Blissful Introvert

Besides, at least a woman of your size wouldn't have to worry about the old men in your father's syndicate making unwanted advances. They prefer the small, petite girls that they actually have a chance of overpowering.

Still, a woman of your status was expected to marry well for your father's business. You tried, honestly you did, to get the attention of someone who would make father look good. You know better than to expect love, of course, but it would be nice to find someone who didn't immediately dismiss you when they saw you weren't wearing heels but were still eye level with them.

Honestly, the temptation to give in to the men who wanted you to step on them was getting harder and harder to fight. They'd promise you money, jewelry, custom made clothing and lingerie, just let them use your body how they wanted. All the while they made it clear you would just be a sex toy to them, not a person. You know love isn't an option but respect shouldn't be so hard to find.

It was quite the duality to have a body that was simultaneously seen as "unfit" and also fetishized.

So it was that, when your father called you into his office to tell you there had been offer for your hand, you were surprised and nervous.

"He's a former federal agent who helped our family get through some dicey times," Father explains. "He's out of the legit game, early retirement or whatever. But he's willing to continue helping us out with his connections so long as he gets you."

"I understand, Father," you nod. "Though I'm surprised you trust him enough. He betrayed his agency, why wouldn't he betray the family?"

"That's another reason I'm giving you to him. I trust you and I know where your loyalties lie."

"We'll probably have to come up with some new phrases," you nod.

"That's my girl," Father smiles. "He's asked you to meet him at your future home. Says he wants to get your opinion on things so he can get things renovated or fixed up before the wedding."

"That's...quite considerate of him," you blink. "What's his name?"

"August Walker."

The car pulls up to the townhouse you'll be moving into after the wedding. The exterior is quite plain but, if Mr. Walker can be expected to keep his word, you'll have a say in changing that.

When your car door opens, you're surprised to be greeted by your future husband, offering his hand to help you out of your seat.

"Thank you," you smile softly as you take his hand.

Stepping out of the car, you make sure to not put too much of your weight onto him, forever mindful that many cannot handle your size. But there is a strength in his arm that makes you wonder if he could.

Mr. Walker kisses the back of your hand and your cheeks heat up, unused to such gentlemanly behavior.

"I know this isn't a mansion or a penthouse, but I do hope the townhouse will be sufficient for you," he smiles. "Especially after all of your requested changes are made. I've got Mr. Carter, a local construction supervisor whom I trust, and who your father recommended, already inside, ready to take notes."

"Thank you, Mr. Walker."

"August, please. We will be married after all, and I would prefer my wife call me by my first name."

"I understand," you nod.

His lip twitches and you're not sure if it's in amusement or annoyance.

"Shall we?" he gestures to the front door.

"Please."

When you're inside, it's clear the townhouse is an older construction and you feel a slight thrill. You admire the custom work done that have withstood time. The contemporary style of everything being sleek, shiny and white has never appealed to you. Testing the waters of your fiance's promises to listen to you, you make sure to state aloud the fixtures you'd like to keep. You're pleased to not hear any arguments from Walker on the matter.

As the tour continues, you grow bolder, asking about replacing things that can't be kept with something similar in terms of style. Mr. Carter says he knows a very good woodworker who can provide some estimates and you find yourself smiling.

Every so often you catch a glimpse of Walker and you swear he's smiling more as you're going on.

"And now, for the final part of the tour," Walker takes your hand again, "the main reason I sought this house."

When he opens the final door you enter into a two-story tall library, making you gasp. You almost feel like Belle from Beauty and the Beast.

"The shelves are empty, waiting for the books you currently own and, hopefully, there will be enough room for future books you should seek to purchase," August informs you. "My own books will remain in my office and this will entire library will be yours."

"August..." you whisper.

"I have seen other men attempt to woo you with gold and riches," he explains. "But you are no Atalanta, distracted by shiny things. You are a woman who craves intelligence more than money or power. Our lives are not given to expectations of love, but having a wife I can respect? That's a very good start, in my book."

You beam at him, almost teary eyed, "and having a husband who can genuinely make me smile is far more than I could have ever expected. Thank you, August."

But you stopped short when you got in the door and were met with that sonic wall of screaming. But as you looked around, there were no guests, no one unexpected, no source of the sound. The lower floor was empty aside from Ransom sitting on the couch, Lola held firmly on his lap as he gently petted her.

“What’s going on?” you shouted across the room.

Ransom jumped slightly, not having realized you were home, then scrambled for his phone. Immediately, the noise, blessedly, stopped. “Sorry,” he said, blushing a little, and for the first time you were pretty sure you were seeing Ransom self-conscious. “Lola and I have been working on getting used to the sounds of a baby when you aren’t around. Google says it’s a good way to prepare your dog.”

You didn’t try to stop the warm smile you felt taking over your face. “Oh yeah? How’s she doing?”

He let her off his lap, and she scampered over to you. “She’s doing good. Making a lot of progress. It isn’t so scary anymore, is it?”

Lola looked up at you and wagged her tail. “Good job, baby,” you said to her as you put down your bags and picked her up. “What else does Google say?”

“Uh,” Ransom scratched the back of his neck. He was embarrassed by how much work and thought he’d put into this. It made your heart melt. “We should be getting her used to the new smells too, so letting her sniff anything we buy for the baby. And we should introduce any new routines or patterns right now. Get her used to being taken care of by both of us, not just you.”

“You already do a good job of that,” you said sincerely.

He shrugged. “I’m trying.” He bent down to look through your bags. “Speaking of new smells, what did you get?”

“Oh, I passed by a little baby store on my way home, so I decided to stop in and see what I could find.”

Ransom took out a pretty lilac onesie and a soft sage blanket. He carefully held them up for Lola to smell. “It’s so tiny,” he said softly, reverently smoothing his thumb over the onesie.

“Yeah,” you answered, moving your free hand to your bump, which was big enough now that you felt like you could barely call it that. “I think she’s going to be even teenier than we realize.”

Ransom delicately put the baby’s things back in the bag and moved both of his hands to your stomach. You felt the baby shift in response, the way she did right before she was about to start punching you. Ransom had yet to feel her, and you knew it was bothering him, so you grabbed one of his wrists and moved it a few inches to where she’d started to press against you. “She’s right there,” you whispered.

Ransom pressed his lips together in concentration, and then his brow furrowed in frustration. “I still can’t-“ She moved again, and he froze. “Wait,” he said, so quietly like he didn’t want to spook her, and she kicked again, almost in response. “That’s her?” he asked, breathless.

“Yeah,” you grinned, “that’s her.” And then, feeling like your heart was cracking wide open, you added, “She’s saying hi to her daddy.”

You felt his breath hitch through his hands on you. He looked up, tears in his eyes and a scared, happy, joyful smile on his face. He moved one hand up to your cheek while the other stayed pressed to the spot where your daughter was, and kissed you, soft and slow and happy. So, so happy.

You were sharing the couch with Ransom, both reading quietly with Lola snuggled between you, when it washed over you. This had happened a few times now. Heat coursing through your whole body. Need. Out of nowhere. You knew it was normal. You’d read about it in your books. But that didn’t make it any easier.

The last time you’d tried to take care of it yourself while Ransom was at work, but you’d discovered that your belly was now too big for you to reach around and get to your core, even with your vibrator. So you’d cried alone in your bed until it finally passed. You didn’t know if you’d be able to do that again.

You looked over at Ransom over your book. God, he was so beautiful. It still kind of made you mad, even after all this time. The way your feet were pulled up onto the couch, your toes just barely grazed his thigh. You moved back quickly. As much as every part of your body was screaming at you to crawl onto his lap and make him fuck you, you couldn’t actually do that. You didn’t even know if he wanted it. Plus, you were pretty sure that if he touched you, you’d actually explode.

At your movement, he looked up at you. “You okay?” he asked, his brow furrowed the way it did anytime you displayed the slightest hint of discomfort or displeasure.

You smiled and hoped it didn’t come across as a grimace. “I’m fine, just a little uncomfortable.”

“Do you want me to go get you another pillow? Would that help?”

You shook your head vigorously. “Nope! I’m fine. It’s fine. Just ignore me.” You took a deep, slow breath as the need got even worse.

And the way he was pinning you down with his gaze wasn’t helping. “You don’t seem like you’re uncomfortable. You seem like you’re in pain.” He reached a hand out to you, and you shrank back, knowing that if he touched you, you’d lose all semblance of control.

“It’s not pain, Ransom, I promise. Please. Please just drop it.” You could feel the tears starting to gather in your eyes as your whole body felt like it was about to catch fire.

“I’m not going to drop it if there’s something I can do to help,” he said firmly, and you wanted to scream.

“No, it’s– It’s fine, I just–“ You closed your eyes as you struggled to breathe normally. Finally, you gave up. He was worse than Steve; you weren’t going to be able to keep hiding this from him. “It’s the hormones. I just get really horny sometimes. Out of nowhere. And it’s awful, but it’ll pass.”

You felt the way he went completely still and opened your eyes. He was staring at you, a smirk on his face. “Well,” he said, and his voice had dropped at least an octave. It shot right through you. “That sounds like the exact sort of thing I can help with.”

“Ransom–“You shook your head, not sure of what to say. Not trusting yourself to say anything.

The smirk dropped off his face, and his eyes got serious. “Do you want me to help you with this?” he asked. And it wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t sexy. It was a real question, and you knew that if you said no, he would leave you alone. Or maybe make you some tea. Find another way to help, to make you comfortable. But he wouldn’t touch you. And he wouldn’t keep asking.

Your eyes slipped closed again. “You don’t have to,” you answered, your voice small.

“Hey, look at me,” he commanded gently. You forced yourself to open your eyes, and he continued. “I know exactly what I do and don’t have to do. Do you want me to help you with this?”

With one more deep breath, you tried not to whine as you answered, “Yes. Please.”

And before the words had even fully left your mouth, he’d lunged across the couch and captured your lips in a deep, passionate, hungry kiss. It felt like he might eat you alive, and you wanted it. You wanted everything he could give you.

He had you flat on the couch, his body covering yours, even with your bump in the way. You took the opportunity when he came up for air to whine, “More. I– I–“

A gentle hand on your cheek grounded you. “I know, I know. I need you in my bed. Think you can get upstairs?”

A bed sounded nice with the way you were sagging off the couch. But you were also pretty sure that if he stopped touching you, you’d die. You clutched onto his wrist. “I think, but–“

“Yeah, I know,” he said, even as he peppered your neck with kisses, “I’ve got you.”

He helped you off the couch, never letting go of you. And as he moved you up the stairs, some part of him was always touching you. A hand wrapped around your wrist, another on your hip, his lips on the back of your neck.

Once in his bedroom, he stopped you before you could climb onto the bed. He kissed you again, breaking for just long enough to lift your t-shirt over your head and fling it behind him. One more kiss and then he was kneeling down beside you, working your leggings down your legs to the point you could kick them off your feet. Then, his hands moved reverently up your body—your ankles, your calves, your thighs—to your panties, which he pulled down with equal reverence. Then he continued moving up, placing a gentle kiss on your belly and then working to undo your bra. Once he’d freed your breasts, he took them in both hands as he buried his face in your neck.

“Ransom,” you whined, tugging on his shirt, as he still somehow had all of his clothes on. You needed them off. You needed them off right now.

You felt him grin into your neck, and then he pulled away enough that you could get his shirt off. You ran both hands up his stomach and chest. How was he fair? How was he yours? (Because he was now. He was he was he was.) You dropped your hands to undo his pants, but he stopped you, lifting them so he could kiss your knuckles. Then he very carefully laid you down on his bed, moving a pillow to support your lower back. He trailed kisses down your entire body before he stood back up and took the rest of his clothes off as fast as he possibly could.

Once he was finally naked, he paused for a moment at the foot of the bed, and you both just stared at each other. Even as you’d gotten to know him, gotten used to him, you’d never get used to the way he seemed like he was carved from marble. Or how his skin glowed. Or how–

“God, look at you,” his whisper interrupted your thoughts. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” And then his hands were back on your body, spreading your legs so that he could slot himself between them. He hooked one ankle over his shoulder. “That feel okay?” he asked.

All you could do was nod, and he immediately returned his lips to you, working his way up your inner thigh. With a jolt, you realized what he meant to do, and you reached out an urgent hand to him. “You don’t have to–“ you started but were cut off when he turned back to you with a playful glare.

“What did I say about that?” he asked, his voice so low.

He’d gone back to kissing up your thigh, and you had to force yourself to take a breath, to unfog your mind, to remember what he said. “You said–” you paused with a gasp as his lips got so, so close to the center of you. “You said you already know what you do and don’t have to do.”

“That’s right,” he muttered into your thigh. “And I want to do this. I’m desperate to find out what you taste like.” Then he lifted his head to make eye contact with you. “But if you really don’t want me to, I won’t.” You took another breath and opened your mouth, even though you weren’t sure what your response would be. “But please, please, let me taste you, baby. I’ll stop if you hate it. I promise.”

“What if you hate it?” you asked, voice small, even as you were desperate to just finally say yes.

He laughed and sent you a dirty smirk. “I can guaran-fucking-tee that I won’t.”

Your body was burning up again, so with a small moan you finally let go. “Yes, please.”

And just like that, his mouth was on you. You threw your head back on a gasp, like all the air had been punched out of your body. Your hands bunched into the sheets on either side of your head as he lapped at you like a man starved. You felt his tongue moving between your folds, getting to know you, searching for your clit. The second he found it, your eyes slammed shut, your body spasmed, and you felt more than heard his pleased hum. He experimented with licks first, before he wrapped his tongue around it and gave it a hard suck. You couldn’t help the lewd moan you released, and that seemed to be all the encouragement he needed.

You’d never felt anything like this. Not with the only other person you’d ever had sex with. And you’d certainly never let Ransom do anything like this before, not when getting pregnant had been the only goal and everything else had seemed like a waste of time. And definitely not by yourself. You’d never taken such care with yourself.

Your breaths were coming fast as you felt yourself climbing, climbing, climbing. A good, soft warmth was moving through your body as you felt his hands on your hips, firmly holding onto you. Keeping you from floating away. Your eyes slipped open; you weren’t sure why, but you were immediately met with Ransom’s intense gaze, locked on your face to take in every single nuance of your reaction. And the way he was looking at you, watching you…

That was what did it. That was what sent you over the edge. The way that he saw you. The look in his eyes. You came with a cry, your body shaking apart, only anchored by his hands on your hips, pinning you down to earth.

His mouth stayed on you through your whole orgasm and all the aftershocks. Drinking you up, like he couldn’t get enough. Then, slowly but surely, he began working his way back up you, his lips and hands moving in tandem as he traversed your whole body. Once he got to your neck, he nuzzled into you before meeting your eyes with a cocky smirk. “Feeling better?”

You tried to nod, but all of your bones were like jelly. And while the need inside of you was no longer so insistent, no longer hot enough to burn, there was still something simmering under the surface. Something that had made your legs clamp around Ransom at some point and now wouldn’t let him go. “I– I need–“ you tried to explain to him, but the words wouldn’t string together.

Ransom quirked an eyebrow, and his smirk turned dirty. “You need more, baby?” he asked, voice low. “It’s okay. You can tell me what you need, what you want.”

You felt your face heating up. Your eyes wanted to slip closed, to avoid the way he was looking at you, but you forced them to stay open. “I want–“ You tried to put what you were feeling into words, but everything just felt clumsy. You tried again, summing it up as best you could. “I want you.”

The smile that bloomed on Ransom’s face—you weren’t sure you’d ever seen it before. Cocky and hungry and happy, all rolled together. “I want you, too,” he said softly as he dipped his head down to kiss you, tender and eager with a thread of filth that you wanted to follow. But he broke it off too soon. “Do you want me inside you?”

“Yes, please,” you breathed, and he kissed you again. His hand landed gently between your thighs, one and then two fingers working their way inside of you. They were big and thick as they spread you, but they weren’t enough. “Ransom,” you whined, “I need– That’s not–“

“Hey, I know,” he cooed softly, still working you open with his fingers, “I’m just making sure that orgasm got you ready to take me. I want it to feel good.”

