to emerge from your bedroom.

Tim walked out, predictably, in sweatpants and a dark green shirt, his usual sleeping attire. You stole that shirt whenever he was away, because his constant wear of it meant it always smelt like him.

“Hey, baby,” you said, glancing up. You ran a hand through your hair quickly and forced another deep breath.

Tim’s eyebrows furrowed, and in an instant he was beside you on the couch, gentle grasping your hands in his. “What’s wrong?” His eyes searched yours.

You shook your head quickly, answering, “Nothing, Tim. I just got off the phone with my mother.”

Tim scowled. He’d never liked your mother, not since he’d first met her and had been forced to sit silently while she criticised you for how much weight you’d put on (it was less than a pound). Still, you insisted on maintaining a relationship with her, and with your father, so he softened his expression slightly and asked, “Oh?”

“She and Father are going to come over next week. Father’s in town for business, so they thought they’d… drop in.” You swallowed.

“And you’re okay with that, right?” Tim asked hesitantly. If you ever expressed even the slightest indication that you didn’t want your parents to visit, he’d call them himself and tell them to fuck off. But you nodded, and said it was okay, so Tim relented and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Okay,” he murmured into your hair, “I love you.”

You ducked your head and whispered, “I love you too,” all while guilt and nerves settled into your stomach.

--

You were panicking. Not enough for the average person to notice, maybe, but enough for your husband to. Tim sat on your bed, putting on his fancy shoes, and watched you struggle to choose which dress to wear for dinner with your parents. It’d taken you an hour to do your makeup, a process which usually took half of one, max, and nearly another hour just to put light waves into your hair.

“Sweetheart.” Tim finally said, coming to stand behind you in the mirror. He rarely used pet names, and the sound of the word softened the tension in your shoulders. “You’re going to look beautiful whatever you wear. You always do.”

“Not beautiful enough for my mother.” You almost spat the words out, alternating between holding two nearly identical dresses in front of your body.

Tim gentled grabbed your waist and maneuverered you around so you were facing him. “What did we agree about dressing for your mother?” He asked, cupping your face so you were forced to meet his earnest, dark blue eyes.

“…Not to.” You admitted begrudgingly, a slightly flush coating your face at the intense eye contact. Even after three years of marriage and five of dating, Tim always managed to fluster you.

“Exactly. You are stunning. I promise. But if you’re worried, I would go with the darker one.” Tim carefully avoided touching your hair, knowing a single hair out of place would send you into another spiral of panic. He hated seeing you so stressed, hated it with every fibre of his being. Especially when it was caused by your parents; he knew all too well the pain a well time jab (verbal or literal) from a parent could cause.

You took a breath and nodded. “Thank you.” You got into your dress just in time for the oven timer to go off.

--

Your mother never knocked more than once. It was, she believed, completely unnecessary for someone of her and your father’s social importance to ever deign to bang on wood like deliverymen. So, when you heard the one sharp, precise rap against your front door, you knew exactly who had arrived. Your stomach dropped in preparation, and with one last fitful look at the mirror, then Tim, you opened the door.

“Hello, Mother. Father.” You said with a gracious smile, sweeping your arm to the side. “Come in, please.”

Your father embraced you in a quick, impersonal hug, but even as you hugged him back, your eyes were glued to your mother. She swept her gaze over what seemed like every inch of your house, searching for the invisible dust she would inevitably find. She glided a finger along a bookshelf, looked at it, scrunched her nose in silent judgement, before finally turning to you with a precise smile.

“Darling,” She said, quickly taking you in, “It has been too long since we’ve visited. God knows you don’t want to see your parents anymore, hmm?”

You forced a slight chuckle, refusing to take the openly dangling bait, “Yes, Mother. It’s been too long. Please, come join us for dinner.”

Tim watched the interact out of the corner of his eye as he made small talk with your father. On the surface, the two of them should’ve gotten along – both outwardly grumpy and work obsessed. But where Tim’s grumpiness and work obsession came from a desire to not get hurt, and to help people, your fathers came from a cold disinterest and casual cruelty. Tim had never managed to force himself to like your father, but he pretended to, for your sake. In Tim’s eyes, it was a miracle you’d turned out to be such a soft, kind person. One hand on the small of your back, the other gesturing as he spoke to your mother, he led your family into the dining room, where the meal you’d slaved away at for hours sat waiting.

--

“So, Timothy,” Your mother asked, setting down her cutlery, “How’s Y/n treating you as a wife?” The was a sharpness in her town that made your skin prickle – the kind of sharpness that came right before a criticism, thinly veiled in polite conversation. Your father had an ever so slight smirk on his face, but he chewed his food silently.

Tim opened his mouth to respond, to brag with great pride about how lucky he was to have married you, when your mother interrupted him.

“I mean, if this is the standard of meals she’s making you, I can’t imagine marriage is living up to everything you dreamed.” Your mother made direct eye contact with you as she said that, her eyes seeming to pierce directly into your soul.

Your cutlery clattered to the table. Luckily, you were holding it only a few centimetres from the wood, and it barely made a sound. Just enough for Tim to reach out and clutch your thigh under the table, a silent comfort.

“Actually, Mrs. Taylor, I love the food that Y/n makes for me. I’m very lucky to call her my wife.”

For a brief moment, a scowl flashed over your mother’s face. Then she laughed, the sound high and sharp, and utterly fake. “Oh, I jest, I jest, darling. I’m sure Y/n here wouldn’t dream of letting you down. Would you, dear?”

“Of course not, Mother.” You replied, the food you’d earlier thought so delicious turning to cardboard in your mouth. It was an effort to swallow.

Your father chuckled at that, adding, “Our Y/n always knows better than to let people down, hmm?”

Your smile was as weak as your response was noncommittal.

--

Things were… okay for the next few days. Not good, but not as bad as it could’ve been. Tolerable. Your parents were always nicer when Tim was around, covering their critiques with smiles and sharp laughter.

So, when Tim announced he had to run tac support for Lucy for a few days, and your parents had another five of their visit, you almost broke down in tears. You had no problem with him going undercover – he’d done it a couple of times before, as tactical support, and you knew it was relatively safe. But you hadn’t been truly alone with your parents for years, and you didn’t want to be now.

