howdy.

Everyone else was thirteen.

And because your brain had always run ahead of your body, you had grown up believing the gap didn’t matter.

That was the first lie adolescence corrected.

The first week back after winter break, you stood in front of your bathroom mirror and stared at yourself like you were studying a stranger.

Your mother had bought you a new backpack. New shoes. A few shirts that weren’t babyish, because she’d learned – slowly – that you hated looking younger than you already were.

She didn’t push you into ruffles or bright colors. She asked what you liked. She listened. She tried.

She couldn’t change the fact that your wrists were still too thin, your shoulders still too narrow, your face still too soft.

You looked like a kid.

You were a kid.

But the world didn’t treat kids kindly once they decided you were old enough to be noticed.

You pulled on a long-sleeved shirt even though it wasn’t that cold. You always did, instinctive as breathing. You tugged the hem down like fabric could be armor. Then you tied your hair back and looked at your eyes in the mirror – sharp, watchful, too steady for your age.

You tried to practice a smile.

It looked wrong.

So you didn’t.

Your mother called, “You ready?”

You picked up your bag. “Yes.”

You were always ready. Ready meant controlled. Ready meant no one could tell you were bracing.

Outside, the street was wet with melted snow. Your breath came out in small clouds. You walked toward school with your shoulders slightly hunched, not from cold but from the feeling that middle school hallways were designed like funnels – tight, loud, unavoidable.

Steve was waiting by the corner like he always was.

He had grown since fall. Not drastically, but enough that the change sat wrong in your mind for a second. His limbs were longer. His hoodie sleeves didn’t swallow his hands anymore.

He smiled when he saw you, quick and bright, then softened it like he remembered you didn’t like too much attention.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” you replied.

He fell into step beside you without crowding you. He never crowded you. He walked like he understood the invisible space you needed the way some people understood personal boundaries without being told.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t have to.

A few steps behind him, Bucky barreled up the sidewalk like a storm with sneakers.

“You two are walking without me?” he demanded, loud enough to make an older woman on the opposite sidewalk glance over.

Steve rolled his eyes. “We didn’t know you could be on time.”

“I’m always on time,” Bucky argued automatically, and you could hear the grin behind his words.

He reached you and hooked an arm around Steve’s shoulders, yanking him closer like they were magnets. Steve swore under his breath and shoved him away.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to you.

Just a flick.

But it landed.

“You’re wearing sleeves,” he observed.

You looked down at yourself like you hadn’t dressed yourself on purpose. “Yes.”

“It’s not even that cold.”

“I know.”

Bucky stared at you for another second as if he expected you to explain your own choices, then huffed and bumped his shoulder lightly into yours – an old habit, familiar enough that you didn’t flinch.

“Whatever,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He ran ahead without waiting for you to respond, sneakers splashing through a shallow puddle, already shouting Pietro’s name across the street like volume was a love language.

Pietro, predictably, shouted back.

Wanda stood near the school entrance with her arms crossed, expression unimpressed in a way that made teachers wary and boys nervous. She looked older than thirteen somehow – like she’d been born already tired of everyone’s nonsense.

When she saw you, her face softened in a way that was so quick most people missed it.

“There you are,” she said, like she’d been waiting specifically for you. Then she narrowed her eyes at Bucky. “Don’t trample her.”

Bucky made a face. “I didn’t trample her.”

“You breathed on her aggressively,” Wanda shot back.

Pietro laughed, already spinning some story about how he’d almost gotten detention for “existing too loudly” last semester.

You stood in the middle of them and tried not to let the noise get under your skin.

You had known these people for years now.

They were your constant.

But adolescence had a way of making even constants feel unstable, like the ground was shifting and no one was naming it out loud.

Inside the building, the hallways were packed. Lockers slammed. Someone yelled a name across the corridor like they owned the space. A group of older kids laughed too hard, too sharp, and the sound crawled over your shoulders.

You tightened your grip on your backpack straps.

Wanda noticed immediately. She always did.

She moved in closer – not touching, not infantilizing – just positioning herself on your other side like a barrier.

“New semester,” she muttered. “Same zoo.”

You nodded.

Steve leaned toward you slightly. “You okay?”

You gave him a small, automatic nod. “I’m fine.”

Steve didn’t look convinced.

Bucky didn’t ask.

Bucky never asked if you were okay. Not because he didn’t care – he cared like it was his default setting – but because Bucky’s version of care wasn’t questions.

It was presence. It was hovering. It was being there like a guard dog who didn’t know he was a guard dog.

He walked a half step behind you through the hallway, shoulder angled like he’d decided the crowd wasn’t allowed to touch you.

You pretended not to notice.

Your first class was English.

The teacher, Mrs. Kennedy, was young and enthusiastic and had the kind of smile that looked like she had never been betrayed by her own hormones. She talked about symbolism and narrative voice like it was the most important thing in the world.

You liked her immediately.

It made you cautious.

People you liked had the potential to matter, and things that mattered could be taken away.

You sat at your desk and took out your notebook, writing the date at the top of the page with careful, neat handwriting.

Your handwriting had always been tidy. A controlled line on paper. Proof you could be good.

Around you, the other kids fidgeted. Whispered. Twirled hair around fingers. Thumped shoes against chair legs. Passed notes.

You listened.

You always listened.

You caught fragments without trying.

“…he totally looked at her–” “…did you see what she wore?” “…my mom says–” “…I got it last summer–”

You didn’t always understand what they were talking about, but you understood the tone.

Everyone sounded… electric.

Charged.

Like they had secrets under their skin and didn’t know what to do with them.

You knew what to do with secrets.

You hid them.

When the teacher called on you, you answered calmly, succinctly. Your voice didn’t shake. Your face didn’t flush. You didn’t get excited.

Mrs. Kennedy smiled like she wished everyone in the room would take notes on how to be a person.

A boy behind you muttered, “She’s such a robot.”

You didn’t turn around.

Turning around meant engaging. Engaging meant attention. Attention meant - 

Wanda’s chair scraped lightly against the floor as she leaned back and said, loud enough for him to hear, “At least robots are useful.”

A couple of kids laughed.

The boy shut up.

You didn’t look at Wanda, but your chest loosened by a fraction anyway.

After English came gym.

Gym was where adolescence became crueler.

Not because the exercises were difficult.

Because gym required bodies.

Required changing clothes in front of other people. Required running in front of other people. Required being seen.

You hated being seen.

The girls’ locker room smelled like deodorant and damp towels and the sharp, acidic edge of fear disguised as perfume. Voices bounced off the tiles, too loud, too close.

You moved quickly, eyes down. You changed as fast as possible, keeping your shirt close to your body. You didn’t take your long-sleeve off until the last second. You kept your back turned.

Wanda changed near you, deliberately, like she’d decided you would not be cornered.

Pietro’s voice echoed faintly from the boys’ locker room through the wall, already laughing. Steve’s quieter laughter followed. Bucky’s loudest of all.

For a moment, you felt steady again. The way you always did when you remembered the world contained them.

On the gym floor, your class divided into teams. Basketball.

You hated basketball.

Too much chaos. Too many bodies moving unpredictably.

Bucky loved it.

He became a different creature the moment a ball entered the equation – competitive, fast, hungry. He wasn’t even trying to impress anyone, he just… didn’t know how to do something halfway.

Steve was decent, but he played like he didn’t want to hurt anyone. Like he was always checking his own strength.

Pietro – predictably – played like the rules were suggestions.

Wanda sat out with an excuse that looked suspiciously like I don’t care.

You were put on the court anyway.

You stood near the edge, hands open, waiting for a pass that never came.

Not because you were bad.

Because you were small.

Small meant invisible.

Invisible meant safe.

The ball bounced. Sneakers squeaked. A girl shoved past you hard enough that you stumbled.

Bucky’s head snapped toward you instantly.

He didn’t see who did it. He just saw you move.

His jaw tightened.

He played harder after that. Too hard.

The gym teacher blew the whistle twice and shouted at him to calm down.

Bucky threw his hands up like he’d been personally insulted by the concept of “calm.”

When class ended, you left the gym with your heart beating too fast and your throat tight.

You didn’t cry.

You just… felt raw.

Steve fell into step beside you in the hallway, towel draped over his shoulder, hair damp at the edges.

“You did okay,” he said.

You blinked at him. “I did nothing.”

Steve shrugged. “Sometimes doing nothing is doing okay. Middle school rules are weird.”

You almost smiled.

Then you heard a girl behind you whisper, “That’s Steve Rogers. He’s cute.”

Your stomach did something strange.

Not jealousy.

Not exactly.

Something more like… awareness.

Steve’s shoulders stiffened slightly.

He heard it too.

He pretended he didn’t.

You pretended you didn’t.

But the air between you shifted, just a little, like a page turning.

At lunch, you sat at the same table you always did – near the window, far enough from the loudest groups to breathe.

Wanda unwrapped her sandwich with surgical precision. Pietro stole a fry from someone at a nearby table and got yelled at. Steve drew something in the corner of his notebook instead of eating. Bucky complained about the cafeteria food like it had personally offended him.

It should have felt normal.

It almost did.

Until the conversation at the table behind you rose above the din.

“…she got her period in class.” “…shut up– seriously?” “…she cried, it was so gross.” “…my sister said it happens and–”

Your fork paused halfway to your mouth.

Wanda’s head snapped up.

Pietro wrinkled his nose. “People are idiots.”

Steve looked uncomfortable, cheeks slightly pink.

Bucky said, “What’s a period?”

Everyone froze.

Pietro choked on his drink.

Wanda stared at Bucky like she might actually kill him.

Steve’s eyes widened, horrified.

Bucky looked between them, baffled. “What? What did I say?”

Wanda leaned in and hissed, “Eat your food.”

Bucky leaned back, defensive. “I’m just asking.”

Pietro muttered, “Ask your mother.”

Bucky made a face. “No.”

Steve cleared his throat and said quickly, “It’s… not important.”

“It sounds important,” Bucky argued.

You stared down at your tray, throat tight in a different way now.

Not fear.

Just… the sensation of being excluded from something everyone else seemed to be orbiting.

Your body.

Your future body.

Things you hadn’t asked your mother about because asking meant admitting you didn’t know the rules.

And you hated not knowing the rules.

Wanda reached under the table and squeezed your knee lightly, once.

A secret check-in.

You didn’t look at her, but you exhaled.

Later, in the hallway, you went to your locker and twisted the combination carefully, deliberately, like precision could stop your hands from shaking.

You weren’t sure why they were shaking.

You hadn’t done anything wrong.

You didn’t even feel sick.

You just… felt off.

A shadow fell over you.

You looked up.

Bucky.

He leaned against the lockers across from yours like he’d been waiting on purpose but didn’t want to admit it.

“What?” you asked, because if you didn’t speak first, he would.

Bucky squinted at you. “You’re being weird today.”

You blinked slowly. “I’m always weird.”

He huffed, like you’d stolen his argument. “Yeah, but you’re… extra.”

You closed your locker. “Is this your way of asking if I’m okay?”

Bucky’s ears went slightly pink. “No.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, quieter – almost grudging – he added, “Maybe.”

Your chest tightened. Not painfully. Just… in that strange way it did when someone did something you didn’t expect.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

Bucky didn’t move.

You could tell he didn’t believe you.

He looked at you like he was trying to read something on your face, and when he couldn’t, his expression sharpened with frustration – not at you, exactly, but at the fact that he couldn’t fix what he couldn’t name.

Finally, he muttered, “Okay,” like it wasn’t okay at all.

Then he reached out and took your backpack strap – just for a second – and tugged it gently.

A wordless gesture.

Come on.

I’m here.

You followed him down the hall without thinking.

And somewhere between your locker and the exit, you realized the truth you hadn’t been ready to admit yet.

Steve was becoming important in a new way.

Not just as the boy next door. Not just as the steady presence who understood silence.

People were looking at him now.

Talking about him.

Measuring him.

And that meant the world was going to try to take him from the safe, familiar orbit you’d all built around each other.

You didn’t know what you felt about that yet.

But you knew, with the sharp certainty you’d carried since you were four - 

That change rarely asked permission.

And that whatever came next, you would have to learn new rules again.

At home, it didn’t happen all at once.

It wasn’t like one day you all woke up and suddenly everything was different.

It was… a slow tightening. A shift in the air. A new kind of awareness that settled over the house like humidity – something you couldn’t see, but felt on your skin.

You noticed it first with Bucky.

You always noticed Bucky first.

Not because he was the loudest – though he was – but because he was the one whose orbit had always brushed too close to yours. The one who had always moved through your space like he belonged there.

Middle school changed that.

It put lines on the floor that hadn’t been there before.

You didn’t know if Bucky saw them at first. You didn’t even know if he understood what they were. But you felt him hesitate in doorways now. You felt him pause before sitting too close on the couch. You felt the way he stopped barging into your room the way he used to – like it wasn’t his to enter anymore.

It should have felt like relief.

It didn’t.

It felt like being quietly evicted from something you’d never been brave enough to name.

It started with small, humiliating things.

With your mother coming home one afternoon with a paper bag and an expression that was too careful.

“Sweetheart,” she said, voice gentle in the way that meant this conversation was going to be awkward no matter how she tried to soften it. “Can we talk for a second?”

You froze in the hallway, backpack still on your shoulders. You nodded once.

She led you into her bedroom, not yours. Like she didn’t want this to become a memory in the walls of your own space.

She set the bag on the bed and sat beside it.

“I’m not… entirely sure how to do this gracefully,” she admitted with a small, nervous laugh. “But you’re growing. And I want you to be comfortable.”

You stared at the bag.

Comfortable was a weird word. Comfort was not something you assumed you deserved by default. Comfort was something you earned by being good.

Your mother pulled out a soft cotton bralette first. Pale, simple. No lace. No unnecessary femininity. She’d chosen it like she knew you would hate anything that felt like it was meant to make you pretty.

“This is just… for support,” she said quickly, like she was explaining a tool. “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to. But some girls like having it. It can help.”

You took it from her hands as if it might burn you.

The fabric was soft.

Too soft.

Your throat tightened.

Not because you were upset. You weren’t even sure what upset would look like.

Because it felt like proof that your body was changing in ways that would make you visible.

Visibility was dangerous.

You nodded again because nodding was what you did. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t make your mother sit in discomfort longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” you said. The words came out flat.

Your mother’s eyes softened. She reached up, hesitated, then brushed your hair behind your ear.

“You can ask me anything,” she said quietly. “Anytime.”

You nodded again.

You didn’t ask anything.

You didn’t because you didn’t trust the words to come out right.

And because part of you still believed that asking for help was the first step toward being sent away.

That night, you put the bralette on alone in your room with the door locked, like you were committing a crime.

You stared at yourself in the mirror afterward.

You didn’t look older.

Not really.

But you looked… different.

The shape of you was beginning to change, and you didn’t know what to do with the fact that other people would notice.

The next morning, you came down to breakfast wearing a hoodie even though it was warm in the kitchen.

Bucky was already there, leaning against the counter, shoveling cereal into his mouth like he was trying to win a race against time.

He glanced up when you entered.

His gaze flicked over you, quick.

Then – just as quick – he looked away.

He cleared his throat like something had gotten stuck.

“Morning,” he said, voice too casual.

“Morning,” you replied, voice careful.

Your mother moved around the kitchen like she always did, humming softly, trying to keep the atmosphere normal. Wanda was over, perched on a stool, legs crossed, watching the whole thing like she could smell tension the way sharks smelled blood.

Pietro was outside already, yelling something at Steve through the open window.

Normal noise.

Normal life.

But Bucky didn’t look at you again.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about why.

Because you were too smart for your own good. Because you were the kind of child who tried to solve people like puzzles.

Because the space between you and Bucky had never existed before, and now it did, and you didn’t know what rule you’d broken to create it.

The next shift came in the bathroom.

It was stupid. Small. A nothing-thing.

Bucky came out one morning with toilet paper stuck to his chin, one hand pressed to his jaw and the other holding his razor like it had betrayed him.

Steve was leaning against the hallway wall outside the bathroom, waiting his turn, arms crossed, expression half amused, half resigned.

You were coming down the hall with your toothbrush when you saw Bucky.

Blood.

Not a lot – just a thin line, bright red against his skin.

But it startled you anyway. You stopped mid-step.

Bucky saw you looking and his whole face went red.

“What are you staring at?” he snapped, defensive.

You blinked. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m not–” He looked down, realized you were right, and swore under his breath. “Shut up.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “You cut yourself shaving.”

“I know what I did,” Bucky growled.

Steve’s tone was maddeningly calm. “You want help?”

“No.”

Bucky pressed harder against his chin and winced. “Maybe.”

Steve stepped forward, took the razor out of his hand like he was disarming a bomb, and guided him back into the bathroom with a gentle shove.

You stood there, frozen, toothbrush in your hand, watching the door close.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did.

Because suddenly Bucky was doing things you weren’t part of. Things he didn’t want you to see. Things he was embarrassed by.

And the embarrassment wasn’t just about blood.

It was about you.

About being seen by you.

The realization sat oddly in your chest, heavy and unfamiliar.

A few weeks later, you noticed the biggest change of all.

You woke from a nightmare one night – thunder outside, the kind that made the windows tremble.

Your heart was pounding. Your breath came in thin, shaky pulls.

You lay still, waiting.

Waiting for footsteps.

Waiting for the familiar creak of your door.

Waiting for Bucky.

Because even if he hadn’t come every time anymore, he still did sometimes. Sometimes he still slipped into your bed like it was instinct, still pressed you against his side and muttered that you were fine.

But this time, the house stayed quiet.

No footsteps.

No door.

No warmth beside you.

You stared at the dark ceiling, throat tight, body cold.

And it hit you then – not like an insult, not like rejection, but like a rule settling into place:

He wasn’t coming anymore.

Because you were eleven now.

Because you were “old enough.”

Because boys weren’t supposed to crawl into their sisters’ beds.

Even when the sister wasn’t their sister by blood.

Even when the sister didn’t know how to feel safe alone.

You swallowed the panic down, the way you always did, and forced your breathing to slow.

It took a long time.

The next morning, you ate breakfast with your hands folded in your lap and didn’t mention the storm.

Bucky didn’t mention it either.

But you noticed the way his eyes kept flicking to you when he thought you weren’t looking, like he was checking for something. Like he wanted to ask if you were okay and didn’t know how.

You let him keep his silence.

Silence was something you understood.

At school, the world got meaner.

Not always openly. Sometimes it came in laughter that wasn’t meant for you – until it was.

Sometimes it came in boys who called you “weird” because you didn’t giggle when they wanted you to. Sometimes it came in girls who whispered that you thought you were better than everyone because you got good grades.

Sometimes it came in the way people talked about your body like it wasn’t yours.

Flat. Tiny. Childish.

Or – worse – comments that made your skin crawl, the kind that were meant to see if you would react.

You didn’t.

You never reacted.

That was the problem.

Bullies got bored when you gave them nothing. But middle school boys didn’t bully only for reaction – they bullied to perform.

To prove they could.

So sometimes they tried harder.

And that was when your friends stepped in.

Not gently.

Not diplomatically.

Bucky, especially, became a storm.

It happened one afternoon near the lockers. A boy – older, bigger – leaned too close to you and said something under his breath that made your stomach twist.

You didn’t answer.

You just opened your locker and pretended your hands weren’t shaking.

The boy laughed like your silence was permission.

“You hear me?” he pressed.

A shadow fell over you.

Bucky.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stepped in between you and the boy like he was building a wall with his body.

“You got a problem?” Bucky asked, voice low.

The boy scoffed. “Relax. I’m talking to your sister.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“She’s not here to talk to you,” he said.

The boy smirked, eyes sliding past Bucky to you like you were a prize behind glass. “Maybe she wants to.”

Bucky moved so fast you barely registered it – one hand fisting in the boy’s shirt collar, slamming him back against the lockers with a sound that made heads turn.

“You don’t get to decide what she wants,” Bucky snarled. “You don’t even get to look at her like that.”

The boy’s eyes widened.

Bucky leaned closer. “If you ever talk to her again, if you ever so much as breathe in her direction like you think you own the air around her–”

“Bucky,” Steve’s voice cut in sharply.

You hadn’t even realized he was there until he was.

Steve’s hand clamped around Bucky’s forearm, firm. Controlled.

Bucky’s breathing was hard, angry. But he listened – just enough – to loosen his grip and shove the boy away instead of hitting him.

Pietro arrived a second later, eyes bright with the kind of protective rage that made him dangerous in a different way.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” the boy snapped, straightening his shirt, trying to regain dignity.

Pietro smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Funny. Because you look like you just remembered you’re not invincible.”

Wanda appeared beside you and touched your elbow lightly. “You okay?” she asked, her voice the only gentle thing in the whole scene.

You nodded, because that’s what you did.

Bucky glared at the boy one last time, then turned away like he didn’t want you to see his face.

Like he didn’t want you to see how much he cared.

It wasn’t the last time.

As the months went on, it became a pattern.

A boy asked you to a dance, voice cracking with courage, and Bucky materialized behind you like a summoned demon.

“She’s busy,” Bucky said.

The boy blinked. “I didn’t ask you.”

Bucky smiled. “You should’ve.”

Another boy tried to walk you home after school, offering his jacket like he’d seen it in a movie.

Bucky stepped between you and the jacket.

“She doesn’t need it.”

The boy frowned. “Dude. What is your problem?”

Bucky’s voice was calm, almost friendly.

“My problem,” he said, “is you.”

Steve sometimes stepped in too, but differently – more like a quiet correction than a threat.

He’d show up beside you, shoulder brushing yours, and ask you a question about homework like he hadn’t noticed the boy hovering.

A graceful rescue.

Pietro’s approach was sharper. He called boys out with words, dismantling them with a smile and a sentence that made them feel stupid for trying.

Wanda just stared until they left.

But Bucky… 

Bucky made it physical.

Not by hitting, usually. Not enough to get caught.

By occupying space.

By blocking.

By making sure everyone understood that getting to you meant going through him first.

And every time he did it, part of you felt grateful.

Because protection was familiar.

Protection was what love looked like in your world.

But another part of you – quieter, more frightened – felt the loss underneath it.

Because Bucky could keep boys away from you.

He could keep the world away.

But he couldn’t give you what you had lost the night he stopped climbing into your bed.

He couldn’t give you that simple, wordless safety anymore.

Not without breaking the new rules adolescence had written between you.

So instead, he hovered.

He guarded.

He glared.

He called you his sister out loud like a warning, like armor, like a line in the sand.

And you let him.

Because you didn’t know how to tell him that the word sister felt like both a shield… And a cage.

Thank God middle school didn’t last forever.

High school was supposed to be the upgrade – the fresh start, the bigger building, the promise that everyone would suddenly grow out of their cruelty and become interesting, complex people.

It wasn’t.

Not for the first two years, anyway.

If anything, the hallways were wider but the stares were sharper. The jokes were louder. The social rules got more complicated, and the punishment for not knowing them became more public.

You were thirteen.

Most of your classmates were fifteen.

Two years still didn’t sound like much when adults talked about age gaps.

In high school, it was a canyon.

You were still too small in the shoulders, too young in the face. Your voice still held softness where the girls around you had started to sound like themselves – deeper, steadier, flirtier. Even when you tried to dress older, you looked like you were borrowing someone else’s life.

And somehow – miraculously, cruelly – you were all still in the same class.

Same schedule. Same lunch period. Same cluster of lockers.

Same orbit.

Which meant you never got the relief of becoming invisible.

Because Bucky and Steve made that impossible.

The first day of freshman year, you stood at the entrance of the high school with your stomach tight and your backpack straps biting into your palms. The building seemed to breathe – doors opening and closing, bodies pouring in, voices echoing off the high ceilings.

Wanda nudged your shoulder. “Stop staring like it’s going to eat you.”

You blinked. “It might.”

She smirked. “If it does, I’ll set it on fire.”

Pietro was already talking to someone, because Pietro couldn’t enter a room without becoming a performance. He waved at you across the courtyard like you were his lighthouse.

Steve stood close, hands in his hoodie pocket, looking like he wanted to disappear into the brick wall. High school didn’t make him bolder. It made him quieter, more careful, because now there were more people who could notice bruises.

Bucky, on the other hand…

Bucky walked into high school like it owed him something.

He had grown over the summer. Not just taller, but broader, like someone had quietly started building him into the man he would become. His shoulders filled his varsity jacket in a way that made girls look twice without even meaning to.

He noticed.

You saw the moment he noticed.

It wasn’t arrogance exactly.

It was… discovery.

Like he’d spent years believing the world would never look at him and then, suddenly, it did.

And Bucky Barnes didn’t know how to ignore attention.

He knew how to weaponize it.

By October, both he and Steve were on the basketball team.

It wasn’t like they were aiming for scholarships. They didn’t talk about “the future” like that. But they were good, and being good at a sport in high school made you visible in a way that was almost mythological.

People learned their names.

People shouted them across the gym.

People wore their numbers.

Steve looked uncomfortable with it – like he couldn’t quite reconcile being admired with having grown up afraid.

Bucky ate it alive. 

You learned how it felt to be adjacent to a kind of attention you didn’t want.

Girls started drifting near your table at lunch, laughing too loudly at Bucky’s jokes. Touching his arm when they talked. Asking Steve questions that had nothing to do with homework.

They didn’t look at you much.

Not in a real way.

