bucky

You’re bent over tightening your mare’s cinch when you hear boots scuff on gravel and a low whistle.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” a warm voice says behind you. “That’s the prettiest view I’ve seen all summer.”

You straighten slowly, pushing your hat back with the back of your wrist, ready to tear into some cocky idiot who thinks he can comment on your ass before noon. You turn around, mouth already open—

—and forget what you were gonna say.

He’s tall, broad shouldered, dusty blue plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, worn ball cap pulled low over shaggy brown hair. There’s a little smudge of oil on his cheek, a crooked smile at the corner of his mouth, and eyes so blue you feel like you’ve been dropped into cold water.

You swallow. “If you’re talkin’ about my mare, you’re right,” you say, crisp. “If not, you got about three seconds to adjust your attitude, cowboy.”

His grin widens like you just fed him dessert. “Y’know, I meant the horse,” he lies easily. “But now that you mention it…”

You arch a brow. “Name?”

“Bucky.” He shifts the bull rope higher on his shoulder and sticks out a hand. His palm is rough and warm. “Bucky Barnes. Figured I’d roll through your little circuit here, win all your money, then head south for the big leagues.”

You ignore how his hand swallows yours and how your pulse kicks under your skin. “You’re awful sure of yourself for someone I’ve never heard of.”

“Guess you haven’t been listenin’ hard enough, darlin’.”

“Don’t call me darlin’,” you snap on instinct.

He smirks. “What should I call you then?”

You tell him your name and watch the way he rolls it slowly on his tongue like he’s tasting it. His gaze flicks down to your belt buckle—last year’s barrel racing champion, your county fair logo etched in silver—and something in his face sharpens.

“So you’re the barrel racer I gotta beat, huh?” he asks.

“You’re a bull rider,” you point out. “Different events.”

“Still the same all-around pot.” He kicks a boot at the dirt. “And I heard there was this girl out here, runs barrels like it’s a blood sport. Figured she’d be my competition.”

You shrug, pretending your cheeks aren’t burning. “Guess we’ll see if you can stay on longer than eight seconds before you go talkin’ big.”

He laughs, low and delighted. “Oh, I like you.”

You hate how it makes you want to smile back.

Bucky Barnes spends the rest of the summer proving you right and wrong, all at once.

He is cocky. He does talk too much. And he can ride like the devil.

You watch from the fence the first night he nods his head in the chute, hand wrapped in the rope, mouth set in a grim line. The bull explodes into the arena, twisting and leaping, hooves carving gouges in the dirt. Bucky moves with him—hips loose, shoulders squared, heels dug in. Every time the bull tries to whip him off, he’s there, like he’s welded to leather and muscle and fury.

Eight seconds hit and the buzzer screams. Bucky lets go, throws himself off, hits the ground and springs up again, sprinting for the fence. The crowd roars, dust swirling around him.

He tips his hat up toward the bleachers, searching until he finds you.

You’re already clapping, heart pounding in your throat.

He winks.

Show-off, you think savagely—and can’t stop your grin.

He finds you afterward by the trailers, where you’re walking your mare to cool her out. He’s got his hat pushed back on his head, hair damp with sweat, shirt sticking to his chest. There’s mud on his jeans, a scrape on his jaw, and adrenaline still in his eyes.

“Well?” he asks. “Did I pass your little test?”

“You loosened up your free arm this time,” you admit, because you know he’ll just bug you until you say it. “Didn’t let the bull control your shoulders. Looked good.”

He beams like you just handed him a first-place check. “Looked good, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Barnes,” you warn. “It’s already too big.”

He spends the next week proving exactly how big it is, pestering you at every rodeo on the circuit. He shows up at your trailer with greasy fair food and a lopsided grin. He leans on the fence at morning warm-ups, calling out teasing critiques about your turns around the barrels.

“You’re droppin’ that inside shoulder,” he calls one day, boots hooked on the bottom rail. “Quit lookin’ at the barrel. Look past it.”

“Yeah?” you shoot back, cheeks flushed. “Maybe if you quit thinkin’ with your dick you’d make your dismounts a little cleaner.”

The guys beside him howl. Bucky just laughs, slow and delighted, like every barb you throw is a gift.

Some nights, when the stars are clear and the air soft and warm, you find him sitting on the top rail of the arena fence after everyone else has gone. He’s quiet in those moments, jaw working, hands folded loosely over the front of his thighs.

“Thinkin’ about leavin’ already?” you ask one night, swinging yourself up beside him.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Thinkin’ about winnin’ enough to matter,” he says lightly. “This circuit’s… good. Real good. But there’s bigger money down in Texas. Vegas. Sponsors.” He glances at you. “Can’t ride small forever.”

You roll the dust between your fingers. “Nothing wrong with small,” you murmur. “Some of us like the life we got.”

He’s silent for a beat. “You ever wanna get out?” he wonders.

You consider the dark outline of the arena, the distant glow of the ferris wheel on the fairgrounds, your mare chewing on hay somewhere behind you. “Sometimes,” you admit. “There’s bigger rodeos I’d like to run. Different patterns, different arenas. Maybe Denver, Cheyenne. But my family needs me. And this place…”

This place is your roots. Your daddy’s ranch. Your mama’s kitchen. The graveyard where your grandparents rest and the kitchen table where you learned your first barrel pattern with cans of beans.

“It’s home,” you finish.

He studies your profile. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you say. “You won’t shut up about it.”

His shoulder brushes yours. The contact is warm, solid, grounding. You stare straight ahead, heart thudding loud in your ears.

You don’t kiss him then. You could. You picture turning your head just enough, catching his mouth with yours, tasting dust and sugar and danger.

You don’t.

Not that night.

You make it to the second-to-last rodeo of the circuit before you break.

It happens in the cramped space between your trailer and the stock pens, the air humming with generators and laughter and the metallic clang of gates. You’re leaning against the trailer wall, tugging off your boots, when Bucky corners you.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “They just posted the draw for next week. You see it?”

You shrug, tugging at your sock. “I was a little busy tryin’ not to die in that second barrel turn.”

He grins briefly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were smokin’ it. Don’t start.”

“Tell that to the second barrel I kissed,” you mutter. “What’s the draw say?”

“They added a bull.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Somebody backed out, so they slotted me in. It’s—” He swallows. “It’s a rank one. From a big stock contractor down south. They only brought him up ’cause there’s a scout comin’ through. And—”

“And this is your shot,” you finish dully.

“Maybe,” he says. “If I cover him with a good score, there’s a sponsor at the next rodeo who might pick me up. Truck, travel money, maybe a spot on their string. It’d… it’d change things.”

For him. For you.

A lump settles in your throat. “That’s what you wanted,” you say carefully. “Right? Big leagues.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is.”

Your fingers curl against the trailer siding. “So why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”

He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “’Cause someone might,” he says quietly. “I just… I gotta figure some things out.”

“Like what?”

He steps closer. The diesel generator hum and country music from someone’s radio fade to a low blur. It’s just him and you and the smell of leather and sweat and the faint sweetness of cotton candy drifting on the breeze.

