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The Unexpected Bend — B.R.

bob reynolds x fem val’s assistant!reader

synopsis: pretending you weren’t falling for your boss’s newly recruited superhero is harder than you expected it to be— especially when you can’t seem to set aside your guilt surrounding him and he can’t help but want you anyway.

or, two times you lied to bob reynolds, and the one time you didn’t.

warnings: 18+, suggestive content but not full smut, heavy making out, grinding, very sensual, slow burn-ish, angst, mutual pining, reader is insecure, valentina is way more evil, the team doesn’t really know how to handle bob’s mental health yet, slight mentions of alcohol (i don’t actually think bob would drink tbh but)

word count: 28.9k (sorry, i got carried away) ao3

author’s note: i wrote this two months ago, but this is my first finished and published work— so i think i’ve been scared to actually share it. i’ve been procrastinating and over-editing to avoid it, but it’s something i had fun doing— so if even one person reads it and enjoys, that’s a success in my book! i’d also like to point out that i know there’s discourse on how some tend to infantilize bob and i don’t want that to come across in my writing at all, as i strongly agree that his mental struggles are often misrepresented. a part of this work gently (!!) explores that subject… you’ll see. oh, also yes, i know i use em dashes oddly. idk i’m rambling— please enjoy!

Crestfallen, you walk, a jump at the click of your heels each time they meet the sullen pavement.

It echoes low, muffled sounds trapped between dense, concrete buildings and sticky, summer heat that burns off in the wake of night. This part of the city wasn’t home; it wasn’t much of anything yet— Just another block that looked like all the others, reminding you through the wind that whipped past windows and wove with intention that you still did not yet belong.

None of it felt right: not the crosswalks you passed through, not the clothes you wore to look the part—tight, restrictive, unforgiving—not even when you finally reached the Watchtower, unrecognizable, a shell of itself and its memories.

You used to be able to see it from your old job, just a blink away— An unmistakable beacon shining through the city. It was your favorite building to look at from your office late at night, the light dimming from your eyes as you got lost in your work, yet still found in the faint glow of an A that somehow continued to push you along.

Now, you didn’t dwell on what you felt twisting deep in your core when you saw it, absent-mindedly heading up after scanning your security clearance badges and sharing a routine nod with the doorman.

It was best not to think about it.

Soon, you’d be home and could try to forget who you were for a few hours before it pulled you back in again— Same loop, same lethargy.

Soon, you could just pretend to be someone else again.

You never got off easy, though— Still navigating the endless tasks through the city despite the promise of an 8 pm release. At least no one would be around, so you could make quick work of this one last thing.

And you wished that was still the case when the elevator finally opened to the top floor, reaching the end of your night that somehow only turned into the beginning.

The scent of familiarity—of warmth and peace—that allowed you to exhale a strained breath was the same thing that took it away again, making you freeze abruptly. Your heels scraped against the newly renovated marble, your stiff body hovering uncomfortably in the wake of the warm glow of a very occupied kitchen.

Everything about it caught you off guard, considering you not only were expecting the residential floor to be empty, but the kitchen was almost never used— At least when you were around.

Bucky was used to frozen… maybe that was a bad choice of words, but it was true. Yelena’s grocery list usually consisted of ramen and box mac and cheeses, Alexei made a meal of team-sponsored junk foods, John and Ava relied heavily on DoorDash, and Bob— Well, you never saw Bob with anything in his hand other than a book or his other hand, wringing in nervous, futile energy.

Until now.

You didn’t know much about Bob, admittedly avoiding him a bit— Which he made good on, considering he wasn’t exactly a socialite himself. Part of it was because of the guilt that hung heavy in your chest when you’d catch his eye, the other something else entirely you couldn’t quite place. What you did know of Bob was that he never seemed entirely sure of himself. It radiated through his movements, his smile, his pace, and his laugh. It was doubt that covered him completely, coursing through his veins and mingling with an ice of a power too intense for him to even begin to understand.

And that was evident as you caught him stuck in his own world— A bit removed from the situation you had just walked into, loosely wading through the kitchen, all like he was looking for something that didn’t want to be found.

His steady grip was wound around a wooden spoon— One you didn’t even know the building owned, considering it was never used, bleeding into the background with other untouched reminders of normalcy and an ordinary life.

Fingers danced over each other around the handle, then found their way to the nape of his neck, rubbing and searching for a thought as he hung his head over a tablet on the counter, eyes looming down through loose, wavy strands.

His hair was still that unsettling shade of blonde you hated to see— The shade you tried not to think of, yet could never really forget.

You clear your throat, unsure how to handle the silence the two of you occupied— Him unknowingly, and you, not so much. The sound cuts through the low drone of an old stereo haphazardly plugged in at the corner of the open-concept space, playing an even older song.

His attention shoots up to you, his spine abruptly straightening as his eyes fall on you. The spoon he clung to rattles against the granite as his fingers twitched it free.

“Oh, h-hi, uh, sorry,” he rambles, pale complexion flushing a soft and supple pink. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I Can’t Begin to Tell You,” you state, inhaling a breath and finding your feet carrying you to the island where he stood.

“What?” His eyebrows meet each other, knit in confusion at your statement.

“I Can’t Begin to Tell You,” you repeat, setting down your stack of papers and bag on the corner of the expansive surface, gesturing over to the stereo. “Henry James.”

His eyes follow your finger and relax when he realizes what you meant. “Oh,” he laughs gently, a hesitant yet sweet sound you wished he would share more often. “Right. It’s, uh, not mine.”

Part of you already knew that, noticing the building was still haunted with old stacks of belongings that had lived a million lives before— Stories and memories whispering behind the layer of dust that dulled them until they were forgotten. Forgotten by time, by people, by what—and who—they were once loved by.

“I think it was Captain Rogers’,” he continues, eyes darting away from the quick glances they stole of yours and back to his work on the stove behind him. “It just gets… quiet.”

“Too quiet,” you add, understanding the loneliness this city could drown you in.

His back stiffens at that before he glances over his shoulder at you.

“Yeah.” He says it so quietly you almost wondered if he had even said it at all or if you were just subconsciously filling in the blanks of what intent his eyes held.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.” You change the subject, not wanting his mind to linger on the heaviness you could sense echoing in his voice, on the weight that held in the air, pushing his tone flat. “I’ll get out of your way, I just had to drop some stuff off on my way home.”

The simmering pan on the stove began to pop, on the edge of a boil. Steam quickly filled the large room, causing Bob to fiddle with the burner until it turned to smoke.

He mumbled under his breath as he made quick work of pulling it off the burner, fanning his hand in pain after some of the hot liquid splashed on his skin— Yet he still made sure to take notice of your words.

“No, no— It’s no bother, really,” he rushes, wiping the evidence of his bubbling dish off the stove and counter. “Everyone’s out for the night so it’s just me… so I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here either.”

A crooked smile pulls briefly at the corner of his lips, sincerity flashing in his eyes when he turns to meet you. It melted you a bit, how much he longed for the company, but you didn’t want it to— You didn’t want to stay, not with him. Not when you still felt the way you did around him.

Not like this.

“What’s in the folder?” He tilts his chin at the stack of documents you brought over, cluttering the otherwise clean counter— That is, aside from the mess of Bob’s cooking: the spices—virtually all of them—the utensils, dishes, and ingredients all sprawled across his work space. It looked like he was deep into crafting something way too complicated for you to understand.

“Boring stuff.”

That wasn’t entirely true; the folder actually contained some pretty important legal documents sent over by Sam Wilson. A few brand deals that needed some signatures, some mission reports you sorted through and needed to be filed, a cease and desist… You didn’t want to worry him with any of that.

“What’s in the dish?” you ask back, changing the subject again so he wouldn’t ask any more questions he wouldn’t necessarily want the answers to. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

He fiddles with the hem of his sweater— Big and baggy and olive green, just like he always wore.

“Oh, I-I don’t. Need to find ways to be part of the team, right?”

You shift your weight, trying to meet his eyes, but he keeps them busy elsewhere— Tidying the kitchen and finding aimless work.

There was a tinge in your heart from his words, dripping with a layer of self-deprecation he tried so hard to hide— His tone chipper, all like he wasn’t finding new ways to put himself down at every turn.

“You are part of the team. You do plenty, Bob.” His head snaps up at that, finding your eyes, a shyness behind them, waiting for you to continue, for you to say it’s a lie, for you to take it back. You didn’t. “You’re the strongest person on this team. Truly.”

He was quiet for a moment, not sure what to say, his mind racing incessantly as he waded in your words, drowning in what to do with everything you’d said. You didn’t mean to overwhelm him, but you hated when he dismissed himself, when he diminished his impact.

“That’s the other guy,” he offers gently, a sense of melancholy lacing his tone. He says it with a half-smile—reassuring—all like it wasn’t breaking him to say. “That’s the Sentry.”

“Bob…” Your voice trails off unintentionally— A losing battle on what to say back, on how to tell him that it’s not true.

That he’s more than his other facets he despised.

“Can you, uh, do you— I mean, do you want to, uh, to try?” He gestures to the meal, fidgeting with his hands, nervously tumbling over his words. “Since everyone’s still not back, you know? I could use the feedback.”

In another world, you’d want to, your heart skipping a beat at his timid offering, so sweet and gentle, so honest. But you couldn’t shake your hesitation that still pulled you back, reminding you against your will of what you’ve done to him.

You couldn’t open that door.

“I wouldn’t want to impose…”

“No, really, you’re not.” He hurries back to his dish, assembling everything on a clean plate before you could say another word— A pair of them, one for each of you.

“Ava, Yelena, and Alexei are training.”

They were on recon… for something Bob didn’t know about.

“Bucky’s doing congress stuff.”

Bucky was with Sam.

“And Walker… I’m not sure where he is, actually.”

Similarly, neither did you.

“So no one will be back for a bit.”

It would be longer than a bit, you already knew that. But he didn’t.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be left alone,” you point out, tone balancing on the edge of teasing and seriousness. You hated how it made you sound like a lecturing-parent—wandering mind trying to pinpoint how it made him feel too—but you know how the team was with him since everything happened so recently. You know they worried about him, even if they wore it close to the vest— Know they avoided all being gone at the same time because they don’t like for him to dwell in silence for too long alone.

You didn’t like it either, which is why it was even harder for you to fight yourself into leaving.

Then he says,

“Just another reason you should stay.”

Well, you walked right into that one.

He was quick with his answer, completing the plates and setting them down, looking at you delicately, like he said too much. “Uh, u-unless you don’t want to. Sorry, I don’t wanna be annoying, I, uh—”

“No, it’s okay.” You give in, your heart breaking at his sudden embarrassment— Like he pushed you too far when in reality, all he was doing was being kind, just like always. “I’d love to. I haven’t eaten yet, anyways… so, thank you.”

You allow yourself to relax a bit, still nervous at being in his presence with all you held onto, letting yourself find one of the barstools and wait patiently for his masterpiece that he placed in front of you, accompanied by a glass of red wine, which you would never turn down.

“So, what’s for dinner, Chef?”

It warmed you to watch him smile for a split second, that same pink flush you recognized from earlier creep across his cheeks, scratching the back of his head as he sheepishly averts his eyes and takes a seat adjacent to you, waiting intently now.

“Penne,” he says nonchalantly, and you tried to fight the up turn that begged to come through at the corner of your mouth. “With tomato sauce.”

“Did you make the sauce from scratch or something…?” you ask gently, scanning around the room at the kitchen, covered in evidence of what seemed like hours of hard work and love— The same delicious smell that knocked you back when you walked in still wafting through the air, dancing with the faint glow of warm kitchen lights and delicate beginnings.

“No, it’s just a canned one,” he answers sheepishly, somehow wrapped in even more shy, timid manners, his baggy sleeve coming up to his lips that started to curl, hiding the pink that warmed to a red. “I put other stuff in it, though… to make it better.”

It was cute, the way he folded in on himself at your gaze, smiling and teasing towards his simple nature. You loved it. You wished you didn’t.

With a stab or two at the pasta, you hold out your fork to him, a quirked brow and a smile to match. “Cheers.”

He brushed a lock of his hair out of his eyes and awkwardly clinked his fork with yours, the two of you taking your first bites and marinating in the flavors in silence.

Your chewing slowed as you thought, face slowly turning to meet his. You didn’t want to be the one to speak first, wanted anything other than to tell him what you really thought of his hard work.

“Do you think it’s kinda…” your voice trails, hoping that he’d take the bait and finish your sentence.

“Spicy— But not good spicy, like-”

“Pumpkin… spice-y.”

“And burned. Exactly,” he agrees before letting a light groan escape with the crane of his neck, throwing his head to the ceiling in defeat that made you giggle against your own will.

You rummage your hand through the spices that still littered the counter, sifting through the mess for the culprit— Some sort of explanation to solve the mystery of the utterly odd taste that graced your taste buds.

“Maybe next time make sure this one stays in the cabinet,” you tease, flipping the label of a bottle of pumpkin spice mix towards Bob for him to see.

“I should’ve just stuck to doing dishes and laundry,” he grovels in defeat, swiftly taking the evidence with him to clear, tossing the plates into the sink.

“Hey, at least you made a good salad,” you point out, examining a small bowl on the counter with some fresh vegetables. “It’s a little small, but, y’know.”

“Oh, that’s for the guinea pig. Yelena’s.”

“Well, you’re good at taking care of small animals, then.” You give him a sincere smile, hoping he could sense it in your voice as he focused on plating something else, setting a new set of dishes down for the two of you.

“Here,” he says, a glimmer of pride in his voice, just for a second. “The official Bob Special.” In front of you now was a fresh plate of plain penne pasta dressed in light butter; Simple, universally-loved, a classic. “Oh, and if you want to get really fancy,” he jokes quietly, showing off a bottle of pre-packaged parmesan cheese.

You didn’t try to hide the smile you wore this time around, happily inviting him to exchange eye contact with you, a little sweet, a little shy, all something you didn’t want with him.

Something you know he wouldn’t want with you if he knew.

Silence swept through the room, the only sound a swelling swoon of an old orchestra thanks to what was left behind. A tinge of intimacy dances through the air—peace in common ground—something you tried to think else of for your own good. It was hard, he didn’t make it easy— Sitting slouched over his dinner, eyes drifting over to you when you weren’t looking, looking anywhere else when you returned the favor. You can’t even recall the last time you’ve had the privilege of dining with someone, the luxurious feeling of normalcy echoing in each accidental scrape of your fork against the dishware.

You’re sure he senses that, too, all things considered.

“It’s been a while,” he cuts through the silence first, earning your attention, like he was reading your mind. “Since, uh, since you’ve been here.”

Because of you. How do you sit here and tell him, it’s because of him?

“Yeah… you know how Valentina is.” It’s all you could think of saying, immediately regretting the mention of her as soon as the words ghosted over your lips, hitting him hard, his body twitching slightly at the name. You hated yourself for reminding him.

His face fell a bit sullen, eyes darkening and darting away from yours, sucking in a low breath, internally trying to walk himself through the mention of someone who has had such a heavy hand in his life so far.

“Yeah,” he whispers, a quick glance at you then immediately back down at his plate, pushing a few leftover noodles aimlessly.

Think of literally anything else, you scold yourself internally, words tripping over each other as you racked your brain for a way to subtly ease your guilty conscience through him— To let him know what you really thought of your boss, to let him know what side you were really on.

“She, um… she,” you sputter, his eyes taking you in now, watching you take your turn at rambling through the fragments of a sentence. You lost the words, what little of them you had, trailing off. You had to be careful what you told him— Knowing her, this place was most definitely bugged and listening to your every word.

“She hates yellow,” you sigh eventually, gingerly holding your hand up for him to see, nails all uniformly refined and polished a pale, muted lemon. Of all the things, you think. Of all the things you could’ve said. “So… I get them done yellow.”

His eyes dart between yours, trying to decipher what you were saying. You wanted to fold in on yourself—disappear—embarrassed at how pitiful and utterly ridiculous you sounded. Tense bottom lip found its way between your teeth, tenderly biting in purgatory while you prepared yourself for his response— To call you out for your indiscretion, all like he should.

Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitches into just barely a smile.

“We match,” he carefully says, holding a lock of his golden hair, his grin growing a bit. “Two things Valentina hates.” Only you knew he wasn’t talking about his hair. Or about you.

The mention of his new look made your stomach twist, the one very subject you feared. The one thing you were doing everything in your power to avoid.

You took a sip of your wine, now being the one to look away, taking in the twinkling cityscape just past the large windows that adorned every facet of the room. “I’m surprised you still have it— The blonde, I mean.”