You weren’t competition. You were a shadow at the edge of their stage.

Except sometimes… sometimes they looked at you because you were near him, and their eyes sharpened with curiosity.

Who is she? Why is she always here? Is she… his girlfriend?

The first time you heard someone whisper it, your stomach dropped.

Because there was no safe answer to that question.

If you said sister, they would laugh – because you didn’t look like him, because you weren’t his blood, because “sister” was a word people teased.

If you said nothing, they would decide something for you.

Bucky heard it too.

You could tell because his entire posture changed when the rumor started. Like he turned into a wall.

“That’s my sister,” he said loudly one day when a girl tried to flirt her way into your orbit, voice sharp enough that half the cafeteria turned.

The girl blinked, embarrassed. “Oh. I– sorry. I didn’t know.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Now you do.”

You stared down at your tray and focused on breathing.

Because the word sister made you feel safe.

And sick.

Because it was both protection and distance.

And you didn’t know how to tell him you hated it without sounding ungrateful.

High school also came with its own kind of betrayal.

Your body.

It happened one morning in late November.

You woke up and felt wrong before you even opened your eyes. Heavy, achy, like your bones were filled with wet sand.

When you shifted under your sheets, you felt the dampness and froze.

The world held its breath.

You sat up slowly, heart pounding, and pulled the blanket back.

Blood.

Not a lot, but enough.

Enough to make your throat close. Enough to make your hands go cold.

You stared at it for a second too long, mind scrambling for rules you had never really been given.

You had known this would happen eventually. You had read about it. You had overheard girls talking. You had seen your mother’s careful glances in the pharmacy aisle.

But knowing something intellectually did not prepare you for the reality of it.

The reality of it was messy. Warm. In your bed.

And your first instinct was not to call your mother.

It was to hide.

Because hiding was what you did when your body betrayed you. Because life had taught you, early and thoroughly, that needing help was dangerous.

So you stripped your sheets in silence, hands shaking. You shoved them into the laundry basket as if you could erase the evidence of being human. You cleaned yourself up too fast, not wanting to look too closely, not wanting to think about it too much.

And then the cramps hit.

Not a gentle ache.

A sharp, nauseating twist low in your abdomen that made you fold over the sink with your breath caught halfway in your throat.

For one horrible second, you wondered if something was wrong. If you were sick. If you were dying. If you should tell someone.

Then the pain eased just enough for you to understand.

This was just… how it was.

You dressed in a hoodie and jeans and went downstairs like nothing had happened.

Your mother looked up from the kitchen. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

“Morning,” you said, voice flatter than usual.

You poured yourself cereal. Your hands trembled slightly. You hid it by gripping the spoon too tightly.

Steve and Bucky were already there, arguing over something completely stupid in that familiar way that meant neither of them was actually angry. Your mother sighed at them over her coffee. Bucky grinned. Steve rolled his eyes. The whole thing should have felt normal.

It didn’t.

Every movement felt wrong. Too careful. Too deliberate. Your abdomen throbbed in slow, mean pulses. You sat down, forced yourself to eat three bites, and nearly gagged on the third.

Your mother noticed that.

She always noticed.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

You nodded too fast. “Just tired.”

Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, unconvinced, but she let it go.

You loved her for that. You hated it too.

By the time you left the house, the pain had sharpened again.

The cold late-November air bit at your cheeks as the three of you headed down the street. Your backpack felt too heavy. Your steps felt uneven. You kept your arms folded tight across your stomach and hoped neither Steve nor Bucky would notice.

Bucky did glance at you once.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

You shrugged.

Steve looked over too, his expression pinching slightly, but before either of them could push, you turned the corner onto the street where Wanda and Pietro lived.

Their house came into view at the end of the block, small and familiar, with the porch light still on against the grey morning.

Pietro was already outside, slouched against the railing with his bag hanging off one shoulder, impatient in the way only Pietro could be. Wanda stood in the open doorway behind him, one hand still on the frame, dark hair loose around her shoulders, looking half awake and entirely unimpressed with the world.

Then her gaze landed on you.

And she knew.

It was terrifying, how quickly she knew.

Her expression changed in an instant — not dramatically, not enough for Steve or Bucky to catch it, but enough. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Her head tilted. She took in your face, the stiffness in the way you were standing, your arms folded too tightly across your middle.

You didn’t nod. You didn’t confirm anything.

You didn’t have to.

Wanda stepped down from the doorway before you even reached the porch.

“What?” Pietro asked, straightening.

“Nothing,” Wanda said automatically, still looking at you.

Steve slowed. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth, fully intending to lie, and then a cramp twisted low and vicious through your abdomen so suddenly that your breath hitched.

It was small. Barely noticeable.

Wanda noticed.

Her whole face sharpened.

“Oh,” she said softly.

Your throat closed.

Pietro frowned, looking between the two of you. “What oh?”

Wanda ignored him. She came straight to you, took one look at your face, and said in a tone so casual it was almost absurd, “Hey. Come inside.”

You blinked at her.

“Bathroom,” she added, quieter now.

Pietro’s frown deepened. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

She caught your wrist — not hard, just enough to make it clear it wasn’t really a suggestion — and tugged you gently toward the house.

Behind you, Pietro made an offended sound. “That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting,” Wanda shot back.

Steve glanced at Bucky, then toward the doorway. “Do we need to–”

“No,” Wanda said over her shoulder, already guiding you inside. “Two minutes.”

The warmth of the house closed around you all at once, and for a second it made everything worse. The smell of toast. Old radiator heat. Coffee. Normal life carrying on as if your body hadn’t just become something unfamiliar and humiliating.

Wanda led you down the short hallway and into the bathroom, then shut the door behind you and leaned back against it.

For a moment, she just looked at you.

Then she said, very quietly, “It happened.”

You stared at the floor tiles.

Wanda’s voice softened. “Hey. It’s okay.”

You swallowed hard. “It hurts.”

She nodded immediately, as if she had expected that answer. “Okay. We’ll deal with that part too. Do you have pads?”

You hesitated.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Don’t tell me you don’t.”

You shook your head once, ashamed.

Wanda exhaled sharply, not at you – at the world, at adults, at the unfairness of anything that left girls unprepared for this.

“Okay,” she said. “Fine. We’ll handle it.”

She crouched by the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a small stash like she had been building it in secret for exactly this kind of emergency. She held one out to you without making it weird, without making you feel smaller than you already did.

Then she showed you what to do.

No jokes. No teasing. No pity.

Just clear, practical instructions, calm and matter-of-fact, as if she were showing you how to wrap a bandage or fix something broken.

When you were done, she studied your face again.

“How bad is the pain?”

You shrugged, because you didn’t know how to answer that. Pain was pain. Pain was something you survived until it stopped.

Wanda made a face, already irritated on your behalf. “If it gets worse, tell your mom. Or tell me. Or tell Pietro, if I’m not there.”

You looked up at that.

She crossed her arms. “Yes, Pietro. He’ll panic, but he’ll still help.”

That almost made you smile.

Almost.

Wanda’s expression softened again. “Don’t just pretend you’re fine.”

You looked away.

Because pretending you were fine was the thing you knew how to do best.

That day, you went to school anyway.

The cramps got worse by third period.

By lunch, you were pale enough that Pietro frowned at you and asked if you were sick.

You said no.

Bucky glanced at you sharply, immediately suspicious. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Stop saying that.”

You stared at him. “Stop telling me what to do.”

Steve looked between you like he was waiting for an explosion.

Wanda kicked Bucky under the table and said, “She’s coming with me after lunch.”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue – then shut it again when Wanda’s eyes turned dangerous.

You stayed home the next day.

Then another, a month later.

Your periods were brutal.

They came with cramps that left you curled in bed, sweating, shaking, nauseous. Sometimes you could barely stand upright long enough to brush your teeth.

Your mother worried. Wanda advocated. Pietro hovered like he wanted to fight your uterus personally. Steve offered quiet company – sitting on your bedroom floor with a sketchbook, drawing while you slept, as if his presence alone could guard you.

Bucky paced outside your door like a caged animal.

“Do you want me to get you something?” he asked one afternoon, voice too careful.

You didn’t open the door. “No.”

“Do you want me to–”

“No.”

Bucky went silent.

Then, after a pause, he muttered, “Okay,” like it wasn’t okay at all.

The months kept moving.

People kept growing.

Wanda got her first real boyfriend.

A guy from the basketball team – tall, loud, charming in the shallow way teenage boys could be charming. He made her laugh sometimes, and when Wanda laughed, it felt like watching the sun break through clouds.

You were happy for her.

And also… quietly relieved.

Because it meant she was experiencing something you didn’t know how to want without fear.

Pietro got a girlfriend too.

A girl from the art club with paint under her fingernails and a laugh that sounded like she didn’t care what anyone thought.

It lasted a few months.

Then it ended in a way that made Pietro laugh in disbelief.

“She said we’re too close,” he told you one afternoon as you walked home, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “You and me.”

You frowned. “Too close how?”

Pietro snorted. “Like she thought I was in love with you.”

Your stomach tightened for half a second.

Then Pietro laughed harder, shaking his head. “Can you imagine? People are so weird.”

You forced a small smile. “Yes.”

Because you could imagine.

You could imagine far too easily what it looked like from the outside.

The way you leaned into Pietro’s space without thinking. The way he always found you in a crowd. The way you trusted him with things you didn’t trust anyone else with.

But the idea of romance with Pietro was laughable to you too – not because Pietro wasn’t handsome or good or loyal.

Because Pietro felt like… home.

Not the kind of home you wanted to set on fire.

Steve got his first girlfriend sometime in sophomore year.

It was quiet at first – just a girl in his art class who sat close to him and laughed at his jokes like she was grateful he existed.

Steve didn’t bring her around your group much.

Maybe because he didn’t want you to feel left out.

Maybe because he didn’t want Bucky to glare holes through her skull.

Bucky did, anyway.

Not always obviously.

But you noticed the way Bucky’s eyes tracked Steve when he was with her. The way Bucky’s mouth went tight. The way he got more restless, more irritable, as if Steve’s attention being divided was a personal insult.

You wondered, sometimes, if Bucky was jealous.

Not of the girl.

Of Steve leaving the orbit you’d all created.

And then there was Bucky’s new world.

The girls.

It started with flirting – little smiles in the hallway, notes slipped into his locker, hands brushing his arm.

Then it became a steady rotation.

Bucky Barnes discovering that he could be wanted was like watching someone taste sugar for the first time and decide he never wanted to eat anything else.

He didn’t settle. He didn’t linger.

It wasn’t cruel – he wasn’t mean to them – but it was careless in the way teenage boys could be careless when they didn’t understand that hearts bruised easily.

One week it was a cheerleader with glossy hair.

The next it was a girl from his math class.

Then another, and another.

He came home smelling like someone else’s perfume sometimes, and you would pretend you didn’t notice.

Your mother pretended too, mostly. She tried to talk to him once about being respectful, about not hurting feelings.

Bucky rolled his eyes and said he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

And maybe he wasn’t.

Maybe he was just… trying to prove something to himself.

Trying to prove he was normal.

Trying to prove he could want and be wanted without it meaning anything deeper.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

You told yourself it was his life.

You told yourself you were his sister.

And sisters didn’t…

Didn’t watch the way his mouth curved when he smiled at someone else. Didn’t feel something sour in their throat when his attention shifted away. Didn’t notice every time a girl touched him like she had a right to.

But you did.

Of course you did.

You were thirteen, trapped in a body that felt like it belonged to everyone else’s opinions. You were smart enough to understand what you couldn’t have and young enough to still believe it might kill you anyway.

And Bucky – whether he realized it or not – made it worse and better at the same time.

Because even as he discovered girls and parties and new versions of himself, he still watched you.

Still tracked the boys who looked at you too long.

Still stepped between you and the world without thinking.

There were boys who asked you out sophomore year.

Not many.

But a few brave ones.

The first time it happened, you were at your locker, pulling out your history book, when a boy – tall, awkward, painfully earnest – cleared his throat behind you.

“Hey,” he said. “Um. Would you maybe want to go to the movies sometime? With me?”

You turned slowly, surprised enough that you forgot to hide it.

He smiled hopefully.

You opened your mouth– 

And Bucky appeared like a curse.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, voice sharp.

The boy straightened, startled. “Nothing. I was just asking her–”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “She’s my sister.”

The boy blinked. “Okay? I wasn’t–”

Bucky stepped closer. “She’s my sister,” he repeated, slower this time, like the boy was stupid.

The boy’s face flushed. “I… didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do,” Bucky said flatly. “So you can stop.”

The boy swallowed, glanced at you – apologetic, embarrassed, confused – then backed away and disappeared into the crowd.

You stood there, history book in your hands, throat tight.

Bucky turned to you, frowning like he expected you to be grateful.

“You don’t know him,” he said.

“I could have,” you replied before you could stop yourself.

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“I could have,” you repeated, voice quiet but steady. “That’s how getting to know people works.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “You don’t need to go out with some idiot from school.”

You stared at him.

You wanted to say, I don’t need you to decide that.

You wanted to say, I’m not yours.

But the words tangled up with something else, something softer and uglier:

Please don’t stop hovering. Please don’t step away. Please don’t leave me alone with the world.

So you swallowed it.

You did what you always did.

You made it smaller.

“Okay,” you said.

Bucky’s shoulders loosened slightly, as if the tension had been about protecting you, not controlling you.

He bumped your shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.”

And you walked with him down the hallway like you weren’t carrying a bruise inside your chest.

High school rolled on like that.

Two years of watching everyone else begin their lives.

Two years of pain once a month that reminded you your body was changing whether you liked it or not.

Two years of Wanda growing fiercer, Pietro growing more certain, Steve growing quieter and kinder, Bucky growing louder and more wanted by everyone - 

And you, caught in the middle, trying to convince yourself that you were fine.

Trying to convince yourself that being the youngest didn’t mean being the most breakable.

Trying to ignore the truth that sat under everything, waiting for the day it would become impossible to pretend: Bucky was learning how to want people.

And you didn’t know what you were going to do when he finally figured out what he wanted most.

GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier | @alpinebarnesworld | @alwaysreenie | @iceyyycapsicle | @karlahan

BUCKY taglist: @metal-armed-muse | @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30 | @peachiestevie | @evilplansandstuff

“It’s a trap!” Tony yelled the moment he saw the man standing in front of him. “Everybody out now.” He screamed through his comms.

He lifted his arm, pointing his hand toward the man. He shoot him with his blaster. The man fell down in a second as Tony raised himself in the air with the armour.

Too damn easy, he thought.

He heard some noise, people fighting and guns shooting.

He first saw Natasha, coming out from a metal door. Her face dirty and blood all over it. She gave him a look that said “it’s not mine”.

After some minutes, Sam with Steve and Y/N reappeared.

“Where’s Bucky?” Y/N asked immediately.

“Wasn’t he with you guys?” Tony replied, pointing at Captain America and Falcon.

They both shook their head.

Panic began to flow in her face when even Natasha didn’t know where Bucky was.

The billionaire flew down, feet on the ground, looking at Y/N.

He had always seen her as a daughter and knowing Bucky was her first official and real relationship, he panicked too but trying to keep his facade just for her.

“Okay kid, don’t worry…” he said calmly. “He’s somewhere here.”

“Where Tony? I don’t see him here!” Y/N yelled back. “I’m sorry…” she whispered almost immediately. “It’s not your fault Tony…”

Tony moved closer and engulfed her in a metal hug.

Around them Steve, Sam and Nat began to think.

Bucky was of course with them on the jet, precisely near Y/N with his arm on her shoulder, keeping her close. It was their own ritual before any mission. They sat together, his arm protecting her for absolutely no reason and her giving him little kisses on his cheek.

He was with then on the ground where they landed looking for the threat but then nowhere to be found after that.

“We should split,” Tony suggested. “I’m going north flying over the facility,” he pointed his finger toward the sky. “Nat will take the south sector,” he looked toward Nat, who nodded. “Steve and Sam you’re gonna be with Y/N. She has to download all the files and you’re gonna cover her.”

Both men nodded looking at Tony.

“Barnes,” he turned toward Bucky. “You knew this place?”

Bucky nodded looking down.

“Check the perimeter.”

He nodded again.

“Let’s do this.” Tony said clapping his hand flying high in the sky.

Nat slid out of sight like a cat, Sam and Steve patiently wait for Bucky to kiss Y/N.

They both smile seeing their friend so in love.

“Doll, be careful.”

“You too soldier.”

“Tony,” Y/N began to sob.

“No no no,” he rested his hand on her shoulder. “We’re not doing this.”

“But-“

“I said no. He’s here and we’re gonna find him and have a party all together at the tower.” He said, catching a tear on her face.

Minutes passed and panic began to build in all of the Avengers.

They all rose their head when they heard some noise. Heavy footsteps were approaching. They all stood up in a second.

Tony rose himself in the air. Steve lifted his shield. Sam and Nat swinged their fists in the air. Y/N’s hands immediately on the gun.

“Wait,” she yelled happily. “It’s Bucky! I saw his metal arm-“ words got stuck in your throat as pain was the only thing you felt.

Falling on the ground, she grabbed her shoulder and saw blood all over her hand.

Bucky shot her.

“That’s not Bucky,” Steve yelled.

“That’s the fucking Winter Soldier.” Tony shouted.

They all put themselves between her body on the ground and Bucky.

He kept walking toward her. His eyes never leaving her figure.

She tried to stand but the bullet inside her arm stung so bad.

Natasha threw herself on Bucky, trying to climb onto him but failed. Steve hit him with his shield, but the metal arm was stronger. Sam tried to fly up in the air but Bucky’s hand grabbed him by his ankle throwing him on the ground.

Tony was the only one still standing. He threw a look over Y/N’s body and then at the very angry Winter Soldier in front of him.

He blasted him, right in the middle of his chest.

Bucky barely moved.

“Damn it,” he whispered shout. “He’s stronger now!”

In a rush of adrenaline, Tony flew higher in the sky. Pointing his arm toward Bucky, he shot him a tranquilliser in his neck from his arm.

Bucky felt on his knees, gripping the gun and then facing down on the soil.

“Bucky!” Y/N yelled still fighting with the pain.

“Stay away!” Steve said, once he saw Y/N moving. “He’s not Bucky.”

“He is to me,” Y/N said crashing onto Steve.

Captain America looked down at her. Her tiny and defeated body against his muscular one.

He hated seeing her like this and hated more seeing his best friend lying down unconscious on the ground. “He’s gonna be alright… but we need to take him back to the tower. Alright?”

Y/N nodded sobbing.

At the tower, Steve and Sam brought Bucky’s still unconscious body in a cell.

“I hate doing this pal,” Steve whispered to his best friend. “But it’s for the best…”

“He’s gonna be okay, cap.” Sam promised.

Into another floor, Y/N began to fight everyone.

Nat tried to hold her down, something usually easy for her but her needs to be with Bucky was stronger.

“Y/N damn it! You need to calm down.”

“I NEED TO SEE HIM. WHERE IS HE?”

“Kid-“ Tony tried to explain. He held the rubbing alcohol and cloth in his hand, trying to calm her. “I need to wash and disinfect your shoulder.”

“SHUT UP! I WANNA SEE HIM.”

Y/N really fought hard, maybe too hard. Her shoulder began to shake and stung. Her yelling was heard even outside.

“Y/N,” Steve yelled entering. “HE’S LOCKED IN A CELL, SLEEPING. ONCE YOU’RE OKAY I’LL LET YOU SEE HIM. NOW SHUT UP AND LET US HELP YOU.” Steve’s tone made her cry but she laid on the table. “Thank you.” He said kindly.

Y/N closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Is he okay?”

No one spoke.

“Cap?” She asked again, opening her eyes.

She saw tears stains on Steve’s face.

“I don’t know… he was him again…”

Once Tony finished extracting the bullet and disinfecting the shoulder, he took a laser he created. After he finished, Y/N stood up.

“I’m gonna see him.” She didn’t asked, she told them.

“I don’t think-“ Tony began to argue.

She had already left the room.

In the lift, going down to the cell floor, she began to fiddle with her bracelet. It was a slim silver chain, with a small “B” as pendant.

Once the door opened, she remained in the elevator for a second staring the metal door. She took a deep breath and got in.

Concrete floor and wall, some dark cell except for the last one. She walked toward the occupied one.

She saw Bucky, her Bucky, lying on the floor. His chest moved up and down calmly. As he perceived her presence, he jolted up. He stared at her. His big blue sparkly eyes gone.

He stood there, she stood outside with just a glass dividing them.

Steve was right, that wasn’t Bucky. That was the Winter Soldier.

“Buck-“ she began talking, resting her hand on the glass in a mere way of letting him know she was there. She let him see the pendant on her wrist.

Bucky glared at her, she saw his lips twitching. She thought he was about to rest his palm on the glass too, but she was wrong.

Bucky began punching the glass with his metal hand.

Heavy punches on the glass made it trembling.

For the first time, she was scared of him. She rationally knew that wasn’t his Bucky, but she also knew that in that moment Bucky was hide in that mix of anger.

“Bucky please stop,” she cried, sliding away from the glass. “Bucky it’s me. I’m your girlfriend. It’s Y/N… your Y/N…”

“Who the hell is Bucky?” He grunted keeping punching the glass.

His smile, one of the things she loved most about him, made her blood boil. It was angry and evil and scaring.

He glared at her while she tried to talk to him.

“Bucky please stop… you have to fight it…”

He didn’t stop.

Panic really started when she noticed a crack in the glass. She lost balance trying to escape.

Her shoulder began to sting again but it was nothing like the panic when she heard the glass breaking.

Bucky’s fists were able to break the glass.

She was now alone.

Alone with the Winter Soldier.

Bucky’s breath was hitched and frantic. His eyes darker than ever. His fist closed, ready to fight. It was almost as he didn’t see her lying there, near his feet.

The bandage Tony applied on her arm, blocked her movements.

She spent the first months of relationship trying to calm Bucky when the Winter Soldier topic came out, but now she was alone with the most dangerous assassin on the planet.

She stood up and stared at him.

“Bucky you know me,” she pleaded.

“You’re my enemy.”

His words made you angry.

As he launched toward her in front of her, she slid on the other side. She hated how well she knew what he was going to do. He explained it to her one night, in their bed.

“I don’t always remember… but they always told me to move directly in front of my victim…”

In that moment she was his victim.

She knew damn well she wasn’t able to fight him alone because he was already stronger than her and, seeing how he easily broke the glass, she thought he was under some other type of serum.

He moved like a shadow, she tried to do the same. Moving with an arm attached to her body was impossible. She was a trained Avenger but he was the love of her life and that made her weak.

He grabbed her and pushed her down on the floor straddling her waist, then he lifted his flesh arm closing his fist. She rolled over just in time, but her legs were still under him. He caged her better and moved her upper body, sliding it on the ground. Her shoulder really hurt and some tears escaped from her eyes.

“You fucking know me Bucky!” She yelled. “Fucking fight it!”

“I don’t know shit.”

In a rush of fortune, she punched his chin. He rolled his eyes but he didn’t move remaining on her body, crushing her.

She lifted his knees kicking him in his crotch. He bent down a little, the tip of his nose touching hers. She felt his weight on her. He groaned as he stood with his upper body again.

Anger and tired of fighting, she caught a glimpse she didn’t like in his eyes. He moved his metal arm like it’s weighted nothing and crushed it on her neck. She felt her breath leaving her body.

His hand pressed more and her face began to shake.

“Buc-“

“Shut up!”

He pressed his thighs more on her, caging her on the floor. His flesh hand kept her arm up on her head while his metal one held her neck. She felt the air leaving her body as the time goes by.

“Y/N!”

Steve’s voice echoed in the room.

Bucky, visibly annoyed by Steve’s voice, removed his hand from her neck and stood up, ready to fight. A shot of air in her throat, breathing now properly. She remained on the floor, as the breath progressively came back.

Steve, followed by Sam and Nat and Tony, immediately launched themself on Bucky.

Nat hit him with an electric shock before kicking him in the shin. Bucky knelt on the floor while Steve and Sam fought to keep him still. Tony, running toward him, attached in his arm a little metal coin. After pushing some buttons in his tablet, Bucky was pulled down again on the floor.

“This disabled his arm… but it’s not permanently,” he looked at her still on the floor, now sitting. She nodded toward Tony.

“Thanks.” He said before completely detaching his arm from his body.

Bucky’s eyes opened shocked.

In those few seconds of calm, Tony shoot him again with another tranquilliser, a tougher one.

The Winter Soldier felt on the floor.

“Let’s leave him here,” Tony said. “He can’t escape the metal door.” He added, pointing at the door.

Everyone gathered around Y/N. She stood, touching her neck feeling Bucky’s hand still on her skin.

“Y/N,” Sam started.

She remained silent, watching Bucky lying on the floor unconscious.

She spent the remaining day in her room, as she didn’t want to get back in her and Bucky’s room.

A knock on her door, around eleven o’clock woke her from his thinking.

“Come in.”

“Hey,” Steve said entering.

“If he’s awake… I don’t want to see him Steve.”

Bucky was indeed awake.

He woke up on the floor, without his left arm. His head banging and his muscles completely sore. A fog in his mind except for one thing.

The absolute horror in her eyes.

The horror he caused.

He knelt on the floor, heavy breath and tears free on his face. He took a look around himself noticing all the cells. His eyes locked on a cell without the glass. Thousand of shattered glass around him, cracking under his knees.