“Like how to ask you if you’d ever wanna come with me,” he says roughly. “And how to do it without soundin’ selfish as hell.”

Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”

“I know you got your folks,” he rushes on. “The ranch. Your mare. I know this place is yours. But I…” He trails off, jaw working. “I didn’t plan on you,” he admits. “Didn’t plan on spendin’ all summer thinkin’ about the way you laugh when you beat me out of the trailer park ’cause you drive like a damn bat outta hell. Or how you tap your hat brim three times before every run, like it’s some secret ritual.”

Heat prickles at the back of your eyes. You’d never told anyone about that. You didn’t think he’d noticed.

“Didn’t plan on wantin’ you in my corner when I ride,” he says. “Now I can’t not think about it.”

You inhale shaky. “You think you can just drag me all over the country to watch you get your brains scrambled?” you demand, voice trembling more than you’d like. “That’s your big plan?”

He flinches. “It’d be more than that,” he says. “We—”

“We what, Bucky?” you snap, nerves fraying. “We live out of your busted truck? I find a way to barrel race in between your events, if we can afford it? My parents are down a hand on the ranch and I’m off chasin’ some dream that isn’t mine?”

“It could be yours,” he protests. “We could hit different rodeos, bigger ones. You’re good enough. You know you are.”

“That’s not the point.” You shake your head hard. “My life is here.”

“And mine’s out there,” he says hoarsely.

Silence stretches between you, hot and taut.

There it is.

“Seems like you already decided,” you say finally, swallowing the ache. “So what are you askin’ me for?”

His face twists. “Because I’m an idiot,” he mutters. “’Cause I keep hopin’ there’s a way to have both.”

“There isn’t,” you whisper. “Not really. You know that.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. “So that’s it? I go. You stay. We pretend this summer never happened?”

“Didn’t say that,” you manage. “Just… don’t ask me to choose between you and my family when you’ve already chosen.”

He stares at you like he wants to argue. Like he wants to promise things he can’t guarantee.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he nods once, sharp and pained. “Guess I’ll just have to give you somethin’ to remember me by then,” he murmurs.

You don’t have a chance to ask what he means before he’s crowding you gently back against the trailer, one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just shy of your waist like he’s asking a question.

You answer by fisting his shirt and dragging him down.

The kiss is a collision—teeth, breath, the scrape of stubble against your chin. Heat flares low in your belly, bright and desperate. His hand finds your hip, fingers digging in like he’s scared you’ll vanish. He tastes like dust and adrenaline and a hint of the lemonade he stole from you earlier.

“Tell me to stop,” he roughs against your mouth.

“Don’t you dare,” you breathe.

Later, you’ll remember flashes more than anything: his hands shaking as they push your shirt up, the reverent way his fingers trace the curve of your waist; your back arching off the old quilt in the bed of his truck under a sky full of stars; the way he keeps asking if you’re sure even after you’ve pulled him down with a curse and a kiss. The heat of his body, the stretch, the overwhelming rightness of having him so close it feels like he’s under your skin.

You’ll remember his voice, low and wrecked, murmuring I got you, I got you, as he holds you afterwards, your fingers tangled with his, his breath uneven against your hair.

You’ll remember the shape of his promise.

“I’ll call,” he tells you roughly, forehead pressed to yours. “Soon as I know what’s what. I swear, honey. This isn’t… I’m not just leavin’ you behind.”

You want to believe him so badly that it hurts.

Instead, you kiss him one more time, slow and aching, and memorize the taste of goodbye.

He rides the rank bull.

He covers the eight seconds.

The scout notices.

The sponsor calls.

He leaves.

You don’t chase him. You watch his truck taillights shrink down the highway from the edge of your family’s property, arms wrapped tight around yourself until the night swallows the last glimmer of red.

You throw up in the barn two months later.

You blame bad fair food and stress and the ache of your heart. But the weeks pass, and your jeans start to feel different, and your mama gives you a look across the breakfast table that makes your fork freeze halfway to your mouth.

“Baby,” she says gently. “We need to talk.”

When the truth comes spilling out, you brace yourself for anger. For disappointment.

Your mama just squeezes your hand until your fingers hurt. Your daddy goes quiet, lips set, and then gets up from the table and goes out to the barn. He spends an hour there with the horses, shoulders bowed.

He comes back in and kisses the top of your head without a word.

You text Bucky that night. Fingers trembling, you type out I missed my period and I think—

Then you stop.

You stare at the blinking cursor. At the old messages—his dumb memes, his good-luck texts before your runs, his I miss you more than I miss my hat, and that’s sayin’ something.

You stare at the single unread message from him, sent two weeks ago, the last thing you got.

Sorry, honey. Things are crazy. Promise I’ll call soon. Big sponsor meeting. Think about you every time I tie my glove.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I bet you do.”

You select his number.

You hover over the call button.

You think about his dreams, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about Vegas, about the NFR, about buckles the size of dinner plates and checks that would pay off his daddy’s debts and then some.

You think about forcing a choice on him that he already once couldn’t make.

You think about your daddy out in the barn, cleaning stalls with his jaw clenched, giving you space to fall apart.

You delete the message.

You turn your phone off.

You throw yourself into the ranch instead. Into morning feeds and evening checks and training younger horses for other barrel racers. You sell your mare’s spot at the next big rodeo and instead buy baby clothes you keep hidden in the back of your closet until your belly makes it impossible to deny.

Your daughter is born on a cold March night, ten fingers, ten toes, lungs strong enough to shake the rafters. You name her Willa—soft and stubborn and rooted—mine, you think fiercely, as she curls her tiny fist around your finger.

You don’t write his name on the birth certificate.

You whisper it into her hair when you rock her at night, though. When she fusses and you pace the creaky floorboards, you murmur stories about a blue-eyed bull rider who once made you feel like the whole world was spinning under your boots.

You tell yourself you’ll tell her properly one day.

First, you have to figure out how to breathe again.

Ten years later, you walk into the same fairgrounds with calluses on your palms, a few more lines around your eyes, and a nine-year-old barrel racer at your side.

“Loosen your reins a little comin’ into the pocket,” you tell Willa as you walk alongside her pony. “You’re pullin’ too much and it’s costin’ you your momentum.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she chirps, adjusting her grip. Her dark hair—your texture, his color—is braided down her back. There’s dust already on her boots, glitter on her cheeks, and a determined set to her jaw that makes your heart both ache and swell.

She is too much like both of you.

You try not to think about that.

You swing her saddle onto the pony’s back, showing her again how to smooth the pad, check the cinch. She chatters about school and how her friend Lacey says she’s gonna beat her time today and how that just means Willa’ll have to run even faster.

“Competition keeps us sharp,” you tell her, tying off the latigo.

“Like you and Nana in the kitchen,” she says, eyes dancing. “Arguin’ over whose biscuits are better.”

“Nana’s biscuits are better,” you admit. “But don’t you dare tell her I said that.”

