AVA

you were putting on a show of riding his hard cock and he laid there as if you were barely doing anything. it was your fault really. theodore had mentioned how much he hated that cedric diggory was a little too nice to you for his comfort. you always brushed it off and laughed at him insisting it was strictly platonic from not only your side but cedric's too. however, this night you decided to mess with him.

cedric came up to you at the party the slytherins were throwing and joked about the professor you both hate. you noticed theodore watching you two from afar. theodore ignored mattheo who was ranting to him and his grip on his cup got stronger by the minute. you smiled at theodore and turned back to cedric, over exaggerating how "funny" he was being. you dramatically laughed at his jokes, squeezing his arm, and leaned closer to him not breaking eye contact. that was until you noticed cedric suddenly go mute as he looked behind you. theodore grabbed your hand and gave cedric a passive aggressive smile before walking off with you.

that's how you ended up here. being forced to ride theodore as he just watched you. you felt his cock throb inside you as you moved your hips up and down. you let out a soft moan and whined again as you gripped onto his chest.

"theo..." you said. he raised an eyebrow as he turned his head to blow out his smoke, not breaking eye contact. "please. y-you're killing me right now." you felt yourself squeezing around him and closed your eyes as you turned your head to the side. theodore grabbed your face and turned your head back to him.

"don't look away, principessa. keep riding and maybe i'll let you cum." he said making you let out more pathetic noises. "diggory will never get to feel how good this pussy is." it was the first thing he said to you since he told you to ride him 20 minutes ago.

"p-please, just a little noise or something, theo. wanna hear you so bad." theodore knew you loved every noise he made, moans, groans, his voice. it all made you cum so quick but he wasn't giving that to you after the way you acted. he kept staring at you, watching as your thighs began to shake from getting tired. you groaned out of frustration but kept going. something about the way he looked at you made you wetter by the second. his stare was intense and possesive and even though he was keeping his usual cool and collected posture, you noticed his jaw clenching and his tight grip on your thigh. 

you weren't sure you could take much more of his behavior. you moved your hips slower, slowly grinding on his lap. "i bet he would feel so good inside me." you whispered out with a small smirk on your face. theodore slightly raised his eyebrows at you. "you think cedric would agree to fucking me?" you tilted your head as you asked him.

"what?" theodore asked. you opened your mouth to tease him some more but before you could say anything else he grabs your hips and flips you over to lay on your back. he's hovering over you and starts thrusting into you at a faster rate. "y-you're mine. this pussy, t-those tits." with one hand he squeezes your nipple making you whimper as you moan from feeling him fully inside you. "all fucking mine." you smile as he continues fucking you. he leans down and kisses your forehead, your cheeks, and down to your neck. you can finally him as he loses himself from feeling you clench around him. 

SUMMER 2010

The drive up to Dean’s summer house had started fun somewhere around Connecticut and deteriorated rapidly by the time they crossed into New Hampshire.

The car smelled like stale fries, sweat, and whatever cologne Logan had practically bathed in that morning. Empty energy drink cans rolled around near Garrett’s boots every time Dean took a turn too fast, and Tucker had been singing the same three lines of a country song for nearly forty minutes just to piss everyone off.

Garrett was considering homicide.

“If you sing that chorus one more fucking time,” he warned from the passenger seat, sunglasses pushed low on his nose, “I’m opening the door and shoving you onto the highway.”

“You’re all bark, Graham,” Tucker replied cheerfully from the backseat.

“Actually,” Logan cut in lazily, “he bit a guy during playoffs in high school.”

"Technically speaking, he punched me first."

“So your response was rabies?”

Dean laughed quietly under his breath, eyes still on the road.

Garrett pointed accusingly toward the backseat. “See? Dean gets it.”

Dean immediately held up one hand. “Don’t drag me into this.”

Tucker snorted from the backseat, legs kicked up against the middle console like he owned the damn car. “You saying Garrett committed aggravated assault actually makes me feel safer somehow.”

“That says a lot about your survival instincts,” Dean replied dryly.

Outside the windshield, the road stretched endlessly ahead of them in winding curves lined with towering pine trees. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the branches in fractured streaks of gold, flashing across Dean’s hands on the steering wheel every few seconds. The deeper into New Hampshire they drove, the emptier everything became. Fewer gas stations, fewer houses, just miles of forest and glimpses of glittering blue lake water through the trees.

Garrett rested his head back against the seat with a groan.

His shoulders ached from the cramped drive, and the inside of the car felt warm, too warm, from four grown hockey players packed together with equipment bags and enough testosterone to qualify as a biohazard. Garrett’s hoodie was tied around his waist now, sleeves hanging loose over his thighs, and sweat dampened the back of his t-shirt from sitting cramped in the passenger seat for nearly seven hours.

Dean, annoyingly enough, still looked perfectly put together.

His blonde hair was pushed back neatly despite having driven for hours, expensive sunglasses hanging from the collar of his t-shirt. Even relaxed, he carried himself differently than most people Garrett knew, polished in a way he associated with old money and private schools and families that vacationed internationally instead of going to shitty beach towns in Jersey. Not that he was not rich in his own way. But Dean exhuded money.

Garrett had noticed that about him the first week at Briar.

Dean always looked like he belonged somewhere expensive.

“You know,” Tucker said thoughtfully from the backseat, “if we die in this forest, no one’s finding the bodies.”

“Good,” Garrett muttered. “Maybe then you’ll finally shut up.”

“Violent today,” Logan observed.

“I’ve been trapped in this vehicle with you idiots since six this morning,” he said flatly. “At this point, murder feels medically justified.”

Tucker barked out a laugh loud enough to rattle the windows. “See? That’s exactly what serial killers say before documentaries get made about them.”

“Yeah,” Logan added thoughtfully, “except Garrett would get caught immediately because he has anger issues and the impulse control of a toddler.”

Garrett twisted in his seat enough to flip him off properly. The SUV swerved slightly as Dean laughed under his breath.

Every so often, the trees broke apart just enough for the lake to appear through the gaps, huge stretches of blue water glittering beneath the sinking afternoon sun. The light hit the surface so sharply it almost looked silver. Everything felt so... quiet. The trees swallowed sound whole out here, muting the world until all Garrett could really hear was the low hum of the SUV engine, the occasional crunch of gravel beneath the tires, and Tucker chewing obnoxiously loud in the backseat. Even the air on his face felt somewhat cleaner.

Rich people really knew how to disappear from society.

Dean coughed suddenly. The worst fake cough Garrett had heard in a while, but he still turned his face to look at his friend. Dean’s hands tightened briefly against the steering wheel before relaxing again, sunlight flickering across his profile as they rounded another curve in the road. 

“So what's the thing you needed to talk to us about?,” Logan said lazily from the backseat.

Dean frowned slightly. “What thing?”

“The "‘I have something important to say, don't make me forget" thing.”

Tucker straightened immediately beside him. “Oh, I love when people preface things ominously.”

Dean sighed through his nose.

The SUV curved around another bend in the road, and suddenly the lake opened fully beside them, huge stretches of deep blue water glittering beneath the lowering sun. Massive houses sat tucked along the shoreline in the distance, hidden behind private docks and thick walls of trees.

Garrett whistled softly under his breath. “This place is fucking ridiculous.”

Dean ignored him completely. “My sister’s at the house this weekend.”

The silence afterward lasted exactly one second.

Then Logan sat forward so quickly his knee slammed against the back of Garrett’s seat. “There it is.”

Tucker grinned immediately. “Hot sister?”

Dean’s expression flattened in a way Garrett already recognized from practice. Annoyed. Tired. Bracing for impact. “Don’t,” he said simply.

Garrett barked out a laugh before he could stop himself. That answer alone told him everything he needed to know. “Oh, she’s definitely hot.”

Dean glanced at him briefly, unimpressed. “I’m serious.”

“You saying that makes it significantly worse,” Logan informed him.

Tucker groaned dramatically from the backseat. “Jesus Christ, what is she? A Marvel villain?”

“She likes attention,” Dean continued like Tucker hadn’t spoken. “And she likes getting reactions out of people even more.”

“So... you?” Logan replied.

Dean shook his head slowly. “No. You guys don’t understand, and fuck you, John.”

The wind pushed through the cracked windows again, cooler now that the sun had started sinking lower behind the mountains. It carried the sharp scent of freshwater and pine through the SUV, rustling the loose curls at the back of Tucker’s head and lifting the edge of Garrett’s t-shirt sleeve where his arm rested against the door.

The light inside the car had changed too.

Everything was gold now.

Soft amber sunlight flickered through the few trees left in uneven streaks, catching briefly across Dean’s face before shadow swallowed him again. Just glimpses of impossibly expensive waterfront properties hidden behind iron gates and stone walls.

Garrett watched Dean carefully from the passenger seat.

Dean wasn’t laughing anymore. That alone made this interesting.

“You’re making her sound clinically dangerous,” Tucker said, grinning lazily from the backseat.

Dean exhaled slowly through his nose, one hand sliding higher against the steering wheel as the road curved sharply around the edge of the mountain. “She’s not a dangerous animal, you fuckers” he said finally. A beat passed. Then, “She’s just…” Dean paused, visibly reconsidering his wording. “Very aware of the effect she has on people.”

The boys burst out laughing immediately. “Oh my God,” Tucker wheezed, “you’re terrified of your own sister.”

“I’m just scared of what she does to people I like," he sighed, probably already over with this conversation. "Terrified is not the word I'd use."

Garrett grinned lazily. “Dude, you literally warned us.”

“I warned you.”

That made Tucker immediately let out a loud dramatic gasp. “Oh, he’s singling people out now.”

Dean finally looked over at him then. Directly at him. And something about the expression on his face made Garrett’s grin falter slightly.“Graham,” the blonde said calmly, “I’m talking specifically to you.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Dean turned around to face the road, but not before making a weird expression. Just long enough for Garrett to catch the bored, yet knowing look on his face. “It means,” he said evenly, “you’re exactly the kind of idiot she finds entertaining.”

"Everyone finds me entertaining, Di Laurentis."

“That’s not the same thing.”

The house sat high above the shoreline like it had been carved directly into the mountain overlooking the lake. It was stunning, a grand, two-story cedar beauty with a massive wraparound porch, tall windows that reflected the sparkling water, and a wide dock stretching out over the lake like an invitation. The late afternoon sun bathed everything in warm gold. It looked like the kind of place people only saw in movies.

Dean killed the engine. “Welcome to paradise, assholes.”

They all spilled out of the car, stretching and groaning after the long drive. Garrett slung his duffel over his shoulder, still admiring the house.

The driveway itself was absurd.

Smooth pale gravel curved around a massive fountain Garrett hadn’t even noticed at first because he was too busy staring at the house. Tall lanterns lined the edges of the drive beneath towering pine trees, already glowing softly as the sun dipped lower behind the mountains. Straight out of a James Bond movie.

“This,” he said carefully, “is not a summer house.”

“You grew up here?” Tucker aske, still in awe.

“During summers.”

Garrett barked out a laugh. “Dean,” he said, still staring at the house, “Batman grew up here.”

Logan took his bag out the trunk, horrified. “There are absolutely secret tunnels underneath this property.”

“There’s probably a wine cellar bigger than my apartment,” Tucker muttered.

The sound of the door opening distracted him, making him face the entrance of the house. There she stood, the girl who would apparently destroy him.

She stepped out onto the porch carrying a tray of drinks, and the entire world seemed to tilt.

Holy fuck.

She was breathtaking.

Sun-kissed skin glowing in the golden light, long light hair cascading loosely over her shoulders, a tiny white bikini top and cutoff denim shorts that showed off miles of legs. She moved with this effortless, confident grace that made Garrett’s mouth go dry and his stomach tighten all at once. She set the tray down on the porch railing and walked down the steps toward them, barefoot and completely at ease. Every step made Garrett’s pulse thrum harder.

Her eyes landed on Dean first. “I was starting to think you guys got lost...” Her voice carried easily through the cool evening air, still rough around the edges like she’d just woken up.

Dean grabbed a duffel bag from the trunk. “Traffic.”

“You stopped twice.”

“You checked my location?”

“What I was supposed to do aaaall aloooone in this big house?"

Her gaze moved across Logan first dismissively, then Tucker, before finally landing on Garrett where he stood beside the SUV with his sunglasses still hanging loosely from the collar of his shirt.

And stopped.

Garrett felt something low in his chest tighten unexpectedly. Not because she was pretty. He’d met plenty of pretty girls before. But there was something deeply unsettling about the way she looked at him, so direct. Like he found him entertaining.

“You must be Garrett,” she said, stopping right in front of him.

Up close, she was even more devastating. Her eyes were bright and mischievous. She smelled faintly like coconut sunscreen and summer. Garrett felt stupidly tongue-tied for the first time in years. “Yeah,” he managed, voice a little rougher than usual. “Nice to meet you.”

She extended her hand. When he took it, her skin was warm from the sun, and the brief contact sent a spark straight through him. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, not letting go of his hand right away. “All the stories make you sound very… charming.”

Garrett let out a low laugh, trying to play it cool even though his heart was hammering. “Don’t believe everything your brother says. Half of it’s lies.”

Her smile turned wicked. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about Dean’s stories.” Her eyes flicked briefly toward the Briar hockey hoodie tied around his waist before returning to his face. “Hm,” she hummed quietly.

Garrett raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You look exactly like I thought you would.”

Behind her, Dean groaned loudly. “Absolutely not. Whatever this is, stop it right now.”

She finally released Garrett’s hand, but not before letting her fingers brush his a second longer than necessary. The light touch made his stomach flip. “Did my brother threaten you already?” she asked softly.

Dean answered immediately from behind them. “Yes.”

She ignored him completely, eyes still locked on Garrett’s. “And?”

Garrett grinned slowly. “I think he’s being dramatic.”

That made her laugh. Garrett felt stupidly victorious for causing it.

Behind him, Logan whispered dramatically to Tucker, “Oh, he’s gone.”

“Like immediately gone,” Tucker whispered back.

Dean dragged a hand down his face. “I hate all of you.”

The girl tilted her head slightly, light hair slipping across one shoulder in the breeze. “You should probably listen to him."

The bonfire crackled and hissed, sending glowing sparks spiraling into the velvet-black sky. The night air was cool against heated skin, thick with the scent of burning pine, woodsmoke, and the faint mineral edge of the lake. Shadows danced wildly across the sand as flames licked upward.

Garrett sat low in the heavy wooden chair, beer bottle dangling from his fingers, trying to ignore the way her eyes kept finding him through the fire. He failed miserably.

Every time he glanced up, she was already watching him, lips slightly parted, firelight painting her face in warm gold and deep amber. The look in her eyes wasn’t shy. It was deliberate. Hungry.

Dean noticed. Of course he did. “I swear to God,” he muttered, “if you two don’t stop eye-fucking across my bonfire…”

She smiled slowly and nodded, as if what her brother said might have just given her a better idea than just burning him with her eyes.

The oversized Harvard hoodie slipped off one shoulder as she rounded the fire, revealing the smooth, sun-warmed skin that had entranched him two hours ago. Every step she took made Garrett’s pulse beat harder in his throat.

She stopped right in front of him. “Move over,” she said softly.

Garrett raised an eyebrow, voice low. “There’s plenty of chairs.”

“I don’t want a chair.” Without waiting for permission, she took the beer from his hand, set it aside, and slid smoothly into his lap, straddling one of his thighs.

His friend made some comments, he was sure of it, but Garrett barely heard them. All he could focus on was the sudden, overwhelming warmth of her. The way her bare thighs pressed against his, the soft weight of her ass settling right over his lap, the faint coconut scent of her skin mixing with woodsmoke.

“Comfortable?” he asked, voice rougher than he intended. His hands instinctively settled on her hips.

She shifted slightly, deliberately pressing closer. “Very.”

Dean looked like he might actually throw up. “This is not happening. Get the fuck off him. Right now.”

She ignored her brother completely, aside from flipping him off with her left hand, turning her head so her lips were close to Garrett’s ear “You’ve been staring at me all night,” she whispered.

Garrett’s grip tightened on her hips. “You’ve been staring longer.”

A soft, amused hum left her. “Guilty.” She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. The firelight flickered across her face, catching in her lashes. “You nervous?”

“Should I be?” His thumb brushed slowly along the strip of bare skin where her hoodie had ridden up.

Her breath hitched slightly. “Depends,” she murmured. “Do you like trouble?”

Garrett’s gaze dropped to her mouth for a beat before returning to her eyes. “I’m starting to think I might.”

She smiled, slow and dangerous. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about sitting right here since the moment you got out of the car.”

The tension between them thickened, heavy and electric. Garrett could feel the warmth radiating from her core against his thigh. His heart hammered against his ribs. “You always this forward?” he asked, voice low.

“Only when I see something I want.” She tilted her head, studying him. “And you… you look like something I’d enjoy breaking the rules for.”

Garrett let out a quiet, strained laugh, his fingers flexing against her waist. “Your brother might actually kill me.”

She leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered, “Then you should probably make it worth it.”

The air between them felt charged enough to ignite. Garrett turned his head slightly, their noses nearly brushing. “You are going to get me in trouble.”

“I know,” she breathed, eyes dark with heat. “The question is… are you going to stop me?”

For a long second, neither of them moved. The fire crackled loudly beside them, but the rest of the world had faded into nothing. Just her weight in his lap, her breath against his skin, and the undeniable pull that was already spiraling far beyond casual.

Garrett’s voice dropped to a rough whisper only she could hear. “Not tonight.”

Her smile widened, satisfied. “Good answer, G.”

He felt his cheeks warm up. Fuck. He was glad for the darkness the night brought with. He would've never heard the end of it if the sun was shining bright in the sky. However, he felt like she noticed, given the way she bit her lip and held in a chuckle. His hand smoothened his hair to try and distract himself.

The fire continued to crackle and pop beside them, casting shifting light across her face as she looked at him. “So,” she said casually, as if they weren’t pressed together with her thighs straddling his, “how was the drive up?”

Garrett let out a low chuckle, his hands still resting on her hips. His thumb traced slow, absent circles against the strip of bare skin where her hoodie had ridden up. “Long,” he answered, voice low. “Dean made us listen to the same playlist three times. I think I’m permanently traumatized by early 2000s pop.”

She laughed softly, the sound vibrating through both of them. “That sounds about right. He tried to make me listen to it last summer too. I threatened to throw his phone in the lake.”

“Smart girl,” Garrett murmured, eyes flicking down to her mouth for a second before returning to hers. “I should’ve done the same.”

From across the fire, Tucker called out, “Are they seriously having small talk right now? She’s literally sitting on his dick and they’re talking about playlists?”

“Shut up, Tucker,” Garrett said without looking away from her.

She smiled, clearly amused, and shifted slightly in his lap, just enough to make his grip tighten on her hips. “What about you?” she asked, tilting her head. “You play hockey with my brother, right? What position?”

“Forward,” he replied, trying to focus on the conversation instead of how warm she felt against him. “Dean's fast as defender. I'm faster." He winked.

“Modest,” she teased, one of her fingers idly playing with the collar of his hoodie. “Dean and... some other people sent me some videos of you guys. You’re fast. Like… stupid fast.”

Garrett raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You watched our games?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged innocently, but her eyes sparkled. “I had to make sure my brother wasn’t completely embarrassing himself.”

“Sure,” he said, voice dropping. “That’s the only reason.”

She bit her lip, fighting a smile. “Okay, maybe I was a little curious about the new friends he kept gushing about.”

Dean groaned loudly from his chair. “I am right here. I can hear you.”

“Hi, Dean,” she called sweetly without turning around. Then, quieter, just for Garrett: “He’s going to have an aneurysm by the end of the weekend”

“Probably,” Garrett agreed, his hand sliding a little further around her waist, thumb brushing the underside of her ribcage. “Worth it though.”

She leaned in a fraction closer, her voice soft. “You think so?”

Their faces were close enough that he could feel her breath against his lips. The tension hummed between them, thick and electric, even as they kept their words light.

“Yeah,” Garrett said, barely above a whisper. “Definitely worth it.”

For a moment, the rest of the group faded again. Just the crackle of the fire, the cool night air on their skin, and the undeniable pull drawing them closer.

She broke the heavy silence first, voice playful but a little breathless. “So… favorite movie?”