Still, you couldn’t exactly explain that to Tim, not without telling him a lot more about your past then you really wanted to, so you swallowed your fears, kissed Tim goodbye, and prayed that it would be a short assignment.

Things went downhill quickly. Your parents stopped covering their insults, and you woke up each day feeling like you were seventeen again, crumpling under the weight of their words and expectations. It wasn’t long until you were at the end of your tether, and a casual insult turned into a proper argument.

“You know, he’s probably cheating on you.” Your mother’s word were completely unprompted, the two of you sitting next to each other on the sofa, browsing Netflix.

Your blood chilled. “Excuse me?”

“Timothy, dear,” repeated your mother. “I mean, honestly, what do you expect? He’s spending all his time with this… Lucy woman, and you’ve really let yourself go since you two got married.”

You took a deep breath and tried to keep your tone steady. You ignored the insult and simply addressed the accusation. “I trust Tim, Mother. And I trust Lucy. She was at our wedding, and I work with her every day. They would never do that.” You pushed off the couch, walking around the lounge room.

Your mother hummed noncommittally, and of course your father chimed in. “Y/n, all your mother is saying, is that men… well, they have desires. And if Tim feels you aren’t satisfying him as a wife…”

“He doesn’t.”

Your mother plastered on a sharp smile, “Good, then. Because Lord knows it’s embarrassing enough for us to tell our friends back in New York that you’ve moved here to become a cop, instead of a lawyer, but to have you be divorced? It would be pathetic, even for you.”

You scoffed, the tiny bit of the patience you had left disappearing. “It’s a good thing I’m not getting divorced, then.” You winced at the snap in your tone.

The shift on your mother’s face was instant, moving from bland cruelty to cold anger, and she pushed herself off the couch You felt your head snapping to the side before you felt the sting of the slap. Your mother grabbed your collared shirt, pulling you close.

“How dare you speak to me in that tone. You are nothing. You’re lucky we didn’t cut you off when you abandoned your family and moved out here like a little shit. Do you know how embarrassing that was for us? How much of an embarrassment you are? Where did our perfect little daughter go, hmm? Why do you insist on being such a failure?”

You stared forward, tears welling in your eyes. Your cheek stung, and you could tell a red print was already forming. Before you could open your mouth to come up with a half-hearted defence, a cold voice cut through the room.

“Get your hands off my wife.”

Your mother dropped you instantly, and you turned to see Tim, a little dirty and a lot furious, glaring at your parents from the doorway.

Ever defensive, your mother spat out, “What did you just say to me?”

Tim stalked forward, towering over your mother, “I said ‘get your filthy hands off my fucking wife.” His voice was a low snarl. “Get out of our home. Now. Before I arrest you for assault and harassment.”

Your fathers jaw dropped, “Excuse me-.”

“I said GET. OUT.” Tim’s voice was so full of venom, that even not directed at you, it made you flinch.

Your mother grabbed her purse with a huff, and, with one last glare at you, scurried out of your house, your father following behind her.

Instantly, Tim was in front of you, leading you to the sofa with gentle hands and warm concern.

“Are you okay?” He asked softly, eyes flickering over the palm-shaped mark on your cheek.

You shook your head numbly, unsure what to say. You’d never wanted him to see this, and a few stray tears fell down your cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Tim pulled you against his chest, gently rocking forward and backwards. The soft touch was all it took for you to start sobbing, clutching his shirt in shaking fists. All the while, he rocked you and stroked your hair, whispering comforting words into your ear.

When your tears finally subsided, you pulled back and sniffled.

“Has this happened before?” Tim asked, and even though he tried to soften his voice, he couldn’t quite hide the rage that was clearly racing through him.

Still unable to speak, you just nodded.

Tim cursed under his breath, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? Has this been happening all your life?”

You pulled your knees to your chest and wiped the heel of your palm against your nose. No point in hiding it now, you supposed. You took a shaky breath, and forced yourself to say, “Yes. It has.” Tim glowered. “I don’t know… I didn’t want to tell you. You… you had such an awful childhood, your father was such a monster, and I didn’t want you to think I was trying to one up you. Besides, I grew up so lucky, I mean, you know how loaded my parents are… I was worried… I…” Your voice broke. “No one ever believed me. When I was a kid. Even when I’d go to school with bruises, people would look at my parents and the circles we were in and assume I was just clumsy or deserved it. The only person I ever told laughed in my face. I guess I just… I didn’t want to be that stuck up little rich girl complaining about mommy and daddy being mean.” Your face was wet, and guilt writhed in your stomach. Guilt at lying, guilt at telling the truth, guilt over your parent’s words, but still, you continued to speak. Continued to pour your heart and soul out to your husband.

Tim’s face crumpled in time with his heart as he listened to you tell the whole sordid tale. When you finally stopped speaking, he was silent. After a moment of just staring at you, he just pulled you into another hug.

“I am so, so, sorry, my love,” he whispered, stroking a hand over your back, “I’m sorry that happened to you, I’m sorry you were born to such bastard parents, I’m sorry no one believed you, I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me, I… I’m just sorry. You didn’t deserve that. And they’re wrong. You’re not pathetic. Or a failure. Or anything else they’ve ever said.”

At that, Tim pulled back slightly and looked directly into your eyes. Into your soul. “You are the most important part of my life, Y/n. I am here for anything, anything, you need, and it kills me that you were hurting in silence this whole time. But never again, okay? We’re going to deal with this together – whatever you want to do. I will never let those bastards hurt you again.”

And for maybe the first time, you believed him.

--

FIN.

Your career in the LAPD has been, for the most part, uneventful. You got lucky with a good TO, passed your rookie exam, graduated to P2 easily, and fell in love. No one knows about the last one, and if they do find out before you’re ready, it will put you and your boyfriend at risk. You’ve stopped bringing it up because when you mention telling someone or going out together, he assures you that he’ll handle it when the time comes. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he’s scared that he won’t be able to stay with you once people know. You also agreed to transfer to another station if that would make everything easier; your career is good and your relationship is maturing, and, for now, that’s enough. Even if they are completely separate.