He didn’t remember precisely what he did but he remembered who he attacked.

He heard a bip in the silence of the cells room.

After a couple of minutes the massive metal door opened and Tony, followed by Steve, appeared in front of him.

“Which Bucky am I talking to?” Steve asked.

“Your mom’s name was Sarah…” he looked down replying to his best friend. “What did I do?”

“What you fear the most… he attacked Y/N…”

Steve proceeded to explain everything the Winter Soldier did. He refused to say “you did that” choosing to say “he did that”.

“Pal,” Bucky whispered standing up, shaking from the last traces of the tranquilliser. “I did those things… you don’t need to sugar coating…”

“Right,” Steve said. “We found you getting toward us after the mission but…”

“But it wasn’t me… it was him.”

Tony circled him, he was angry but now with Bucky or at least not fully with Bucky.

He saw how he was avoiding his eyes. Bucky had always knew how much Y/N meant to Tony.

“Stop this bullshit, Barnes,” Tony said as he checked Bucky’s head. “It wasn’t your fault. So you can fucking look me in the eyes.”

“I attacked her… I can’t look at anyone right now… I don’t deserve any of your help.”

Steve finished telling her what Bucky told them in the cell room.

“I know if you don’t want to see him but you shouldn’t give up on him…”

“Do you think I’m giving up on him?” She yelled. “Do you think I’m giving up on bringing back the old Bucky? My boyfriend? The man I love?”

“You didn’t want to see him…”

She stood from her bed but immediately sat back. With her head in her hands, she began crying. “I’m scared Steve…scared for him,” she took a deep breath. “I know what he can do and… I know for a fact that Bucky would never forgive himself…”

Steve’s eyes changed immediately. In that moment he knew for sure she was the right woman for Bucky. She insisted of seeing him right after he shot her, she was with him in the cell and now she was worried about Bucky’s safety first before hers.

“Y/N,” Steve sat in the bed. “I’ve know Bucky since we were kids and I know Bucky suffered a lot but you… you are the only one who handle him… hell I don’t even know if I can’t handle him the way you did,” he stopped and a tear fell from his eye. “He needs you and you need him. I know you’re scared for him and I know he’ll try to avoid you but please… keep him safe.”

She hugged him tightly, crying on his shoulder.

“I wanna see him.”

They both got down to the med floor.

Bucky rested on the bed, an IV in his flesh arm to rehydrate him. Just outside his room Tony, with Sam and Nat, all turned hearing the elevator’s door opening.

Y/N and Steve, visibly still shocked, appeared.

“Is he okay?” She asked Tony.

“He is. Some fluids and his body already washed out the serum.” Tony looked at Y/N’s neck. She covered it with her hand. “You were right, Cap. He had a newer version of the serum through his veins.”

Y/N stared at the door separating them from Bucky. “Can you all leave please? I wanna be with Bucky alone.”

Everyone nodded.

Once she was alone in the corridor, she grabbed the knob and turned it.

The door opened and she entered in the room. First thing she saw was her boyfriend in the bed. He made Tony lowered the curtain, so the room was in a dim light. Once she got near him, he turned quickly his head. She looked down and saw something that made her cry.

Bucky didn’t have his left arm attached to his body. A quick scan in the room and she noticed it on the ground, near the bed.

“Bucky,”

“Don’t… I don’t want that thing ever again.” He said looking at the window.

“Look at me, Buck.” She pleaded him.

“Don’t do this to me. I can’t even imagine what you felt down there… why are you here?”

“Because my boyfriend is here,” she moved toward the bed. “Look at me…please…”

Bucky turned his head. His eyes red and puffy, his lower lips bleeding and his face pale. His eyes back at their colour, but it wasn’t the usually sparky nuance. It was a sad tone of blue, reflecting what he was feeling. His look immediately changed when he saw the handprint, his handprint, on her skin.

“I did that…”

“No you didn’t. He did it, not you.”

“Damn it Y/N… it’s the same thing…”

Bucky’s voice was low, a whisper barely coming out of his mouth. He sat on the bed, removing his IV from his arm.

“What are you doing?” She exclaimed, grabbing his shoulder as he sat too quickly. “Your body needs rest. Stay there.”

“I need to go far away from here,”

“From me? That’s what you meant? Away from me?” She said, pointing his feet on the ground in front of him.

He sat on the edge of the bed. His shirt off, showing bruises and cut. He still didn’t fully looked at her in her eyes, he couldn’t.

He tried to stand and fell on the ground.

She moved quickly to grab him by his flesh arm.

“Don’t touch me.” He yelled crying as human representation of a caged animals.

Bucky felt in a kinda of way like a caged animal.

He spent 70 years locked and used as a weapon, and now he felt like a weapon again seeing the mark on her skin.

She slid away of him, just a bit only to give him some space.

He remained on the floor, crying and sobbing.

“It’s pathetic I know,” he cried.

“It’s not Buck, please let me help you.”

She reached for his flesh arm, he let her do it. Pushing on his feet, he stood and sat back on the bed.

He looked down. She moved toward him and guided his head toward her chest. He rested his forehead on her skin.

She lifted her arm, circling his neck and playing with some locks on his head. Kissing his head, he let out a long and deep breath.

“How could you still want me?” He asked in a whisper.

“Because I love you Bucky Barnes. That’s why.”

That was the first time she said those three words to him. He took a deep breath and began to tremble.

“I love you so much doll. It consumes me and made me happy… so much happy,” he began to hiccup. “I want to be with you but… I don’t know if I can be with you after what I did…”

“You did nothing wrong,” she held his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. It was the first time he looked at her, really looked. Her eyes were red and puffy like his. Her lower lips trembled a little. She was beautiful.

“That man,” she kissed his lips loving and tenderly. “He wasn’t my boyfriend. He wasn’t the man I love. He was the beast someone created.”

She kissed him more, he crumbled against her. “My boyfriend is the sweetest and kindest man on the planet. He’s brave and honest and gentle. He’s always putting everyone else’s needs in front of his own. He’s treating me like the most important person in the world,”

“It’s because you are…” he delicately interrupted her.

“He looks at me like I hung the moon and stars. He knows me better than anyone else and I know for sure he’d be fighting with his own life for me. That’s my boyfriend and I love him.”

Bucky now was actually crying. Y/N felt her shirt getting wet but she held him there, on her chest letting him hear her heartbeat.

“Stay there,” she kissed him another time.

She circled the bed, getting the arm thrown on the floor.

“Doll,”

“Shut up Buck.”

He snorted for a second.

Once she was again in front of him, she lifted the heavy arm and attached it back on his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Now you’re complete.” She said as she pulled both of his arm around her waist.

“Tell me everything I,” he looked at her and she crocked her eyebrow. “Tell me everything he did…”

“He shot me after the mission and you already know what he did in the cell.”

“Can I see?”

She nodded.

Detaching herself from him arms, she lifted her shirt remaining with only her bra. On her shoulder there was a patch. She removed it and noticed that the skin was already healing due to a special surgical laser Tony used on you.

He moved closer, with his arm on her back, pulling her against him. He kissed the skin once then another time and again. She rested her chin on his head while he kept kissing her shoulder. His lips moved upward, on her neck. He traced first the handprint and then nipped gently against her.

“Buck,”

“Please I need it.”

“Okay.”

He kept kissing her skin, like his kisses could heal her faster and in a weird way they did.

His hands grabbed her by her thighs, lifting and pulling her on his lap. He groaned a little and she got worried.

“Buck probably it’s not the best time…”

“It’s always the best time if it’s with you on my lap.”

They stayed there, crushing against each other. His skin against his and their heartbeat beating together.

“I love you so much doll,”

“I love you too, Buck. Always and forever. I trust you.”

He cried more on her chest and she let him do it.

She never looked him differently.

He was her world and she kept protecting him from everyone.

Even from himself.

The training was nonstop for hours. If you didn’t do anything HYDRA told you to do, you would suffer the consequences. You have a couple times. Ever since you suffered the consequences those couple of times, you knew to keep your mouth shut from then on out. You kept all of your emotions bottled up inside of you. No one noticed it, except one of them. The Winter Soldier. He immediately noticed that you had your emotions packed in so deep that you’re going to break any time.

One day, you and the other soldiers were in what looks like a training room, but bigger and more spacious. All of the soldiers sat on the bench, waiting for their turn to fight the Winter Soldier in a training kind of way. HYDRA likes to call it a training test to see how well you and the other soldiers are trained. After all of the soldiers went through with their training test, it was your turn.

“You’re up.” Your handler says, motioning for you to come over to the Winter Soldier.

You nodded and stood up, walking over to the Winter Soldier. He nods at you as a way of saying hi. You nodded back.

“Let’s see how much of your training has paid off.” Your handler says.

You quietly took a deep breath before starting your training test. Both of you got into fighting positions. The Winter Soldier made the first move, throwing a punch at you. He would never intentionally hurt you in any way. He just wanted to make it look real. You did the same thing. HYDRA didn’t even notice that’s what the two of you were doing. He went easy on you compared to the other soldiers. HYDRA didn’t notice that either. Towards the end of your training test, you used all of your strength to tackle him to the floor and then put him in a headlock. You didn’t full on choke him. You just made it look real enough for HYDRA to believe, in which they did. The Winter Soldier taps on your arm to make it look like he was tapping out. Then the two of you stood up, facing your handler to see what he had to say about the training you’ve received so far.

“Excellent, soldier. Keep that up and you’ll be going on missions with Soldat in no time.” Your handler says.

You nodded at your handler. You looked at the Winter Soldier, nodding at him as well. That’s when he caught a glimpse of your eyes. Like he actually looked deep into your eyes. He looked into your eyes long enough to know that you need someone to be there for you and he’s going to be that person for you. From that day on, both of you were there for each other. Little did you two know, that there was love in the midst of all of it, but neither of you knew it was love at the time.

YEARS LATER…

You and Bucky have been free of HYDRA for almost a few years now. After everything that went down between Steve and Tony, you and Bucky have decided that it’s best that you two go to Wakanda for a while. You nervous about it at first, but Bucky assured you that everything is going to be fine and he’s going to be right there with you through every step of the way. He didn’t leave your side no matter what. Then the fight with Thanos came, which took Bucky away from you. Your heart shattered into millions of pieces when you witnessed the love of your life dust away. Steve knew that Bucky would want him to take care of you if anything were ever to happen to him and that’s what he exactly did. He took care of you for those five years.

You swore to yourself that you would never fight again, but then there was the fight against Thanos. You only fought to get Bucky back. That’s the only reason why you fought. Bucky would do the same thing for you. You fought with all of your might and looked for Bucky in the process. You almost began to panic when you couldn’t find him, but then you heard his voice. You lowered your weapon and looked around for him. You didn’t see him until you turned around. You felt relief wash over you when you saw him. You ran over to him and jumped into his arms, hugging him tightly. Sobs of relief left your lips.

“Hey, hey. Don’t cry.” Bucky says softly.

“I can’t help it. I missed you.” You cried.

“I missed you too, doll.” He says softly.

Bucky gently puts you back on your feet and gazes deeply in your eyes, caressing your cheeks.

“What do you say to us leaving the fight behind and settling down after this?” Bucky asks softly.

“I would love nothing more.” You say and smiled.

“Me too.” He smiles.

Bucky kisses you softly and passionately. Then he wiped your tears away.

“Let’s finish this.” Bucky says.

You smiled and went back to fighting alongside the love of your life.

———

You and Bucky stuck to yours and his words since that day. You and Bucky left all of the fighting behind and settled down. You two bought a house together, got married, and have a beautiful daughter. You two have a second baby on the way as well.

At the moment, you’re watching Bucky play with yours and his daughter in the backyard. Hearing yours and his daughter laugh and seeing both of them running around and playing made you smile. You love everything about it. Bucky and yours and his daughter saw you and walked over to you. Bucky gave you a kiss before sitting down next to you. Yours and his daughter sat down on the ground and played with a few of her toys.

“How’s our other little one doing?” Bucky asks, gently putting his right hand on your pregnant belly.

“He or she is doing very well and moving a lot.” You say.

“I think we’re going to have another girl. What do you think?” He asks.

“I’m fine with either. I just want the baby to be healthy.” You say, putting your hand on top of his.

“Me too.” He smiles.

Bucky leans over and kisses you again. Yours two smiled against each other’s lips.

“I’m so glad that we left the fight behind.” Bucky says.

“Me too.” You agreed.

“I love the three of you so much.” He says softly.

“We love you too, baby.” You smiled.

Leaving the fight behind and settling down is the best decision you and Bucky have ever made. You two couldn’t be happier. You two wouldn’t change it for the world either. You two are happy where you guys are now and wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

"Well, now you both have confessed your feelings while you were drunk. What else do you need?"

"Balls." Natasha chimed in while she walked from the entrance.

"You told her?" Bucky scolded.

"I'm thinking about asking F.R.I.D.A.Y for yesterday's recordings to be sent to me." Sam teased.

The rest of the training was a disaster; Bucky was not even paying full attention to them. His mind kept repeating your last words.

'I hope sober Jamie could keep this…'

One Saturday morning, you were walking through the local supermarket. It was already a routine for Bucky to follow behind with the cart in his hands while you looked for what you needed.

"You need..."

He lowered his cell phone to look at you as you were browsing another product.

"Do you really need four pounds of flour?" Bucky read the list you had sent him via text.

"Steve and Sam asked me for cookies, so I need more than my usual amount."

Bucky shook his head as he threw the bags of flour into the cart.

"You know you can say no to them, right?" he said, reading the list as he tossed more items into the cart.

"I don't mind baking for them, Jamie."

"So you'll be cooking all day today?"

He wanted to sound casual; he really tried, but a hint of disappointment could be heard in his tone.

"Of course not, you promised we'd go for a walk in the park tonight. I'll bake a little, and then we'll go for a walk in the evening."

You were walking through the supermarket floors, lurking around, checking on things, while Bucky was a few steps behind. He knew how much you enjoyed this type of moment on your own. Even when you had almost begged him to go with you, he wanted to give you your own space.

Or that was the plan until he saw a man approaching you. You were still focused on reading something when you felt his heat near you.

“That’s a good brand,” he said, taking a bottle that was nearer to you. Bucky noticed the way you furrowed.

“Oh, yeah. It’s good.” You mumbled and went back to check the information printed on the bottle.

Bucky was giving you enough space to decide what you wanted to do, but he was willing to come forward if he saw you needed it.

He was just leaning on the cart, staring at you two.

“So, are you baking for a special event?”

“Oh no—” you looked at him. Still partially oblivious to his flirting tone, “It’s for some friends.”

You were about to smile at him when you noticed the way his body was leaning over you more than necessary—then you finally noticed how Bucky was furrowing stressed on the other side of the floor.

“I guess I have to get going,” You finally said, taking a step back.

“Why? I think we are having a pretty neat conversation.”

“My friend is waiting for me.” When his eyes finally met Bucky, he just stepped back, lifting his hands.

Bucky didn’t want to admit it. But knowing that his mere presence was enough to shush the creeps away made him feel great.

“And here I was thinking I was going to need to interfere.”

“I think I handle it very well,” He smiled at you.

He loved the idea of you feeling secure on your own—even if it was a partial lie.

You both arrived home, and as promised, you baked for a couple of hours while Bucky helped you clean up the mess you were leaving in the kitchen until the sun began to set.

"How about I get changed and we get ready to go out?" you said as you took off your apron.

He nodded as he finished putting away the rest of the things you had left in the kitchen.

His palms rested a second on the kitchen counter when he noticed you had disappeared from view. He couldn't stop thinking about that hug on his birthday; he couldn't stop thinking about your partially parted lips inviting him to kiss you. He could not even get himself to stop thinking about the way you almost pleaded for him to continue flirting.

You came out of the room, grinning, announcing that you were ready to go.

As you walked through the park with the streetlights illuminating your way, Bucky realized that walking hand in hand was now part of the nature of you two, something almost primal.

"Jamie?" You asked, interrupting Bucky's thoughts.

"Mhmh..." That sound was enough for you to continue with the question.

"I know it's a silly question, but... Do you miss anything about the forties?"

Bucky tilted his head, trying to understand the question.

"I mean, everyday things. I know you must miss your family, your friends—don't you miss... Some sort of normality that no longer exists?"

"Things were simpler before, but nowadays they're more... practical."

A long sigh escaped his lips.

"Life was simple in my neighborhood; we were the same people for years. I was never worried about someone not understanding why we did anything—"

He closed his lips to think for a moment.

"Would you like to get to know a little about the neighborhood where I grew up?"

He asked shyly. You stopped, and Bucky was sure you were about to cry solely just with the question lingering there.

"Would you really show it to me?"

He nodded. “We could—Uh, go to a surprise place tomorrow.”

You nodded quickly, excitement evident in your every movement.

Three times.

You had already changed your hairstyle three times and still didn't feel ready.

The truth was that you hadn't slept much after Bucky dropped you off at your place, promising to pick you up at ten o'clock sharp to take the car and head to Brooklyn.

The morning wasn't any better. You woke up at seven a.m., your body making it clear that it couldn't stand another minute in bed.

That invitation felt like meeting his mother for the first time—even when it was something impossible—it felt that intimate. And you wanted to be sure you looked—and felt—good for that moment.

You couldn't believe you’d see for the first time the place where that boy, that man, had walked for years before everything changed.

A knock on the door pulled you out of your thoughts.

You took a deep breath, trying to relax your chest and ease your anxiety.

When you opened the door, your legs felt weak. Bucky was wearing a light blue sweater, the most colorful thing you had seen him wear in a year, with a white shirt that showed off every muscle underneath. You swallowed hard.

"Ready?" he asked, unaware of the effect he had had on you.

The drive to Brooklyn was quiet. The silence wasn't uncomfortable; you were both gathering your thoughts before reaching the destination.

The first stop was a museum.

"And you have your own place in the museum?"

He laughed.

"They tried, but I refused."

You opened your mouth in surprise.

"My thoughts are still conflicted. I can't accept an entire room dedicated to me when I still don't feel worthy of it."

"At least now you know that the rest of the world is starting to see you as you deserve."

When you left the museum, you came across a large park. Bucky took your hand with a certain pride, as if he wanted all of Brooklyn to notice that you were walking hand in hand—and that was exactly what he wanted. Somehow, Brooklyn felt like home again with you in his hand. The same streets that saw him holding hands with girls—who were probably not even alive anymore—were now witnesses to him accepting a piece of heaven given to him.

As you crossed the park, you noticed that the scenery was becoming more domestic, big buildings now being replaced with small neighborhoods. You began to see brick houses, shops, and people who didn't seem to be in any hurry at all.

"Welcome to the street where I grew up," Bucky finally announced.

Your heart skipped a beat.

"A friend of my father's used to work in that store. They used to sell tools."

He pointed to a business, currently available for rent.

"That building didn't even exist when I lived here."

He said, walking and pointing his chin at another building.

You nodded repeatedly as Bucky continued to give information about random buildings.

You stopped in an alleyway.

"And here—I told Steve that I had been assigned to the 107th Infantry Regiment."

You felt Bucky's grip tighten slightly on your hand. You hid the groan of pain that wanted to escape your lips. He didn't remember most of this, but over the years, Steve had helped him bring back memories, and, step by step, he now had memories back on his own.

"They were beating him up." He scoffed a laugh. "As usual."

"It's impossible for me to see Steve as someone weak, as someone easy to beat up." You admitted, moving your body a little closer to Bucky's. Leaning on him to rest a bit.

"That man loved to get into trouble. He always had me there to defend him. But he was not weak; he was stubborn, idiotic, and frankly braver than most of the men I saw in war."

Bucky let go of your hand only to cover your shoulders with his arm. He caressed your arm gently; a way to ground himself.

"Had you been back here before?" You asked, wrapping your arms around his waist. He moved both your bodies to lean against a wall. His back on the bricks, your shoulder brushing his chest, resting on him.

You admired that alley as if it were a work of art.

"Steve brought me back once or twice. He always tried to make me remember things, and somehow coming back helped a lot. But never had the guts to come back alone—till recently."

Bucky's eyes looked down at you slightly, smiling warmly. He was hoping you would get the hint.

You looked up from the alleyway. Bucky was still staring at you. You moved a little closer, just enough for him to notice. His free hand began to circle your waist, causing you to turn your entire body towards him.

Bucky leaned in a little closer. You didn't pull away, and he closed his eyes, almost praying to God that this wasn't a dream.

Before you could react, your lips met, and your chests began to synchronize as your lips moved slowly, asking for permission and granting it at the same time. Still on your toes, hands hugging his waist, and his flesh hand holding you tight.

Although the noise around you remained loud, you felt as if the whole world had stopped, that nothing and no one mattered at that moment more than your lips gently colliding. You were melting on his arms, that was sure, you couldn't even comprehend how your toes were still resisting the torturous feeling.

Bucky slowly caressed your waist, his metal hand still orbiting the other side of your waist, as if he wasn't sure yet if he wanted that part of his body to be part of the moment.

When you began to run out of air, you created distance by a few inches, your foreheads still connected, breaths still in sync.

"Are you okay?" he asked, raising his hand to trace your flushed cheek.

"Better than ever."

He smiled, still holding your face.

"Do you want to continue?" He nodded without letting go of your body. His flesh hand relaxed on your waist before deciding on any movement.

You took a few seconds before continuing on your way. At one point, Bucky stopped in front of an apartment building. It was made of brick that had once been red, windows stained by pollution, fire escapes that looked more like a hazard. He stared at it for what seemed an eternity.

"Well, we used to live there." He pointed to a window on the second floor.

The silence was heavy. You turned to look at him, Bucky's gaze laden with memories, unspoken pain, words left unsaid for decades.

"Do you know who owns it now?"

He nodded.

"It belongs to Rebecca's great-grandson."

"At least it's still in your family."

He smiled and nodded.

"Thanks for showing me this side of you, Jamie."

"Thanks for coming with me."

You couldn't stop thinking about that first kiss. The way you moved around Bucky became clumsy and overthought. You felt that Bucky could backtrack on everything you had achieved if he felt cornered.

Meanwhile, he continued with the routine that you had brought into his life. Seeing you at the end of his days, staying in each other's apartments until the wee hours just to say goodbye, maybe seeing each other the next day, maybe not. He was still there. Not showing any kind of remorse—not even a change in demeanor. Like it had meant nothing to him. Like it hadn't changed anything.

You were in Bucky's living room while he wiped his arm with a cloth.

"Jamie, could you pick me up tomorrow at the center? I think I'll be out late, I understand if you're busy and can't..." You said quickly, about to start rambling.

"Can you text me when you're about to finish so I can be there before you get out?" He looked up at you.

"Sure."

He smiled at you, that smile that reminded you that there was nothing wrong.

However, you felt that everything was wrong, that he was acting so calmly after the kiss, as if it hadn't happened, as if it hadn't been a turning point for either of you.

Raynor's sessions were somehow lighter now. Bucky noticed it, too. Even if he didn't want to admit it. He had been disclosing more and more personal information, showing a side of himself that he never thought he would be able to do.

"Any other thing you would like to add to today's session, James?"

"It's not even relevant, but I guess I should say it."

She nodded, "What is it?"

"I—took her to Brooklyn some weeks ago." He muffled.

"Good to know, James. How do you feel about it?"

"I guess, nice. She—" He sighed, "She liked it."

"And you?"

"I liked it too."

"James, as we stated in your first sessions, everything said in these sessions goes directly to your record, and I'm required to ask the next."

Bucky nodded, his jaw clenched.

"It is important for me to know the length of this relationship because it is completely related to your progress. What kind of relationship do you have with her?"

"I—" And for the first time, he stuttered, "We are just friends."

"From what I've been hearing, she has become someone important in your life. Is that correct?"

She continued, Bucky's jaw was still clenched.

The memory of the kiss in Brooklyn, the drunk kiss you gave him, the way he tried to flirt with you when he was drunk, lingered on his mind, betraying him.

"If I say yes, would this be added too?"

"That's correct. I'll need to add to my notes that she is now part of your support system; in consequence, it will be added to your record."

"I don't think I have a say on it, do I?"

The weight of Raynor’s words was still heavy on Bucky’s shoulders.

What did this mean now?

He was sure about his feelings for you. There was no question about it.

The real question was whether he was ready to let himself go and feel everything—and act on it.

His mind was still racing from Brooklyn, his birthday party, and what Raynor had informed.

This was no longer a simple friendship, and it was Bucky’s moment to accept it.

He was pondering his options—taking a moment to clear up his mind. He didn’t want to fully disappear. Maybe on small things, but things he knew you would notice immediately if you paid attention.

He was about to step aside at least until he had resolved what he was about to do, until he saw you. Something casual. It was not even intentional.

You were talking with a neighbor. Someone, for sure, your age. You were giggling and listening to something he was telling you.

Nothing flirtatious. Just you being you.

And Brendan’s flashbacks came to his mind.

He never really asked the extent of your relationship with Brendan—he was not the jealous type. He didn’t really think about it at the moment.

He stared at you. He knew he had been slightly distant, not that you really cared. You knew it was never intentional, but he also knew he couldn’t be the only one who saw how beautiful, attentive, and kind you were. And he was not going to leave the door open for anyone else.