Willa’s laughter rings out bright and clear, a sound you’d bottle if you could. You reach over and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, your chest tight.

You almost don’t see the banner at first.

WELCOME BACK TO THE CIRCUIT, BUCKY BARNES! it proclaims in bold red letters over the main arena entrance. SPECIAL GUEST CLINIC AND EXHIBITION RIDE.

The world tilts on its axis.

“Mama?” Willa asks, frowning up at you. “You okay? You look funny.”

You swallow hard, drag your gaze away from the banner. “I’m fine, baby,” you lie. “Just remembered somethin’ I forgot to do.”

Bring the past back where it belongs, you think. Leave it buried.

But it’s too late. His name is everywhere. On posters by the concession stand. On a cardboard cutout by the registration table. On kids’ T-shirts that say BUCKY BARNES FAN CLUB with a cartoon bull underneath.

Willa’s eyes go wide as she spots one. “Mama! Look! That’s the bull rider Nana watches on TV sometimes. The one in Vegas who almost got stomped but then didn’t.”

“Mm,” you manage, throat dry. “That’s him.”

“You know him?” she demands eagerly. “Have you ever met him?”

You force a laugh. “Somethin’ like that,” you say.

You spend the next hour in a fog, checking and re-checking Willa’s tack, braiding her pony’s mane, signing her in at the registration table. People you’ve known your whole life greet you, compliment Willa’s progress, ask after your parents. You smile and nod and say the right words in the right order.

All the while, your stomach is in knots.

You could leave.

You could pull her out, feign sickness, toss her pony back in the trailer and go home. If you’re quick, you could be halfway down the highway before his clinic even starts.

But Willa has worked all year for this. She’s been up at dawn, running patterns on frosted ground. She’s earned this run.

You won’t take that from her just because your heart remembered how to break.

“Riders for the peewee barrels, please start makin’ your way to the warm-up pen,” the announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeaker, crackling slightly.

Willa bounces on her toes. “That’s me!” she squeals.

“That’s you,” you echo. Your hands shake as you boost her up into the saddle, checking her stirrups, double-checking her helmet chin strap. She’s got your old lucky charm clipped to her saddle—your first little silver horseshoe, tarnished and dented.

“Tap your hat brim three times,” you remind her, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “Look past the barrel, not at it. Let him run. You know what you’re doin’.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she says again, solemn this time. She leans down and hugs your neck hard. “Love you, Mama.”

You close your eyes for a second. “Love you more.”

You lead her toward the alleyway, heart lodged somewhere in your throat. The stands are fuller than you’ve seen them in years, buzz of excitement humming through the air. Word travels fast when a living legend comes home.

As you guide Willa’s pony into the holding area, a wave of whistles and cheers rolls across the arena. A voice you haven’t heard in a decade booms through the speakers, lower now, rougher, but so achingly familiar you almost stumble.

“Afternoon, folks,” Bucky Barnes drawls over the mic. “Hell of a turnout today, huh?”

Don’t look, you tell yourself. You focus on adjusting Willa’s stirrup leather, on smoothing a hand down the pony’s neck.

You look.

He’s at the center of the arena, mic in hand, hat shading his face. He’s older—not old, just… lived-in. Crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, jaw a little sharper, hair shorter on the sides, longer on top. The easy grin is the same, though. The way he moves, comfortable in his skin in the middle of all that dirt and noise.

He’s in a crisp button-down with a sponsor’s logo on the sleeve and a buckle big enough to serve breakfast on. His limp is slight but there when he walks, a hitch you wouldn’t notice unless you knew his stride like the back of your hand.

You do.

“So before we get to the big bulls later,” he says, “we got the most important event out here—the peewee barrels. Y’all make some noise for these kids, yeah? They’re the future of this sport.”

The stands erupt. Willa’s eyes shine.

“Mama, he’s so cool,” she whispers down to you, awestruck.

You swallow. “He thinks he is,” you mutter, before you can stop yourself.

She giggles. “You sound like Nana.”

“Yeah, well,” you say. “Nana’s smart.”

The first little rider tears through the pattern, the crowd cheering like it’s the NFR. You watch Willa’s face as she follows every move, little hands tight on her reins. She taps her hat brim three times—one, two, three—the way she’s seen you do in old photos.

Your heart squeezes.

“And up next we got Willa,” the announcer calls. “Willa —, ridin’ Ponyboy. Y’all give her a hand!”

You walk them into the alleyway, give the pony’s rump a pat. “You know what to do,” you murmur. “Trust yourself. Trust him. Just breathe and ride, baby.”

“Breathe and ride,” she repeats.

You step back.

Bucky is at the other end of the arena, by the announcer’s stand, but as Willa bursts out of the alley, he turns.

His hand goes still on the rail.

For a split second, your eyes meet across the churned-up dirt, across a decade. The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. His mouth parts. The mic hangs forgotten at his side.

Then Willa is flying.

She sits deep, hands forward, little boots pressing gently at the pony’s sides. She leans just right into the first barrel, Pony’s hindquarters dropping and digging, dirt spraying. They explode out of the turn and head for the second, Willa’s braid snapping behind her like a banner.

The pattern is tight and smooth and fearless. She is joy and speed and pure, bright determination.

You’ve never been more terrified or more proud.

Bucky is watching her like the rest of the world ceased to exist. There’s something almost haunted in his expression—recognition, wonder and a dawning horror that makes your stomach twist.

She looks like him when she grits her teeth coming out of the third barrel. Like you when she throws her hands up crossing the timer line and lets out a wild, delighted yell.

When the time flashes on the board, fastest so far, the crowd goes insane.

Willa whoops, circling her pony and heading back toward you, face flushed, eyes shining.

“Did you see?” she gasps as she reaches you. “Mama, did you see?”

You catch her leg, laughing through the tears you refuse to let fall. “I saw, baby. You were incredible. That was textbook. I’m so proud of you I could explode.”

She preens, glowing.

“Hey,” a voice says behind you, breathless and rough. “That was one hell of a run.”

You freeze.

Willa’s eyes widen as she looks past you. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” she breathes. “The bull rider.”

You turn slowly.

He’s closer than you thought—hat off now, held in one hand, the other on his belt buckle like he’s trying to anchor himself. His gaze flicks from Willa’s face to yours and back, taking in every detail.

Up close, the years are sharper: the faint scar at his temple, the deeper lines around his mouth, the way his shoulders carry tension like a second skin.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours. “That’s me.”

“Can you sign my hat?” Willa blurts, then clamps a hand over her mouth, mortified.

Bucky’s mouth quirks, but his eyes are wet. “Be honored to,” he says. “If your mama’s okay with it.”

Willa swivels to you, pleading. You could say no. You could throw up walls and boundaries and a decade’s worth of carefully constructed distance.

You exhale. “It’s fine,” you manage. “If you want, Willa.”

She thrusts her hat at him, practically vibrating. “Please.”