During another uneventful, routine day, you initiate a traffic stop. The Camaro you are now parked behind ran several red lights before entering a residential area, and you pulled the driver over before anyone was injured. After radioing the stop to dispatch and running the plate, you prepare to approach the driver’s window.

The car's glass is tinted, dark enough to make you assume it’s illegal, so you walk out wide. You gesture for the driver to roll the window down, but nothing happens. Laying your hand on your gun, you gesture once more. Finally, the window rolls down about halfway.

“Can I help you, officer?” the man asks. You don’t reply before he continues, “Here’s how I’ll help. Let me go with a warning and we’ll all be okay.”

“That’s not how this works. Let me see your hands,” you command.

“I’m trying to help you, officer,” he insists.

“And I’m telling you to let me see your hands. Both of them.”

“Get back in your car.”

“Hands!”

“Fine,” he replies, clicking his tongue as he reaches down quickly. “Here’s my hands.”

He rolls the window down the rest of the way and extends his arms out, with a revolver held steadily between them.

“Drop the weapon!” you yell.

You unholster your gun and raise it to chest height. Trapped, you know that if you lower your guard or try to run for cover, he’ll just shoot you. You’ve seen too much, and his offer to help you by hurting others has been rescinded.

“Let me go,” he demands. “Or I will shoot you.”

“Threatening a police officer can carry felony charges in California,” you point out. “Last warning, drop the weapon!”

“Last warning is it?” he asks. “Fantastic. Let’s get this over with. I’ve got somewhere to be.”

You adjust your stance as he pulls a hand back inside the car. He opens the door and steps out. Quickly, he raises the gun to match your position and takes a measured step toward you.

“Stop!” you yell. “Don’t move!”

“Like this?” he taunts as he takes another step.

“Put down the gun and stop!”

He shakes his head as his finger slides toward the trigger. When his finger brushes the laser switch on his gun, the red dot appears on your sternum. He’s going to kill you unless you act now, you realize. Though they taught you everything to do in this moment, being in it is different. With one more warning, you pull the trigger. Your bullet rips through his arm and into his shoulder as you hold your position. When he hits the asphalt and groans, you kick his gun away and keep yours trained on him.

The man clutches his arm before he slumps. Immediately, your hands begin to shake. Carefully, you reach for your radio and automatically report the incident. While you operate according to procedure, your eyes never leave your gun or the man it is aimed at. You shot someone. Your breaths grow shallow as you return the radio to your belt. Though you know this was pure self-defence, you are still upset and find that you were totally unprepared for what it really feels like. You will yourself to calm down as dispatch alerts you to officers and Sergeant Grey responding; inside, everything is spinning as your emotions collide.

“Officer-involved shooting at South Curson and West 8th,” dispatch alerts. “Assistance requested.”

“Dispatch, I’m en route,” Tim radios the moment the transmission ends.

His hands tighten around the steering wheel as he clenches his jaw. They added your badge number as the officer involved, but no information about who was hurt or what happened. As Tim speeds through the streets of Mid-Wilshire, he fights not to panic. The worry that something has happened to you is something he can use, but he refuses to spiral.

Tim reaches the location of the shooting quickly and realizes that he is the first officer there. Before he gets out of his shop, he radios that he’s at the scene. The moment he steps out into the scene, his priorities shift. You are standing over an unconscious man, and Tim doesn’t even notice the blood on the ground. All he sees is you and that you are shaking. He calls your name, his voice soft as he approaches you. It takes a moment for you to look up, but Tim immediately identifies the emotions in your eyes. You’re genuinely shaken up, and Tim swears he can see fear in your eyes, either because of what happened or what you did.

“Hey,” Tim adds. “You’re okay.”

“I shot him,” you murmur, your voice breaking. “I shot him.”

Tim wraps his arm around your shoulders and gently turns you away from the injured suspect below you. He uses his other hand to direct your face to his. Quickly, Tim scans your face and body for any sign of injury and takes a deep breath when he is sure you are physically safe.

“Don’t tell me anything,” Tim reminds you. “But I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

You hear approaching sirens and blink quickly. Raising your hands to Tim’s chest, you push him away from you. His arm slides off of your shoulders as he steps back.

“You have to leave,” you tell him. “They can’t know.”

“But I-“

Tim stops. He wants to stay beside you and be anything and everything you need, but he also doesn’t want to risk upsetting you further. The first shooting is usually tough, and the fact that you’re relatively far into your career likely makes it harder.

“Okay,” Tim agrees. “I won’t be far.”

You nod, numb to everything except the memory of pulling the trigger. Sergeant Grey arrives and pulls you to the side as police officers and first responders crowd the scene. He takes you to his car and brings Nolan as your union rep before you even think to ask and takes your initial report.

“Everything is going to be fine,” Nolan assures you. “You did everything by the book and the evidence will back that up.”

Your gaze wanders to Tim, and though you know your relationship isn’t up to department regulations, you want to let him in. But you are scared and stubborn, and those have never mixed well.

Tim sees that you’re looking at him and takes it as an opportunity to return to your side. He doesn’t touch you this time, only sends you a look that reminds you that you’re not alone, even if you want to be.

“You should get back to work,” you say.

“I’m staying with you through all of this. You didn’t do anything wrong, but that doesn’t mean this is easy.”

“Tim,” you huff. “Just go.”

“No,” he answers shortly.

“Bradford,” Grey calls. “I need you to escort her back to the station. We’ll be back soon with everything else.”

Tim points to his body cam and Grey sends him a thumbs up. Yours was taken as evidence, so they’ll rely on Tim’s to monitor your behavior after the shooting. Luckily, Tim didn’t do anything that would read as more than a concerned fellow officer after he arrived.

“You heard him,” Tim says. “You’re stuck with me.”

As you follow Tim back to his shop, your hands continue shaking. You cross your arms over your chest, where your body cam would usually be, and tuck your hands between your arms and sides to hide the emotions leaking out.

“Just pass me off to someone else,” you encourage quietly.

“I’m not leaving you, not after what you just went through,” Tim states. “So, stop asking me to.”

You draw his attention to your face, out of sight of his body cam and mouth, “If you stay, they’re going to realize that we’re dating.”