Through the reflection you watch him shrug, fingers scrubbing away at something on the counter that didn’t even seem to be there.

“Everyone says they like it,” he points out, but you weren’t convinced. “Do you… What do, uh, what—what do you think?” He asks so gently, like his word was sacred, something lingering he’s too afraid to act on, your opinion, too weighted.

“It just doesn’t seem like you.”

Silence.

You feared his reaction again, but realized if you owed him anything, after all was said and done, the least you could do was give him your honest opinion.

“I think that’s the whole point,” he says quietly, you still too afraid to look up at him again. “The Sentry needs to look powerful, important.” It broke your heart how he spoke of himself, the slight waver as he said it, like every syllable was a losing battle within himself, waging war with every word.

“I liked it brown,” you mumble, scared of your own honesty. “It was just… you. Just Bob. That’s important, too.” You hoped he could hear how you meant it, how you truly admired him untouched.

He gets up in silence and clears your second round of plates, stirring in thought. Your stomach lurched, fearing you might’ve scared him off, had thrown too much at him, offended him, even.

Then,

“I did too.”

He turns around from the sink and gives you a sad smile, a whisper of regret on his lips. You bit at yours again, reeling in his words.

Before you could think of what to say, he kept going. “You’re the only person who’s answered me without worrying I’ll fall apart at the truth or something… so thank you.” It’s shy, it’s raw. He picks at his fingers, lost in the mangle of them now. “Thanks for being honest with me.”

His words hit you like a ton of bricks, the life and wind sucked out of your soul, plummeting to the pit of your stomach, grasping desperately for air. You couldn’t do this, couldn’t let him look at you like you were some sort of savior to his sanity— Like you hadn’t already played your part in maiming the shell of who he used to be.

So you stood, finding your feet leading you to him at the sink, soaking in the warm glow from the hood of the stove, finding each curve of your face and painting you in it— A new light, in more ways than one.

Without thinking, you grab his hand and look at him.

“Look at him. He’s painfully pale and has a head like a bag full of cats, but he’ll have to do.”

Valentina exhaled sharply, exiting the room she had just occupied with Bob, acting as if another person’s autonomy was somehow a personal vendetta against her. You watched as she maneuvered past a version of you— One you were trying to forget.

The old you dodged like your existence was in her way when, really, she was just bulldozing her way through yours.

“What did he say?” old you asked, watching her slowly, almost afraid to know the answer. You remembered that you were.

“Not important. What is important, however,” she said over a sip of water, “is that we get a team working on him immediately. It’s gonna take a while to fix… that.”

You watched as your old self closed her eyes tightly, remembering how you’d tried to calm yourself at her words before painfully obliging.

“What do you need?”

“I want him tanner— The pale is sad to look at. He won’t look good overexposed from camera lights. The clothes need to go; he looks like a Boy Scout, not a superhero. Maybe gold for the suit,” she said, thinking out loud and bustling around the room, weaving through workers promptly trying to get the building usable again. “Americans like gold. It’s classic. Looks expensive even if it’s not. Get those old mock-ups for it.”

“They were burned,” you pointed out bluntly.

“Then make them again.”

Your brows knit with worry before you said, carefully, “This seems like a lot, Val. Do you really think a makeover is necessary?”

“I signed up for the hero of superheroes,” she deadpanned, unamused by your interruption. “Not a damn charity case.”

Once she turns around, you roll your eyes fiercely, fighting the urge to yank that silver strip of hair clean out of her head.

She keeps going, hitting a million other nonexistent flaws he apparently has—you hurriedly writing them all down as if your life depended on it—until she finally says,

“Enhancements would be nice. They’ll delay the launch, but it’s worth it. I mean— Look at him.”

You stopped her there, your heels skidding against the concrete. “Enhancements?”

“Yes,” she said your name with a condescending bite and groaned like it was the most obvious thing ever. “Enhancements. Trim down his nose, put him on steroids so he isn’t so lanky— Oh, that new, trendy thing that makes your cheekbones look sharp,” she said, sucking her lips in to show off the shadow in her face. “Buccal fat!” She snapped her fingers at the remembrance of it. “Look it up and book a surgeon— Someone who can get this done fast so I have something presentable to show the press.”

You remembered you couldn’t believe what you were hearing— The way she spoke about him like he was nothing, like he wasn’t even a person.

You looked back at him, sitting in a sheen of sweat, doubled over on himself at the edge of the bed Valentina once waded in with him, clearly unstable and vulnerable.

The sight of him left alone in there made you sick.

Letting her sink unforgiving claws into him and mutilate him, stuff him like he’s the puppet she wants him to be, would destroy him. You couldn’t let her, not in his state, not when he was so clearly aching to have meaning that he would say yes to just about anything she suggested.

And she knew that.

“Or,” you began, flinching at yourself for attempting to correct her in the first place. “We could start smaller. It’ll move things along faster, y’know, pacify the investigation.”

She looked visibly irritated but stopped her busy work, granting you most of her attention now.

“They’re really getting restless, Val,” you added, fibbing a tad to help convince her. “They’re pushing back. Hard.”

“And what do you propose then?”

“All I’m saying is you can always… tweak things later,” you offered, breath catching on the word ‘tweak.’ You wanted to sink into yourself and disappear at even acknowledging her sick and twisted ideas to form him into her mold.“You could bleach his hair, maybe. Hair can change the whole appearance, make him look more refined. Maybe a nice blonde, straight and slicked back… Really complete the whole look and compliment the gold.”

You hated your own suggestion, but prayed she took the bait, giving some time to wait on permanently altering him and his body, inflicting irreparable damage he had no control over when he was as fragile as he was.

She huffed, waving her hand at you— Something you got a lot. “I don’t care, just fix him. I can’t be bothered, okay?” And she walked away, leaving you reeling in worry over how to please your unpleasable boss and keep your hands clean of him, all at the same time.

You snapped back to reality abruptly, sharing in the panic in his eyes, his hands still woven in between yours. Your breath hitched as you realized what you had just done, almost forgetting just how abrasive that memory was. In your desperate attempt to atone for your sins—show him why you avoid him so incessantly and feel so complacent in a version of himself you know he hates—you hung him out to dry. You let him relive the woman who has already caused him so much harm.

You let her cause more.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, a pathetic presence of self-pity laced through the letters you strung together, tears clinging to the corners of your eyes despite your best attempts to stop them. Skin untangled from his, wiggling your hand free of his grasp, running through your hair, searching for how to explain what just happened to him— Why you did what you did. “I haven’t been honest… not like you think. I needed you to know that.”

He took you in carefully, his eyebrows and forehead wrinkles woven with worry and pain, a similar sheen of sweat dancing across his skin— One you knew all too well. Golden hair came to light again, the messy brown you once loved lost in the darkness left behind once your hand left his, now only an aching memory.

“You were just doing your job,” his voice cracks, raw from the silence it had been swallowed in just moments before, and you wanted to laugh— How could he seriously be standing here right now making excuses for you, comforting you, justifying you?

“You want to know why I avoid you, Bob?” Your voice raises a bit in volume, more courage coursing through your veins as you listen to him excuse your actions. “I avoid you—this place—because every time I look at you, I’m reminded of how I stripped your sense of identity… of how I helped erase you. And it kills me.”

You were so caught up in your own rambling confession, your voice wavering slightly, a sting clawing at the back of your throat, that you didn’t realize he had stepped closer, his large frame towering over you now, casting a shadow over the dips and curves of your skin.

“You helped save me from much worse,” he whispers, a little unsure of himself— Maybe of the moment, maybe of the breached space… Maybe of you. Was it you? Breath dances with his as you blink up at him now, eyes impatiently searching for the answer like it lay there, honest and open and true when he adds, “Besides, it’s just hair.”

Still unsure, you say back, “I erased a part of you, Bob.”

He shrugs and looks away, taking the smallest step back, a sudden rush of cool flooding you from the loss of body heat he radiated onto you. How could you miss something you barely had?

“Not much there to erase.”

The way he says it cuts through you like a knife, a feeling of dread worse than you could’ve imagined. How could someone so great, so pure and full of potential, see so little in himself?

It’s like he was searching for new ways to keep you up at night— The guilt you bear, the senseless burn in the deepest corners of your soul that demanded something more with him, were not yet enough. Your Achilles’ heel. The way he consumed you.

“I’m going to do this thing where I’m only honest with you now,” you start, voice cracking a little over the words, eyes begging to connect with his— To help him see, to understand; you meant it. “That’s not true, Bob. Not at all. Not even a bit.”

A heat burns through the high points of his cheeks, undeniable proof of the way he’s fighting the urge to let himself believe what you so desperately wanted him to see. You knew Bob well enough to know he’d take a lot more convincing than that. His voice crawls with a doubtful chuckle as he says, so quietly you could barely hear, “I don’t know about that.”

His hands find a home at the base of his neck, wobbly fingers pawing at flushed skin, eyes unable to meet yours. It didn’t matter, you still watched him— Eying him intently, learning what he was trying to say through his body instead. Silence was something you were used to when you were around him, the leading party admittedly coming from both ends, but this was a new kind of silence.

You hated it.

There were a lot of things you wanted to do— Shake him free of the prison in his mind, tell him that he’s something extraordinary, remarkable, tell him you’re scared of what twists inside you for him. You wanted to tell him that your guilt has made it a lot easier to cover up the feeling that scares you most in the likes of him— An unknown ache, yearning to be set free. You wanted to pull his hand out of his hair and to your chest, let him learn by feeling how hard your heart was beating for him, a spark you’d buried, fighting to burn again. You wanted to grab his face in your hands and stop his ragged breathing, suffocate his fears and worries with the certainty of your lips, skin on skin, hearts on sleeves, trust in devotion.

But you couldn’t do any of that, so you did something you’ve wanted to do for a long time.

“Come on.” He twitches as you latch your hand onto his forearm and pull him toward the door, scared the contact might not take you where you intended, yet you stay grounded in this universe—this moment—his mind racing at your forwardness as he stumbles along behind you.

“Where are we— W-what are we—”

You stopped abruptly at the side door near a little shoe rack, turning to look at him now— Stability found in the pools of his eyes that made their way to yours again, eyes you’d somehow missed already, shy and tentative.

“Do you trust me enough to follow me?”

He swallowed hard, wringing his fidgeting hands together, eyes darting around the secluded area of the residential floor you’d taken him to— Like he was surprised you knew it existed, this quiet part of his home. His hesitation made your burst of courage start to fizzle, choked away in the silence, until—

“I… I think I’d follow you anywhere.”

Your heart leapt like your soul had been ripped through your chest and crashed back into your body when those words left his lips.

“Good,” you manage to get out, gently instructing him to put on his shoes— Which he obliged, tripping and falling over himself to slip his sneakers on as fast as he could, you watching endearingly, unable to look anywhere else.

You grab his arm when he recoils from the floor, standing tall over you again, familiar frame and body heat filling the air, and headed for the door.

“We’re getting your hair back.”

For the first time in your life when you walk toward the building, you feel renewed hope. It was giddy— The energy and lightness that hung in the air around the two of you, walking lazily back to the Watchtower, no longer a fear or worry in the world. Who would’ve ever thought the reason you dreaded that building would be the same one that saved you?

Everything was starting to feel right— The crosswalks you scurried through, grabbing ahold of his arm like he were a lifeline, no longer uneasy now that he was next to you. You could relax against him, the shield of his body a buffer between you and the busy streets, giggling your way through the flashing traffic lights and honking horns of impatient drivers.

You used to envy them, their pointed purpose around you, but now you only pitied the restless nature of their souls— The way none of them had a reason to enjoy the moment they were in.

Unlike you.

It was funny how quickly you realized what you’d so deeply repressed in regards to him. He brought peace to your world, relishing in the time you got to spend with him now— Unburdened, hopeful, reborn.

It was like your soul had known his forever— A familiar flame, kindling, against all odds, with his.

It was like he was learning to breathe again when he wandered through the hazy city streets with you, his eyes sparkling with wistful wonder as he absorbed the movement around him. He waded in the flickering life of the city all like he wasn’t living in it, day in and day out, like he'd never seen anything like it before.

You knew that wasn’t true— He made himself busy outside the Watchtower, growing bolder in exploring every day, discovering what the world had to offer just like everyone else. Looking—a whisper of loss behind his eyes—for the thing in this city that could make him tick. Searching for a home in a city of nomads, in a city that was lost like him. Like you.

He hasn’t found it yet.

A smile pulled at your lips bitten by the cool evening air, absentmindedly, as you watched him take it all in, his hesitancy washing away with every step now.

Your cheeks warmed again at it— Just like they did when you left, the memory of him stumbling over himself in every sense of the word flooding back like it’s lived in your mind forever now.

“Are you sure we should be doing this so late?” He had mumbled to you, tone unsure yet hopeful— Hopeful you’d ease his doubt and insist he’s exactly where he needs to be.

You did.

“Yes, Bob, it’s fine,” you’d said back. “You’re with me.”

“A-and the store— They’ll be open still?”

“It’s only 9 pm, Bob. We’re in New York City.”

“Oh, right.”

You knew it wasn’t about being out late or about a store’s hours— Of course not. He’s lived a life far more complicated than a 7-11 run in the middle of the night, to say the least.

It was that he was still finding his footing, trying desperately to ground himself in something that would do it back. That would assure he was allowed ownership over himself again. No abuse, no drugs, no demons.

Just something real.

He was overly cautious of himself, like he was hyper-aware of the fact that his brain convinced him he was out of place somehow. You knew the feeling.

The rest of the trip went that way— Him clinging to you and your every word, watching with calculated thought churning in his brain while you did your thing: picking out the best shade of brown to match his roots that poked through just enough, weaving through the store with ease— Just two lost souls finding themselves together in the artificial glow of a late-night corner pharmacy.

You refrained from touching him again, fighting off the intimacy you felt creeping up on you. If your fingers wrapped around him you’d only be reminded of the swoop in your stomach when things crossed into a realm you teased— Cautiously, carefully.

When you grabbed his arm to drag him out the door or keep him with you as you ran through the streets, it felt familiar—felt okay—allowable, even. But there were other ways of touching him that you knew would stop your breathing, swirl your head, shred your better judgment— Hungry claw at your heart. A heart that screamed for him, for more.

You couldn’t touch his hand again. You couldn’t snake your hand across his lower back as you shuffled in front of him in the aisle. You couldn’t thread your fingers through his hair to find the perfect shade—You just couldn’t.

So you gingerly held the box up and took your best guess, his questions still coming all the same.

“Is it going to sting?”

“No, Bob. It’s a demi-permanent dye, not bleach. Your hair’s already bleached.”

“This is a bad idea, what if everyone hates it? Valentina is gonna get so pissed—”

“So let her,” you dismissed softly. “She’ll have to go through me first.”

A pink settled on his skin— That same pink from when you startled him in the tower, the color from when he served you dinner, shy and hopeful. The one that blistered his skin when you teased him— One that festered from the way you talked him down, not letting him consume himself in doubt, all like it was already a natural place for you to be. It appeared again when you worked your way around the night shift cashier who didn’t want to honor a coupon Bob mentioned in passing he tried to use last week on snack foods for Yelena. It was still crinkled in his pocket, a reminder of his failure on his grocery run, in his small but monumental tasks— You simply couldn’t have that.

And now, you walk back, a plastic bag of his newfound authority swaying alongside you as he held the jelly-red candies he munched on up to the streetlights, watching them glow from within— His prize in more ways than one.

“Do you ever think about why they’re called Swedish Fish?” he muses, voice cutting through the sugar on his teeth. “Like, what makes the fish… Swedish?”

You couldn’t do anything but smile— A smile that stretched so far it pulled his attention with it, rambling questions coming to a pause and looking at you. Cool, flickering lights under the Watchtower’s entrance cradle your skin, making you shine— A physical embodiment of the way he made you glow inside, just like his candies in the streetlights.

“What?” he asks tentatively, thin lips pursed together, stopping mid-chew with wide eyes darting gently back and forth, like he’d done something wrong.

Eyes connected like constellations decorating the clear, crisp air above you, the soft lull of city life blurring into the background— Somehow completely insignificant in this moment.

You wanted to say,

It’s just that I like spending time with you. You look so perfect right now I can barely breathe.

Or,

I missed having you in my life. Even if it was small, I still missed you. It meant something to me.

You fought the urge to confess,

I feel something I shouldn’t— Something hungry and restless from the way I let it starve.

I feel something for you.

You dared to whisper,

I think I’m falling in love with you.