He takes it carefully, like it’s made of glass, and pulls a Sharpie from his shirt pocket. His hand shakes as he writes. When he hands the hat back, his fingers brush hers. Something flares across his face when she smiles at him—something vulnerable and broken and so, so hopeful.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” she says politely. “Did you see my run? Mama says I gotta look past the barrel and not at it, and I remembered this time.”

“I did see,” he says. His voice is rough. “And your mama’s right. She usually is.”

“You know my mama?” Willa asks, curious.

He chokes on a sound that might be a laugh. His gaze slides to you, question written all over his face.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know your mama.”

You send Willa off with your parents to get a snow cone and check the posted times. Your mom gives you a sharp, assessing look as she takes your daughter’s hand, but doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes your arm in passing, silent support.

When they’re gone, you’re suddenly very aware of how close Bucky is. How many eyes are around you. How many years sit between your heart and his.

“Could we…?” he starts, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the barns.

You hesitate.

You need this. Even if it hurts. Maybe especially if it hurts.

You nod.

He falls into step beside you, both of you silent as you weave through the crowd. Kids dart past with cotton candy and plastic guns. Old timers nod in greeting. Someone calls his name; he lifts a hand automatically, but his attention never leaves you.

You end up behind the practice pens, where the noise dims and the late afternoon sun slants gold through the dust motes. A horse snorts in a nearby stall. Somewhere, a generator hums.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

“You look good,” he says finally, voice low. “Stronger. Not that you weren’t—hell, you were a force back then. It’s just… different now.”

You cross your arms, suddenly self-conscious of the way your jeans fit, the faint scar on your forearm from a colt that kicked when you were twenty-seven, the laugh lines your kid jokes about when she squishes your cheeks.

“You’re still full of shit, I see,” you say lightly.

He huffs out a laugh, then sobers. “I’m sorry,” he says.

You close your eyes. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“I’m sorry I left the way I did,” he says, words tumbling. “I’m sorry I promised I’d call and then I… didn’t, not like I should have. I’m sorry I thought I could somehow juggle my career and us without actually puttin’ in the work. I was a coward. An asshole. Both.”

Your throat burns. “You were young,” you say quietly. “So was I.”

“That ain’t an excuse,” he says hoarsely. “It’s just a fact. I got down to Texas, got picked up, started winnin’ some money. There was always a new bull, a new town, a new sponsor dinner. I kept meanin’ to come back, to call and say hey, I figured it out, here’s how we do this. But every time I thought I had somethin’ to offer, the bar moved. It never felt like enough.”

“You could’ve just—” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “You could’ve called to say that,” you whisper. “Even if you didn’t have an answer.”

“I know,” he says. His jaw clenches. “Believe me, I know. I thought about you every damn day. Had your number pulled up more times than I can count. I’d get as far as your name and my hands’d start shakin’ like I was gettin’ on a rank bull. And then I’d… punk out.”

You stare at the dust between your boots. “So you’re sorry you didn’t call,” you say. “That’s… somethin’.”

“I’m sorry for more than that,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Your heart stutters. “Wasn’t… where?”

He looks at you, blue eyes raw. “You expect me to believe that little girl ain’t mine?” he asks, voice rough and soft all at once.

You flinch.

He laughs weakly. “She taps her hat brim three times,” he says. “Same way you did. She’s got your seat in the saddle, your balance. And when she crossed that timer line, she did that little thing with her mouth? That smirk? That’s mine. God help us all.”

You wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “You don’t know that,” you lie, voice thin.

“I do,” he says. “Down to my bones, I do. But I won’t—” He takes a breath, fists clenching and unclenching. “I won’t push. I don’t got any right to barging into your lives if you don’t want me there. I just… I gotta know. Please. If she’s mine, I need to hear you say it.”

Silence hangs heavy between you. The choice you made all those years ago presses down on your shoulders, suddenly sharp and fragile.

You remember nights pacing with Willa, alone and exhausted, whispering stories about a bull rider you’d loved so hard it nearly broke you. You remember watching him on TV at the NFR, his name flashing on the screen while your daughter slept on your chest, his last ride ending in a wreck that left you sobbing into your mama’s apron when they carted him out of the arena.

You remember telling yourself you did the right thing. That he didn’t need a kid tied to him while he chased his career. That you didn’t need to spend your life waiting by the phone.

You remember the look on his face when Willa smiled at him.

“She’s yours,” you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s… she’s your daughter.”

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Then he exhales like someone cut his strings, stumbling back a step to brace a hand on the pen railing. He bows his head, hat clutched in the other hand so tight the brim bends.

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath too until it leaves you in a rush. Your chest aches.

“Her name’s Willa,” you say quietly. “She was born the March after you left. I told my parents the truth. They… we decided not to tell you. You were headin’ for the big time. I didn’t want to be the reason you resented your career. Or her.”

His head snaps up, eyes blazing. “Resent her?” he demands. “Or you? Is that what you think of me?”

“I think you chose bull riding over me,” you snap back, old wounds splitting open. “I think you barely managed to call or text, and that was when it was convenient for you. What was I supposed to think you’d do with a baby, Bucky? Set her in the chute with you?”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to be another obligation you resented,” you press on, voice cracking. “You had your shot at the big leagues. You took it. I stayed. I made my peace with that. If I’d told you, maybe you’d have come home. Maybe you’d have come for a while and then left again. Maybe you’d have stayed and resented every second. I didn’t… I couldn’t do that to her. Or to me.”

Tears burn your eyes. You swipe at them angrily.

“For what it’s worth,” you add, quieter, “I watched every one of your rides on TV I could find. I prayed you’d stay in one piece. I’m not a monster.”

He’s across the distance between you in two strides. “Hey,” he says roughly. “Hey. I never thought you were.”

His hand hovers near your arm, not touching until you nod minutely. Then his fingers close gentle and firm around your bicep, grounding.

“You did what you thought was right,” he says. “I get that. I hate it, and I wish like hell you’d given me a say, but I get it. I made it real easy to believe I’d fuck it up.”

A ragged laugh bubbles out of you. “That’s the understatement of the decade.”

He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh too. Then his face softens, something like awe creeping in around the edges of the hurt. “I got a daughter,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t quite believe it. “We got a daughter.”

The we hits you like a physical blow.

“She loves this life,” you say, staring at the dirt so you don’t have to look at him. “Horses, barrels, muckin’ stalls. She’s stubborn as hell and talks more than anyone I’ve ever met. She knows you from TV, but she doesn’t know… you. I wasn’t gonna lie to her, but I wasn’t ready to explain all of this yet either.”

He nods slowly. “Then we take it slow,” he says. “If you’ll let me. I don’t—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or to want me back. I’d love to try, but I know I burned that bridge once. I’m just askin’ for a chance to be… somethin’. For her. For Willa.”

You look up, finally.

There’s a fragility in his gaze that you’ve never seen before. A man who’s ridden the baddest bulls in the world and come out the other side, staring down the scariest thing he’s ever faced: his own choices.

“You’d stay?” you ask, voice small. “Really stay? This isn’t just another summer you’re blowin’ through?”