A couple of days later, you were braiding Lola's hair on the floor of her apartment while a movie played on the television. You recounted everything that had happened since Bucky's birthday, small details, smiles that only you could notice, the park at night, and finally... Brooklyn.

"We kissed for the first time like a couple of teenagers, in an alley! As if we were hiding from someone."

You snorted with laughter.

"And now he acts as if nothing happened, Lola."

"For the first time..." Lola repeated, analyzing the words.

You gently moved Lola's hair to look at her.

"I'm sorry it took me so long! It's not my..."

You were about to launch into a tirade when you noticed Lola staring with confusion.

"What?"

"Why do you call it 'your first kiss'?"

"Because it was the first time it happened." You replied with obviousness.

"Girl, that wasn't your first kiss..."

"Of course it was. I think I would remember if I had kissed Jamie before."

Lola's hands went to her lips in surprise.

"You really don't remember?"

Lola laughed out loud, falling back onto the floor, her ribs aching from laughing so hard.

"You really don't remember!"

Still on the floor, Lola opened her eyes and stared intently at you.

"I know this because Steve told me, but sweetie... You kissed Bucky the day you got so drunk that you ended up waking up in his apartment."

The blood in your veins turned to ice, your cheeks flushed, and your eyes widened.

"That's not true."

"You asked him if he felt the same way about you, then you kissed him and fell asleep. The poor guy didn't even have time to kiss you back or answer.”

You remained silent for what seemed like an eternity, your gaze fixed on your hands.

Bucky had kept and carried that information for months and continued to treat you as if nothing had happened, continuing to treat you as he always had, and you didn't know if that was better or worse. You didn't know if that was the reason why he wasn't as affected by what had happened in Brooklyn as you were.

The next day, you were sitting on his kitchen bar. He was cleaning up while you sat on there, nestling a beer in your hands.

He had been so distant, and you were really trying to figure out if he was regretting what had happened back in Brooklyn, if he had changed his mind about everything.

And then, you finally decided to speak up.

"Jamie..." you said when you finally noticed that Bucky had turned his back on you.

You wanted to ask, but you weren't ready to face him directly while you asked the questions.

"Tell me..." he said, leaning against the refrigerator.

"I talked to Lola a few days ago."

"Dangerous..." he joked.

You smiled. "And she... well, she told me that Steve... told her about that night I came home drunk."

Bucky stood still. 'Stupid Steve in love. Stupid Steve in love with her best friend,' he thought as he finished arranging the containers.

He finally came out of his hiding place behind the refrigerator and leaned against the bar in front of you, his arms crossed on the table.

"Yeah? And what did he say to her?"

"That I kissed you..."

Bucky pursed his lips as he confirmed, and you could see how tight his jaw remained.

"Aren't you going to say something?"

Now he frowned. He didn't understand the question.

"I guess... Brooklyn was intense for me, and I've been feeling strange... and you... You've acted as if nothing happened..."

He shook his head before you could finish your sentence.

"Brooklyn was—something for me too, more than I've admitted to myself, but... I processed all these feelings that night, and I've been doing so ever since."

He paused for a moment.

"I never told you because I didn't want you to feel ashamed. I wanted to think it was a slip-up caused by alcohol, and if it happened again, it would be because you wanted it to, not because it had already happened once."

"So Brooklyn...?"

"Brooklyn was wonderful. And I can accept that it is whatever you want it to be for you."

"I want you to be honest about something." He frowned but nodded.

You parted your lips a microsecond before anything came out of your mouth.

"Did you kiss me back?"

Bucky kept his gaze locked on yours before answering.

"No. You were drunk, and I didn't even have the chance to answer before you slept. I didn't want to do anything that you might feel wrong about later. It wasn't fair to either of us to do so in that state."

You rested your head on Bucky's shoulder, about to fall asleep while the television remained on.

"Are you falling asleep?" He murmured, looking down at you.

You nodded, your eyes still closed.

"Come on, let me take you to your apartment." He tried to stand up, but you stopped him.

"Jamie..." you whispered. "Can I stay?"

He smiled sideways and stroked your hair.

"Of course you can stay."

His jawline tensed slightly.

"Why don't I give you a shirt so you can be comfortable and make yourself at home in my bed?"

You nodded and followed him to the bedroom. You sat on the bed while he looked for a shirt for you.

"Here, change and lie down." He said, before taking a pillow from the bed, you furrowed your eyebrows when you noticed what he intended.

"No," you exclaimed quickly. "Why... don't you sleep here?"

His body tensed. He wanted to say yes immediately; he really wanted to, but something stopped him. Your name came out of his mouth a bit embarrassed.

"Please," you pleaded. "Just sleep."

He nodded. "Finish changing your clothes, and I'll be right back."

A couple of minutes later, he returned with sweatpants and a gray shirt. You were already sitting on the edge of the bed, your eyes still heavy, wearing only the borrowed shirt; he could see your bare legs beneath the piece of clothing that covered your entire torso.

"You know we're not going to fit in this bed?"

"We'll make it work." You smiled.

He knelt on the bed and positioned his body on the edge closest to the wall, letting his back fall onto the bed while you settled into the same position.

"This is ridiculous," you said, almost laughing.

Before Bucky could answer, you turned, resting your head in the crook of his arm. He squeezed your shoulder with his hand and managed to pull you a little closer to his side.

"G'night.”

"Good night, Jamie."

Falling asleep almost immediately. Bucky just stared at you—his index finger caressing your cheek slowly, almost in a phantom touch.

"You have no idea how much you mean to me..." He murmured, his eyes fixed on every feature of yours as you slept.

Bucky's smile didn't fade even when he fell asleep. It was the first time he had allowed himself to share this intimacy with someone.

A knock on the door startled you awake. It took you a few seconds to understand where you were until Bucky's hand squeezed your waist so you wouldn't slip out of his grasp.

Your chest relaxed a few seconds later.

"Let them knock. I'm not expecting anyone," Bucky murmured into the pillow as he tried to press his body closer to yours.

"Jamie!" You scolded in a whisper. "I'll just go see who it is." He growled, loosening his grip.

As you left the room, pulling your shirt down just enough so you wouldn't have to put on a bottom piece, your body immediately tensed when you noticed Steve and Natasha standing in the hallway, keys dangling from Steve's hand.

Your cheeks heated, Natasha smiled smugly, and Steve turned his gaze to the living room window so as not to see more than necessary.

"Bucky wasn't answering, and we wanted to know if he was okay," Steve said without looking at you.

"He's... He's still..." You stammered.

Before you could utter another word, Bucky bolted out of his room, hearing more than one voice, which caused his reflexes to kick in immediately.

"Damn it," he said when he saw Steve and Natasha staring back at him.

Steve noticed the crimson color on Bucky's arm, a clear sign that you had slept there all night.

"We just... came to check if you were okay."

Steve stroked the back of his neck, still looking out the window. Bucky raised his eyebrow until his gaze fell on you, wearing only his shirt.

You followed Bucky's gaze, remembering your bare legs; you hurriedly ran to the bedroom, leaving the three of them alone. Steve sighed when he finally turned to look at Bucky. He was still staring at the door where you had disappeared when Natasha cleared her throat to get his attention.

"We just wanted to give you this..." Natasha took a yellow folder out of a backpack.

"What is this?" Bucky gazed at the first page.

"Apparently, her youngest brother was sent on a mission to Siberia. It's related to HYDRA."

Natasha murmured, and Bucky swallowed hard as he read every detail on the folder in his hands.

"Where did this come from?"

"They asked us to be ready just in case..." Steve confessed, crossing his arms over his chest.

Before they could continue, you opened the door, wearing the same clothes you had worn the day before.

You immediately noticed some tension in the air. Bucky walked to the kitchen to put the folder in a drawer.

"Is everything okay?" Natasha tried to speak, but Bucky interrupted you.

"Everything is perfect. They're just briefing me on a possible mission."

"Do you need me to leave?"

You knew those faces, you knew the tone of ‘everything is fine,’ you knew the careful movements Bucky was making. When no one answered, almost avoiding looking at you, keeping their eyes on each other, you smiled as you understood the undertone of the situation.

"Don't worry. This is not my first rodeo. Just promise me you'll be okay."

Bucky approached you, placing his hand on your waist, and you rested your hand on Bucky's tense shoulder.

"Nothing to worry about."

You nodded calmly. You wanted to believe him; you needed to believe his words.

"I'll take a shower, and when you're free, we can go to lunch." You stood on your tiptoes and kissed his cheek goodbye.

You repeated the act with Nat and Steve and left the apartment. When they finally heard the door to your own apartment. Bucky stared at them.

"How dangerous is it?" He crossed his arms.

"Dangerous enough that they're asking you personally to join the squad."

"Steve, that boy is no more than... twenty? Why did they send him and not either of the other two?"

Bucky knew perfectly well how much you loved Derek. He knew that if anything happened to him, you wouldn't survive the pain of losing him.

"I don't know, Buck. Do you want me to find out?" He nodded.

"It sounds to me like he volunteered." Nat interrupted.

"He'd be suicidal if he did."

"Are you going to tell her?" Steve asked curiously.

"Not for now. If he didn't tell her, it's for a reason. I'd rather keep it that way until I have more information."

"Well, Romeo... You have a date waiting for you." Natasha said, slinging her backpack over her shoulder as she walked to the entrance.

"Aren't you staying? She'll be very angry if I go over there without you." Bucky pleaded.

"No, I think we're done for today." Steve stepped forward.

"He has a date waiting, too." Natasha chuckled.

"Lola?" Bucky asked. Natasha opened her mouth wide and turned to look at Steve.

"Lola… Lola, as in Lola, her friend?"

Steve squeezed the bridge of his nose as he sighed. "Thanks, Buck. Natasha didn't know."

"Good luck."

He closed the door behind them. From the doorway, he could see the bed. You had tried to make it as tidy as possible before leaving the room. The way you had made this place your own, too, made him realize how deeply nested you were in his life.

Blankets and pillows all over his couch, where nothing used to be.

Groceries filled up his cabinets and fridge. Something you made him do when you realized he didn't do it weekly. Sweaters of yours dangling from chairs, even your perfume lingered in the air if someone paid enough attention.

As you walked back from lunch, Bucky noticed how you were drawn to a flower shop. Your gaze was fixed on a bouquet while you twitched a slight smile. Your fingers above one of the petals, not quite touching but lingering there.

It was at that moment that he realized that, even despite everything you had already shared, he had never officially asked you out.

'How the hell did I let this happen?' he asked himself, holding your hand.

When you arrived at your apartment, you looked at him for a few seconds, trying to decipher his facial expression. He was furrowing, not mad, not like he did when something was bothering me. This was something different.

"Is there something wrong, Jamie?" He frowned.

Silence.

"I have a couple of things to do, but I'll text you as soon as I'm free."

You nodded, confused, and Bucky leaned in to give you a soft kiss on the forehead. He still didn't understand what he was feeling, but he knew he needed to do something with it.

A couple of hours later, Bucky came back to knock on your door.

"I know you're working tomorrow, but can I pick you up for... dinner?"

You raised your eyebrow.

"You mean what we do almost every day?" He shook his head.

The realization of his words hit you like a bucket of cold water.

"Oh."

He paused.

"Do I have to wear anything specific?" Bucky scratched his head for a second.

"Just... something... nice, I guess?"

"Okay, I'll do that."

You smiled, and he marched back to his apartment like a soldier.

Next Part.

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DECEMBER 26, 2019 — WAKANDA — BUCKY

As soon as we arrive in our room, I lift Réa up and start toward the bed.

“Wait. I…I need a minute. I’m okay, I just need to…” she trails off.

‘A surprise…she said she has a surprise,’ I think.

“Right. Surprise. Okay,” I say.

I walk over to the door, making sure it’s locked. Réa takes her suitcase into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. I take off my boots and socks, then walk back to where we blinked into the suite.

I wait for Réa; it doesn’t take her long to emerge. She’s wearing a black robe that hits at mid-thigh, and I feel my jeans grow tighter. She closes the distance between us, stopping barely a step away from me.

“So, um…I woke up so early because you were dreaming…you did that whole ‘TV-in-a-waiting-room’ thing that Wanda talks about. And I, uh…” she clears her throat. “I saw. Your dream. I saw it…well, part of it. And I, um…I…I liked it. Really, really liked it. I actually…the other day—Christmas Eve—Nat and I went to the…the, um, a-adult st-store. Which you probably figured, given what I gave you….” She trails off, inhaling deeply. “Anyway…these…these are for you.”

She hands me neatly-folded, black satin ties, and I stare at them, partially unfolding then refolding them.

‘She saw the dream, and she liked it…and now she’s handed me these…’ I think, gazing at the strips of satin in my hands, my cock twitching as a bolt of lust slams into me. ‘These…she…oh God, she wants me to use these.’

After what feels like an eternity, I look back up at her.

“Réa…are you…are you sure?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure. Absolutely sure.”

Something dark and nearly-feral rears up inside me, and when I speak again, I see Réa shiver; I don’t know whether it’s at my words or my tone…I do know that it’s not out of fear.

“So, you want me to tie you up and, what…have my way with you?”

“Yes,” she replies with no hesitation.

A rush of arousal floods her, causing her delectable spun-sugar-and-raspberry scent to grow more intoxicating. My nostrils flare and I lick my lips, my eyes still on hers. I pull her into a searing kiss that’s entirely too brief; when I break it, my hands immediately go to the belt of her robe. I quickly undo it and part the material, then glide my vibranium hand over the strip of bare skin, trailing from her collarbone to just below her navel.

“Take this off, then fold the covers back and lie down; put your arms over your head and spread your legs.”

She quickly does what I say, and her eyes stay glued to me as I walk over to her. I unfold the ties, draping one across her stomach while I tie the other around her left wrist.

Her breath hitches, and my eyes immediately return to hers; I know she can see the question in them.

“I’m alright, Bucky. Really. Please don’t stop,” she pants.

My eyes search hers for just a second more before I resume what I was doing. I fasten the other end of the tie to the bedpost, then trail my hand down Réa’s arm, along the outside of her breast, over her abdomen, and down the outside of her left leg as I walk toward the foot of the bed. As I move up the other side of the bed, my hand skims up the outside of her right leg and over the curve of her hip, gathering the second tie then continuing the path along the outside of her breast and up her arm. I tie the material around her right wrist, then to the other bedpost.

‘God, she’s breathtaking.’

“Tell me what the colors are and what they mean, Réa.”

“Green means everything is okay, or keep going; yellow means slow down or ease up; red means stop.”

“Good girl,” I say.

I step back from the bed and undress, slowly peeling my shirt over my head, tossing it aside before reaching for my belt buckle. I undo it, then pop the button on my jeans and lower the zipper; I push both my jeans and my boxer briefs down my legs, and they join my shirt on the floor.

Réa’s beautiful, crystal-blue eyes travel over me; they land on my hard length and my pulse spikes, the lust I feel growing exponentially at the stark desire I see in her eyes. I watch her start to press her thighs together, but before she can close her legs, I speak.

“No, Réa. Keep them open.”

She stops moving and nods.

“Use your words.”

“O-okay.”

I shake my head. “Try again.”

She swallows audibly, then stammers out a reply as I hear her heartrate skyrocket.

“Y-y-yes, S-Sir.”

‘Fuck me, she’s perfect like this.’

I make my way to the bed, kneeling between her legs and leaning forward to kiss her before sitting back up.

“Color?” I ask.

“Green,” she quickly replies, barely letting me finish the word before the response is falling from her lips.

“Eager, are you?”

She nods. “Yes, Sir.”

I place my hands on her thighs, and her breath hitches again; in response, the heat in my veins rises.

“Keep your eyes on me, Réa,” I say, then I move.

I glide my hands over her body, using just enough pressure that she can feel it, but for my touch to be too light to do more than tease. Maintaining that same pressure, I caress her collarbone, then let my hand slip lower. I circle her breasts, but don’t touch her nipples; I stroke her inner thighs, but never slip my hand between them. I don’t know how long I do this…honestly, I could do this forever and be perfectly happy.

The trust Réa is showing me is something I will never tire of; something I will never take for granted; something I will cherish, always.

“Sir, please,” she finally begs, her voice filled with desperate need.

“No,” I growl, and remove my hands.

A high-pitched, keening whine slips from her, and she squeezes her eyes shut.

“Eyes on me, Réa,” I say, my tone firm.

She immediately opens her eyes and looks at me; her gaze is full of trust, love, and desire.

“Color?” I ask again.

“Gr-green.”

I place my hands back on her, then lean forward. This time, as I move my hands over her, I press kisses to her hips, her mound, and her inner thighs, all while avoiding where I know she wants me the most.

I can tell she’s doing her best to keep still, but I want her to arch into my touch; to tilt her hips and move beneath me…even though I already know, I want to see how much she wants me.

“You’re so pretty like this,” I whisper against her inner thigh. “All wet and needy and spread out before me.” I lift my head and lick my lips. “So desperate for my touch….”

I lightly brush a finger over her clit, and she gasps. I know she wants me to do it again—wants me to touch her like that—but I don’t. I want her writhing and desperate and begging for me; want her so built up that when I do touch her, she falls apart. Knowing I can get her to that point, I return to my ministrations.

I continue teasing her, continue putting my hands and lips everywhere except where I know she craves me—everywhere except where I really want to be—knowing that I’m building the fire inside her, even as I smoulder along with her. I place yet another kiss to the crease of her thigh, and suddenly, words spill from her.

“Please, Sergeant, please,” she begs, her voice wanton and desperate.

My eyes, which are currently fixed between her legs, snap to hers in surprise.

‘Did she just…oh fuck me,’ I think, my body reacting to her words.

Wanting to hear them again, I speak.

“What did you say?” I ask, my voice husky.

I watch her eyes widen and her cheeks heat; she just stares at me, breathing heavily.

“Réa. What did you say?” I ask again.

“P-p…please, S-Sergeant,” she replies, her cheeks going from pink to crimson.

I give a low, quiet, chuckle.

“Oh doll, you really are in a state, aren’t you?” I keep my tone low and seductive, and watch as she shivers. “But you’ve been such a good girl, and good girls get rewarded…let me help you.” I pause. “You can cum, Réa. You don’t have to ask…but you don’t get to stop cumming until I say. Do you understand?”

“Y-y-yes, Sir.”

“Fată bună…păpușa mea perfectă.”     (Good girl…my perfect doll.)

She whimpers, and I watch her core clench at the praise. I give her a knowing smirk…and then my mouth is on her. Like always, she tastes delicious—like raspberries and salted honey and Réa—and I devour her.

My tongue dances over her clit, flicking and swirling unerringly, using the pressure and rhythm I know works best to send her over the edge; it doesn’t take long for me to get what I’m after, her hips rocking against my face as her release crashes through her.

‘More…I need more.’

I don’t let up; I keep working her over, bringing her to the edge and sending her over it again and again and again. She’s moaning unintelligibly, practically thrashing on the bed, and I’m reveling in her response…and then she begs.

“Please, Sir, I want you inside me, please, please, please…” she pleads.

‘Fucking hell….’

I moan against her as I continue working her clit, and she cums, falling apart in the most wonderful way. There’s a gush on my face and her body arches almost completely off the bed, only my grip on her hips and the ties around her wrists keeping her in place.

Without waiting for her to come down, I crawl up her body, crushing my mouth to hers. I break the kiss and watch her face as I slide into her, all the way to the hilt…and I feel another gush between her legs.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” I growl, masculine pride surging through me. “Soaking my dick as soon as I get inside you…you really did need me, huh, doll?”

She opens her mouth, but then just nods. I’m about to again tell her to use her words, but after cumming that hard twice in a row, I know she can’t really talk right now.

Determined to make her fall apart again—determined to make her feel nothing but pleasure—I set an intense, almost bruising, pace, and I can tell she loves it…can tell she’s enjoying it as much as I am.

“God, doll, you feel amazing…so wet and so tight…wanna stay inside you forever.”

“B-Bu-Buc…Serge…S-Sir,” she pants in response.

Her panting out my name and my rank and what she calls me when we’re together like this causes everything I feel for her—the desire, the love, the admiration—to crescendo within me. As a result, I thrust harder, my hips snapping against hers as I move.

“You were right the first time,” I growl.

Another whine escapes her, the sound utterly pleading.

I continue at the almost-frantic pace, and with every thrust, she tilts her hips to meet mine as beautiful moans and sighs escape her. My relentless rhythm has her hovering back on the edge in no time at all, her walls fluttering around my length as she approaches yet another peak.

“I know you’re close…I can feel you getting even tighter around me…fuck, you feel so good,” I pant. “Cum for me, baby. I wanna feel you let go; wanna feel you clenching around me as you scream my name. C’mon, doll, be my good girl and give it to me.”

I bring my left hand between us, pressing my vibranium thumb to her clit, circling it as I continue to slam into her. Just like I want, she cums, my name falling from her lips in a fractured scream as her walls clench around me, so tightly that it almost hurts, the razor-thin line between pleasure and pain blurring into something darkly decadent.

“Buc-Bucky!” she cries out, and I wonder if she feels it too.

“Asta e, dragă…fut, mă strângi ca o menghină nenorocită…te simți atât de bine,” I rasp. “Doamne, ești atât de frumoasă…ești la naiba superbă. Fata mea perfectă, perfectă.”     (That’s it, sweetheart…fuck, you’re squeezing me like a goddamn vise…you feel so good. … God, you’re so beautiful…you’re fucking gorgeous. My perfect, perfect girl.)

My own release slams into me, and I spill inside her. Though I slow my pace, I don’t stop, working us both through our peaks; eventually, when her aftershocks have faded, I still. I cup her face and give her a love-filled, passionate yet tender kiss; when I pull away, I rest my forehead against hers. The lust and desire fade—they don’t disappear; they never disappear, always remaining ever-present, even when they fade into the background—and the boundless love and devotion I feel for the beautiful, amazing woman in my arms swells within me.

“I love you, Réa. God, I love you so, so much. You have no idea how incredible you are; how amazing. I am both awed and humbled by you and by the love—the trust—you show me.”

My voice is thick with emotions, and I see those same emotions reflected in Réa’s crystal-blue eyes.

“I love you, Bucky,” she breathes. “Thank you for letting me show you how much.”

I give her another kiss, then slowly, gently pull out of her. I untie her wrists and lift them toward my face, placing kisses around each.

“I’m going to start running a bath, then I’ll be right back,” I tell her.

She nods, and I release her wrists; her arms flop onto the bed. I give a soft chuckle, then stand.

“I’m a starfish,” I hear her mumble, and I silently chuckle to myself, because, in her current position, she does resemble one.

‘God, she’s so cute,’ I think as I make my way to the bathroom.

Once there, I turn on the water at the tub; after a few moments, I check the temperature. It’s just right, so I close the drain and the tub begins to fill. I open the linen closet, taking out a washcloth, then wet it at the sink. I make my way back over to Réa, gently cleaning her with the cloth. I head back into the bathroom, rinsing the washcloth then depositing it in the hamper. I shut off the water at the tub, then once more return to Réa.

“Alright, sweetheart. Bath time,” I say as I lift her into my arms.

I carry her to the tub and settle us into the water. As I always do, I situate us with her back against my chest, and she relaxes against me, her legs parting slightly as the tension leaves her body.

“A starfish, huh?” I ask after several moments.

“Oh, gods,” she groans, covering her face in embarrassment.

I gently take her hands from her face and press a kiss to her cheek.

“You’re adorable,” I say. “Mica mea stea de mare, întotdeauna și pentru totdeauna.”     (My little starfish, always and forever.)

We stay in the bath until the water cools; I insist on drying Réa off and carrying her back to bed. I settle us onto the mattress, holding her close to me, then pull the covers over us. She cuddles closer to me, nuzzling into my chest. She inhales deeply, then I feel her fully relax against me, and I know she’s about to fall asleep.

“I love you,” she murmurs just before her breathing turns deep and even with sleep.

I lie awake, watching her sleep, now even more enamored with the wonderful woman in my arms. I feel like a broken record, but I’m in awe of the trust she has in me—that she gives me—not just in this aspect of our lives, but in every single one. She trusts me with her heart and her soul, to take care of them and not break or bruise them; she trusts me to accept the love she gives me for the pure, incredible thing it is, to not wonder or worry if there is an ulterior motive behind it; she trusts me to be honest with her about any- and everything: my thoughts, my feelings, my emotions; she trusts me to be a safe space for her; she…she trusts me the same way I trust her: completely, irrevocably, and steadfastly.

“L’amour semble être une pâle imitation de ce que je ressens pour toi ; mes sentiments sont bien trop vastes—bien trop importants—pour que le mot ‘amour’ puisse les englober avec précision,” I whisper. “Malheureusement, je n’ai pas le mot pour décrire ce que je ressens pour toi; pour décrire ce que tu représentes pour moi. Je ne sais pas s’il existe des mots, dans quelque langue que ce soit, qui puissent le faire.”     (Love seems like a pale impersonation of what I feel for you; my feelings are far too vast—far too important—for the word ‘love’ to accurately encompass them. … Unfortunately, I don’t have the words to describe how I feel about you; to describe what you mean to me. I don’t know if there are words in any language that can do so.)

I pause, and even though these words aren’t enough—will never be enough—I say them anyway.