But instead—

“Nothing,” you breathe back softly, a cautious reluctance haunting your phrase despite your desperate attempt to hide it. The words taste wrong as soon as they leave your lips, a new sin brought to fruition, betraying what you promised him before— Doing the one thing you vowed never to do to him again.

You lied.

You don’t say any of what you want to, just reiterate with a breathless smile, “It’s nothing.”

He pushed further, gently— An offering so delicate, a chance for you to take it all back and give him what burned inside your throat to say. He asks it carefully, like he was dancing on a line he was afraid to cross.

“Are you sure?”

The key card buzzes you back in, breaking the moment that threatened to swallow you whole.

“I’m just glad you got your candy, is all.”

When you step inside, you move through the tower silently, a state of mourning, like you both knew what was about to come— A next step, only yours to take.

You didn’t want to go. You wanted to live in this night forever. It was a night you could only dream of having— So raw, so utterly real that it threatened to shatter what you thought you knew of reality. It felt like if you let it end now, you might never get this feeling back again.

You wondered if he felt the same.

When you reach the residential floor, you enter, this time, as someone completely new— Or yet, maybe someone you’ve always been, a person who just got lost. You were getting to be the different, better you. The one you fantasized about being when you were alone at your apartment, only now with the only person in the world you’d want it to ever be with.

Everything was just how you left it: messy kitchen, littered with evidence of a lived-in night, half-had glasses of wine, deep red liquid staining the bottom of the vessel like a scar. Warm light, a pulse radiating throughout the dark floor all from that one space— The space where everything changed for both of you.

The only thing new was the silence from a finished record, drawing the night to a close. Your cue to go.

Bob was the first to speak, confirming current residents with the comm system, only to reaffirm your impatient suspicion.

You were still alone.

“Wow, everyone’s still gone,” he reiterates after the mechanical voice goes mute, a nervous and low, breathy laugh engulfing the sincerity seeping through his tone— One that threatened to betray his facade and bare the truth of what lies behind intent.

“Guess so,” is all you say back.

Beat.

Say something else, you scold internally. It’s getting too quiet.

Eventually, you cave and bite first—begrudgingly—but not wanting to crowd him any longer. “Thanks for tonight. It was nice.”

You give him a half smile and move past him, his lanky frame awkwardly shuffling aside with a mumbled ‘sorry’ so you could grab for your bag— But you don’t take it yet. You just encroach on his space, hovering gently, waiting for his next words, fingers practicing wrapping and releasing around the handle haphazardly in wait.

Holding out the plastic bag from your impromptu errand, you look at him— His timid eyes already watching you, absorbing your every move, thinking intently. You hold out the offer of it—a weighted symbol—waiting in the silence, a moment too delicate to speak. He takes it gently, but neither of you move— Both your hands still clutched onto the bag, not wanting to let go. In more ways than one.

“I, uh, I don’t really, um,” he stutters. “I mean, what I mean is, I— uh, sorry— It’s just that…” He pauses, taking you in, mind reeling behind his eyes on what to say to you next, suspended in the time you let pass.

Wrap, release.

“Maybe you can come back, y’know,” he says—so shy, so quiet—gesturing down to the bag, your fingers finally slipping free of it once the position is acknowledged, relinquishing sole custody to him. “I don’t really know what I’m doing with all this… so if you don’t mind, or uh, have the time in your schedule…” He laughs timidly, restless fingers around the plastic gripping on for dear life— And oh, there’s that flush again. “Sorry— I know you’re busy, this is stupid,” he rambles but you stop him, touching your free hand to his around the bag. His mind and mouth and meddling fingers come to a screaming stop at the contact, eyes flickering down like you might have unleashed the unwanted.

It didn’t come.

“Of course I’ll help, Bob.” His features immediately relax, a bit of reassurance washing over him as you smile softly, your fingers still stuck to his.

“Okay,” he croaks. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Your heart thudded hard— So hard you wondered if he could hear it ringing in his ears like it was in yours.

Wrap, release.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, mulling in thought, weighing the voices, then says,

“Do you think it’ll take long?” he whispers, almost scared. “The dye?”

“No.” Your tone slips lower, matching his, trembling almost. “It’s pretty easy…”

Eventually, he says, “I won’t keep you.” He looks down hesitantly at your hand— One on your handbag, tethering you to an exit you didn’t want to take, the other still meeting his— His eyes not wanting to remind you they were still overlapping, the contact becoming more charged as each second passed. “You’re probably busy, y’know… with work ‘n stuff.”

Did you dare?

“It’s quarter to 10 on a Friday, Bob.”

You did.

So you continued. “I have nowhere to be. It’s the weekend, so…”

Wrap, release.

“Do superheroes even get days off?” he asks, but not seriously. He says it like it’s a strained joke, a short laugh covering up the root of something much more complex— Something much more timid and intimate that he wanted to know.

Your hand twitched free from his, cold rushing to the pads of your fingers from the loss of heat.

“Lucky for you,” you tease, “I’m not a superhero. That’s your job.”

When he looks down at his hands, likely mulling over the loss of contact just like you, he follows your lead. “Care to work some overtime, then?” He looks back up, eyes dancing along yours, searching to connect like a puzzle begging to be finished. They echo with hope, glistening from the reflection of the light captured in the dim and dark center of his doubts— The part of him that said, she wants nothing to do with you. Stop bothering her, you’re wasting her time.

But you’d like nothing more. “I think I can swing that.”

Release.

The releasing won— You retreating your grip from your handbag, stranding it on the counter along with your other things, leaving behind the people you were before tonight, leaving behind an old fate, stepping into something new and unfamiliar. A new beginning, together. No longer alone.

So you let him lead you upstairs into the uncertain.

His hands were buried deep in his pockets, hair shifting against the cool blue hue of the roaring city in restless waves as he walked. Each step echoed into the empty, taking you somewhere you never thought you’d have the privilege of going.

The corridor stretches on— Long, dim, empty of the usual chaos. A steady haze clung to the walls, the flickering heartbeat of twinkling city lights bleeding through tall windows, washing the world in a soft, electric kind of quiet. He stops once he reaches the end.

The hallway wound further, but he didn’t.

He opens the door, dipping his head and shuffling aside, the smallest, sweetest smile breaking across his lips for a split second. It was the kind of smile that made your chest ache and your heart soar.

He lets you enter first, a wave of goosebumps pecking your skin as his forearm brushes the air behind you, reaching out for the touchpad. The lights come on, his private world unfolding before you, one shadow shattered at a time— Like a secret you weren’t sure you deserved to be told yet.

His room was more well-kept than you were expecting, considering his battle with inner demons and his tendency to be a bit scattered. Part of you wondered if it was just because he didn’t have many belongings anymore.

Some similarly muted and oversized garments tenaciously cluttered a lounge chair, a few scattered across the floor, the rest held in a closet bigger than your apartment— Though it was mostly empty, lining lights illuminating barren drawers and shelves.

The outer wall across from his bed was covered in large windows overlooking the city, beneath it a slightly raised landing that stretched along the back edge of the room. Atop it sat a sofa that looked completely untouched and a dark wooden desk, adorned with small remnants of him— A notepad with some scribbles and doodles too faint for you to make out, a pile of crumpled, discarded fragments of papers cluttered around it. A computer and phone, plugged in and seemingly forgotten about, a small succulent on top of some better-known self-help books alongside an empty cup with a thick straw— Seemingly for a milkshake or smoothie.

His soul touched every corner, a faint whisper of himself embedded in the fabric of his own reality.

Lining one wall adjacent to the windows were several bookshelves, mostly empty yet, but still more crowded and lived-in than the other things in his room. Some shelves held picture frames still encasing the stock photos inside— Naturescapes and famous landmarks, things of that sort. You had to fight the smile that crept to your lips at the invasive thought that maybe, one day, you could be the one to change that.

And there he stood, raking his hands through his hair and wringing them together as he watched you silently take in the space.

You take the first steps, freeing yourself from the tight suit jacket you’d been bound to all day, the fabric whispering against your skin— A physical and emotional release. He watched your frame closely—carefully—like he was witnessing something he wasn’t supposed to.

Why did it feel dramatic? Why did it feel weighted?

Maybe because it was.

Because around him, everything felt heavier— Closer, like stepping too near the edge of something you couldn’t quite name.

You drape it gently on the curve of his bed, leaving with it the urge to hold back, trying your best to stay grounded when stepping into something new.

Something with him.

“Those look uncomfortable,” he murmurs softly, like he was tapping the ice instead of breaking it. Like he was talking more to the room than to you.

You study him, trying to connect what he was saying with his eyes to what he was saying with his words.

“The shoes,” he adds shyly, an almost boyish innocence in his glance at your sharp heels— His form of an invitation for you to settle in, reminding you it’s okay to relax in his space.

“Oh,” you laugh gently, taking his delicate offer to slip them off, warm pads of your feet finally unwinding against the cool of his floor— An exhale. “They are.”

He repays you with a mannerism close to a smile, the outer edge of his mouth flashing into a curve for a second, making your stomach swoop with a flutter you can’t contain.

“You might want to, uh,” you continue, gesturing to the sweater hanging loosely over his lean frame, soft and worn. It was the kind of thing you knew he probably slept in. Something that probably still smelled like old memories and half-healed wounds.

“You don’t want to get dye on that,” you add. “It probably won’t come out…”

Beat.

He glances down, all like he just remembered it’s still on his body.

The favor was returned. Saying it without saying it.

For a moment, he hesitates, then you feel it— That shift, that ache when it happens. It’s not out of debate of your offer, but because his stare is lingering longer than he’s ever let it before, watching you closely—intimately—reveling in the delicacy of your words.

His eyes trace the curves of your skin, arms now exposed, standing in your blouse. It’s a business-casual tank top. Appropriate for work, but still fun enough to leave a button or two undone.

He quickly tears his gaze away, soft blue irises gently washed in awkward panic— The silent kind that only shows as they dart around the room, his limbs gesturing in small movements toward his expansive closet.

“I—I have things,” he rushes, hand tearing into the nape of his neck, rummaging through his restless hair. “Like, uh, like a t-shirt or something, I mean… if you don’t want to ruin your clothes too.”

You smile and accept the offer, following him into his closet.

The enchanting scent of cedarwood drawers mingled with the warm, earthy smell he always wore— So subtle, so effective, just enough to make you forget anything else mattered in the moments when it hung in the air around you, dizzying and distracting.

He rummages through a drawer—half-open, garments half-folded—and pulls out a slightly wrinkled steel-blue t-shirt and a pair of lounge shorts, fabric clutched in his fists, fidgeting nervously.

“They’re clean, I promise. I just… I hate folding.”

Slipping into the bathroom, connected to both his room and the closet, he hovers, his hand ghosting over the handle. “I’ll, uh, I’ll give you—” he stumbles. “I’ll let you… yeah…” he trails off, a nervous laugh swallowing the rest of the words he failed to find. A blush crept to your cheeks at his timid nature— It was sweet, sincere. It ruins you.

The door creaks as he pulls it shut for you to change, unknowingly leaving you alone with a heart that pounded for him, a heart that could no longer lie dormant in his empty space. The undeniably intimate feeling of wrapping yourself in his clothes—an extension of him—creates a flustered pull at your lips. A burning. The silent buzz of his closet carrying it all.

When you slip the soft, threadbare fabric over your head, you linger for a second, a persistent thought of proximity curling around you like smoke. The thought clings to you like the fabric, just like how it’s clung to him before. For a fleeting second, you almost drown in the thought that maybe this will be the closest you’ll ever get to be to him— Only some fabric shared.

Once.

It’s large, draped over your body like a blanket, and even then, it still hangs just right— Enveloping you in comfort, all like it was made to be worn by you too. Like it’s been waiting all this time.

The shorts, on the other hand, make a habit of slipping past your waist, hanging there for no longer than a second before falling, the garment gathering down at your feet. You try rolling the waistband a few times, but it’s a useless feat, leaving you to hope your company was okay with a makeshift dress instead. You, in his shirt, bare legs disappearing into the too-long hem.

Its length stretches just past your fingertips. Sure, you’ve worn shorter dresses to work, around the team, around him… but this felt like something you had to rationalize a lot more.

Just as you swallow your pride and replace it with something more earnest and raw for him—your heart on your sleeve, vulnerable in more ways than one—you freeze.

In the reflection of the mirror, looming large at the opposite end of the closet, you catch a glimpse of him through the sliver of the bathroom door that’s slipped ajar.

He pulls the olive sweater up over his head, back facing you, ruffling the locks of golden, wavy hair he tries to pat down to no avail— Something you could still love in the scattered fragments of him, because it was, after all, still him. The movement tugs the white t-shirt he wears underneath up, a patch of smooth, sculpted skin resting at the waistband sneaking through, your breath catching at the mere sight of it— Of him, like this.

From the freedom of his baggy sweater you could see him better— A fresh glimpse at the way his chest rises and falls with deep and heavy breaths, struggling to tether himself to something that was never really there. His muscle was indescribable, molded into the stretched cotton, something unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. The closest you’d come was seeing it on TV. One of the Avengers— One who didn’t come from this world.

Yet, there he is. Innately human.

Those were the most captivating parts of him. Through taught muscle lay a subtle softness at the curves and dips of his skin, his hands like they were large enough to hold the whole world yet were still found fiddling with the simple box dye, restless energy shuffling around the expansive tile until he slipped out of view, taking your pitiful daydream along with him.

You wish he knew just how alluring he really was.

Unsure fingers gather the fallen shorts and clothes still warm from your body off the floor, folding them loosely over your arm, draped in front of your body as if that somehow makes the moment any less vulnerable, less revealing.

When you step into the bathroom, he’s sat on the edge of his tub, cool porcelain cradling his long and lanky frame, fingers still buried in the box— Toying with the cap, absentmindedly picking at the corner of the paper, brows furrowed as he raked through the expansive instructions on the back, all too caught up in anchoring himself to something—anything—to notice you were there standing in front of him.

A hush and milky white bathes the tile, a low lunar light lingering over every surface like silk. An echo of penance trapped between four walls and two bodies.

The sweater’s gone; he’s in that cotton white t-shirt you already caught a glimpse of— Simple, classic, saying so much without saying anything at all, much like everything about him. It’s somehow the same size as the one you wore, just fitting much more right— Tightly stretched over his broad chest and shoulders like a second skin, fabric smoothing perfectly over the rest of him. His hair is still messy, riddled with movement and life. His feet bare, legs long and in light grey sweatpants, arms exposed and glowing in the dim pooling light of his bathroom.

Was it too much to ask to live in this moment forever?

“The shorts were too big,” you confess, reluctant to disturb him— To steal back the time where observing him feels like the most important thing you’ll ever do, like a gift too good to keep. You look down at what you were left in, the sensual nature of just his t-shirt somehow showing off every curve of your body despite its size like it’s taunting you. “I hope you don’t mind…”

When he looks up at you, the world narrows to a pinhole. Just for a second. It’s like you were in a vacuum, the rest of the world slipping away until it’s just you. Just him.

The box falls free from his hands and clatters to the floor, fingers freezing and pressing against his legs now, a gentle back and forth like he was trying to soothe himself. Thin lips part slightly, so subtle you wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t so drawn into his every move like it was a lifeline— Your resuscitation, suspended in aching time.

He sucks in a slow and steady breath, the only thing present. Just you. Just him.

You lived a lifetime in the flicker of an unspoken spark, a jolt you weren’t supposed to feel, but did. In truth, it was only mere seconds you stood there—a silent offering—before he spoke.

“You, uh…” he starts, a breath catching in his throat, words clinging there, stickier and sweeter than his candy. He gestures vaguely at the shirt. “Looks better on you.”

It’s shy, reserved, like he just said the most obscene thing his mind could conjure— Like it was unholy to say anything at all in this state, in this moment. His voice is low, heavy as gravel, the undeniable weight of his words landing like a stone on your chest.

Nervous eyes glance around the new space, taking in your surroundings to distract from the aching pull on your heartstrings, wound tightly like coiled wire, tension thrumming beneath your skin with no release from his earnest compliment.

You hated how he did this to you— How he was so unaware and devastatingly oblivious to the way the small things he did made you fight off something ravenous within your soul.

Every time he looked at you like you mattered, you had to fight the urge to grab his restless hand in yours to calm it. Every time he blushed, you had to remind yourself you couldn’t just walk over and kiss it off his face. Every single damn time he said a sheepish compliment like it was sacred, you had to wrestle your mind into remembering he isn’t yours. He’s not yours.

Every. Single. Time.