Garrett laughed under his breath, shaking his head at how absurdly normal the question was while she sat warm and soft in his lap. “Die Hard,” he answered. “Yours?”

“Crazy, Stupid, Love. Don’t make fun of me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, grinning. “You seem like the type who cries at the end every time.”

She narrowed her eyes, but she was smiling. “And you seem like the type who pretends not to like rom-coms but secretly watches them alone.”

“Guilty,” he admitted, voice warm.

She laughed again, softer this time, and relaxed fully against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. Garrett’s arm curled more securely around her without thinking.

Across the fire, Dean muttered, “I give up. I’m going to bed before I see something that scars me for life.” But even Dean’s complaining couldn’t break the quiet little bubble forming between them.

The late afternoon sun hung low and heavy over the lake, bathing everything in rich, molten gold. The water shimmered like melted glass, small waves lapping gently against the wooden dock with a soothing rhythm. The air was thick with the scent of warm pine, sunscreen, and the clean, mineral freshness of the lake.

Garrett gripped the edge of the dock ladder and pulled himself out of the water in one smooth motion. Cool lake water streamed down his body in rivulets, tracing every line of his chest, shoulders, and abs. His dark swim trunks clung to his thighs, heavy and dripping. He shook his head, sending droplets flying from his hair, then pushed the wet strands back with one hand, biceps flexing.

He was breathing hard, skin tingling from the contrast between the cold water and the warm summer air.

That’s when he heard footsteps on the dock behind him.

She was walking toward them in a deep emerald green bikini. The color was stunning against her skin, making her look radiant in the golden light. The triangle top tied delicately behind her neck, the fabric hugging her curves perfectly. The bottoms were low, very low, on her hips, delicate strings tied at the sides, accentuating the soft dip of her waist and the long, smooth length of her legs. A light sheen of sunscreen made her skin glow.

Her light hair fell loose and wavy down her back, a few strands blowing gently in the breeze. She carried a towel over one arm and sunglasses perched on top of her head. She looked effortlessly beautiful. Confident. Dangerous.

Holy fuck.

His stomach tightened. Heat rushed through his chest. Water continued to drip from his body onto the warm wooden planks as he stared, unable to look away. She noticed.

A slow, knowing smile curved her lips as her eyes dragged over him, lingering on his wet chest, the defined lines of his abs, the way the water ran down his body. “Well,” she said, voice light and teasing, “this is a very nice welcome.”

Behind Garrett, the guys were sprawled across the dock in various states of laziness.

Tucker let out a low whistle. “Goddamn. That bikini should be illegal.”

Logan sat up. “I’m feeling very single right now.”

Dean, who had been lying on a towel, jerked upright. “Not you two. I already got my hands full with Garrett.”

She ignored her brother completely and kept walking until she stopped just a few feet from Garrett. Close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and warm vanilla on her skin. Close enough to see the tiny water droplets already forming on her collarbones from the heat. “You just getting out?” she asked, tilting her head. Her gaze flicked down his torso again before returning to his eyes.

“Yeah,” Garrett managed, his voice lower and rougher than usual. He was still dripping, water pooling at his feet. “Water’s perfect right now.”

She bit her lip, fighting a smile. “I can see that.”

The tension between them thickened instantly. Garrett’s heart hammered against his ribs. He wanted to step closer. He wanted to touch her. Instead, he stayed rooted in place, water still running down his arms.

Dean pointed at her. “You. Stop looking at him like that.”

“Like what?” she asked innocently, though her eyes stayed locked on Garrett.

“You know how,” Dean grumbled. "Do not encourage him."

Garrett finally found his voice, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re really wearing that out here?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.” His eyes flicked down once more before he forced them back up. “I’m just… trying to be respectful.”

She took one small step closer. “And how’s that going for you?”

“Not great,” he admitted, voice quiet enough that only she could hear. A drop of water fell from his hair onto her shoulder. She didn’t flinch.

Her smile turned playful and warm. “Good.”

Dean stood up, towel slung over his shoulder. “I’m going inside before I have to witness my best friend and my sister eye-fuck each other for the next hour.”

But even as Dean walked away, muttering under his breath, she stayed right there, standing close to Garrett, the golden sunlight pouring over both of them, the tension between them crackling like the air before lightning.

She bit her lower lip, clearly enjoying the way he was looking at her. Then, without another word, she dropped her towel and sunglasses onto the dock, kicked off her sandals, and walked past him toward the edge. “Come on,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him with a teasing smile. “Get back in with me.”

Garrett’s stomach tightened.

She didn’t wait for an answer. With graceful ease, she dove cleanly into the lake, barely making a splash. When she surfaced a few seconds later, her hair was slicked back, water streaming down her face and shoulders. The emerald green bikini clung even more to her body now, glistening under the sunlight.

She treaded water effortlessly and looked up at him, eyes bright and challenging. “You scared?” she called, her voice carrying over the gentle lap of the waves.

Garrett let out a breathless laugh, dragging a hand through his wet hair. “Not even a little.”

From the dock, Tucker yelled, “Go on, man! Don’t make the lady swim alone!”

Logan cupped his hands around his mouth. “We aren't telling Dean. Don’t be a coward!”

Garrett shook his head, a slow grin spreading across his face. He took a few steps back, then ran and dove into the water beside her with a splash. The cool lake swallowed him for a moment before he broke the surface right next to her, close enough that their legs brushed underwater.

She was smiling when he came up, a little triumphant. “Better,” she said softly, treading water just inches away from him. Water droplets clung to her lashes. “Much better.”

Garrett wiped water from his face, eyes locked on hers. The cool lake did nothing to ease the heat rushing through his body as they floated close together, legs occasionally brushing beneath the surface.

The water felt electric around them.

Garrett treaded water just a foot away from her, the lake doing nothing to calm the heat rushing through his veins. She floated effortlessly in front of him, water droplets clinging to her lashes and running down her neck. The fabric of her bikini was clinging to every curve, shimmering under the late afternoon sun.

She smiled at him, slow and knowing. “You’re staring again,” she said softly, kicking her legs lazily beneath the surface so her knee brushed his thigh.

“Can’t help it,” Garrett admitted, voice low. “You’re making it impossible not to.”

She drifted closer, close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes from the sun. For a moment, they just floated there, legs occasionally brushing underwater, the tension between them thickening with every passing second.

Then she tilted her head toward the far end of the cove. “Come with me,” she said quietly. Without waiting for an answer, she liked to do that, she turned and swam away from the main dock with smooth, confident strokes. Garrett followed without hesitation, cutting through the water after her.

She led him past the end of the long dock, around a thick cluster of tall reeds and cattails that grew out from the shoreline. The vegetation created a natural screen, shielding a small, hidden inlet from the main house and the rest of the dock. The water here was calmer, shallower, and completely private, hidden from view unless someone swam right up to it.

She stopped when they reached the sheltered spot, turning to face him as she stood up in the waist-deep water. Droplets cascaded down her body. The green bikini was now almost translucent in places, molded perfectly to her skin.

Garrett stood up slowly, water streaming off his broad shoulders and chest. They were completely alone now, hidden by the tall reeds and the curve of the shoreline. The only sounds were the soft lap of water against their bodies and the distant, muffled voices of the guys back at the main dock.

She looked up at him, eyes full of warmth and intent. “Better?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Garrett took a slow step closer, the water rippling around them. “Much better.”

The air between them felt charged, heavy with anticipation. Golden sunlight filtered through the reeds, casting soft, dappled patterns across her wet skin. A light breeze made the cattails sway, brushing against their shoulders.

She took another small step toward him until there was almost no space left between their bodies. Water lapped gently at their waists.

“You’ve been looking at me like that since you got here,” she murmured, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “Can you stop being righteous for a moment, G? Just for me?.”

Garrett’s jaw flexed. His hands flexed at his sides under the water, fighting the urge to reach for her. “I’ve been trying really hard to behave,” he said, voice rough. “Your brother made it very clear you’re off-limits.”

She smiled, slow and teasing, and took the final step that pressed her body lightly against his. “And yet here you are,” she whispered, looking up at him through wet lashes, “following me into a hidden spot like a good boy”

Garrett let out a shaky breath, his hands finally moving to rest on her waist beneath the water. His fingers flexed against her slick skin.

“I'm regretting coming here with you” he said quietly, eyes dropping to her mouth.

She leaned in until their lips were barely an inch apart, her breath warm against his. “I know,” she whispered. “But you like it.”

The tension was unbearable now, thick, and humming between them. The hidden cove felt like their own private world, shielded from everything and everyone else.

Garrett’s grip on her waist tightened as he fought every instinct telling him to close the distance. She waited, lips parted, eyes locked on his, daring him to make the next move.

Garrett’s restraint didn't take too long to snap,

He slid one hand to the small of her back and pulled her against him, the other cupping the side of her face as he leaned down and kissed her. It was hungry from the very first second.

She melted into him instantly, rising up on her toes in the water to meet him. Her arms wrapped around his neck as their mouths moved together, deep and desperate. Garrett groaned softly against her lips, tasting lake water and the faint sweetness of her lip gloss. One of his hands slid down to grip her hip, pulling her even closer until her wet body was flush against his.

She made a soft, needy sound into his mouth and kissed him harder, fingers threading through his wet hair, tugging just enough to make him growl. Their bodies moved together in the water, legs brushing, skin sliding against skin. The cool lake did nothing to temper the heat building between them.

Garrett pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to hers, both of them panting. “Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I’ve wanted to do that since the second I saw you.”

She smiled, breathless and glowing. “Then don’t stop now.”

He didn’t. He kissed her again, deeper this time, tilting his head to get a better angle. His hands explored her back, her waist, the curve of her ass beneath the water. She arched into him, pressing her chest against his as the kiss turned slower, hotter, more consuming.

For a few perfect, stolen minutes, it felt like they were the only two people in existence. Until a loud, furious voice shattered the moment.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”

They broke apart instantly.

Dean stood on the small rocky outcrop just beyond the reeds, staring at them with wide, horrified eyes. Logan and Tucker were right behind him, both looking equal parts shocked and entertained.

Dean’s face was turning red. “I came to tell you guys dinner’s ready and this is what I find?! You two making out in a fucking hiding spot like horny teenagers?!”

She stayed pressed against Garrett’s chest, not even trying to create distance. Water dripped from her hair as she looked at her brother with a perfectly innocent expression. “We were just swimming, Dean.”

“Swimming with your tongue down his throat?!” Dean shouted.

Garrett winced but kept one arm firmly around her waist, protective even now. “Okay… maybe not just swimming.”

Tucker started laughing so hard he had to bend over. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Day two and they’re already going at it in the reeds.”

Logan shook his head, grinning. “This is better than cable.”

Dean dragged both hands down his face. “I can’t leave you two alone for five minutes. Five minutes!”

She bit her lip, trying not to laugh as she looked up at Garrett. “Worth it?” she whispered.

Garrett looked down at her, and smiled despite everything. “Completely worth it,” he murmured back.

Dean threw his hands up. “I’m going back to the house before I drown both of you. Dinner in twenty minutes. And if I catch you two doing anything else, I swear to God I’m burning this entire lake house down.”

He stormed off, still muttering curses. Tucker and Logan followed, laughing the whole way.

Once they were gone, she looked back at Garrett, eyes sparkling with mischief and heat. “So…” she said, running her fingers down his wet chest. “Think we have time for one more kiss before dinner?”

Garrett groaned, but he was already leaning down. “You’re going to get me killed,” he whispered against her lips.

She smiled. “But what a way to go.”

Then she kissed him again, slow and deep, as the golden sunlight danced across the hidden cove around them.

By the third night, Garrett had realised that he was already and utterly fucked.

Whatever was happening between him and Dean’s sister had become something inevitable the moment she first smiled at him. Impossible to ignore. She found him everywhere.

Stealing ice cream from the carton at 2 a.m. in the kitchen.

Standing on the dock at sunrise with coffee in hand.

Across crowded rooms, her eyes always finding his first.

And every single time, no matter how many times he told himself to behave, one look from her and his resolve crumbled.

Tonight, the lake house was packed.

Music thumped through the walls so heavily that Garrett could feel the bass vibrating up through the hardwood floors. Neighbors and friends of friends had poured in after sunset, turning the place into a glowing, chaotic summer party. Red cups littered every surface. Laughter spilled out onto the terraces overlooking the dark lake. Warm golden light poured from every window, mixing with the soft flicker of candle lanterns and the cool, humid night air drifting in from the water.

Garrett leaned against the kitchen counter, nursing a beer, pretending to listen as Tucker tried (and failed) to impress two girls with hockey stats. Logan nudged him. “Watching Tucker flirt is physically painful.”

Garrett snorted. “He’s dying out there.”

Across the room, Dean caught his eye and narrowed his gaze in clear warning, probably remembering what he witnessed not even 24 hours before. Garrett gave him an innocent smile and raised his cup towards him. Dean’s expression only grew more suspicious.

“Your face is making him nervous,” Logan observed.

“My face always makes him nervous.”

The air somewhat shifted around them.

She had just walked into the room. Everything else blurred pretty quickly for Garret who was just thinking about her.

She wore a tiny black dress. The kind that should’ve been illegal. Thin straps rested on sun-kissed shoulders, and the fabric clung to every curve like it had been poured over her. Her light hair fell in loose, slightly messy waves, tousled from dancing and the humid summer air. She looked warm, glowing, and completely devastating under the low lights.

And she knew it.

The second her eyes found him across the kitchen, her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. She moved through the crowd like it parted for her, hips swaying gently with the music.

Logan let out a low whistle. “Oh, you are so fucked, man.”

Dean followed Garrett’s stare and immediately swore under his breath. “No.”

She stopped right in front of Garrett, close enough that he could smell vanilla, warm skin, and a hint of something sweet and expensive.

“Hi,” she said, voice soft but playful.

Garrett stared down at her for a beat too long, throat tight. “That dress should come with a warning label.”

Her smile widened, pleased. “You like it?”

“I’m trying very hard not to show you how much.”

Dean appeared beside them like an overprotective shadow. “No. Whatever this is, no.”

She didn’t even glance at her brother. “You keep saying that like it’s going to work.”

“It means leave my best friend alone,” Dean insisted.

Garrett laughed quietly. “I’m standing right here, man.”

“That’s what concerns me,” Dean muttered.

The music shifted then, slower, heavier, bass vibrating deep in their chests. Couples started drifting toward the open living room where others were already dancing. She glanced toward the growing crowd, then back at Garrett, eyes sparkling with challenge. “Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Garrett raised an eyebrow. “You asking, or are you kidnapping me?”

A mischievous little smile tugged at her lips. “Depends how difficult you plan on being.”

Dean pointed between them. “He is not dancing with you.”

She finally turned to her brother, expression flat. “Why are you acting like I’m dragging him off to be sacrificed?”

“Because I know you,” Dean shot back.

Garrett set his beer down on the counter, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Relax, Dean. It’s just one dance. I can handle myself.”

Dean looked deeply unconvinced. “Those are famous last words.”

Before Dean could protest further, she grabbed Garrett’s hand and tugged him toward the living room. The crowd swallowed them almost immediately. The moment they reached the edge of the makeshift dance floor, she turned to face him. They were close, dangerously so. Her body brushed against his as the slow, pulsing beat wrapped around them.

“You look nervous,” she teased, voice barely audible over the music.

Garrett let out a soft laugh, sliding his hands to her waist. “I’m trying to decide if you’re trying to seduce me or get me killed.”

Her hands slid slowly up his chest before linking behind his neck. “Maybe both.”

She moved against him effortlessly, like they’d done this a thousand times. Her hips swayed with the rhythm, pressing close enough that Garrett could feel the heat of her body through the thin fabric of her dress. His fingers tightened on her waist. The colored lights overhead washed over them in soft golds and deep shadows. Her breath was warm against his jaw. Every small shift of her body sent his pulse racing faster.

“You know what I like about you?” she murmured near his ear, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

Garrett’s grip on her tightened. “What?”

“You act like you’re so smooth…” She smiled against his skin. “But I can feel how fast your heart is beating right now.”

He laughed quietly, a little embarrassed, a little turned on. “You’re impossible.”

“I know.” She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, their faces inches apart. “Are you finally giving in?”

Garrett stared at her for a long second, at her flushed cheeks, her dark lashes, the way her lips parted slightly as she waited for his answer. Then he stopped pretending entirely. He leaned down and kissed her.

Right there in the middle of the crowded living room.

The kiss was deep, hungry, and completely unrestrained. His hands pulled her flush against him as her fingers twisted into his hair. The music pulsed around them, but all Garrett could focus on was the taste of her, the soft sound she made against his mouth, and the way her body melted perfectly into his.

Someone whistled. Another person cheered. Dean probably wanted to die.

When she finally pulled back, lips slightly swollen and eyes bright with satisfaction, she took his hand again. “Come upstairs with me,” she said, voice husky.

Garrett didn’t even hesitate.

The entire room felt ten degrees warmer as he let her pull him toward the stairs. They felt endless.

They slipped away from the dance floor while the music still throbbed behind them, her fingers laced tightly through his as she led him up the wide wooden staircase. Laughter and bass pulsed from below, but the second floor was quieter, dimly lit by a few scattered lamps and the glow of moonlight spilling through the tall windows overlooking the lake. She didn’t hesitate. She knew exactly which room she wanted.

Garrett barely had time to register the click of the door shutting behind them before she was on him again, pushing him back against the wall with surprising strength. Her mouth found his in a hot, hungry kiss that tasted like cherry lip gloss and victory. His hands slid down her back, gripping the curve of her ass through that tiny black dress, pulling her flush against him so she could feel exactly how hard he already was.

“Fuck, you are too good at this,” he muttered against her lips.

She smiled into the kiss, nipping his bottom lip. “You have no idea.”

Then she was sinking down. Slowly.

Her hands trailed down his chest, over his stomach, until she dropped to her knees on the thick rug in front of him. The sight alone nearly short-circuited Garrett’s brain, her light hair falling around her shoulders, that wicked little smile tilting her lips as she looked up at him through her lashes.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to.

Her fingers worked his belt open with practiced ease, then the button and zipper of his jeans. When she tugged his cock free, already rock-hard and flushed, she let out a soft, appreciative hum that went straight to his groin.

“Goddamn,” Garrett breathed, one hand bracing against the wall, the other threading gently into her hair.

She wrapped her fingers around the base and stroked once, slow and firm, watching his reaction. Then she leaned in and dragged her tongue up the underside of his shaft in one long, wet lick before swirling it around the head. Garrett’s head fell back against the wall with a low groan.

She took her time at first, teasing, and pressing open-mouthed kisses along his length like she was savoring him. Every flick of her tongue, every soft suck at the tip had his hips twitching forward. When she finally parted her lips and sank down, taking him deep into the wet heat of her mouth, Garrett’s grip tightened in her hair.

“Shit, baby…”

She hummed around him, the vibration making his thighs tense. Her head bobbed steadily, taking more of him with each pass until her nose brushed the dark hair at his base. The tight, silky pull of her throat had him cursing under his breath. She pulled back with a gasp, strings of spit connecting her swollen lips to his glistening cock, and looked up at him again with pure heat in her eyes.

“You’re so fucking big,” she whispered, voice husky, before she dove back down, faster this time, one hand working what her mouth couldn’t reach, the other sliding up his abs under his shirt.

Garrett’s breathing grew ragged. The wet, obscene sounds of her sucking him filled the quiet room, mixing with his low groans and the distant thump of music from downstairs. She worked him like she’d been thinking about this for day. Every time she took him to the back of her throat and swallowed around him, his control frayed a little more.

He looked down and the visual wrecked him: her on her knees in that tiny dress, mascara slightly smudged, lips stretched around his cock, eyes locked on his like she was daring him to lose it.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he warned, voice rough.

She didn’t pull off. If anything, she took him deeper, sucking harder, her hand stroking in perfect rhythm. Garrett’s hips jerked, and with a choked groan he came hard down her throat. She swallowed every drop, moaning softly around him like she loved the taste, milking him until he was trembling and oversensitive.

When she finally pulled back, she wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb and smiled up at him, flushed and satisfied.

Garrett hauled her up immediately, kissing her deep and filthy as a thank you, tasting himself on her tongue. She laughed softly, and turned her attention to his neck, nipping his jaw. “We should probably head back, before they start asking questions."

The next morning the lake house was quiet except for the distant slap of water against the dock and the low hum of the coffee maker.