“Je te chérie du plus profond de mon être. Je t’adore. Je te fais confiance. Tu es mon espoir, ma joie, ma paix; tu es la lumière des étoiles dans la nuit la plus sombre. Et avec tout ce que je suis, ce que j’ai été, et ce que je serai toujours, je t’aime, Réa…pour toujours et à jamais.”     (I cherish you with all my soul. I adore you. I trust you. You are my hope, my joy, my peace; you are the starlight in the darkest night. And with everything that I am, that I was, that I ever will be, I love you, Réa…always and forever.)

I press a kiss to the top of her head, then rest my chin on the spot as my mind turns to what happened during my visit with T’Challa earlier.

“Bucky, it is good to see you. You look well.”

“Thank you. It’s good to see you, too. And I am well; I hope you are.”

T’Challa nods. “I am, thank you.” He pauses, and is about to speak again when my phone rings.

“Hold on, I’ll igno—” I look at the screen and see who’s calling. “I’m sorry, I need to take this…. Hello?” I start to excuse myself, but T’Challa motions for me to stay…something I’m grateful for, given who’s calling.

“Bonjour, Monsi—Bucky,” Alphonse says. “And a belated ‘Merry Christmas’ to you.”

“A belated ‘Merry Christmas’ to you as well, Alphonse. I hope you had a good holiday.”

“Oui, merci, I did.” He pauses. “I’m actually calling because I was able to finish your lady’s ring ahead of schedule.”

“You were?!”

“Oui. It is ready for pick-up. I’m happy to store it in my vault for as long as you need, since I know your planned proposal date is still a few months away, but as I said, it is ready to be picked up, should you choose to do so. Though I’m sure you will want to come in and see it, at least.”

“Thank you. I’m currently out of the city until New Year’s Eve, but I could come by any time after that.”

“How about on the third of January at ten o’clock? That’s a Friday,” Alphonse asks.

“That would be great. Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Bucky. I will see you on the third.”

“Take care, Alphonse. Happy New Year to you and your family.”

“To you and yours as well. Au revoir!”

“Au revoir,” I reply, and end the call.

I once more apologize to T’Challa. “Sorry about that. That was…” I trail off, a small half-smile tilting one corner of my mouth. “That was Alphonse. The jeweler making Réa’s engagement ring.”

“Ahh,” he says, nodding, before a grin spreads over his face. “I see.” He clears his throat. “Shuri and I may have made a wager on that topic…she was certain you and Réa would be engaged upon your arrival here; certain that you would ask on either Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. I, on the other hand, said you’d be asking sometime in the New Year. From what I heard of your conversation, I’m the winner of our wager…meaning Shuri owes me not only a suit upgrade, but she must admit I was right.”

I chuckle, knowing that’s going to annoy Shuri to no end.

“Well, congratulations,” I tell him, humor in my voice. Clearing my throat, my tone is serious when I speak. “I actually wanted to talk to you about my plan for that, and get your input. If you’d be so kind as to give it, that is.”

T’Challa nods. “Of course.”

When I finish explaining what I have planned, T’Challa’s smile is massive.

“That’s a great plan. Réa is going to love it.” He pauses, his expression and tone sincere. “Of course, you could ask her right now, just as you are, with no ring and no fanfare, and she’d say ‘yes’…because she truly loves you. It’s been obvious since the day you met that there was something between you both; something rare, and precious, and beautiful. I am happy to see you decided to embrace it, White Wolf.” He claps me on the shoulder, then gives me a sly grin. “Now, let me tell you about the upgrades I’ve had done since you were here last….”

Pulling myself out of the memory, I brush Réa’s hair back from her face and let my hand rest on her cheek for a moment before I wrap my arms tightly around her, holding her as close as I can. I press another kiss to the top of her head, then rest my cheek in the same place as I breathe in her calming, nectarous, spun-sugar-and-raspberry scent.

‘Mine. Forever,’ I think before I join her in slumber.

The inheritance had fallen from heaven. Things in Harlem were getting worse by the day, and it was no longer a suitable place to raise a daughter. The truth was that the entire country was falling apart, but at least in Brooklyn, Elizabeth would have a few more chances—or at least that was what Gladys told Frank to convince him to accept. The gift had come from a childless, middle-class man whom Frank had known in the Great War, a sort of thank-you for saving his life in the trenches.

To fifteen-year-old Elizabeth, the news felt like pure magic. In Harlem, because of the high crime rates, she had been forbidden from going anywhere after five in the afternoon—a direct threat to an adventurous soul like hers. Her occasional escapades to the neighborhood block parties had been sharply reduced, and that had left her in a very bad mood.

Still, the move brought with it a couple of job opportunities for her parents, which meant they would be busy for longer hours and, consequently, that she would have more free time to wander wherever she pleased.

More freedom for a spirit as curious as hers didn’t always mean something good.

The girl, accustomed to the chaotic rhythm of her former neighborhood, had grown used to settling any conflict with fists or shouts. Elizabeth had been, from the moment she had any sense at all, one of those people who never hesitated to raise her voice and fight for what was right. That quality would have made her the kind of leader everyone wanted to follow—if not for one small detail: she was a girl.

Even though opportunities in Brooklyn seemed endless, the life of a lower-class girl, no matter how undeniable her potential, was still marked by the limits society imposed. That earned her a constant stream of trouble: dresses covered in dirt, torn stockings, and her mother’s furious scolding.

“Damn it,” the young girl muttered when she noticed the enormous hole along the right side of her stocking. She knew it would cost her a good beating from her mother, and she hoped her mom wouldn’t go running to her father with the story. If she did, things were not going to end well for her that afternoon.

The whole mess that day had started because she had found some boys tormenting a cat in one of the alleys near the school. Her fierce sense of justice hadn’t let her simply walk away and ignore it. Instead, she had to fight—and she’d hit them over the head with a tin can.

Now she was running down the street, trying to lose them while searching for a good place to hide the poor animal.

“Come here, you little piece of shit!”

She could feel them right on her heels. She knew they would catch her—she was much smaller than they were, at least in size—and no matter how fast she ran, she was sure it wouldn’t take them long to find her.

She ducked into one of the alleys, hoping it would distract them long enough for her to stay hidden until they gave up. She realized she hadn’t been that lucky when she heard them getting closer.

“She went into this alley!”

Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the little cat tightly against her chest. Her end had finally come, and she was certain those thugs weren’t going to forgive her.

“Hey, leave her alone!”

The unfamiliar voice sounded almost like an angelic choir, a salvation sent from heaven…

When she opened her eyes, she almost wanted to cry. The blond boy who had stepped up to defend her was just as thin and short as she was. He even looked a little sickly—his skin was pale, and faint dark shadows framed his eyes.

They were going to kill them. That was certain. They were going to kill them both.

The boy stood ready to fight. He didn’t seem afraid.

Elizabeth thought that maybe he was some kind of expert fighter who, despite having very little muscle, could throw someone twice his size a couple of meters and give them a chance to run. Her illusions vanished as quickly as the boy did after the first punch. His fragile body flew backward a few meters and slammed into the trash cans. Elizabeth was sure at least one of his bones had broken.

The boy got back up, and just as they were about to hit him again, someone else appeared—a much taller boy with far more skill in a fight. He wasn’t a professional, but he clearly knew what he was doing.

It only took a couple of punches for the boys to abandon their mission and slink away with their egos bruised.

“I had them on the ropes,” the blond boy huffed, pushing himself up as best he could and brushing off his clothes.

“Yeah, sure,” the other one replied.

Elizabeth finally let out the breath she had been holding ever since the first boy had stepped in front of her. The sound drew both their attention.

“Are you okay?” the blond asked, clearly worried. “Did they hurt you?”

“No… I mean, they didn’t hurt me. I’m fine,” she assured him with a soft smile. “Are you okay?”

“He’s so used to this he probably didn’t even feel it,” the brunet said, making her laugh. His friend didn’t find it nearly as funny and simply rolled his eyes. “I’m Bucky, and the brave one who just saved your life is Steve.”

“I can introduce myself, thanks,” the smaller boy grumbled before shyly extending his hand toward the redhead. “Steve Rogers.”

Elizabeth’s smile widened, clearly entertained by the little exchange between them. She quickly shifted the kitten to one arm and took the offered hand, shaking it.

“Elizabeth Adler,” she said. Once she had shaken Steve’s hand, she extended hers to Bucky.

“Bucky Barnes,” he added his last name, not wanting to be left behind. “Why were they chasing you? Did you steal something from them?”

The redhead frowned, visibly offended.

“I’m not a thief,” she muttered, then gently held the kitten out so he could see it. “They wanted to burn his ears. I had to save him.”

Bucky reached out to stroke the animal. The kitten happily accepted the touch before curling back up against the girl’s chest.

“Is he yours?” Steve asked this time, offering a small, touched smile. He was moved by the girl’s kindness.

He didn’t dare pet it himself; he was afraid the fine fur would get up his nose and cause an infection. It had happened to him before, and he had no desire to go through it again.

“No. My mom doesn’t like animals,” she said with a shrug. “But now I have to find him a home. I can’t just put him back on the street.”

Bucky’s face lit up instantly.

“My sister’s birthday is coming up soon. Mom wanted to get her a dog, but Becca loves cats. I could take him home with me…”

“Really?” she interrupted, her eyes sparkling at once.

“It might take me a little while to convince Mom, but I’m sure she’ll say yes.”

Elizabeth looked a bit unsure and made a small face as she gazed at the kitten’s bright eyes. Steve noticed her hesitation and spoke up quickly.

“Bucky’s serious. He wouldn’t lie.”

For some reason she couldn’t explain, the redhead knew Steve was an honest person, and if he said Bucky wasn’t lying, then she believed him. Still, something tugged uncomfortably in her chest—she felt far too attached to the little cat after everything that had just happened.

“We could meet up on the weekends so you can see him,” the brunet offered when he noticed the way Elizabeth was looking at the small animal. “My sister always goes to our grandma’s on weekends.”

“Really? You mean it?”

“Yeah, of course.”

That made her smile wider than ever, and she nodded, happy with the plan.

“Are you new around here? We’ve never seen you before,” Steve asked again, curiosity clear in his voice.

“Maybe I’m just good at staying out of sight.”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure you’re the type of girl who gets into trouble pretty often,” Bucky said. “And we have a real talent for finding trouble, so we would’ve noticed you sooner.”

The redhead frowned, but he only shrugged, standing by his words.

“I got here a few weeks ago,” she explained at last. “I used to live in Harlem, but now we have a place here in Brooklyn.”

“Oh, Harlem—that explains a lot,” Steve exclaimed with a grin, giving Bucky a light elbow to the ribs. Bucky nodded in agreement. “So, how are you liking Brooklyn so far?”

“I’m still getting used to it,” Elizabeth admitted. “It’s not that different. Though, to be honest, I like Brooklyn better than Harlem. It’s… less complicated.”

“Yeah, but it has its own troubles,” Bucky said, shifting his weight onto one foot as he crossed his arms. “If you know where not to go, you’ll be fine.”

“Or if you have the right friends,” Steve added with a shy smile.

Usually he didn’t talk much, especially around girls, because they always seemed to look down on him or intimidate him. But Elizabeth seemed nice and relaxed—something about her gave him enough confidence to open up a little more.

The redhead raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Is that an invitation to your exclusive troublemakers’ club?” she asked, her tone teasing.

“We’re not troublemakers,” Steve protested. “But we do know the neighborhood pretty well, and it looks like you could use a map.”

“Or a compass, just to be safe,” Bucky suggested, looking at her with a mischievous glint in his eye. “But I’m sure you’ll adapt fast. You look like the type who can take care of herself.”

“Let’s just say I’ve had to learn how,” she shrugged again.

“Well, if you’re interested in the official neighborhood tour, we can show you the best ice cream parlors and the places you don’t want to walk alone at night,” Steve offered.

“Besides, our group could really use someone with red hair,” Bucky muttered.

Talking to them was, without a doubt, the best thing that had happened to Elizabeth since she’d arrived in Brooklyn. They both seemed incredibly kind and charming, and they were the only boys who hadn’t acted like complete idiots when speaking to her. That alone put them several steps above any other boy she had met in the neighborhood.

“I think I’ll take you up on that, but it’ll have to be another day. I’m already really late getting home, and if I don’t make it before six, I’ll be in serious trouble.”

“Where do you live?”

“101 Prospect Place,” she said with a smile, though inside she was mentally scolding herself—her mother was definitely going to yell at her for giving her address to strangers. “What about you two?”

“173 Bergen Street,” Steve said.

“234 Dean Street.”

“So you two live pretty close to each other,” she remarked, looking at them with amusement. Both boys nodded.

“Prospect Place isn’t that far,” Bucky said with a shrug. Steve shot him a slightly furrowed brow. “It’s only about twenty minutes at most. Want us to walk you home? We don’t mind, right, Steve?”

“No, not at all.”

They had already been walking that afternoon since the blond boy had left school. Steve didn’t really want to walk much farther, but he didn’t say anything—his mother had raised him better than that. He would never let a girl walk home alone in the afternoon.

“This way we make sure those guys don’t come back looking to hit you again.”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you.”

“Then let’s get going. We don’t want you getting any later,” Bucky said, boldly reaching out to take Elizabeth’s schoolbag from her shoulder.

The redhead looked at him in surprise, but she didn’t protest. She accepted the gentlemanly gesture from Barnes and started walking. The walk to Elizabeth’s house was quite pleasant. Steve and Bucky took turns asking her as many questions as they could think of, and they let her do the same.

It was during that back-and-forth of questions and answers that Elizabeth and Steve learned their fathers had served together in the 107th Infantry. After that, the redhead wouldn’t stop talking about the coincidences of fate and how it was written in the stars that the three of them would meet one way or another. Her dreamy declaration made both boys laugh, but deep down it touched them enough to decide that they definitely wanted Miss Adler as a new member of their little group.

“Promise you’ll take good care of him,” Elizabeth said once their walk was nearly over.

Bucky had reminded her that he was taking the kitten with him, and she needed to make sure the little one would be in good hands.

“I promise. At least I’ll make sure Rebecca treats him right,” he said seriously.

Elizabeth nodded and finally handed the kitten over to Bucky, who cradled it protectively against his chest. The small animal didn’t seem too happy at first in the brunet’s arms, but after a couple of gentle strokes it calmed down. They finally arrived in front of the building where the Adler family’s apartment was. Elizabeth let out a sigh of relief when she saw that the lights were off, which meant neither her mother nor her father had come home yet.

“I think this is where we part ways,” the girl murmured. “Thank you so much for walking me home… and thank you for saving me back there.”

“It was nothing.”

“I really owe you one. I’ll make it up to you.”

“You don’t have to, Liz,” Steve reassured her gently. “Just come out with us again.”

“I definitely will,” she smiled brightly. “I’m really glad I met you both. I’ll see you soon.”

The girl waved goodbye as she walked toward the entrance of the building. They waved back, and once she had gone inside and was out of sight, Steve quickly turned to look at his friend, who was grinning from ear to ear.

“What?” Bucky asked when he noticed he was being watched.

The blond let out a soft chuckle and shook his head.

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

The outings with Steve and Bucky became more and more frequent, to the point where the two boys waited for Elizabeth outside school almost every day to walk her home or wherever else she needed to go.

On weekends, Bucky would visit the redhead and bring Silas—the cat she had rescued—so she could spend time with him.

By the end of June, Elizabeth had learned a lot about both boys. She learned that one of Steve’s dreams was to serve in the army like his father once had, that he was terribly sickly, and that his drawing skills were exceptional. About Bucky, she discovered that he liked cats almost as much as—or maybe even more than—his sister, that he hated peas, and that he had had to drop out of school to work after his father died.

She also learned to care for them, to read every one of their gestures and every shift in their voices. Elizabeth was observant, and she learned to read them so quickly that it even scared her a little. The truth was that in her fifteen years of life, she had never had friends this close. Bucky and Steve had even introduced themselves to her mother and given her a carnation each, being completely honest about their intention to be friends with her daughter. Elizabeth wasn’t sure if that was normal or if she had simply been incredibly lucky.

Gladys, though reluctant, had allowed her to go out with them as long as they didn’t get into trouble and Elizabeth didn’t tear any more stockings or dirty her dresses. It was Bucky who made that solemn promise, because Steve couldn’t guarantee it—he simply nodded at everything his brunet friend said.

Elizabeth had never felt that kind of affection before—the unconditional affection the two of them seemed to give her so freely. Of course her mother and father loved her, in their own way, she supposed… but at the end of the day, they cared about her because she was their daughter.

With Bucky and Steve it was different. She had never understood what it felt like for someone to like her simply for being herself, without needing to share blood or a last name. That important bond called friendship. She liked it—a lot. She liked the way they made her feel understood and valued, and she made a silent promise to herself to take care of both of them the same way they took care of her.

July 4, 1934.

That day Steve was turning sixteen.

The economic situation was still bad; it was impossible to throw a proper birthday party. But neither Bucky nor Elizabeth wanted the day to pass unnoticed for him, so they had come up with a plan a couple of weeks in advance.

Elizabeth took on as many small jobs as she could: she watched the neighbor’s baby for a couple of hours while the woman went to the market, she took out the trash for the old lady who lived a few blocks away, and she cleaned the windows of her own house and her neighbors’. That work earned her forty cents, which she proudly saved until the right moment.

For Bucky it was a little easier. Since he already had his own savings, he only had to take a couple of dollars and set them aside for their plan. He also received thirty cents from his sister, who, even though she wouldn’t be there, didn’t want to be left out of Steve’s celebration.

Between the two of them, they managed to gather enough to buy three cheeseburgers, three cans of soda, and three vanilla ice creams. With what was left, they bought the missing ingredients and, with the help of Bucky’s mother, Winnifred, they made a chocolate cake.

They celebrated on the rooftop of Steve’s building—just the three of them.

Steve received gifts from both. From Elizabeth, a small stack of drawing paper bound together rather clumsily but with a beautiful note on the cover. From Bucky, a set of charcoal sticks. He treasured both gifts with all his heart and thanked them over and over again.

They stayed up there for most of the afternoon, undisturbed, watching the fireworks from the parade and listening to the cheerful noise rising from the city streets.

“They’re especially for you, Stevie,” Elizabeth said, pulling him into a tight hug while she stared straight at the colorful lights illuminating the sky.

The blond let out a laugh at his friend’s wild idea and then nodded softly, believing her words for just a moment.

“Thanks for everything, guys.”

“Always.”

October 31, 1934.

The redhead frowned the moment she saw Bucky arrive at Steve’s house. Barnes immediately felt judged and hurried to speak, glancing down at himself to check if something was wrong with his appearance.

“What?”

“Where’s your costume?” she asked, visibly offended.

“Liz, I’m not dressing up,” he said with a laugh. “I’m almost eighteen. I’ll leave that to the little kids.”

Elizabeth’s face twisted into a pout of pure discontent, and Bucky suddenly felt terribly threatened. He even thought she might jump on him and hit him—and it wouldn’t be the first time. He still had a bruise on his ribs from the last time he tried to steal a slice of her tangerine.

“What’s going on? And where’s your costume, Bucky?” Steve asked, stepping out of his room while straightening his shirt. The brunet rolled his eyes.

“You won’t believe the ridiculous things your friend is saying,” Elizabeth cut in before Bucky could speak, turning to the blond.

“I thought I was your friend too,” Bucky muttered.

“Not when you refuse to wear a costume—you’re not my friend then,” the redhead grumbled, crossing her arms.

Bucky let out a soft chuckle and shook his head.

“Come on, Buck. This is probably the last year we’ll get free candy.”

“My last year was two years ago,” the brunet complained, still trying to defend his position. “What will the girls say? They’ll definitely make fun of me.”

“Excuse me?” the redhead asked again, in that tone that made it sound like she had been deeply insulted. “There’s a girl right here begging you to wear a costume.”

“You know what I mean, Liz.”

“Bucky, please…” Elizabeth dropped the offended act and gave him her best pout, which made Steve burst into loud laughter. “Pleeease.”

“Don’t be a party pooper,” Steve joined in, trying to convince him too. “Liz is really excited. This is the first and probably the last time she’ll get to experience Halloween.”

That wasn’t a lie. When she was younger, Halloween hadn’t been taken very seriously, especially not in Harlem. There were a few celebrations, but they were mostly for adults and sometimes older teenagers.

Her only chance to attend one of those gatherings had been the previous year, but her father had strictly forbidden it.

Besides, the tradition of trick-or-treating wasn’t that popular in some places yet, so this would be Elizabeth’s first time celebrating it that way. Saying she was excited would be an understatement.

Thinking about that softened Bucky’s resolve a little. And when Elizabeth hung from his arm and looked up at him with those bright green eyes… he finally gave in.

“Do you have a sheet I can cut holes in?” he asked at last, turning to Steve.

The wind blew hard enough to gently tousle Elizabeth’s long red hair. The weather was already turning cold, but she was well bundled up in her long orange coat.

She walked arm in arm with both boys as they made their way back after that night’s candy haul. All three bags held a respectable amount of cookies, apples, and peanuts—even a few lollipops—which made them feel like the evening had been a complete success.

Around seven o’clock, the group of friends headed toward the celebration taking place on the main street in front of the high school.

“Did you get a date for tonight, Bucky?” Steve asked, curious.

“Nope,” he answered as if it were obvious. “Apparently I look too stupid in this cheap ghost costume, so you two are my date for the evening.”

“Well, I’m not dancing with you,” Steve said with a laugh, shaking his head.

“What about you, Liz?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

The redhead’s gaze was lost somewhere among the stalls of the fair, clearly intrigued by the small violet-colored tent decorated with lights on the outskirts.

“Liz?”

“Hm?”

“Are you going to dance with me?” Bucky asked, stepping in front of her to catch her attention.

His blue eyes managed to pull her away from whatever had been holding her interest, and having him so close to her face made her take a couple of steps back. Her cheeks warmed and she had to clear her throat before speaking.

“Why should I dance with you, Barnes?”

“You owe me. I’ve been walking around looking like this, asking for candy. I doubt any girl will want to dance with me tonight.”

The younger girl rolled her eyes in amusement and finally nodded.

“Fine. We’ll dance.”

“I have a feeling you’re going to ask me for something in return.”

“Can we go over there? They read your fortune,” she said, pointing at the place she had been staring at earlier.

The brunet frowned and looked in the direction she indicated, then shrugged.

“Sure. You coming, Steve?”

The blond hesitated for a moment but eventually accepted the invitation, even though it made him a little nervous. His mother had once warned him about those pagan traditions, and the truth was she had instilled a bit of fear in him. Still, when the three of them stepped inside the tent and he realized the woman running it was the baker’s wife, he relaxed. He told himself none of it was real.

“Come in, come in, kids!” the woman with long, wavy raven hair offered warmly. “What do you want to know tonight? Your death? Who you’ll marry?”

Elizabeth smiled excitedly at the show and tugged on both boys’ arms, pulling them down onto the small couch in front of the supposed fortune teller. The woman gave them an exaggerated smile, and Steve felt a shiver run down his spine for a second.

“I want to know who I’ll marry,” the blond said quickly, blurting out the first question that came to mind because he wanted to get this over with as fast as possible.

The woman closed her eyes and stroked the crystal ball on her table several times while murmuring words none of the three could understand.

“I see brown hair… and eyes the color of chocolate,” she said with a smile. “A fierce spirit… but you’re going to have to die.”

His skin prickled at her words and he shrank back in his seat. He knew it was all fake, but the performance still gave him a strange feeling.

“Do you want to know how you’ll die?”

He stayed silent, but Elizabeth encouraged him with a gentle nudge to the ribs. Knowing none of it was real, he cleared his throat and sat up straight again.

“Yes—” his answer sounded more like a question, but no one paid much attention.

The woman stroked the crystal ball once more, then suddenly opened her eyes and stared straight at him.

“You will perish in the cold, and those who know you will hear no more of you… but those who do not know you will remember you forever.”

Steve swallowed hard, feeling a knot form in his throat. He wanted to laugh, to make some sarcastic comment to ease the tension, but something in the woman’s voice and the way she looked at him kept him quiet. Bucky, sitting beside him, let out a dry laugh, momentarily breaking the heavy atmosphere.

“Wow, how original,” the brunet commented, crossing his arms with a mocking air. “And what about me? How am I going to die?”

The woman slowly turned her gaze toward him, her eyes gleaming as if she had been waiting for that exact question. She leaned forward, placing her hands dramatically on the table, stared at him for a couple of seconds, and then spoke.

“You will fall from the greatest height, and you will become a ghost to everyone who loves you.”

“Wow, that’s… dramatic,” Bucky muttered, clearing his throat to hide the shiver that ran down the back of his neck. “Now tell her,” he said, pointing at Elizabeth to escape the woman’s intense gaze.

The fortune teller fixed her eyes on her for what felt like an eternity. Her dark eyes shone with something Elizabeth couldn’t quite decipher. For a moment, the air inside the tent seemed to grow colder, and the noise from the street outside faded away, as if the world had stopped.

“You, child… you will not die. Your destiny is intertwined with theirs,” she added, indicating the two boys with an almost imperceptible tilt of her head.

Elizabeth’s nervous smile vanished from her face for a second, and her throat suddenly felt dry. She did her best to speak again.

“I won’t die? Is that good or bad?” she managed to ask, almost in a whisper.

“You will be the flame that keeps them alive… but that flame… could consume your own heart.”

Steve, clearly uncomfortable, leaned toward Elizabeth without taking his eyes off the woman in front of them.