Suddenly you felt self-conscious; he’d already done so much for and to you, and you hadn’t even offered to do anything for him in return. You reached for his length. “I can help get you ready, too,” you said, a little embarrassed.

Ransom laughed, his head thrown back, but it wasn’t mean; it wasn’t judging. It was warm and playful. “Babe, I’m harder than a fucking diamond right now. I don’t need a goddamn thing to get me ready for you.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he said with a grin. “You’re so hot like this. Your taste on my lips and the thought of your warm pussy are all I need to get me going. You ready too? You comfortable?”

You flopped back down, giving in to your body and what it was telling you. “Yes, I– Yes.”

That was all it took for him to kiss you again, his body fully covering your own, taking special care to keep his weight off your stomach, as he carefully slid his fingers out of you. You whined at the emptiness, but the shortest moment later he was lining himself up and slowly filling you with his cock.

On instinct, or maybe out of habit, your eyes slammed closed, retreating inside yourself as you felt your insides stretch to try to accommodate him. But before you got very far, you were brought back by a hand, Ransom’s hand, squeezing yours gently.

“Hey, open your eyes,” he directed softly. You did, immediately, and found his blue gaze boring into you. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “You can be here, right now. I’ve got you. It’s okay. I promise. I’ve got you.”

You took a deep breath and nodded. You believed him. You trusted him. As he bottomed out inside of you, you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him close. For a long moment neither of you moved, and all you could feel was his cock spreading you open and his stuttered breaths on your neck. And then he shifted so that his forehead touched yours and his lips brushed your lips as he said, “Fucking shit. You feel so fucking good. Tell me– Please tell me I can move. Goddamn.”

“Ransom, please, yes, please,” tumbled out of you as you felt so full you thought you might lose your mind. And it only got worse as he began to rock in and out of you. “Ransom, Ransom,” you chanted, your arms still wrapped around him. One of his hands came up to cup your cheek, and you felt electricity flow through you where he touched you.

He shifted his hips and hit a spot inside of you that had a cry suddenly tearing through you. “Yeah?” he asked with a proud grin. “Right there?”

“Please, yes, yes, yes,” you babbled as he kept hitting it and you were climbing again, up and up and up and–

“Let go,” he whispered in your ear, as his thumb began to press insistent circles on your clit, “go ahead. I’ve got you. I want to see it again.”

One more thrust and you did what he asked, sailing over the edge, shaking apart as you gripped him tightly to you.

“Goddammit, look at you, you’re so beautiful. You feel so fucking good,” he babbled as he fucked you through your orgasm, chasing his own. “Holy fuck,” he growled as he joined you not long after, filling you up and holding you tight.

The two of you stayed collapsed on the bed in a heap, just breathing heavily into each other’s necks. After several long moments, Ransom tried to move, but you couldn’t figure out how to move your limbs to let him go. “Hey,” he assured you softly, “I just want to get us cleaned up.”

“Not yet,” you whispered. “Just– Not yet.”

“Yeah, okay. Okay,” he soothed you, dropping his body back down so that he blanketed you again.

Focused on Ransom’s breathing, you slowly came back to yourself. Once the high of your orgasms slowly ebbed away, you couldn’t explain the loss you felt. You knew, intellectually, that it was probably all hormones, but that didn’t stop you from feeling a profound grief for everything that may have been. You were crying, you realized, too late to try to be able to hide it. And it wouldn’t have made a difference. Ransom was watching you too closely to not pick up on every little nuance.

“What’s wrong?” he immediately asked. “Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head. “No, no, you didn’t do anything. I’m okay. I’m good.”

“But something’s wrong?” His hand was tentatively running up and down your arm now, doing what he could to soothe you without knowing the cause.

“No, not really. I– I just–“ You took a deep breath, trying to stop yourself from crying harder. “I just didn’t know it could be like that. I wish it had always been like that.”

“Oh,” he said softly, under his breath, shifting so that he was no longer on top of you but still touching you with as much of his body as he could.

“And I know, I know that that’s all my fault. I know that I pushed and I pushed and– But I didn’t know. I just didn’t know.” A fresh wave of tears came, and you didn’t object as Ransom pulled you closer to him so that you could bury your face in his chest.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re alright. There’s nothing to be sorry for. It wasn’t your fault. You were very scared, and we didn’t know each other. It wasn’t your fault.” He didn’t say anything else as he rubbed your back and let you cry it out.

After a few minutes, you pulled away, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m ruining the mood. It really was so good. You made me feel so good.”

That got the return of his cocky smirk. “Yeah? It sure seemed like you enjoyed it.” Then his smile softened significantly. “You made me feel good, too.”

“Oh?” You ducked your head, suddenly shy. “That’s, that’s good. I’m glad. I want to– I want to do more. Next time. I want to learn what you like.”

“Next time, huh?” he grinned. “Yeah, we’ve got lots of next times in front of us. If you want. Plenty of time to learn about each other.”

You scooted closer to him, to cuddle into his warmth. “Yeah? That sounds really nice.”

“It will be,” he said definitively, wrapping an arm around you.

You were both quiet for a long time, just enjoying this peace together, when he stiffened a little bit and shifted. You looked up at his face to find him looking thoughtful, hesitant. Without thinking, you reached up to smooth out the furrow between his brows with your thumb. “What are you thinking about?”

He grimaced, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. “I, uh– Shit. I’m not good at this.”

“Good at what?” you asked.

“Asking for something I want. Even admitting that I want something I don’t already have.”

“What are you talking about?” You felt like you’d missed part of a conversation he’d been having with himself.

He sighed, put out, then mumbled, “I want you to stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you reassured him, a little confused.

“No, I mean–“ he sighed again and then turned onto his back so that he was no longer looking you in the eye. “I want you to stay here, in this room. I want it to be ours. I don’t want you to sleep across the hall anymore. And when we move into the new house, I want us both to be in the primary suite. I want it to be ours. I want everything to be ours.”

You could feel how big and round your eyes had gotten. “Oh,” was all you could say. But really, why were you so surprised? The part of you that believed that people only kept you around because they had to, that Ransom would rather have his life go back to normal but was stuck with you, had been getting quieter and quieter every day. Your husband had shown you how untrue that was in countless ways. So why couldn’t this be true too?

But Ransom seemed to take your shocked silence as resistance, so he kept going. “I know you want your own space, and I’m not saying that room has to go back to my gym, or– Or– It can still be yours. But I just– I miss you in my bed. Lola too, the little blanket-hogging jerk. I’m tired of sleeping alone. I miss you.”

Tears were pricking at your eyes again, but this time they were good tears. They were tears of feeling so wanted, and wanting right back. They were tears of belonging.

“Please say something,” Ransom whispered, finally turning back to look at you. And he looked so scared. Scared of being vulnerable. Scared of being rejected. Scared of a life lived separately.

“Of course,” you whispered back. “Of course, I will, Ransom. I’d love to.”

And he seemed so young when he beamed at you in response. So hopeful. “Thank you,” he breathed, and kissed you on the forehead, because that was the part of you he could reach first. “Thank you,” he said again, and then pulled you into a soft, grateful kiss.

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You forced yourself to let it go, gently setting it on the counter. “My mom called,” you conceded.

His hand immediately moved from Lola to your back, not moving. Just a steady presence there. “Everything okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded again. “They’re—uh, she and Joseph—they’re coming here next week. Want to see us.”

“Oh. They aren’t going to stay with us, are they?” He sounded a little alarmed at the prospect, which made you smile.

“No, definitely not. Joseph will find the nicest suite in Boston, I’m sure.”

Ransom gave you a small smile. “A man after my own heart,” he joked.

You couldn’t quite join him. “Sure,” you shrugged.

His hand on your back became firmer. “Will it be nice,” he asked softly, “to see your mom?”

You took a deep breath. “Is it stupid if I say I miss her?” you asked quietly instead of answering him.

“No,” he said immediately. Firmly. “I can’t relate. But it’s definitely not stupid.”

You finally turned your body to him. “She’s really excited about the baby. That she gets to be a grandma.”

“That’s good,” he said, his hand on your back moving to your stomach, seemingly involuntarily. Like a magnet. That’s how it’d been for the last couple of weeks. Since you’d kissed. Since you’d talked. Otherwise, not much had changed in how he acted. Kisses when he left in the morning and usually when he got home. Or before he and you parted ways to go to your own bedrooms at night. He was taking things slowly. Presumably following your lead. But his hands. His hands always found you.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“How long will they be here?”

“Really just a day, I think. They want to have dinner with us. And Joseph wants to set up at least eighteen holes with you.”

Ransom’s hand shrank back from you, a look of horror on his face. “He wants to golf?!”

You shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Why?”

“Because technically you’re his son-in-law. And I’m sure he’ll have some deal or something he’ll want to talk over with you too.”

He rolled his eyes. “I fucking hate golf.”

“That’s fine,” you shrugged. “He’ll expect to win anyway.”

He looked affronted at that. “I didn’t say I was bad at it! Just that it’s a stupid way to waste your time.”

You sighed. “Well, can you do it for one afternoon? Just to make my life easier?”

He gave you a considering look. “You hate him?” he asked.

“I do,” you said, very quietly.

“Alright,” he said with a decisive nod. “I’ll play a fucking round of golf. And I’ll demolish him.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that bloomed on your face. “Sure, Ransom,” you said fondly. You doubted it. Joseph golfed more than he worked. But the sentiment was really nice.

He took a step back into your space. The arm that wasn’t holding Lola wrapped around your waist. “You okay with them coming here? Really?”

And you knew, in that moment, that if you said “No,” he would figure out a way to keep them as far away from you as he could. Warmth bloomed in your chest. You still hadn’t gotten over the fact that he cared. “Yeah, I’m okay. It’ll be good to see my mom.”

“Okay,” he said, with a shockingly gentle kiss to your forehead. “Then I guess I can tolerate golf with Joseph for an afternoon.”

You woke up early the morning your mother was visiting. You had too much nervous energy to sleep. So you got up, took care of Lola, and started making breakfast for yourself and Ransom.

Your mom was going to come spend the day with you at the house, and then you’d go to the country club together to meet Joseph and Ransom for dinner after they were done golfing. Spending the entire day with her would be good. It would.

Ransom didn’t comment when he got up and found you already in the kitchen. He just kept you company as you cooked. He seemed to understand that you needed the silence filled, so he told you about what he expected his work day to include. A new author coming in, a probable fight with Walt, paperwork he’d been putting off. He didn’t make any mention of the time he’d be spending with Joseph this afternoon, and you were grateful. You were anxious enough already.

Too soon, you were both done with breakfast, and Ransom had gone back upstairs to finish getting ready. The doorbell sounded, and you took a deep breath before answering it.

Your mother stood on the front step, looking put together but maybe as nervous as you were. And frail. She looked very frail. She smiled at the sight of you, as big as she had ever managed. Despite all of the feelings that always swirled around inside of you when you thought of her, you smiled too. And then you threw your arms around her in a big hug.

You hugged her as tightly as you thought she could handle, as you breathed in the familiar floral notes of the perfume Joseph always got her for her birthday. And she hugged you back, her face pressed close.

“Oh honey, I’ve missed you so much,” she said softly.

“I’ve missed you too, Mom,” you replied. And you meant it. Eventually, you pulled away. “Did you have breakfast at your hotel? Can I make you something?” you asked as you ushered her into the house.

“Oh no, you don’t need to do that. We had a nice spread at the hotel. But if you wanted to share a pot of tea, I wouldn’t say n-“

The sound of footsteps hit the stairs, and your mom stopped talking immediately. You watched as her eyes tracked Ransom as he came down. Her body curled inward, just a bit, somehow making herself look even smaller than normal. “Ransom,” you called to him once he was in the room, wanting to break the strange tension that had suddenly filled the space. “You remember my mom, Lydia.”

Ransom stopped short, right next to you. A vague look of surprise on his face. He quickly schooled his expression into something much more neutral, and you made a mental note to ask him about it later. “Yes, of course,” he said, taking a step forward but stopping when she took a small step back. “It’s lovely to see you. I hope you got here alright.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

She didn’t say anything else. An uneasy silence settled over all three of you. You tried to catch your mom’s eye, see if she was okay, but she couldn't keep her wary gaze off of Ransom.

“Well,” Ransom finally spoke, as awkward as you’d ever heard him, “I should get going.” He turned to you, one hand immediately going to your bump. “You’re sure you’re going to be okay?” he asked, lowly, just for you.

You ducked your head with a shy smile at his care and nodded. His other hand came up to briefly caress your cheek as he gave you a small peck on the lips. Then he grabbed his work bag and headed out the door, calling out behind him, “I hope you have a good day together. I’ll see you both at dinner.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, you could feel your mom’s relief. You took a step towards her. “Mom, are you–“

“This is such a lovely home,” she said, stepping past you to look into the living room.

You blinked after her, trying to track what was happening. “Oh, um, thank you. We’re actually moving soon, though. Before the baby comes. We found a house we both really like.”

She looked at you, surprised. “He let you help decide?”

There was something about the question that made your heart crack, just a little. You weren’t sure yet who for. “Yeah, Mom. We discussed what we wanted. We’ll both be living there, after all.”

She opened her mouth to respond before she was distracted by Lola running into the room and jumping up onto the couch. “Oh!” your mom exclaimed. “I didn’t know you still had your little dog!”

You did your best to ignore the implication of that—that she’d assumed Ransom would make you give her up—and went to Lola to scratch behind her ears. “Of course, I do. Lola goes wherever I go, don’t you, baby?”

You looked up to find your mom staring at you, her expression tricky to read. There was relief there, first and foremost, but something else you couldn't quite decipher. After a very long pause, she said very quietly, “He must be very fond of you.”

All you could do was blink at her for a moment. Then, “Yes, I think so. I think– We’re fond of each other. We get along well.” It felt strange to talk about your relationship this way. It felt so new and– and delicate. And yours. You didn’t know how to talk about it with someone who hadn’t been there for the whole thing.

“He really isn’t so bad?” she asked with a hopeful tinge to her voice.

“No,” you said, “he’s not so bad at all. Now that I’ve gotten to know him.”

And at that, her body sagged. Like she’d finally released a breath she’d been holding for the last eight months. Her eyes were watery when she looked you in the eyes and said, her voice shaking a little, “That’s good. That’s so good.”

You took a step towards her and held out one hand. “Mom,” you asked, “are you alright?”

“Of course,” she said, too quickly, with a wobbly smile. “I’m just so happy to see you.”

“Yeah,” you said, but kept a careful eye on her. “Me too, Mom.”

You were able to busy yourself for a few minutes by preparing a few mugs of herbal tea for both of you before you settled on the couch in the living room with her.

Once you were seated, she put a hesitant hand on your stomach with a soft smile. “You’re glowing,” she said. “Is everything going well with the baby so far?”

“Yeah, I think so. The doctor doesn’t have any concerns right now. And they’ve started moving. It’s wild to think that there’s an actual person growing in there. I’m really looking forward to meeting them. And I think Ransom’s getting excited too.”

Her smile shifted a little. “Men are always excited to meet their sons.” And at that, you couldn’t help the way your smile dropped. Your mom noticed, of course. “Have you found out the baby’s sex yet?”

You turned away some as you shook your head. “No,” you said very quietly. “That appointment’s next week.”

“Do you have a feeling either way?” your mother asked urgently.

“No,” you lied. Of course, you had an inkling. One that had been growing stronger every day. But you hadn’t dared voice that feeling yet. It was too terrifying. “I have no idea. I just want them to be safe and healthy.”

“Sweetheart,” she placed a hand on yours, demanding your attention. “That– No, you can’t afford to think that way. You need to be prepared in case the worst happens.”

“The worst?” you asked, voice small, unable to look at her.

“There’s no greater heartbreak than having a daughter.”

You almost gasped, the words hitting you right in your chest, deep and sharp. You couldn’t help the way your hands came up to cradle your stomach, wanting to protect the person inside if you couldn't protect yourself. “Mom,” you whispered, torn apart.