Garrett padded into the kitchen barefoot, hair still messy from sleep and last night, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants. He was reaching for a mug when Dean’s voice cut through the silence.

“Morning, traitor.”

Garrett froze, then turned slowly. Dean was already sitting at the big wooden island, nursing a black coffee, expression calm but sharp. No yelling. No dramatic accusations. Just that steady, disappointed-best-friend look that somehow hit harder.

Garrett exhaled a laugh and grabbed the pot anyway. “Alright. Let’s have it.”

Dean watched him pour. “You took her upstairs.”

“Yep.”

“And she sucked your soul out through your dick, I’m guessing.”

Garrett nearly choked on his first sip. He set the mug down and rubbed the back of his neck, grinning despite himself. “Jesus, Dean, man. That’s your sister.”

“I heard you, traitor. Thin doors.” Dean leaned back, one arm draped over the back of the stool, the picture of cool older-brother energy even though he was only a year older than Garrett. “Look, I’m not here to play angry chaperone. You’re my best friend. That’s why I’m saying this.”

He took a slow sip, letting the silence stretch just enough.

“She’s not like other girls, Garrett. She’s not gonna do the cute little summer fling thing and then go back to normal. She’s gonna wreck you. And when she’s done, she’ll smile, kiss you on the cheek, and move on like it was nothing. I’ve seen it. Multiple times.”

Garrett leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “She’s your sister, dude. You’re not supposed to say shit like that.”

“I’m saying it because she’s my sister and I know her better than anyone.” Dean’s voice stayed even, almost gentle. “You don’t do serious. That's a fucking challenge for her. She doesn’t even mean to. It’s just how she’s wired. Bright, intense. Then she gets bored and you’re left standing there wondering what the fuck happened.”

He set his mug down and met Garrett’s eyes straight on. No anger. Just real concern.

“I love her. But I also love you, man. And I don’t want to watch my best friend turn into another one of her little dolls. So if this is just fun for you... great! Fuck each other’s brains out, get it out of your system, whatever. But if you’re already catching feelings…” Dean shrugged. “Walk away now. While you still can.”

Garrett stared at him for a long beat, the easy smile fading.

“I think she’ll do it without even realizing she’s doing it.” Dean stood up, clapping a hand on Garrett’s shoulder as he passed. Firm. Brotherly. “You’re my guy. I’m looking out for you, not her. Just… be careful. That’s all I’m asking.”

He headed toward the back doors, pausing once in the doorway.

“And if you hurt her? I’ll still kick your ass. But at least I warned you.”

Then he was gone, leaving Garrett alone in the kitchen with his coffee and the heavy, undeniable feeling that Dean might be right.

The driveway was chaos, coolers, duffels, and half-empty bags of chips scattered everywhere. Dean’s black SUV sat idling, tailgate open, with Logan and Tucker already piled into the back seat arguing over playlist control.

Dean slammed the trunk shut and called out, “Everyone in. I’m not sitting in weekend traffic longer than I have to.”

Garrett dropped his last bag by the rear bumper, then turned and found her right there, waiting on the gravel like she’d timed it perfectly.

He didn’t even try to play it cool. He closed the distance, slid both hands to her waist, and pulled her flush against him. “Last chance to admit you’re gonna miss me,” he murmured, voice low.

She looped her arms around his neck. “Last chance to admit you’re already thinking the next time you’ll see me again.”

Garrett grinned. “Guilty.”

Then he kissed her, completely shameless. Right in front of everyone. His hand slid down to grip her ass, squeezing as she melted into him, her fingers curling tight in his hair. The kiss turned filthy fast, tongues and soft little sounds that made it obvious exactly what they’d spent the week doing.

Logan let out a loud wolf whistle from the back seat. Tucker started slow-clapping.

Dean stood by the driver’s door, arms crossed, looking like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“For fuck’s sake,” he groaned, loud enough for the whole driveway to hear. “You two have been glued together for four straight days. We get it. You’re horny. Can we please leave before I actually vomit on my own steering wheel?”

They broke the kiss but didn’t pull apart. Foreheads still touching, both breathing harder than necessary.

“Text me when you’re bored on the drive,” she whispered against his mouth.

“Only if you send something worth getting hard to in front of your brother.”

She laughed softly and gave him one last quick, teasing kiss.

Garrett finally stepped back, grabbed his bag, and tossed it in the trunk. He shot Dean a lazy grin as he climbed into the passenger seat. “Relax, man. Summer's done, we're done..”

Dean just stared at him, dead-eyed, then looked at his sister still standing on the gravel with swollen lips and a satisfied little smirk.“Love you. Text Mom when you get home safe,” Dean told her flatly. “And please, for the love of God, find a new victim next time.”

She blew them all a kiss. “No promises.”

Dean shook his head, exhausted, and slid behind the wheel. He put the SUV in drive as Garrett rolled down his window for one final look at her waving in the rearview. He did it, he kept this casual.

Casual.

He kept telling himself that as the lake house disappeared behind them.

Totally fucking casual.

SUMMER 2011

The next summer the lake house smelled exactly the same, pine, sunscreen, and charcoal from the grill. Garrett hopped out of Dean’s SUV, stretched his arms over his head, and felt… fine. Normal.

He’d thought about her a handful of times over the past year. Late at night after a few beers. Once when some girl at a bar had the same laugh. But it wasn’t anything serious. He’d dated. She’d dated. They’d kept things light with the occasional flirty text that never went anywhere. Exactly what they’d agreed on. Even if sometimes he had to stop himself from asking Dean how she’d been, if she ever asked about him, if she ever told her brother about her feelings for him…

And just like the last year they'd been there, she stepped out in the porch in a faded blue bikini top and tiny white shorts, hair messy from the lake wind.

Garrett’s stomach did a small, lazy flip. Not anything serious. Just… silent appreciation.

She spotted him and her whole face lit up with that familiar troublemaker smile. “Well, look who finally showed up,” she called, walking down the steps.

Garrett grinned, slinging his duffel over one shoulder. “Miss me?”

“Every single day,” she said dramatically, stopping right in front of him. “Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Wasted away to nothing.”

He laughed. “Yeah, you look real heartbroken.”

She reached up and flicked the brim of his backward cap. “Still annoyingly hot though. Unfair.”

Then, without warning, she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him into a kiss. His eyes widened for a moment. It wasn’t a quick hello peck. It was slow, deep, and way too comfortable for two people who hadn’t seen each other in a full year. Garrett kissed her back on instinct, one hand settling low on her back, tongues brushing just enough to make it filthy.

The driveway went dead silent.

Logan’s jaw actually dropped. Tucker froze mid-bite of the chips he’d been eating. Dean, who had just slammed the trunk shut, slowly turned around like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. When they finally pulled apart, she was smirking. Garrett just looked relaxed, like it was no big deal.

Logan pointed between them. “What the fuck was that?”

Tucker blinked hard. “Why is this still going on?”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, looking genuinely stunned. “I thought last summer was bad. I thought you two were done. And you just… tongue each other down in the driveway like it’s normal?”

Garrett shrugged, still grinning, and wiped his bottom lip with his thumb. “I guess it is normal. For us.”

She laughed softly and looped her arm through Garrett’s for a second. “Relax, Dean. It’s just a hello kiss. We’re keeping it casual.”

“Casual,” Dean repeated flatly, staring at them like they’d grown extra heads. “That was not casual. That was… pornographic greeting.”

Logan started slow-clapping. “Ten out of ten. Zero hesitation. I’m impressed and slightly traumatized.”

Tucker shook his head, still wide-eyed. “Bro, you’re lucky as fuck. Why don’t these things happen to me?”

Garrett just bumped her shoulder playfully and headed toward the house, tossing over his shoulder, “You guys done freaking out? I’m grabbing a beer.”

She followed him inside with a satisfied little sway in her hips, leaving the rest of the group standing in the driveway still processing.

Dean muttered under his breath as he grabbed the coolers, “This week is going to be a nightmare. Again.”

But Garrett? He felt good. Light. And if he thought about her more than he should’ve during the past year and late at night… well, no one needed to know.

The bathroom door clicked open without a knock.

Garrett stood under the hot spray, eyes closed, letting the water beat against his neck and shoulders after a full day out on the boat. He didn’t hear her come in, just the soft rustle of clothes hitting the floor, then the rush of cool air as the shower door slid open.

He turned, water streaming down his face, and found her standing there completely naked, one eyebrow raised in playful challenge.

“Hope you saved some hot water for me,” she said, stepping inside like she owned the place.

Garrett’s gaze dragged slowly down her body, taking in every sun-kissed inch before flicking back up to her eyes. A lazy smirk tugged at his mouth. “Well, damn. If this is a dream don’t wake me up.”

She stepped under the spray with him, close enough that her breasts brushed his chest, but not touching anywhere else. Water cascaded between them as she tilted her head.

“What? Are you suddenly shy after a year?” She ran a single fingertip down the center of his abs, stopping just above where his cock was already starting to thicken. “Or don’t you like me anymore?”

Garrett caught her wrist before she could go lower, pulling her hand up to kiss her knuckles instead. “Not shy. Just enjoying the show.”

She smiled sweetly and pressed closer, letting her nipples graze his skin while she looked up at him through wet lashes. “You were staring at me in that bikini all afternoon. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Hard not to,” he admitted, voice dropping lower. His free hand settled on her hip, thumb stroking lazy circles. “You look stunning without even trying.”

“Oh, I was trying.” She rose up on her toes, lips brushing his jaw but refusing to kiss him. “Maybe I wanted to see if you still get hard just looking at me.”

Garrett’s grip on her hip tightened. His cock was fully hard now, trapped between their bodies. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Only because you’re pretending you don’t want to pin me against the wall already.” She nipped his earlobe, then pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, water dripping from her lashes. “So… are you gonna keep playing cool, or are you going to put that mouth to better use?”

That was all it took.

Garrett spun her around and backed her up against the cool tile wall in one smooth motion. He dropped to his knees on the wet floor, hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, and buried his face between her thighs without another word.

She gasped sharply as his mouth found her, hot and insistent. His tongue dragged slowly up her slit before circling her clit with perfect pressure. Two fingers pushed inside her easily, curling just right while he sucked and licked like he had all the time in the world. The water made everything slicker, louder. Her soft moans echoed off the tile as she gripped his wet hair, hips rolling against his face. moaned, fingers threading through his wet hair as his tongue kept up the assault on her pussy.

“Fuck, G,” she moaned, hips rocking against his mouth.

He groaned against her, the vibration making her thighs tremble. He ate her out like he had something to prove, messy, hungry, water pouring over them both while he curled his fingers just right and sucked on her clit. When her legs started shaking hard, he doubled down, sucking her clit firmly while his fingers fucked her faster. She came with a choked cry, clenching around his fingers, flooding his tongue as the shower kept raining down on them. Her fingers yanking his hair hard as she clenched around his tongue and fingers.

Garrett stayed there a moment longer, licking her gently through the aftershocks, before rising slowly, licking his lips, and kissed her immediately. Letting her taste herself on his tongue while his hard cock pressed against her stomach.

They were still tangled in that heated kiss, her hand lazily stroking him, when the bathroom door swung open without warning.

Logan walked in, phone in hand. “Yo, Garrett, have you seen, holy shit!”

He froze mid-step, eyes wide as he took in the scene: both of them naked, soaking wet, Garrett’s hand still between her legs, her lips swollen from the kiss. Logan’s mouth opened and closed twice. “I… I’m just gonna… yeah. Never mind.”

He spun around so fast he nearly slipped on the wet floor and slammed the door behind him.

Garrett dropped his forehead to hers, laughing under his breath. “Think he’ll keep that quiet?”

“Not a chance,” she whispered, still stroking him slowly. “Now… where were we?”

The traditional summer bonfire crackled high on the beach, sending sparks drifting up into the dark summer sky. The group had dragged logs and chairs into a loose circle, coolers cracked open, beers and s’mores supplies scattered everywhere. Music played low from a portable speaker, something chill and bassy that mixed with the sound of waves lapping the shore.

Garrett was lounging back in a wide Adirondack chair, legs stretched toward the fire, when she wandered over with a fresh drink in her hand.

Without asking, she turned and dropped straight into his lap, settling sideways across his thighs like it was the most natural seat at the fire. She had brought a huge blanket with her. Weird given the night summer heat that was bothering him.

Garrett raised an eyebrow but slid one arm around her waist anyway. “Comfy?”

“Very.” She smiled sweetly, wiggling just enough to nestle her ass right against his cock. Across the fire, Dean narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Logan and Tucker were deep in some debate about hockey and didn’t even glance over.

For the first few minutes, everything looked innocent. She chatted with the group, laughed at Tucker’s stupid jokes, sipped her drink. Garrett kept one hand resting casually on her bare thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles on her skin.

Then her hand moved under the blanked she’d thrown over the both of them. And found him.

Garrett tensed as her fingers brushed over the front of his swim trunks, tracing the outline of his cock through the thin fabric. She didn’t look at him. She kept talking to Logan about some concert she’d gone to last month, voice perfectly steady, while her palm pressed down and rubbed slow, firm strokes along the rapidly hardening length of his cock.

“Fuck,” Garrett breathed quietly against her shoulder, barely audible over the crackling fire.

She tilted her head like she was just getting comfortable, pressing her ass back against him harder while her hand kept working him. The blanket completely hid what she was doing. To everyone else, she was just sitting on his lap, sharing warmth.

Garrett’s grip on her thigh tightened, fingers digging in as she slipped her hand under the waistband of his trunks and wrapped her fingers around his bare cock. She stroked him slowly, thumb swirling over the leaking tip every time she reached the head, spreading the precum down his shaft.

“You’re so fucking hard already,” she whispered, lips barely moving, pretending to watch the flames. “Been thinking about this all day?”

Garrett’s jaw flexed. He took a slow sip of his beer to cover the low groan that tried to escape. “You’re evil.”

She squeezed him a little tighter, stroking faster under the hoodie while the fire lit up everyone’s faces. Dean was telling some story about the last game they’d played, completely oblivious. Logan laughed at something. Tucker roasted another marshmallow.

Every time she twisted her wrist just right, Garrett’s hips twitched up subtly into her hand. His breathing grew heavier against the back of her neck. Her thumb pressed firmly against the sensitive spot beneath the head, and Garrett’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. His breathing grew ragged against the back of her neck. He gripped her thigh hard, fingers digging into her soft flesh as he fought to stay still.

She kept the pace torturously steady, long, firm strokes, occasionally pausing to just squeeze him at the base, feeling him throb in her palm. The risk of getting caught made it hotter. The way he was fighting to stay quiet made her smile into her drink.

Garrett finally turned his head, lips brushing her ear. “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna come in my shorts like a teenager.”

She turned just enough to meet his eyes, biting her lip with that wicked little smile. “Good,” she whispered. “I want you messy. I want you dripping down my hand while you try to act normal.”

Her strokes became faster, tighter, more determined. Her thumb kept rubbing perfect circles over the head on every pass, slick with his precum. Garrett’s head dropped back against the chair. His grip on her hip was almost bruising now as pleasure coiled dangerously tight at the base of his spine.

She leaned in slightly, pretending to point at something in the fire, and whispered right against his ear: “Come for me, Garrett. Right here. While they’re all sitting around us.”

That was all it took. Garrett’s entire body tensed. He buried his face against her shoulder to muffle the deep, guttural groan that tore out of him as he came in hard, and hot pulses spilling over her fingers and onto his stomach inside his trunks. She kept stroking him through it, slow and gentle now, milking every last drop while he trembled beneath her.

When it finally subsided, she carefully withdrew her hand, wiping it discreetly on the inside of the blanket before resting it innocently on his chest. Garrett was breathing hard, dazed, his arm wrapped tightly around her like he needed the anchor.

She turned her head just enough to brush a soft kiss against his jaw. “What? I thought you liked this” she whispered sweetly.

Garrett let out a shaky, breathless laugh against her neck. “You’re going to get me killed.”

The kitchen was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the distant crackle of the dying bonfire outside. Most of the group had gone to bed. Garrett stood at the counter pouring a glass of water when she padded in wearing nothing but an old t-shirts and a pair of tiny sleep shorts.

She hopped up to sit on the island counter right beside him, legs swinging, watching him with that familiar mischievous glint. “You’ve been avoiding being alone with me all night after the bonfire,” she said softly.

Garrett took a slow sip of water, then set the glass down. “Not avoiding. Just… pacing myself.”

“You’ve had your tongue inside me twice already this trip,” she said, voice low and sweet. Garrett chocked on his own saliva. “I jerked you off until you were leaking all over my hand. And you still haven’t fucked me.”

His eyes dropped to her bare legs. “We’re keeping it casual, remember?”

She smiled, and reached out to hook her fingers into the waistband of his shorts, tugging him closer until he stood between her spread thighs. “Casual doesn’t mean you get to blue-ball me for the entire week.” She leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Last summer I sucked your dick like a good girl and swallowed every drop. You loved it. I know you want to bend me over this counter and finally fuck me properly.”

Her hand slipped inside his shorts like she did not even an hour ago and wrapped around his already-hard cock, stroking him slowly. “Don’t you?” she whispered, thumb circling the leaking tip. “You’re so fucking hard right now. Just slide it in. No one has to know. Dean’s in his room…”

Garrett groaned quietly, hips twitching into her hand despite himself. “Baby…”

She kissed along his jaw, still stroking him with lazy, teasing pulls. “I’m so wet. I’ve been wet since I heard you moan. You could pull my panties to the side and fuck me right here. I’ll be quiet. I promise.” She nipped his earlobe. “Or don’t. Make me moan. Let everyone hear how good you give it to me.”

Garrett gripped the edge of the counter on either side of her, breathing hard. “I can’t,” he said, voice rough. “Not with Dean. I have control over this, over us, now. But actually fucking you? That crosses a line, and I don’t know if I can come back from it.”

She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, still slowly jerking him off. “You’re really going to let your friendship with my brother cock-block you?” She squeezed him tighter, stroking faster. “I want your dick inside me, Garrett. I’ve wanted it since last summer. Stop being so fucking noble and just take me.”

She tugged her panties to the side with her free hand, exposing her slick pussy and rubbing the head of his cock against her wet folds.

“Feel that?” she breathed. “Just push in. One thrust. I’ll be so tight for you…”

Garrett’s jaw clenched. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, the tip slipping against her entrance before he caught himself and stepped back, breathing ragged. “Fuck… you’re killing me.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes dark with lust. “I want to. You have no idea how badly. But I can’t do that to Dean. Not like this. Not yet.”

She let her panties snap back into place and gave him one last slow stroke before pulling her hand out of his shorts. Her smile was pure teasing wickedness. “Fine,” she said lightly, hopping off the counter. “You can keep eating my pussy and letting me jerk you off if that’s what you need to stay a good boy for Dean.”

She rose up on her toes and kissed him deep, filthy, biting his bottom lip as she pulled away. “But we both know you’re going to fuck me before this week is over.”

She turned and walked out of the kitchen, hips swaying, leaving Garrett standing there painfully hard and seriously questioning every moral he had left.

You would think Garrett would’ve snapped the following afternoon when she sauntered down to the dock in that tiny red bikini.

The fabric was barely there, just thin strings and small triangles that barely covered her nipples and left the curve of her ass completely exposed. She “accidentally” dropped her towel right in front of him while he was sitting on the edge of the dock, legs in the water. As she bent over slowly to pick it up, the bikini bottoms rode up between her cheeks, giving him a perfect view of her smooth, sun-kissed ass and the way the red fabric disappeared between her thighs.

Garrett’s cock twitched hard in his shorts. He gripped the edge of the dock until his knuckles turned white.

She glanced back at him over her shoulder with a sweet, innocent smile. “Oops.”

You would think he would’ve lost control that same evening in the boathouse.

She found him putting away the kayaks and pressed him against the wall before he could speak. Her hand slipped straight into his swim trunks, wrapping around his already-hard cock.

“Look how hard you get for me,” she whispered, stroking him slowly, twisting her wrist at the head just the way he liked. “You’re leaking all over my fingers, Garrett.”

She dropped to her knees, pulled his trunks down, and took him into her warm, wet mouth, sucking him deep, hollowing her cheeks, gagging softly when she pushed him into her throat. Just when he was right on the edge, thighs shaking, she pulled off with a wet pop and smiled up at him.