“Alright, we’ve had enough tragic poetry for one night. Let’s go,” he said, standing up and trying to pull Elizabeth by the arm.

“Wait, wait,” Liz protested, resisting. She was intrigued by the poetic reading. “I want to know more. What does that mean?”

“It means your light is strong, dear, but you must be careful. The flames that illuminate can also destroy if they are not handled with care.”

Bucky let out a dry laugh, trying to hide his own nervousness, and then looked at Liz.

“Well, Liz, now you’re a metaphorical candle. Can we go?” The redhead nodded and stood up from the couch, with Bucky following close behind. “Thanks for the show,” the brunet said with a smile as they left the tent.

Outside, the cold night air seemed to pull them out of the strange unease the tent and the woman had plunged them into. All three let out a sigh at the same time, and Steve shook his head.

“That was way too intense,” the blond complained with a grimace. “We’re never doing that kind of thing again.”

“Well, that’s the magic of actors,” Elizabeth murmured. “But yeah… it was a bit much.”

“But it’s fake. At least we know that,” Bucky added, trying to reassure both of them and himself. “Better go dance before the night ends.”

“Yeah… yeah, that’s probably best.”

January 10, 1935.

The sharp scent of bleach and camphor hung heavy in the air, a subtle reminder of illness. The bright white walls did nothing at all to bring any sense of calm.

Elizabeth was a little more used to the cold, sterile feeling of hospitals—her mother being a nurse was the reason—but that brought her no comfort. The constant reminder that it was Steve lying in one of those rooms, and not some stranger, made her want to break down in tears.

The autumn and winter had been bitterly cold, cold enough to give Steve a severe case of bronchitis that only worsened his asthma and left him bedridden for weeks with no clear signs of improvement.

Neither of them would have been truly worried under normal circumstances; at their age it was likely he would recover. But Steve was far too frail for a sixteen-year-old boy. His lungs were much more damaged than most, and the risk of losing his life to an asthma attack like this one was high.

“He’s going to be okay,” Bucky murmured. Though the words were meant to comfort Elizabeth, they sounded more like something he was saying to comfort himself. “He’s been worse and he’s pulled through. He’ll be fine.”

The redhead offered a weak smile, wanting to give him some hope, but she was far more aware of the risks. Yes, Steve had been worse before—and that was exactly what made the danger greater now.

Gladys stepped out of Steve’s room, and both teenagers practically rushed toward her.

“How is he, Mom?” Elizabeth asked, her voice thick with worry.

“He’s better,” she assured them. Both let out a breath they hadn’t realized they’d been holding. Gladys smiled gently. “The doctor will give all the information to his mother, so you can head home. You haven’t been resting properly.”

“When can we come visit him?” Bucky asked.

“I’ll let you know when it’s appropriate, alright?”

Reluctantly, the two teenagers accepted Elizabeth’s mother’s instructions and left, though not before asking her over and over to call them the moment anything changed.

The walk home was quiet. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but neither of them knew what to say to comfort the other. In truth, there were no words that could soothe them right now. The only thing that would bring them any real peace was seeing Steve out of that horrible hospital bed.

“Have you been eating properly?” Bucky asked suddenly, when they were only a few blocks from Elizabeth’s building.

The redhead looked at him with a frown, questioning his sudden concern. It wasn’t that Bucky never cared about her well-being—it was just that, in that moment, something like that didn’t feel important. Her priority had to be Steve.

“You’re my friend too, Liz,” he murmured in response, as if he could read every single one of her expressions. “And I worry about you just as much as I worry about Steve.”

“I’m fine. He—”

“He’s being taken care of by the doctors. What about you?”

“I can take care of myself, Buck,” she said, smiling faintly to reassure him. “I always have.”

“You’re not alone anymore, Liz.” The brunet’s gaze stayed fixed on her. “Do you want to come and have dinner with me and Rebecca? I’m sure there’ll be enough food and—”

“Don’t worry, there’s food at home, and I have to get back before my dad does. You know how he gets.”

“Tomorrow?”

“If your mother doesn’t mind, then I’ll come.”

“My mom likes you,” he smiled. “But you have to eat something, okay?”

“I will. Don’t worry.”

They finally reached the building. The worn façade looked even more bleak now that it was winter, but both of them had grown used to it.

“Do you want me to walk you all the way up?” he asked, even though he already knew Elizabeth would probably refuse.

“No, it’s not necessary. I’ll be fine,” she smiled, gently shaking her head. “You go get some rest too.”

“Good night, Liz.”

“Good night, Bucky.”

Elizabeth climbed the stairs and stepped into her apartment. It was quiet, and although she usually didn’t mind the silence, the heavy weight of hopelessness in her chest kept her from feeling at ease.

“Everything’s going to be okay…” she whispered to herself, as if saying it out loud might convince her heart to believe it. “Tomorrow everything will be okay.”

Eventually Steve did recover. It took him a few more days to leave the hospital and a couple of weeks to finish recuperating at home, but in the end he regained the strength he had lost. Even though he was still a scrawny boy and the violet shadows beneath his eyes hadn’t disappeared, the smile that defined him seemed to shine even brighter than before.

May 15, 1935

“Have you thought about what you’ll do when you finish school?” Steve asked, handing Elizabeth the ice pop.

“Work, I guess,” she said with a shrug. “But we still have a year left, so I’m trying to take it easy. What about you? Are you still thinking about studying art?”

“Well… I don’t think there’s much work out there for someone like me, so… if I can make something with my art, then I’ll do it.”

“I’m sure you’ll be an amazing artist,” she encouraged him with a bright smile. “And then—”

“Hi, Grace,” an unfamiliar voice joined them. Both turned to see the newcomer: a boy with dark, perfectly combed hair and impeccable clothes. “I didn’t see you when school let out today.”

“Hi, Thomas. I had to meet up with my friend,” the redhead said, gesturing toward Steve. The blond simply waved. “Did you need something?”

“Ah, well… everyone’s making plans and I thought you might be going too.”

Steve quickly figured out what was happening and, with a knowing smile, took a step back. The boy was clearly trying to get his friend’s attention, though Elizabeth didn’t seem particularly interested in his clumsy attempts.

“Oh, no, I… don’t go out much,” she admitted with a smile that tried to look apologetic. “Where are you all going this afternoon?” she asked, more out of politeness than real interest.

“To the ice cream parlor on the corner. Some of the guys mentioned playing baseball in the park later,” the boy explained, his eyes shining with hope that Elizabeth might change her mind. “If you want to come, I could walk you home afterward.”

“That sounds really fun, but we already have plans, right, Steve?”

Rogers looked momentarily surprised but quickly stepped closer and nodded with an embarrassed smile.

“We’re actually waiting for a friend.”

“Oh. Right, I understand,” the boy replied, clearly disappointed even though he tried not to show it too much. He glanced briefly at Steve before turning his attention back to Elizabeth. “Maybe another day, then.”

“Sure.”

“See you at school, Grace,” Thomas said, giving her one last look before walking away with confident steps.

Once he was far enough away, Elizabeth let out a sigh and turned to Steve, who was now watching her with barely contained amusement.

“What?”

“Grace? Your admirers call you Grace now?”

“He insists on calling me that because he thinks it sounds more sophisticated than Elizabeth,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And Thomas isn’t an admirer… he’s just… persistent.”

“He doesn’t seem like a bad guy, Liz.”

“Well, I don’t know him that much.”

“And it’s pretty obvious he likes you.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to miss.”

“So? Why don’t you give him a chance?” Steve asked, crossing his arms with a raised eyebrow.

Elizabeth let out a soft laugh and shook her head.

“What? Are you my matchmaker now?” “I’m just saying it wouldn’t be bad if you went on a few dates, you know?”

The redhead made a face and shook her head gently. The truth was the idea didn’t appeal to her enough, and it wasn’t that she didn’t like anyone. It was simply that none of the boys who had approached her seemed like suitors who aligned with her ideals.

Most of them wanted a wife who would stay home, take care of the children, and live a simple, predictable life. Elizabeth didn’t see herself in that role, at least not at this point in her life. She wasn’t even entirely sure what she wanted to do with her life, and although her options were quite limited, she knew that staying home and having children until she couldn’t anymore wasn’t one of them.

“It’s just… I don’t want my life to be limited to that, you know? If I go out with someone or get engaged, they’ll do whatever they want with their life while I’ll have to do only what’s expected of me.”

“Have children and be a good wife,” he muttered.

Elizabeth nodded with a grimace.

“I want to know what else is out there so I can figure out what I really want to do. And not everyone is going to agree with that, especially my parents.”

Steve sighed and nodded, understanding exactly what Elizabeth was explaining. He dealt with a similar feeling whenever people reminded him of all the obstacles that stood in the way of him having a life like everyone else’s. In his mind, it should be up to him to decide, not the world.

“Yeah, I get what you mean.” They fell silent for a moment, and Elizabeth felt grateful to have such a good friend. “But, putting all that aside… isn’t there anyone you like?”

“What?”

“I’m just curious,” he said with a shrug, laughing at his friend’s expression.

“No, I don’t—”

“Hey!” Bucky’s voice called from across the street, drawing their attention. “Why are you two eating ice pops without me? That’s a whole new level of betrayal.”

Steve let out a soft chuckle, and just as he was about to reply, his eyes landed on Elizabeth’s face. A spark had appeared in the redhead’s gaze the moment the brunet smiled at her—a brightness Steve had never seen in Liz’s eyes before.

The blond smiled to himself and shook his head gently. It made so much sense.

July 12, 1935

It wasn’t unusual for her to spend time alone with one of them. Sometimes, when Bucky worked late, she and Steve would go out. When Steve was busy helping his mother, she and Bucky would go out.

It didn’t bother her. In fact, she didn’t have a preference for either of them; she loved both the same way… or at least that’s what she had believed until a couple of months ago.

It was becoming obvious to Elizabeth that the way she saw the boys had changed. She had noticed it as early as January that year, when her attention on her classmates began to shift, focusing more on the ones she found particularly good-looking. She thought that was terrible because she didn’t want to seem rude to anyone who didn’t deserve it.

However, even though she found some of the boys at school attractive, none of them seemed as interesting as the boy who now occupied her thoughts far more often than usual. She wasn’t completely sure how it had started. Maybe it had been on Barnes’ own birthday, when she had eaten cake so messily that she ended up with frosting at the corners of her mouth. Bucky, laughing softly, had taken her face between his hands and wiped it away with his own thumb.

She remembered the moment clearly. She replayed it in her mind again and again since it happened. It made her stomach flutter, but not in the way cod liver oil had when her mother made her take it as a little girl. It was the way she felt when she waited eagerly for Christmas morning—that restless excitement that made her chest feel light but kept her mind from staying still.

“Are you mad at me?” the brunet asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“Excuse me?” The redhead looked so confused that Bucky couldn’t help letting out a small laugh.

“You look really thoughtful,” he explained, tilting his head slightly. “And usually that means you’re angry with someone. It could be your father or the newspaper stand guy who always gets nervous when you go to buy one. But if it were either of them, you would’ve told me, and you’ve barely said anything since we got here. So my deduction is that I did something that upset you… though honestly, I can’t remember what it was.”

Elizabeth blinked a couple of times, surprised by the conclusion Bucky had reached. She knew him well enough to understand that, even though he spoke lightly, he was genuinely worried he had done something to upset her. And he knew her well enough to come up with that whole theory about her behavior.

“Have you ever thought about becoming a spy?” she teased, bringing the last piece of lemon pie on her fork to her lips. “You didn’t do anything, Barnes,” she answered at last, shaking her head with a small smile.

“Then why are you so quiet?”

Elizabeth shook her head again, trying to make him drop the subject because she wasn’t even sure she wanted to keep thinking about it herself.

“I’m just thinking about some things.”

“What things?”

She let out a tired sigh and quickly thought of something to tell him.

“I’ve been thinking about what to do after school,” she said with a shrug.

That wasn’t entirely a lie. It was something that had been on her mind the last few days, but it wasn’t exactly what she had been thinking about in that moment.

“And what have you thought?”

“Well…” She made a face before deciding to speak. “I think I want to be a nurse like Mom.”

“Really?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

“The original plan was to be a doctor, but Mom said that job is for men,” she shrugged. “Maybe if I start as a nurse I could work a little, study really hard so they’ll admit me to university, and save enough to pay for it.”

Bucky watched her in silence for a moment before leaning forward on the table with his elbows and flashing a crooked smile.

“Let me guess… you haven’t told anyone else about this, have you?”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together and looked away, poking at the remains of her lemon pie with her fork.

“Not exactly.”

“I knew something was up,” he said with a hint of triumph in his voice. “Why haven’t you told Steve? Or your mom?”

“The truth is I don’t know how my mother is going to react when she finds out I want to be more than a housewife, you know? And about Steve…” She made a small pout, trying to find the perfect words to describe it. “I guess I don’t want to disappoint him if things don’t turn out well.”

“And since when do you care what everyone else says?”

“It’s not that I care that much. It’s just… sometimes I’m scared that maybe the world is right. I know it’s going to be really hard and that it’ll cost me twice or three times the work of anything else I could choose to do. So I wonder what I’ll do if I don’t make it.”

“And what if you do?”

“Bucky…”

“No, seriously. What if you do make it? What if you prove everyone wrong and become the best doctor this damn country has ever seen?”

The redhead couldn’t help letting out a soft laugh. She shook her head and lowered her gaze, not because she was embarrassed, but because the fact that Bucky believed in her so fiercely only made that strange feeling in her chest grow stronger.

“That sounds a little exaggerated.”

“I don’t think so,” he replied with a shrug. “If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

Elizabeth stayed quiet for a few moments, and seeing that she wasn’t ready to answer, Bucky kept talking.

“Look, if you want to follow the path of becoming a nurse first and then taking the risk of chasing your dream of becoming a doctor, then you should do it. You’ve always been a compassionate person, you’re kind most of the time, you’re smart, and you have this stubborn streak that never gives in to anyone. That’s something that should count for a lot and could take you far no matter what path you choose.”

“It means a lot that you think that.”

“The important thing is that you think it too,” he said seriously. “So it doesn’t matter if you want to be a nurse or a doctor or a baker. Whatever you want to be and do, make sure you don’t give up, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she lowered her gaze to keep the tears from escaping.

That conversation, as helpful as it was, did nothing to steer her thoughts away from her clear attraction to Bucky. If anything, it only made it stronger. He hadn’t told her to do what her parents wanted, or that she shouldn’t try for university because in the end she would get married and do only what was expected of a wife, or that she had been born just to stand beside a man, serve him, and make him happy.

He saw her as a person with her own dreams and ambitions, someone capable of defying the rules and changing her own destiny. And that was exactly what made her like him even more.

September 20, 1935.

Elizabeth ran out of her house, her cheek burning and her face drenched in tears. She didn’t care about the curious stares from people on the street. She simply ran and ran until her legs gave out and she fell to her knees on the pavement, only a few meters away from Steve’s building.

She hadn’t done it on purpose. When she started running, she hadn’t been thinking of any specific destination, but in the end her feet had carried her there—to the only place where she felt she could breathe without the weight on her chest, without the world feeling so unfair.

The tears kept falling, hot and bitter, while she tried to control the sobs that shook her body. She hugged herself, curling over her knees, trying to pull herself together before anyone saw her.

“Elizabeth?” Sarah Rogers’ gentle voice reached her ears.

The redhead wanted to disappear. She hadn’t planned for anyone to find her like this, least of all her best friend’s mother—the woman she had always promised to be strong for, so she could take care of Steve.

Her gaze lifted to her, blurred by tears and the dirt from wiping her face with dirty hands.

“What’s wrong?”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to answer, but no sound came out. Her throat felt tight, trapped between the pain and the shame of being caught in such a vulnerable moment.

Sarah didn’t wait for a reply. With her usual kindness, she approached and knelt beside her, placing a warm, steady hand on her shoulder.

“Come inside,” she murmured with a soft smile, helping her to her feet.

Elizabeth nodded faintly and let the woman guide her up to the apartment. The moment she crossed the threshold, the smell of freshly baked bread filled her lungs and a sense of home wrapped around her, making her tears come back even stronger.

Sarah didn’t say a word. She sat her down at the table, offered her a clean handkerchief, and then poured her a cup of chamomile tea, placing it in front of her before sitting in the chair across from her.

“When Steven came home from school crying, I always gave him a little honey in his tea,” she commented with a smile. “I don’t know if it actually helped, but at least it made him talk.”

Elizabeth let out a shaky little sigh and took the cup with trembling hands.

“I want to be a doctor,” she said simply.

“Is that why there’s a bruise on your cheek?”

“My father read my diary,” she answered, shrinking into herself on the chair, deeply embarrassed. “He’s not very happy that I’m still thinking about it. He believes I should be at home with a husband or in a more suitable job for a woman.”

Sarah sighed, taking a moment before responding.

“Men like your father believe the world can only be one way because that’s how they were taught,” she said gently but firmly. “And when something challenges that idea, they react with fear… with anger.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to get married, but I don’t want my future to be reduced to that. I want marriage to be part of my life, not my entire life. I want it to be something I choose, not something I’m forced to do.”

Sarah looked at her with deep understanding, as if she could see straight through her. Then she nodded, as if Elizabeth’s words only confirmed what she already knew.

“You have every right to want more than that. Your life doesn’t have to revolve only around what others expect of you, and you must be the one who protects yourself from the people who want you to blindly follow something just because they think that’s how it should be.”

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough to protect myself from my father,” she murmured, staring into the steam rising from the cup. “I’m scared. I’m scared of failing and him being right. I’m scared of having to face this alone.”

“Being strong doesn’t mean not being afraid, Elizabeth. Being strong is moving forward despite the fear. And what you’re doing—defending your right to choose your own path—is one of the bravest things you can do.”

Elizabeth swallowed, feeling the knot in her throat loosen a little thanks to Sarah’s words. There was something in her tone, in the way she looked at her, that made her feel a little less lost. As if, somehow, she wasn’t so alone in that inner struggle.

“And do you think I can?”

“From now on, ‘I can’t’ has to disappear from your vocabulary, Elizabeth Grace. If someone knocks you down and tells you that you can’t, you get back up, dust yourself off, and keep going—because you can.”

The redhead let out a little giggle that escaped without warning, along with a couple of tears she quickly wiped away.

“And what’s so funny, young lady?”

“Now I see why Steve never runs from a fight.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Sarah answered with a knowing smile. “But I also know there are times when he doesn’t know how to ask for help. So if you ever need someone to help you get back up, you already know where to find me.”

“Thank you, really. I promise I won’t forget.”

Sarah smiled at her with tenderness. She had managed to calm her down and give her a bit of hope. The change in Elizabeth was palpable, as if a weight had been lifted, even if not completely.

“I’ll call your mother. You’ll stay here tonight. Maybe when Steve gets home we can listen to that radio program you both like.”

“Thank you.”

Sarah stood up from the chair, walked over to the telephone, and made a call that lasted just over two minutes. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat back down with Elizabeth, who still looked somewhat lost in her thoughts.

“You said you might want to get married someday?” she asked, trying to lighten the tension the conversation had brought.

Elizabeth’s cheeks turned pink, and the older woman smiled widely.

“It doesn’t seem like a terrible idea at all. I suppose marriage can be something beautiful if you marry the right person. I’ve seen some couples in the park who look very much in love. I’d like someone to love me like that one day.”

“And what kind of person do you want to marry?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. “I think I want someone who respects me and supports me, who doesn’t see me as an accessory or something that stays home while the world passes by. Someone who wants to walk beside me, not in front or behind.”

She thought about it a little more and her cheeks warmed again.

“On a more superficial note, I’d like him to make me laugh, to enjoy going dancing and… to be handsome, of course. I like brown hair, I think.”

Sarah let out a laugh and shook her head.

“That sounds a lot like someone I know. He lives a few blocks from here and his name is James.”

“Really? And how is he…?”

Sarah’s knowing look made her fall silent the moment she realized she was talking about Bucky. Her face turned so red it could have competed with the color of her hair.

A/N: at this point I guess grumpy lonely old man!bucky being obsessed with reader has become my trademark 😭 jokes aside, this was posted a while ago and tbh, it’s one of those stories that I had trouble finishing because... well, yk... 🥵 sorry for any typo and for the “unpolished” smut but I’m really tired and studying for my uni exams. hope you’ll enjoy it 💋

The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet at all hours, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns. Unfortunately, this also means that it’s the type of place where people wave too much and chat for way too long.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates.

He’s in his late forties and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at arm’s length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, built by labor rather than vanity, with thick arms, powerful shoulders, and rough hands scattered in scars and used to grease. There is also a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort.

This only makes him more noticeable.

He is attractive and single, the combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl working in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesn’t chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. Yet the lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper promptly end up in the first trashcan he sees—invitations and phone numbers he never glances at twice.

He had done the whole thing once already: the commitment, the shared space, the careful navigation of someone else’s expectations. It had not suited him then, and it certainly doesn’t suit him now. Whatever desire he had for that kind of life had burned out years ago.

His marriage had not even lasted that long. Too many arguments that circled the same problems, too many sharp words that lingered longer than they should have. His ex-wife cared too much about how things looked; he never cared enough. In the end, there was nothing left to fix that didn’t require one of them becoming someone else.

See, Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by himself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is just something other people have projected onto him while he built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers. Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.

As a matter of fact, the neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned to not bother him and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.

He calls the cops when the rich couple on his left throws backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because he’s trying to be petty, he simply doesn’t understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He always waits for the patrol car’s lights to flash briefly across his living room wall, jaw set and arms crossed, before going back to his book the second the noise dies down.

He files complaints when someone’s dog won’t stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to fuck off his property without even opening the door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a passive-aggressive, handwritten note to his mailbox about “participation” and “neighborly effort.”

Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street.

He has never decorated after that, out of spite. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.

His neighbors also learn to not park in front of his driveway, and to not ask him for favors unless it’s an emergency. They don’t expect pleasantries or smiles anymore, because Bucky exists like a locked door—solid, immovable, uninterested in what’s on the other side.

And it works. Until your arrival.

The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud since this morning. He stares from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long he’ll give them before complaining about the noise.

Then you step into view.

You’re carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someone—a friend, maybe—reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head and stubbornly keep going. It’s an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it already belongs there.

Bucky’s frown deepens.

You’re younger than most people who can afford a house in this part of the town, and pretty in a way that feels unfair—soft, bright, lively. You’re wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look… happy, comfortable.

The neighbors are immediately captivated by your charming presence.

Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich couple—fresh off their last noise complaint—wave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitman—the same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtains—shows up with lemonade to cool off, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesn’t sort his recycling “correctly.” 

He just observes, and that’s when you notice him.

Your gaze lifts absently and finds him standing stiff on his doorstep, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.

You lift your hand and wave.

“Hi!” You call warmly.

Bucky doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself you’re just another neighbor, another disruption… another reason the street won’t be as quiet as it used to be.

Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence in this fucking town.

The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. He’s just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him. He rolls his eyes.

“Oh, hi!”

Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder briefly, enough to see you standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail and smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t completely ignore you the first time you tried to introduce yourself.

He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just… noise.

“I’m your new neighbor.” You continue anyway, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name but he just nods imperceptibly.

You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment about the neighborhood… anything.

However, you are brutally plunged into an awkward silence.

“Okay.” You draw softly, but recover quickly. “Well, nice to meet you.”

You wait another second yet his gaze doesn’t move from the pile of envelopes in his large hands. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes burning through his back, curious rather than offended.

That somehow makes it worse.

The next few times, he tells himself it’s just bad timing.

He’s leaving for work when you’re coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching prettily in your hair. Of course, you pause when you see him, smiling like it’s reflexive.

“Morning.”

He hums, adjusts his jacket, and walks to his truck without breaking stride. 

Two days later, he’s unloading groceries when you’re struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.

“Shit.” You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement causes your skirt to ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching dangerously high as you balance on the balls of your feet.

Bucky looks away too late, his heart giving a series of uncomfortable, fast thuds in his chest. Swallowing thickly, his jaw tightens as he forces the fleeting image of your soft asscheeks snuggled in a pair of pastel green panties out of his mind. 

He hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he unconsciously steps forward, you’ve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one anyway and hands it to you without a word.

“Thank you.” You gasp, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.

Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else, the violent blush still sitting high on his cheeks has him feeling utterly humiliated.

You don’t stop greeting him after that.

At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.

On trash day it’s like you’re waiting by the window for him to walk out, because you’re always there. Sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, commenting about how warm it is these days.

“Hey.” You greet him softly one evening.

He doesn’t answer.

“You don’t talk much.” You add eventually, not accusatory. 

He stiffens, only to drag his bin to the curb harder than necessary.

“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean—”

He’s already walking away.

That interaction bothers him more than it should.

The next time you meet there, it’s early morning, the air still crisp, and Bucky’s barely awake to deal with existence. He’s dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours and struggling with a torn bag that’s almost spilling onto the pavement.

He stops without meaning to.

You look up when you hear his heavy footsteps, relief lighting up your face at once.

“Oh! Good morning—sorry, I think this thing hates me.” You chuckle quietly, embarrassed, still fighting to close it.

He observes you for a second too long, letting his eyes calmly trace the wrinkle between your furrowed eyebrows, before falling on your bottom lip trapped between your teeth.

With a tired sigh, Bucky steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.

Your eyes widen. “Thank you! I really appreciated that.”