“Let them,” Tim says aloud. “I don’t care what they see or think, I care about you.”

You tighten your arms over your hands and bite your bottom lip. Tim repeats himself, “I am only here for you.” Carefully, he pulls you into a hug, and you accept his comfort as you wrap your arms around his waist.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“We’re here.”

You ride back to the station in silence, then sit outside Wade’s office as your body cam footage is reviewed and witnesses are interviewed. Tim sits beside you as you wait and shakes his head when people try to approach you, even if well-intentioned.

“How long does this take?” you ask quietly, picking at your fingers.

Tim slips his hand between yours as he answers, “It depends.”

You nod and lay one of your hands in Tim’s. The other curls in on itself, and your fingernails dig into your skin. Tim releases your hand and lays his hand palm up in your lap.

“Don’t take it out on yourself,” Tim whispers. “Do it to me if you have to, but this was not your fault.”

You run your finger over Tim’s palm, but without the worried movement of your hands, your energy finds a new outlet. Below Tim’s hand, your leg begins to bounce on its own accord.

“Take a deep breath,” Tim encourages as he turns in his chair.

He lays one hand on your bouncing leg while you hold the other. When you realize you’re too comfortable with Tim inside the station, you try to turn away.

“I’m okay now,” you say. “You can go.”

Tim shakes his head and mutters, “Stubborn.”

“But we-“

“You don’t need to be alone right now,” he interrupts. “Let me help.”

“We’re ready for you,” Grey says from his office door. “Bradford, you can come too.”

Tim offers a hand to help you stand, then follows you into the office with his hand against your back. Grey and a few other officers wait inside, and you swallow harshly while you wait for someone to talk.

“You’ve been cleared,” Wade says. “Everything was by the book, it was pure self-defence, and the guy has a good outlook. He’s expected to recover just in time for us to throw him in jail.”

Your eyes widen with the good news, and you force your words over a growing knot in your throat. All of your emotions want to burst out, but you control them as you reply, “Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank us for, ma’am,” one of the IA investigators adds. “You did your job, and you did it well.”

“You’re free to go for the day,” Wade says.

“You too, Bradford,” IA interjects. “And we’re not worried about the relationship, for the record. Just keep it professional at work; you’re both good cops.”

“Thank you,” you repeat.

Tim leads you out of the office, and your brain switches to autopilot as you enter the locker room and prepare to leave. He beats you back outside and prevents anyone from talking to you as he takes you outside to his truck.

When you arrive at Tim’s house, he leads you to the couch and sits beside you. In the privacy and with Tim’s hand on your cheek, you break down as the relief of being cleared mixes with every other emotion that has been building in your chest. Tim doesn’t hesitate to pull you into his arms. Held tightly to Tim’s chest, you receive the comfort you’ve craved all day, and Tim finally gets to give it without arguing.

“It was never about people not seeing us together,” Tim whispers as he strokes your back. “Your career would have been in jeopardy, and I was worried that no one would respect you if it got out.”

“You could’ve lost your job, too,” you point out weakly.

Tim pushes you back carefully and smiles softly. “Are you ever going to realize? It will never be about me. I don’t care who sees us together because I just want to be yours.”

“For now,” you mumble.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re only soft sometimes.”

“Like today?”

You nod as you lean against him once more. Whether you are willing to admit it or not, Tim will always be soft yet fiercely protective of you.

“You could also stop trying to push me away and break my heart,” Tim points out.

You kiss his shirt over his heart and say, “Softie.”

“Are you really okay?” Tim inquires after a quiet moment.

“I am. Thanks to you.”

You were having a shit day and couldn’t put your finger on why. As someone used to figuring things out (you were a puzzle fanatic and your next door neighbour Mr Keller was sweet enough to give you his newspaper after a read-through so you could crack down, lock-in, and solve the latest crossword) this frustrated you. You woke up and did your normal pre-work routine. You got ready, did some minimal makeup, made breakfast for you and your boyfriend (Mondays were your domain), and you headed into the station where all of your friends were and before heading out on patrol with your partner (in life and law enforcement), you joined in a few good natured conversations.

“Drinks on friday? Of course Luce,”

“Great!” she squealed, reaching out and clapping Aaron on the back, “Thorsen’s paying!”

Aaron laughed and shrugged. “Guess so!”

“Count me and Bailey in!” said Nolan.

“I’ll make sure Tim’s there too!” you promised.

So, there. You had plans for your off day. Fun, free, plans, thanks to your nepo-baby/influencer colleague. You were smiling like usual, bantering with your buddies in the briefing room, like normal, and hiding the tightness in your chest behind a trademarked smile.

“Night shift did their jobs for once—likely because Harper was with them but regardless of the reason, that means I don’t have anything else to tell you all! Get out in the streets and patrol! Dismissed,” said Sergeant Grey.

You meet Tim on the way out of the briefing room again. You two are at the end of the line of officers trickling out of the doors, he lets you walk ahead of him (forever the gentleman) but what he won’t let you do is: drive the shop—even though you had been working together for years, you were his rookie once upon a time (so long ago it was probably recorded somewhere on a stone tablet) and that translated to… Tim still occasionally treating you like his boot. Maybe it was nostalgia, maybe it was Tim and his inconvenient overprotective tendencies but he still insisted on driving everywhere.

You liked to blame his grumpy behaviour and paid no mind to the legitimate reasons he had for not wanting you to drive. Once upon a time, you had wrote off a shop or two and Tim would rather that not happen while you were riding together.

Anyways, you don’t even like to drive.

And being passenger princess was far from the worst thing in the world.

“You alright?”

“Hm?” you return, startling and fastening your seatbelt, the very same one Tim was staring at like it could bite. You shake your head, “yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

“I know you too well to buy that, babe. Do you want to talk? Grey mentioned today might be a slow one—jinxed us, if you ask me—but we’ve got time. What’s bugging you?”

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know?”

He squeezes your thigh, “If you figure it out, let me know. I’m here,”

He always was.