This time wasn’t any different, somehow willing yourself into swallowing the lump in your throat, pushing down the words that were threatening to boil over in a confession and instead do something stupid— Change the subject rather than telling him something absurd, like how you want to wear his clothes forever. You wanted to live within a piece of him, always.

“Do you have a hairbrush?”

He blinks a few times— Blank, rapid, staccato movements trying to process what you said, like he was surprised by your response.

“Oh, uh, yeah— Yeah, I have one.”

His fingers drum against his thigh, then stop. His jaw tightens, like he’s trying to catch a thought before it slips away, and crosses over to open a drawer in the vanity like he wasn’t buried deep in his mind. A small plastic comb turns aimlessly in his fingers before he hands it to you and immediately looks down, avoiding your eyes, murmuring, “I-I think your hair already looks nice, though.”

God, he was killing you. Did he know he was killing you?

“It’s for you,” you breathe, quiet and sure. “If you don’t brush your hair before coloring, it’ll get spots, is all.”

“Oh,” he whispers, a gentle smile in relief breaking across his lips for a fleeting second, like he was happy you weren’t displeased with his appearance. “That—that makes sense.”

“May I?”

You hold the comb up and ask— In a way asking yourself if you were really ready to touch him in that way. Asking the room like the echoes would answer back and reveal what you weren’t quite ready to face.

It was nothing—sure, maybe on the surface—but you’d been avoiding touching him for so long, the restraint was suddenly the thing making it harder for you to hold back. Your heart, light-years ahead of your mind, knew if you touched him in a way that mattered again, you’d only be reminded of how much you didn’t want to let go. Of him. Of yourself.

But he nods, a shy and timid pink flushing his features ever so slightly— All like it wasn’t as weighted as your dragging thoughts were making it feel. You reach up for him on your tiptoes, stepping a little closer, trying your hardest to reach his head that towered above yours until he took the lead and sat on the edge of the tub again. His fingers hovered loosely over the curve of your waist to guide you, accompanied by a soft, “There.”

Sitting down, his head rests just in front of your chest, hanging slightly in silence— A semblance of reckoning as he gives himself to you.

Shallow and steady breath was hot against your sternum, sending shivers down your spine. He exhaled all like it was something he was trying to control—to contain—a pledge to bury how he was feeling inside. The truth remained exiled in the flutter of his breath like a secret— Or maybe, really, it’s just the vivid inner workings of your imagination meshed with hopeless desire.

When you’re done brushing, he hands you the tube of color with a soft smile, cap already loose from his mindless twisting, the rest of the box still abandoned on the floor. It was like it was the most insignificant thing in the world since you stepped through his door, all despite it being the reason you were still with him in the first place.

Or at least, that’s what you both kept telling yourselves.

You both duck down to pick it up at the same time, his wild waves tangling with yours like a whisper on new skin, the air around him seeping into yours, molding into one the way you so desperately wanted to believe it belonged.

Wobbling lips wear a tentative laugh and exchange breathless ‘sorrys’ when you both retract. You keep your glance down and buried into the box so maybe—just maybe—he couldn’t catch a glimpse of how fearlessly you were blushing— A shamefully senseless smile sneaking across your lips like an utter fool.

You place the mixing bowl—now full of the color—on his lap, whispering a steady, “Hold this,” and work on getting the gloves on, the black plastic melting into your skin, tight and precise. Then he reaches for the developer.

“No, wait,” you instruct lightly, and he freezes like he’s created a catastrophic problem.

You go to the vanity and grab a different bottle of developer left behind in the plastic bag. When you pour it into the bowl, he clings to it with extra care, all like it was going to shatter under the weight of his grasp.

“Never use the developer they give in the box, especially if you’re only depositing color like we are,” you explain, eyes flickering from the bowl to his gaze, trying to ease his mind through the aching adoration you couldn’t help but wear for him. “It’s usually a 20 volume,” you continue, “which we definitely don’t want.”

He looked at you like you were speaking a different language, tongue graced by a wisdom and knowledge too foreign for him to know. Eyes darted back and forth between yours cautiously, like you’d given him the answer to quantum entanglement instead of basic hair care, lost in the wavelength of your words.

“That… that sounds complicated,” he stumbles, a little at a loss for words, trying to find where to even start. Did he know how adorable he was? Stupidly precious confusion weaving through his features, eyes fluttering as he faltered, a twitch in his lip quirking just so, nervous bubbles of laughter dancing intimately over every syllable said. Did he know all that made your knees want to give out?

Did he know at all?

“It’s simple, really,” you soothe, a sickeningly sweet tone flooding your mouth— Something you couldn’t stop even if you tried. You mix the contents in the bowl with the back of the comb and explain, distracting from the way your chest swoops like a threatening storm. “Developer is something that can lift your hair. So the higher the volume, the more lift you’ll get.”

Before you could continue, Bob snatches the bowl away mid-mix and holds it over his head, a teasing grin coming to life.

He maneuvers the bowl further out of your grasp as you reach for it, grinning at how much fun he was having teasing you— Like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Lift? You mean like this?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours once— Pure wonder glistening from getting you flustered and watching you fight it. “No and you know it,” you playfully scold, eventually grabbing it back and continuing your work all like you weren’t smiling fervently.

“I don’t know, that seems like lift to me,” he levels with a joking tone, hanging on your reaction like it was holy.

When he stared at you with that undeniable grin you wanted to say something disgustingly stupid— Something forward and blunt and rash like how he should lift you instead; Carry you anywhere he wanted to go as long as it was within his arms. God. It made you sick just how badly you wanted him, the ache you tried to suffocate not going down easy, not staying silent, begging to be set free.

You have to choke all that down to say,

“Lift as in opening the hair follicle so it can lighten and absorb the color.”

He bites the edge of his lip, watching you like it was the only thing that mattered, jaw twitching once as he tried to suppress his smile from growing into something bigger.

“That’s basically the same thing.”

“Mmm,” you hum, wiping the edge of the comb into the bowl and setting it down. “Basically.”

After a moment you hold it up—hesitant for some reason—before you eventually ask, “Ready?”

He nods, quiet and firm, like it was the easiest decision he’s ever made. “Yeah. Yeah,” he says, the repeated agreement said more to himself than to you. “My blonde days are over.”

“What?” you tease, feeling a little bold now too. “You don’t wanna be a blonde bombshell forever?”

Fiery red scorches his cheeks at that, a blush that reaches the tips of his ears against the pale of his hair. His eyes flash wide before he ducks his head nervously and chuckles under his breath, like he couldn’t bear to hear a compliment, even if you were joking. Even if it were half true.

“Nope,” he mumbles sheepishly before looking up at you again, a gaze suddenly raw and honest— Something stoic humming beneath it all. “I’m good with just Bob now.”

You smile, mind bringing you back to earlier, how you reassured him he was worthy but he couldn’t fathom believing it himself. It was driving you crazy—that subtle confidence he was wearing now—self-assured in what you told him, holding your gaze like he was trying to spell it out for you; Make you realize he wanted to be himself for you.

Was it all in your head?

“Good,” you whisper back, your intention settling more in your movements than your words. You stepped towards him now, handing back the bowl for him to hang onto, dye covering your gloves.

His legs shift open—the slightest movement, timid reassurance—welcoming you in like you’ve always belonged somewhere slotted in between him. Arm in arm, fingers in fingers, legs between legs…

Knees brushed together as you hover over him, a breath catching at the back of your throat from the feeling.

It was new, how close you were— The way his inner thigh tickles your smooth skin even through the plush of his sweatpants and makes you burn like you were scorched by a searing sun.

You unnecessarily mix the dye around more, numb movements distracting from charged thoughts, averting his eyes like if he saw you for even a second he’d be able to hear the senseless desires bouncing around in your head— The ones saying all you wanted was to touch more of what you haven’t before. The ones saying hands weren’t enough, standing over him wasn’t enough, none of it was enough. You needed more, a carnal instinct you didn’t dare deny.

How much did you have to drink?

No, it wasn’t that, it couldn’t be that— Not when you’ve only had half a glass. Not when you were already drunk over the illicit game you played, quietly pushing the boundaries of what was, what remained. What could be, maybe one day, maybe never.

You wanted him. He wanted you— Did he want you? How could he after everything… Could you get fired for this?

No, you haven’t done anything. Not like you want to…

Did he know? How long have you been quiet for? What was he thinking about—

“This might be a little cold,” you murmur, your quiet warning heavy with fog like you’d completely forgotten how to speak in the seconds you stirred around in thought— The time that felt like an eternity.

You seriously needed to turn your thoughts off.

So you did, focusing on the way your hands laced around his golden hair, light from your previous misfortunes dulling upon contact. Dark seeps through every strand like desperate poison, like the life he missed having was being restored one tender touch at a time.

His chest rose and fell—soft and steady—deep pull of air every time you made contact. His eyes flutter shut a tad as you pull the dye through each strand, root to tip, covering him completely, your touch taking over in more ways than one.

“That feels good,” he mumbles through an exhale, like he’s been holding in praise for devout touch his whole life. Like it was finally meaningful now, the feeling of being cared for.

For caring back.

Your attention snaps back to reality when he says it, mind forced to finally be grounded again, reminding you where you really were, not just trapped inside the screaming fantasy in your head. The one that only grew the second you found him tonight, the second he let you in, the moment he asked you to stay— Carrying your baggage and all.

“Good,” you breathe, trying to mask the waver in your voice. “It looks good.”

He smiles at that, faint and pure and utterly devastating, just the smallest of movements wrecking you completely. Lids are still drawn shut—light and relaxed—a gentle push into each movement of your hands, so small you wondered if you were making it up in your head.

Was it all in your head?

When he opens his eyes and takes himself in through the vanity mirror over your shoulder, he bites at his lip and hesitates, soft blue eyes glimmering with a trace of worry and nose crinkled a tad.

“It’s, uh, does it—does it look kinda orange…?” He says it gently, like he shouldn’t be questioning a thing, like the wrong set of words strung together will make him lose you, make you run.

“Don’t worry it’ll tone down,” you reassure, working your way to the back, leaning over him to make sure you cover it completely. “I purposely picked a shade with a warm undertone so we don’t run the risk of your hair going green.”

His jaw falls slack and he snaps his eyes off his profile and up to you, chin tilting to fully take you in, your lips being all but a breath away.

“Green? What—What do you mean— Th-that can happen?”

Despite your best efforts to suppress it, an airy laugh escapes your lips and fans across his face, you ducking your head down into the crook of his neck at his panic only to be met with the intoxicating scent of chemicals and fresh laundry and him flooding your senses.

“Don’t worry,” you manage to say, laughing a bit harder now as his fingers find your forearm for no longer than a second, cutting you off with a worried huff and trace of a smile spreading across his lips at your giggles— The ones that were almost too close to his skin.

“I’m serious,” he levels with a clipped laugh, saying your name and trying to sound convincing but it was flushing out of his voice with each sound of yours. A medicine only you could prescribe. “I-I can’t go green, everyone will definitely hate that.”

You compose yourself and pull back to look at him now— Worry worn on his face, yet something reminiscent of ease flickering through when he sees your grounding stare. It was hard to not take his concern seriously— Not when he looked so effortlessly adorable, melting into a pool of a helpless mess at your fingertips. Who could blame you?

I’d like you no matter how you’d look, you think, pausing cautiously to enjoy one last moment of the crooked smile on his lips. One that said all he needed to.

Instead, you say, “It won't, I promise.”

“Pinky?” He raises an eyebrow and holds his pinky out to yours, a silent offering, only yours to take.

“Pinky,” you affirm, holding yours out to his without a second thought.

Then,

“Bob, no, wait—”

Before you could snatch your hand away he meets his skin to yours— Hot, firm grip wrapping around your finger, sure and steady against the cold, dye-covered black plastic of yours.

“This stuff stains,” you mumble, searching his expression for a reason as to why he did it.

He doesn’t answer at first, just pulls at the hem of your shirt—his shirt—billowing loosely at your side, suddenly bashful as he wipes the color clean off his skin to bleed into the fabric covering you.

“There,” he hums, the corner of his lip pulling into a proud smile at his good work for a fleeting second, then wiping it off like it said too much. “All better.”

You shake your head with a laugh under your breath at his dreamy stare, like he was screaming out something you just couldn’t quite hear yet.

“You ruined a perfectly good shirt for no reason.”

“I’d, uh… I’d say it was a pretty good reason.”

He says it like he just said something absurd— Like it was incomprehensible, the thread that stitched each word together and delivered them to you like an oath disguised as a letter. Like it was something ordinary, and yet, not at all.

If you didn’t take a second to walk yourself back in your mind, you might’ve done something stupid— Something like beg him to say what he really means. Something like just answering him by kissing him. Something like telling him you can’t hold back any longer, this feeling you were drowning in, unbearable.

But you keep it together, biting at the inside of your mouth and playfully rolling your eyes like it could mask the tension of that unsaid, responding with something reminiscent of a laugh as you pull his hair back into your hands where it belonged.

“C’mere, Reynolds,” you say with a smile, tenderly tracing alongside the edge of his hairline at his temple— A quiet promise in your touch. “We’re almost done.”

He mulls in the silence for a while, letting you feel him in your fingers like it was telling him more.

You rub your hands through him and he asks,

“How d’you know so much about all this?”

You smooth your hands from front to back.

“I don’t know. The printed instructions and a YouTube video or two… A lot of practice.”

You curl your fingertips at the nape of his neck.

“Practice?”

You run them through again.

“How do you think Valentina keeps that stupid stripe so perfectly silver?”

And again…

“Really? Wow.”

And again…

“Yup. Sometimes I don’t even think she could tie her shoes if I didn’t hold the laces for her.”

And again…

“I know it was you, by the way.”

You freeze.

Fingers release from his hair and you step back slightly, shifting under his gaze and studying him carefully— Trying to read between the lines woven on his face and focus on anything other than the spike in your heart rate or the tightness in your chest.

He said it calmly—smoothly, just like how you touched him—without a trace of malice or blame, only quiet intention.

You go to turn back to the sink but he stops you in your tracks, solid and warm hand grasped around you. It was insane how he held you so gently yet with so much power, so much purpose. Your eyes glance down, noting his fingers were wrapped around your wrist and not your hand, all like he avoided it— Like he was still so afraid to touch you, to go beyond with you again, but he needed contact.

He needed you to stay.

So you stopped, running your tongue over your teeth in thought before asking,

“What do you mean?”

It was said evenly, like all your confidence didn’t just crumble under the weight of your curious words. Like it didn’t just throw you for a loop and leave you a sputtering mess in your head.

But he read right through it. His gaze steadies you—grounds you—somehow walking you back from an invisible edge just by looking at you, all without saying a word yet.

“Who called— I… I know it was you who called Bucky.”

It was said with such certainty, a phrase harbouring something more honest than truth, a love letter delivered through pure intentions.

He let go of your wrist, a timid hint of fingertips against the racing of your pulse before he let it drop to your side. Wandering eyes try to meet your gaze, a whisper of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You immediately retreat, suddenly razor-focused on peeling the gloves off and discarding them into the sink, setting a timer on your phone and mulling in thought. Eventually, you turn to him, your back flush against his vanity, his stare still fixed to you and chilling your skin more than the cool granite.

Patience is what he granted you, biting gently at his lips that were drawn into a tight line now. Eyebrows wobbled ever so slightly into soft crescents as he watched you stir, like he was worried about the weight of the world on your shoulders. Like it was hurting him to see you taken aback.

And yet, still, patience.

“Bob, I…” You trail off, struggling to form a coherent sentence, a huff breaking through instead of more words lost in the shake of your voice. “That-that’s—”

“I know, it’s okay.” He cuts you off and before you could blink he was already moving across the tile and standing in front of you, wading in the wake of your shadow. Your body, an eclipse. His hands find refuge in his pockets, tucked away like that somehow makes him take up less space. Like it somehow makes his earnest confrontation less invasive, less emotionally charged.

It doesn’t.

“You were in there,” you whisper, voice cracking at the end as you try to blink back tears stinging the corners of your eyes, looking anywhere but at him, fingers picking at hangnails you created. “You were in that vault and I—and I—”

“And you called,” he reassures, steady voice countering your wavering one. Something new. With a touch as gentle as his breath fanning across your face, he tilts your chin up to him, finger lingering a whisper too long. “It doesn’t matter when it was. You called and I got out.”

His features were soft, taking you in like you were the only thing that mattered, like if he didn't study the shapes and swirls in your irises he no longer knew the purpose of living.

“Bob, you died.”

The hard truth hits the floor with a thud, yet the words were spoken so faintly you thought for a second maybe he didn’t hear them, maybe you spared him from acknowledging that gut-wrenching truth.