“Honey, I love you so much. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. But– But men want sons. Especially for the first one. They need heirs. And you and your children won’t be truly safe until you give Ransom an heir. I’m sorry, but it’s true. You must remember what it was like when your father died without an heir.”

“I–“ you started, but came up short. Your earliest memories were all a blur. You remembered feelings. Fear of your father. And then panic after he died. But nothing specific.

“It was the scariest time of my life. Even scarier than when I first married him. Because he died without an heir, because I hadn’t given him one, everything reverted back to his family. And my family wouldn’t take us back. You and I, we had nothing. Honey, I didn’t know where we were going to sleep or how I was going to feed you. I was so terrified. If I’d had a son, none of that would have happened. And I tried, after you were born, I tried so hard to give your father what he wanted. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t give him another child, a son, so when he died, I had to do everything I could to find someone else to take care of us. We’re so lucky that Joseph was willing to take us in, that he already had an heir, and that he didn’t need that from me. He saved us.

“I don’t want any of that for you. Ransom is fond of you. That’s good. He’ll forgive you if this baby isn’t a boy. But if it isn’t, you need to try to have a son again as soon as you can. You can’t hesitate. You never know what might happen.”

“Mom, please–“

She gripped your hands tightly, “I know this is difficult to hear, but you need to listen to me. This is so important. I don’t want you to go through what I went through. I want a better life for you. Do you understand?”

You swallowed harshly. She was looking at you with such desperation that for a long moment all you could do was nod. You believed Ransom when he said he cared about you, cared about this baby. But you’d also seen previously doting husbands turn cold when their hope of an heir, their legacy, came unfulfilled. As painful as it was, your mother was right. You couldn’t afford to ignore everything that was at stake here.

“Yes, Mom,” you finally answered, voice rough. “I understand.”

She exhaled in relief as her grip on your hands lessened but didn’t disappear. “Honey, even though you weren’t the heir your father wanted, I was so happy when I finally got to meet you. I didn’t have to be alone anymore. You’ve always been the greatest joy of my life. And no matter what happens, this baby will be that for you too. You’re going to be such a wonderful mother. I just know it.”

You blinked back the tears threatening to spill over your lashes. Your heart was breaking for numerous reasons you couldn’t even name. You moved one hand from her grasp and used it to gently cradle your stomach. “I hope so,” you said, too quietly. “I want to be good for them.”

“You will be,” she said, with one final, loving pat to your hand. Then she reached for her tea and began to ask you about your new house. And you tried to pretend like everything was fine.

You got to the restaurant at the country club feeling raw and anxious. You’d wanted to enjoy your day with your mom, but her words from this morning were hanging over your head.

Ransom and Joseph were already at the table. Ransom with a shit-eating grin on his face while Joseph looked thunderous. Ransom stood to greet you as soon as you were at the table, with a gentle kiss on your cheek. With a wary eye towards Joseph, you asked, “How was the golf?”

Ransom’s grin got even bigger. “I think it went pretty well!” he said, surprisingly brightly, loud enough for the whole table to hear. “Especially for my very first time. I won by three strokes!”

“Goddamn beginner’s luck,” Joseph grumbled under his breath from his side of the table, where your mom was already sitting stiffly next to him. He barely acknowledged her.

You looked back at Ransom, slightly confused. Just last week he’d told you he was an experienced golfer. At his subtle wink, you had to work hard to stifle your laughter. You couldn’t think of anything that would piss off Joseph more than being beaten by a supposed beginner.

“How was your day together?” Ransom asked as he pulled out your chair for you.

“It was nice,” you said. And parts of it were. The little girl inside you would always be happy to see your mom. Even if every flinch, every sigh, every piece of advice felt like a dire warning for the life you could have, the person you could become if you weren’t very, very careful. You smiled over at her, and she smiled back, even if it was a little fragile.

Joseph rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Lydia’s been very excited to see you. Hopefully she got all that chattering out of her system.”

And just like that, your mom shrank back down, like she was trying to take up as little space at this table as possible. Joseph saved us. Your mother’s words from that morning echoed in your head. Had the cost been worth it? Had any of this ever been worth it?

Ransom leaned forward. “She’s been really looking forward to your visit, too.” He said to your mother, sincerely. “I hope it was a really good day.”

She looked up at him briefly before looking away again. “Yes, it was,” she said very softly. “Thank you.”

You reached under the table and grabbed Ransom’s hand. He didn’t react, but he gave your fingers a reassuring squeeze.

Joseph spent most of the dinner only talking to Ransom, which was honestly fine with you. You tried to engage your mom in conversation on your end of the table, but now that the two of you were no longer alone, she didn’t have much to say. Her eyes kept darting nervously to where the men were talking.

You didn’t catch what prompted it, but your attention was caught when Joseph laughed, “You’ll feel differently once your own son is born in a few months!”

Your son your son your son

But this baby isn’t a boy something inside you responded with a certainty you could not have. There was no way to know that. There was no reason to be so sure.

You were too busy spiraling to catch if and how Ransom responded. But then Joseph turned to you and captured all of your attention. “And look at you, Sweetheart,” he said, his tone slick and smug and awful, “you’re glowing. Don’t you feel silly for the scene you made that night? I told you it was just cold feet.”

Your heart lurched at his words. You didn’t have to pause to try to remember what he was talking about. That awful night when you’d gone to the man who’d raised you since you were six years old and begged him to have a shred of humanity and not all but sell you to a stranger. The night your step-father had laughed at you and patronized you and turned you away. The night your entire world had come crashing down and this man who was supposed to be your family hadn’t cared.

You knew you should say something. You knew you should stand up for yourself, but all you could do was choke on the words as you felt yourself going back in time. As you remembered how completely terrified you’d been.

Ransom went completely still next to you, still holding your hand under the table. “Cold feet?” he asked, his head tilting dangerously. “What are you talking about?”

Joseph seemed to be the only one who hadn’t noticed how tense the atmosphere had gotten. He chuckled. “Oh, she came to me after your first dinner. Fussing about the pregnancy clause. She begged me not to make her go through with the arrangement.” He rolled his eyes. “I told her she was being ridiculous, of course. That there was a lot more riding on this than some silly girl’s nerves over being a mother. And look at her now! I was right. Everything worked out fine.”

Ransom got very, very quiet. The only part of him that moved was a muscle in his jaw that ticked angrily. You squeezed his hand under the table, unsure of what he was going to do. And equally unsure if you wanted to stop him or not.

But before anyone else could say anything, your mom rushed in, her voice panicked and urgent, even as she tried to keep her tone light. “Oh, no, but– But she didn’t mean anything by it! All girls get nervous! It’s normal! It wasn’t anything against you! She just– She– She–“

“My god, Lydia,” Joseph interrupted. “What are you babbling about?”

Your mom went silent, but her eyes stayed on Ransom, desperate, pleading.

You felt Ransom take a deep breath and force his body to relax. He leaned across the table to your mom and said, voice calm and reassuring. “I would never be upset with her for being scared. I promise.” But as he turned from her to Joseph, you watched his face turn to stone. “But I can’t imagine ever turning away my own child if they were that scared of something.”

“It isn’t like she’s my actual child,” Joseph scoffed. “And she was overreacting, being dramatic. Everything turned out fine!”

Ransom’s eyes narrowed as he hummed in thought. “You think you’d be a little more grateful to her, considering the fact that you’ve been trying to get the rights to Harlan’s works for decades without any luck. The only thing that made the deal go through this time was the fact that her addition finally made the pot sweet enough. So it might be a good idea to remember, if I were you, that the one thing holding together the only significant rights deal your flagging studio has had in years is the woman sitting next to me. Just a thought.” And then, just like that, he went back to eating his steak, like nothing had happened. But the hand holding yours shifted so that he could thread your fingers together.

You were quiet on the car ride home. Saying goodbye to your mom had been difficult, even as much as you were ready for your life to go back to normal, whatever that might be. She’d hugged you so tight. You hadn’t wanted to let go.

You were leaning your head against the window, watching the world go by in the dark, when Ransom cleared his throat. “And I thought Linda was a piece of work.” His attempt at humor hung in the air awkwardly. You didn’t say anything or turn to look at him. You were too tired.

“Sorry,” he said after another few long, silent moments. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you said into the window. “I’m fine.” You knew he hated that word, but you didn’t know what else to say.

It was quiet as Ransom merged onto the highway, and then he tried again. “How old was your mom when she had you?”

That finally got you to turn your head. “What?”

He glanced over at you before returning his eyes to the road. “She was a lot younger than I expected.”

You gave him a confused look. “You met her before, didn’t you? At the wedding.”

He sighed and looked at you again. “That was a hard day. There was a lot that never really registered,” he answered, somewhat sheepishly. “And so today, I was surprised. I expected someone older.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “She was twenty with me.”

“Shit,” he mumbled to himself. “And your dad?” he asked, like he didn’t really want to know the answer.

You shrugged, shrinking in on yourself, just a bit. “I don’t know. I was really little, and– I don’t know. Old enough to have a heart attack, I guess.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ransom muttered to himself again.

He didn’t say anything else, but you were finally ready to talk. You had too many words swirling around in your head to be able to stop them from tumbling out of your mouth. “She was really afraid of you. Did you notice that?” You didn’t wait for him to respond. “Really scared. At first, I thought it was so weird. She doesn’t really know you, why would– And then I wondered if maybe she was just afraid of all men. Given her track record– But tonight, during dinner, it clicked. She’s afraid of you because if you got upset about anything, you could take it out on me. That’s what had her terrified. And then I realized, all the advice and the ‘just keep him happy’ and the letting me learn how to cook and how to dance and, and– She thinks she’s protecting me. And she is. I guess. In the only way she knows how. And I want to be grateful for it. I– I do. I am. Maybe. But, god, she still handed me the pen!”

“What pen?” Ransom asked, and you suddenly realized that you weren’t just exorcising your turbulent thoughts into the ether but having a real conversation. With your husband.

You swallowed hard, trying to will yourself to stay in the present instead of hurtling back in time to that awful day that started everything. “When they first showed me the contract for our marriage. When they made me sign it. She’s the one who handed me the pen. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Ransom didn’t say anything. He didn’t even take his eyes off the road. But he took his right hand off the steering wheel and extended it over the gear shaft to cover both of your hands in your lap. And he maybe didn’t know what to say, but this– It was enough.

A week later, you could tell Ransom was concerned as you walked into the clinic together. You knew why. You’d been quiet all day. Nauseous. Today was the day it could all fall apart.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked as you sat in the waiting room.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said quietly.

That just seemed to worry him more. “Are you sure? Did you eat today?”

“Yes, Ransom, I did,” you lied. “I said I was fine.”

“Is it the baby? They’re healthy, I’m sure. It’s going to be alright.”

You almost laughed in his face. This appointment was not going to be all right. That, you knew for certain. Instead, you just said, “Yes, I know, Ransom,” unable to keep the irritation out of your tone.

He didn’t say anything else, but you could feel him watching you until your name was finally called.

The appointment was going fine. The baby was healthy, a good size. Everything looked the way it was supposed to. You wished you could take comfort in that.

Ransom was staring at the screen of the ultrasound. “Wow,” he said, his voice full of awe and a soft smile on his face. “They’re starting to look like an actual baby.” He looked to you, to share in it, and you found it easier than you expected to smile back. He was so happy. You had to savor it. Especially since you were so scared that he’d no longer be looking at you like that in just a few minutes.

Sooner than you were ready for, Dr. Patel said the words you’d been dreading. “So,” she asked with a grin, “are we learning the sex of the baby today?”

Ransom’s smile got even bigger, eager. “Yea–“

“No!” You interrupted, too loud, too fast. This hadn’t been your plan, but the panic had overtaken you, and you were operating purely on instinct now. “No, we don’t want to find out!”

“What?” Ransom’s shock may have gotten to you if your heartbeat wasn’t so loud in your ears.

“We don’t want to find out,” you repeated, urgently, shaking your head too hard.

He was staring at you. They both were. But you couldn’t do anything about it. You were too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

That got a little easier when your husband finally turned his attention away from you. “Could you give us a minute?”

“Of course,” she said with a tight smile. Then everyone but you and Ransom left the room.

At first, Ransom didn’t say anything. He just held your hand, his thumb sweeping across it in soothing arcs. After a few minutes, his voice impossibly soft, he started a steady tide of comforting murmurs. “Hey, it’s okay, honey. You’re alright. You’re safe. Everything’s okay. Just breathe with me, honey. I’m right here with you. You’re okay.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself be comforted by it, even if you knew it couldn’t last. After several minutes of that, you’d calmed down enough for him to attempt a real conversation. “I guess we probably should have talked about it first,” he said, keeping that same impossibly soft tone, “but I assumed you’d be excited to find out. I’m really excited to find out.”

At that, you tried to close your eyes even tighter, tears leaking out from the force of it, falling down your cheeks.

His thumb paused, for just a beat, then continued to sweep across your skin. “Honey. Please look at me. It’s okay, I promise. I just want you to look at me.” It took all the strength in you, but after a long moment, you forced your eyes open and finally looked at Ransom. His expression was terribly worried, but he let out a small breath in relief once he could see your eyes. “Okay, can you tell me why that was the wrong thing to say?”

This was the last conversation you wanted to have, but you knew you had no choice, so you powered through as best you could. “You’re excited to find out this baby’s your heir. That’s what you’re excited for.”

“What?” The worry on his face was replaced with sheer confusion. “Honey, I don’t give a shit if this baby’s my heir.”

“Yes, you do,” you countered, voice firm. “You might not know that you do, but you do. All men do, whether you realize it or not.” He opened his mouth to reply, but you kept going before he was able to get any words out. “And I’m not upset with you for that. I’m not. I understand. And I’m not afraid you’ll do something to me if they aren’t the boy you want. I know you won’t. I trust you. I know you’ll even still try to love this baby, but… I just– I just can’t see the disappointment on your face when you find out. I just can’t. I think it will break my heart completely, and I– Maybe it’ll be better if you find out when they’re born. Maybe it’ll be harder to be disappointed when there’s a real baby in your arms instead of just the idea of one. Maybe it won’t. Maybe you’ll still be upset. But I just can’t see your disappointment today. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

Ransom was very quiet for a long time. You didn’t say anything either. You didn’t have anything else to say. You just stared at his hand, still holding yours. Finally, he spoke, his voice surprisingly rough. “You know, there’s a lot I’ve been thinking about lately. A lot of things I’m really worried about. One of the biggest ones is the idea of a little me running around. I was a pretty terrible kid. An awful teenager. A shit twenty-something. I think of a son, and I think of all of the mistakes I’ve ever made. I worry that he won’t be able to escape them. But you know what doesn’t worry me? The thought of a little you. Beautiful. Kind. Funny. Unbelievably brave. That’s who I see when I close my eyes and imagine our child.” He paused, thoughtful, and squeezed your hand. “Either way, the thing I most want for this baby is that they have all the best parts of you and none of the worst parts of me. That’s what’s most important to me. I don’t give a shit about the rest of it.”

You felt another wave of tears fall down your face. Later, maybe you’d be able to tell him all the ways you hoped your child was just like him, all the things of his that you wanted them to inherit, but for now, all you could say was, “You mean it?”

“Yes,” he said, so solemnly, looking you dead in the eyes. “I mean it.”

You took a deep breath. “Okay,” you whispered, not able to get any louder.

“Yeah? Okay? Should we let Dr Patel back in? Are you ready to find out?”

You took another deep breath. And then another. And then you nodded. At least now you would know for sure. Either way.

The doctor and the tech came back in. More gel was squeezed onto your stomach. The baby’s placement was found again. The wand maneuvered around. And then, with a careful smile, a little wary of the news she was about to deliver, Dr. Patel said, “Congratulations. You’re having a girl.”

Your breath stopped again, and your eyes flew to Ransom. He was staring at you. A wide smile on his face. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “It’s okay?” you asked, voice shaking.

“It’s incredible,” he beamed, placing a happy kiss against your forehead. “It’s absolutely incredible.”