“Not yet,” she whispered, licking a stripe up his throbbing cock. “I want you desperate.”

You would think the night they were alone in his bedroom would have finally broken him.

She walked into his room wearing nothing but a robe, with absolutely nothing underneath. The moment the door clicked shut, she pushed him back until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Without a word, she climbed onto his lap, straddling his face, and lowered her soaked pussy onto his mouth.

Garrett groaned loudly against her, hands flying up to grip her thighs as he devoured her. His tongue licked broad and desperate through her folds, sucking on her clit, fucking into her with long, eager strokes. She rode his face shamelessly, grinding down on his tongue, fingers tangled tight in his hair as she moaned his name.

He ate her out like a man possessed, messy, hungry, and completely lost in her taste. Her thighs started trembling around his head. She was so close. But right as she reached the edge, she lifted off him.

Garrett let out a wrecked, desperate sound, his face shiny with her arousal, cock painfully hard and leaking against his stomach. “Baby, please,” he begged, voice hoarse and broken. “Please just cum. I’ve been good… I did my job. I made you feel sooooo good. Just, I’m fucking dying to taste you...”

She looked down at him with dark, satisfied eyes and shook her head slowly. “No,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss him so she could taste how wet she was. “The only way I’m coming is with you inside of me” She climbed off him completely, leaving him panting, aching, and throbbing on the bed, eyes wild with need. “See you tomorrow, G.”

You would think Garrett would’ve snapped during any of the countless moments she teased him that week.

But somehow, he held on.

Until the sixth night.

The kitchen smelled like home that night. Rich, slow-simmered tomato was sauce bubbling on the stove with garlic, fresh basil, and sausage. Soft music played from the speaker on the windowsill. The guys were sprawled around the living room and kitchen island, half-watching a game, talking over each other, and occasionally shouting at the TV.

She stood at the stove in nothing but one of Garrett’s old, faded hockey t-shirts that skimmed the tops of her thighs. Her hair was twisted up in a bun, a few loose strands framing her face from the steam. She looked, soft, and impossibly sweet as she stirred the sauce with slow, careful circles.

“Garrett?” she called gently, not even looking up from the pot. “Can you come taste this for me?”

He set his beer down and walked over without hesitation, stopping right behind her. She turned, spoon lifted toward his mouth with a small, hopeful smile.

“Be honest,” she said softly. “Does it need more salt? Or maybe a little honey?”

Garrett leaned down and closed his lips around the spoon. The sauce was perfect, savory and with just the right touch of sweetness. He let out a low, genuine hum of appreciation, eyes closing for a second. “Babe… that’s incredible,” he murmured, voice warm and rough. “Seriously.”

Her whole face lit up with quiet, genuine happiness. She reached up without thinking and gently wiped a tiny speck of sauce from the corner of his mouth with her thumb. Then, in the softest, most natural gesture, she brought her thumb to her own lips and sucked it clean while looking up at him.

The moment stretched.

Garrett stared at her, at the way the steam made her skin glow, at the tiny smile playing on her lips, at how perfectly she looked standing there in his shirt, cooking for all of them like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Something deep in his chest cracked wide open. He didn’t think.

He just cupped her face with both hands, tilted her chin up, and kissed her. It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was slow, deep, and full of everything he’d been holding back for seven long days. She melted into him instantly, rising onto her toes and sliding her arms around his neck as the wooden spoon clattered forgotten onto the counter.

The kiss deepened. Garrett’s hands slid down to her waist, pulling her flush against him. She made a soft, sweet sound against his mouth, fingers threading into his hair. For a few long, perfect seconds, the rest of the world disappeared.

From the living room, the guys slowly started to notice.

Tucker’s voice trailed off mid-sentence. “Uh… are they…?”

Logan let out a quiet “Holy shit.”

Dean looked over from the couch, saw his best friend kissing his little sister like she was the only thing that mattered, and froze. He stood up quickly, mouth opening like he was about to say something, anything, but nothing came out. He just stood there, looking torn between protective instinct and reluctant understanding.

Their kiss slowly died down. Garrett stared at her, something raw and overwhelming flashing across his face. His breathing changed. His hand still cupping her cheek, thumb brushing her lower lip. The air between them suddenly felt thick enough to choke on.

She noticed the shift immediately, eyes widening slightly.

“Garrett…?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he took her hand, laced their fingers together, and gently pulled her away from the stove. “We’re going upstairs,” he said, voice low and rough, but calm.

The entire room went quiet.

“Wait… what?”

But Garrett was already leading her toward the stairs, their hands still linked. She followed willingly, biting her lip to hide a smile, cheeks flushed.

“Garrett. Man. Come on,” he tried, voice strained. “You can’t just… she’s my sister. I thought you understood what we... we talked about last year.”

Garrett paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked back at his best friend. His expression was serious, but there was no shame in it. “I know,” he said quietly. “It either happens now or when you’re asleep. What do you prefer?”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at his sister, who was standing there in Garrett’s shirt, holding his hand, looking happier than he’d seen her in a long time, and something in his face crumpled. He rubbed a hand down his face and let out a long, defeated sigh. “…Just go,” he muttered. “Before I change my mind and do something stupid like try to stop you.”

Tucker and Logan stayed wisely silent, though both were failing to hide their grins. Garrett gave Dean a small, grateful nod, then continued leading her up the stairs. She glanced back once at her brother, mouthed “thank you,” and then disappeared with Garrett around the corner.

The moment they were gone, Dean collapsed back onto the couch like all the fight had left him.

“I give up,” he said to the ceiling. “I officially give up.”

Tucker patted him on the shoulder. “At least they’re cute about it.”

The door to Garrett’s room barely clicked shut before he had her backed against it, kissing her like he’d been starving for weeks.

It wasn’t rushed or frantic at first. It was deep, almost desperate, like he was trying to pour every ounce of restrained want into her. She moaned softly into his mouth, fingers sliding into his hair as she kissed him back just as hungrily.

When they finally broke apart for air, she was smiling, a little breathless, a little smug.

“Really?” she teased, voice low. “Out of all the times I had my hand down your pants, or my mouth on your cock, or when I was riding your face… this is what finally does it for you? Me playing housewife?”

Garrett let out a rough laugh, forehead resting against hers. His hands were already sliding under the hem of his t-shirt she was wearing, palms warm against her bare skin. “No,” he replied, voice hoarse. “It wasn’t that.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, then started trailing his mouth down her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. “I could handle the teasing,” he murmured against her skin, pushing the shirt higher. “The bikinis, the lap dances, you edging me until I wanted to cry… I could take all of that.” He dropped to his knees in front of her, hands sliding up her thighs. “But you standing there in my shirt, cooking for us, looking so fucking happy when I liked the sauce? And then wiping my mouth like we’ve been doing this for years?” He looked up at her, eyes dark and intense. “That broke me, how real it felt.”

He pushed the shirt all the way up and off her, tossing it aside. Then he worshipped her.

His mouth moved over her body with slow, reverent kisses, her ribs, the soft underside of her breasts, her stomach, her hips. He took his time, like he was trying to memorize every inch of her. When he reached her thighs, he gently spread them wider and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss right over her center.

“Garrett…” she breathed, fingers threading into his hair.

He licked her slowly, savoring her. Long, broad strokes of his tongue from her entrance up to her clit, then gentle sucking that made her hips twitch. He groaned against her, the vibration sending sparks up her spine.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmured, voice muffled. “I’ve been thinking about this for days.”

He slid two fingers inside her, curling them just right while his tongue focused on her clit. He ate her out like he had all the time in the world, patient and hungry. Completely focused on her pleasure. Every moan she gave him seemed to spur him on more.

When her thighs started trembling and her breathing turned ragged, he didn’t speed up. He kept the same devastating rhythm until she came with a broken cry, hips grinding against his mouth as pleasure crashed through her.

Even then, he didn’t stop. He gentled his movements, licking her softly through the aftershocks until she was shaking and oversensitive. Only then did he rise, kissing his way back up her body until he hovered over her on the bed. His cock was hard and leaking against her thigh.

She reached between them, wrapping her hand around him and stroking slowly. “You’re shaking,” she whispered, looking up at him with soft eyes.

“Yeah,” he admitted with a breathless laugh. “I’ve never wanted anyone this bad in my life.”

She guided him to her entrance, rubbing the head of his cock through her slick folds. “Then stop waiting,” she said softly.

Garrett didn’t hesitate.

He pushed forward slowly, the thick head of his cock parting her slick folds. The moment he breached her, they both gasped. He was big and heavy, and she was soaked from his mouth, but the stretch was still intense. Inch by inch, he sank into her, groaning deeply as her tight, velvety heat enveloped him.

“Fuck… baby,” he breathed, voice strained. “You’re so fucking tight.”

He watched her face the entire time, eyes locked on hers as he filled her completely. When he finally bottomed out, hips pressed flush against her, he stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust to the overwhelming fullness.

“You feel…” He let out a shaky exhale, forehead dropping to hers. “God, you feel like you were made for me.”

Then he shifted her legs. He hooked her thighs over his shoulders, folding her in half beneath him into a deep mating press. The new angle made him press right against that sensitive spot inside her. The position left her completely open to him, helpless and pinned beneath his weight.

Garrett groaned long and low at the new depth. “Holy shit… I’m so deep.”

He started moving with slow, powerful rolls of his hips that drove his cock into her with devastating precision. Every thrust bottomed out, his pelvis grinding against her clit while the head of his cock kissed her cervix. The wet, filthy sound of him sliding in and out of her filled the room.

“You’re squeezing me so fucking tight,” he rasped, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. “Every time I push in, you pull me deeper.”

She whimpered beneath him, legs trembling over his shoulders. The mating press made everything feel impossibly intense. Garrett leaned down closer, folding her even more, and growled against her lips: “Give me your eyes.”

She forced her gaze up to meet his, pupils blown wide with pleasure. The eye contact was electric, raw and intimate. He held it as he fucked her harder, deeper, watching every flicker of sensation cross her face.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice rough. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want to see what I do to you.”

Her nails dug into his back as pleasure coiled tighter. Garrett kept the devastating rhythm, never breaking eye contact, his hips snapping against her with every deep thrust.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he confessed, breathing hard. “Wanted to feel you like this… wrapped around me, taking every inch while you look at me.”

The combination of his words, the relentless deep thrusts, and the way his pelvis ground against her clit sent her over the edge. She came hard, crying out his name as her pussy clenched and pulsed around him, milking his cock with rhythmic spasms.

Garrett groaned loudly, hips stuttering as he fucked her through it, chasing his own release. “Where do you want me?” he panted, voice strained.

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were glassy, lips parted, breath coming in short, shaky gasps as he continued fucking her through the aftershocks of her orgasm. Garrett kept the deep, grinding rhythm, dragging his cock along that perfect spot inside her with every thrust, refusing to let her come down completely.

He leaned in closer, folding her even tighter in the mating press, lips brushing her ear. “Come on, baby,” he teased, voice low and rough, a wicked edge to it. “Tell me. Where do you want it?”

She whimpered, nails digging harder into his back, but still didn’t answer, too lost in the overwhelming pleasure of him still moving inside her.

Garrett smirked against her neck and gave her a particularly deep, deliberate thrust, grinding his pelvis against her clit. “Hmm?” he murmured, clearly enjoying her struggle. “You gonna make me guess? You want it on your tits?” Another hard thrust. “On your stomach?” Thrust. “Or maybe you want me to pull out and paint that pretty face?”

She moaned loudly, clenching hard around him, but still couldn’t form words.Garrett chuckled darkly, slowing his hips just enough to torture her, dragging his thick cock almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt. “Use your words, sweetheart,” he coaxed, voice dripping with teasing affection. “I’m right there. I’m so fucking close… but I’m not coming until you tell me where you want me.”

He kept fucking her in that same devastating rhythm, relentless, watching her face the entire time. Every time she tried to speak, he’d give her an extra hard thrust that stole her breath.

Finally, she managed to gasp out, voice broken and needy: “Inside, G, please… come inside me.”

A satisfied groan rumbled out of his chest. “There she is,” he praised, kissing her hard as his hips snapped forward faster. “Good girl.”

With a few more powerful thrusts, Garrett buried himself as deep as he could go and came with a long, guttural moan. Thick, hot pulses of cum flooded deep inside her, filling her up as he kept grinding through it, making sure every drop stayed buried in her pulsing heat.

He stayed inside her even after he finished, breathing hard against her neck, arms wrapped tightly around her trembling body. “Fuck… tell me what you want more often,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses along her jaw.

She let out a breathless, sated laugh and hugged him closer.

“I really want to know if those idiots burned my sauce.”

his gaze lifted to yours, cool and sharp "i was inconvenienced"

you stopped in front of him "you missed me"

"i endured your absence"

"poor thing"

the corner of his mouth tilted.

that was the trouble with theodore – he gave so little that every small thing felt like a victory.

you moved to stand beside him at the window. outside, the grounds were washed in silver moonlight, the lake still as glass.

for a moment, neither of you spoke.

silence with theodore never felt empty, it felt private.

then his fingers brushed yours. a passing touch. barely there.

you looked down.

"so bold of you"

"no one is here" he mumbled

"you still act like you don't know me most of the time"

his expression didn't change, but his hand returned – this time resting against yours on the stone ledge

"in public," he said quietly, "i am sensible"

"and in private?"

his eyes dropped to your lips, "in private, i make exceptions"

heat climbed your neck "you're insufferably aware of yourself"

"and you are still here"

you turned to face him fully "maybe i came for the view"

"the lake?"

"no" your gaze slid pointedly over him. "something more irritating"

he exhaled a soft laugh. rare enough that it made your chest tighten

"you're impossible" he said. "you say it like it's new information"

he stepped closer, close enough that the air between you changed.

"you were laughing with Pucey at dinner"

you blinked "were you jealous"

"no,"

"you noticed"

"i notice threats"

you nearly laughed in his face "threats?"

"he was dull," theodore said coolly. "and sitting too close"

"that sounds very much like jealousy"

"that sounds," he replied, reaching up to straighten the collar of your robe, "like accurate observation" his fingers lingered near your neck for a second too long.

you swallowed. he noticed that too, of course.

"i hate how smug you are" you murmured. "no, you don't"

"you're right" you caught his loosened tie and tugged him forward. "i hate how often you are right"

for once, theodore looked surprised. then pleased.

his hand slid to your waist, steadying you as he bent his head and kissed you. it was never rushed with him.

slow, deliberate, as though he meant to prove something each time – that patience could be more dangerous than haste, that restraint could feel like fire.

you kissed him harder out of spite. he made a quiet sound against your lips that felt suspiciously like amusement.

when he pulled back, you were breathless. he looked immaculate.

"you're annoying" you said.

"you are flustered"

"im considering violence"

"that's usually how you flirt"

you shoved his shoulder. he caught your wrist before you could pull away, turning your hand over and pressing a kiss to the inside of it.

the gesture was so unexpectedly soft that you went still. theodore noticed that too.

"what?" he asked

"that was unfair"

"you liked it"

you hated that he was right again. footsteps echoed faintly somewhere below. instinctively, both of you moved apart.

theodore's expression shuttered in an instant – that familiar mask sliding neatly back into place. it should have bothered you more than it did.

instead, you admired how only you knew what lived beneath it.

the sounds faded. he looked at you again, softer now.

"come here" he said

you did

this time when he kissed you forehead, it was quick and warm and almost tender enough to hurt.

"you can be sweet" you said quietly.

"don't spread that rumor"

"ill tell everyone"

"no one would believe you"

"true"

he brushed a thumb across your cheek, then stepped back. "same time tomorrow?"

"you assume im available"

"you will come"

"so confident"

"i know you very well"

you smiled despite yourself "arrogant man"

"late woman"

you stared to turn away, then glanced back "you did miss me"

he straightened his cuffs "goodnight"

"theodore"

his eyes met yours.

and there it was – that private smile no one else ver got.

"terribly," he said

jhughes | photo creds?

↳ _quinnhughes yeah.. to me ????

↳ trevorzegras quinn be nice, jack stood there for moral support 😇

↳ yourusername ya cus he’s lazy

↳ jhughes i fixed your hair??

↳ yourusername NO U DIDN'T?? U MESSED IT UP??

_quinnhughes | actual photo creds 😒

↳ yourusername all you king 👑

fan1user | WHAT.

anaheimducks | New Ducks power couple 🧡🧡

↳ yourusername mr and mrs anaheim 😝

↳ yourbestfriendsuser SO REAL!

fan2user | not mad bc at least it's not dixie

fan3user | NOOOOO WAY WE LOST HIM 😪😪

↳ fan4user no babe, we lost y/n 🤕🥲

trevorzegras | who's that handsome gent in the 3rd photo? 😍😍😍

↳ jhughes he's more than handsome, he's stunning 😮‍💨

↳ trevorzegras all you man 😍🥰

↳ jhughes check ur dms babe 🤭😏

↳ yourusername stop flirting in my comments

↳ jhughes no

↳ trevorzegras no

↳ yourusername 🤨

↳ trevorzegras sorry princess youre right im sorry

trevorzegras | all mine 🩷🔒🥹

↳ yourusername all yours <3

↳ fan4user AAAAAAWWWWWWWW

-> make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated! <-

“You’ve already had three,” you reply, nudging your plate toward him anyway. “You planning to eat the table too?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he says, grabbing your fork before you can change your mind.

Across the booth, Steve snorts into his coffee, the sound half amusement, half warning. “One day she’s gonna stop letting you steal her food, Buck.”

“One day,” Bucky agrees around a mouthful, “but not today.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore how familiar this feels—how safe. The three of you have been orbiting each other for over a decade now, since back when Bucky used to yank Steve out of street fights and you used to bandage them both with whatever scraps of cloth you could find. Somehow, even after all the years, all the growing up, the rhythm never changed. Steve’s the cautious one, always watching out for everyone. Bucky’s the charmer, always grinning through the chaos. And you—you’re the one trying not to think about how the table feels emptier every time one of them leaves.

“You hear about that new Stark show next month?” Steve asks, leaning his elbow against the table. “Supposed to be even bigger than the last one.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, swallowing the last bite of your pancake. “They’re doing some big fireworks display, I think. You should come, doll.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Who else?” His voice is light, teasing, but his gaze lingers. There’s something behind it—something that’s been hovering there for weeks now, maybe months. You don’t let yourself name it.

“Maybe,” you say, pretending to think it over. “If you ask nicely.”

Steve hides a smirk behind his mug. “Careful, Buck. Sounds like she wants you to grovel.”

“I can manage that,” Bucky says, leaning forward, his smile all mock sincerity. “Please, sweetheart, grace me with your presence at the Stark Expo.”

You try to roll your eyes again, but the way he says sweetheart knocks the air out of you just a little. You tell yourself it’s the coffee—too hot, too strong. “You’re impossible,” you say.

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, “but he’s charming, and he knows it.”

That makes Bucky grin wider. “Exactly. I’m a catch.”

You want to laugh, but instead you find yourself studying him—the crease of his smile, the faint scar above his brow, the way his hair keeps falling into his eyes. He looks older than he did last year, the war having carved faint shadows beneath the jokes. It’s subtle, but you see it—the flicker of something unspoken that sits behind the bravado.

When he catches you looking, he smirks. “What? I got syrup on my face or something?”

“No,” you say quickly, heat creeping into your cheeks. “You just—never mind.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Just what?”

“Just... look like you’ve been through a lot lately,” you finish softly.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His grin falters, just slightly. Then he shrugs, eyes dropping to the chipped edge of his coffee cup. “Yeah, well. Guess we all have.”

There’s a beat of quiet. The jukebox flips to another slow tune, and you can feel the weight of the world creeping in—the draft, the headlines, the growing ache of goodbye that none of you want to talk about. Then Steve, ever the peacekeeper, breaks the silence. “You know,” he says, pushing his cup aside, “when all this is over, we’re gonna go dancing again. Like we used to. Whole gang back together.”

Bucky glances at him, a spark of his old grin returning. “You promising that, punk?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I am.”

“Then it’s a date,” Bucky says, and his eyes flick back to you when he says it.

Your stomach twists. He doesn’t mean it like that—not really—but the words settle somewhere deep anyway. “Alright, soldier,” you say, trying for levity. “But you better not step on my toes this time.”