You were anticipating the worst— Ready for him to hate you, to yell at you, to force you to leave and to never want to speak to you again.

What you didn’t anticipate, however, was for him to break eye contact.

His stare flickers down to his hand instead, slowly reaching out to yours at your side until your palms are pressed together— A fragile anchor between people who don’t know how to say what they need to.

It was cautious, desperate yet restrained— No fingers intertwined, no firm grip, just the raw press of skin to skin, something certain for you to hold onto, just like the words he spoke.

And it felt like maybe you were the one who died and came back to life when his thumb brushed over yours—a tender, hesitant sweep—so gentle, so honest, his fingers a rope pulling you back from the depths you’ve fallen to.

It was like time stopped when he looked up again, shy and raw, a sneaking suspicion of unbearable intimacy daring to drag you under, rip you from your guilt-wracked reality and trap you in a dream beneath his grasp.

It was the kind of look that would leave you only to wander in your dreams after seeing it— One that would leave you wondering how to crave the unimaginable after getting a taste of his eyes.

“And now I’m alive,” he whispers, lips twitching upwards at the word ‘alive.’ “Now I have a reason to be.”

Your fingers flinch in his grasp, small and unsteady against him— Suddenly aware after the initial shock that he was holding your hand in a moment still tethered to this reality. You feel it for a split second, the flex in his fingers, like he’s weighing running again— Like he wasn’t yet believing he deserved to be holding onto someone. Like it wasn’t the feeling of you beneath him that made it dizzying, but the fact that you were letting him.

That you don’t pull away.

Glassy eyes dart back and forth between his, trying to decipher if you really just heard him flip your world upside down with a few simple words— If you really were holding him in a way you never thought possible, like maybe—for a split second—he needed it too.

Were you dreaming?

For a fleeting moment, his gaze slips down to uncharted waters, tracing the curve of your lips with a hesitant hunger. You barely dared to believe it’s real—convinced it was your imagination caving to your desires—before he abruptly clears his throat, the spell now broken.

“I-I have this new family,” he clarifies, but he doesn't stop looking at you like you weren’t completely insane for reading beyond what he was saying, for thinking that maybe—just maybe—he meant something else entirely. “I have this job… I have purpose— Or will eventually, at least. If you didn’t call when you did I maybe never would’ve gotten that chance. Maybe I never would’ve gotten out of… there.”

His voice cuts off, a short and sharp breath pulled into his lungs at the mention of it. You knew what he was alluding to, that sinister darkness that swallowed him whole and trapped him with no sign of release— A vault maybe worse than the physical one he escaped before.

You squeeze your eyes tightly at the reminder of what he went through.

“Why are you doing this?” you manage to ask, finding him studying you when you come back to your senses, your fingers stiffening against his for a beat before granting a subtle squeeze at his loose fingers, reminding him you were still tethered to him— Reminding him he’s still human and is allowed to crave the warmth of another.

A tinge of melancholy stains his wobbly smile, and he says, “Because I know what it’s like to only judge yourself on your worst mistakes.”

He hesitates for a second, soaking in your eyes that softened at his words, biting gingerly at his bottom lip, hanging on the moment like he wanted to say more— Like he had another reason he was trying to will himself to set free.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his thumb brushes over yours again—slow, methodical—like he was learning every crease and every line.

It was intoxicating.

You never wanted him to stop.

“I just thought that maybe if I kept this job I could try to change her,” you admit, feeling exposed at your honesty— But you wanted him to know. You wanted to unravel yourself and lay every fractured piece at his feet. You wanted to give yourself away, like you were never really yours to begin with, only his.

“I thought maybe I could help become a real part of this team if I—”

He stops you, gaze heavy and dripping with something you couldn’t quite place. “You are a part of the team.”

You stared back at him, reveling in the electric energy coursing through your veins, flowing from his hand to yours, presence finding a missing piece in each other, like you both were a source of oxygen through the tender weight in the air. An addictive and alluring heaviness you couldn’t quite shake.

“I thought maybe I could work from the inside,” you continue, narrowing your eyes, teasing now— Desperate to escape the weight of your own soul. “Y’know, like black-ops or something…”

Only he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even crack a smile or let a pulse of air drift from his lips. He just stared at you like he couldn’t turn away from something sacred, like he couldn’t let you do it either— Like you were wrapped in something more meaningful than life itself.

He waded in the pools of your eyes and flush of your skin like you were the only thing tethering him to linear time, like not even God himself could rip him from your grasp—from this moment—from the high he chased by clutching onto your skin— Something more addicting than any drug he’d ever been on.

It made your heart pound harder against your rib cage, a pull stirring deep at the pit of your stomach— A yearning awakening from restless sleep.

The only thing that mattered was your breathing— In time, parallel, humming in seductive silence together.

It’s a fever, bulletproof, impossible to break.

And then it happens again— That hesitant glance down at your lips like he was doing something unfathomable, like the way he chased the rosey flush of your pout was obscene.

For a second, you started to believe that maybe he could want this. Maybe he wanted this just as much as you. Maybe, somehow, he wanted it more…

Thin lips part open, but nothing comes out. So he tries again, voice thick and low with rasp. “I—”

Suddenly, the phone’s timer blares, sharply shattering the fragile silence with no remorse. The unwanted sound echoed off the tile, vibrating through every inch of skin and ripping you clean out of the moment— A feat you once thought impossible, now accomplished with ease.

His hand jerks back as if he was caught in the act of something forbidden, retreating with a sudden, awkward haste. You let out a sharp exhale, remembering how to breathe without him again and make quick work of silencing the deafening noise, wanting to scream at what it had ruined.

You had him.

For a second it felt like you honestly and truly had him.

And now he was gone.

“Guess you’re all done,” you say, not even recognizing your own voice anymore. Not when he was taking over your body, your mind. Your soul.

“Yeah,” he mumbles back, looking down at the tile— Far away now, in more ways than one.

The distance between you stretches, leaving you to freeze in the loss of his body heat hovering over yours— And yet still, the chill of his retreat is warmer than the company of anyone else in this world.

Something you never wanted to live without now.

You suddenly lost all your confidence—what little of it you had—struggling to do what comes next.

“Do you, uh, do you want to,” you stumble, gently gesturing to his shower, “or do you want me to—”

“No, I trust you,” he interrupts, silencing your words and worries with a shy smile, still looking down at the floor until he flicks his gaze up for a second— Something shy and innocent. “I-I want you to do it.”

And for a moment, it feels like even though he let you go, he was still holding onto you.

You feel it when you lead him back to the tub, having him sit down against the cool tile and lean his head back, waiting until the water runs warm out of the faucet in the tub.

You feel it when you take a second to watch him— The way his long neck stretches over the tub, the bump in his throat catching the dim glow of moody bathroom lights. His jaw is relaxed now—soft—a way you rarely see it, lips parted in a hazy, unguarded half-smile like it’s a reflex when you’re this close to him. Deeply dark, glossy hair hangs off the edge, a few thin strands clinging to his forehead. The same strands that slipped free when he waded over you against the sink— A piece of that moment, still pulsing. They hang on like they belong there, like they couldn’t resist their natural state.

You feel it when your fingers hover over his hair—a blink away—a breath until you meet him again. This certainly wasn’t your first time touching him… So why did this feel so different now?

And like he knew you were hesitant, knew you were wrestling yourself deep in the corner of your mind, fighting back against yourself— He touches you first.

It was slow, careful. Like he understood breaking that gap between you and him would break something else too. Something unspoken, something unaccounted for. Like every delicate touch was a vow exchanged, a promise to never stop, to allow yourselves the grace to give in.

You wanted to surrender.

Did he?

You don’t say a word, just let him gently guide your wrist down the rest of the way so your fingers could wade in his hair, the calloused heat and strength of his presence lingering for a second like he was fighting his brain's command to retreat. Like his fingers wanted to belong on top of your skin evermore.

When you reached over to test the heat of the water with your other hand, you could swear his face tilted up a fraction toward yours— Like gravity, a new and sudden pull always drawing him to center around you.

He watches you move.

Silent. Still.

Heavy-lidded eyes follow your body as you pull away, gaze thick with a look that reads as tangible desperation. Like he isn’t sure whether to be relaxed or wrecked by the moment. You can feel it humming under his skin, the pulse of something neither of you have had the courage to name. Something unmissable in the air, tension strung heavy like the room was holding its breath for you.

He exhales when you finally pull your fingers through him again, a jolt pulsing through the air— So quiet, so unsure, yet aching.

Haunted ocean eyes lull shut under the delicacy of your touch, your fingers beckoning him one motion at a time. Deep brown runs from his head like ink spilling over a perfect white page, all sense of direction lost in the bleeding of his former self.

You wash him back to life, tenderly, with deliberate pace, keeping yourself present by focusing on everything utterly and innately him. Long, intoxicating eyelashes flutter under your touch, trembling with a fragile, exchanged energy he didn’t dare to let falter. Soft pink lips drift open, imperceptibly— The gentle gap between them like nothing more than a faint and distant shadow. Stained beads of water cling to the edge of his forehead, down his brow bone, around his jaw, down his neck…

The water collects in your hands and flushes over strands of his hair, cascading over him like a veil. Fingers work through the thick, damp strands, massaging through his scalp with a tenderness that feels more like an admission than an action.

His head pushes into your touch again—honest and true—no longer testing the integrity of your mind that wondered if he craved you as much as you craved him. This time it was done undoubtedly.

The smell of cheap dye rises between you like a confession neither of you will say out loud. Not yet.

Like gravity draws you there, your fingers trace along his temple, rubbing free a messy drop of tinged water off his features, like you were wiping away the empty version of him you no longer knew.

He lets out a breath at the contact, soft and shaky, barely there. The corners of his mouth twitch like he was trying to conceal something that yearned to be set free.

His careful exhale hung off the edge of his lips and you were jealous of it— Jealous of the way something gets to live so impossibly close to the vulnerable and intimate parts of him. The gentle in and out, all like the complications you wrestled down deep inside.

The ones that questioned if you were worthy of indulging in him.

“This okay?” you murmur, voice small and cautious, a gentle hum craving to be reassured.

Cool and grounding blue of his eyes flutter to life at your voice, finding your gaze through the misted air, charged and heavy with sincerity.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low and hoarse in a way that turns your stomach over— A reminder that he was real under your touch. “It’s… it’s better than okay,” he whispers, warming the air that’s run cold between you.

He says it delicately, a formidable prose, all like he was revealing something that was meant to be hidden, to be buried behind a calm tone rather than the intoxicating cadence of something worshipful.

You don’t say a word, taking your time to learn each strand like a lost language, sacred scripture, senseless desire.

Slowly, he’s painted back to himself.

Back to you.

Tainted conscience comes clean by your hands buried in him, molding him to your touch, inch by inch, second by second, until the stained trail circling the drain lightens to something clear and pure.

Renewed light whispers through the air, a steady rhythm of the running water, beading drips from loose tendrils— The sound, a severance of a soul from purgatory.

You lather his shampoo through the strands, something earnestly clean and simple filling the air, blending with the smell of chemicals and weighted intentions still chasing the drain.

You don’t mean to drag your fingertips a little slower, trying desperately to memorize the feeling of him tangled through you.

You don’t mean to press your palm against the curve of his neck when you chase away the suds left at the edge of his curls, his pulse a steady drum rattling through your hand.

You don’t mean to let your stare linger, the wet mess of himself suddenly the furthest thing from your mind now that you realized he was looking at you too.

But you do.

And neither of you dare to look away.

Electric tension evaporates any trace of air in your lungs. Neither of you breathe— A moment so delicate, you fear even a gentle exhale would break it.

He’s left to look up at you through familiar brown trusses framing his flushed face.

For a moment, divine intervention takes over— Your lips moving like flesh possessed by something ethereal, something by the grace of God, too earnest to name.

“You’re back,” you whisper, honey-sweet tone drenching your words.

Beat.

“You came back to me.”

You say it like a vow, like a prayer— And perhaps, this is how religions are made. The cheap dye that ran through your fingers and mingled with the water, the soap that rinsed it free, the whispered words and a devout touch— A confessional, an act of reconciliation. Atonement for your sins done onto him.

His voice cuts through like rolling thunder, like rain on your skin— Clinging and desperate and impossible to ignore. The words come out broken and exhausted, all like they had to crawl their way up his throat to fall from his lips.

“Maybe I never really left you.”

The faucet runs dry after you turn it off, silence stretching unfathomably far. The air between you thickens, heavy and muffled with the weight of almosts.

Impossibly, the city that never sleeps seems to have fallen into slumber the second your world caved to just him.

You should say something. Say anything. You should pull back, laugh it off, grab a towel and pretend this doesn’t mean what you both know it does. You should stop before you can’t turn back.

But you don’t.

Instead, you lean a little closer, your fingers trailing down the side of his neck, your thumb brushing over his pulse point as your hand cups his jaw, rubbing water into his skin like you can dry it beneath the heat of your touch— Through the heat of your skin, fused to his like it belongs.

His chest is fluttering faster, pulse a steady beat under the pad of your finger, reminding you this was real. You were really here with him— This is happening. Then his eyes fall down to your lips, and you start to feel dizzy again.

He pulls you back to reality when his lips rasp your name—something sure, something even—a pleading cadence trying to attach itself to you.

His hand comes up and catches the bend of your wrist gently, heavy fingers finding yours pressed against his neck, and you wonder, for a split second, if he was going to pull you away— If the call of your name was a warning and not a plea. Yet he holds you there, keeps you tethered to him, wiping away any doubts and insecurities you have with something more sure than words.

“I’m not going to stop you,” he murmurs, voice unhurried, lingering in the swelling silence, dancing with the steady beams of light flowing through the veins of the city beneath you.

It’s a promise, it’s a challenge… Maybe it’s both— A reverent ache granting you permission, begging you to take him up on an offer too holy to extend through anything other than an honest whisper.

The words get stuck between your teeth, careless fibers woven between the cavities and creating pressure against your tongue.

Warm water snakes from his neck down your wrist, staining your forearm, his wet form clinging to you, reminding you of what was just within your grasp. If you dared.

Instead, you mumble,

“I’ll get you a towel.”

It’s like you blacked out the second you say those words— The second you leave his body, hot and weighted and impatient against cool tile. It’s like your mind moves to autopilot, rummaging through a cabinet for a towel when he’s already right behind you, always a half a step ahead, grabbing what you seek from a towel rack right in front of you.

And it’s like you're brought back to life the second he holds the plush fabric out to you, heavy breath warming the back of your neck, a steady drip of water beading off the ends of his hanging hair and onto your shoulder, rejuvenating what was lost within you.

So you soak the towel in his hair, slowly, gently, all until it’s merely damp in your hands.

He watches you, silent worship, eyes roaming you like it was something sacred, completely unaware that you could sense the storm brewing beneath his gaze— The intention that boomed through his thoughts, carefully.

Quietly.

Fingers linger at the nape of his neck, the towel clutched between your grasp like it’s a lifeline— Something you could hold him through, but still a thin barrier between what you want and what you have.

It’s only then that you realize how long you’ve just been holding him.

Legs clung so closely they were basically between each other. Chests, heaving heavy with the weight of all that was quietly exchanged and pulsing between you. His eyes— Melted and wrecked and never leaving yours, so completely and utterly new.

Like if he blinked, he’d miss it.

You tear your lingering gaze from the nape of his neck—his messy, tangled curls—and notice instead the way his hands ghost over the curve of your waist, caving and bending in the wake of your skin. Close, but not close enough. Like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

He notices too, eyes dipping down to his own cautious limbs, breath catching just enough that you could hear it and all it held.

“Bob…” you whisper, an aching plea—something between a question and a statement—almost too dazed and lost to know if you were really speaking or just beckoning him only in your mind.

He swallows, thick and heavy, throat bobbing just at your eyeline, body wrestling with his mind— His familiar state.

Slowly, he retracts his fingers from your space, gone in a heartbeat, cruelly, like they were never even there.

They drum at his side, restless movement like he’s trying to break free of an invisible weight.

“I keep…” he exhales sharply, like the words hurt to admit, and rubs trembling fingers hard across his face. “I keep thinking if I touch you now, I’m gonna screw it up…”

His confession comes weakly, weighted words faltering— Too afraid to hold all of their worth. An admittance, in some way, of what you both wanted, but have spent so long avoiding.

A religious routine you didn’t dare disturb.

The end of his words trail off and get lost in the space around you, eyes that were so suddenly sure of holding yours, lost again and looking anywhere else.