Exhaling a breath you felt like you’d been holding for weeks, you finally let yourself let go of some of your worry, just for now, and feel the same joy he felt. You smiled back at him. It was incredible. You were having a girl.

Tag List:

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The slow, steady thud of his shoes is in dichotomy with your racing heartbeat. He's blocking the only exit, the flashing red sign above the door might as well be miles away. You sprint to your left, scrambling up the stairs to the stage.

Bucky removes his jacket, tossing it on an empty table, watching you search for an escape you won't find.

"Now you can come down here and apologize." Bucky offers, stopping in front the stage, his head tilting back to gaze up at you. "Or I can come up there and make you."

"Fuck you."

Bucky shrugs with coy amusement. "Don't worry Kisa, you will. I'd never deny my sweet little wife anything when she asks so nicely."

You glance over your shoulder, calculating your chances of getting away when a soft rustle sends your head turning back in time to see Bucky gracefully hoisting himself up on the stage. His lithe agility highlights the sheer power lying underneath his tailored suit.

"I'm not yours," you snarl, stepping back. "I'm not your fucking wife."

Bucky grins, his brows raising playfully.

That's technically true.

An egregious oversight that he plans on correcting.

Tonight.

He reaches out, his fingers clasps over your wrist and he pulls you into his firm chest. You raise your fist but he manages to get both of your hands behind your back, manhandling with an ease you resent.

You caught him looking at the kiss cam, worrying his plump bottom lip between his teeth. All you want to do is sweep your tongue across it before pulling him in for a kiss.

If he only knew how much you want him, he wouldn't be staring so hard at the floor when the camera finally swings your way.

"Hey," you whisper, leaning into him. "Cmere handsome and kiss me."

His head snaps, wide blue eyes landing on your face. "I- really?" he huffs out with a small grin.

You press your lips into his, softly at first, and wait for him to make a move.

For a breath, he pauses, and then he feels your soft lips part and something inside him awakens.

His tongue delves between your lips, his hands cradling your head tilting you back, his lips slotting over yours, the kiss is raw, passionate, and tender. He moans into your mouth and you feel it.

The kiss lingers, he keeps taking more and more until you're clutching the front of his shirt. You've never been kissed like this and as he moves your head again to deepen the kiss, you know you'll never want anyone else's lips on you again.

The kiss gradually winds down to soft swipes of his lips as if he's imprinting you on him. He pulls away so reluctantly that you find yourself lifting your chin wanting more of his sweet, sinful mouth.

"Damn."

You both look over to see the entire row staring at both of you. And the row above you and the one below you. Bucky blushes, his cheeks turning a deep red. Heat floods your face and you shift in your seat.

Bucky groans a soft holy shit, his eyes drift down and you watch his swollen lips go slack. You follow his gaze to see you're not in your hard chair anymore, you're on his lap with your hands tangled in his shirt.

You laugh, a nervous broken sound, as you slide off his thick thighs. "Sorry," you mumble, hiding your face behind your hands.

Bucky turns to you, his fingers wrapping around your wrists, tugging them down just below your eyes. "I-" he clears his throat, "you can do whatever you want to me, anytime, anywhere, I'm all yours."

"Damn. Lucky"

You don't look away, content to bask in his warm smile. Just below the surface of his vibrant blue eyes is a flash of feral desire, you tamp down to the urge to preen under his heady gaze. You're right. There is more to your sweet, shy baker.

And you can't wait to discover every last bit of him. One kiss at a time.

She heard him dust his boots heavily on the porch, then the door opened, and he stepped inside, bringing the cold air and the smell of pine and sweat with him. His eyes found her immediately, still standing by the stove where she'd been keeping the stew warm.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

She felt her face heat under his gaze, and her hands tightened on the wooden spoon she was holding.

"You're home," she managed, and immediately felt foolish. Of course he was home. She could see him standing right there.

But his expression softened slightly, and he set down his lunch pail by the door.

"I am," The words came out rough. Like he'd been working hard. Or thinking hard. Or both.

He shrugged out of his coat, hung it on the peg, and crossed the small space between them in a few strides.

She tensed with anticipation, expecting him to reach for her, to pull her close the way he had last night. But he stopped just in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at him, and his hand came up to cup her face instead.

Gentle. Almost careful.

"Feelin’ alright?" he asked quietly.

The question caught her off guard. She'd expected... well, she wasn't sure what she'd expected. But not that.

"I'm fine," she said honestly.

His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, and something flickered in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or concern.

"Any discomfort?"

She shook her head.

He studied her face for another moment, like he was checking for signs she might be lying to spare his feelings. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead -brief, almost chaste- before stepping back.

"Smells good," he said, nodding toward the stove. "What is it?"

"Stew," she answered still processing the gentleness of that kiss. "It's been ready for a while. I was just keeping it warm."

"Sounds good." He moved past her toward the washbasin, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm starvin’."

She turned back to the stove, ladling stew into bowls, and tried to ignore the way her heart was still racing.

It was so stupid that the fact that he was careful and gentle with her still affected her, but she was still getting used to it. To matter. To have a voice. To like and dislike things and be checked on. To be cherished.

“Do you want to wash after you are done?” she heard herself ask without thinking.

He paused, his hands stilling in the basin where he'd been splashing water on his face. Then he straightened, reaching for the towel she kept hanging nearby, and turned to look at her.

"After dinner?" he repeated, like he was making sure he'd heard her right.

She nodded, focusing very hard on ladling the stew into the second bowl. "I could heat water for the tub. If you'd like."

There was a pause, just long enough that she glanced up to see if something was wrong.

He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Something between surprised and... pleased, maybe.

"Yeah," he said finally, his voice a little rougher. "That'd be good."

She nodded and carried the bowls to the table, setting them down with hands that were steadier than she felt.

Offering to heat his bathwater wasn't scandalous. It was a perfectly normal thing for a wife to do for her husband after a long day of work.

Except they both knew what had happened the last time she'd helped him bathe.

When she'd washed his back with careful hands. When he'd been sitting in the tub and she'd been close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. When the air between them had been charged with something unspoken and inevitable.

And now -after last night- there was nothing unspoken left.

She sat down across from him at the table, smoothing her skirt unnecessarily, and picked up her spoon.

He did the same, taking a bite of the stew and making a low sound of approval.

"This is good," he said. "Real good."

"Thank you."

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but weighted with awareness. Of each other. Of what had happened. Of what would happen again.

Eventually, he cleared his throat.

"Had a hell of a time concentratin' today," he said, not quite meeting her eyes.

She looked up. "Oh?"

"Yeah." He took another bite, chewed, swallowed. "Miller nearly had to pull me out of the way of a fallin' log. And Davidson caught me splittin' the same piece of wood three times without realizin' it."

Her eyebrows rose. "That doesn't sound like you."

"It ain't." He finally looked at her then, and there was something in his gaze that made her stomach flip. "Kept thinkin' about last night."

Heat flooded her face instantly.

"About you," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "About comin' home to you."

She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know if she was supposed to say anything.

But he didn't seem to expect a response. Just went back to his stew, though she could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw worked as he chewed.

Like he was holding himself back from saying -or doing- something more.

They finished the meal in that same charged silence, and when he pushed his bowl away, she stood to clear the table.

His hand slowly caught her wrist as she reached for his bowl.

She looked at him, her pulse jumping.

"I meant what I said," he said quietly. "About givin' you time. Few days, at least."

She swallowed. "I know."

"But… that ain't mean I don't wanna touch you." His thumb brushed across the inside of her wrist, a slow movement that made her skin tingle. "If that's alright."

She thought about the way he'd looked at her when he came home. The careful way he'd touched her face. The kiss to her forehead that had been almost reverent.

She thought about the fact that she'd spent the entire day thinking about him too. About last night. About the future.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

His expression changed -something dark and satisfied crossing his face- and he released her wrist.

"Go on then," he said. "Heat the water. I'll clear the table."

"You just got home," she said, already moving toward the stove to check the water she'd kept simmering. " I'll handle it."

"If I help, you can get started sooner," he countered, already standing and reaching for his bowl. "And honestly, the idea of a bath sounds real good right now."

She couldn't argue with that logic.

They worked in tandem, her hauling the tub from its spot in the corner while he carried the first pot of hot water, both of them moving anticipating each other's movements.

By the time the tub was half-full, she'd settled onto the chair nearby the fire, waiting as he added the last pot of cold water to temper the heat.

He straightened, testing the temperature with his hand, then started unbuttoning his shirt.

She didn't look away.

There'd been a time when they'd given each other privacy for this. When she would've turned the chair to face the wall, or busied herself with some task on the other side of the room.

But that time had passed.

Now she watched as he shrugged out of his shirt, the firelight playing across his shoulders, highlighting the old scars she'd traced with her fingers more times than she could count. And the new ones, faint red lines down his back where her nails had raked him last night.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, catching her staring, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.

"Ain't fair, you know," he said, reaching for his belt. "You gettin' to look while I can't."

"I'm not the one getting in the bath," she deadpaned.

"True." He unfastened his belt, pushed his trousers down, and stepped out of them. Then his drawers followed, and he was bare, crossing the short distance to the tub without a hint of self-consciousness.

She'd seen him naked before. Many times, especially over the past two months. But there was something different about watching him now, in the firelight, knowing what it felt like to have that body covering hers. Inside hers.

He stepped into the tub with a low groan of relief, sinking down into the water until it lapped at his chest.

"Christ, that's good," he muttered, his head falling back against the rim.

She stood, collecting his discarded clothes and adding them to the basket near the door, very aware of his eyes tracking her movements.

When she turned back, he was watching her with an expression that made her stomach flip.

"You gonna help me?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "Help you?"

"Yeah." He shifted in the tub, settling deeper. "I'm real tired. And last time you helped -when I had that cut on my hand- it was..." He paused, and she could see he was fighting a smile. "Real helpful."

She crossed her arms, trying to hide a smile. "You seem perfectly capable of washing yourself."

"Do I?" His voice had dropped lower, rougher. "Because I'm rememberin' how good it felt when you did it. Your hands in my hair. On my back."

Heat crept up her neck at the memory. At the intimacy of it, of touching him like that, tending to him.

"That was different," she said. "You were actually injured."

"I'm injured now," he said, deadpan. "Emotionally. From workin' all day thinkin' about my wife and not bein' able to do anythin' about it."

Despite herself, she felt her lips twitch.

"That's not a real injury."

"Feels real to me." He held her gaze, and the playfulness faded slightly, replaced by something more serious. More intent. "Come here."

It wasn't quite a command. More like an invitation. A request.

She crossed to the tub without hesitation and knelt beside it. His eyes tracked her movements, and when she reached for the soap, his hand caught her wrist.

Gently. Like he'd done at the dinner table.

"I promised I'd give you time," he said quietly. "And I meant it. But I want to touch you. Want you to touch me. That alright?"

She looked at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the tension in his jaw, at the way he was holding himself still despite clearly wanting more.

He was asking. Checking. Making sure she was comfortable.

Just like he had last night.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

His grip on her wrist loosened, and he released her with what looked like effort.

"Good." he said, his voice rough.

----

She worked the soap between her hands until it lathered, then pressed her palms to his back. He made a low sound -half groan, half sigh- and let his head fall forward, giving her access.

She started at his shoulders, working the soap across the muscles, feeling the tension there start to ease under her touch. Then down his spine, she let her thumbs press on either side, the way she'd discovered he liked weeks ago and felt him exhale slowly, deeply.

Her hands knew this body now. Knew the old scars, the puckered one on his left shoulder blade, the long raised line that ran from shoulder to spine. Knew the new marks too, the faint red scratches she'd left last night, already fading but still visible in the firelight.

Evidence of what they'd done. What they'd become to each other.

"Lean forward," she said quietly.

He did, bracing his forearms on his knees, and she reached for the cup sitting beside the tub.

She poured water over his head slowly, watching it darken his hair from brown to almost black, watching it run in rivulets down his neck and shoulders. Then she set the cup aside and worked the soap through the wet strands.

Her fingers found his scalp, and she began to massage in slow, deliberate circles.

The sound he made was involuntary. Deep and rough and so unguarded that it sent a flutter through her stomach.

"That's..." He trailed off, seeming to lose the words.

"Good?" she offered, her fingers still working, applying gentle pressure as she moved across his scalp.

"Yeah." His voice had gone thick. "Real good."

She took her time with it. Working the soap through every strand, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made his breathing deepen. She'd done this once before when he'd injured his hand, but that had been different. An assistance.

This was something else.

When she was satisfied, she rinsed his hair carefully, filling the cup again and again, pouring the water slowly so the soap wouldn't run into his eyes. Making sure to get every bit of lather out, combing through the strands with her fingers.

She set the cup aside and sat back slightly, her hands stilling.

He started to reach for the soap, but she picked it up first.

His hand stilled in mid-air, suspended between them.

"I can-" he started, his voice careful.

"I know you can," she said simply.

She dampened and worked more soap in her hands until they had a lot of lather, and waited.

For a moment, he just looked at her. She could see him processing what she was offering. What she was saying without words.

That she wasn't finished. That she wanted to keep touching him.

Then, slowly, like he was afraid sudden movement might break whatever spell this was, he settled back against the tub. His arms came to rest along the rim, palms up, open.

Giving her access.

She brought the cloth to his chest, and his breathing changed immediately, deeper, more controlled, as she began to work the soap across his skin.

She started at his collarbone, tracing the hard line of it from shoulder to shoulder. Then down, over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath. She could feel his heartbeat under her hand, strong and steady but faster than normal.

He was affected by this. By her touch.

She moved her hand in slow, careful circles. Across to his left side, feeling his ribs expand and contract with each breath. Then back to center and across to the right. Thorough. Methodical.

But not impersonal.

She was hyperaware of every point of contact. Of the way his skin felt warm and slick from the water. The way his muscles tensed slightly when she touched certain spots. Of the way he was watching her through half-lidded eyes, his jaw tight.

His eyes had closed at some point, but she could see his hands gripping the edge of the tub, knuckles pale. He was holding himself very still. Letting her work. Not reaching for her even though she could see he wanted to.

She moved lower.

Over his stomach, feeling the muscle shift under her touch. Her hand traced the line where his torso met his hips, where the hair grew thicker, and she felt him tense.

His eyes opened.

She met his gaze -steady, deliberate- and brought her hand beneath the water.

Down, over his hip. Along his thigh.

And then, because there was no reason not to, because this was part of washing him, just like everything else, she brought it between his legs.

His breath caught audibly when her fingers made contact.

She worked carefully, the same way she'd washed the rest of him. Trying to be practical about it, though there was nothing clinical about the way her own heart was racing now. About the way her face felt warm despite the cool air in the cabin.

She felt him harden under her touch, the change immediate and undeniable, but kept her movements steady. Thorough. Washing him the way he'd need to be washed, trying not to think about the fact that she was touching him there.

When she shifted slightly to reach more thoroughly, his hips shifted forward involuntarily,  a sharp, sudden movement that made the water slosh slightly in the tub.

Chasing the contact.

He caught himself immediately, forced his hips back down, and she heard him exhale through clenched teeth.

"Can't help it, sweetheart," he said, his voice wrecked. Strained. "You touch me like that, I-"

He cut himself off, gripping the tub harder, his whole body gone rigid with the effort of not moving. Of not reaching for her. Of not asking for more than she was offering.

"I know," she said quietly, and meant it.

She could see what this was doing to him. Could see it written in every line of his body, the tension, the restraint, the way he was barely holding himself together.

But he wasn't asking her to stop, or to do more. He was just letting her touch him, letting her explore. Letting her learn him at her own pace.

She finished washing him, moving the cloth down his thighs, along his calves, even taking each foot in turn and working the soap carefully between his toes.

When she was done, she rinsed her hands and rested it in her thighs, very aware that her sleeves were damp from the water. That her face was heated. That her breathing wasn't entirely steady.

And he was sitting there in the cooling water, his eyes on her, his chest rising and falling with breaths that were deeper than they should be.