Dispatch radios and you and Tim head to a domestic dispute. These calls are always tough and though you’ve never told your boyfriend why he knows you act a little strange sometimes afterwards—good thing, you always thought, that Bradford wasn’t angling for detective because by not connecting the dots after all this time, you didn’t think he’d make a very good one. Angela Lopez had caught on and guessed your past the first time you and her rode together, confirming it for herself when you two went out to party and you shied away from all the men with drinks in their hands or the smell of alcohol on their breath. These calls hit home for you. They reminded you of times you didn’t want to be reminded of.

Of times when you had been just like the lady who hid behind the man that answered the door Tim knocked on. Tim flashes his badge, you hold out yours as well. These types of calls are ones that need to be handled just-so. Escalation is never the intention. “Would you mind stepping into the hallway so we can talk? While my partner speaks with your wife?” asks Tim.

The man is reluctant but after shooting his wife a withering look he nodded and follows Tim out of the doorway and down the hallway in the apartment complex a bit. You know your boyfriend—partner, first, can handle himself but the man is big. Really big. You can’t help the knot that plants itself in your throat. It’s hard to swallow around, and you look after him until he’s gone from your sight. He can handle it, you assure yourself. He can. Then, you slip into the sitting room and approach the woman—it was her who called. A purple swatch sticks out from underneath an ivory line painted onto her jaw. It’s a poor coverup, but one you recognize. The swelling on her right eye is pretty obvious too, if you know what you’re looking for. You do. You can see the powder that covers it. “You say the word and I’ll have him cuffed,” you say—unable to stop yourself but definitely coming on too strong. “I’m sorry he hit you. You don’t need to—“

“He didn’t,” she defends, and oh no, because you’ve seen this before. Lived it, before, too. “He wouldn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t do that. He loves me.”

“Miss, you called us. On the phone you sounded terrified.”

“It wasn’t me,” she rushes out. “I didn’t call. You have the wrong place and the wrong house and you should leave,” a little boy comes out and crowds behind her legs, holding onto the fabric of her shirt. Your heart breaks. Cleaves in two and absentmindedly, just slightly, you rub your chest. “My husband would never do anything like that and this is not something to talk about in front of my son. Who he’s a great dad to,”

“You have a bruise on your jaw,” you tell her, bluntly. The time for subtleness is gone and the little boy has a faraway look in his eyes—he looks older than he is and you know that what you’re saying is no news to him either. You know he knows. You know he’s seen his dad get angry, real angry, and smack his mom around.

“You need to colour correct before putting foundation on if you want to cover that deep of a bruise,” you tell her, and for the first time during that call she looks at you like you’re something more than a cop—in your eyes, she sees herself and she nods. She knows. You know. You know as well as anyone, better probably, that this won’t go anywhere. Not today at least. You grab one of your cards and press it into her hand. “My cell number is at the bottom. If you call I’ll be here. Promise,”

She tells you she won’t call. Even still, she slips the card into the back of her phone case and that, it gives you a small bit of hope. Tim finishes talking to the man and with no evidence other than the bruises on the woman’s face (the stairs, she said, she fell down them) you both leave. You walk behind Tim, all the way to the shop. Your movements are robotic, your spine and muscles all incredibly stiff until you reach the door, swinging it open and slumping down into the seat. You don’t plug your seatbelt in. You can’t. Your lungs, they’re already constricting painfully and you can’t bear to put something over your chest—something that will squeeze you tighter and let less air in—air, that you don’t know if you’re taking in at the moment. You’re having a panic attack you realize. Tim is still outside of the shop. Getittogether, getittogether, you plead with yourself. You open your mouth, trying to vaccum oxygen into your lungs but they’re so tight, so unwelcoming. So closed off. You can push air out—how, when it feels like there’s none left? But that’s all. You turn towards the window, press your forehead against it and try to focus on the cold when a door slams. “Officer L/n,” Tim looks over at you, you know he is because of the seconds of silence that follow—because of the shift. Softer then, he breathes your name on an exhale reaching across the console, leaning over towards you, moving you to him. “Baby,” he tries, the hardass that is Tim Bradford, phenomenal cop and badass veteran, is nowhere to be seen. First his hands fly to your shoulders and he massages gently, trying to calm your muscles before he tries to calm your mind. “You’re—“ he stops, knowing better than to announce what’s happening. You know. Youknowyouknowyouknow. “It won’t last,” he tells you instead, rotating you, turning you towards him. Your cheeks are wet and then so are the pads of his thumbs as they swipe across your face, wiping the salty tracks away. You hiccup, choking on another breath and Tim grimaces. He hates seeing you like this. He’d rather be put on desk duty, he’d rather be shot in the line of duty—he has been before and it certainly hurt him less. “Breathe with me, okay? In and out, come on.” Your face scrunches up and you shake your head. “Cant,” you rasp. Concern floods his eyes but you watch your boyfriend disappear. He steels his expression, “Officer L/n, I need you to match my breaths. That’s an order,”

Anorderanorder—that’sanorder.

You try, you try so hard. Tim pulls you against his chest and you attempt to copy his exaggerated breaths. In and out. In and out. Your inhales are greedy, your exhales are shaky. Against his chest, you feel the steady rhythmic beating of his heart—if there’s one thing Tim is, it’s steady. He’s an anchor, you’re lucky enough that he’s yours. Your anchor, always giving you strength to stay in place when the waves are crashing over you. Your breathing evens out and the two fingers he has pressed against your pulse point travel to your jaw. He tilts your head so he can see your eyes. “Better?”

You nod and he plants a kiss on your forehead.

“Want me to drop you off at home? I can call Grey,”

You feel stupid going home, digging into precious vacation time that you and Tim plan to use to go in an anniversary trip so you shake your head. “That’s not—not necessary, but thank you.”

“You’re not doing good, Y/n/n,” he tells you.

“It was a panic attack. I have anxiety—it happens sometimes. I held it together until we were off the scene, I didn’t let it get in the way of my work. We’re halfway through shift, Tim. I’ve got this.”

“It wasn’t just the panic attack. It’s like you forget sometimes, how well I know you. There’s four things in my life that matter. You, my job, my sister, Kojo. I have four things that I care about and I pay very close attention to those things. My list is work and family—you’re my family, my future wife, the future mother of my children. I know you, what makes you tick, when you’re having a bad day. I don’t think you should be working right now.”