“I retired last year,” he says. “Took one wreck too many. Doctor said I could keep goin’ if I wanted to end up walkin’ with a cane by forty. Figured I’d quit while I can still feel my toes.”

You swallow. You remember that wreck. Remember holding Willa so tight she squirmed when they replayed it on the big screen.

“I’ve been doin’ commentary and clinics since,” he continues. “Travel’s lighter, money’s decent. My folks moved back up this way a while ago. I… I was thinkin’ about buyin’ a little place near here. Maybe help out with the youth rodeo program. Seemed like… I dunno. Time to come home.”

Home.

The word hangs between you, tender and dangerous.

“I didn’t come back ’cause I knew you were here,” he says firmly. “I didn’t know. When I saw your name on the registration spreadsheet this morning, I damn near threw up. And then I saw her, and…” He shakes his head helplessly. “It’s like God reached down and slapped me upside the head.”

Despite everything, you snort. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone wanted to.”

“And probably not the last,” he agrees softly. “I ain’t askin’ for much right now. Just… let me be around. Let me show up. If she wants to know me, I’ll be there. If she doesn’t, I’ll take that too. But I am not runnin’ again. Not from her. Not from you.”

You study his face, searching for the boy you loved under the man he’s become. The boy is still there—in the crooked half-smile, in the stubborn tilt of his chin. The man carries more lines, more weight.

You carry your own.

“You hurt me,” you say finally. “More than you probably know.”

His eyes close briefly. “I know,” he says hoarsely. “And I’ll spend the rest of my damn life tryin’ to make that right, if you let me.”

You could say no.

You could send him back to his clinics and commentary and let your life keep going the way it has. You and Willa and your parents and the ranch. Safe. Predictable.

You think about Willa’s face when she laughed at his joke. The way her hands trembled with excitement when he signed her hat. How she watched him in the arena with the same rapt, hungry focus she has when a new pattern clicks.

You think about a little girl who asks sometimes why she doesn’t have a daddy like some of the other kids. How you tell her families come in all shapes and sizes and that she has more love than some kids with two parents.

You think about the way Bucky looked at her like she hung the moon.

You sigh.

“I’m not promisin’ anything,” you say slowly. “But… I won’t stand in the way of her knowin’ you. We go at her pace. You show up when you say you will. You don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

He nods, relief crashing over his features. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Whatever you say.”

“And don’t call me ma’am,” you add, the old reflex kicking in.

He smiles, small and stunned. “There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my girl.”

Your heart lurches. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Barnes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, even as his eyes say otherwise.

Introducing the concept of “your dad is Bucky Barnes, rodeo legend” to a nine-year-old turns out to be… a lot.

You sit Willa down in the camper that evening, her hat—now emblazoned with his signature—resting in her lap. Your parents hover just outside, giving you space but close enough that you can feel their support like a wall at your back.

“So,” you start, hands twisting. “You know how families come in all kinds of different shapes, right?”

Willa narrows her eyes. “Is this about when Lacey said it was weird I only have you and Nana and Papa and no dad?” she demands. “Because I told her that’s rude and you said she probably doesn’t know better yet.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah, it’s… kind of about that.”

She stares at you for a long moment, sharp in a way that always reminds you of her grandmother. “Do I have a dad?” she asks softly.

You inhale shakily. “You do,” you say. “He and I knew each other a long time ago, when we were younger than I am now. We cared about each other a lot, but… life took us in different directions. I should’ve told him about you sooner. I didn’t. That’s on me.”

She chews her lip. “Is it someone I know?”

“Not yet,” you say. “But you met him today.”

Her eyes widen. “Bucky Barnes?” she whispers.

You nod.

She is silent for a long heartbeat. Two.

“Cool,” she says finally.

You blink. “Cool,” you echo weakly.

“Can he teach me how to not fall off when Pony does that funny hop sometimes?” she asks, eyes earnest. “’Cause he always sticks to the bull even when it’s bein’ real mean.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, half hysterical, half relieved. “We can… ask him,” you say. “If you want to get to know him, we can try that. If you don’t, that’s okay too. This is your call, Willa. Okay? You’re not in trouble, you don’t gotta pick sides. You just… tell me how you feel. I’ll listen. Always.”

Her face crumples a little, lip wobbling. “I’m kinda mad,” she admits in a rush. “That you didn’t tell me I had a dad. Or tell him about me. But I’m also… happy? ’Cause he seems nice. And he likes barrels. And he looked at me like… like Papa does sometimes. Like he’s proud.”

Tears sting your eyes. You pull her into your arms, burying your face in her hair. “You have every right to be mad,” you whisper. “At me. At him. At the whole stupid world. And you have every right to be happy too. We’ll figure it out together. I promise.”

She nods against your chest. “Okay,” she murmurs. Then, muffled: “Can we get ice cream now?”

You laugh, wet and shaky. “Yeah, baby,” you say. “We can get ice cream.”

Over the next few days, Bucky makes good on his vow. He’s at the warm-up pen every morning, hat in hand, asking Willa if she wants a few tips. He never pushes, never assumes. When she wants space, he gives it. When she wants to show him her drawings of horses with wings and bulls with superhero capes, he listens like she’s reciting scripture.

He asks about her favorite subject in school (science), her least favorite (math), her best friend (Lacey, who apologizes for being rude about dads after Willa sets her straight). He tells her about the first time he got bucked off and landed on his ass in front of half the town. He shows her how to sit a little looser in the saddle, how to trust her pony’s stride.

He calls her “Willa-girl” once, and you see the way her face lights up like someone flipped a switch.

At night, after Willa is asleep and your parents have retreated to their own trailer, you and Bucky sit on the tailgate of his truck, the same one he drove off in all those years ago. It’s been repainted, the dents mostly hammered out. The bed still creaks when you shift your weight.

“Feels like we’re kids again,” he says one evening, looking up at the stars.

You snort. “Speak for yourself. My knees hurt.”

“Mine too,” he admits. “Rodeo ain’t exactly gentle.”

Silence stretches between you, easier now, threaded with shared glances and half-smiles.

“Do you ever miss it?” he asks quietly. “The big rodeos?”

You think about it. “Sometimes,” you say honestly. “Would’ve been fun to see how far I could’ve gone. But then I watch Willa run, and I think… maybe this is better. I get to see her find her own path. I get to sleep in my own bed most nights. I get to be there when Mama needs help with the garden or Daddy needs a new fence line built.”

You glance at him. “What about you? You miss the bulls?”

He takes a long breath. “Sometimes,” he says. “There’s nothin’ like it. The rush, the adrenaline, the crowd. But my body doesn’t. And when I watch these kids learn to ride, when I see Willa figure out how to shave a tenth off her time? That feels… big too. Different kind of big.”

You study his profile—the steady line of his jaw, the faint scar you don’t remember from before. The shadows under his eyes that have nothing to do with dust.

“You could help out more with the youth program,” you hear yourself say. “The circuit board’s been talkin’ about expandin’ it. Gettin’ more kids involved, keepin’ ’em busy and outta trouble. They’d fall over themselves for your name on the brochure.”