Then he exhaled slowly and opened his eyes fully.

"Thank you," he said.

She nodded, not trusting her own voice, and stood.

"I'll get you a towel," she managed.

She crossed to the chest where they kept the linens, taking perhaps a moment longer than necessary to find one. Using the time to steady herself. To slow her breathing.

Behind her, she heard him shift in the water. Heard the quiet splash and the sound of water streaming off his body as he stood.

When she turned back, towel in hand, he was standing in the tub, water sluicing off his skin in rivulets that caught the firelight.

She could see all of him.

His broad shoulders. His chest. His stomach. The dark hair that trailed down from his navel. His thighs, thick with muscle.

And between them, the evidence of exactly how much her touch had affected him.

Still hard. Still wanting.

She felt her face heat again, felt that now-familiar flutter low in her belly, but she didn't look away, didn't drop her gaze or pretend she hadn't seen.

Just held out the towel.

He stepped out of the tub carefully, water dripping onto the floor, and reached for it.

But instead of taking the towel immediately, his hand caught hers.

Gently. The way he'd done at the dinner table earlier.

He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Slowly. His lips were warm and soft against her skin.

His eyes held hers the entire time.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he said quietly, his voice still rough with want. With restraint. "You know that?"

She didn't know what to say to that.

Didn't know if there was anything she could say that would adequately express what she was feeling, the strange mix of power and vulnerability, of curiosity and nervousness, of wanting to touch him more and being afraid of what might happen if she did.

So she just stood there, her hand still caught in his, her heart pounding.

Then he released her and took the towel, wrapping it around his waist with movements that were just slightly less controlled than usual and walked to the bed.

"Come here," he said quietly.

She complied, and he reached for her hand, pulling her down to sit beside him. For a moment, they just sat there. Close but not touching beyond where his hand still held hers.

Then he brought their joined hands to his lap and traced his thumb across her knuckles.

"You didn't have to do that," he said quietly. "Wash me like that."

"I know."

"But you did anyway."

She nodded.

"Why?"

The question was gentle, curious. Not demanding. She considered it for a moment, then chose to be honest.

"Because I wanted to," she said finally. Simply. “Wanted to help you, and… wanted to touch you.”

His thumb stilled on her hand.

"You wanted to," he repeated, like he was testing the words.

"Yes."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "You tell me, sweetheart. Am I pushin' too hard? Askin' for too much?"

She looked at him, at the genuine concern in his eyes, the way he was watching her like her answer actually mattered, and felt something warm settle in her chest.

"No," she said firmly. "You're not."

"You'd tell me if I was?"

"I would."

He studied her face for another moment, then nodded, seeming satisfied.

"Good," he said. "Because the last thing I want is for you to feel like you have to... like any of this is somethin' you're doin' out of duty."

"It's not," she said quietly. "I promise."

He swallowed, and she watched his throat work with the motion. Then he shifted slightly on the bed, his thighs separating just enough that the towel around his waist loosened, falling open slightly.

The evidence of his arousal was impossible to miss.

His hand tightened on hers for a moment, then released.

"Then," he said, his voice rough. "Would you be willin' to... help me with my situation?"

Her eyes flicked down, then back to his face.

She'd done this before. Multiple times, actually, in the weeks leading up to last night. He'd touched her, and both had discovered what she liked, what made her gasp and arch into his hand. And she'd explored him in return, learned the weight of him in her palm, the rhythm he preferred, the signs that told her he was close.

It had been part of learning each other. Part of him making sure she was comfortable with intimacy before they took that final step.

But somehow this time felt different. Maybe because now she knew what it felt like to have him inside her. Knew what he sounded like when he lost control completely.

"Alright," she said quietly.

His eyes darkened, and she saw relief and want on them.

She moved to stand between his knees, and he reached for the towel, pulling it away completely and tossing it aside. Then his hands came to rest lightly on her hips.

"You don't have to," he said, even though she'd already agreed. "If you're too tired, or if-"

"Bucky," she interrupted gently. "I said alright."

He exhaled slowly, and his grip on her hips tightened slightly.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, okay."

She started to reach for him, but the angle was awkward; she'd have to bend forward, lean down, and her back would start protesting within minutes.

He seemed to realize it at the same time she did.

"Here," he said, releasing her hips. "Get the stool. You'll be more comfortable."

She retrieved the small wooden stool they kept by a corner and positioned it between his knees. When she sat, his hands settled on her thighs this time, palms warm even through her skirts.

She wrapped her hand around him, and he made a sound -low and rough- that sent heat pooling down her belly.

"Christ," he muttered, his head falling back slightly. "Your hand’s so warm..."

She knew what he liked. Had learned it over the course of multiple evenings spent exploring each other, his patient instructions guiding her until she understood the pressure he needed, the rhythm that worked.

So she started the way she always did, slow and firm, her hand moving from base to tip and back again in long, steady strokes.

His hips shifted forward slightly, following the movement, and his hands tightened on her thighs.

"That's good," he said, his voice strained. "That's real good, sweetheart."

She kept the rhythm steady, watching his face. Watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his breathing went ragged, the way his eyes drifted closed.

His hands slid higher on her thighs, gripping through her skirts like he needed something to hold onto.

"Tighter," he said after a moment. "Can you- yeah, like that."

She adjusted her grip, and he groaned.

"Faster?"

"Not yet," he said, his voice tight. "Want it to last."

So she kept the pace slow. Deliberate. Let him feel every stroke.

One of his hands left her thigh and came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone in a gesture that was tender despite the explicit nature of what she was doing to him.

"You're so good to me," he said quietly, his eyes opening to meet hers. "So damn good."

She felt her face heat at the words, at the sincerity in them.

His hand slid from her face down to her neck, then lower, curving around her waist. His other hand stayed on her thigh, grounding, possessive in a way that made her stomach flutter.

"Okay," he said after another minute, his breathing harsher now. "Okay, faster now."

She increased the pace, her wrist working in the rhythm she knew he needed, and felt him tense beneath her touch.

"God, yes," he muttered. "Just like that, sweet girl. Don't stop."

His hips started moving in small thrusts, matching her rhythm, and she could feel him getting closer. Could see it in the way his whole body tensed, in the way his fingers dug into her waist, in the way his breathing had turned ragged and uneven.

"Darlin’," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "I'm gonna-”

He was trying to warn her. Trying to give her time to move her hand and let him take over, grab the towel, to do whatever she needed to do.

But she didn't pull away.

Just kept moving her hand, moving, steady and sure, the way he needed.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

His eyes locked on hers, and something in his expression shifted. Went dark, intense and full of want.

"Fuck," he breathed, and then his whole body went rigid.

She felt him pulse in her hand, felt the warmth spill over her fingers as he spent, his hips jerking forward with each wave. He made a sound -low and broken- and his hand came up to cover hers, holding her in place while he rode it out.

When it was over, he slumped forward slightly, his forehead pressing against her shoulder, his breathing ragged against her neck.

They stayed like that for a moment, her hand still wrapped around him, his face buried in the curve of her neck, both of them catching their breath.

Then he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes still dark but softer now.

"Sorry," he said, his voice rough. "Should've grabbed the towel, I just-"

"It's fine," she said.

He reached for the towel anyway, gently taking her hand and cleaning it carefully. When he was done, he cupped her face in both hands and kissed her. Slow and deep and grateful.

When he pulled back, he was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"You should get into your nightgown," he said finally. "Get comfortable."

She nodded and stood, retrieving her nightgown from beneath her pillow where she'd tucked it that morning. She crossed to the corner near the dresser where a small peg rack hung on the wall, beginning to unbutton her dress.

----

Behind her, she heard him move, the creak of the bed as he stood, his footsteps crossing to the water bucket. The sound of him drinking deeply, then setting the dipper back with a soft clatter.

Then she heard him chewing biscuits.

She rolled her eyes. They'd just eaten. The man had put away two full bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread less than an hour ago.

More drinking. Another swallow. Then silence.

She'd worked her dress off and draped it over the peg, then the petticoat, the corset. Her fingers moved to the ties of her drawers when she heard his footsteps again.

But they weren't heading back to the bed.

They were coming toward her.

She stilled, her hands on the waistband of her drawers, and then she felt him behind her. Close. Not touching yet, but close enough that she could feel his body heat.

His hands settled on her bare skin, one at the small of her back, the other at her shoulder blade, and began to stroke her naked skin in slow strokes. She shivered despite the warmth of the cabin.

"Wanna touch you now," he said quietly, his voice rough and low near her ear. "Is that alright?"

She almost chuckled. So that's why he'd told her to change.

She finished pushing her drawers down her hips and stepped out of them, straightening fully. His hands were still on her back, waiting for her answer.

"More than alright," she said.

She heard the shift in his breathing. Felt one hand slide around to her hip, holding her in place.

"Yeah?" His other hand moved up to her shoulder, his thumb stroking along her collarbone. "You sure?"

She hesitated, feeling heat creep up her neck. Then, because he'd been honest with her earlier about being distracted at work, she made herself say it.

"You're not the only one who spent today thinking about last night, Bucky," she admitted quietly. "I was... distracted too."

His hand on her hip tightened, and she felt him step closer. Close enough that his chest was nearly pressed against her back.

"That right?" he said, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice.

She nodded.

His hand slid from her hip upward, gliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. His palm was warm and calloused against her soft skin, and when his thumb found her nipple and began circling the areola in slow, deliberate strokes, she couldn't quite suppress the small sound that escaped her lips.

"What were you thinkin' about?" he asked, his mouth close to her ear now. "Specifically."

His thumb continued its maddening circles, not quite touching where she was starting to want him to touch, just tracing around and around until she felt her nipple tighten in response.

She swallowed, trying to find words while his hands were on her like this.

"About..." She paused, her breath catching when his thumb finally brushed directly over the peaked bud. "About how it felt. What you did."

"What I did," he repeated, his voice a low rumble against her back. His thumb rolled over her nipple again, more deliberately this time, and his other hand slid from her shoulder down to join the first, cupping her other breast. "Gonna need you to be more specific than that, sweetheart."

Both hands now, both thumbs working in tandem, and she had to brace one hand against the wall to steady herself.

"When you..." She took a shaky breath. "When you touched me. Before. And during."

"Durin’," he said, and there was something almost predatory in his tone now. Pleased. "You mean when I was inside you?"

"Yes," she managed.

His hands stilled for a moment, and then he turned her around to face him.

She found herself looking up at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the focus written across every line of his face.

"And what exactly were you thinkin' about that?" he asked, one hand coming up to cup her face while the other settled at her waist. "That… you wanted me to do it again?"

The directness of the question should have embarrassed her. Would have embarrassed her, even just yesterday.

But there was something about the way he was looking at her. The way his thumb was stroking along her cheekbone. The way he was asking instead of assuming.

"Eventually," she said honestly. "When... when it doesn't hurt anymore."

Something flickered in his expression, that guilt again, brief but unmistakable.

"It's gonna be a lot better next time," he said quietly.

"I know."

"When we do it again," he continued, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer, "it's gonna feel good. Real good. I'm gonna make sure of it."

She believed him. Because he'd already shown her what good felt like, with his hands, with his mouth, with the patient way he'd learned what made her gasp and arch into his touch.

"But right now," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I just wanna make you feel good. Can I do that?"

"Yes," she said.

His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Good," he said. "Now come here."

He guided her backward toward the bed, and she went willingly, her heart already racing in anticipation of what came next.

He stood in front of her for a moment, just looking. His eyes traced over her, bare and exposed in the firelight, and she fought the urge to cover herself.

She'd been naked in front of him many times before. But it still made her feel vulnerable in a way she couldn't quite explain.

"Lie back," he said quietly.

She did, scooting further onto the bed and settling against the pillows. He followed, moving onto the bed with her, bracing himself on one arm beside her while his other hand came to rest on her stomach.

"You're tense," he observed, his palm warm against her skin.

"I'm not-"

"You are." His hand moved in a slow circle, soothing. "Relax, sweetheart. I'm just gonna make you feel good. That's all."

She took a breath and tried to let the tension ease out of her shoulders.

His hand moved from her stomach upward, sliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. The touch was gentle at first, exploratory, almost.

"I didn't pay enough attention to these last night," he said, almost to himself. His thumb brushed across her nipple, and she felt it tighten in response. "Was too focused on gettin' inside you."

His hand shifted, and he cupped her other breast, giving it the same careful attention, testing its weight.

"But I got time now," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "And I'm gonna take it."

He lowered his head, and she felt his breath ghost across her skin a moment before his mouth closed over her nipple. The sensation made her gasp, wet heat and gentle suction that sent a jolt of feeling straight between her thighs.

His tongue slowly circled the peaked bud, and then he sucked again, harder this time, and her hands flew to his shoulders without conscious thought.

"Bucky-"

He hummed against her skin, and his hand came up to tend to her other breast while his mouth stayed busy.

His fingers found her nipple and pressed firmly under it, making her arch slightly into the touch. Then he pulled gently, tugging just enough that the sensation rode the line between pleasure and something more intense.

She whined  -helpless and uncontrolled- and felt him smile against her breast. He switched sides then, his mouth moving to the breast his hand had been tending while his fingers took over where his mouth had been.

The pattern repeated, his tongue circling and flicking, his lips suckling, his teeth grazing so lightly she barely felt it. And his hand, always his hand, pressing and tugging and coaxing her body to respond.

She could feel herself getting restless beneath him. Could feel heat building low in her belly, her thighs shifting against each other, seeking friction that wasn't there.

"Easy," he murmured against her skin. "Not rushin' this."

His mouth stayed on her breast, working her nipple with single-minded focus until it was hard and sensitive and slick from his attention. Then he moved to the other side again, giving it the same thorough treatment until both peaks were tight and aching and she was breathing harder than she meant to.

When he finally pulled back, she looked down to find him watching her with dark, intent eyes. Her breasts felt hot from his attention, her nipples darker and visibly wet, and she felt heat flood her face at the sight.

"Look at you," he said quietly, his hand coming up to cup one breast again, his thumb brushing over the sensitized peak and making her shiver. "So responsive. My wife."

He leaned down and pressed one more kiss to each nipple -soft, almost reverent- and then his hand began to move lower.

Down her stomach. Over her hip. Along her inner thigh.

"Now," he said, his voice rough with want, "let me take care of the rest of you."

His hand moved higher on her thigh, and she felt her legs part without him having to ask.

"That's it," he murmured, his palm warm against her inner thigh. "Just like that, sweetheart."

But then his other hand joined the first, and he pressed gently, urging her to open wider, spread more. She expected him to lower his head. To put his mouth on her the way he'd done before, the way that had made her forget her own name.

But he didn't.

Instead, he just... looked.

His thumbs traced along her soft curls, and then he gently parted her. Spreading her open. Exposing her completely to his gaze.

She felt her whole body tense with something that went beyond nervousness into outright mortification. It was one thing to let him touch her. To let him use his mouth on her. She'd gotten used to that over the past weeks, had learned to relax into the pleasure of it.

But this was different.

This was him looking at the most intimate part of her body with the focus he usually reserved for checking a piece of wood for flaws.

"Bucky," she managed, her voice thin. "What are you-"

She tried to close her legs, instinct taking over, but his hands stayed firm on her thighs.

"Wanna look at my wife proper," he said quietly, his eyes still fixed between her legs. "Wanna see if… if you're hurt. From last night."

The admission made her relax a little. He was just checking on her, making sure he hadn't done more damage than he'd realized.

"What's bothering me is inside," she said quietly. "I don't think you can see it."

He looked up at her then, and she saw something flicker across his face. Maybe the realization that he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for.

"Right," he said after a moment. "Yeah, that makes sense."

He seemed almost sheepish about it, and despite her discomfort, she felt a small flicker of affection.

Then his thumbs moved again, stroking gently along either side of her entrance.

"I'm not gonna use my fingers today," he said, lowering his head. "Just want to make you feel good. That alright?"

"Yes," she managed.

And then his mouth was on her.

The first touch of his tongue made her gasp, a broad, flat stroke that started low and dragged upward with deliberate slowness.