“I’m fine, Tim.”

“Maybe I’m not.”

“Then maybe you should go home,”

“Y/n, you know that’s not what I mean. I can’t focus on doing the job the right way if I’m this worried about you.”

“I can work with… Thorsen.”

“Not Harper or Lopez? Not anyone that knows about our relationship and—“

“I don’t see why it’s important that I ride with someone who knows everything,” you laugh a little, “I don’t.”

“I’m wounded.”

“Your ego, maybe.”

“But seriously babe, I’m calling Grey, and I’m driving you home.”

“This is my job,” you argue, getting frustrated. Tim and Wade are friends just as you and Luna are—going out for the occasional double date together, and hanging out individually. God knows what Tim and Wade do (watch the game and shout ar the TV, probably) but you and Luna text all the time, you’ve gone to yoga classes, book clubs, and protests. It’s not fair that Tim’s using your relations with the sergeant for time off. Time off that you really don’t need.

“And you’re good at it. Nothing will happen and no one will blame you if you need a break.”

A day to a break. What the hell? You scowl at your boyfriend and climb back into your own seat. “A day,” you say, settling. You click your seatbelt in place and Tim drives you home.

“Do you want me to take the rest of the day off too? We can talk, figure out what’s going on in that head of yours and watch some movies.”

“And take two of LAPD’s best cops off the street?” you gasp, “I couldn’t.”

Tim smiles, planting a chaste kiss on your lips before you climb out of the shop. “We can have a movie night,” you tell him. He smiles, nodding in agreeance, and you say your goodbyes and your ‘I love yous’.

Kojo bounds over to you and you drop to your knees, giving him all of your attention, petting his head and neck and scratching behind your ears. He licks your face and just as excitedly, bounds away. You walk to the back door and let him outside, following the monotonous routine of putting your gear away and hanging up your uniform. In the kitchen, you stand looking at the kettle, debating coffee which you eventually decide is not a good idea–seeing as your next action should probably be sleeping. Sometimes you can fake it until you make it. Other times, sleep can replace the fake feelings and just give you a break–you think that maybe you do need one despite not knowing from what. You love Tim, your job, your friends, Kojo. You love life just… sometimes not the brain you were saddled with. It twists things and no matter how hard you try to be happy sometimes it’s not possible. You settle on herbal tea, grabbing a festive Santa mug you insisted was a necessity.

“If you want this house to be a home we need some silly ceramics,” you said. An Eeyore mug, the Santa one in your hand, a dozen others Tim has brought home for you since then, are piled in the cupboard. You pour in the hot water, then the tea bag, and wrapping your palms around the mug, you enjoy the warmth as you peer into the fridge.

Nothing looks appetizing so it’s bedtime–must be. You draw the blinds, set your tea on the nightstand and climb under the heavy cream coloured comforter. With the blankets tucked under your chin you pull out your phone and begin to peruse your various social medias. You start with some instagram doomscrolling and then move to tiktok where a few 60 second skits manage to make you smile a bit. It’s dark in the room and you yawn—that’s your cue. Phone plugged in, sleep mask over your eyes, and… ringing? You rip the mask off, tug your phone from the charger and hit the green button, answering. A scared, small voic, greets you. “It’s Mary. I… You… you were here earlier and said to call if… if it got bad—“

The covers are on the ground, you’re out of bed and throwing a long trench coat overtop the pajamas you changed into. On the other end of the phone you hear charged screaming and things smashing. “You did the right thing calling. I’m on my way. Where are you and where is he, Mary?”

She lets out a terrified sob, “I should’ve listened earlier, I should’ve told.”

“Anyone whose been in your shoes knows why you didn’t.” One of your off duty weapons is in your hand as you rush out of the front door. “What’s going on Mary, talk to me.”

“I’m in the bathroom with Johnny. The door… I locked it. He’s just so angry. He…”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes—no,” she amends, wailing, sounding hopeless.

You’re in the car, switching it into drive, and speeding (you’re a cop it’s fine) down the street. The speedometer on ticks a few above the speed you should be at and despite going fast, you’re not moving fast enough that you’ll be pulled over. You aren’t even thinking about radioing in, duh, you can’t, you don’t have a fucking radio and there’s no way you’re hanging up on Mary, leaving her alone. No, no you wouldn’t do it. “Keep talking,” you urge, “I’m on my way, I’ll be there soon. As many details as you have I need, okay? Where’s the bathroom, which room is he in?” you pause, waiting for her answer because you don’t need to add to the overwhelm she’s feeling right now.

“He’s in the living room or kitchen. He’s… drinking and really mad. Really mad at me—I didn’t, I didn’t have supper done and I was on my phone. He thought I was cheating. I’m not, I would never.”

“None of this is your fault,” you tell her, cutting the steering wheel and changing lanes. “It wouldn’t have mattered if supper was ready, if you hadn’t touched an electronic in days. He would’ve found something. The door, will it be unlocked.”

“N-no, he locked it when this all started,”

“Want to invite me in Mary?”

“Wha—“

“Permission to break your door down is what I’m hoping for. I’m not on the clock and doing this out of uniform is sometimes frowned upon.”

“Yeah. Yeah, yes, break it.”

You pull into the parking lot, and go to unbuckle your seatbelt—it wasn’t on. In your haste you had forgotten and you’d beat yourself up about it later. That, or you’d pretend it never happened. The latter was infinitely more likely. You shut the car off and hopped out of it, entering into the apartment foyer and rushing up the carpeted staircase. On the second level you follow the hallway, listening to the shouting and crashing. Two girls who must be in their teens peer out of their respective apartments, heads stacked over each other. “What’s going on?” they whisper-hiss as you run over to the door and slam your shoulder against it until it flies open. “LAPD,” you shout, despite having no credentials with you. Then the man grabs a butchers knife and… holds it the right way. Goddamn it.