He leans closer, that familiar mischief in his eyes. “I never do, doll. You just get nervous.”

You scoff, pretending you don’t hear the double meaning in his voice. Outside, snow begins to fall again—soft, fleeting, like the moments you’ll soon lose.

---

The Stark Expo glows like it’s been dipped in starlight. The air hums with the crackle of machinery and laughter, and somewhere in the distance, a brass band blares out a tune half-swallowed by the roar of the crowd. You can smell popcorn and oil and the faint sweetness of hot sugar in the air. Brooklyn’s never felt so alive.

You walk between Bucky and Steve, both of them looking like they’ve stepped out of two different worlds—Bucky polished and confident in his pressed uniform, Steve still small, shoulders drawn tight in his oversized coat, his eyes bright with determination. They keep pace with you through the sea of people, shoulders brushing now and then.

Bucky keeps stealing glances down at you. It’s not subtle—it never has been—but tonight, there’s something heavier in the air between you. The way the light hits him makes his hair shine like warm bronze; there’s a smear of oil on his sleeve from helping a mechanic earlier, and the sight of it, ordinary and real, does something strange to your chest.

The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, crisp and clear, “welcome to the Modern Marvels Pavilion and the World of Tomorrow! A greater world. A better world.” You tip your head back, watching the lights dance off glass and chrome. The future looks dazzling and impossible, and for a moment, you forget about the war creeping closer every day.

Bucky nudges you with his elbow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think Stark’s gonna make one of those flying cars work this time?”

“I think he’ll pretend it does,” you reply, smiling. “And half the crowd’ll believe him.”

“That’s optimism,” he teases.

“That’s experience,” you shoot back, and he laughs—that easy, golden sound that’s always been your undoing.

When Howard Stark strides onto the stage, the crowd cheers, and Bucky’s boyish excitement sparks. He’s leaning forward beside you, eyes shining, jaw slack like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time. “Holy cow,” he breathes as Stark gestures toward his levitating car.

You glance up at him—because of course he’d be more interested in the machinery than the spectacle—and for a moment, you just watch him. His expression is so open, so full of wonder, that it squeezes at something deep in your chest. The car sputters and drops with a metallic clank. Laughter ripples through the crowd. Bucky shakes his head, still grinning. “Guess it’s not ready for takeoff.”

You start to reply, but when you turn to Steve, he’s gone. “Steve?” you call, rising on your toes to scan the crowd.

Bucky curses softly. “Of course he—” He sighs, eyes already darting toward the nearest exit. “I’ll bet he went to the enlistment tent.”

You look at him. “Again?”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustration simmering under his calm. “He’s nothing if not stubborn.”

“Sounds familiar,” you murmur.

That earns you a look—half amused, half warning—and then he’s threading his way through the crowd, motioning for you to follow. You find Steve exactly where you expected—standing in line for enlistment, jaw set, chin high, ready to argue his way into a war he has no business fighting. Bucky reaches him first, the argument spilling out just like it always does, Steve insisting, Bucky trying to talk him down, the air between them thick with worry and loyalty and love.

You hang back a little, watching the two of them. You’ve seen this scene play out before—Steve’s fire meeting Bucky’s steadiness. You know how it ends, Bucky hugs him, the two trade barbs about stupidity and bravery, and Steve stays behind while Bucky walks toward the future with a rifle on his shoulder.

Except this time, you’re part of it.

When Bucky pulls away from Steve, you’re standing just beyond the gate, arms wrapped tight around yourself, trying not to think about how little time there is left. He spots you and the teasing grin he wore a second ago softens into something almost shy. “Hey,” he says, stepping closer. “Sorry about that. He’ll be alright.”

You nod, though the words feel stuck in your throat. “He always is.”

You fall into step beside him as the crowd begins to thin, the noise of the fair fading behind you. The night air is cool and damp, the city skyline a jagged cut of shadow against the sky. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s familiar, like a melody you’ve both known for years. Then Bucky breaks it. “You know,” he says quietly, “I thought about asking you to dance back there.”

You glance at him. “Why didn’t you?”

He kicks at a loose bit of gravel, shrugs. “Didn’t want to make a fool of myself before I ship out. Gotta let you remember me as dashing and graceful.”

You laugh, soft and a little sad. “Oh, I think that reputation’s already in pieces.”

He grins, the sound of your laughter tugging one from him in return. “Guess so.”

The two of you reach the corner where you’ll part ways—your apartment’s only a few blocks down, his barracks in the opposite direction. You stop under a flickering streetlamp, its glow painting the edges of his face gold. He shifts, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and suddenly the air between you changes. The world narrows to just the sound of the wind, the buzz of the light, and the pounding in your chest. “You’ll write?” you ask, your voice small.

He nods. “You bet I will. And when I come back, you and me—we’re going dancing. For real this time.”

You smile, though your eyes sting. “You’d better keep that promise.”

He steps a little closer—close enough that you can see the pulse in his throat, the faint line of worry between his brows. “I always do.” For a second, neither of you move. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t quite dare. The silence stretches, thick with everything you’ve never said. Then he exhales, low and rough. “You know, doll… if things were different—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, even though part of you needs to hear it.

He swallows hard, searching your face. His voice drops to a rasp. “I just—I don’t wanna go off thinkin’ you don’t know how much you mean to me.”

Your heart stutters. “I know, Buck.”

But that’s the lie you both settle for.

He leans in just enough that his breath brushes your cheek. You can smell the faint traces of smoke and coffee on him, familiar and grounding. For one suspended heartbeat, you think he’s going to kiss you. But then he steps back. “I’ll see you when I get back,” he says, his smile small, almost fragile.

You manage a nod, even as your throat closes. Your hand grips his arm for just a second before letting go. “Be careful.”

He salutes you with two fingers, that old playful gesture that’s always been yours, and then he turns away, his figure swallowed by the night.

You stand there under the streetlamp long after he’s gone, the world around you humming with the distant echo of laughter and music, the ghost of what might have been lingering like the last note of a song that never quite finished.

---

The stench of iron and smoke clings to the air. The sound of metal striking metal echoes through the cavernous facility—steady, relentless, like a heartbeat that refuses to die. Bucky’s palms are raw. The skin at the base of his fingers is split and burned from gripping tools that sear hotter than they should.

He’s been here long enough that time doesn’t make sense anymore. Days and nights blur together under the artificial light. There’s no sky, no wind—just the crackle of electricity and the cold bark of orders in German. The name Hydra carries through the hallways like a curse.

“Keep your head down,” Dugan mutters from beside him, his voice low, roughened by exhaustion. “Don’t give ‘em a reason.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s too busy forcing his hands to keep working—tightening bolts, fitting metal plates, assembling pieces of a machine he doesn’t want to understand. He knows it’s a weapon. Everything here is.

He’s lost count of the days since they were captured. The tank had come out of nowhere, cutting down their unit, and then there was the flash, the fire, and the smell of burning oil. They’d run, ducked behind the wreckage, but the ground had shaken beneath their feet. And then—capture. The moment his wrists were bound in cold metal cuffs, he’d known that whatever this place was, it was worse than death.

Now, he works. Because working means living a little longer.

There’s a guard—Lohmer—who seems to have made it his personal mission to break him. The man’s boots are always somewhere nearby, pacing, stopping, waiting for a mistake. The first time Bucky faltered, Lohmer’s fist drove into his ribs hard enough to make him choke. The second time, it was a rifle butt to the jaw.

Tonight, the bruises have gone purple, deepening like shadows.

When the shift ends, they’re herded into a cramped barracks room with cracked concrete floors and rows of cots that smell of sweat and rust. The guards shove the last of them through the door and lock it behind them. The clang of the bolt echoes.

Bucky sits, breath ragged. He stares down at his hands, still trembling from the cold and the strain. Across from him, Jacques murmurs something in French that he doesn’t catch. Falsworth coughs into his sleeve.

“You alright, Sergeant?” Dugan asks, voice quiet.

“Yeah,” Bucky says automatically. “Peachy.”

He’s not. He hasn’t been for weeks.

When the others drift into uneasy sleep, he stays awake. There’s a small window high up on the wall—just a slit of glass—and through it he can see a sliver of sky, faint and pale. He stares at it until his eyes burn.

That’s when he thinks of you.

The memory of the Stark Expo hits him hard, sudden and vivid. The lights, the music, the way your laugh had rung out above the noise. You, standing under the streetlamp, looking at him like maybe you saw something worth waiting for. He can still see the way your breath had fogged in the cold air, the way his fingers had twitched with the urge to touch your face.

He should’ve kissed you.

God, he should’ve kissed you.

He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, jaw tightening. The air smells of sweat and rust, but in his mind, he can still smell the faint sweetness of your perfume—that soft, lilac scent that clung to his uniform after you parted ways. He remembers the weight of your hand on his arm, the tremor in your voice when you told him to be careful.

He’d laughed. Told you not to worry. Told you he always kept his promises. Now he’s not sure if he’ll ever see you again.

He thinks about how you’d smiled that night, the corners of your mouth trembling just a little. He wonders if you’ve been reading the papers, if you know where the 107th was sent, if you flinch every time another list of casualties gets printed. He imagines you sitting by the radio, he imagines you crying. And it guts him.

Somewhere down the hall, a guard shouts. A man screams—short, sharp, cut off too soon. Bucky stiffens, every muscle coiled tight. He knows that sound. He’s heard it too many times. A moment later, the door to their barracks bangs open. Lohmer strides in, baton swinging against his thigh. His smile is all teeth. “Barnes,” he says, pointing. “You. Up.”

Bucky rises slowly, every bone in his body protesting. Dugan starts to say something, but one look from Bucky silences him. He’s learned there’s no point in fighting unless you can win—and tonight, he can’t. Lohmer drags him into the corridor, past other cells, past the smell of ozone and blood. When they stop, it’s in front of a steel table lined with restraints.

Zola stands on the other side, adjusting his glasses, his face unreadable. “The Sergeant has shown… resilience,” he says mildly. “Let’s see what makes him special.”

Bucky’s breath catches. “I’m not—”

Lohmer hits him before he can finish. When the pain comes, it’s all-consuming—white-hot, blinding, tearing through his veins like fire. He tries to hold onto something, anything, but his mind scrambles for an anchor and finds only you.

He sees you in the crowd at the Expo, face glowing in the electric light. He hears your voice—soft, teasing, alive. He remembers the way you’d said his name, how it had sounded like a promise.

If he lives through this, he swears, he’ll tell you. He’ll find you. He’ll ruin whatever’s left of that friendship if it means feeling your hands on his face just once. Then the pain swells until he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t remember anything except your smile as the world fades to white.

---

The rain comes down hard over London, steady and cold, washing the last of the Austrian mud from the tanks that line the courtyard. The SSR base is alive again—shouting soldiers, whirring engines, the metallic clang of repairs echoing through the night. For the first time in months, there’s warmth. Food. Beds. Music crackling faintly from a radio in some nearby tent.

Bucky sits on the edge of his cot, staring down at his hands. They still shake, sometimes. Not from cold—not anymore. From something else. The serum that Hydra forced into his veins still burns beneath his skin, a restless thrum he can’t quite quiet. The medics said it was a miracle he survived. They don’t know the half of it.

He’s alive. But it doesn’t feel like it.

He runs his thumb along the edge of his dog tag, tracing the worn letters. Barnes, James Buchanan. He’d stared at it every night since Steve pulled him out of that facility, just to remind himself that he was still him. That he hadn’t been erased and rebuilt into something else.

Outside the tent, he hears laughter—Dugan’s booming voice, Steve’s steadier one, Peggy’s dry humor cutting through the rain. It’s comforting and sharp all at once. They’re celebrating a victory, the kind of moment that should feel like redemption. But all Bucky feels is distance.

He hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time since Austria. Every time he closes his eyes, he’s back there—the flicker of the lab lights, Zola’s voice, the metal biting into his wrists. And always, always, your face, like a ghost that won’t leave him alone.

He remembers how you looked the night he shipped out—the streetlight catching on your skin, the tremor in your smile. He remembers the promise he didn’t make. The kiss he didn’t take. He’d thought about you every day since.

When the war ended in the papers, you were supposed to be the reason to come home. But now, home feels like a foreign word. He hears footsteps crunch outside and doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. Steve’s gait hasn’t changed—measured, steady, and too big for the narrow tent aisles. “You look like hell,” Steve says lightly, brushing rain from his jacket as he steps inside.

Bucky huffs a laugh. “You’re one to talk, punk.”

“Fair,” Steve admits. “Peggy says we’re supposed to be wheels up for London command in an hour. You ready?”

Bucky shrugs. “As I’ll ever be.”

Steve’s quiet for a beat, watching him. “You been sleeping?”

“Define sleeping,” Bucky mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Steve doesn’t push, just nods. That’s the thing about him—he never pries, but he always knows. “We’ll be home soon,” he says. “Brooklyn, maybe. You can see her again.”

Bucky’s stomach tightens. Her. You. The word itself feels like a wound. “Yeah,” he says softly. “If she even remembers me.”

“She will,” Steve says, firm but gentle. “You’re hard to forget, Buck.”

He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking—that the man who left Brooklyn isn’t the one who’ll be coming back. That you deserve better than someone who can’t close his eyes without hearing screaming.

When they reach London, the city is gray and alive, a strange mix of celebration and mourning. The SSR sets up in a refurbished government building near Piccadilly. There are briefings, missions, late nights in smoky war rooms. But there’s also laughter again. Steve’s grin. Peggy’s dry wit. The sound of rain on the windows.

And every night, when the noise fades, there’s you.

He catches himself imagining it—walking through your neighborhood again, knocking on your door, seeing your face when you realize he made it home. He imagines you laughing, hugging him, maybe calling him “idiot” for scaring you half to death. He imagines you still wearing your hair the same way, still smelling like lilacs. He imagines kissing you this time—no almosts, no stopping himself.

But every time he lets the thought take shape, something else follows, the look on your face when you see what’s left of him. The scar at his temple. The thinness from weeks of starvation. The tremor in his hands when he tries to button his uniform.

What if you flinch? What if you smile, but it’s pity? What if you’ve moved on?

He thinks about writing—just a letter, something to tell you he’s alive. But every time he picks up a pen, he can’t find the words. What do you write to the person who used to feel like home when you don’t know if you’re still the man she’s waiting for?

So he doesn’t.

He fights, he follows orders, he cracks jokes with the others when he can. But when night falls, when the rain starts again, he lies awake staring at the ceiling and whispers your name into the dark like a prayer he doesn’t deserve to have answered.

It’s nearly dawn when Steve finds him again, sitting alone on the edge of a cot, cigarette burning low between his fingers. “Couldn’t sleep?” Steve asks. Bucky shakes his head. Steve hesitates, then says quietly, “you know… when we get back home, she’s gonna be real glad to see you.”

Bucky doesn’t look at him. The smoke curls between them, soft and ghostlike. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I just hope I don’t scare her off first.”

Steve frowns, but before he can answer, the radio crackles with new orders, and the moment passes like everything else in war—half-lived, half-lost.

---

The train screeches into the station under a bright, brittle Brooklyn sun. The platform is overflowing—mothers, wives, siblings, children—all craning their necks for a glimpse of someone they prayed would come home. Flags wave, whistles blow, and through the chaos, the air thrums with a kind of happiness that feels almost unreal.

You stand near the edge of the platform, hands twisting in the fabric of your coat. You’ve been here since dawn, unable to sit still, unable to breathe properly since the radio announced that the 107th—the Howling Commandos—were finally returning home.

You’d heard the stories, of course. Whispers in the papers. The rescue at the Hydra base. The new Captain America leading impossible missions. It sounded like something out of a comic book—Steve, the sickly boy from Brooklyn, a hero now. And Bucky…

Bucky, who’d been captured. Tortured. Presumed dead.

The first time you saw his name in the paper, you’d gone still, coffee spilling down your wrist, the world narrowing to a single line of print. Then came the silence. No letters, no news. You’d mourned him quietly, privately—because no one had told you to stop hoping.

And now—now he’s on that train. Alive.

You spot them before anyone else does—the tall figure in the blue uniform, unmistakably Steve, waving off the applause, and beside him, a man in an olive coat, his cap pulled low. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks. He looks older, thinner, his face marked by shadows you don’t recognize. But then he lifts his head, and you see it—the same crooked smile, the same soft blue eyes.

Your heart breaks and heals in the same instant. “Bucky!”

You don’t remember moving. One second you’re frozen, the next you’re running—pushing past the crowd, calling his name again, louder this time. He looks up, startled, and when he sees you, something inside him cracks open.

He steps off the train just as you reach him, and before he can say a word, you throw your arms around him. It’s not graceful. You hit his chest hard enough that it knocks the air out of both of you, but his arms come around you immediately, strong and sure, holding you like you’re something he’s dreamed of and never expected to touch again.

“Jesus, doll,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “You’re really here.”

You laugh through the tears you didn’t realize were falling. “You’re—you’re alive.”

He chuckles softly, the sound trembling. “Guess I am.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still fisted in his coat. There are scars at his temple now, faint lines etched around his mouth that weren’t there before. He looks like a man who’s seen too much and survived it anyway. “You look—” you start, then falter.

“Terrible?” he offers with a wry grin.

“Different,” you whisper. “Older.”

His gaze softens. “So do you.”

Behind you, Steve clears his throat, smiling that earnest, boyish smile that doesn’t quite match his broad new shoulders. “You gonna share, Buck, or is this a private reunion?”

You laugh again, turning to hug him next, and Steve wraps you up like the brother you never had. “You did it,” you say against his shoulder. “Both of you. You came home.”

“Told you we would,” he says. “Didn’t I?”

“You said a lot of things,” you tease weakly, pulling back to look between them. “Not all of them true.”

Bucky chuckles. “She’s got you there, pal.”

The three of you stand there for a while, letting the noise of the station swell and fade around you. For a few blessed minutes, it’s almost like before—three kids from Brooklyn again, laughing about nothing, forgetting the rest of the world exists.

When you finally leave the platform, Bucky keeps close. He walks beside you and Steve through the busy streets, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, smiling politely at the strangers who nod or wave. But every now and then, you catch him looking at you—quick, quiet glances that hit like a pulse beneath the skin.

It’s like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

You lead them to the corner diner, the same one you used to haunt before the war. It’s changed a little—new paint, new jukebox—but the smell of coffee and bacon grease is the same. The waitress recognizes Steve immediately, gushes about the newspapers, and sets you up in your old booth by the window.

When the coffee arrives, Bucky’s hand lingers on the cup for a long time before he drinks, as if relearning the taste of ordinary life.

“So,” you say, trying to fill the silence. “What happens now? You two back for good?”

Steve nods. “That’s the plan. The SSR’s wrapping things up here in the States. They’ll probably find something else for us to do, but—”

“Home’s home,” Bucky finishes for him, voice low.

You smile. “Good. I missed this.”

Steve grins, leaning back. “What, me and Buck bickering over pancakes?”

“Among other things.”

For a moment, it really does feel like nothing’s changed. You catch Bucky’s eye over the rim of your cup and he smiles—small, private. You feel warmth bloom in your chest, unfamiliar and dangerous. Then the bell above the diner door rings. You glance up, and the world shifts again.

Andrew steps inside—tall, clean-cut, still in his office clothes. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles. The engagement ring on your finger feels suddenly, painfully heavy. “There you are,” he says, crossing the diner. “I stopped by your place—they said you’d come down here. I thought I’d find you with—” He stops mid-sentence when he sees the men at your booth. Recognition flickers in his eyes. “Captain Rogers,” he says, extending a hand. “An honor.”

Steve stands, polite as ever, shaking it firmly. “Just Steve, please.”

Then Andrew turns to Bucky. “And you must be Sergeant Barnes. She’s told me about you.”

Bucky rises slowly, every trace of warmth gone from his face. He takes Andrew’s hand, grip measured, voice smooth. “All good things, I hope.”

“Of course,” Andrew says with a tight smile.

You can feel the tension rolling between them—two different kinds of manhood colliding. Bucky’s eyes flick to your ring before he looks away, and something in your chest twists painfully.

Andrew drapes an arm around your shoulders, casual and proprietary, and presses a kiss to your temple. “We should get going,” he says softly. “Dinner at my parents’ tonight.”

You nod, but your throat feels tight. You turn back to the table. “I’ll see you both soon, alright?”