He did it again. And again. Long, slow licks that covered every inch of her, and made her remember with what made her twitch, what made her breathing hitch, what made her hands fly to his hair without meaning to.

His tongue circled her entrance gently, and she tensed slightly at the sensation.

He must have felt it, because he moved away immediately. Shifted his focus higher, to the small bundle of nerves that made her fall apart when he paid it the right kind of attention.

He settled there now, his tongue working in slow, deliberate circles while his hands held her thighs open. Keeping her spread for him. Keeping her exactly where he wanted her.

"Bucky," she breathed, and she felt him hum against her in response.

His hands moved from her thighs to her hips, holding her down. Not rough, but firm, keeping her still while he worked.

His tongue flicked faster now, more focused, and she felt that familiar tension start to build low in her belly. The sensation coiled tighter and tighter with each pass of his tongue.

She was dimly aware that her fingers had tightened in his hair. That she was making sounds she couldn't quite control. And he just kept going. Patiently. Thoroughly.

Like he had all the time in the world and was determined to use every second of it, making her feel good.

She gasped hard when he started to suck gently, his lips closing around that sensitive spot and creating pressure that made her vision blur, her hips grinding shamelessly against his mouth.

"Let go, sweetheart. I got you." He murmured against her skin.

His tongue returned to its work -circling, flicking, pressing- and she felt the tension reach a breaking point.

And then it snapped.

The pleasure hit her in waves, rolling through her body in pulses that made her arch off the bed despite his hands holding her hips. Made her cry out -his name, maybe, or just an incoherent sound- while he kept his mouth on her, working her through it with gentle, steady strokes.

When the waves finally subsided, she collapsed back against the pillows, boneless and breathing hard. He pressed one last soft kiss to her entrance, then another to her inner thigh, before pulling back.

She looked down to find him watching her with an expression of deep satisfaction.

"Good?" he asked, his voice rough.

She could only nod, still trying to catch her breath.

He moved up the bed, settling beside her and pulling her against his chest. His hand stroked lazily up and down her back while her breathing slowly returned to normal.

"You did good," he murmured into her hair. "Real good for me."

She made a sound that might have been agreement or just exhaustion, and felt him chuckle quietly. They lay like that for a while, the cabin quiet except for the crackling fire and their breathing.

Eventually, he stirred.

"Should get you into that nightgown," he said. "Before you fall asleep like this and wake up freezing."

She made a noise of protest, but he was already moving, retrieving the nightgown from where it had fallen to the floor and helping her sit up enough to pull it over her head.

Once she was covered, he settled back down beside her, pulling the blankets up over both of them and tucking her against his side. She felt his fingers trace idle patterns on her shoulder, his breathing deep and even. The warmth of his body, the weight of the quilts, the dying fire, it all started to pull her toward sleep.

She was just beginning to drift when his voice rumbled quietly through his chest.

.

"Been thinkin'," he murmured against her hair. "Tomorrow's Sunday. We could head into town if you want."

She stirred slightly, her hand settling on his chest. "Oh. Is the reverend coming?"

He let out a quiet laugh.

"He ain’t. That's exactly why we're goin'."

She lifted her head enough to swat his arm lightly. He didn't even flinch, just kept that amused expression on his face.

"The boys at camp were sayin' that with winter comin' on, a lot of the commercial traffic's gonna die off," he explained. "So the shopkeepers and folks in town decided to open on Sundays for the next few weeks. Give the logging crews and the miners from up the mountain a chance to stock up on what they need before things get real bad."

"That's very convenient," she said.

"It is," he agreed. "They're clearly doin' it to make money, not charity, but it works out for us."

She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Is there something you need?"

"Few things," he said. "Root cellar could be fuller."

She tensed slightly against him, and he felt it immediately.

"Ain’t your fault," he said before she could apologize. "You came from the city. You got no idea what winter's like out here. How much we need to have stored up."

His hand stroked along her back, soothing.

"Plus," he added, "I've been eatin' more since you got here. Means we're goin' through supplies faster."

She relaxed slightly at that, settling back against him.

"So, provisions," he continued. "Anything that'll keep. And..." He paused. "You're gonna need warmer clothes."

"I have-"

"Not warm enough," he interrupted gently. "What you brought from back East ain't gonna cut it when it really starts snowin'. We're gonna be inside most of the time, sure, but there'll be moments we need to go out. Tendin' to the horse, clearin' snow, fetchin' firewood. And even inside..." He pulled her a little closer. "There's gonna be times when the fire alone ain't enough. You're gonna need layers. Real warm ones."

She was quiet for a moment, processing that.

"I feel silly. Didn't realize it would be that cold," she said finally.

"It gets real cold," he confirmed. "We'll keep the fire goin' day and night, but the cabin’s living space ain’t precisely small. Heat doesn't reach everywhere equally."

He felt her shiver slightly at the thought, and he tightened his arm around her.

"We'll manage," he said. "Just need to be prepared. That's all."

"Alright," she said quietly. "Then we'll go to town tomorrow."

"Also," he added, and she could hear the smile in his voice, "wanna show you off a little before we get snowed in."

She snorted against his chest. "Show me off?"

"It's true," he said, unrepentant. His hand slid from her back down to her hip, then lower, giving her rear a gentle squeeze through the nightgown. "We haven't been able to go into town together much. Just that first time, and Thanksgiving. Want folks to see us together proper."

"Oh, Bucky…"

"Want 'em to see you on my arm," he continued, his tone softening slightly. "Want 'em to see that you're mine and I'm yours."

She felt giddy at the quiet possessiveness in his voice. The pride.

"And," he added, "thought I might take you for a drink at the saloon. If you're amenable."

She lifted her head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "Are you planning to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?"

His eyes gleamed in the low firelight, and his mouth curved into something wicked.

"Hm, are you concerned?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "Or are you askin' me to?"

She felt heat flood through her body, -embarrassment and something else entirely- and she buried her face back in his chest.

"That's not- I didn't mean-"

She could feel him laughing, the vibrations rumbling through his chest beneath her cheek.

"If that's what you want," he said, clearly enjoying himself, "I'll let you drink all you want. That way you can tell me again how handsome I am and how you can't stop lookin' at me."

She made a strangled sound and covered her face with her hands, even though he couldn't see her anyway with her face pressed against his chest.

"Oh my god," she mumbled into her palms.

His laughter softened, and she felt his hand come up to gently pull her hands away from her face.

"Hey," he said, his voice losing that teasing edge. "Look at me."

She lifted her head reluctantly, expecting to see him still grinning at her expense.

But his expression had changed. Still warm, but serious now.

"I was glad to hear that, darling," he said quietly. "Real glad. It’s nice to know it ain’t only me who's smitten with you. That you feel somethin' for me too."

"You made it easy," she maintained his gaze. "To care about you. You are patient with me. Kind. You never made me feel like I was a burden or an obligation, even though that's exactly what I was at first."

His hand cupped her face more fully. "You were never a burden."

"I was," she insisted. "I showed up unannounced, caused a scandal, forced you into a marriage you didn't want-"

He huffed.

“I put a sign, woman. I was pretty much interested in gettin’ married”

“But we didn’t get to court properly, you didn’t know where you were getting into-”

“I think things turned out pretty well.” he interrupted gently, his thumb stroking along her jaw.

She huffed. "You can't possibly have known that when you agreed to marry me. I could have been awful. Lazy, or mean, or-"

"You ain't."

"But you didn't know that."

“No," he said finally. "I didn't know. But I had a feelin'."

She waited, feeling the warmth of his palm on her skin, grounding her.

"When you were standin' there in that room," he continued, his voice low and thoughtful, "lookin' terrified and tryin' so hard not to show it... and then you looked at me with those eyes of yours and said yes anyway." He paused, his thumb brushing the apple of her cheek. "I thought, this woman's got courage and sense. And I liked that."

She felt something flutter in her chest, but forced herself to speak.

"That's not much to base a marriage on," she mumbled.

"Maybe not," he agreed. "But then you didn't flinch when I was sick. Didn't complain when you had to live in a place that ain't nowhere near what you deserved.” His hand pressed against her heart. "And every day, you gave me more reasons. The way you hum when you're concentratin'. Mendin' my shirts even though you hate sewin'. How you look at me like..." He trailed off, and she saw something flicker in his expression, raw and unguarded.

"Like what?" she whispered.

His jaw worked for a moment, and she could see him gathering courage for whatever he was about to say.

"Like I'm worth somethin'," he said finally, his voice rough. "Like I'm more than just a logger with a cabin and a horse. Like you see me.”

She pushed herself up slightly, needing him to see her face, to understand that she meant every word.

"You are worth something," she said firmly, her hand coming up to rest against his chest. "You're worth everything, Bucky. You're the most attentive, kindest man I've ever known. You're honest, and hardworking, and you-" Her voice caught slightly. "You made me feel safe when I had nowhere to go. You made me feel wanted when my whole life I'd been treated like a burden."

His expression had gone very still, his eyes locked on hers.

"You took care of me when you were sick yourself," she continued, her thumb stroking over his heart. "You taught me things without making me feel stupid for not knowing them. You listen to me. You make me laugh. You-"

"And good lookin'?" he interjected, and she could see the corner of his mouth twitching even as his eyes remained suspiciously bright.

She huffed out a breath that was half laugh, half sob, and swatted his chest lightly.

"Yes, damn you," she said, "And ridiculously handsome. Unfairly so. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

His grin was crooked and devastating. "Just checkin’."

But then his hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb catching the tear that had slipped down her cheek, and his expression turned serious again.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For seein' all that. For sayin' it."

She leaned into his touch. "It's the truth."

"I gambled followin' my gut," he said quietly, his eyes holding her gaze. "And every single day since, you've proven me right. You're everythin' I didn't know I needed, darlin’. And-" He paused, and she saw his throat work. "And I'm in love with you."

She couldn't speak for a moment, couldn't do anything but stare at him as the words hugged her, warm and solid and real.

And then it hit her, not like something new, but like something she'd known all along and only now had a name for. The way her heart lifted when she heard his footsteps on the porch. The way she'd started thinking of this cabin as home not because of the place, but because he was in it. The way even now, with her body still tender and her heart wide open and vulnerable, she felt safe.

"I love you too," she replied, and her voice came out steadier than she expected, considering her emotion. "I think- I think I have for a while now.”

His eyes searched hers for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face, the kind that made her stomach flip.

"Do you, now?" he murmured, his voice dropping lower.

She nodded, unable to look away from him.

He kissed her then, slow and deep and thorough, his hand still pressed over her heart like he could feel it beating just for him. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing a little harder.

He shifted slightly, just enough to tilt his head, and she felt him smile against her temple before he pressed a kiss there, soft and lingering. Then another at her cheekbone. Her jaw. Like he was mapping her with his mouth, taking his time, savoring.

She closed her eyes and just felt it -felt him- until her breathing evened out and matched his.

"So," he said after a moment, his voice warm with contentment. "Tomorrow. Town, supplies, that drink at the saloon, and whatever else you want."

"Just… being together sounds perfect," she said softly.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his arms coming around her securely.

The fire had burned down to embers, and outside, she could hear the wind moving through the pines and the distant call of an owl. But inside, wrapped in Bucky's warmth with his heartbeat steady beneath her ear, everything felt exactly as it should be.

She let her eyes drift closed, a smile on her lips, and let herself fall into sleep knowing that tomorrow -and every day after- she'd wake up exactly where she belonged.

"Thank you, Mr. Barber. I just wish I knew why this was happening."

"Because he doesn't deserve you," Andy mutters under his breath, too quietly for you to hear. "Let's get some of the details ironed out. Do you have a place where you can stay?"

"Um...my mom?"

"You should probably call her. I'll go ahead and cancel some appointments while you do that."

"Mr. Barber, I can't---"

"Andy, please. Just call me Andy."

"I'm sorry, I'm just all out of sorts."

"Understandable. Now go call your mother to make sure you've got a place to stay."

After you've left his office, Andy makes a phone call to a secure number.

"He's followed through on his end of the deal. Send the photos to the usual location."

He hangs up without waiting for a response.

When he'd found out your husband was cheating on you, Andy could've shown you the proof. But with this route, he can be your hero. And when the photos show up in court evidence, he can claim he'd just gotten them, that he'd had no idea. Best of all, you'll get everything in the divorce with that.

And you deserve everything.

Nothing major. Just a small gathering with a few familiar faces, some friends and agents, and good food. Maybe a few games, some music and conversations. Bucky only agreed because you batted your eyes and promised that you wouldn’t overdo it. 

As if he could ever say “no” to you. 

“You could smile a bit more, you know,” Steve teased, handing him a beer. 

He scoffed, the bottle cool against his warm hand. “I am smiling,” he argued.

His general demeanor had improved since you came into his life. He liked to think he smiled more than he scowled most days. Well, at least he smiled more when you were around. Or when he thought of you, which was all the time.

So, yeah, his demeanor was much better. 

“You only smile like that when you look at or think about your wife,” Steve pointed out, like he knew exactly what he was on his mind.

Bucky’s gaze softened immediately when he heard you laughing, watching you from where you stood a few feet away. 

You were glowing.

A pregnancy glow, yes, combined with something warmer. The dress you picked somehow flowed while showing off the shape of your body perfectly. Your smile lit up your face and you had a hand on your belly like you’d done for weeks now without thinking. It was beautiful. 

You were beautiful. 

“Can you blame me for having a smile just for her?” Bucky asked.

“Not at all,” his best friend replied. 

You shifted your weight before you took a seat, your smile brighter when you spotted Bucky watching you. He never strayed far from you. Didn’t even sip the drink in his hand. He had his eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. 

You and Sprout. 

Pride flickered through his chest when his gaze dropped to your belly. His wife and his baby. His family. 

Everyone was waiting on you hand and foot. At least, they tried to. The moment someone tried to bring you a drink or food, he stepped in. He couldn’t help himself. Once you were taken care of, he went back to his spot. The perfect place to keep an eye on his surroundings since some old habits died hard.

And you just smiled, soft and bright. 

Steve nudged him with his shoulder. “You deserve this, you know.”

Bucky swallowed hard. It didn’t always feel like he did. The past liked to seep into his mind at unexpected moments and make the world look a little darker. Depending on the day, he’d either hug you close or take you to bed to drown out the noise. Sometimes both.

And no matter what, you made the world look brighter again.

“So, you’re saying I deserved to knock up my wife?” he joked to deflect. 

The blonde snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying,” he said, giving him a small smile. “Also saying you deserve this life.”

His chest tightened when you laughed at a joke Sam made, your head tipping back slightly and your hand going back to your belly. There was no fight to worry about. No past to haunt him. Just small precious moments like this. 

His lips twitched upward when you found his gaze again, your love for him burning bright in your eyes.

He did deserve this kind of life.

“Thanks, punk,” he mumbled, clinking their bottles together.

“Jerk.”

You turned your attention back to Sam and Bucky pushed off the wall to move closer before a voice stopped him.

Something low and careless.

“Is that chair gonna break? Jesus Christ, she’s fucking huge. How many are in there?”

The thought of domesticity and peace left Bucky’s mind, replaced by something cold and dangerous. 

You were blissfully unaware that some prick had just insulted your beautiful body, still smiling and enjoying yourself. As you should be. You only deserved good things. No one else around you seemed to notice the change in the atmosphere either.

But Steve stiffened out of the corner of his eye. He heard it. They both heard it. 

Super soldier senses really were handy at times.

Ice took over the blue of his eyes, his head slowly turning to look at the fucker stupid enough to open his mouth and even breath the same oxygen as you. A new agent with a very punchable face who wore too much cologne. There was a good chance that you kept your distance for that very reason since some smells still overwhelmed you. The snickering prick certainly wasn’t a friend of his or yours. He was only “invited” because someone else thought it would be good for him to hang out outside of work. 

That wouldn’t happen again. 

“Better snag a brownie before she stuffs her face with the whole tray.”

My wife can have all the fucking brownies she wants, you fucking piece of shit.

The bottle in his hand began to crack. It would shatter if he kept squeezing. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

Not yet.