He said it so cautiously, like they were damned letters too broken to string together, too haunted to bring to fruition.

Little did he know, you felt the same exact way— But he doesn’t need that from you.

Neither of you do.

So instead, you let your hand reach out, achingly slow, like there was lead in your fingertips instead of flesh and blood that were all beating for him. Chills shoot through your body as you graze them along his forearm, a gentle up and down, barely moving yet purposeful— A steady movement mimicking his breath that quickened at the contact.

Up.

You trace the curve of his body with your eyes, free hand carefully tilting his chin off of the floor and up to look at you.

Down.

You linger there a second too long, shifting your gaze down at his lips and away in the blink of an eye.

You stop.

Your voice cuts through, a gravel thick with honesty as you say just above a whisper, “I don’t think that’s possible.”

And there it was, suspended in electric air between you, hanging in the open. Waiting. Watching.

A devout invitation to stop pretending you didn’t feel what you did.

And that was all it took.

The hesitation that was rooted in rotten, wild insecurity burns off like fog in pure sunlight. The world narrows down to this, to him. To the way you’re both still terrified, but no longer running.

You don’t know who moved first.

Maybe it’s been happening for hours, days, months— All in fractions of time since the moment you met him, a subtle shift, your orbit changing direction, slowly, yet all at once.

Hesitant fingers brush the fabric of the shirt clinging to your upper thigh, pausing for a split second before finding their home against your skin, a sacred pull of his hands up your body. He pauses at the dip of your shoulder then caresses your collarbone that pokes through the slope of the fabric.

It wasn’t fast, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hard or demanding, but an aching yearn bleeding through every cell of his body. A desperation that grew the longer that he lived in a world where his flesh wasn't connected to yours.

Your eyes flutter shut for a breath and you can’t help but wonder if he’s actually set your body on fire with his patient touch, a miracle granted from a god himself— Somehow, worshiping you.

A simple touch of a body that burned for him.

His other hand found its way to your lips, controlled strength of his thumb tracing the top of your lip and down your cupid's bow like he was saying a prayer to something otherworldly. To something devout.

You’re so caught up in it you don’t even realize how close he is now, finally leaning into the confidence you offered him.

The crisp blue of his eyes melt to a deep and desperate cerulean when he looks at you— Every ache and desire flickering behind his gaze. They find the flush of your lips and settle there, unmistakably this time, wading in the wake of their shadow as his thumb stills against you.

Slowly, he slips his other hand up to cup your cheek, featherlight touch cradling the curve of your jaw and skin that’s gone remarkably red. He holds you in the same way his words do— Like you were the only thing tethering him to this reality. Like if he gripped you too hard you’d vanish beneath his grasp and he’d lose himself with you.

Like you were suddenly the only thing keeping him alive.

And like he’s already wasted all the time in the world, he closes the gap, breath whispering across your lips as he takes them into his— Delicate, questioning. Like his only mission in the world was to make you melt into him and question the matter you were made of.

The kiss was gentle, tentative— An exhale of all you held onto as his lips meet yours, a pleading cry to let yourselves get lost in each other, at last, once and for all. Finally achieving salvation through the trembling of your skin introduced to the newfound certainty of his.

He was soft, careful, but totally and undoubtedly yours.

Your lips stay pressed together for a fraction of a second that felt like a lifetime, pure and aching touch— A thirst you never quite realized would ever be quenched until he starts to move his mouth around yours, cautiously exploring the plush skin of your lips sealed to his.

Your hand clutches the cuff of his t-shirt sleeve, like gripping onto him would somehow make this moment more real— Your mind in overdrive as you begin to kiss him back.

It was racing almost feverishly, pounding with a million conflicting thoughts and screaming sensations. He made it all go quiet—just for a minute—but it was starting to flood back again: doubts and insecurities and a nagging, incessant voice that still taunted,

This is just a moment.

This is just because you’re here.

Even the taste of you doesn’t wash away what you’re trying to rid yourself of.

You try to wrestle it down, focusing on the way he gently parted your mouth open and slipped your bottom lip between his, a reverent and sensual pull at your flesh— Pulling you back to him, back from what tried to dull the dizzy stars in your eyes from the way he kissed you like you were the oxygen that filled his lungs and kept his heart beating.

His hands that cupped your face roamed shamelessly, one still anchored and tracing your jaw, the other sliding across your cheekbone before brushing hair out of your face and down to cradle the back of your head.

Now it was him who made a living in your hair— Rough knuckles tangled in the nape of your neck, raking through the strands and discovering more of what he’s never felt before.

His hands against your skin weren’t greedy, weren’t possessive— They were catharsis incarnate. A living, breathing exorcism of somber restraint, as if the whole city might collapse if he didn’t hold you.

It was a quiet surrender to the hollow kind of ache neither of you could bear to carry alone anymore.

When you let both your hands slide up his arms, fingers wrapping around the curves of his muscle until they settle on his shoulders, he’s drawn to the small of your back like a magnet. Like you touching him back even in the smallest of ways was monumental. Like it was dusting off what he knew of intimate actions. Like it was permission for him to allow himself to have this— To have you.

He brings you in closer, the press of his palm flush against the small of your back like a weight. Your bodies fused together, chests thumping in time, a screaming heartbeat in your ear so loud you were deprived of the sweet sounds he made.

Like the frantic prose of his breath against you.

Like the shudder he let slip when both your hands wandered further up to explore his neck and jawline, fingers tracing every inch.

Or the just barely audible whine that curled in the air around you before he finally speaks again— Noses brushing, bodies heaving and fingers lost in discovering one another. The gift of something new.

“You’re thinking,” he whispers, lips pulling apart from yours with hesitancy, body reeling you in somehow closer to make up from the sliver of space that lives between you now, all like he was afraid you’ll disappear there. His voice was heavy, deep— The sound of a shameless crave wrapping around each letter he let slip.

It was making you dizzy— The way he somehow managed to read between what your body is doing and your mind is raking through underneath the surface.

The subtle disconnect you’d never want him to feel, yet he did.

“So are you,” you murmur, not strong enough to resist flipping his question back on him instead of answering it yourself. “What’re you thinking about?”

For once, he answers with no hesitancy—for a fleeting moment—no longer fearing the insecurity of his own mind and its integrity.

“Just how much I want this,” he breathes, honest and true, weighted words dancing across your skin and making it shiver with chills. He lets the hand in your hair fall so he can clutch the bottom hem of your t-shirt, his t-shirt, hugging your body. “About how much I want you.”

He takes you in— A deep, desperate gaze, all like he needed you to believe it in order to survive. And when he does, something shifts. It doesn’t break open inside you, it doesn’t crash, or crack, or splinter.

It’s an unexpected bend, your soul finding his and staying.

Your self-sabotage is suffocated— The one that whispers this is being done out of haste, out of palpable lust and loaded feelings you projected onto him. No, you scold yourself. This is the realest thing you’ve ever had.

So you connect again with urgency, letting yourself fall into him and return your lips to his— The place you wanted to belong forever after getting a taste. Your hands run up his neck with a tender pressure until they reach his hair, instinctively closing around the damp curls at the nape of his neck, helping press him into you again.

A sharp exhale gets caught in the back of your throat at the feeling, his lips rapidly picking up the pace against yours— Kissing you back. It still wasn’t rushed, or messy or careless, but the kind of frantic burn that scorns through sensual and desperate touch.

Like you’d never get enough of each other.

His thumb grazes at the hem of your shirt before snaking its way up at the side of your rib cage, helping pull you into him the same way his lips are. The other is still splayed on the small of your back, rubbing tentatively— A gentle vow, each movement making your head spin and your knees uneasy as they begin to tangle with his from the breached space.

His movements become more sure, the power behind his touch no longer grounding but pleading— Soft sounds and labored breathing daring to drag you into a reality where only this mattered.

The weight of him pressed to you felt right, like a prophecy you let haunt you was finally being fulfilled.

You, merely an extension of him, and him of you.

Damp curls thread through your fingers like an anchor as he holds you tighter, intensity building behind his body— Crashing and hungry and worshipful all at once. It was hardly your first time raking your fingers through his hair but now they moved like they believed they belonged there, no longer like they were asking.

He pushes it further— His mouth angling to take you in more, noses carrying frantic and heavy breaths as they bump together, your tongue eventually finding its way to his like it's something you’ve done a million times.

His breath shuddered against you— Vibration sending shockwaves through your body.

Legs tangled, bodies twisted, trying to invent new ways to be closer together right where you belonged.

Then you’re moving— Grabbing harder on his neck to pull him with you, messily stumbling back toward the doorway until your back rests flush and heaving against the cool paneling of the wall.

You leaned into it, pressure of his hands finding that sweet spot right above your waist, gentle and honest pull until your hips were flush against his, thumb circling slow and steady at the dip of your skin and bone.

You feel it for a fleeting second— His fingers twitching against you before one hand slips further down, cupping the crest of your waist, your hip, your thigh…

His body betrays him, the questioning flicker of doubt pulsing through the flex of his fingers as they finally rest around the curve of your ass. It was like he was journaling every reaction you had, every careful movement that was flushed out with delicate intentions to know more of you.

His lips pull apart just barely, forehead resting against yours, and asks,

“This okay?” It comes out with a pant, his ehale warming the inside of your mouth that hangs slightly open trying to catch your breath, lips still clinging against yours as he speaks. The question broke apart as it’s asked— Frayed at the edges, all like he was scared to think he might’ve pushed a non-existent line too far and too fast.

You nod, peppering the gentlest of kisses at the corner of his mouth and around his jaw, selfishly hungry and not wanting to stop like you were now addicted.

He’s wrecking you— You shamelessly basking in the broken gasp that breaks across your skin when you push into his hold with something more weighted than that of your body.

“More than okay,” you mumble into his skin, smiling on his mouth as you get to return the words he assured you with in the tub.

Then something stoic washes over him, glowing like his skin in the haze of steam and city ambience that cuts through the deep of the night. He bites at the edge of his lip, his mouth twitching like he was cursing himself— Like he was afraid, like he was about to be vulnerable for the first time with you. Like his hand wasn’t currently pressed deep into the curve of your ass and cradling you through sensual, electric tension.

“Is this real?”

The vulnerable cadence of his words gets swallowed into the silence, only the twin beat of your hearts and ravenous breath hanging in the air with the question. It’s asked with disbelief and careful wonder and something reminiscent of awe basking in your presence.

And you knew what he meant immediately, like you’ve lived inside his head forever. Like he was the better side of a coin you shared.

You know he asks it because he knows the feeling of living in something of an illusion all too well. The feeling of questioning the integrity of every breath he took— Of everything he touched, or more so, didn’t.

So you do something that shatters the hesitancy in him, shaky breath, an exhale— Your promise to him.

You pull one of his anchoring hands off your waist and into yours, softly, delicately—no trembling, no hesitation this time—the most honest thing you’ve ever done.

His brows knit and he pulls back just enough to watch you do it like it was grounding him from losing control. Like you were creating gravity for him.

His breath hitches in disbelief as your fingers thread together—in the easy, certain way you give him what he was too terrified to ask for—hollow hands whole again once wound in each other.

And for the first time, there’s no flinch. No retreat.

The city’s heartbeat beneath you softens, booms lower, quieter— A romantic rhythm in tandem with yours, like it was alive for you.

Alive with you.

Fingers squeeze around his— Tight, knowing, sure. You don’t want him to be mistaken as you touch him there, in a place you both avoided, knowing it holds a weight heavier than the breaking of all unsaid.

Eventually, his grip matches yours; slow, reverent. His thumb brushes over yours, unwavering this time. There’s no flex like he’s weighing running, no hesitation like he can’t believe he’s allowed— Only certainty.

You let him be present in this universe with you. Nowhere else. No other time or memory or false feeling.

Just here.

Your confessions to him lay naked and bare in the wake of his grasp, no presence feeding off the stained parts of your soul and dragging him away into a place where time lost all meaning. But instead, it loses all meaning here.

Because for once when his hand touches another, time doesn’t shrink or fall still or cower— It expands.

It evolves.

It grows and moves forward. It feels right— An exchanged commitment to one another in the shape of skin that caves to each other.

A vow that bends linear time.

You didn’t have to answer his question with words, just your reverent touch he clung onto like you were the answer to all he lost in the fabric of this reality— Like if he let you go his soul will lose its center of gravity.

He lets out a huff in utter disbelief, pure wonder, the mesmerising and magical cadence of something real.

And he moves like fire when you whisper against the shell of his ear,

“Keep showing me how real it really is.”

Your delicate command gets lost in the sounds of him moving back to how he held you before—pushing you into the wall harder—his mouth crashing into yours with passion and desperation. It swallows the sweet gasp you make as he leaves whatever soft and tentative actions he wore on the forefront behind him, abandoned on the floor of that bathroom that glowed from the fever of your aching touch.

Fingers fly free of your hand and rope through your hair, guiding your face to kiss him deeper. And you do.

His other hand squeezes into the curve of your ass he grips onto, mimicking the way his lips shape around yours— Gentle pull dancing with dizzying pressure with every press at your skin. Then you hook your leg around his thigh, helping him push into you more.

Even then, his fingers danced like your flesh was burning him, roaming with feverish intent, never lingering too long in one spot. They’re everywhere and anywhere he could reach.

They press flush to your waist, trail up your tummy and follow the gentle curve of your ribs. They live in the marrow of bones that carved your shoulders and neck in sacred city lights, tracing your jaw until he replaces his touch with his mouth, fingers tracing your hair out of his way like it was an act of penance.

You hold his middle, a breathless run of your fingertips on his chest— The same kind of breathless like the sigh that leaves your lips when he bites gently on your neck, like he’s electrocuting every nerve ending in your body with reverent praise.

Every contraction and flex of otherworldly muscle pulses under your touch, your hands skimming the surface until you slip them under and melt your curious touch into the vast expanse of his body— Skin on skin.

He groans at the sensation of you touching him now without a thin cotton barrier— Soft and pleading and thanking you with the religious pull of his lips on your neck. The mark is dusted with an honest kiss before he finds your mouth again, the sweet taste of cherry candies and deep red wine and something unmistakably him flooding all your senses utill you couldn’t bear to imagine anything else.

For a split second, your legs wobble from the sensation—like you were becoming drunk off the taste of his mouth on you—but he steadies you, gripping the hand that held you up more firmly against your skin, forearm anchoring the underside of your upper leg that wrapped around him.

“I got you,” he murmurs, so faint in between deep and lustful kisses you couldn’t tell if it was real or not.

He holds you like you were nothing more than the air he breathes— Like it was the easiest and most natural state for him to dwell in. It’s done delicately, fingers careful against your skin like you would break from one wrong touch. He holds you with devotion, something sure and unmistakable in the pressure of his body against yours.

Once he feels you stable yourself, the fingers holding your thigh travel up along your spine and under your shirt. They find the center of your back and rest along your bra, careful, alert, meticulous. They snake around the strap, a gentle pull and play around the stretch of the elastic. It wasn’t rushed or possessive, but grounding— Honest and pure intention breaking free to only leave his questioning fingers tracing another part of you locked away from him.

Your mind is screaming for him to take the leap, so loud and hungry you almost wondered if he could hear what's trapped inside your skull when his fingers find the clasp and fiddle with the latch— Something of a questioning hum or mumble of “can I” lost in the careful mangle of his fingers.

He focuses harder, his lips stilling against yours slightly until you reach a hand off his chest and over his frustrated fingers behind you, guiding him with ease to pop the clasp open and give more of yourself to him.

He steers the garment free and it falls to the floor, tangling with your feet.

They move around it, suddenly walking backwards like second nature as he guides you off the door frame and into his room.

His mouth and tongue still meet yours without skipping a beat. His hands, large and wild and lazy, leading you into something new with him.

The hand tangled in your hair clings to the base of your neck—gently—listening to the cadence of your pulse and ghosting over the sensitive mark he left blooming against the plush of your skin.

The fingers that splayed around your jaw rub and trace along the shadow of your cheekbone in the moody glow of his abandoned room coming back to life once you were in it.

The other guides you back, slipping out from under your shirt and finally exploring the side of your ribcage now free of everything other than the clothes of his you wore.

You moan into the haze of his personal space as you press into his mouth deeper, hands trailing up and pushing gently on his neck and head to help him give you what you needed.

It’s a successful endeavor until you imperceptibly tug on his hair, causing him to lean his head back for a breath and match the sounds you made— Something shameless and broken and desperate cracking between each messy motion toward his bed together.

He’s all over you— Like watercolors on stale paper, like fog clinging to shadows. Like doubt disguised as deliverance.