He smiles, slow and surprised. “You vouchin’ for me, sweetheart?”

“Don’t push it, Barnes,” you warn, though there’s no heat behind it.

“Didn’t think you wanted me stickin’ around this much,” he admits.

You look down at your hands, fingers threaded together. “I want Willa to have you,” you say finally. “And… I’ve spent ten years learnin’ how to live without you. I can do it. But I don’t… want to. Not if there’s a better way this time.”

His breath hitches. “What are you sayin’?”

“I’m sayin’ I’m willing to see how this goes,” you say, heart hammering. “Slow. For her. For us. No grand gestures, no drivin’ off into the sunset without a plan. You want in our lives, you do it the hard way. Day in, day out. Teachin’ peewees how not to fall off their ponies, fixin’ fences, sittin’ through school plays. You think you can handle that, Mr. Big-Time Bull Rider?”

His eyes shine in the dim light. “Darlin’,” he says, voice rough, “I’d ride the rankest bull on the planet bareback before I’d walk away from that again.”

“Don’t you dare,” you mutter.

He chuckles, then sobers. “I don’t deserve this,” he says. “You. Her. A second chance.”

“Probably not,” you agree easily. “But life’s not about what we deserve. It’s about what we do with what we get. You got us for now. Don’t screw it up.”

He swallows hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

You elbow him. “What’d I say about that?”

He grins, and for a moment you see the boy on the fence rail again, cocky and full of dreams. “Yes, sweetheart,” he amends.

Your heart does a stupid little flip.

He reaches for your hand, slow and deliberate, like he’s asking permission. You let him take it.

His palm is still rough and warm. It still feels like home.

You sit like that for a long time, fingers tangled, watching the stars over the rodeo grounds where it all started. The sounds of laughter and music drift on the night air. In the trailer behind you, your daughter sleeps with her hat on the hook and her boots by the door, her future wide open.

Ten years ago, Bucky Barnes drove away chasing his big-league dreams.

Tonight, he stays.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—home is big enough for all of it.

Not about security protocols or safe house locations or Captain Rogers' morning briefing schedule—no, you launched into a fifteen-minute monologue about the time Bucky Barnes held the door open for you while you were carrying three boxes of press kits, and you were so flustered you walked directly into a wall—

"—and the worst part," you hear yourself saying, "the worst part is he asked if I was okay, and I said, 'yes, thank you, you too,' like he'd just told me to enjoy my meal or something. What does that even mean—"

"—ma'am." The first kidnapper—you've mentally dubbed him 'Frustrated'—pinches the bridge of his nose. "We need intelligence on—"

"—he has really nice hands," you interrupt, because apparently the sodium thiopental has made you physically incapable of shutting up. "Like, disproportionately nice hands. Both of them. The metal one is obviously impressive from an engineering standpoint, but the other one—"

"—please," Frustrated says, and he actually sounds a little desperate now. "Tactical intelligence. Security measures. Anything useful."

You blink at him, processing this with the languid curiosity of someone watching clouds drift by. "You want useful information."

"Yes."

"About the Avengers."

"Yes."

"Okay, well, did you know that Bucky doesn't like blueberries? He says they 'taste wrong' now. Post-cryo taste buds, I guess. I brought a bunch of muffins to the staff meeting last month, and he made this face—" You attempt to recreate the sour expression, which is difficult while zip-tied to a chair. "—like this, when he tried the blueberry ones. It was adorable."

Frustrated makes a sound like a dying engine.

The second kidnapper—who is henceforth 'Invested', you've decided—leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "Wait, go back. You brought muffins to a meeting, and he noticed?"

"He noticed," you confirm, nodding so enthusiastically your head swims. "He ate two of the chocolate chip ones and said—and I quote—'these are really good'. To me. Directly to me."

"That's promising," Invested says.

"I know, right?!" The zip ties dig into your wrists as you try to gesture. "But here's the thing; does he say that to everyone? Is he just really polite? Because he's been through literal decades of trauma, and maybe he's just being nice to the PR person because that's what well-adjusted people do, and I'm reading into—"

"—Yeah, but he ate two muffins," Invested interrupts. "If he was just being polite, he would've eaten one."

You gasp. This perspective has genuinely never occurred to you. "Oh my God."

"Can we—" Frustrated tries to get things back on track.

"—and he remembered you brought them," Invested continues, fully committed now. "That's attention to detail. Interest."

"But also he's a trained assassin," you counter, because the truth serum won't let you be anything less than thorough in your self-doubt. "Attention to detail is literally his job. He probably remembers everyone's muffin preferences. He probably has a mental file on the weird guy from IT who always takes the last bagel—"

"—what's his name?" the third kidnapper—'Professional', you decide, since he is still trying to salvage this—cuts in sharply.

"Whose name? Bucky's?"

"What? No. The weird guy from IT."

You open your mouth. Then close it. "I... don't know, actually."

"But you know Barnes doesn't like blueberries." Professional's tone suggests he's trying to make a point.

"Well, yeah, because I..." You stop. The implications hit you with all the subtle grace of a sledgehammer to the face. "Oh."

"'Oh'?" Invested sits up straighter. "What's 'oh'? That sounded like a significant 'oh'."

"I pay attention to him." The words float out, soft and mortifying. "Like, a lot of attention. I know he takes his coffee black, but he'll add sugar if he's been up for more than twenty-four hours. I know he runs the perimeter every morning at six, but he takes Thursdays off. I know he sits in the back row at press briefings and does this thing with his jaw when someone says something particularly stupid—"

"—Uh-oh," Invested says, grinning behind his mask. You can practically hear it. "That's a crush."

"It's such a crush," you agree miserably. "It's a catastrophic crush. I'm professionally compromised."

"Does he—" Invested starts.

"—Okay," Frustrated stands up abruptly, chair scraping against concrete. "New approach. Tell us about the Avengers compound security systems."

You look at him with the patience of a saint. "The security systems are designed by Tony Stark, so they're very advanced, but also Bucky helped consult on them because he's really good at finding vulnerabilities from his HYDRA days, which is both hot and sad, and one time I saw him reviewing camera placements with Tony, and he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and I had to excuse myself to the bathroom for like ten minutes..."

Frustrated walks away. Just straight up walks to the other side of the room.

"Focus," Professional says, still trying. "What were the camera placements?"

"I don't know; I wasn't looking at the cameras." You're pretty sure you're slurring now. "I was looking at his forearms."

"Legitimate," Invested nods.

"No, not legitimate," Frustrated shouts from his corner. "None of this is legitimate!"

Professional finally pulls out his phone, and you track the movement with delayed curiosity. "Who're you calling?" you ask.

"Our employer," he says flatly. "To tell them this was a massive waste of our time and resources."

"Wait." Invested holds up a hand. "Give me five more minutes."

"Why."

"I need to know if he's made a move on her!"

"He hasn't," you supply helpfully. "That's part of the problem. We're in this weird limbo where we're definitely friends, but I can't tell if he's just being friendly or if there's—" You wiggle your fingers as much as the zip ties allow. "—something there."