A knife fight. You were not expecting a knife fight. To go from being in bed, barely awake, to this? It was jarring to say the least. “Get out of my house!” hollers the husband. “Mary!” You shout into the phone, “call 911! Tell them officer L/n is—“ the husband lunges and in your haste to dodge, your phone flies to the ground, gun clattering along with it. Shit—shitshitshit. You hope Mary’s heard you as the man in front of you zeroed in on your weapon. You duck under another slice of his and dive for your gun. He kicks it out of the way and then, kicks you. You blame your reflexes—you blame the off day you’ve been having. Stupid mistake after stupid mistake and god, you’ve made a lot. For the first time in ever, you wish you were Nolan, with his never ending stream of all the right words. Instead you’re just you. Just Y/n L/n, anxious as hell and so, so screwed.

You scramble back, your—shit, no. Mary’s abuser nicks you with his knife. It slices your palm, the hand that reaches for your gun now blood covered. The man is large. He’s massive and you finally get your gun. You tell him you’ll shoot but the safety isn’t off. The safety isn’t off because you don’t want to kill anyone and he slams you into a wall. Your head rings. You aren’t quite sure what you’re hesring as the man tosses away his knife and decides to use his hands. To get up close and personal. They wrap around your throat, they pin you, and then your hand is slamming into a pressure point and your knee is simultaneously slamming into his crotch. He grunts and you roll him off of you. You roll him onto his stomach and your hand threads through his greasy hair—you slam his head into the floor. Once, twice for good measure, and he finally stops moving. You check for a pulse and sag in relief when you find out he has one. Thats when the bsthroom door eases open. You stand quick and fill the doorway. “Don’t let your son come out here,” you pant. “You might not even want to.”

Mary tucks her little one into his bedroom and joins you in the kitchen. Your gun is in your waistband—if anyone asks, it never left, and the man lying face down on the floor has his hands tied behind his back with tea towls.

Mary hands you a bag of frozen peas and you press it to your aching head, feeling bad for the blood you’re smearing all over her grocery. That can’t be sanitary, “I’ll replace it,” you tell her.

She shakes her head. “That’s not necessary. You… thank you. I don’t know what would’ve—“

“Don’t think about that,” you tell her, and 20 minutes later when the cavalry arrives, you’re grateful to see Lopez and not your boyfriend. Less grateful when she pulls out her phone and— “please don’t call him. I’m fine, I’m—“

You’re not fine but,

“I’m not calling Tim, I’m calling Bailey. You won’t go to the hospital but you need to be seen and—“

“Thank you, Angela.”

“Of course. But, just because I’m not telling Tim doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”

After Bailey is done, patching you up, you head home. You’re about to pull into the driveway when your phone starts ringing and a specific ringtone let you know that it’s Tim. You sigh and because you can see his car in the driveway, because you’re pulling into said driveway, you let it go to voicemail.

Inside, Tim meets you as you open the door. He draws you into his chest and holds you firmly but gently. “Jesus, Y/n/n, what happened?” He knows, of course, he already knows. “What the hell were you thinking. You were supposed to be at home! You were supposed to be resting, taking a break.”

“ I know. I’m sorry. The lady from earlier called and—“

“And you should’ve called me!”

Yeah. Yeah, probably.

“I know, I know. I wasn’t thinking. I just panicked.”

Tim looks like he’s about to scold you more, but then his eyes meet yours. “I just… God, I’m so glad you’re okay. You scared the shit out of me. Please, never do that again.”

series summary: you’ve seen them many times before; they often come in when you’re working, sitting at the bar and keeping to themselves, and tipping you very generously, regardless of how good your service actually is. the bar you work at isn’t usually that busy, but still, you have some trouble remembering some of the regulars. but not them. not when they’re so nice. and their sweet smiles and broad shoulders definitely aren’t things that are easy to forget. you start to see them so often at the bar that you become friends, often hanging out with them even when you’re not on the clock.

then the killings start.

first, it was people you didn’t know, random people from across the city that you’d never have any reason to run into. but then, people around you start to turn up dead.

you’re afraid, obviously, as is the rest of the city, but you need the money, so it’s not like you can stop going to work. and either way, your bar regulars always promise that nothing will ever happen to you, even though you’re not sure how they’re so sure. but then, everything falls into place when you see something you aren’t supposed to see.

this series will be eight chapters, with the last one coming out on halloween! it will be a little darker than my last multi part fic (obviously), but i hope you enjoy it anyway!

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“Mi amor, you okay?” He asks, moving closer to you.

You look up at him, wincing a little as another cramp hits you. You nod your head slightly, your voice a little strained from the pain.

“Yeah, just...my period cramps. They're pretty bad today.” He looks down at the heating pad on your stomach.

He frowns slightly, his expression softening with concern. He moves over to the couch and sits down next to you, his hand reaching out to lightly touch your shoulder.

“You should've called me. I could've come home early to help out. Bobby wouldn’t have cared.”

You smile weakly, appreciating his concern, “It's fine, Eds. I can handle it. You don't have to come home just for this...” you peer up at him through your lashes, “You got people to save.”

He looks at you for a moment, his gaze searching your face. He can see the discomfort you're in, the small crease in your brow that betrays the pain you're trying to hide.

He sighs, his hand still resting on your shoulder, “It's not a big deal if I come home early for this, you know. I'm allowed to be worried about my girlfriend, even if you’re tough as hell.”

You can't help but smile at his words, your heart skipping a beat at the sound of him calling you his girlfriend. It's a simple thing, but it's so sweet.

“I know, but…” you pause, wincing a little as another cramp hits. “I don't want to be a bother. Usually I can take a few ibuprofen and that helps; you can see how that’s worked out though.”

He looks at you, his expression one of sympathy. He hates seeing you in pain, even if it's just the natural discomfort of your period. He shakes his head, his tone firm but gentle.

“You're not being a bother. I want to be there for you, especially when you're hurting. Besides, there's more I can do than just give you ibuprofen.”

You look at him, a mixture of curiosity and scepticism on your face, “Like…like what?”

He smiles at your question, his hand moving from your shoulder to gently brush a strand of hair out of your face. He sits down on the couch beside you.

“Well, heat is good for cramps…you got the heating pad, so that's a start…but there's other things. Like, uh…” he pauses for a moment, his cheeks turning a light pink as he continues, "Massages. Those can help loosen up the tension.”

You raise an eyebrow at his suggestion, your heart rate picking up a little as you picture him giving you a massage.