His confidence grows steadily with every leading step— His teeth clinging gently at the bottom of your lip making you sigh into every touch, all while simultaneously and haphazardly kicking random things out of your path— Like the damp towel that got tangled at his feet and dragged a few steps or your discarded shoes you stumble over.

You let out a tiny sound of pain as you stepped on the sharp, pointed heel, and though you didn’t really notice or care—considering you were currently under a spell from his mouth—Bob did.

He lets out a taut puff of air through his nose against your upper lip as he continues to kiss you and waves his hand casually, a sudden bang of the hazard in question crashing with undeniable force into his desk and knocking over the chair, your ragged movements coming to a screeching stop at the realization.

He looked over his shoulder, chest rising and falling quickly, your gaze settling right past him and at the shoes— Now scuffed and torn apart. One of the stiletto heels is broken in half from the impact, making your mouth fall slack in shock at his casual power.

A red flush sweeps over his skin—even more so now—and paints the soft porcelain of his skin from ears down past his neck and under his t-shirt. He blinks steadily, looking back and forth between you and the mess behind him, mouth desperately trying to spit out words.

“I-I, shit, I’m so sorry,” he says, voice still raspy and heavy from the taste of you on his tongue. “I didn’t mean to do that, I’ll— I’ll buy you new ones, I—”

You cut him off with another kiss, helplessly giggling at the way you could feel his brain short-circuiting underneath you, instantly moving to hold you again and kiss you back— But with hesitancy as his mind tried to catch up with the instinct now settled in his bones.

“I don’t care. It’ll go on my work card,” you mumbled in between kisses and continuing to pull him backwards again— Into you and back on track to your destination. “Comes with the job,” you continue, caressing his tangled hair out of his face and behind his ears. “Common business expense.”

He snorts at that— Real, genuine laugh under his breath that vibrates through every cell in your body as it breaks through his starving movements against your skin.

“Field work,” he adds, smiling against your lips until he finds your ear and kisses gently below it— Nose nudging your hair, breath tickling your skin, all of it making you melt. “Some crazy enhanced got too handsy with you.”

“The only thing crazy about it is saying he’s too handsy,” you tease coyly, head tilting back, breath quickening. He’s kissing your ear, your jaw, your neck…

You sigh earnestly at his touch, halting once the back of your knees finally meet the side of his bed.

When he pulls away, your eyes flutter open to take him in and he’s breathtaking.

Soft, supple waves blur at the edges, lined lightly in soft, golden light from the bathroom still pulsing behind him. The harsh contrast of the nightswept city flickers with life like the heartbeat you could see in his eyes when he looked at you— Wide and blissful and utterly dazed in your presence. They soaked in the cool blue hue of skyscraper haze and melted into something sacred. His thin lips are fuller now, softly parted and swollen, slicked over with evidence of you all over them— Bright pink flush matching the familiar warmth settling over his skin, his cheeks only reddening as you study him religiously.

Out of all the ways you watched him blush tonight, this was your favorite. Easily.

You could hear it thrumming in every corner of the room now— His soul, his heartbeat, all an extension of him you now waded in.

It was pressed between the pages of the books that littered his shelves. It was bouncing off the walls in his room that darkness clung to. It was living, breathing in the floorboards that cushioned your feet and held you afloat— The pure and perfect vulnerability of him, his molten honesty, echoing through everything he touched.

Echoing through you.

Your next moves are slow— More careful and intentional now than the frenzy you let yourself get lost in before has eased. Fingers slip down to the hem of his shirt, electric and alive like sparks when you gently hold it and feel his skin underneath. Like you weren’t just all over him before.

They toy with the hem gently in waiting question— The smooth cotton flowing against your touch, your eyes on his, burning with something stronger. Hungrier.

Lips part slightly to do it—to ask—but he beats you to it. His hand finds yours, a gentle rub at your thumb, before he helps you guide his shirt off. It's a slow, aching travel up his body, neckline catching and somehow further messing his tangled waves once it pulls over his head and falls to the floor.

You try not to stare— You really try not to, but god, you can’t help it. How could you?

He was somehow more defined than you ever could’ve imagined, muscle carved through every fiber of his being like he could break you in half with a pinch. He was so gentle, so cautious— So over-calculated and constantly over-thinking, like he was always one step away from curling in on himself and inventing a new way to manipulate matter into sucking his body into a black hole.

You could feel it brimming behind him still, that unshakable urge to try and hide himself somehow, like his body—this remarkable temple for his soul—was somehow unworthy of existing. Like he didn’t deserve to be observed or watched. Like he was meant to be lost and forgotten about with other unloved things that stilled under the haunted dust of this building.

But when he stood in front of you like this—like he had a reason for simply being—it was the complete opposite.

It was evident in the way he looked at you now— Stable, sure, an aching crave of you smothering any small flicker behind his eyes that tried to catch into a flame of doubt.

You wouldn’t let it.

He swallows hard, like he’s pushing down the urge to run again, then moves.

Slowly, rough and secure hands guide your fingers back to his skin, curves of his muscle heavy under you like stone, expanse of his chest and arms and abs dusted with freckles and marks— Millions of them, all waiting to be brought to life by your hands.

You drift them along, taking him in, all until your palm rests over his heart, the frantic rhythm of something reverent under your fingertips.

Something you know beats for you.

Eventually, you break the silence, voice low and honest as you say, “You’re incredible.” You say it like you were in disbelief— And that’s because you were.

He smiles—crooked, wobbly joy etched into his lips—and shifts under your gaze, like he wasn’t used to the praise. Especially when you meant it, truly. Wholeheartedly.

He comes closer, heaving chest rising and falling against yours now and ghosts the edge of his face against yours.

A hand brushes wisps of your hair from your eyes, forehead resting gently along yours until your noses are touching. Until you could feel his eyelashes fluttering against your brow bone and the swell of his lips— Holy, like they were swollen from the mere thought of you until they touch yours again.

He slots his lips into yours with a gentle and breathless sigh, free hand cradling the bend of your elbow in his palm.

“So are you,” he murmurs into your mouth, the low and sultry tone vibrating every nerve ending like a tuning fork striking through your body, your cells and soul all singing the ethereal tune of his praise for you. “So perfect.”

Carefully, he guides you back— Slowly, sensually sitting you on the bed beneath him, his body caging you in and hovering just a heartbeat away. His lips whisper against yours as he leans down, melting right back into a deep and methodical kiss like he never left, the weight of his body helping ease you back onto the mattress.

He’s slotted between you like a lost key now returned. One arm presses into the bed parallel to your shoulder, propping himself up to ghost the slope of your body. The other loosely trails up the rest of your arm until he’s cupping your cheek, rubbing aimless circles into the flush of your skin and holding you like he was holding the world.

The undeniable weight of his built frame clings just above you, enough contact to wrinkle your shirt and send a set of shivers up your spine as you imagine having him fully against you.

So you do just that, grabbing the back of his shoulders and easing him onto you— Back where he belongs.

He was reluctant, still holding back like he was afraid of crushing you beneath him, but he relaxes as soon as you work your hands up his shoulder blades and into his hair, pulling him into you with a low and sultry moan— Reminding him how desperately you craved to be kissed as deeply as he could bear.

Lips part your mouth open for him, his tongue gently tickling the tip of yours before he pushes it further, sliding it flush against yours and making a living in the heat of your mouth. The groan he makes when you let him gets caught low in the back of his throat that is already bitten radiant red from your kisses.

You smooth your hands over every inch of his neck, his shoulders— Anywhere you could reach, really. Restless fingers tentatively wrap around the sculpt and flex of his arms, applying more pressure to match the weight he was kissing your mouth with. The way you were kissing him back.

His lips are soft—thin like the boundaries between you now—plush and aching and reverent search against yours like he’d find his will to live there.

He was rewriting everything broken in you— Every trace of guilt replaced with the honorable trace of his fingers along your skin, every mumble no longer shy or cautious but words overwhelmed with hunger or a vibration against your body.

Every memory of him in a sheen of sweat in a bed that once haunted you, rewritten in real time as it adorns his skin from being pressed against you— Moving, exploring, changing what it means to remember him on a mattress once he’s with you.

No one else.

Like it’s second nature, he rubs at a spot on the side of your upper neck that makes your toes curl and your core coil with striking heat. It’s a sensitive curve just on the underside of your jaw littered in shadows, aching to give itself to him. He kisses at it with an urgency that makes you gasp louder beneath him— A proud smile flickering on his lips and across your skin for a split second, clearly amused at how he was already learning your body so incredibly well.

Your hand flies up to his hair, pulling him in with a gentle tug to apply more pressure, both of you reveling in a weighted and shaky moan from the way you wanted each other more.

Rough and sturdy palm on his hand finds refuge in the dip of your side, free to roam now that his mouth did that for him on your jaw. It snakes down until it hits your hip bone under your shirt, a careful yet intentful press of his fingers just below your ribs.

When you hum in approval—too busy turning your neck from the pressure of his mouth and meeting your impatient lips to pepper kisses along the pulse point on his wrist that steadied him above you— he slips his hand up the fabric.

His fingers trail achingly slowly against your skin, rewarded by the anticipating squirm and roll of your body into his touch until they find the beginning swell of your breast. The sensation makes you dizzy, your eyes fluttering to life at the contact and you could swear the room was being lit up with fireworks from the flickering lights that danced above you.

You should probably be acknowledging the abnormal sight of it, but, selfishly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

Not when each suction of his lips was rewriting your brain chemistry or when he was absentmindedly pressing his wrist firmer against your kiss. Not when was working your breast with more confidence now that made you shudder like you were saying a prayer. Not when the undeniable pull of his presence was making your body shamelessly lift from the mattress for a fleeting second to push deeper into his.

Definitely not when he did it too.

Impatient flush of your lips craves his, so both your hands find his face, still buried and busy in your neck, and pull him up to you— Both your thumbs rubbing gently just under the restless flutter of his closed lashes as you guide his mouth back to yours—back where it belongs—and he kisses you like he’s never going to let you go.

The movement, the pressure— The combination of his mouth deepening against yours, his tongue warm and tangling around yours. The scrape of calloused and heavy hands against the sensitive skin of your breasts, the smooth of his hair tracing along your forehead and your cheeks make you melt into something for him to piece back together and bring back to life.

Every heavier touch was balanced with something softer—more delicate—like a light pepper of a kiss pressed to the place his face would hover when one of you needed to catch your breath. Or the whisper of his fingertips tracing the slope of your breast after you’d feel sensitive peaks forming under his feverish touch.

Each moment was like a love letter, a language— Checking in with you, asking you, talking to you without words. It was thanking you and reminding you through it all, the type of man you were really here with under the heavy tension of a Watchtower bedroom.

A suspended moment trapped in a city that never sleeps that has fallen into slumber when compared to the energy of your body meeting his.

You do it back, slipping a hand free from the slight stubble poking through his face and back to dance along his fist that propped him up above you. It’s needy now, the way your fingers whisper against his skin, pleading to let you in again.

They do— Finding yours immediately and threading together like they were once forged to be one.

His other hand works like honey over your chest, fingers rubbing and palming deeper against your sensitive skin until you’re moaning just a hair louder under his reverent mouth— Growing restless as you drown in all the ways you want more of him.

He reads you, one of his legs slipping free from between yours, and he braces the outside of your thigh until you feel every inch of him— Every pulsing, screaming piece of him flush against you.

The pounding of your hearts are loud, heavy— Completely in sync all like the rest of you, labored breath shallowing at how hard you were both working to find new ways to be closer like this was the only chance you’d ever get.

A sharp, sudden puff of air fanned against your mouth—his exhale cutting—when your hips gently rock up against him.

Just once.

It’s quick, it’s fast—it’s barely even a movement at all—but the way he reacts is like you’ve electrocuted all his nerve endings until they were scorched— On fire, burning like the desire washing over his body and flooding your veins.

He uses the leg that’s still between you to slip up until the weight of his thigh is resting against the fabric of your underwear, covering the part where you needed him most. A breathless and raspy ‘god’ floods his mouth when he does and falls across your skin.

Every sound, every touch, every increase in palpable pressure all fans the flames you swore you’d never feed. A spreading burn you didn’t dare deny any longer.

Now it’s you who’s gasping— Biting down gently on his lip for a moment at the shift in pressure. The hand that wasn't tangled between yours flies from your chest down to the curve of your thigh, pressing with a new buzz of force and desperately anchoring you to him with a steady and sure palm— A signal for you to continue.

It’s a bit harder this time, your move against him. A sleek and steady leg hooks around the back of his, pulling him in as you do it, your body shamelessly arching off the dip of his mattress beneath you.

His hand that grips onto yours flexes tighter at the movement, pressure leaving every line of his fingertips pressed into you— Like all his molecules and matter were being fed into this one moment.

Like it was inevitable—incontestable—the way your body was carved to be connected to his.

Lips break apart from yours imperceptibly, his gaze holding yours— Something desperate drenched in desire and worship, something unfathomable. Something more intimate than any caress of your body, a fever flickering in a faint trace of pale gold lining the edge of his iris, staining the holy blue.

Then he moves too, undeniably craving you and rolling down into your leg he’s braced over, both of you gasping like the air has thinned from the tension pulsing through the room— The tension of your bodies and their desire for more friction, lips moving around yours again like they knew nothing else.

And when it happens again, you both do it at the same time.

Then your name falls from his lips through a breathless and aching plea— A reverent and holy prayer that makes you both freeze, suddenly bringing you back to Earth and realizing just how far you were about to take this.

Just how far you were both willing—wanting—to go.

His fingers twitch against yours from the reluctance to pull apart, so you squeeze them and carefully drag your lips across his in an achingly slow comedown. You rest against his lips until he frees them— Heavy breath cooling the flesh he made hot for him.

Your mind is whirling, reluctantly coming back to life and processing all that’s happening— Trying desperately to will yourself into opening your eyes and saying what you have to.

When you do, he’s not looking at you anymore, just clinging like a shadow. His head hangs heavy in the wake of your neck, heat washing over you from his presence that was still slotted against you like it was made for only that purpose.

You move first, free hand coaxing through his curls and tucking stray away locks that cascaded down his forehead so you could see more of him. His hair is still damp, only no longer from the water you bathed him in, but rather in the evidence of your intimacy collecting on him like dew on a morning field.

His breathing against your chest slows to a more natural pace, but the cadence of his exhale is still frantic— A sharp and staccato dance across your collarbone, calling out to you.

You’re about to say it— Break the silence and face the reality of what you both waded in. But he does it again, remarkably, reading you in places you didn’t even know you were speaking from.

You’d start to believe mind reading was a part of his powers, but if that were true, this wouldn’t be the first time his body claimed yours.

You wouldn’t be stopping.

When he speaks it’s broken, breathless— Barely above a whisper, voice wrecked with the ruin of what he was letting slip through his fingers.

“We shouldn’t.”

You know he’s right—you were thinking the same thing—but hurt still flashes through your chest like a pinched nerve— Something heavy, the pressure of what you wanted and what you couldn’t have swelling to life under the reality of his words.

The sentence pricks across your ears like glass on sensitive skin, but you still say, “I know.” And you say it honestly.

You mean it.

It’s like he doesn’t hear you, slowly lifting his gaze to look at you. When he does, something breaks.

It’s raw and vulnerable— It’s a look that carries an undeniable weight like lead in the depths of his eyes, wide and calling out to yours. They’re glossed over, all like the rest of him, shimmering in the afterglow of something too holy to name— To shake free of, even if you tried.

All the confidence he once wore breaks free of him in an instant as he tries to let you down easy, all like you didn’t just agree with him. Like you weren’t on the same page already.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he croaks, the pressure of his hand against your thigh easing slightly. “I do, I really do just… not like this.”

You’re about to agree but he keeps going, shifting under your gaze and about to recoil his body off of yours like it was unwanted now— Like you weren’t still intertwined in his fingers, like you didn’t still have your leg wrapped around him, tethering him to you without a doubt.

“N-not that there’s anything wrong with this, I-I loved this,” he stutters, face flashing somehow even hotter and making you smile softly. “I just mean, uh, I—”

“Bob,” you soothe, running your fingers through his hair still. “I know.”

He starts to pull off of you when you grab his arm. It isn’t possessive, it isn’t forceful— Just a simple, grounding touch to extend the offer for him to stay.

If he wanted.

And he does, relaxing slightly when he realizes the pin in your intimate dance hasn’t shattered what he held so dearly.

That it hadn’t shattered you.