“You know that’s Barnes’s wife, right?” The asshole’s friend shifted uncomfortably. “She’s really nice, and he’s… well, he’s pretty protective of her.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked back to you, much softer, before looking at the soon-to-be-dead fucker again.

No. Can’t kill the guy. I have a wife and kid to think about.

The prick had the nerve to laugh. “So? Does that give her a pass to look like a whale?”

…He’s fucking dead.

Steve took the cracked bottle from his hand. “Want me to handle him?” he asked, his voice low. 

He exhaled through his nose. Steve didn’t like bullies. Never had. But he knew why he was asking instead of just stepping in and taking care of it.

Because you were his wife. His to defend. His to love and care for. 

This was his fight.

“I got this,” he replied, subtly nodding to where you were sitting. “Just keep an eye out for a minute?”

Steve nodded in understanding, positioning himself to block your line of sight without looking too obvious. 

Bucky took deliberate steps toward the table, his movements controlled and measured. His jaw tightened the closer he got, his fingers itching to toss the guy out with his bare hands. He wouldn’t cause a scene out of respect for you. 

But he wasn’t going to stay silent. 

The atmosphere shifted the second he got to the table, the chatter ceasing immediately. 

The prick, of course, had the nerve to smile. 

“Hey, man! You-”

“You got something to say about my wife?” he asked, his voice as cold as his stare. 

The man’s eyes widened, maybe from shock that he was overheard or that he was being confronted. “I… What?”

Had no problem using your words seconds ago, asshole. 

“You were talking about her.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes flat and unreadable. “My wife.”

The air shifted more, something cold settling over the surroundings as the guy sputtered to come up with an excuse. 

“Say it again,” he ordered, placing his hands on the table and leaning down to his eye level. He made sure there was no warmth in his expression. “Where I can really hear you.”

The idiot swallowed and looked to his friend for help and found none; his friend was suddenly very interested in the beer in his hand. “Um… Barnes, I-”

“My wife, the love of my life, is carrying my child. Our child.” His lip raised in a small snarl and he leaned in enough that Agent Asshole had to back up. “And you think you can sit here and make fun of her? You think I won’t do something about it?”

“I-It was a bad joke,” he tried to reason.

Reasoning only worked with people when they were in a forgiving mood. 

He wasn’t. 

“Oh, now it’s a joke? You think you’re funny?” He smiled with no trace of friendliness behind it. It was likely how a wolf looked baring their teeth before sinking them into their prey. “You think I’ll laugh while you crack ‘jokes’ about my wife?”

The prick looked like he was a heartbeat away from pissing himself, which made Bucky question the hiring process for agents. This sort of “interrogation” was nothing. Child’s play. 

Then again, how many agents could say they had the former Winter Soldier in their space?

“I-I really didn’t mean-”

“Don’t.” His voice dropped even lower. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”

He glanced back and saw Sam looking his way, his eyes narrowing when he sensed the tension. Steve subtly shook his head. There was no reason to intervene. He was still in control.

Barely.

But you were still smiling, which was the important thing.

“You know what I see when I look at her?” he asked rhetorically, his chest tight. “I see the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

He smacked his hand on the table hard enough to make the bottles rattle and the guys flinch. 

Sam, thankfully, chose to tell another joke at the same time and Steve cackled so the noise at the table wouldn’t draw your attention.

I really do have good friends. 

“I’ll say it again. She’s carrying our baby. She’s uncomfortable and exhausted and guess what? She still walks into a room smiling and thinks of others first. And you sit here and act like she’s something to mock when she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” His jaw clenched even as his heart swelled with pride. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

The guy shrank lower as every word washed over him.

Good.

Bucky stared at him for another long moment before something colder settled into place behind his eyes.

“Get up, Chet,” he ordered.

“Chet’s” mouth fell open. “That’s not my-”

“I know what your name is, and I don’t care,” he cut him off, straightening up. “Because you don’t respect my wife, so I refuse to respect you.”

A bright shade of red passed through his cheeks before he paled. 

As someone who was stripped of his own agency for years, identity mattered to Bucky. Basic decency mattered. So, maybe it was a little petty to call him by the wrong name, but it was also a good way to put him in his place by letting him know he didn’t matter.

Chet, as his name was Chet to him now, got to his feet on shaky legs. “Sorry.”

“I’m sure you are sorry now, but it’s a little too late for that.” 

Bucky clamped a hand on the back of his neck. To just about anyone looking over, it would’ve looked casual. Almost friendly. But they would’ve missed the firm squeeze. 

“Move.”

The prick didn’t need to be told twice.

He guided him away from the table and made sure to smile as he did so. He shot his friend a quick glare for good measure, but at least he stuck up for you. That was the only reason he didn’t make him leave, too. 

The chatter continued behind him, but he barely noticed it over the sound of Chet’s pounding heart and his own blood roaring loudly in his ears. But then he heard your laughter and he took a deep breath, picturing your loving smile and hand on your belly. 

It kept him from snapping completely.

Once they were in the driveway, Bucky shoved him forward. Hard. He stumbled, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He wished he could punch him for good measure, but he seemed like the type of coward who would cry and call the cops. 

Even if they let him off with a warning, he didn’t want to add any stress to your plate.

“Christ, man,” Chet muttered.

“You stay the fuck out of my house and never come back,” Bucky said, his voice low and lethal as he stepped forward. “And don’t you ever disrespect my wife again.”

Chet nodded quickly. Too quickly. “I won’t.”

Bucky looked every bit like the Winter Soldier wrapped in civilian clothing when he added, “You’ll never speak about her like that again. You’ll never look at her like that again. And you sure as hell will never come near my family again.”

“I understand,” he swore, his voice cracking.

“Good.” Bucky’s nostrils flared as he looked him over one last time, disgust curling in his stomach. “And the next time you come across someone pregnant, maybe try showing them some goddamn respect.”

He looked down at his feet, avoiding his gaze and swallowing any excuse he had left to give.

Fucking coward. 

Bucky pointed toward the street. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

The idiot practically ran to his car. 

Bucky glared as he drove down the street, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck once he disappeared. He exhaled the remainder of his anger through his mouth, his hand moving through his hair. There was nothing to be upset about anymore. Agent Asshole was gone and now he could get back to you.

Where he belonged. 

The second he walked back to the yard, his eyes found you automatically. 

Still smiling, safe, and his.

He grabbed a couple of brownies from the tray before he walked over, giving Steve and Sam two nods. One to let them know everything was fine. The other to thank them for shielding you from that display.

They nodded in return. 

You were his wife and family, but you were their family, too. 

“There’s my handsome husband. I wondered where you went off to for a minute.” You smiled up at him when he approached, his heart skipping a beat. “You okay?”

Bucky stared at you in awe. 

God, she’s so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.

Up close, your glow was even brighter. You looked at him like he put the sun in the sky just for you. He would if he could. And your belly moved slightly under your hands, and he wanted to feel Sprout move, too. 

“I should be asking you that,” he replied, his brows furrowing. “Are you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry?”

He observed you carefully, looking for signs of discomfort or fatigue. The conversation with Chet and kicking him out didn’t take very long, but it felt like hours now being apart from you. Steve and Sam had been watching over you, but it wasn’t the same. 

“I’m just fine,” you assured him, and he knew you weren’t just saying that for his benefit. “But you didn’t answer my question,” you added teasingly. 

Always thinking of me. 

“Yeah,” he murmured, gentler than he had spoken all day. “Everything’s fine now.”

You studied him for a moment, sensing something underneath the surface. He didn’t falter under your gaze. There was no need to. 

“Everything’s fine now, which means it wasn’t fine before,” you guessed. 

Bucky sighed. He should’ve known you’d feel that something was off. You were too intuitive for your own good. That was one of the things he loved about you. And part of him loving you was trying to protect you from harm, physically, mentally, or verbally. 

But there was also no hiding from you, even when he did his best to shield you. 

“Just… needed to throw some trash out,” he said carefully. 

It was true. 

Chet was trash. 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Steve muttered into his drink, making Sam snort. 

Before you could question him further, he set the brownies down and crouched slightly in front of your chair so he could rest a hand gently over your belly. He didn’t chastise Sam for snapping a photo, and he didn’t care who saw him like this. The two of you were his world and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. 

“Hey, Sprout,” he murmured, his entire expression softening. “You behaving for your mama?”

The baby kicked almost immediately beneath his palm.

He smiled wide, making him temporarily forget about the dickhead he just  threw out. 

“Sprout’s just fine, too,” you promised, placing your hand on his, your gaze thoughtful. “You sure you’re okay?”

He leaned up slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He remembered sitting on the couch and comforting you after the mean voice in your head made you doubt that you’d be a good mom. And how you didn’t think your stretch marks were pretty but he thought they were so beautiful. You were so strong and inspiring. His wife. The mother of his child. 

He wasn’t about to ruin your fun and relaxing afternoon by telling you what happened. 

But as much as he wanted to protect you, he would tell you later once everyone left because he refused to keep secrets from you. There was a good chance you’d cry. Not because of the cruel words spoken or hormones, but because he stuck up for you so fiercely. He would always stick up for his family. 

And if you wanted him to punish Chet even more, he’d do it without question.

That was how much he loved you. 

And he’d take you to bed later, kissing and touching every inch of you he could. He’d make you feel beautiful and cherished if any of your insecurities began to surface. He’d silence any mean voice in your head, hopefully for good, the same way you drowned out the horrors he experienced and made him feel loved. 

I love you both so much. 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispered, glancing down at your stomach with so much love. “I’m better than okay.”

We all deserve to have someone in our corner. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

As you moved into the hall, you were surprised to find Ransom’s door wide open. The far bedside lamp was on, but his bed was empty. But when you went downstairs, none of the lights were on. You cautiously flipped on the light in the kitchen, checking around, but the whole floor was empty. That was a bit odd, but not enough to interrupt your mission. You went straight to the pantry and got out the jar of peanut butter, grabbing a spoon from the drawer. As you were about to go back upstairs, something outside, by the back door, caught your eye. You stopped and waited until you saw movement again, so you cautiously moved forward and peeked your head outside. Ransom was standing a few feet to the side of the door, his gaze on the trees that lined the yard. There was a glass of whiskey in his hand, but it looked untouched.

You came out to stand next to him, closing the door behind you. “Sorry,” he said, very quietly, “did I wake you?”

You weren’t sure how that could have happened, when he was standing alone in the dark, completely silent. “No,” you answered. “I was just hungry.”

He glanced down at what you were holding. His nose wrinkled. “You’re eating peanut butter straight from the jar.”

“Yup,” you confirmed with a smile. “It was the only thing we had that sounded good. What I really want is a burger to dip in it.”

He raised his eyebrow at you. “A burger? To dip in peanut butter?”

“Uh huh! With extra pickles and extra mustard. And jalapeños.” Your stomach gave a little rumble, as if to cement your position on the matter.

Ransom wrinkled his nose. “That sounds disgusting.”

“Yeah,” you agreed with a sigh. “I want it so bad.”

“So I guess that means your appetite is back.”

“Yeah,” you gave him a relieved smile. “Finally.”

He nodded. “That’s good,” he said, quietly.

You waited a beat, comfortable in the silence, and then asked, “What are you doing up?”

He shrugged, looking back out at the trees. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

“Mmm,” you hummed in response. You could have gone back in, finished your snack, gone back to bed. But you didn’t. You weren’t sure why. But you settled in next to him and looked out at the trees.

After several minutes, he added, “My brain just won’t turn off.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, not turning your attention to him.

“Yeah,” he said, quietly. There was another very long beat before he continued, “I’m not going to be good at this.”

“Good at what?” you asked softly.

He shrugged, resolutely not looking at you. “Any of this. I have no idea how to be a father.” He swallowed, swirling around the ice in his drink but not taking a sip. “Or a husband. I don’t know how to be good at it.”

“Oh,” was all you said at first, his words landing in your chest. Then, “I don’t know how to do it either, be a wife or mother. Or,” you stopped, remembering all of your mother’s words and advice since you were a little girl and how hard you’d been trying to shut them out recently. “I guess I know how to be a certain version of a wife, but I don’t think that’s the kind I want to be.”

He finally looked at you, his eyes soft, a deep blue in the dark. “Like your mom, you mean.”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“Hmm…” another swirl of his glass, “was she a good mom? To you?”

“Um…” you started, fully turning your head away, but you still felt his eyes on you. “I don’t know. I guess–“ You sighed. You knew the answer even though you didn’t want to say it. “No. No, I don’t think she was. Not in a malicious way, she just- I don’t think she ever had the capabilities. I think she was too beaten down by the time I came along. She loved me in the only way she was able, but… But maybe that wasn’t enough.” You blinked back a few tears and shook your head. The steady chirping of crickets filled the quiet. You tried to let it calm you.

“My parents never loved me,” Ransom said after a long enough beat for you to pull yourself together. “I know that for sure. They’d tell you they do, but they don’t. I’ve known it since I was a kid.”

You put the spoon in the peanut butter and set it down on the patio next to you. With both hands you cradled your stomach. You were starting to really notice it changing, now that you were officially in your second trimester. Now that there was no reason to try to hide it. “I want to love them so much, but I just, I’m afraid I won’t know how.”

Ransom put his glass down on the ledge behind him and then took a step towards you. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you very carefully. Then he took another step, reached a hand toward your middle and stopped. “Uh, do you mind if– Can I?“

It took you a moment to understand what he was asking for. Then, “Oh! Uh, yeah, sure.” You moved your own hands from your belly to make room for his. He carefully put both hands on you, cradling whoever was inside. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even really look up at you. But he stood there for a long time, holding you so gently, staring at your stomach like maybe if he stared hard enough, he could unlock some secret of the universe.

Eventually, you broke the silence, speaking softly in an effort to not disturb the peace you felt here in the dark. “I think,” his eyes shot up to meet yours at the sound of your voice. You gulped at the intensity of his gaze but kept going. “I think that as long as we try, we’ll be giving them more than we ever got. Maybe it still won’t be enough, but, it’ll be something. We just have to try.”

Ransom visibly swallowed, then looked you right in the eye and nodded. He took a step back and picked up his drink from where he’d left it, but he still didn’t drink it. He seemingly just needed something to do with his hands.

You stood in companionable silence for another long moment. Just as you were readying yourself to leave him alone with his thoughts and go back to bed, he spoke again. “What do you think about this house?”

“What?” was the only thing you could say to the strange abruptness of the question.

He was staring absently into the house now, a pronounced crease between his brows. “I keep trying to imagine a little kid running around here and I just can’t.”

Oh. You remembered back to that first day when you found out you were pregnant. You’d tried and failed to do the same thing. “No, I guess I can’t really either. And–“ you paused, finding your words, and he turned his attention to you, “when I first got here, I remember thinking that there was nothing in this house that seemed to have anything of you in it.”

He looked back into the living room through the large windows. “Linda got me this house when I turned twenty-five. It was already decorated and fully furnished when I moved in. I don’t know, I guess it was just the place I lived. Nothing more. And I never really thought about it.”

You didn’t say anything in response. He was clearly thinking through something. You took the moment to look at him, here in just the light coming out through the window. He looked different, you thought, now that you were actually getting to know him. Softer, maybe. Or smaller? Or, just, more like him.

“Maybe,” he said after several moments, “maybe it could be good to find a new place. Somewhere that fits all of us.”

“Yeah,” you said, quietly, a warmth moving through you. “Yeah, that could be really nice.”

He hummed in affirmation, and finally took a sip of his drink, before decisively putting it down again.

He didn’t say anything more, so you decided it was a good time to head back to bed. You quietly moved to the door, then stopped and turned back to him. “Hey, Ransom,” you called. He looked up at you, questioning, ready. “There’s still so much about this that really scares me, but I don’t think I’m scared of doing it all with you. Not anymore.”

The way he held your gaze at that was intense. Like he could really see you. And you could see him too. He swallowed roughly and then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. It came out rough. “Me too.”