Bucky shrugs, already turning away.

“Have a nice day!” You call after him.

He doesn’t answer, but this time, he doesn’t feel as justified about it.

By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesn’t take long before your name is pronounced with affection and pride, with the same tone people use when they feel incredibly fond of someone.

Mrs. Reeves can’t stop gushing about you often helping her carry groceries inside, and the rich couple brags—loudly—about you offering to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you bake delicious lemon bars, while Mrs. Johnson praised your kind nature after you volunteered to help clean up at the end of the last neighborhood meeting.

Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when he’s trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard... and he grits his teeth every damn time.

“She’s exactly what this neighborhood needed.” 

Bucky’s nostrils flare.

How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these leeches just take, take and take? You are so open, so willing to be involved, and God—your lips are constantly twisted into this bright, welcoming smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn... real.

And worst of all, you treat him like everyone else. Still polite, still warm. You beam at him like he hasn’t ignored you a dozen times over.

Irritation bubbles sharply in his chest every time his mind lingers too much on that thought.

Bucky is used to being judged and ignored, he knows how to live with it, how to justify it. But this quiet, persistent generosity doesn’t fit anywhere he has known until now.

On one of the rare summer dusks when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. He’s been chasing the same problem for an hour, the wrinkle between his brows deepening as his frustration grows. 

He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already huffing in annoyance.

“Hi.” 

His hands freeze.

You’re standing at the edge of his property, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like you’re bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.

Bucky straightens slowly, wiping his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.

“What do you want?” He asks flatly.

You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.

“I just...” You hesitate, then let out a small breath. “I wanted to ask if I did something wrong.”

That gets his attention.

He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is genuinely distressed, your eyebrows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.

“You don’t like me,” you continue softly. “And that’s fine, you don’t have to. I just—” You sigh, dejected. “I’d like to know if there is a reason, since... you know, we are neighbors, and I want to apologize if I’ve ever done or said something to offend you.”

His jaw tightens.

“You didn’t do anything.” He mutters reluctantly.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”

The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like a boulder pressing on his chest.

“Everyone says you like to be left alone,” you go on carefully. “I respect that, I really do. But I thought maybe saying hello wasn’t crossing a line.”

“It was.” He replies sternly, too quickly to be considered a mere slip-up.

You blink, clearly taken aback. A hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away very efficiently, as if you are used to regulating your emotions in situations that require neutrality.

You nod once. “Okay.”

Your eyes drop to the ground.

“Well, I’m sorry.” Your answer is no louder than a mumble. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

That word makes his stomach churn, but before his brain can elaborate anything useful, Bucky is watching you walk away with his jaw clenched.

That night, as he lies in bed, he stares at the ceiling longer than usual.

The sound of your voice replays in his head without his consent. The way you didn’t push, didn’t accuse, didn’t demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.

Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his peace intact. But why, for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesn’t feel as satisfying as it used to?

It’s later than Bucky’s usual bedtime, the house dark except for the warm lamp on his nightstand. He’s standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy after indulging too much at the bar with his friends. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze this summer decided to grant them this year.

That’s when a light flicks on across the street.

He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.

At first, it doesn’t register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. His face falls the moment he realizes that’s your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop: same height, same alignment. It allows him a clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.

Straight into your world.

You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop on your lap, the lamp beside you casting a golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in.

Bucky definitely believes his optometrist was just trying to squeeze more money out of him when he told him he needed glasses, because from here, he can clearly see your nipples poke through the thin fabric of your camisole.

An old, unfamiliar heat stirs low in his belly. He doesn’t remember ever seeing shorts that minuscule.

He shouldn’t be watching.

The thought makes Bucky turn away at once, like he’s been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.

Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.

When he risks another glance, just to make sure the angle isn’t worse than he thought, you’re holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. Your houses are too distant for the sound to reach him, but it’s not hard to pretend. He’s heard it before anyway—that soft, high melody that never fails to carry a note of genuineness.  

Forcing himself to step back, Bucky pulls his own curtains shut with more force than necessary. The room feels suddenly too small, too warm.

He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.

The following night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he won’t look.

He looks anyway.

Your window is lit once again and you’re stretched out on the bed, laptop open by your side this time. You look utterly absorbed in whatever it’s playing on the screen, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.

His body leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.

It’s almost… fascinating, being able to witness the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.

And you are even more beautiful lying there, unguarded and completely relaxed.

The thought comes uninvited and unwelcome.

Bucky swallows as his eyes narrow like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. There is no need to make a big deal out of this, he just happens to be here and without much urgency to sleep, that’s all.

He doesn’t move until your movie ends and your light goes out.

Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats. Disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. Those are the same nights he spends wondering if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the sleeves of your camisole delicately slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast upon.

When he does catch you, you’re on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. Each time, you also check your phone with a small grin, too often to be a coincidence. 

Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?

Days go by with Bucky sticking to the same nightly routine, until he eventually comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small habits without meaning to, like the way you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if you’ve forgotten something; or the way you stretch your arms over your head when you stand up, slow and uncaring of who might see you from the window that you always leave open. 

When you’re thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze drifting into nothingness. Sometimes you sit on the edge of your bed for a moment in the morning, shoulders slumping as if the day is slowly assembling itself around you.

When you laugh, you always tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you don’t want to miss the feeling.

Background noise is your best companion: a TV show you’ve already seen, music playing low from your phone, a YouTube video from your favorite gossip channels that help you empty your mind... anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You never wander barefoot, nudging things back into place with your slippers. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. It’s a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no one’s watching.

It’s summer, and that means you dress for it, much to his poor heart.

You are constantly wearing clothes that cling dangerously tight to your luscious body: lewd shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show how your beautiful curves leisurely bounce whenever you move. The way you’re always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.

You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, or lying on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air, you keep scrolling on your phone almost absently. When you’re tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstand—something to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.

Bucky hates how much he notices, how these seemingly stupid details carve themselves into his mind against his will. They feel earned, even though they aren’t.

Tonight, you are definitely not home.

Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It’s past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him, because you are a grown woman with a career and it’s a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.

This doesn’t stop him from perking up like a dog at his owner’s arrival the moment he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately deepening as a pair of headlights promptly follows close behind.

You’re not alone. 

Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. It’s almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesn’t know. It’s only when he reaches his bedroom after spending ten long minutes behind the curtains in his kitchen in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you, that Bucky finally registers the mysterious companion’s face.

It’s a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re half-naked on your bed, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs bare and parted. Your hand is curled in the man’s hair as his head works under your eager guidance.

Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in bliss. 

He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him. Because there is no way his lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open.

The faint moans from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes hungrily devour the sight. 

Still, an itch burns deep in his chest—an ugly, vengeful beast trying to claw its way out.

Your whimpers and breathy giggles haunt him long after your room has gone dark.

The worst part is that Bucky doesn’t stop there. Maybe he has become a masochist in his old age? Because he truly doesn’t know how to explain how he finds himself so enraptured by you, yet he can’t stop watching as each weekend a new man finds his way into your bed. At this rate, he’d need to make a dentist appointment just to make sure his jaw is still working. It feels permanently clenched these days, every muscle locked tight from the effort of keeping himself under control.

In theory, there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing, right? You leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you moan loud enough to attract his attention. And that makes him eventually cave, stroking his cock and coming all over his sweatpants when you’re riding your date of the week, your beautiful breasts bouncing with you as you chase your coveted orgasm.

The worst is that Bucky likes to pretend—in some deeply disturbed part of his mind—that you know he’s there, that you want him to hear. It’s not rare for him to wish your eyes would lock on his cock while you kneel on your bed to allow stranger after stranger to take you from behind.

What a miserable, old man. It’s so pathetic that at his age he’s been reduced to a lonely pervert spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks other men. It’s humiliating enough that he yearns to be in their place.

As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, though, the fact that you keep going on dates with random assholes is unbearable. He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just hard enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.

That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue. It’s unreasonable, he knows that. You’ve been living in this town for almost two months now and you’ve never exchanged a single word since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little hello’s and good mornings’.

But these boys don’t know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, squirming in the chair with a cute little frown until you’re balanced just right. They don’t see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the trinkets on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second too long on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.

They don’t know that when you get home from work you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those fifteen quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.

Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That realization sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness. 

And yet here he is, three months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesn’t recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently than usual—shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he can’t smell but somehow knows is there. Of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.

The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He starts resenting how these assholes get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.

The first time he talks to you after his fiasco it’s late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.

Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because he’s already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending to not see you wrestle with the big device. You’re wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and gleaming with what he assumes it’s coconut sunscreen.

Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.

“C’mon.” You mutter, releasing a sharp exhale.

Bucky sighs, sharp and annoyed—at the mower, at himself, at the way his eyes have been fixed on your ass for too long.

He cuts his own engine and gets closer.

“That mower’s flooded.” He comments offhandedly.

You startle, turning abruptly to face him. You didn’t hear him approach, that’s obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know you were—”

“Pulling it like that won’t help.” He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how harsh he had sounded the first time.

You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked. 

You sigh. “I don’t really know much about engines.”

He crouches beside the device. “Most people don’t.”

There’s a pause in which you frown at his back, your lips pressed in a thin line. 

“You don’t have to—” You start.

“I can fix it,” he interrupts, then winces slightly, clearing his throat. “If you want.”

You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like you’re trying to understand if he’s either onto some cruel joke, or if he’s going to make you pay real money for it.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.” Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.

“It’s fine.” He mutters.

Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely across your chest, your weight shifting from one foot to the other. He’s acutely aware of your uncertainty, of the way the last sun rays gently caress the naked curve of your shoulders, and your teeth worry over your glossy bottom lip.

When he’s done, he stands and nods toward the handle. “Try it now.”

You pull once, and the engine starts immediately, without stuttering.

Your face lights up. “Thank you so much.”

He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close.

Or maybe not close enough.

“Um,” you say, then smile sheepishly. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… I don’t actually know your name.”

His body stills completely.

“I mean,” you fret. “Everyone just calls you Barnes, and I didn’t want to assume—”

“James.” The word comes out before he can stop himself.

You blink, both your eyebrows raised in surprise. “James.”

He nods once, sharply. His ears burn at the way his name rolls softly on your tongue.

“Most people call me Bucky, though. My friends.”

Your smile turns into something less polite and more personal.

“Alright. Well, it’s nice to finally know.”

There’s another pause, a brief moment in which you simply look up at him with the same pretty eyes he has imagined full of tears as his cock sits heavy in your throat.

“You can call me whatever you want,” he adds quickly. “James or Bucky. Doesn’t matter.”

Your smile grows and the unfamiliar warmth of a blush starts spreading across his cheeks. His eyes jump away first.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.

After that, it becomes a pattern: you need help? Bucky pops out of nowhere ready to resolve your current predicament.

Like the day your car won’t start. Your hood is popped open as you pace your driveway while on the phone with a mechanic, the guy from the night before leaning against the car door looking useless as he waits for his uber, because the bastard doesn’t own a car.

And neither a wallet since you had to pay the entire check by yourself at a rooftop restaurant that he chose because he apparently knew the owner.

Bucky observes from his kitchen window, jaw tight and arms crossed against his chest. He doesn’t like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.

Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.

“Move.” He grunts.

The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.

“Bucky, hi. What—”

“I’ll take care of it.” He mutters simply.

He fixes it in less than ten minutes, and the guy claps him on the shoulder like they’re longtime buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down like a rabid dog until the other man clears his throat, awkwardly kissing your cheek before stuttering about his uber waiting for him at the end of the street.

Your eyes don’t stray away from your neighbor.

“I really appreciated it.” You quip. “You keep saving me.”

He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “I’m just good at fixing things.”

Sometimes it’s a loose nail on your porch steps. Sometimes a shelf that won’t stay level. Then it becomes a heavy package you can’t lift on your own, and too many shopping bags that you shouldn’t carry by yourself. Bucky always shows up like it’s coincidence, as if he wasn’t stalking you from his window five minutes earlier.

He never talks much, just grunts, nods, and mumbled greetings. But you don’t complain; not when you get to have a free front-row seat for his bulging arms as the fabric of his t-shirts fights for its life.

There are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during your girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that carry an unusual amount of intensity. Well, it shouldn’t come as shocking since your neighbor is indeed intense.

Whenever your eyes meet, however, he promptly looks away, cheeks turning a light pink shade and shoulders tense like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You don’t hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when he’s done. You don’t invite him to stay longer, nor do you push conversation. And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it from the very beginning.

Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features. Even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen.

He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha for a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of the local crowded bar wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. He listened more than talked, like always, nodded at the right moments and let the conversation wash over him.

Still, his knee didn’t stop bouncing under the booth.

Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm on Bucky’s thigh to stop the frantic movement, his eyebrows lifting in a silent question.

He stilled for exactly ten seconds.

Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, amused. “You got somewhere to be, Barnes?”

He grunted. “No.”

It’s a blatant lie, and they all knew it.

The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though there’s nothing on it—no messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.

Because if he stayed out too long, he might not see you before going to bed.

Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Sam’s pointed remark, “You sure you’re okay, Barnes?” and Natasha’s knowing smirk.

The drive home was fast, his knuckles turning white at the tight hold he kept on the steering wheel.

It’s been a week. Seven days since he’s seen you with anyone. And the fear—that sharp, ugly thing moving in his chest—hasn’t still gone away. It’s just been waiting.

The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.

Empty, except for your car.

Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.

Still, he didn’t trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadn’t even had a car and had the nerve to force you to drive him home the morning after, like he had any right to ask such a thing. The memory made Bucky’s hands close into two fists, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldn’t have to play chauffeur for idiots who don’t know how to behave in front of a goddess like you.

He parked, cut the engine, and didn’t linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the couch, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.

Your light is on, and there you are.

No one else in your room, just you—alone, safe, winding down.

Bucky exhales, the sound slow and heavy, as if it waited all day trapped in his lungs. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his ribcage eases just a little. He can tell that you are probably going to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he decides to look for the sweats and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas in the meantime.

He’s in his boxers with his broad, hairy torso fully on display, when he commits the grave mistake of glancing out his window, a meaningless check that ends up punching the air out of his lungs.

The covers have been thrown back and your phone now lies forgotten on the mattress by your side because your hands are too busy fondling your breast through that stupidly thin camisole. Your panties are snuggled between the folds of your pussy, the fabric tight and wet. Your eyes soon squeeze close as your index fingers quickly flick over your nipples, making you flinch at every electrifying jolt of pleasure.

He’s seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself.

You pull your nipples harshly, your back arching up to follow your cruel fingers, before you start playing with them through the fabric of your top. As his boxers grow tighter and his breath labored, he wonders if you are pretending it’s someone else’s toying with your turgid peaks.

Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, his hands limp at his sides clenching into two perfect fists that turn his knuckles white. He could take care of your breasts: kiss the soft flesh until you are begging him to make the ache go away, and then spend the rest of the night worshipping your nipples with his mouth and the light scrape of his teeth. He could suckle on those pretty nubs and then flick them with his warm tongue until you gush in your panties, your tits numb and your pussy clenching around nothing.

What prompted this? Were you watching something on your phone and craved the same release you looked for after every date? Or were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?

Your chest heaves as both your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the hem of your panties and throwing the fabric somewhere on the floor.

He wishes he could be there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work your curves. He wishes he could take the same panties you just discarded and bring them home with him, your unique scent still clinging onto the delicate fabric. Bucky would risk it all and bring them to the garage just to lock himself into the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock. He would suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him throughout his shift, just to keep his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo of pain and bliss until he can come home and finally slide back into your wet warmth.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters, gasping as he palms his painful erection.

A low groan claws out of his throat as his hand meets wet fabric, precum steadily leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling.

Bucky watches in awe as you lift the hem of your camisole up until your collarbones, your eyelids fluttering shut in relief as your hands can finally feel your tits without barriers. He must look so pathetic as he strains his ears in hope to catch one of your sweet mewls.

Your fingers glisten after you touch your aching pussy. Your mouth forms a perfect circle when you play with your folds, biting your bottom lip as you inevitably end up stroking your throbbing clit.

Bucky can’t help it anymore as he shoves his boxers mid-thigh, allowing his fingers to wrap around his imposing length. His teeth draw blood from his bottom lip as he tries to muffle a loud groan when he falls into the rhythm of lazily strokes.

When your digits finally plunge inside, Bucky shivers with you. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable as he imagines splitting you open himself and watching you swallow up his long fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin under his calloused hands.

When his eyelids flutter open again, you are sitting up. His teeth grind as his dark eyes follow the length of your gorgeous body. Then, you turn around, back to the window... and kneel.

His eyes trail the curve of your ass in awe, before a strangled moan almost makes him choke when you bend over, finally giving a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.

His breath hitches, lips parting when your knees spread until there is nothing else to hide. Bucky is one thread of self-control away from running to your door and begging you to let him kiss and lick your pretty pussy the way it deserves. He would nurse on your clit and guide your hips to grind on his face until you suffocate him with your thighs. His cock twitches at the sole thought of playing with you so good you end up squirting all over his face.

He would pay to live between your thighs and for you to use his body whenever, wherever and however you want.

His eyes eagerly follow the movement of your fingers as they are lightly dragged through your wet folds, his tongue lazily licking his lips as he notices your slick lewdly clinging to your skin. From this position, he can clearly see your thighs tensing as you dip your fingers back inside, your other hand snapping back up to grab one of your tits. Your fingers cruelly tug and flick your hard nipple, causing you to squirm at the double stimulation.

Bucky wonders if you would trash around just as much with his cock stretching you out. If your hips would fidget so cutely from how restless and cock-drunk you are; if you would like for his rough hands to press you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it.

His hand instantly matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically finger yourself, precum sticking to his palm as he uses it to make the glide smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he can’t, not when you alternate strong thrusts with harsh slap to your clit, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up.

Bucky licks his lips again, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you everywhere. You’d be so fucking wet for him as he pounds into you, deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he roughly throws your legs over his shoulders, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making.

They would burn every time water hits them, a living reminder of your tight pussy.

Suddenly, you are squirming harder, and Bucky imagines your features go slack. Or maybe your eyes are rolling back as your lips part around a filthy moan muffled by those fucking sheets. He senses the pressure in his abdomen threatening to burst at the thought of how good you must feel right now, utterly lost in the throbbing of your pussy and the cruel thrusts of your own fingers. So engrossed that you couldn’t care less about exposing your bare, wet core to your open window, disregarding the fact that anyone walking by could accidentally look up and see your little debauched show.

Did you do that on purpose? Are you so desperate that you hope someone might see you and touch themself to you playing with your sweet pussy?

Bucky growls out a curse.

He can tell you are close by the way your hips keep jerking helplessly to meet your ruthless fingers.

When you finally come, it’s completely different from the previous times with your dates: your torso heaves dangerously fast and your body shudders and shakes as the electrifying climax claims you entirely. You end up gushing all over the sheets, crying out as your squirt sprays all over your hand, the inner skin of your thighs, the bed... It’s a complete mess and Bucky wants to punch a hole through the wall.

With a trembling breath, the pressure snaps for him as well. He comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking as hot spurts of cum coat his hand—some even land on the wall by the window. He doesn’t stop stroking yet, not when you are still kneeling on your bed, face pressed against the mattress as your fingers lazily tease your wet folds, your poor hole helplessly clenching around nothing.

When he can think clearly again, Bucky notices his sight is a little foggy. The intense release leaves his head spinning, and one of his hands has to shoot forward to balance himself against the windowsill. Yet he refuses to move from his favorite place until you sluggishly straighten up on your shaky arms. His breath hitches again at the weak, content smile on your face as you suck your fingers clean.

Tonight, he reflects with his eyes still hungrily staring at your naked breasts, his need for you has been sated. But Bucky knows this will never be enough.

That Sunday morning you hear on the news that it’s going to rain all day. The sun is out when you check on your flowers by the porch, still, you choose to not water them for now, glancing every few minutes toward the horizon where dark clouds have been slowly swallowing the bright blue sky.

By lunch, the air feels thick and humid against your skin, the familiar chirps of the birds going strangely quiet.

You are rinsing a plate in the sink when the first crack of thunder rolls across the neighborhood. It’s not close enough to be alarming, but you pause anyway.

A second rumble follows several minutes later.

Then a third.

And rain starts shortly after.

At first the sound of the fat drops tapping against the windows is kind of relaxing. You expected it to pass within twenty minutes, just like any other summer storm. Except the wind starts picking up, causing the trees behind your house to sway dangerously strong. Thunders grow louder and closer, and by the time you wander into the living room to look outside, rain is battering sideways against the glass violently enough to blur the entire street.

The power goes out merely five minutes after. One second the living room is faintly illuminated by the warm glow of your rose gold lamp and the flickering light of the television, the next everything vanishes beneath a blanket of darkness.

You have just finished lighting a candle when a deafening crack echoes somewhere outside, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. The noise is so sudden and so loud that it tears a startled gasp from your throat before you can stop it, leaving you motionless in the middle of your living room with your pulse racing.

It’s the sharp sound of a knock that makes you flinch all over again.

For a brief, embarrassing moment you simply stare at the entryway, your imagination unhelpfully supplying every possible horror movie scenario before common sense finally reasserts itself. Nobody is wandering around suburban neighborhoods during a thunderstorm unless they have a very good reason.

The second knock comes almost immediately afterward, so you finally cross the room to open the door.

The sight of your grumpy neighbor is unexpectedly reassuring, even if he is the last person you expected to find standing on your porch.

Even if Bucky Barnes has slowly become a more regular presence in your life than either of you would probably admit, there is an abysmal difference between him helping when a problem presents itself, and him showing up at your front door in the middle of a downpour.

Rain has dampened the shoulders of his dark t-shirt and left small droplets clinging to his long hair, but he looks otherwise unaffected by the weather. His gaze lands on your face and remains there for a second longer than necessary, his expression carefully neutral despite the obvious scrutiny.

“Are you alright?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. “Hi, Bucky.”

His mouth tightens slightly, and instead of returning the greeting, he asks again. “Are you alright?”

There is a note of urgency in his voice that immediately makes you straighten.

“Yeah,” you reply, clearing your throat to get rid of that hint of surprise. “Yes, I’m alright.”

His eyes briefly scan your face as though he’s verifying the answer for himself.

“Did the branch hit the house?” The question comes so quickly it almost overlaps your response.

“What?”

“The one that fell in your backyard.”

Your eyes widen. “What the hell?”

A small frown appears between his brows. “Didn’t you hear the noise? A tree branch came down a few seconds after the power went out.”

“Oh.”

That’s what that noise was.

“Did it hit anything?”

Your eyes land back on his solemn expression. “I don’t think so...?”

One of his eyebrows lifts. “You don’t think so?”

Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips. “Well, I haven’t exactly gone outside to conduct a thorough inspection. The weather’s been making that a tad difficult.”

For a moment he simply observes you in silence, before giving a short nod. The movement is subtle, but it carries an unmistakable sense of relief, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, that realization warms your chest.

Before you can ask if he needs anything else, a particularly violent crack of thunder splits the air. The sound is so loud it seems to shake the entire street, rattling the windows hard enough to make you flinch.

Bucky’s blue eyes instinctively drop to your shoulders, registering your reaction.

“My electricity’s still on.” He blurts out, the words almost sound as though they’ve escaped by accident.

You blink. “Okay?”

His gaze flicks briefly on your lips before returning to your eyes.

“If you want,” he starts, oddly careful. “You could come over until they fix it.”

Behind him, lightning illuminates the grey sky in a flash of white. You watch him shift awkwardly where he stands, and it occurs to you that he looks strangely tense, though not in the irritated way you’ve grown accustomed to over the past months.

If anything, he seems uncomfortable.

It’s such an unfamiliar look on the mean, old Scrooge of the neighborhood that it takes your brain a moment to fully accept it. In all the months you’ve known Bucky, you’ve seen him annoyed, impatient, guarded, even awkward on occasion... but you’ve never seen him hesitant.

The uncertainty beneath all that careful composure is unexpectedly endearing.

For the first time since you’ve moved in this small town, Bucky doesn’t look like a man trying to keep everyone at arm’s length.

He looks like a man hoping you won’t say no.

Bucky disappears into the kitchen with a muttered comment about making coffee, some of the tension that had accompanied the walk through the storm finally beginning to ease from your shoulders. The sound of running water drifts from the other room as you wander farther into the living room.

You have spent weeks wondering what his house looked like on the inside.

The answer, it turns out, is exactly what you should have expected.

Nothing about the room feels designed to impress anyone. There are no decorative pieces chosen because they match a color palette, no trendy furniture purchased from a catalog, no signs that he has ever stood in a home goods store and wondered whether a particular lamp would tie the room together. Everything appears to have been selected because it serves a purpose.

The couch is large and comfortable, upholstered in a dark fabric that would probably survive a natural disaster. The coffee table is solid wood, bearing enough small imperfections to suggest it was built by hand rather than purchased. A folded blanket rests neatly over one arm of the couch, and even from several feet away you can tell it has been folded the exact same way a hundred times before.

The room is clean but there are signs of life everywhere you look, none of them accidental, though. A mug sits on a side table beside an armchair. A motorcycle magazine has been left on the corner of the coffee table. A set of keys rests inside a ceramic bowl near the front door.

Every object appears to have a place, and every place appears to have been carefully chosen.

Your attention eventually settles on the bookshelf occupying most of the wall where the TV is located.