“I just don’t want my feelings to get confused.” His fingers lift from your thigh and find your face, hesitant for all of a millisecond before sweeping gently at the height of your cheekbone like his touch could explain better than his words. “I just mean that I don’t want you to think I only want you like this,” he continues, the edge of his voice cracking and showing something more vulnerable he tried to hide. “I don’t want to ruin anything by moving too fast.”

You smile, moving the grip from his arm to meet his hand on your cheek— Running your thumb over his lazily and holding him there firmly, reminding him it was where he belonged.

“I thought I already told you that wasn’t possible?”

It’s only then that he smiles too—something soft and pure—a wobble in his brows, all tension melting to show what he wore underneath for you. The most honest parts of him that flickered with life because of you.

And this time when he finally lifts from you, it’s not like he’s running.

It’s like he’s rising— Rising to the occasion of something more meaningful. Like he’s changing with you, holding on and never letting go, even with the fraction of space that lives between you now.

His leg slowly slides down and out from your center— You trying to hide a hiss that slips between your teeth from a cold rush hitting you from the loss of contact.

It was just then that you realized you were only in your underwear and a thin t-shirt beneath him. All rational thought and awareness slipped from your mind the second his lips touched yours.

But now you lay pressed into his mattress—still recovering from new parts of you just being pressed into him in more ways than one—and it makes you shiver.

He breaks through it, slowly freeing his hand from yours to splay it against your shoulder. He helps you rise with him until your intimate positions have unraveled and you’re sitting on the edge of his bed, sitting on the edge of something more earnest— Something new, yet again.

Your ankles are still dangling around each other, thighs pressed gently like the thoughts brimming in your brain.

It’s then that he turns your chin to look at him, this time, holding you there and not retreating.

“I… I don’t regret it.” He says it like a confession, sweet and honest and something more rare than life itself. “Any of it.”

You find your way to him again, no longer scared to allow yourself to have him, your lips pressing gently across his. It’s a closed kiss, yet more open than ever before.

When you break apart you run your fingers against his temple, damp curls dancing with your touch.

“Me too,” you say. “This was perfect.” And you mean it.

You know he means you too.

You continue, voice finally coming back to life after being suffocated into sensual silence for so long. “Do you know how hard it was to stop though?”

He laughs in disbelief, like you just said the most absurd thing— Like you just said the unfathomable.

“Yeah,” he huffs more to the universe than to you, “I do.” The soft laugh lacing his voice falters, his fingers still clinging to you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to touch your body?”

You pause, a teasing smile crawling across your lips and his face flushes a feverish red once he realizes what he’s implied— Suddenly stuttering and awkward all like he wasn’t just driving you insane with the savory of his intimacy two seconds ago.

“I-I— Fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean it like that, I mean, I, uh—I just meant—”

“You’re cute,” is all you say, voice light and sure, all worry lifting free and left abandoned to wither.

He pauses for a moment, marinating in the compliment, eyes flickering back to life as they settle in the light glistening from yours. He ponders, sweet smile growing as he recalls delicately,

“Just another reason you should stay.”

You remember immediately— How could you ever forget when he said that to you? When he broke something open inside you, the starting crack that chipped down the guilt you wore like a shield.

How could you ever forget the moment you started to realize you might really allow yourself to want him? Realize that maybe—just maybe—he could want you too?

All in that kitchen, still a heartbeat— A pulse tethered to the tangle of your souls.

You couldn’t think of anything else— Any invasive thought as to why you shouldn’t. Any nagging and unwanted reminder that you were somewhere you shouldn’t be, because that couldn’t be more wrong.

You couldn’t think of anything else when he finally lifted from the mattress, leaving a gentle and sweeping kiss on your forehead to go turn off the bathroom light.

You couldn’t think of anything else when he left the room and came back sheepishly with a pair of sleep shorts to fit you— The smallest gesture that threatened to drown you in its sincerity.

You couldn’t think of anything else when he let you crawl into his bed again, his body settling into place behind you and pressing a whispering kiss to the crook of your neck like a vow to never stop.

And now, a sense of knowing blooms in the caverns of the unsaid— The quiet reckoning of something stronger than patience and care and honest truth revealing itself in the places it’s been watching all along.

You feel it pressed against his sheets with you— Desire exchanged for devotion.

When you fall asleep that night, you do it for the first time in a long time with a smile— An unmovable force pinned against your lips you didn’t dare disturb.

You didn’t know it, but he did the same.

And remarkably,

The crest of his body curls around yours like a fallen star, a new sense of belonging, splitting matter and mere fragments finding a new orbit once wrapped around you.

It’s daybreak when John Walker arrives at the tower.

His limbs are heavy, tired, exhausted and quite honestly too worn to care about how pissed Yelena is at him. The evidence of his indifference is worn on his face— Gruff brows knit together, their natural state, his eyes hard and narrow, lids heavy with something other than the crave of sleep. His mouth, chapped and drawn into a tight line, shoulders straight and stiff, patiently waiting for the elevator to work even a little bit faster so he could get the hell out of this dirty, disgusting suit as soon as possible.

In all honesty, he wasn’t mad at Bob. How could he be? Sometimes the rest of the team were too delicate with him— Treating him like a child when he was more than capable of spending a full 36 hours alone. Like he wasn’t a grown man. It was ridiculous— Laughable, even.

He didn’t need the supervision, and John didn’t need to be bothered with it.

Actually, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he was the teeniest bit proud of Bob for sticking up for what he wants— Even if John had to swallow his pride over how he worked him like a sucker to get it.

Even if now that meant Yelena had a bug up her ass and it was directed at John who—somehow—always managed to be responsible for everything.

A taut grumble leaves his mouth as the elevator doors whirled open and he watched his call to Bob get banished to voicemail for a third time.

Whatever. Not his problem. He couldn’t be bothered to think about it. He couldn’t be bothered to think about anything besides a hot shower and some antiseptic, actually.

Except, he was forced to when he walked into the residential floor, expecting to see Bob sucked into some new useless book—completely oblivious to all the chaos he was causing in the world that existed outside of him—but rather, was greeted by complete silence.

John’s steps slowed, taking in the eerie lull of quiet washed over the Watchtower, untouched and dead to the world, bathing in stillness and the steel-colored glow of the city waking up along with it just beyond the windows.

His eyes narrow and sweep across the floor, falling on the kitchen that looked like it was a victim of a bomb drill gone wrong.

Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink—which was completely clean and empty before he left—and virtually every single culinary-related thing the team even owned was scattered across the counter.

Spices, utensils, ingredients, dishes— You name it, it was there.

“Jesus, Bobby,” he mutters to himself, tone flat and unamused at the mess left behind to greet him. “Least you could’ve done was cork the damn wine.”

It’d be a lie to say a bottle of wine paired with Bob left alone didn’t make his blood rush a bit harder to his head, indifference mulling into real and genuine confusion… and begrudgingly, concern. He rolled his eyes loosely as he shoved the cork back in and stuck it in the fridge before Yelena saw it and really gave him something to chew on.

Damn, it’s like Bob was trying to screw him over.

He’s about two steps out of the kitchen—stalking off to find Bob to, one, make sure he’s okay, and two, rip him a new asshole—when he stops hard in his tracks, the grip of his combat boots squeaking against the too-shiny, obnoxiously-polished floor.

One. Two.

His eyes count them. Wine glasses.

Two of them.

They almost got lost in the mess, camouflaged so well that the stain of just nearly crimson left at the bottom of them nearly went unnoticed— Just a mouthful of evidence ratting him out.

And right next to them, abandoned at the corner seat at the island, was your stuff.

John knew that bag anywhere. It always brought some kind of new bullshit for the team to mull over, something to ruin their day— New paperwork, new briefings, new completely ridiculous ways Valentina had found to treat them like a multi-level marketing scam in capes and tactical gear.

But more importantly, it always brought a stupidly bashful grin to Bob’s face whenever he’d see it.

Because it came attached to you.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbles in disbelief, more to the room than to himself. He stands like a fool, realization washing over him as he nosily fiddles with a folder abandoned under your bag. He shakes his head and lets a puff of air pass through his nose, a cheeky laugh bubbling at the back of his throat as he glides over to the intercom— A sly pep in his step.

He pauses and laughs under his breath, remarkably, at just how good Bob got him.

Then, with a teasing tone, and the tiniest lace of respect he could muster to thread through, he pushes it and says,

“Well played, Bobby.”

The crack of John Walker’s voice through the intercom of Bob’s room rips you free and reminds you that this world wasn’t just you and him after all.

Even if it felt like it.

Even if it still did when he looked at you like this—like he is right now—holding you closely, eyes lusted over with something unspoken. Clear and shallow blue whispering more than his lips ever could.

You and him, still tangled together, unmoved forces drawn to each other like gravity, knowing nothing else than the peace found in the arms of each other now.

Even if you tried, you couldn’t deny the way you always found your way to him now— Legs woven, slotted loosely together, your knee resting just above his. Your chest, now facing him as one large hand rests casually along the crest of your waist like he’s done it all his life. His elbow bent gently under the pillow to prop his head up, his hand just in your reach, haphazardly toying at the collar of your shirt and your hair. Yours lies flush against his chest, steady rhythm of his breathing making it rise and fall like the dust that danced in the air under warm morning haze.

Together, no longer scared of what closeness might cost in the daylight.

It woke you gently, the crest of morning sun slipping between the endless height of skyscrapers just beyond the foot of the bed, collecting the pale pink of budding morning.

Light suspends in the air— Clear. Warming. Patient. It has filled the void of words unspoken that now lives in a realm where hope is watered with opportunity. It dances on his honeysuckle skin as he sleeps, no crinkle of worry or bite of stress carved through the lines in his forehead. It’s sweet, it’s soft— The crescendo of June spilling over his body.

He looks different like this, warm and familiar, pressed against you like a memory you haven’t quite made yet. He looks younger, softer, lips slightly parted— Maybe the most himself you’ve ever seen, and yet, all like you’ve never met him before. Like you didn’t know this version of him.

It pings in your chest—a crawl of yearning—and you realize,

You really want to.

You would think it was a dream if you weren’t surrounded by the reminders of you living in his space— Your suit jacket tangled with the comforter half kicked off the bed, your body wrapped in his clothes, your broken shoes, blending into the background of his room like they belonged there.

You would think it was a dream if you didn’t watch him stir under curious fingers that traced the slope of his nose and curve of his jaw with delicate presence, coming back to life with fluttering eyelashes and soft smile lines at the privilege of being awoken by your touch— Wading in a bed with you, a serene scene rewriting one of your worst memories, knowing now when you see him like this, he’s safe. It’s the good kind of vulnerable. No longer alone.

You would think it was a dream if you didn’t feel a shock of reality take over you when Walker’s voice cuts through the static of the intercom, the lazy lull of Bob’s heavy eyelids when he looked at you now snapping open into wide panic at the sound— Flinching at the tone, thick and sarcastic like he somehow knew more about your new relationship than you did.

Smug. Just like always.

When the room falls silent again it’s you who speaks, reaching out to gently trace an aimless pattern in Bob’s open palm that stiffened against your hair at the interruption.

“What’s he talking about?”

You ask it evenly, calmly— No accusation or annoyance, no rise in your tone or inflection in your voice. Just patient wanting, voice still glazed over with the best sleep you’ve had in months.

Bob inhales slowly, his eyes blinking as they settle from the shock. His lips begin to tell you but it’s hard to focus on the words when they’re still swollen and flush with the memory of you wiped all over them.

Then, they pull into a smile. It’s something knowing and bashful and maybe even a little proud, all accompanied with a hush, breathless laugh caught in the back of his throat like it was a secret cracking through the thin parting of his lips.

“I lied,” he says, extracting a hand from your waist to rub the dawning of sleep from his face before it finds you again like an instinct.

Your brows knit together subtly at his response, not really expecting to hear that from him at all. Not when that was your role in your dynamic, even if it were now abandoned once and for all when you vowed to give your heart to him in your sacred touch last night.

He senses your confusion and continues before your mind can finish raking through the pre-mature, half-formed thoughts it wanted to make.

“To Walker, I mean. To Walker,” he clarifies, eyes dipping down to watch himself brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear like it was a holy act. “I kinda maybe told him Yelena wasn’t on a mission yesterday when he was supposed to be off even though she was that way I could get him out of the tower since he thought she’d be around.”

A smile crawls to your lips as you watch him explain, voice lazy and low and scratchy from sleep that made your skin tingle, reminding you of the way the dawning of his stubble would scratch just right whenever his face would find yours.

It was going to be really hard to focus around him now— God, you could barely keep a straight face.

“Why’d you do that,” you hum, leaning closer until your nose was almost touching his, like you couldn’t bear to be any further away from him. Like you needed to feel the words dance across your skin in order to hear them fully.

“I, uh, I-I don’t know,” he sighs, searching for the right words, eyes gazing into yours like he’d find the answer there instead. “It’s hard to explain, it’s just... sometimes I just want a chance to, like, breathe, you know?” You nod gently, nose bumping into his at the motion which makes him grin just a fraction wider, something for only you to see. “I like having people around, sure. I don’t get lost in my own head as easily when they are. I know they mean well… but I also just want time to myself without feeling watched… or bothered.”

“I get it,” you soothe, wrapping an arm around him to pull him closer, wide and wonderful blue of his eyes becoming your only view. He looked at you like he still couldn’t believe you were beside him, like he was dreaming, just like you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. You hesitate for a moment before hooking your leg around his with more pressure now to pull him closer, eyes dancing with a flicker of tease, your fingers tracing along his arms and saying, “You still wound up being bothered, though.”

Bashful pink floods the smooth of his skin, eyes widening and wobbly lips pulling into a gentle smile like he couldn’t help it— Like he never wanted to stop.

“No,” he whispers, steady and sure, something reminiscent of a loving-tone wrapped around every letter that curls in the air and makes your skin dance with chills. “It was the best lie I’ve ever told.”

Your heart pounds and your head spins and it feels like the grip of his hand on your waist is the only thing keeping you in this new orbit. The light flickers around his face, gentle, natural, but alive— All like it was envious of how he could burn through your shadows in ways it never could.

When he says things like that, it was like he was the one carving you, the one making you, shaping you, holding you— You, merely a vessel, made whole from every swell of him through the pulsing chambers of your soul.

He carries the softness—the truth, the intent—of his words in every inch of his body. He holds it in his eyes, he holds it in his hands. He holds it down in his blood and bones, every word threaded together with something holy, something that runs all the way down to his marrow.

When he says things like that, he makes you believe it’s okay to let go.

To simply be— For him.

So you do and confess, “I lied, too.”

His expression never falters, just scans your face like he was looking for clues in every line, every glance, every glisten of your eyes.

“We need to start having different conversations than this,” he teases, nose just barely nudging yours just so he could hear a breathless laugh rise in the air like your heart was singing for him.

“No, no, it’s not like that again,” you breathe. “I promise.”

He waits for you to continue, fingers whispering along your skin like he could trace it out of you that way— Each touch, a turning page, your story, meeting the echo of epilogue.

So you swallow whatever bubble of fear burns at the back of your throat and say,

“Before. Last night. Outside the Watchtower.”

His brows crinkle more. Now he’s really confused.

“When you asked me why I was looking at you...”

The wave of words wash over him like a pulling tide, lips parting gently at its command. Then comes a breath of air that still manages to whisper, “Oh.”

“It wasn't nothing.”

Your heart races, maybe from the new sense of honesty and beginnings that pulsed through his room, no longer bathed in soothing shadows that made it comfortable for you to bare your soul, but rather, like the light and the time that stretched forward made everything more weighted.

More meaningful.

“I was thinking about how perfect you are,” you confess, a silent murmur suspended in the shared sliver of space fighting for dear life to exist between your bodies. “I was thinking about how much I wanted you.” Beat. “About how easily I could… fall for you. If you’d let me.”

You don’t say it.

You don’t want to scare him, to push him, to unravel too quickly. But you know he feels it too— A new thing unsaid, fostered by delicate touches and sweeping words, blooming gently between you in the hush of twin heartbeats.

He doesn’t respond with words, just a delicate brush of his lips against yours, sighing into you like he remembers how to breathe only when you’re taking his breath away. When he pulls back, his eyes are still closed, face still resting on yours like you’re holding him together and he whispers against your cheek,

“I already am.”

And through steady breath, a simple exchange, through the soft riots of acquainted souls— Limerence becomes love.

Or, perhaps,

Quiet truth revels in what has always been.

edit: thank you for 400+ notes ! it means the world to me that people are reading and liking it enough to leave kind comments telling me so. i poured my soul into this little story, so i hope you enjoyed 🤍

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