You just looked at each other for a few more seconds. Then, with your hand on the door, you nodded back at him. “Okay. Well, goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight,” he said, soft and quiet. You felt his eyes on you until you were all the way inside.

Once you got upstairs, your room was empty. You went across the hall, and sure enough, Lola was curled up next to Ransom’s pillow. You smiled to yourself then went back to your room, leaving the door open, just a bit, a little dog-sized crack, in case either of them changed their minds.

You shouldn’t have been surprised how quickly things moved after that. If you’d learned anything about him it was that once he’d made up his mind about something, he acted quickly. The next week, Ransom had set up a meeting with a real estate agent—completely unaffiliated with his mother—and a week after that you were looking at houses. It felt surreal, actively making plans for your future family. But as the growth of your stomach became more noticeable every day, that future was starting to feel a lot more like your present.

There were some differences, it’d turned out, in how you and Ransom had pictured that future. You’d had your sites set on somewhere in Boston proper. Ransom’s empty neighborhood only added to your feelings of isolation and you were sick of it. You missed your apartment in downtown LA. and you wanted something urban again. You wanted parks and restaurants and walkability and culture. You wanted noise and activity and life.

Ransom couldn’t understand that. Especially with a baby on the way. He wanted privacy and quiet and space. But Ransom had a car he loved driving. Ransom had a job that got him out of the house everyday. Ransom had never had to worry about feeling isolated.

So you silenced the voice in your head that always sounded like your mom and put your foot down. This new life you were starting together would not involve another house that didn’t have neighbors. A house that made you feel like a ghost. A house that cut you off from society. So you stared Ransom down until he threw his hands up in exasperation.

Your real estate agent Deborah did her best to bridge the gulf between you, mostly looking at inner-ring suburbs that were quieter and upscale without feeling dead. You’d seen a few houses so far and at each one both you and Ransom had found reasons to turn them down. You hoped this one might be different. You were ready to have at least one part of your new life with this baby settled.

The car pulled up in front of a three-story, swell-front house in Brookline. It was constructed from red brick with black trim. There were brightly colored flower beds lining the walk up to the front door. It felt homey, at least from the outside. As much as you tried to focus on taking it all in, you were quickly distracted by the sight of Ransom, already there, pacing in front of the property and growling into his phone. You turned to the driver, asking him to wait there for you, as you weren’t sure if Ransom would be coming home when you were done or would need to return to work. As he nodded and got back in the car, you headed to Ransom who’d ended his conversation and now was shaking his head in frustration.

“Everything okay?” you asked him as you got close.

His shoulders relaxed at the sight of you. “Just fucking Harlan,” he said with an eye roll as he greeted you with a hug. That was something he’d been doing lately. Since that awful dinner at his grandfather’s house. It was nice. It was really nice. “He wants the baby to take his last name.”

That stopped you cold. “What?”

“Yeah,” Ransom scowled. “I think if he had it to do over again, he would have figured out a way to get my name changed when he made me his heir. But he didn’t, so now he wants to correct it with my heir.”

Your hands instinctively went to your belly. What if this baby isn’t your heir? a tiny voice asked. A voice that had been getting bigger ever since Harlan’s toast to your son at that dinner. But saying that out loud felt too much like tempting fate, so instead you voiced a safer anxiety. “The baby will have a different last name from us?”

“Hey, no. Don’t worry. I’ll figure out a way to talk him down. I promise.” He gently placed his hand on the small of your back. “Now, come on, let’s go let Deborah try to convince us that this is the house.”

You nodded, letting your hands relax at your sides, and let him guide you up the front steps to where Deborah was waiting to let you in.

Your first impression was that everything was very beige. It was staged beautifully. But god, you hated the color scheme. The paint, all the fixtures. All so beige. It was oppressive.

Deborah showed you through the house. The finished basement, the semi-open plan living and dining spaces on the first floor, the bedrooms and en suites on the second. It was nice, you supposed, fine. But it just felt like a house. You didn’t know what would push you over into loving it.

So, instead of looking around at the rooms you passed through, you started watching Ransom. You could see his keen eyes taking in every detail. You wondered what he was seeing. More than you were, it seemed. But you couldn’t tell what direction he was leaning. You still found him so hard to read.

Deborah ended the tour on the third floor. “This floor would make a lovely au pair’s suite,” she said with a soft smile toward your pregnant belly. You and Ransom hadn’t talked about that yet, the nanny situation. Only that you both lamented having been completely raised by nannies. “Or if you decide against live-in help, easily convertible into a set of offices.” She looked to you and then Ransom, who was peering around the small common living space. “Well, I’ll let the two of you explore a bit on your own. I’ll be right downstairs if you have any questions.”

You thanked her as she left, then turned to Ransom who was looking at you, a soft smile on his face. “This is the one, right?” he asked you.

“You think?” you asked back, looking around, trying to see what you were missing.

“I do,” he nodded. “I think it’s exactly what we need.”

You wrinkled your nose at the beige walls that surrounded you. “I hate all the colors.”

Ransom gave you a smile that you could only describe as affectionate. It made your stomach swoop oddly. “That’s fine,” he said. “We’ll get a decorator. Have it exactly how we want before we even move in.” He paused and his expression grew more careful. “You really don’t see it?”

You sighed as you looked around again. “I mean, I don’t hate it. And I’m trying, but…” You gave a helpless shrug. “I’m sorry.”

One last long, careful look at you had him asking, “Can I show you?” with his hand outstretched to take yours.

You only hesitated for a moment before putting your hand in his. “Okay.”

He quickly brought you down to the second floor, his hand warm and snug around your own. He stopped in the hallway. “We can figure out rooms for each of us eventually. You can have the primary if you want. I–“ He abruptly stopped, then shook his head. There was a look in his eyes that you couldn’t read. But then he gestured to the room directly across from the primary and said, “But that’s the nursery.”

You let him lead you inside. It was a large room with a window directly opposite the door. There were built in bookcases on each side of the window, with a low, padded window seat that ran between them. It was lovely.

Ransom came up behind you, close enough that you could feel a hint of his body heat, and pointed, over your shoulder, to one corner. “That’s where the crib will go. Something to match the built-ins.” He moved your attention to the opposite wall. “Some toy chests over there.” And then back to the space next to one of the bookshelves. “And a comfy rocking chair in the corner here. So we can sit with them.”

“Oh,” was all you could say. Tears had started to prick at the corners of your eyes. It wasn’t just that you could see what he was describing. It was that he could see it. That he had thought of the kind of room he wanted for your child. That he so clearly wanted them to be happy.

“We could do a forest theme. Sage and dark green walls, knick knacks on the shelves, get some big stuffed animals.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, trying to keep your emotion out of your voice. “That sounds really nice.”

He grabbed your hand again. “Okay, come on. There’s more.”

He brought you downstairs next, and into the kitchen.

It was large, spacious, with two sliding doors that could separate it from the rest of the house if needed. There was an island with a large gas range on top of it and stools lining one side. It was nice, with all the appliances you could want in a kitchen.

Ransom was watching you take it in. “We’ll have a housekeeper who can prepare meals, of course, but I want this to be a place you can use whenever you want. But only when you want. When the doors are open, I think the sight lines are pretty good to the rest of this level.” He walked over to the breakfast nook that sat under a large window to the backyard, looking at something you couldn’t see. “I really like this,” he said, quietly. “The kid could sit here and color or play or whatever, while you cooked. Or I could sit here with them, and talk to you. Keep you company. I think this could be a really nice place to spend time in.”

You swallowed harshly around a lump in your throat. He was imagining so much. “Yeah,” you agreed, starting to see what he saw. “You’re right. It really could be.”

“Okay,” he said with a soft smile. “One last thing.” Then you let him pull you, a little dazed, into the backyard.

It was bigger than you’d expected, due to it being a corner lot. But you thought the property must have been extended at some point as well. There was a carriage house with the same red brick and black trim as the main house converted into a multi-car garage in the far corner. A paved drive leading from it to the street guarded by a wrought-iron gate. Nearer to the house, there was a small patio, big enough for a dining area. It was beautifully landscaped, surrounded by a tall, thick hedge screen.

“It’s not huge, but big enough I think. Lola would have plenty of room to run around. And maybe we could put a little swing set or something over there, some sort of play area” he gestured back to the dining area, “and you and I could spend nice nights out here, watch the kid play–“

He kept talking. You know he did. But you were so overwhelmed you couldn’t take in anymore. He hadn’t just imagined his own life in this house, with you as a background character. No, he’d imagined the three of you here, as a family, and the way these walls might contain your whole lives together. You were so overcome with feeling. You’d never felt like this before. You lunged for him without a single conscious thought to do it, connecting your lips to his.

Ransom went very still. Shocked. His whole body stiff against yours. Just as you felt him start to relax minutely, you brain finally caught up with your body and you pulled away, taking several steps back. Your hands came up to your mouth in horror. “Oh my god,” you muttered. What had you done? Why had you done that? “I-“ you started and stopped. You wanted to apologize but you didn’t know how to get the words out. And he was standing there, stock still, just staring at you. “I, um,” you swallowed harshly. “You’re, uh, you’re right. This house is ours. Um. You should go tell Deborah. Get the process started. But I–“ You tried to force yourself to breathe. “I have to go.”

And then you ran away, even with him calling after you. Back to the waiting car and then back home.

You beat Ransom home. Of course you did. Hopefully, he’d be gone for a while, getting things settled with Deborah. You didn’t know how you would face him. You fed Lola and let her out, and then you just paced around the lower floor of the house, round and round, before you finally got out your phone and typed a message.

Shit Steve, I think I really fucked up

The three dots to show he was typing appeared immediately, then disappeared, and reappeared.

Give me two minutes

You reacted with a thumbs up and waited. Two minutes later, on the dot, your phone rang. “Hey Steve,” you answered.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, urgently. “Do I need to come out there and beat someone up?”

“No,” you sighed. “This one’s all my fault.”

“Chip, what happened?”

You braced yourself. “I kissed Ransom.”

Steve didn’t say anything in response. For too long. Oh god. You really had fucked up. “Steve?” you asked nervously.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, sounding caught off guard. “I thought– Is that it?”

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean ‘is that it?’”

“I– I guess I don’t really understand what the problem is here. You think you fucked up because you… kissed your husband?”

“No, that’s not– When you say it like that–“ you struggled, then sighed. “You know that’s not how we are.”

There was another long pause from him and when he spoke again his voice was shockingly soft. “Are you sure about that?”

“Steve, I– What are you talking about?”

“Chip, I was there. From everything I saw and everything you’ve told me since, it’s obvious he cares about you. And vice versa.”

This time it was you who was quiet for a moment as you gathered your thoughts. “I know that he cares about me,” you said, and you meant it. You could finally admit that you felt his care every day. “But caring about me isn’t the same thing as wanting that kind of relationship with me. We’re friends and–“ you stopped, not sure how to say exactly what you meant. “We’re friends.”

When he paused this time, the silence was thoughtful. “Okay, Chip. I can tell you're really panicking and I want to help you, but I need you to help me understand why you’re so upset."

“I just–“ You took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears that wanted to form. “I don’t want to have ruined everything.”

“But what if you didn’t?” he asked, his voice gentle. “What if he feels the same way?”

You immediately shook your head, even though he couldn’t see you. “No,” you argued, voice quiet. “No, he can’t. That’s not something I get to have.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, hesitantly.

“I– I’ve always known that that isn’t for me. I– That’s not– Even being friends is more than I ever imagined I’d get to have. I should be so grateful to have a husband who cares about me at all. It feels too greedy to want anything else.”

“Oh, Chipmunk.” His voice was so sad. “It’s okay to want good things for yourself. I want everything good for you. I want you to have it.”

Your eyes were fully watering now. “I don’t think I know how to do that.”

“Listen, you know I hate to say anything nice about Ransom. But I think he really wants to take good care of you. If that’s true, he’d want you to talk to him about this. I think it’ll go better than you expect. I think you can trust him.”

“I want to,” you whispered.

“Talk to him,” he ordered. “Promise me you will.”

“Okay,” you acquiesced, your voice so small.

“It’s going to be okay, Chip.” He sounded so sure. “No matter what happens, it’s going to be okay.”

And for a moment, you were ten again, believing everything your big brother told you. “Okay,” you said. “Thank you.”

“Always,” he said, without hesitation. Then he sighed. “All right. I should probably get back to my meeting.”

“What? Oh no, you didn’t–“

“Stop, this was more important. But I should get back now. Let me know how things go.”

“I will. Thank you, Steve.”

“Love you, Chip. Bye.”

Love you. Bye Steve.” You hung up the phone and tried to hold onto the feeling that things might be all right.

You’d done your best to try to settle yourself down. You’d sat on the couch. You’d picked up the book you were in the middle of and opened it to where you’d left off. But you didn’t read. You couldn’t. Your eyes stayed locked on the front door. You had no idea how this was going to go.

Even with all of your attention on the door, you still startled when it opened and Ransom walked in. He froze, a little, when he noticed you on the couch. He was carrying something. Your eyes flicked to it as you stood up, taking a few steps forward, but still leaving a gulf between you.

“I got you something. To eat,” he said, shockingly timid, gesturing at you with the greasy, white paper bag in his hand. He set it down on the kitchen island and took a step back.

You walked to the island and very carefully opened it. It was a burger, absolutely slathered in peanut butter. With extra mustard, extra pickles, and jalapeños. The exact burger you’d told him you’d been craving.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, “it took me a while to find a place that could do it. Because, you know, it’s disgusting.”

You just stared at it for a long moment, ignoring his teasing. Those feelings welling up inside you again. But no matter how he cared for you, you decided, it was enough. No matter what Steve said. You couldn’t fuck that up. “I, uh– I owe you an apology,” you said nervously, your fingers fidgeting on the counter top in front of you. You felt Ransom’s gaze snap to you, but he didn’t say anything so you continued. “I’m so sorry I kissed you. I never should have done that and it won’t happen again. I’m really sorry.”

You kept your gaze on your hands until the silence stretched on far longer than you were comfortable with. Nervously, you looked up, locking eyes with Ransom. His brow was furrowed. He looked upset. Was the apology not enough?

He stared at you for too long, like he was trying to find something in your expression, but you weren’t sure what. Then, finally, he asked, “What, exactly, are you apologizing for?” When your only response was to look at him in confusion—you thought you’d been clear—he rephrased. “Why are you sorry you kissed me?”

“Because–“ It felt like your breath was caught in your throat. The moment suddenly felt charged, for reasons you didn’t fully understand. “Because I know that’s not something you want and I–“

“I think,” he cut you off, voice low and so serious, “that you have no idea what I actually want.” And then, before you could parse what he meant, he surged forward, taking your face in both hands, and kissed you.

It took a moment for your brain to register what was happening, it was so far beyond anything you’d expected. But then you caught up, feeling his soft lips on yours, his hands gently cradling your head, the warmth of his body seeping into you. You let out a little gasp, finally understanding, feeling it for real, and he took it as invitation to deepen the kiss, his tongue tentatively entering your mouth. You sank into it, taking everything he was giving you. You’d never been kissed like this, never with such feeling. All you could do was ride its wave.

Far too soon, Ransom pulled away. But not far. He pressed his forehead to yours, his lips still so close, and whispered, “What I want is whatever you’re willing to give me. Not a single thing more, but not anything less, either. I want anything you might want.”

“Really?” you asked, your voice so small, overwhelmed. You could feel the tears starting to gather in your eyes, and you futilely tried to blink them away.

“Really,” he answered, and the certainty in his voice moved through you, as he brushed a tear off your face with his thumb. “I promise. Anything you want. Always.”

You took a deep breath. “I want to be a family with you,” you whispered. And with those words, you felt something inside of you, something that you hadn’t fully realized was undone, settle for the first time since you’d sat in Joseph’s office and been forced to sign that contract.

“Me too,” he whispered back. “Let’s be a family.”

And then he kissed you again. Like he meant it. And you believed him.

A/N 2: 😭😭😭 It only took eleven chapters but they finally did it, you guys!!!! I hope you love this as much as I do. Please let me know what you think!

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