“Well,” you murmur to yourself, moving closer. “This feels promising.”

The shelves are packed tightly enough that some books have been stacked horizontally on top of others. Most of the collection is exactly what you would expect from someone like Bucky: history books dominate the upper shelves, many of them thick enough to qualify as blunt-force weapons; there are biographies, military histories, books about espionage, intelligence operations, and wars that lasted years. Lower shelves contain books about engineering, restoration projects, woodworking, mechanics, and enough technical manuals to make you wonder whether he has ever encountered a machine he wasn’t determined to dismantle.

The psychology section catches you by surprise.

At first you notice one or two titles.

Then five turn to ten.

Soon you’re standing in front of an entire shelf dedicated to trauma, memory, relationships, attachment theory, behavioral science, and enough books about human interaction to make you laugh quietly under your breath.

Your eyes continue scanning titles with a subtle admiration for the older man, until a pink cover makes you stop.

“No.” A grin immediately spreads across your face, because wedged between two thick books about obsessions sits a romance novel.

You pull it from the shelf and examine the cover, where a broad-shouldered man glares possessively while holding a woman against his chest.

“Oh, Bucky.”

You cover your giggle with your hand, sliding the book back into place only to discover other romance novels not too far away.

The revelation is so unexpected and so delightfully embarrassing that your hopes for this rainy afternoon have been restored.

You reach for one of them, intending to inspect the cover more closely, and that’s when something slips free from behind it.

The object hits the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.

Your smile falters, prompting you to briefly glance over your shoulder, but Bucky seems to be too busy to notice the noise.

Crouching down, you quickly reach for what seems to be a black journal that has inevitably fallen open.

You only glance at the page because you’re trying to close it, until your limbs freeze, because that’s your name written inside.

The handwriting is unmistakably Bucky’s—or well, it must be. Unless there is some roommate hidden somewhere who only comes out at night.

The page begins with a date, followed by a paragraph... about you.

You read the first few lines without fully understanding what you’re looking at, shaking your head in astonishment as your eyes go back to the beginning.

She spent most of the afternoon in her backyard in a red bikini pretending to read. I don’t think she made it through more than ten pages before she fell asleep. The book slid off her lap eventually and startled her awake. She looked around immediately afterward to make sure nobody had seen it happen. Looks adorable when her eyes widen in surprise.

As you turn the pages, confusion gives way to a sharp realization.

Every entry is about you.

Every. Single. Day.

Some are short, others span several pages, yet each one is carefully dated, documenting something from your life.

She came home later than usual tonight and sat in her car for eleven minutes before going inside. I don’t like to see her exhausted. Whatever happened at work must have been bad because she didn’t even stop to check the mail as usual.

As usual?

How many times has your neighbor watched you to take on your little unconscious habit?

Your eyes move lower.

I almost walked over and punched that asshole in his teeth. Didn’t. She probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

The entries continue. Page after page after page.

The yellow sweater again. I still think it’s her favorite. Is yellow her favorite color?

She talks to her flowers when she thinks nobody is listening.

Murray spent twenty minutes talking to her today. I couldn’t hear the conversation and I hated that more than I should have.

You swallow thickly, your breath hitching at what comes next.

Another date tonight. He arrived late and she apologized to him for being too early. I still don’t understand why she lets people walk all over her.

Your eyes momentarily look away with a sigh. 

It’s been weeks from your last date, and though it’s not that long, it still feels strange, noticeable in a way you don’t quite know how to explain.

You haven’t heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even shown as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.

You know dating is messy, and chemistry isn’t guaranteed. Honestly, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missing—an ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.

Still, it stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something more than a couple of pleasantries the day after, at best. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. You still had fun, sure, but it left you wondering if you’d imagined the connection at all. Until you’d started to wonder if the problem was you.

You swallow, shaking your head lightly as you go back to the next page.

She came home smiling, but it wasn’t real. I know the difference.

You gasp at the next paragraphs.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I did it. I went over to that asshole and told him to not come back. He ran away. Filthy coward.

I threatened two other guys. I know she would probably hate me for this, but they never wait for her to wake up, and my girl deserves better.

His girl?

The farther you read, the more obvious it becomes that these aren’t mere records of an unstable, bored neighbor.

She bought a new sundress. Nothing too different from the others, but this one is a shade lighter of blue. Like the one covered in small daisies (the same one who hugs her prefect cleavage tightly). Nobody else would notice the difference. I did.

I heard the sound of her laugh from my room yesterday night. I never slept so well.

This morning I caught a whiff of her hair as she greeted me before going to work. Did she change shampoo?

There is something painfully intimate about the way Bucky writes about you, as though every insignificant moment has been carefully preserved and revisited later. He notices things your friends probably don’t register until you are the one telling them. Things you don’t notice about yourself but that completely make sense.

This notebook is not a simple log. It reads like devotion twisted into something unhealthy.

Your fingers tighten around the cover as you turn another page.

I should stop looking for her every night.

The handwriting grows slightly messier beneath that sentence.

I should stop wondering who she’s with when she doesn’t come home until late. I should stop thinking about her when I’m trying to work. I should stop imagining conversations that never will happen. I should stop watching her when she comes out of the shower.

I should stop. But I don’t want to.

By the time you hear footsteps approaching from the kitchen, your pulse is hammering hard enough to echo in your throat.

When you lift your head, you find Bucky standing in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee.

The moment his eyes land on the notebook, every trace of color drains from his face.

“James.”

This mountain of a man actually flinches, his eyes wide on the object in your hands. His jaw tightens when he notices your expression—furious, eyes blazing.

“What is this?” Your voice comes out far quieter than you intended. Still, your hands snap the journal close with a sharp thud.

That seems to unsettle him more than if you had shouted.

Bucky carefully sets the mugs down on the nearest surface before dragging a hand over his jaw.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.” He replies tiredly.

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s what you have to say right now? Seriously?”

His expression tightens. “No.”

“You’ve been literally documenting my entire life like I’m some kind of lab project.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not—”

“Don’t,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t start minimizing it.”

He swallows thickly.

“You…” Your voice shakes. “You’ve been watching me like this the entire time? Every day?”

“I didn’t—” Bucky starts, then stops again, as if he can’t find a version of that sentence that could help him. “I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what?” You laugh, caustic and humorless. “Do you have any idea of how I feel right now? It’s fucking insane to find out that the same man who ignored me for months and barely acknowledged I existed, has written pages upon pages describing my fucking perfume and confessing to threaten the people I bring home.”

His gaze drops again as he steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.

“Do you do this with everyone?” You press, words coming faster now, sharper. “Is this some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor until you decide to start… what, cataloguing people?”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You are so fucking confusing.” You continue, voice rising. “One minute you won’t even look at me, and the next you’re mowing my lawn, carrying my groceries like it’s your job—”

“I just wanted to help you.”

“—and for fuck’s sake, you were threatening my dates!” You shriek. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”

The room is plunged into an uncomfortable silence, the only noise being the gentle pitter-patter of the rain from the opened window in the kitchen.

Bucky takes that moment to let his eyes wander over you. Your chest is heaving with distress, your eyes shining slightly… and still, you look fucking gorgeous, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.

“I just want you safe.” He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.

You scoff. “From what? Dating?”

“From them.” He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. “From men who don’t deserve you.”

You blink astonished. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“They take what you give them and then run away,” he shoots back. “They leave before morning like you’re something they’re ashamed of. Like you’re disposable.” His voice lowers, growling with conviction.

You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt change in his behavior, yet you refuse to back down.

“That still doesn’t make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.”

“I know,” he stresses, stepping closer despite himself. “But watching you give your time so easily to guys who don’t even have the decency to say goodbye before disappearing like fucking criminals—who can’t see how lucky they are for you to spare them even one second of your attention… sweetheart, it drives me fucking insane.”

You can feel a certain wetness spread across your panties at his growl, but your brows furrow in irritation. “You don’t even know them.”

“I know enough.” Bucky answers fiercely. “I know none of them are good enough for you.”

Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.

“I didn’t ask for... whatever you are doing.” You whisper eventually.

“I know.”

“Then stop deciding things for me!” You bark. “Stop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to introduce yourself in the first place!”

Bucky steps closer again. Now you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, hot and bright, but there’s something far too dangerous curling underneath it.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and his nostrils flare.

“Every time you bring home someone,” he starts quietly. “I tell myself it’s none of my business. Every damn time.”

“And yet.” You mock ironically.

“And yet,” he admits through gritted teeth. “I lose my fucking mind.”

Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous.” Swallowing, you try to steady yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end.

“You don’t get to act like this when you’ve never given me anything back.”

His hand lifts, hesitating before your wrist, then drops again at his side like it’s taking all his restraint to not touch you.

“I’m trying,” he hisses. “I swear to God, I am.”

“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.

“To stay away from you.”

You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. “Then why are you still standing here making excuses?” You provoke, slightly tilting your head.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Bucky’s brain is screaming at him to step back, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad idea—your anger, his obsession, the line he’s already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.

But all he can think about is the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. He’s spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous, and now you’re right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.

His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last thread of distance between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails leaving behind crescent shapes like that would be enough to hold himself back. His ears are ringing, completely drowning out reason, his heart pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everything—or change it beyond repair.

God, he wants you so bad.

He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isn’t just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That it’s been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.

He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth, his hands reaching for you like it’s instinct, like gravity has finally won. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, his thumb lovingly stroking your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, and that’s when you really notice how close he is to losing control. 

His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desire—it’s so intense that you can feel him everywhere without him completely touching you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creeping up your neck, his blue eyes flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake he’s about to make.

Bucky’s been fighting this longer than you have, and every step he’s taken toward you these last months has cost him something precious.

His sanity.

And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.

Because you need this.

You want the man who’s been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.

Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere and see what happens when he finally understands that you’ve been craving him just as much. Yet you stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out he’s begging for.

The journal is long forgotten on the ground by the time hunger flashes across his eyes, and Bucky finally makes you his.

The kiss is exactly what you imagined before falling asleep every night: pent-up and desperate and full of everything he’s been swallowing down for months. His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, more teeth and tongue than lips. You moan quietly at the feeling of his hands moving frantically and certain—one still gripping your jaw while the other fists the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself. 

It’s rough, urgent... too much and still not enough.

You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed at once when he deepens the kiss. Delicately tilting your head back, he looms over you as his arm tightens around your torso with a low groan. 

Your hands come up without thinking, clutching his shirt as you kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until there’s nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frenzied pull of your clothes.

Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing heavily while his hand cups your cheek like he needs to make sure you’re real.

“Shit.” He mutters, wrecked. His lips are on yours again, slower this time but no less intense, as though he’s trying to memorize the shape with bruising urgency.

His hands wander everywhere they shouldn’t like he can’t decide what to hold onto first, a low sound out tearing out of his chest when he squeezes the flesh of your ass.

“You know how hard it was watching that?” He speaks against your lips.

You blink dumbly and he laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurt him. His grip tightens. 

“You have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...” His jaw flexes. “Do things I could only live in my wildest dreams.”

You press a hand to his chest, firmly. “Bucky.”

For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours when that rare pink blush appears high on his cheeks. 

“I started that journal because I thought it could keep me sane.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to watch you at first. It just… happened one night. And then I couldn’t stop.” His voice drops, raw and shaky. “Every night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... when you weren’t.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. “I know.” You admit softly.

“I apologize for how you had to find out but not for doing it—” He stills, eyes widening slightly. “What did you just say?”

“I hoped you would.” Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. “Every time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.”

Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly as his arms squeeze your waist, pressing you firmly against his chest. Beneath your hands, he feels warm and strong in the most reassuring way. His body carries the strength of someone who has spent a lifetime working with his arms, thick muscle hidden beneath a layer of softness that only makes him feel impossibly solid.

“What was that little act you put up here just now, huh sweetheart?” He pants against your mouth. “All this time I’ve been beating myself up over it.” His lips move on your neck, making you gasp. 

“An old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty younger neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving my cock into her sweet pussy.” You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek again, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind. 

“But you are just as filthy as me, baby.” 

Your heart is desperately trying to get out of your chest, excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your belly at his rougher treatment. 

His other hand grips your jaw sternly to force you to meet his eyes. “Am I right?”

Your fury is now reduced to a distant, fading hum. You don’t stop him when his hand ends up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little. 

“Bucky.” You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. “S—Someone might see.” You protest weakly.

He briefly glances around, noticing the sun is finally out again and you are both standing in the middle of his living room, right before the window overlooking the main street and the sliding ones leading to his backyard, directly attached to the rich couple’s house. 

“Better stay quiet then.” 

And his fingers slide in your panties to play with your folds, his other hand still fondling your ass. 

Your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure. 

“There we go, sweetheart.”

You tilt your hips into his hand in a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low snicker. 

“How were they?” He mumbles against your collarbone, surprisingly put together as he lowers your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. “Did they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?”

You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. His other palm comes down on your ass, heavy and unforgiving, making you whimper.

“Answer me.” 

“Not—not like you.” You admit, head falling forward with a gasp as his thumb works over your throbbing nub, rubbing it with a steady rhythm. “Oh my God.” 

“Good girl, right answer.” He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. “That’s why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those bastards weren’t satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy ol’ neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.”

Your fingers dig into his forearms as you feel your climax approaching, raw and electric.

“Don’t be so full of yourself.” You manage, voice shaking and face still hidden against his shoulder.

“Hm, I’ve indeed a thing full just for you, doll.” He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing insistently against your palm. Your eyes go wide at the imposing shape.

Your fingers twitch, squeezing his bulge as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you. 

“What? Cat got your tongue now?” His hot whisper tickles your ear. “That’s right, feel it sweetheart. That’s all for you, look what you do to me.” He grits out.

His fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips. 

“Quiet. The kitchen window is open, and that asshole Murray could come out any minute.” He murmurs against your mouth. “Unless you want him to see you like this.”

You can’t elaborate a logical answer, even if you want to scream that no, you only want Bucky’s attention, though the possibility of being caught with him fingering you right in the middle of his living room only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction of his thumb on your clit.

“C’mon, doll.” He pushes, panting as your fingers keep toying with his erection. “Come prettily around my fingers and I’ll let you touch it.”

Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. “I—fuck!” You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his firm pec.

“This is what you wanted?” Bucky murmurs on the top of your head, voice cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling.

He barely puts effort into hiding his smug smile, leisurely looking out of the window for any nosy pair of eyes while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didn’t just make you come on a random Sunday afternoon.

You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Bucky’s breath hitches at the sight of your bitten-raw lips and hazy eyes. 

“Need more.”

He makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. A whimper escapes your throat at the depraved action before Bucky pulls back to study your features, a string of saliva connecting your shiny lips.

“Stay put.” He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bending over the windowsill. 

His muscled arm comes over you and opens the window, leaving your torso exposed to the driveway. 

“Such a messy girl.” He mutters to himself. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs. 

He promised he would let you touch it. 

“Don’t whine. I have to make sure she’s ready for it, sweetheart. How else is my fat cock gonna fit in this tight little pussy?” 

You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip when the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You can’t believe you’re really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. It’d be pretty obvious to anyone walking by what’s going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnes’ house—the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human being—and your lips keep parting around shameless moans.

It could take anything to make your neighbors across the street look out of their window and see you.

“Bet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you crying for a grumpy, old man’s dick.” He taunts, spreading your legs apart as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. “Such an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Barnes for everyone to hear.” 

His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the humid air to take a tentative lick. “I knew you’d taste fucking delicious.”

“Careful, old man.” You pant shakily, eager to see him lose control. “At your age you can’t go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... anything can—Bucky!”

Two of his fingers slide inside your hole at once, leaving you gasping and holding onto the windowsill for dear life as your legs tremble embarrassingly hard.

“Ah.” He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. “You just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?”

You nod whimpering, resting your cheek on your crossed arms. It’s incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.

His hands are relentless on your poor body, kneading the flesh of your thighs as your hips literally hump his face. 

“She’s so pretty.” Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches your slick soil your inner thigh. “Look at your puffy clit, babygirl, throbbing for my attention.”

You squirm a little at his quiet, filthy words, heat already rising violently on your cheeks.

“Perfect pussy,” he breathes out, giving your nub another little lick. “Perfect ass. Perfect tits.” He squeezes your butt. “You’re perfect everywhere, doll.”

A quiet moan falls from your lips as Bucky leaves soft kisses along your core, his salt-and-pepper stubble scratching slightly at your sensitive folds, but the sensation only makes your hole clench desperately around his motionless fingers.

Finally, his mouth closes around your nub, suckling on it gently.

“She’s all sticky and messy because she loves when I play with her, right baby?”

You nod even if he can’t see you, sniffling but still trying to hide your face against your arms resting on the windowsill. It’s only then that your eyes snap open at the sudden loss, hearing Bucky standing up with a little, pained groan. 

He fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers hanging mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip flushed and leaking. Relief washes over him as he strokes it a few times, while his other hand parts one of your asscheeks to expose your core. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.

“Did they fuck you raw?” He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.

“Good girl.” Your eyes roll back at the praise, shivering when the fat head glides through your swollen folds. “‘M gonna ruin you for anyone else, pretty girl.”

The tip catches on your hole, and your body instantly goes rigid.

“Big.” You gasp out with your eyes squeezed shut. 

Bucky simply chortles, cooing at your shaky breathing.

His hands soothe your hips, trailing up and down your sides absently as his eyes stay locked on your entrance perfectly stretching around his girth.

“You can take it.”

Bucky’s breath hitches as he forces himself to nudge his length gradually in, letting you savor every vein dragging along your sensitive walls, and allowing your body to adjust to the burning stretch. Your toes curl in bliss when you decide to focus on the sensation of being stuffed full, quietly taking a deep breath as his cock twitches softly inside you.

“Look how well you accepted me.” He grunts, a layer of presumption in his words as he draws back gently, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your waist to push back inside, his tip now bullying directly your sweet spot. 

You clench around him with a little whimper, relieved that Bucky uses his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill as he gradually builds a steady rhythm with his hips. He fills you so wonderfully, burying his cock deep enough to make your vision blur. 

However, the sharp sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to stop the squeaks and moans from spilling out is a severe reminder of the unusual silent afternoon.

“It’d be enough for our neighbors to take a peek outside of their window, and they’d catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut that you are.”

You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly but not too fast—just how you like it.

“Some of them could be watching right now.” He taunts you in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your breast, before yanking the front of your dress down as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family. 

Your pussy makes a squelching, humiliating sound as more slick gushes out at his teases, promptly met by his mocking laugh. “Yeah? You like that? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.”

You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded fingers tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from your smooth hands. Bucky’s palms are weathered and callused from his job—he’s always been a little gruff, so there’s nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while thrusting into your pussy.

It’s primal and fast, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.

“Feeling good, hm?” His voice drops to a low rasp, chest heaving as fast as yours, even if he keeps up his arrogant facade. “My pretty dirty slut who likes to show everyone how good I make her feel. Jus’ need a thick cock inside her and she’s gushing like a little fountain.” He snickers.

Your entire body locks in at his dirty words, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. You’re pretty sure the mix of soppy sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonates loud and clear across his front lawn.

“Yes yes yes!” You mumble deliriously into your arms. “Right there, Bucky.”

He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.

“Gonna come, oh God, please please don’t stop.” You whimper.

“Fucking hell.” He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you tighten. “Sweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I’ll make you leak for days—”

“Please!” You blabber louder, completely forgetting about the fact that you’re getting fucked raw for anyone to see. 

Your eyes roll into oblivion as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips desperately twitch in his hold.

“That’s it,” he draws out. “That’s it, she’s tightening so good around me. Now it’s my turn, gonna fill you up so good you’re gonna feel me for days.” His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.

“You’ve been so fucking good for me. Keeping your curtains open so I could empty my balls to the sight of these pretty tits…” He keeps rambling, panting against your cheek.

“She’s all full now, hm?” He grits through clenched teeth as you nod eagerly. “But I wanna see her drool, my dumb baby too full of me to keep it inside.”

“Bucky…” You mumble lightheaded. “Gonna come again.”

“Yeah?” His smile is depraved. “Creaming my cock once wasn’t enough? Need to mark what’s yours, babygirl?”

“Yes!” You wail out, falling over the edge for a third time. Your eyes cross as you sob out a string of breathy whines, still clenching, still gushing around him.

This particular orgasm is so powerful that your head starts spinning.

“I’m coming too, baby. Shit—” He groans, loud and broken. His cock throbs, spurting rope after rope of warm cum, his fingers digging into the skin of your waist painfully as he keeps thrusting into your warmth until he is flinching out of sensitivity.

You are grateful for his possessive hold on your body since your legs seem to be too weak to fully support you. Meanwhile, Bucky is still trying to catch his breath against your nape, careful to not put all his weight on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.

Maybe you were right…. maybe he really did get a cramp.

When Bucky slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, pulling a chuckle full of mirth out of him as he carefully helps you in an upright position. Who knows how long you’ve been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge your sore joints.

A sharp sting prickles, indeed, your lower back, yet you couldn’t be more satisfied—another reminder of how thoroughly you just got fucked.

“Took me so well, sweetheart.” He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own exhaustion.

He hums into the soft kiss on your forehead, before his fingers gently cup your chin to press a peck on your lips. Sighing content, his eyes close, allowing his lips to gently ghost over your temple.

“Finally mine.”

The months of stolen glances and burning, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now it’s just you, Bucky, and no stupid dating app in between.

Still... sometimes you sit right in front of your window, legs spread and eyes fixed on him while your boyfriend sits in his own chair as he strokes his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy. Occasionally, it’s some hefty dildo, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.

And although this little game of yours never fails to end with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, his pants shamelessly unbuttoned as he crosses his driveway... Well, it’s not nearly as satisfying as doing it together.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🩶 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

Bucky told himself he wouldn't fall in love with her.

She wanted something casual, no strings attached, just fun with one condition: he caught feelings, he was out. He'd intended to follow it. In the beginning, it was easy enough. He was a player, a ladies' man (and a men's man); sex without romance wasn't a challenge for him, and he enjoyed getting a little cardio in without having to go for a run. Easier on his knees, mutually beneficial, and a hell of a lot more fun. No, what happened in bed wasn't the problem.

Every pure intention ended when the good times started.

His favorite moments with her were completely removed from the bedroom. When he'd gotten to Stark Tower, Tony was understandably skeptical of him and his story of being de-programmed, and Adelaide had more or less been assigned to watch over him. Being a mind reader and with Bucky's mind so fucked up, she was privy to his every thought.

That's why it surprised him that she hadn't pushed him away yet. She knew he'd fallen for her, that he was fond of her in more ways than was friendly or even friends with benefits-ly. She never brought it up. He'd failed the one thing he wasn't supposed to do, and she seemed completely fine with it.

He couldn't complain. Whether it was cooking together, finding things to decorate his new room with, or swapping book recommendations, he reveled in every opportunity to get to know her. She made him feel… worthwhile. Accepted. Like he wasn't a monster. Without meaning to, she'd become his home. He didn't know why she let him stay when he'd broken the rules, but he was glad that she did.

What he didn't know was she'd fallen for him, too.

“Don’t tempt me,” Bucky muttered, voice low and rough as he leaned against the doorway.

You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer, just enough to make the air between you feel heavier. The room was quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside the window, but neither of you seemed interested in anything but the moment stretching between you.

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” he continued, but there was no real warning in it. Only restraint that was slowly slipping.

“I think I do,” you answered softly.

The whole night had been nothing but badly veiled innuendos and "innocent" touches that to everyone else looked like foreplay. But now, Bucky was hesitating, old habits of doubt surfacing.

“Yeah?” he murmured.

The question hung there, but you didn't answer it out loud. Instead, you closed the gap between the two of you, kissing him and showing him in no uncertain way that you knew what you were doing.

“Did you ever think about it?"

"What?"

"Playing in a rock and roll band!" Bucky exclaims, rolling off the bed, stretching his ink-covered arms over his head.

"No," You laugh, "It's not really me, is it?"

Bucky swipes a water bottle from the hotel's mini fridge, sauntering back over, "It could be." 

"I don't think so, I'll leave that to my chart-topping boyfriend," You comment as he cracks open the bottle and takes a swig.

"You'll get there soon." He jokes, and you throw a discarded sock at him.

"I've been there, thank you very much."

Bucky hums, sitting back down on the bed, kissing your bare shoulder, "Yeah, you were, baby— fuckin' killed it."

"Well, I've got a very handsome muse to write about." 

He smiles, "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!" You can't stop the mischievous grin that appears on your face, "Sam's a great piece of eye-candy."

Bucky pouts, "Take that back."

"No."

"Sam could never write what I write about you."

"That's unfair, considering you have first-hand knowledge."

That pout quickly morphs into a sly smirk.

"And it's gonna stay that way."

Bucky leans down, kissing you slowly, nothing like the heated make-out session after his show earlier that had you both falling into bed.

"Next album, there's gotta be less songs about us fucking." You murmur against his mouth.

He grins, nipping at your bottom lip, "What can I say? I'm just a guy in love with his girl's—"

"James Buchanan Barnes!"

His head falls back as he cackles at his own crude joke, and you shake your head.

"What am I gonna do with you?" You sigh, curling into his side.

"Write a song about me?"

You look at him with a smile, brushing hair away from his forehead.

"Careful, I just might."