Steve smiles, warm and oblivious. “You better.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just gives a small nod, eyes unreadable.

When you step outside, the air feels colder. Andrew’s talking—something about promotions, a friend’s engagement party—but his voice fades into a blur. You glance back through the diner window. Bucky’s still watching you. For a heartbeat, you meet his eyes—the same blue that once promised laughter and mischief and safety. Now they’re tired, sad, full of things you’ll never be able to say.

Then Steve says something, Bucky looks away, and the moment breaks.

You turn, forcing a smile for the man at your side, and walk away—the ring cold on your finger, the ache in your chest sharp and familiar. Behind you, in the glow of the diner window, Bucky’s still there, his coffee untouched, and tells himself he’s happy just to see you again.

---

The weeks that follow are an echo of a life you all once knew—familiar rhythms layered over a city trying to remember how to breathe again. The war is over, but Brooklyn still hums like it’s waiting for the next siren. Windows are patched with new glass, ration posters fade on the walls, and people fill the streets again with laughter that still sounds uncertain.

For the three of you—you, Steve, and Bucky—it’s as if the world has been rewound, though the edges don’t quite line up anymore. The diner booth is still yours, the coffee’s still weak, the jukebox still sputters out old love songs. But Bucky doesn’t joke as much now, and Steve sits taller, his shoulders too broad for the space. You try to ignore the differences—or maybe you just pretend not to notice them.

It starts small. You thread your arm through Bucky’s as you always did when you walk down 39th. He still lets you, though now his body goes a little stiff at first, then softens as if he remembers he’s supposed to. Sometimes you’ll reach for him without thinking—to tug him across a street or to steady him when he’s distracted—and the jolt that runs through him is subtle but real.

He hides it well. He always did.

What gets him most isn’t how you’ve changed, but how you haven’t. You still hum under your breath when you’re nervous. Still tap your nails against your cup while you talk. You laugh easily, throw your head back the same way you did when he’d tease you before the war. You still look at him with that same open warmth that once made him feel like the luckiest man alive, and now it just makes him ache.

He doesn’t know how to fit himself into this version of Brooklyn—this version of you.

You’re engaged now. He reminds himself of it every time he sees the ring on your hand. Sometimes it catches the light and glitters against your coffee cup, a tiny cruel flash that digs under his ribs. Andrew is polite enough, decent enough, the sort of man who never raises his voice and always says please and thank you. He brings you flowers, takes you to dinner, shakes Bucky’s hand and calls him “pal.” Bucky shakes back, every muscle in his jaw tight.

He tries to be happy for you—really tries. You deserve safety, something whole. Not a man who wakes up drenched in sweat, fists clenched around ghosts. He tells himself that every time he sees you laughing at something Andrew says. It doesn’t make it hurt less.

There’s a night in late August when the three of you go out for drinks, the kind of night that used to belong to another lifetime—before uniforms, before blood and cold and loss. The bar’s crowded, cigarette smoke curling in the air, the jazz band so loud you have to lean close to be heard.

Steve’s grinning, shouting over the music about some newspaper interview he’s been roped into, Peggy’s name slipping into the conversation now and then, unguarded. You tease him mercilessly, and he blushes red as ever.

Bucky watches, smiling, sipping his whiskey too slowly. When you lean against him to whisper something—a joke, a memory—your hand finds his arm like it used to, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. It’s innocent. It always is. You don’t see the way he freezes for a half-second, the way his breath catches before he forces a smirk in return. “You always were the funny one,” he says softly, almost lost beneath the brass.

“Only because you two were hopeless,” you tease back, and he grins—that old, dangerous grin that used to get him out of trouble and into more of it.

The moment stretches a little too long. Then Steve says something that makes you laugh again, and Bucky looks away. Later, when you all spill out into the street, the night air cool and damp against your skin, you loop your arm through his again without thinking. “Will you walk me home?” you ask, same as you always did.

He wants to say no. He wants to say he shouldn’t. But he just nods. “’Course.”

Steve peels off in the other direction, calling something about meeting tomorrow, and then it’s just the two of you.

You walk in silence for a while, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, your hand light on his arm. The city hums around you—car horns, laughter, music drifting from open windows. Everything feels the same, except it isn’t. “You seem quiet tonight,” you say finally, glancing up at him.

He shrugs. “Guess I’m still getting used to being back. Feels strange.”

“I can imagine.” You hesitate, then smile. “But it’s good. Having you home. I missed this.”

He swallows. “Yeah. Me too.”

You stop at a crosswalk, the streetlight painting your face in amber and shadow. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe. You’re looking up at him like you used to—the same soft tilt of your head, the same easy trust in your eyes.

And then he sees the ring glint again and feels the ground tilt beneath him. He forces a smile. “Your fiancé treating you right?”

You blink, surprised by the question. “Of course. Why?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No reason. Just—you deserve good things, is all.”

You smile faintly, a little shy. “He’s kind. Steady. My family likes him.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sounds perfect.”

He means it to sound light, teasing even, but it lands heavier than either of you expect. You both fall silent. The only sound is the rumble of an approaching trolley and the faint hum of music from somewhere down the block.

When you reach your door, you turn to face him, still holding onto his arm. “You’ll come by again soon, won’t you? For dinner maybe? Andrew’s been wanting to cook for everyone.”

He almost laughs. Andrew’s cooking? The thought alone feels wrong—some man he doesn’t know standing where he used to, in your kitchen, touching the things that used to belong to the three of you. But he just nods. “Sure, doll. Whatever you want.”

You smile, squeeze his arm, and then, as if you don’t know what you’re doing to him, you step close and kiss his cheek. “Goodnight, Buck.”

His breath catches. It’s so quick, so ordinary, but it burns straight through him. He watches you disappear behind the door, the soft click of the latch echoing louder than it should. He stands there for a long time afterward, hands in his pockets, staring at the space you left behind.

When he finally turns away, the night feels colder. He tells himself that this is fine. That this—your friendship, your laughter, the arm he’s still sure he can feel linked through his—is enough.

But as he walks back down the quiet street, he knows it isn’t. Not anymore.

---

There’s another night in September, one of those in-between evenings when summer hasn’t quite let go. You, Steve, and Bucky are back at the diner—your diner—sharing a plate of fries while the jukebox hums some slow swing tune. The booths are full, the air smells like coffee and salt, and for a while, it almost feels like before.

You’ve kicked off your heels under the table, your feet brushing Bucky’s every now and then. You don’t even notice, but he does. Every time.

Steve’s talking about some meeting with the SSR, something about military reorganization and “civilian roles.” You’re listening with a faint smile, chin propped on your hand, your other hand absently tugging at the sleeve of Bucky’s jacket, straightening it like you always did when he wore his old coat crooked.

He watches your fingers instead of listening. The sight of your hand on his arm—small, certain, unthinking—stirs something both grounding and unbearable in him. When you glance up and catch him staring, you give him that same teasing grin you always used to. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, voice rougher than he means. “Just… forgot how much you talk.”

You laugh, a quick, bright sound that draws a few curious looks from other tables. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You two sound exactly like you did when we were fifteen.”

“Means we haven’t aged a day,” Bucky says with a smirk, though the weight in his chest says otherwise.

You smile at that, soft and fond. Then your gaze flicks toward the window, and you sigh. “Andrew’s picking me up soon.”

Bucky’s smirk falters. “Right. Of course.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled,” you tease, nudging his shoulder.

“Just jealous the guy gets to drive that fancy car of his while I’m stuck on the trolley,” he says easily. But the joke doesn’t land the way it used to.

A silence settles—not awkward, but charged. You look like you might say something, but then the bell above the door rings, and Andrew walks in. He’s polite as always, all charm and pressed shirts, waving to Steve and offering a quick handshake to Bucky. “Evening, fellas.”

“Andrew,” Bucky says evenly. “How’s work?”

“Busy. But I can’t complain.” He smiles at you then, and the way you light up—not as bright as you used to, maybe, but still real—is enough to make Bucky’s chest ache. “Ready to go, sweetheart?” Andrew asks.

“Yeah,” you say softly, standing and slipping on your coat.

Bucky stands too out of habit, like the gentleman he used to be. “See you around, doll.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder and smile. “You will.”

When the door closes behind you, the air feels heavier. Steve looks at him, knowing but kind. “You alright, Buck?”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “Never better.”

After that, he starts seeing you less. Not because you’ve changed anything—you still invite him for coffee, for dinners, for quiet evenings where you, Steve, and Andrew talk about nothing at all. But Bucky starts finding reasons to miss them. He tells you he’s got work, or errands, or that he’s tired.

The truth is, every time he sees you with Andrew, it kills him a little. The way Andrew’s hand rests casually on your back when you walk through a door. The way you lean toward him when you laugh. The way you still look at Bucky like you’re waiting for him to say something that he never will.

He spends more time at the docks now, helping unload cargo. The physical work keeps him grounded. He doesn’t talk much to the other men—they all recognize him as the war hero from the papers, whispering his name like it belongs to someone else. Maybe it does.

Sometimes, late at night, he takes the long way home past your street. The windows are lit warm and soft, and he can almost hear your voice drifting out through the open glass. It’s masochism, maybe, but it’s the only thing that makes him feel real.

A week later, Steve finds him on a park bench overlooking the river. “You’re torturing yourself,” Steve says, sitting beside him.

Bucky doesn’t look at him. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do.”

The water glints silver under the moonlight. Bucky flicks his cigarette into it, watching the ember vanish. “She’s happy,” he says finally. “That’s all that matters.”

Steve’s quiet for a moment. “You sure about that?” Bucky glances at him then, brow furrowed. “I see the way she looks at you, Buck,” Steve says. “The way she lights up when you’re around. You really think it’s just friendship?”

Bucky’s throat tightens. He wants to deny it. Wants to say it’s all in Steve’s head. But the truth sits heavy in his chest, undeniable. “It doesn’t matter,” he says at last. “She made her choice.”

Steve studies him, sympathy in his eyes. “Maybe. But maybe she’s waiting for you to give her a reason to make a different one.”

Bucky laughs softly, humorless. “Yeah? And what then? I ruin what’s left of the only good thing I got?”

“Maybe you fix it instead,” Steve says quietly.

They sit in silence after that, the wind carrying the smell of salt and the faint sound of distant laughter. Bucky doesn’t answer, but Steve doesn’t press.

That night, Bucky dreams of you again. Not the war, not the pain—just you. Standing under that streetlamp, same as before, smiling up at him with eyes that look like home. He wakes before you can speak, the ghost of your touch still burning on his skin.

He sits up, heart pounding, and realizes that whatever he’s been trying to bury all these months—all these years—isn’t going anywhere. The war might be over, but he’s still fighting the same battle. And this time, the only thing he’s in danger of losing is you.

---

Late autumn settles over Brooklyn like a sigh. The air has that crisp edge that smells faintly of rain and coal smoke, and the trees along the sidewalks have begun to let go of what’s left of their color. Every street corner feels familiar, but quieter—like the city itself is still learning how to live again after the war.

You’ve spent the last few weeks tucked into wedding plans, your days filled with appointment books, fabric samples, and letters from relatives who suddenly remember your existence. The apartment smells faintly of starch and lavender, and the table is perpetually buried under swatches of ivory silk and lace.

Andrew’s handwriting covers half the notes in a neat, efficient scrawl: dates, times, addresses. You fill in the margins with doodles—vines, petals, tiny hearts—absent-minded things you used to sketch when you were supposed to be paying attention to something else.

And when you’re not working on the wedding, you’re with Steve and Bucky. The three of you still orbit each other, even if the rhythm has changed. Steve helps where he can—moving furniture, offering his larger-than-life charm to shopkeepers who’d otherwise ignore you in crowded stores. Bucky tags along sometimes, quieter now, his smile a little tighter around the edges.

He doesn’t say much these days, but you still feel him—the weight of his gaze when you laugh at something Steve says, the way he steps instinctively closer when you’re walking down a busy street, like his body’s still wired to protect you even when there’s nothing left to fight. You notice, though you don’t let yourself linger on it. You can’t.

It’s one of those chilly afternoons when the three of you end up downtown, balancing boxes full of wedding supplies between you. You’re moving through the narrow aisles of a florist’s shop, the air thick with the scent of roses and damp earth. “I don’t know,” you murmur, studying the bouquet in your hands. “These seem too stiff, don’t they? I want something softer, more natural.”

Steve, ever practical, squints at the arrangement like he’s inspecting troop formations. “Looks fine to me.”

You laugh. “You said that about the last three, too.”

“Well, they all look fine,” he says, a little helplessly.

Bucky smirks faintly, leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands tucked into his pockets. “You’re askin’ the wrong audience, doll. Between the two of us, I don’t think we’ve bought flowers that weren’t apologies.”

You glance up at him, caught off guard by the flicker of humor—the first real one you’ve seen from him all day. “Is that right?”

He shrugs, but his smile lingers. “Pretty sure every girl I ever gave flowers to had just finished tellin’ me off.”

“That’s because you deserved it,” Steve mutters.

Bucky grins. “Yeah, maybe.”

The sound of your laughter fills the small shop, and for a moment, it’s like time folds back on itself—the three of you as you were before the war, teasing and bright, untouched by the years between.

But then the florist asks about delivery dates, and the spell breaks. You glance down at your notes again, biting your lip as you try to recall the schedule. Bucky watches the motion, the way your teeth catch the soft skin, and something unravels inside him.

It’s the same nervous habit you had when you were sixteen, sitting at that diner booth and worrying about school, or the future, or whatever small storm was brewing in your head. You’d always do that—chew your lip until it was raw—and he’d tease you, reaching out to nudge your chin lightly with his thumb until you stopped.

He used to know everything about you. The songs you hummed when you cooked. The way you liked your coffee. The sound you made when you were trying not to laugh. Now he stands three feet away and feels like a stranger.

Later, after you’ve settled on a bouquet and paid the deposit, the three of you step outside. The cold air hits hard, sharp with the smell of rain. You draw your coat tighter around yourself and glance up at the sky, half-expecting snow. “Thanks for coming,” you say, glancing between them. “I know this stuff isn’t exactly your idea of a good time.”

Steve smiles. “You kidding? Beats punching Nazis.”

Bucky gives a quiet snort of amusement but says nothing. He shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets and looks down the street instead. “You sure you don’t mind helping with deliveries next week?” you ask. “The caterer’s sending samples, and the venue wants us to test the layout.”

“Course not,” Bucky says, still not meeting your eyes. “Just tell me when and where.”

Something about his tone makes you pause. “You don’t have to, you know. I don’t want to take up your time.”

He glances at you then, his eyes soft, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it, doll. I got nothin’ but time.”

You try to return the smile, but it falters. There’s something behind his words you can’t quite name—a tiredness that doesn’t belong to a man his age. You want to ask him what’s wrong, but Steve’s already talking about dinner plans, and Bucky’s gaze has shifted back to the street.

That night, you’re sitting at your kitchen table, flipping through your notebook. The apartment is quiet—Andrew’s out late again, working—and you find yourself staring at your lists without reading them. The flowers, the venue, the dress… it’s all supposed to be exciting, but it feels like you’re building something in the wrong shape.

You think about Bucky—the way he’d smiled today, the way he’d looked at you when you laughed. The way he’d gone quiet again afterward. You shake the thought away, turning another page, but your pen hesitates above the paper.

You still write his name sometimes. Just his initials, tucked into corners, the way you used to when you were a teenager doodling in the margins of your homework. You tell yourself it’s habit. Nostalgia. But it feels like something more—something fragile, dangerous, and alive.

Across town, Bucky’s sitting on his narrow bed in the boarding house, the lamp beside him casting a weak yellow glow. He’s got an envelope in his lap—an invitation to your wedding, embossed and perfect, the edges faintly smudged from where you must have handled it.

He turns it over in his hands for a long time, his jaw tight. Then he sets it on the nightstand and leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. It should make him happy, seeing you getting everything you’ve ever wanted. It should feel like closure.

But instead, it feels like the world is slowly erasing him —like he’s watching the one thing that tethered him to his old life slip quietly out of reach. He closes his eyes and tells himself he’ll keep helping. He’ll keep smiling. He’ll be your friend. He’ll do all the right things.

Even if it kills him.

---

The following week arrives gray and drizzly, the kind of November day where the streets shine wet and the light never quite breaks through the clouds. The city hums quietly—horns in the distance, footsteps on slick pavement, the smell of roasted chestnuts from the corner cart.

You’ve invited Steve, Bucky, and Andrew to your apartment for a small “planning dinner.” Nothing formal—just a way to go over some details before your mother and Andrew’s parents join for the final tastings next weekend.

The dining table, usually cluttered with fabric swatches and half-burned candles, is covered now with plates and notebooks. You’ve spent the whole day rearranging, making sure everything looks right. There’s a neat little spread of sandwiches, cookies, and tea laid out, and your engagement ring glints whenever you reach for a cup.

Bucky’s the last to arrive. He hesitates on the landing before knocking, half tempted to turn back. But then he hears your voice through the door—that light, hurried tone he’s heard a thousand times—and he knocks once before he can talk himself out of it.

You open the door with a smudge of flour on your wrist. The smell of something warm and buttery drifts out from the kitchen. “Buck!” you say, smiling. “You made it.”

He grins back, awkward and genuine all at once. “Wouldn’t miss it, doll.”

You let him in, taking his coat and hanging it carefully beside Andrew’s. The apartment feels cozy—too small for four people, maybe, but bright and alive with the hum of conversation. Steve’s sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, papers spread over his knees. Andrew’s standing by the table, sleeves rolled up, carefully arranging sandwiches on a platter. “Glad you could join us,” Andrew says pleasantly, looking up. “We were just about to talk food.”

“Dangerous subject,” Bucky says, pulling out a chair. “You sure you want my opinion?”

“Only if it’s good,” Andrew jokes.

You laugh, and the tension eases for a moment. They spend the first twenty minutes talking about seating charts and table settings, Steve occasionally chiming in with comments that make you laugh and roll your eyes. Bucky mostly listens, offering a word here or there when you ask him to weigh in.

He watches the way you move, the way your fingers hover over the list as you read it aloud, how you press your lips together when you’re thinking. Every detail feels sharper than it should, like his mind’s cataloging every part of you to hold onto later.

Then Andrew says, “Oh—speaking of food, I talked to my mother today about the luncheon menu.”

You glance up, smiling. “Oh? What did she say?”

“She’d love to prepare some of the dishes herself. Thought it’d be a nice personal touch,” Andrew explains, flipping through his notes. “You know, her cucumber sandwiches, that salad she makes with the dill dressing—your favorite.”

Bucky’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t say a word, but something in his chest goes still. Your expression flickers—not enough for Andrew to notice, but Bucky sees it. A tiny hesitation. A half-second of polite confusion. Then your smile smooths back into place. “Right,” you say gently. “That’s lovely.”

Andrew beams. “I told her you’d be thrilled. She’ll start prepping this week.”

Steve nods approvingly. “Sounds fancy. I’ve never had cucumber sandwiches before.”

“Oh, they’re very refreshing,” Andrew says cheerfully. “Perfect with tea.”

“Sure they are,” Bucky mutters under his breath, his tone too quiet for anyone but you to catch.

You shoot him a look, small but sharp, as if to say don’t. He gives a slight shrug, leaning back in his chair. The rest of the conversation moves on—table linens, music, who will walk you down the aisle—but the air feels different. Bucky can’t stop hearing Andrew’s voice echoing that one word, favorite.

He remembers the real story. The diner, years ago. You’d ordered a sandwich with cucumbers and took one bite before making the most disgusted face he’d ever seen. He’d teased you for it, and you’d shoved your plate at him, muttering something about “texture” and “godawful smell.” He’d laughed until you threw a napkin at his head.

It was such a small thing—ordinary and stupid—but somehow, it feels enormous now. Because Andrew doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the girl who once snuck a stray cat into her parents’ kitchen, who carried three pairs of gloves every winter because you always lost one. He doesn’t know that you used to hum Gershwin when you cooked or that you hated thunderstorms but loved the smell of rain after.

He doesn’t know you. And Bucky realizes, with a quiet ache that steals the breath from his lungs, that he’s the only one left who does.