The idea is both appealing and embarrassing, the thought of his strong hands touching your body—well, it's not unwelcome, to say the least.

He notices the look on your face, the slight change in your expression that tells him you're both intrigued and a little bit flustered.

He grins, a mischievous light in his eyes, “Don’t look so surprised, I pay attention to you when you rant about this stuff, you know. I-if you want me to, I could give you one.”

You glance at him, a conflicted expression on your face. On one hand, the idea of a massage sounds heavenly right now. The thought of his strong hands working out the knots in your muscles a very appealing one.

On the other hand, you feel a little self-conscious, the thought of him touching you like that when you're feeling bloated and crampy making you more than a little embarrassed.

You chew on your bottom lip for a moment, internally debating what to do.

“You really don’t care…?”

He shakes his head, his smile softening as he looks at you. He can see the uncertainty in your expression, the conflict in your eyes, but he's not going to back down.

“Of course I don't care. I want to take care of you when you're hurting, carñio. And if that means giving you a massage, then that's what I'm going to do.”

Your heart skips a beat at the use of the nickname, the endearment making your chest feel warm and fluttery. You take a deep breath, the mixture of hormones and cramps making you a little more emotional than usual.

“Okay…Okay, fine. You can give me a massage.” You give in, your voice slightly shaky as you mentally brace yourself for what's to come.

He smiles, his expression satisfied as he hears your agreement, “Alright, then. Just lay down on your stomach and get comfortable.”

You nod, shifting your position on the couch to lie down on your stomach. It's not the most comfortable position, but it'll do for the massage. You position the heating pad against your stomach, sighing as the warmth begins to work its magic on your aching muscles.

He moves to kneel beside the couch, his gaze roving over your form as you get comfortable. He can see the tension in your shoulders, the way your back is arched slightly, the muscles strained and taut with discomfort.

Taking a moment to gather his resolve, his thoughts are little jumbled from the sight of you lying before him. Carefully, he reaches out and gently places his hands on your lower back, the touch feather-light at first.

You gasp at the feel of his hands on your skin, the touch sending a shiver down your spine. It’s a strange sensation, the mixture of pain and pleasure as he begins to gently massaging your muscles. He starts at your lower back, his fingers working in slow, gentle circles over the tense muscles.

A soft sigh escapes your lips as he works out a knot in your back, the tightness slowly loosening under his touch.

He looks down at you, watching as you slowly relax under his touch. He can hear the sound of your breathing becoming slower, a little more even, and he smiles faintly as he continues the massage. His hands move up to your shoulders, the touch firmer now as he begins to work out the tension in your upper back.

You let out another sigh as he moves up to your shoulders, the feel of his touch both soothing yet forceful. His fingers are strong and sure, the pressure just enough to loosen the knots in your muscles without hurting you.

The heat from the heating pad combined with his hands is gradually making your muscles relax, the pain from the pulsating cramps slowly fading into the background as he continues.

He continues the massage, his hands moving over your back and shoulders in a rhythmic pattern. He can feel the knots slowly dissipating under his touch, the tension in your muscles melting away like snow in the sun.

He looks down at you, a satisfied smile on his face as he notices the way your body is completely relaxed now, all traces of pain and discomfort erased from your features.

“Feel better?” He asks, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet room.

You nod, “Mhm. Much better. You’re a saint, you know that?” Your voice a bit muffled by the couch cushion. You feel completely boneless now, the combination of the massage and the heating pad having worked wonders on your cramps. You feel so relaxed, like you could just melt into the couch and stay there forever.

He snorts, a small laugh escaping him as he takes you in your blissful state. You look so different now, all soft and boneless and relaxed. He can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction, knowing that he's the one who was able to do that to you.

He gives your back one last gentle pat, his hands lingering on your skin for a moment before he pulls back. He slowly stands up from his position on the couch, stretching his arms a little before looking down at you with a wry smile.

“Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”

You nod, not even opening your eyes as you just mumble out a quiet “kay”.

He watches you for a moment, a small smile on his face at your lazy state; It's a rare sight, seeing you completely relaxed like. He shakes his head faintly before heading out of the room, leaving you alone for a moment.

You lay there, your eyes closed and your mind blissfully empty. The absence of pain combined with the relaxation from the massage has made you feel as though you’re floating on a cloud.

After a few minutes, you hear footsteps returning to the living room, and you hear Eddie speak again, “Alright, time to sit up a little...”

You grumble a little at the sound of his voice, not wanting to move from your comfortable position. But you know you have to sit up for whatever he has planned, so you reluctantly force your limbs to cooperate, shifting your body so you’re sitting upright on the couch.

He sits down next to you, holding a steaming mug of tea in one hand, “Drink this.”

He hands the mug to you and you take it, surprised by the gesture. You look down at the contents of the mug, the rich aroma of chamomile filling your nostrils.

“You made me tea?” You take a small sip of the hot liquid. The tea is warm and soothing going down, the flavor earthy and relaxing on your tongue. You take another mouthful, the heat from the liquid spreading through your body like a soft, comforting blanket.

He nods, watching as you take another sip of the tea. He can see the look of contentment on your face, the way your body is still relaxed from the massage.

He scoots a little closer to you on the couch, slinging one arm around your shoulders and pulling you against him. The action is casual but affectionate, a silent gesture of comfort.

You lean into his side, the closeness making you feel safe and cared for. Slowly, your eyes slip shut as you bask in the feeling of being in his arms, cradled against his chest like a precious treasure.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” You murmur, your voice soft and sleepy.

Eddie smiles, his arm tightening around you in a gentle squeeze. He presses a light kiss to the top of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair.

“Of course, carñio. I'll always take care of you, no matter what…You just relax and enjoy the tea.”

You nod, already half-asleep from the combination of the tea, the massage and the general feeling of exhaustion that comes with your period. You finish the rest of the tea, setting the empty mug on the coffee table in front of you before snuggling further into his embrace.

You can feel yourself drifting off to sleep, the sound of his heartbeat like a soothing lullaby in your ears.

“Mmm….I love you, Eds.”

He hears your sleepy admission, the sound making his heart flutter in his chest. He tightens his arms around you, holding you close as he replies in a hushed voice.