"Well, has he touched you?" Invested asks. "Casual touches, lingering eye contact, finding excuses to be near you?"

You consider this with the gravity it deserves. "He... steadies me sometimes. Like if I'm on a ladder hanging press banners or carrying too many things. Hand on my elbow, that kind of thing."

"How long does he leave it there?"

"Longer than strictly necessary for stability purposes," you admit.

"Okay, we're done here," Frustrated announces. "I'm calling it. We're dumping her."

Twenty minutes later, you're sitting on the curb outside the warehouse, still zip-tied, watching your kidnappers load themselves into a van.

Invested pauses at the door. "For what it's worth, I think he's into you," he offers.

"Thanks," you say, because the sodium thiopental is still very much in your system. "This was weird, but oddly validating."

"If you don't make a move, you're a coward," he adds.

"That's fair. I'll take that."

The van drives away. You sit on the curb and wonder vaguely if you should be more concerned about the kidnapping part of this situation. Your phone's gone, your head feels like it's full of cotton, and you're wearing yesterday's blouse because laundry day is Thursday and today is—wait, what day is it again?

Then the Quinjet lands in the street with the subtle grace of a small meteor, and you decide that this is probably the least weird thing to happen to you today. Why not just land a multi-million dollar jet in the middle of the road?

Bucky hits the ground before the ramp fully deploys, his gun drawn, eyes scanning for threats with the cold efficiency that makes your stomach flip even when you're drugged and recently kidnapped. Steve's right behind him, shield up, and you feel a distant flicker of guilt that they probably had to interrupt something important for this.

His eyes lock on you, sitting on the curb, and the gun lowers. "Are you hurt?"

"No," you say honestly. Then, because the truth serum is a snitch, you continue. "Just drugged. Sodium thiopental. I always thought it was just movie stuff. Turns out it's very effective."

He's crouching in front of you now, metal hand coming up to carefully tilt your chin, checking your pupils. The touch is gentle. It's always gentle. "What did they want?"

"They wanted secrets. Avengers secrets," you reply. His thumb is still on your jaw, and right now, you're very aware of this. "But don't worry, Barnes. They didn't get any. Actually, I just talked about you for forty-five minutes instead."

Bucky's hand stops dead. "…pardon?"

"So many details," you continue, because apparently your mouth is still operating independently of your brain. "Embarrassing details. The muffin incident. Your forearms. The fact that I know your running schedule and coffee preferences and the exact shade of blue your eyes get in morning light—"

Steve makes a choking sound behind him.

"—and one of them was really invested in whether you like me back, which was nice of him considering he'd kidnapped me, very emotionally supportive for a mercenary—"

"—okay," Bucky interrupts, sounding a little flustered. "Let's get you to medical. They just left you here?"

"Yep. They let me go because I was useless," you tell him as he cuts the zip ties with a knife that appears from nowhere. "Well, useless for intelligence. Apparently, very useful for romantic speculation."

"Uh-huh. I'm sure," he says, a little faint.

You're being guided to the quinjet now, Bucky's hand steady on your elbow—longer than strictly necessary for stability purposes, your brain notes—and you lean into him without thinking about it.

"Your forearms really are distracting though," you tell him seriously. "That's not the drugs talking. That's just facts."

Behind you, Steve is definitely laughing.

Medical smells like antiseptic and the particular kind of quiet that makes you want to whisper. You're sitting on an exam table, paper crinkling under you, while Bruce shines a penlight in your eyes with the resigned air of someone who's seen too much weird stuff to be fazed by sodium thiopental confessions.

"Pupil response is good," he says, clicking off the light. "How do you feel?"

"A little floaty," you report. "And like I've made some regrettable life choices."

"The drug should work its way out of your system in another hour or two." Bruce makes a note on his tablet. "In the meantime, try not to operate heavy machinery or make any binding decisions."

"Or talk," you add.

"Or talk," he agrees, mouth twitching. He pauses at the door. "Oh—F.R.I.D.A.Y. pulled audio from the warehouse security cameras. We've got a full transcript of your interrogation, for the debrief file."

Every drop of blood in your body relocates to your face. "A full transcript."

"Every word." Bruce has the decency to look sympathetic. "Standard protocol. The team leads will need to review it."

"The team leads," you repeat. "As in Steve. And—"

"—No worries, already sent it over." Bruce taps his tablet. "I'll give you two some privacy."

You blink. Process. Turn your head—too fast, the room tilts—and realize Bucky's still here. He's leaning against the counter by the sink, arms crossed, watching you with an expression you can't quite parse.

"You don't have to stay," you say. "I'm fine. Medically fine. Emotionally compromised, but fine."

"I know." He doesn't move, and you suddenly become very interested in the edge of the exam table paper, picking at it with your thumbnail. He watches. Neither of you speaks.

"So," Bucky says eventually. "Muffins."

You close your eyes. "Oh god."

"And my forearms?"

"I'm going to resign," you tell the ceiling. "I will submit my resignation and move to a remote island where no one has ever heard of the Avengers or truth serums or—"

"And my coffee preferences?"

"—Exactly. I'll become a hermit. I'll live off coconuts. I'll never speak to another human being ever again—"

"—hey." His voice is closer now. You open your eyes, and he's right there, standing in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. "Breathe. It's okay."

You breathe. It comes out shaky.

"For the record," Bucky says quietly. "I know your coffee order too."

Your brain stalls. "What?"

"Iced vanilla latte. Extra shot on Mondays." The corner of his mouth ticks up. "You do this thing where you wrap both hands around the cup even though it's cold. And you always smell like that lavender lotion from the dispensers on the third floor."

Oh no. Oh, no. You feel your face get warm.

"You hum when you're concentrating," he continues. "You reorganize the press clippings by colour when you're stressed. You fall asleep during team movie nights, but you always try to fight it because you don't want to be rude."

"That's..." You're having trouble getting air into your lungs properly. "That's a lot of details."

"Yeah." His eyes are very blue. "It is."

The implications of this are trying to surface through the remaining fog of sodium thiopental, but they keep slipping away before you can grab them. "So you're saying..."

"I'm saying you're not the only one paying attention." He shifts his weight, and suddenly, you're aware of how close he is, how he's standing in the space between your knees, not touching but right there. "And for the record, that thing you do when you're on ladders? Where you bite your bottom lip when you're concentrating on getting the banner straight?"

"Yeah?"

"Distracting," he says, and the single word drops straight through your stomach. "Very distracting."

"Oh," you say intelligently.

His hand comes up—the flesh one, warm and calloused—and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. The touch lingers. "I was trying to figure out how to do this without making things weird at work."

"I think we're past that now," you manage. "I told mercenaries about your blueberry preferences."

That startles a laugh out of him, soft and genuine, and your whole chest goes warm and stupid with it. "Yeah, we're definitely past that."

"So..." You're still trying to process. "What does this mean?"