After dinner, Steve leaves first, promising to help you haul boxes to the venue next weekend. Andrew lingers a few minutes longer, kissing your cheek before heading home. You see him off at the door, murmuring soft goodnights, and when you turn back, Bucky’s still sitting at the table, arms folded, eyes fixed on the empty plate in front of him. “Thanks for helping tonight,” you say, voice careful. “I know it’s not the most exciting thing in the world.”

He looks up slowly, a faint, wry smile on his lips. “Exciting’s overrated.”

You roll your eyes affectionately and start gathering the dishes. He stands to help, wordlessly taking a stack from your hands. The quiet between you feels different now—heavier, but not uncomfortable. Familiar, almost. You wash, he dries. It’s easy, practiced, like slipping back into an old song you both know by heart. When the last plate’s done, you lean against the counter, exhaling. “Andrew’s mother’s really going all out. It’s sweet of her.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says lightly, though something sharp threads through his tone. “Sweet.”

You glance over at him. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothin’.”

“Bucky,” you press, arms folding. “Don’t do that. What?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Just funny, s’all. You always hated cucumbers.”

You blink. “What?”

“Cucumbers,” he says again, half-smiling. “You used to pick ’em off your sandwiches and dump ’em on my plate. Said they tasted like cold soap.”

You stare at him for a second, caught off guard. The memory is so vivid it startles you—the diner, the cheap plates, his teasing grin. “I… guess I did.”

“Guess you forgot,” he says quietly. You open your mouth to answer, but the words stick. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, too quiet. His eyes are on you, steady and sad, like he’s seeing something you’re only just starting to remember. He clears his throat, looks away, and grabs his coat. “Anyway, I should go. Long day tomorrow.”

You nod slowly. “Right. Of course.”

At the door, he pauses. “Goodnight, doll.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

When the door closes, you stand there for a long time, your back to it, the faint smell of soap and tea still clinging to the air. You don’t know why the stupid detail bothers you so much—why it leaves your chest tight and your eyes stinging. But you can’t shake it.

Because he’s right. You do hate cucumbers. And you can’t quite remember when you started pretending otherwise.

---

It starts as something small, almost imperceptible—a ripple under the surface of a life you’ve been trying to convince yourself is whole. After the night of the cucumber remark, everything feels… tilted. The moment itself had been nothing, really. A few harmless words in a quiet kitchen. But they’d cracked something open that you’d spent months keeping tightly sealed.

Now, the smallest things catch at you. Andrew’s laughter, too practiced. His kisses, always polite and brief. The way he talks about the future in tidy, well-planned sentences—his job, the house you’ll have, the way “Mrs. Reid” rolls so easily off his tongue.

You smile when he says it. You always smile. But inside, there’s this quiet voice that keeps asking, when did you stop belonging to yourself?

You start noticing how often you nod when you don’t agree. How many times you laugh even when something doesn’t strike you as funny. How you smooth over the rough edges of who you are to fit the life that’s being built around you.

It isn’t bad, you tell yourself. Andrew is a good man. Gentle, thoughtful. He works hard, treats you well, makes sure you never walk home alone. He listens when you talk—or at least, he listens enough to respond in all the right ways.

But sometimes, when he looks at you across a dinner table or from the driver’s seat of his neat little car, you get the sense that he’s seeing a version of you that isn’t real. A woman built from good manners and careful words. A woman who never picks fights, never rolls her eyes, never swears when she drops something heavy.

And every time, you think of Bucky. Of the way he’d grin when you cursed, teasing you just to see if he could make you do it again. Of how he never flinched when you disagreed with him, never made you feel smaller for it. Of how, somehow, he could read your silences better than most people could read your words.

You try not to think of it, but the thought follows you like a shadow.

You see Bucky again a week later, almost by accident. You’re on your way back from the tailor with your arms full of packages—bolts of fabric, invitations, a box of new gloves. The wind’s sharp and biting, tearing at your hat, and you’re juggling everything when a voice behind you says, “you always did try to carry the world by yourself.”

You turn, startled—and there he is. Bucky stands a few feet away, collar turned up against the cold, hair mussed by the wind. He looks better than he did last week, or maybe it’s just that he’s smiling, a little shyly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.

“Buck,” you breathe, shifting the packages. “What are you—”

“Was passin’ by,” he says easily, stepping closer. “Figured you could use a hand.” You start to protest, but one of the boxes slips, and he catches it before it hits the ground. He looks at you with that same half-smirk he’s always had—the one that makes your heart stutter for reasons you don’t want to name. “Still stubborn as ever,” he murmurs.

“Still nosy,” you shoot back automatically, though the words come out softer than you intend.

He grins, just a little, and takes the rest of the boxes from you before you can argue. “C’mon, doll. I’ll walk you home.”

The walk is quiet at first. The city hums around you—the whistle of a streetcar, the chatter from shop doors, the faint smell of roasted nuts from a vendor down the block. The two of you move in step like you used to, your gloved hand brushing against his sleeve every so often.

It feels almost normal. Almost easy. He asks about the wedding, and you tell him bits and pieces—the dress, the flowers, the venue—but even to your own ears, it sounds rehearsed, like you’re reading from someone else’s script. When you trail off, Bucky glances at you sideways. “You happy?”

The question lands like a pebble in a pond—small, but the ripples keep spreading. You blink, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”

He shrugs, eyes on the pavement. “Just seems like a thing a guy oughta ask his friend before she gets married.”

You laugh, but it doesn’t sound right. “Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?” He doesn’t answer, just nods slightly. The silence stretches between you until you add, “Andrew’s good to me. You’ve seen that.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’ve seen it.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach twist. The rest of the walk is quieter. You talk about safe things—the weather, Steve’s latest SSR gossip, a new bakery opening down the street. When you reach your building, you pause at the steps, clutching your packages tighter than necessary. “Thanks for helping,” you say.

“Anytime,” he replies.

You linger a moment longer, the wind tugging at your coat. “You should come by Sunday. We’re having dinner with Steve. Just the three of us, like old times.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, finally, “alright. Sunday.”

You smile, relieved. “Good.” When you go inside, you can feel his gaze following you up the stairs. You don’t look back.

Sunday comes, and with it, a quiet warmth you didn’t know you’d been missing. The three of you sit around your little kitchen table, laughing about nothing—the way Steve still can’t cook, the way Bucky still eats like a man starved. For a few hours, it’s as if the years between you’ve been peeled away.

You pour coffee while Bucky leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, telling a story about one of the guys from the docks. His voice is rich and low, easy with laughter. You’ve missed that sound more than you realized.

When the story ends, Steve gets up to wash dishes, leaving you and Bucky alone for a moment. You watch him quietly. The curve of his jaw. The scar by his temple. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. You shouldn’t look at him like that, but you do anyway.

He catches your gaze and holds it. Something flickers between you—familiar, dangerous. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but Steve comes back, clattering dishes, and the spell breaks. Later, after the dishes are done and the laughter’s faded, Bucky lingers at the door. You walk him down to the stoop, saying goodnight like always. The street’s quiet, washed silver by the lamplight. “You really are happy?” he asks again, voice almost lost to the wind.

You hesitate. “I’m supposed to be.”

He studies you for a long moment, then nods, as if that’s answer enough. “Take care of yourself, doll.”

He starts to turn away, but you reach out, catching his sleeve. The fabric is rough and warm under your fingers. “Bucky.” He looks back, and for a heartbeat, everything stops—the air, the sounds, even your own pulse. You want to say something. To tell him that you don’t know how to do this—how to want two different lives, how to stop pretending. But the words won’t come. So you just let go. “Goodnight.”

He hesitates, then tips his head slightly. “Goodnight.”

When he walks away, you stay there for a long time, the cold biting through your coat, your heart pounding like it’s trying to tell you something you already know. And somewhere down the street, Bucky doesn’t look back—because he’s afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to keep walking.

---

The afternoon is one of those deceptive early-winter days—bright sun, brittle cold, wind that nips at your cheeks but never quite steals the warmth from the light. The four of you—you, Andrew, his mother, and Steve—have spent the better part of the day at the reception hall, finalizing decorations and seating arrangements. Bucky had tagged along under the excuse of “lifting heavy things,” but truthfully, he just couldn’t stay away.

The hall itself is beautiful in that sterile, echoing way—pale walls, high ceilings, windows that catch every bit of sunlight and spill it onto the polished floors. There are samples of floral arrangements along one wall, stacks of folded linens, a small buffet table with coffee and pastries that have long gone cold.

You’ve been moving nonstop for an hour—bending, rearranging, lifting centerpieces, trying to visualize how it’ll all come together. You’re tired, your hands ache, and the hem of your skirt keeps catching on your heels.

Bucky watches from the side, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed. Steve’s beside him, dutifully holding a roll of seating charts while Andrew and his mother discuss silverware with the event planner. “Careful, sweetheart,” Andrew calls as you lean over to move a stack of chairs. “You don’t have to do that yourself.”

You smile, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “I’m fine. Just making sure the space works.” It’s right about then that your purse slips off the chair where you’d set it—and the entire contents scatter dramatically across the floor. Lipstick, coins, a small notebook, a handful of folded receipts. You let out a startled sound, bend to grab it—and promptly hit your knee on the edge of the table. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that the word slips out before you can stop it. “Goddammit.”

The sound echoes, far too loud in the open space. For a second, the entire room freezes. Andrew’s head snaps up from where he’s been talking with his mother. She blinks, the faintest twitch of disapproval crossing her expression—not much, just the tightening around her mouth, a small flicker of polite discomfort that might have gone unnoticed if Bucky hadn’t been watching her.

Steve looks like he’s about to laugh, then catches himself. Bucky turns away, biting down on the grin that’s already threatening to break loose.

You flush hot, half from embarrassment, half from frustration. “I—sorry. Table jumped out at me.”

Andrew recovers quickly, his voice smooth, reassuring. “It’s alright, darling. Maybe watch where you’re stepping next time.”

You nod, forcing a small laugh, and crouch to gather your things. You can feel your face burning. Bucky moves forward before you can stop him, crouching beside you. “Here,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it. His gloved hand brushes yours briefly as he hands you your lipstick. “You kiss your fiancé with that mouth?”

You shoot him a look, half scandalized, half amused despite yourself. “Don’t start.”

He smirks. “Couldn’t help it. Been too long since I heard you swear.”

“Should I be flattered that you missed it?”

He shrugs, sliding a coin toward you with one finger. “Maybe I just missed you.”

The words hang in the air a moment too long. You swallow, eyes flicking to his, but before you can respond, Andrew’s voice cuts across the room, “everything alright?”

You stand quickly, clutching your things to your chest. “Yes. All fine.” Bucky rises slower, expression carefully neutral, though you catch the flicker of amusement still dancing in his eyes.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of polite conversation and half-hearted planning. Andrew’s mother offers notes on napkin folds, Steve provides the occasional grunt of agreement, and you smile so much your cheeks hurt.

But you feel Bucky’s gaze every time you speak. Every time you laugh too softly or fidget with your gloves. When you finally leave the venue, the daylight’s already fading into that soft gold that makes everything look warmer than it is. Steve walks ahead with Andrew and his mother, deep in conversation, while you and Bucky lag behind, the cold air frosting your breath. He glances sideways at you. “You okay?”

You exhale a laugh. “Just humiliated myself in front of my future mother-in-law. Totally fine.”

“She’s gonna live,” he says with a grin. “Hell, I think it was worth it just to see her face.”

You groan. “She looked like I’d cursed out a priest.”

“She kinda did,” he teases. “Never thought I’d say this, but I missed hearin’ you swear.”

You glance at him, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe. But you used to call me worse than that.”

You roll your eyes. “When you deserved it.”

He laughs, genuine this time—the sound so warm and familiar it hits something deep inside you. “You got a mouth on you when you’re mad, sweetheart. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I was sixteen,” you protest, shoving your hands in your coat pockets. “Everyone had a mouth at sixteen.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, looking ahead. “But you had fire.” That quiet tone—low, almost reverent—steals the humor right out of the air. You look up at him, but he’s not smiling anymore. His eyes are distant, thoughtful. You walk the rest of the way in silence. Not uncomfortable, just… heavy. The kind of silence that carries too many words neither of you can afford to say.

When you reach the corner where you’ll part ways, you stop. “You’re walking the wrong direction again.”

He smirks faintly. “Never said I was goin’ anywhere in particular.”

You hesitate. “You didn’t have to come today, you know. I know it’s not exactly your kind of thing.”

“I didn’t mind,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you lie automatically.

He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head slightly. “You’re allowed to be more than ‘fine,’ you know.” You open your mouth, but no answer comes. He gives you a small, tired smile. “See you soon, doll.” You watch him walk away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his figure fading into the crowd until he’s gone.

That night, Andrew calls—his voice smooth, polite, talking about dinner with his parents and the guest list. You listen, answering when you need to, but your mind drifts elsewhere. You think of the way Bucky had knelt beside you without hesitation. The quiet teasing. The memory of your younger selves flashing between you for one breathless second. You think of how Andrew had said, “watch where you’re stepping,” and how it had sounded less like concern and more like correction.

You hang up the phone with a headache and a hollow ache in your chest. When you turn off the light, you whisper into the dark—a soft, frustrated word that you’d never say out loud. Bucky would have laughed. And for the first time in a long while, you do too—quietly, bitterly, but real.

---

The night of the dance comes almost by accident—one of those things Steve insists on, claiming it’ll “do everyone good to get out.” He’s been helping with a fundraiser for returning veterans, something organized at a converted ballroom downtown. There’ll be live music, dancing, food, and a chance, he says, to feel normal again.

You’d refused at first. Between fittings, dinner invitations, and endless lists from your mother and Andrew’s family, your days already feel like borrowed time. But Steve is relentless—and Bucky, of course, is going. So you give in.

The evening is cold enough that your breath ghosts in the air as you step from the cab. The building glows warm through tall windows, laughter spilling onto the street in bursts as couples sweep in through the doors. Music drifts faintly out—brass and strings, something upbeat and elegant.

You smooth your gloves, nerves prickling under your skin. Andrew couldn’t come; a late dinner with a client, he said, promising to make it up to you over the weekend. He’d kissed your cheek on the way out the door, already thinking about something else.

Now, standing under the soft halo of the marquee lights, you almost turn back—until you hear a familiar voice. “Hey, doll.” Bucky’s leaning against the doorframe, coat open, tie slightly undone. He’s smiling—that lazy, easy grin that used to make your stomach do strange things when you were younger.

You exhale. “You look—”

“Don’t say it,” he warns playfully. “I already know.”

You grin despite yourself. “You were going to say it anyway.”

“Maybe,” he admits, pushing off the wall. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

It’s simple, unembellished, and it lands harder than it should. You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “Thank you.”

He offers his arm with a flourish. “Shall we?” You take it before you can think better of it. The hall inside is alive—bright lights glinting off polished floors, the air full of warmth and perfume and brass. A small band plays near the stage, their instruments gleaming under the glow. Couples swirl across the floor, the sound of laughter weaving with the rhythm of the music.

Steve finds you both near the entrance, already grinning, already holding two glasses of champagne. “You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say, smiling.

Bucky raises a brow at the glasses. “Since when do you drink the fancy stuff?”

Steve shrugs. “Figured I’d start celebrating before anyone gets sentimental.”

“You’re the sentimental one,” Bucky teases. “You cried when you saw that puppy in the paper last week.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You two haven’t changed a bit.”

For the first hour, everything feels easy. You sit together at a table near the floor, watching dancers spin, the band switching between swing and slower numbers. Steve gets dragged onto the dance floor by a brunette in a red dress, who you’re pretty sure is Peggy, leaving you and Bucky to nurse drinks and trade quiet jokes.

But as the night wears on, something shifts. The music slows. The lights dim slightly, turning everything gold and soft. Couples begin to drift together, the chatter thinning into quiet laughter. You’re fiddling with your glass when Bucky stands. “Come on.”

You blink up at him. “What?”

He nods toward the floor. “Dance with me.”

“Bucky, I don’t think—”

He extends his hand, palm up, eyes steady. “It’s just a dance.”

Your heart stutters, but you take it. His hand is warm around yours, solid. The other settles lightly at your waist as he guides you into the rhythm. It’s slow, easy—the kind of song that sways more than moves, leaving space for breath between every step.

You haven’t danced together since before the war. Back then, it had been all laughter and clumsy steps—your heels on his boots, his grin bright enough to fill the room. This feels different. Older. Heavier. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as you try to keep your eyes anywhere else. “So,” he says quietly, his voice just audible over the band. “Big day’s coming soon.”

You nod. “Two months.”

“You nervous?”

You laugh softly, though it sounds a little hollow. “Should I be?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking down to yours. “Guess that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re happy.”

You swallow. “You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”

“Maybe,” he says, smiling faintly. “But you still haven’t given me an answer.”

You look away, focusing on a couple nearby, the woman’s patterned dress catching the light as she spins. “It’s not that simple, Bucky.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

The music slows further, the last few bars stretching out. His thumb traces an idle circle at your waist—so small you almost think you imagined it. You glance up at him. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I’ve spent half my life lookin’ out for you, and the other half trying not to.”

Your breath catches. “Bucky—”

He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can say more. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna ruin your night.” The song ends, but neither of you move right away. You’re still caught in the slow sway of it, the warmth of his hand, the nearness of him. Finally, he steps back, the loss of his touch like stepping into cold air. “Thanks for the dance, doll.”

You nod, voice soft. “Anytime.”

He smiles—that quiet, sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—and turns away before you can say more. You stand there, trying to steady your breathing, watching him move toward the bar. The crowd shifts around you, but everything feels strangely far away—the music, the laughter, the shimmering gold of the lights.

When Steve returns, flushed and grinning, you force yourself to smile. You make small talk, you drink another glass of champagne, you laugh in all the right places.

But every time you glance across the room, Bucky’s already looking at you. And when the band starts another song—something slow and aching—you can feel the pulse of it in your bones, the echo of his hand still at your waist. You know, with sudden terrible clarity, that the world you’ve built is about to crack.

The cold hits like a slap when you step outside the ballroom, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the swell of brass and laughter. The sky is a heavy gray-black, the kind of night that promises snow. Streetlights cast soft circles on the pavement, and the air smells faintly of salt and smoke.

You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders and exhale, trying to steady yourself. Inside, the party is still going strong—laughter, footsteps, clinking glasses. You can still hear the echo of the band through the doors. The sound feels far away, like it belongs to someone else’s life.

You hadn’t meant to come out here. You just needed air. Space to breathe. You’re halfway down the steps when the door swings open behind you. “Figured I’d find you out here.” You turn. Bucky stands in the doorway, coat over one arm, his expression unreadable. His hair’s a little messy from the heat inside, his tie loose. He looks nothing like the man who’d smiled and danced with you an hour ago. He looks like someone who’s come to do something he can’t take back.

“Hey,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. “Needed a minute.”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping down beside you. “Me too.”

The silence stretches, filled with the low hum of the city and the distant sound of a passing car. You look out toward the street. “It’s getting late. I should—”

“Don’t go yet.” It comes out sharper than he means, and he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sorry. Just—just wait a minute.”

You hesitate, then nod. He steps in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. The lamplight catches the faint scar at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw. You can see the muscle in his throat move when he swallows. “You can’t marry him,” he says quietly.

The words hit like a physical thing—not shouted, not dramatic, just certain. You stare at him, the wind tugging at your shawl. “What?”

He exhales hard, almost laughing, not because it’s funny, but because he’s run out of ways to hold it in. “You heard me.”

“Bucky—”

“Don’t.” His voice cracks slightly, the word raw. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. You’ve been pretending long enough.”

You step back, shaking your head. “You don’t get to say that.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“You don’t,” you repeat, louder this time, the tremor in your voice betraying you. “You had years, Bucky. Years to say something, and you didn’t. You went off to war, and you didn’t write, you didn’t—”

“I thought I was dead!” he shouts, then lowers his voice quickly, the sound cracking in the cold air. “I thought I was dead, and when I wasn’t, I didn’t know how to come back. You think I wanted to ruin what we had?”

“You already have,” you whisper.

He laughs—quiet and bitter. “Yeah. Guess I did.” You turn away, hugging your arms around yourself, staring out at the blur of passing headlights. Your breath clouds the air, your chest tight. He steps closer, voice low again. “I’m not tryin’ to hurt you, doll. I just—” He stops, searching for the words. “Every time I see you with him, it feels like I’m watching somebody else live your life. And I can’t keep doin’ it.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do.”

He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his hand drop. “You think I don’t see it? The way you look when you’re with him—polite, careful. Like you’re walkin’ on glass. You used to laugh with your whole body, you know that? You’d throw your head back and snort like it was the funniest thing you ever heard. You don’t laugh like that anymore.”

You blink, and your vision goes blurry. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.”

You shake your head, half laughing, half crying. “God, you think you can just come back and tell me I’m unhappy? You think you can just say that and everything changes?”

He takes a step forward, closing the space between you. His voice drops, rough and steady. “No. I think I can tell you the truth. I love you, and I have since before I even knew what that meant.” The words hang there, suspended in the cold air, heavy enough to change the shape of the night. You stare at him, heart pounding, your mouth open but no words coming out. He laughs again, softer now, broken. “I know. I know I’m too late. But I’d rather ruin what’s left than spend another day pretendin’ I don’t still feel this way.”

You whisper, “Bucky, stop.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. Not this time.”

“Don’t do this to me.”

“I’m not doin’ anything to you,” he says quietly. “I’m tryin’ to be honest. For once.”

You step closer without realizing it, until you’re only a breath apart. The air between you feels electric, sharp, full of everything you’ve both been avoiding. “You don’t get to tell me you love me now,” you say, voice shaking. “Not after all this time.”

He swallows. “I know.”

You look up at him—his eyes, his face, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious and painful all at once. “Then why are you saying it?”

“Because I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You should pull away. You don’t. The touch is so light it barely registers, but it’s enough to make your heart lurch. You realize you’ve been waiting for it—for years, maybe.

And then he kisses you.

It isn’t careful. It isn’t perfect. It’s desperate, aching, years of silence collapsing into one impossible moment. His hand finds your face, yours fists in the front of his coat. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and regret.

For a second, you let yourself fall into it—the familiarity, the warmth, the terrible rightness of it. Then reality slams back. You break away, breathless, trembling. “Don’t,” you whisper. “Please.”

He takes a step back immediately, hands raised like surrender. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, voice thin. “No, you’re not.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. “You’re right. I’m not.”

You stand there in the cold, neither of you moving, the echo of the kiss still pulsing in the space between you. Finally, you turn. “I have to go.”

He doesn’t stop you this time. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You walk away, your heels striking the pavement, each step harder than the last. You don’t look back, because if you do, you’ll break. Behind you, Bucky stays where he is, the wind tugging at his coat, the sound of the music from inside drifting faintly through the doors. He runs a hand over his mouth, as if he can still taste you, and lets out a shaky breath that turns white in the cold air.

When Steve finds him later, still standing outside under the lamplight, he doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to. “Guess she went home,” Steve says quietly.

Bucky nods, staring down at the street. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

Bucky laughs once, soft and bitter. “Not even close.”

Steve doesn’t say anything after that. Just claps a hand to his shoulder, solid and wordless, before leading him toward home.

That night, you sit on your bed in the dark, your shawl still around your shoulders, your hair still styled from the dance. The mirror across from you reflects a version of yourself you don’t recognize—flushed cheeks, tear-stained eyes, a ring on your finger that feels heavier than gold.

You press your fingers to your lips and close your eyes. The ghost of him is still there—the warmth of his hand, the tremor in his voice when he said your name. You tell yourself it was a mistake. That it won’t happen again. That it doesn’t change anything. But deep down, in the place where you’ve hidden everything that still feels alive, you already know it does. Because no matter what happens next—no matter how much you tell yourself otherwise—that kiss didn’t feel like the end of something.

It felt like the start.

---

The morning after the dance dawns gray and breathless, the kind of quiet that feels like the city itself is holding still. You wake long before your alarm, eyes open to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The bedsheets are cold beside you—Andrew had stayed at his parents’ house last night after the dinner he mentioned, something about convenience, early meetings. You’d told him it was fine. You’d meant it.

But now, the silence in the apartment feels unbearable.

Your shawl is draped over the chair where you tossed it last night. One glove sits on the floor, half under the bed. Your lipstick is still smudged faintly around the corners of your mouth. You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror for a long time—your eyes red-rimmed, your hair a little messed up from sleep.

You look like a woman who hasn’t slept. You look like a woman who’s done something unforgivable. You press your palms flat on the table, forcing a breath through your lungs. You should feel guilty. You do feel guilty—but not in the way you expected. The shame sits alongside something else, something more dangerous. You feel awake.

You make it through breakfast without tasting a thing. The paper sits unread beside your plate, the coffee untouched. Every tick of the clock seems louder than the last. You keep hearing his voice, low and rough.

You can’t marry him. You used to laugh with your whole body. I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.

You try to drown it out with reason. Andrew is good. Steady. The kind of man your parents dreamed you’d marry. He’s kind to you, even if his kindness sometimes feels more like careful politeness than love. You’ll have a warm home, safety, a life without turbulence.

Bucky is none of those things.

He’s reckless, restless, full of jagged edges and ghosts that won’t leave him. His hands still tremble when he doesn’t sleep. He disappears for hours to “walk,” though you suspect he’s not walking so much as running from his own mind.

But when he’d kissed you—God, when he’d kissed you—there had been no distance, no pretending. Just truth. Raw, terrible, beautiful truth. And now you can’t un-feel it.

You find yourself outside his building before you realize you’ve even left home. The cold gnaws at your fingers; your breath fogs the air. You’re in your best coat, a hat tugged low, gloves clasped tight as if they’re the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door. Every part of you is screaming not to go inside—but your feet move anyway. The hallway smells faintly of tobacco and cheap soap. The floorboards creak underfoot. You reach his door, heart hammering, and knock before you can talk yourself out of it.

It takes a moment. Then footsteps. Then the latch.

When the door opens, he looks… wrecked. Bucky’s hair is rumpled, his shirt half-buttoned, his eyes red-rimmed like yours. He blinks when he sees you, caught between surprise and something softer—something like disbelief. “Doll.”

“Can I come in?”

He steps aside wordlessly. The apartment is small—one room with a narrow kitchen, a half-drawn curtain separating the bed from the rest. There’s a record player on a crate, a mug on the windowsill gone cold. Everything smells faintly of metal polish and smoke.

You take off your gloves, set them down on the table, and stand there, unsure what to do with your hands. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s afraid if he blinks you’ll disappear. “I shouldn’t be here,” you say first.

He nods once. “Probably not.”

Neither of you move. The silence stretches. Finally, you force the words out, “what happened last night can’t—”

“—be undone,” he finishes for you. His voice is steady, quiet. “I know.”

You swallow. “Andrew—”

“Doesn’t love you the way you deserve,” he says, too quickly.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t make him the villain. He’s good to me.”

“I know he is,” Bucky says softly. “But he doesn’t see you.”

You turn away, pacing to the window. “You keep saying that. That he doesn’t see me. What does that even mean?”

He moves closer, not touching you yet. “It means he doesn’t know the way your hands shake when you’re excited. Or how you hum when you cook. Or how you hate cucumbers but love the smell of mint. He doesn’t know how you look when you’re mad and trying not to cry. He doesn’t know you fall asleep reading, or that you talk in your sleep sometimes.” You close your eyes. “He doesn’t know you,” Bucky finishes, voice low. “Not the way I do.”

“That’s not fair,” you whisper. “People change, Bucky. I’m not who I was before the war. Neither are you.”

“Maybe not,” he says, and now he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back. “But you’re still you. The real you. And I’m still the fool who fell for you before either of us knew what love was.”

You turn around, ready to tell him to stop—but he’s looking at you with that same quiet honesty that’s always undone you. No pleading. No bravado. Just truth. Something in you breaks. “You think this is easy for me?” you snap, tears stinging your eyes. “You think I haven’t spent every night trying to make myself believe that I can do this—that I can marry him, smile, build a life that’s good, even if it’s not…” You trail off, breathing hard.

“Not what?” he asks softly.

“Not you.” The words hang there like a confession torn from your chest.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes darkening. “Say that again.”

You shake your head, tears slipping free. “Don’t make me.”

He takes a step closer. “Say it.”

You look up at him, voice trembling. “It’s not you.”

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just studies your face—every tear, every tremor. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, “then don’t marry him.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Bucky—”

“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, firmer now. “Don’t spend the rest of your life pretending this never happened. Pretending you don’t feel it too.”

Your throat closes. “You’re asking me to destroy everything.”

“I’m asking you to be honest,” he says. “For once. Just with yourself.”

The silence that follows feels like standing on a precipice. You can hear the tick of a clock somewhere, the distant sound of a car outside. Finally, you whisper, “if I walk away from him, there’s no going back.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “But maybe that’s the point.”

You meet his eyes, and for the first time in months—maybe years—you feel something that isn’t fear. You feel clarity. You leave his apartment an hour later, the sun beginning to rise pale and pink over the rooftops. The streets are still quiet, the city half-asleep. You walk the whole way home.

By the time you reach your door, your fingers are numb, your heart raw. You set your ring on the table—gold glinting in the soft morning light—and sit beside it, staring until the sun burns through the window. When the phone rings, you don’t answer. Not yet. You don’t know what you’ll say to Andrew, not really. You just know it has to be true. And for the first time in a long, long while, that feels like enough.

That afternoon, Bucky finds Steve at the diner, coat unbuttoned, eyes still tired but different now—lighter somehow. Steve raises a brow when he slides into the booth. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “I didn’t.”

“She come by?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”

Steve studies him for a moment. “You tell her?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Bucky looks out the window, where sunlight spills across the street, turning everything gold. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “But for the first time since I came home… it feels like maybe things might be right again.”

Steve smiles faintly. “That’s something.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, fingers curling around his coffee mug. “It is.”

Outside, the city hums to life again—the promise of something new on the horizon. And somewhere across town, you sit by the window, your ringless hand resting over your heart, breathing in the quiet morning air. You don’t know what comes next.

But you know who you want to face it with.

---

It happens on a Sunday. The kind of pale, overcast morning that seems to hum with quiet finality—the sort of day that feels like the closing of a chapter, even before anything has ended. Your hands tremble only once when you lace your gloves. Then again when you look in the mirror and see the faint indentation where your ring used to sit. It’s strange how something so small could leave a mark so deep.

Andrew had called three times since last night. You’d answered none of them. You’d written him a letter—neat, careful handwriting, the kind of letter that doesn’t waste words. You apologized, you explained just enough, you didn’t say Bucky’s name. You thanked him for being kind. For being safe. For giving you a life you could have loved, if your heart hadn’t been somewhere else.

When you finished, you folded it, sealed it, and set it gently in his mailbox before you lost your nerve. Then you walked. The city feels softer than usual—washed clean from an early morning drizzle, streets gleaming faintly under the muted sun. People bustle past you in coats and scarves, voices muffled, the world continuing as if nothing monumental has shifted. But for you, everything has.

Bucky doesn’t hear the knock at first. He’s just come back from the docks, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the mist. There’s a record playing—something scratchy and old, the kind of jazz you used to hum when you worked beside him at the old diner near Flatbush.

He’s been trying not to think about you; he’s failing. So when the knock comes, soft but steady, he almost doesn’t answer. Some part of him is terrified to open that door, afraid that seeing you—or not seeing you—will finally undo him for good.

But he does. And there you are. Your coat’s damp at the hem, your cheeks stinging from the cold. There’s no ring on your hand, and your eyes—God, your eyes—look clearer than he’s ever seen them. “Hey,” you say, voice small but sure.

He blinks, then steps aside automatically. “You came.”

You nod, stepping inside. “I did.” The air in the room feels charged, the same way it did that morning in his apartment. But this time, there’s no hesitation between you. No guilt. Just a quiet certainty settling in your bones. “I ended it,” you say.

Bucky freezes. “You what?”

You meet his gaze. “With Andrew.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, struggling to find breath. “You sure?”

You nod once. “I told him the truth.”

For a moment, neither of you move. Then Bucky lets out a slow, unsteady breath and takes a step forward—one, then another, until you’re standing close enough to feel the warmth of him through your coat. “What did you tell him?” he asks softly.

“That I couldn’t marry someone I didn’t love,” you whisper.

He searches your face, voice barely a murmur. “And who do you love?”

You don’t look away this time. “You.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s full. Alive. Like the first inhale after years of holding your breath.

And then he’s kissing you.

It isn’t desperate this time. It’s steady. Sure. The kind of kiss that feels like coming home after too long away. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the tear that slips free. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he murmurs against your lips, “hey, hey. Don’t.”

You laugh, half-sobbing, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

You nod, smiling through the tears. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He exhales shakily, relief breaking over him like sunlight. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

“Maybe I do,” you tease gently, your hand resting over his heart. He covers it with his own, fingers threading through yours. His pulse beats strong under your palm. You stay like that for a long time—standing in the quiet of his apartment, the city noise drifting faintly through the window. It feels fragile, this peace, but also real. Earned.

Eventually, he guides you to the small kitchen table, sets a kettle on the stove, and makes tea—the way he used to when you were kids, strong and too sweet. You sit across from him, elbows on the scarred wood, steam curling between you. He watches you for a moment, eyes soft. “You sure you’re okay?”

You smile. “You’ve asked me that three times.”

“Can’t help it.”

“I know.”

You reach across the table, covering his hand with yours. “I think I’ll be okay, Buck. For the first time in a long while.”

He nods slowly, thumb tracing circles against your wrist. “You know this won’t be easy.”

“I know,” you say. “But at least it’ll be real.”

He looks at you then—really looks—and you see the weight lift from him. The guilt, the fear, the quiet ache that’s been hiding behind his smile since the war. “Real sounds good,” he murmurs.

The weeks that follow aren’t simple. There are whispers, of course. Muted condolences from neighbors who think you’ve been jilted. Polite confusion from Andrew’s family. Your mother’s disappointment—quiet, tight-lipped, the kind that cuts deeper than yelling.

But there’s also laughter again. You and Bucky and Steve falling back into a rhythm that feels like the world before it went to hell—coffee at the diner, evenings spent walking home through the city, warmth slowly replacing what had been hollow.

Sometimes, it’s quiet—hands brushing on park benches, shared cigarettes in the cold, Bucky’s coat around your shoulders. Sometimes, it’s loud—dancing in his room to bad jazz, arguing about who cheats at cards, Steve rolling his eyes fondly from the doorway. And every now and then, when you least expect it, he’ll reach for your hand—just a touch, light and unassuming—and it’ll still take your breath away.

It’s early spring when you wake in his bed for the first time with sunlight spilling through the window, his arm slung across your waist. The city hums faintly outside—car horns, laughter, the world moving on.

You turn your head, watching him sleep. He looks younger like this. Peaceful, almost. You reach up, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. His eyes open slowly, blue and soft, and he smiles—that same crooked grin that’s undone you a hundred times over. “Mornin’, doll.”

You grin back. “Morning.”

He leans in and kisses you, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything except the promise that you’re both still here. When he pulls back, he murmurs, “you know, I still think about that night at the Expo sometimes.”

You laugh, low. “When you vanished to find Steve?”

“Yeah,” he says, smile widening. “Should’ve kissed you then.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “You made up for it.”

He hums, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Not done makin’ up for it.”

You smile against his skin. “Good.”

Outside, the city keeps moving—trains and laughter and sunlight spilling over everything. The world isn’t perfect. It never will be. But for the first time, it feels like yours again. And when Bucky pulls you close, his voice low against your ear, you know with absolute certainty that you did the right thing.

extra notes: this fic has been done for months, probably since tloas came out in october. i still think months later it's one of my favorites so i hope y'all liked it as much as i do <3

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

There’s so much she doesn’t know. If she’d stop running from me then I could just explain—

“Welcome back,” Theo says breezily, ignoring my question as his gaze flicks over my drenched suit. “How was the ceremony?” 

I rip the soaked tie off my neck and drag a hand through my hair. He gets nothing but a grunt in response. I have no interest in reliving any part of today. Or, frankly, any moment since she walked out of the manor last week. 

“So,” he presses, “it’s done then?” 

I sigh heavily. “It’s done.”

Theo nods once, then returns to this scribbling. I’m grateful he doesn’t pry further.

I cross to the drink cart, free a glass, and retrieve my hidden bottle of Firewhiskey. The alcohol hits the crystal in a heavy pour that pulls Theo’s eyes up again. 

“You having all that, straight? It’s better with a lemon twist. There’s some in the—”

“I didn’t ask you to fucking bartend,” I interrupt sharply. “I asked you a question.”

He sighs. “She’s with Cassian.”

The glass stills halfway to my lips. 

Theo must see the look in my eyes because he, wisely, continues unprompted.

“She asked him to the dance tomorrow.”

For a second, it feels like I’m being branded all over again. 

“She did what?” I seethe. 

Fucking Flint. 

The glass bites my palm, and I flinch, loosening my hold on it.

Theo raises his hands in defense. “Look, I tried to stop it, but she ran into a past version of me. I didn’t know where you were at with her.”

“Past version—” I scoff, knocking back the drink in one swallow. It burns my throat, but does nothing to ease the tension in my chest. I told him to quit the time magic shit. 

Apparently, he didn’t listen. But, really, I shouldn’t be surprised. You can’t tell Theodore Nott anything—especially when it comes to girls.

“Anyway,” Theo continues, “after I told her I was sorry I never responded to her note, Cassian showed up and—”

“Wait.” I cut him off. “You told her—”

I swear under my breath and slam the glass down onto the cart. 

Theo scoffs. “Yes, she thought I’d already answered her. How many things are you hiding from this girl?” He shuts his notebook and stands, reaching for his satchel. “Why didn’t you just…talk to her? She seems like—”

“You don’t know her,” I say quietly, jaw pulsing. 

I’m the only one who understands her. The way she thinks. 

She’d never forgive me. 

I rub at my chest absently, trying to ease that aching emptiness behind my ribs. 

Theo moves about the room, collecting his things, and preparing for his shift at the bar.

I’m jealous that he’s seen her today. Spoken with her today. And the fact that I can’t find her anywhere means only one thing. 

She doesn’t want to see me. 

That burns worse than anything in this bottle.  

Part of me wants to whirl on Theo and demand answers to all my questions.

What exactly did she say? How did she sound? Was her hair up or down? Because that depends on her mood. Was she in class? Who am I kidding, of course she was in class. 

I lean over the drink cart and brace myself on the edges, cringing at my own thoughts. Water drips from my hanging hair into my empty glass. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

I drag a hand down my face and shrug off my shirt, eager to feel something other than…cold. 

 “I mean, it’s not like I was never really going to accept her offer,” Theo adds from across the room, “Given the fact that all you talk about besides Quidditch, and your parents giving you shit,…is the Snitch.”

“Don’t call her that.”

Theo laughs, standing by the door. “She said the same thing.”

My head snaps up. “What?”

He levels my gaze. “She told Cassian not to call her that, too.”

Something sparks deep in my chest, and I turn my back on him so he doesn't see it in my eyes.  

She still feels something. 

If I know her—and I do—she’s determined to continue with her plan, with or without me. And the fact that it’s Flint—well, that’s just icing on the cake to her. 

But even if all she feels is anger…

It’s something.

The door opens and shuts behind Theo, but I don’t bother with a goodbye. Because a plan is already beginning to form in my mind. 

I know her anger. That fire in her eyes? It matches mine, flame for flame. And I’ll chase that fire every day if I have to. Just to keep indifference from slipping across her features. To stop her from ever looking up at me like she did right before she got in that car. 

I stride to my closet and wrench the doors open. Rain pelts the window as I search for the long black box that was delivered to my room last week. 

When I lift the lid, sparkling silk pours out. Lightning flashes, illuminating the subtle shifts in color. Purple and blues blink back at me, their hues so rich they almost appear black in the dim light. It reminds me of a glittering night sky. 

It reminds me of her. 

The box clicks shut and I set out to enact my plan. 

She wants me to be angry? She wants to be mad at me?

She wants to go back to that familiar territory or rivalry between us?

Fine. I'll play her game. 

Because when it comes to games with the Snitch... I always win. 

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a/n: hi! short update again because I have to set the sceneeeee lol. By the way, if you're feeling confused at this point, GOOD. I decided to write this story in a way that the reader (you) and the reader (character) lol both experience things and learn things at the same time. I think it just makes for a more immersive experience, although it takes a bit more work and vagueness on my part, I think this story is really taking shape, and I can't wait to show you what happens next!!!! :)

thanks for reading, love u.