Bucky studies you, choosing his words carefully. "It means when you're not drugged anymore, and you can make decisions that aren't chemically influenced—" His thumb brushes your cheekbone, so gentle it makes you shiver. "—I'd like to take you to dinner."

"Like... a date-dinner?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. Like a date-dinner."

The endearment sweetheart hits you somewhere behind your ribs. You're definitely still a little drugged, because your response isn't exactly verbose.

"Your hands really are disproportionately nice, you know. I wasn't lying about that."

His smile goes lopsided, devastating. "You can tell me all about it over dinner."

"I'm going to be so embarrassed about this later," you inform him.

"I know." He's still touching your face, still standing close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. "But for now, just... sit with it, okay?"

"Okay," you whisper.

"Good." He steps back—slowly, like he's reluctant to break contact—and the loss of proximity makes you want to protest. "I'm gonna go debrief with Steve. Bruce will check on you in a bit."

"Bucky?"

He pauses at the door and looks back.

"Thursday," you say. "I'm free Thursday."

His whole face opens up—eyes crinkling, mouth crooked, and a dimple you've never seen before cutting into his left cheek. "Thursday works."

Then he's gone, and you're alone in the medical bay with your racing heart and the lingering warmth of his hand on your face.

From the hallway, you hear Steve's voice. "So that was—"

"—not a word," Bucky cuts him off.

"I'm just saying, the forearms thing was—"

"—Steve."

You drop your face into your hands and laugh, laugh until your sides hurt.

Thursday arrives.

You've changed outfits four times. Your apartment looks like a bomb went off in a department store. The lavender dress is too formal. The jeans feel too casual. The black top makes you look like you're going to a funeral. You're currently standing in front of your mirror in option number five—a burgundy sweater and dark jeans that hopefully thread the needle between "trying" and "trying too hard"—when your phone buzzes.

📱 Bucky: Outside whenever you're ready. No rush.

Your stomach does a complicated flip. He's early. Or you're late. What time is it?

You grab your jacket, check your reflection one last time (lipstick: present, hair: cooperating, overall vibe: please god let this be acceptable), and head downstairs before you can spiral further.

The motorcycle is parked at the curb.

Of course, it's the motorcycle. You don't know why you expected anything else, but the sight of Bucky leaning against it in dark jeans and a leather jacket does something catastrophic to your higher brain functions.

He straightens when he sees you, and you watch his eyes track from your boots to your face. The tension leaves his shoulders—he softens, warms.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi." You're trying very hard to act like a normal person on a normal date and not someone who recently confessed your feelings under chemical duress. "So, motorcycle."

"Problem?" There's a tease in his voice.

"No, just..." You eye the helmet he's holding. "I've never actually been on one."

"I'll go slow. Promise."

The helmet fits snugly when he settles it on your head, his fingers careful with the chin strap. He's standing close enough that you catch the scent of his soap—something clean and cedar-dark—and you have to remind yourself to breathe like a normal human being.

"Good?" he asks.

You nod, keeping your mouth shut before you can say something stupid.

His own helmet goes on, and then he's swinging a leg over the bike with the easy grace of long practice. He glances back at you and extends a hand. "Hop on. Arms around my waist."

Right. Arms around his waist. Pressed against his back. Totally normal, completely fine, not at all the kind of proximity that's been living in your head for months.

You climb on. Settle in behind him. Slide your arms around his middle, and—oh, that's solid muscle under the jacket. Okay, cool, you're being so normal about this.

"Too tight?" The helmet muffles his words.

"No, you're good—I mean, this is good, the grip is—" You're babbling. Stop babbling. "—I'm good!"

You feel more than hear his laugh. Then the engine rumbles to life beneath you, and you tighten your grip reflexively.

The city blurs past in streams of light and shadow. Bucky takes the turns smooth and easy, true to his word, and after the first few blocks you stop bracing for disaster and start actually experiencing it—the wind, the speed, the warmth of him against you.

It's terrifying, exhilarating—and very, very distracting.

When Bucky finally slows and pulls into a parking spot, you're almost disappointed. "Still alive back there?" he asks as he kills the engine.

"Surprisingly yes." You reluctantly unwrap your arms from around him and accept his hand to dismount. Your legs are slightly unsteady. "Where are we?"

"You'll see."

The restaurant is small, tucked between a bookstore and a vintage record shop on a street you've never noticed before. String lights are woven through the front window, and through the glass you can see exposed brick, warm lighting, and maybe a dozen tables.

"It's quiet," Bucky says, glancing at the empty street like he's checking for clearance. "Off the radar. Figured that might be better than somewhere we'd get recognized."

Translation, he's thought about this. About privacy, about comfort, about what would make this easier.

"It's perfect," you say, and mean it.

The hostess seats you at a corner table, and you're grateful for the low lighting because it hides the way your hands are shaking slightly when you pick up the menu.

"So," Bucky says after the waiter takes your drink orders. "On a scale of one to ten, how mortified are you about the kidnapping thing?"

You look up. He's watching you with that almost-smile, the one that makes his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners.

"Eleven," you say. "Easily eleven. I told armed mercenaries about your morning running schedule."

"Could've been worse."

"How?"

"You could've told them about the time I walked into the glass door in the conference room."

You blink. "I didn't know about that."

"Exactly." He leans back in his chair. "See? Operational security intact."

"When did you walk into a glass door?"

"Not important."

"It's super important, actually. I need all the details."

His smile goes wider, more genuine. "It was after a seventy-two-hour mission. I was running on maybe three hours of sleep. And someone had cleaned the glass really well."

The mental image makes you grin. "Did anyone see?"

"Sam," he says darkly. "Sam saw. I will never hear the end of it."

"That's incredible."

"Glad my pain amuses you."

"Immensely," you confirm, and just like that, the nervousness starts to dissipate. This is Bucky. You've had dozens of conversations with him—in the break room, in the hallway, during mind-numbing press briefings. The only difference is context.

And proximity.

And the way he's looking at you right now, with the kind of focus that makes you forget there's a restaurant around you.

Dinner arrives. You talk about everything and nothing—his adjustment to modern food (still suspicious of most things that need to be microwaved), your disastrous attempt at learning Russian on Duolingo (Natasha found out and laughed for ten minutes straight), and the truly baffling email chains that circulate through Avengers staff.

"There's one going around right now about the break room coffee maker," you tell him. "Seventeen replies. People have opinions."

"Yeah? What's your stance?"

"Nice try. I stay out of break room politics," you say seriously. "That way lies madness."

"Smart."

The waiter clears your plates. Bucky orders coffee—black, because of course—and you get tea because caffeine this late will have you staring at the ceiling until 3 AM.

"Can I ask you something?" you say, turning your cup in your hands.

"Yeah."

"When did you..." You pause, choosing words carefully. "When did you start paying attention? Like that? I mean. To me?"

He rubs the back of his neck, thinking about it. "You remember the first press briefing after I officially joined the team?"

"The one where that reporter asked if you were planning to 'leverage your HYDRA experience' for the Avengers?" You mentally flinch at the memory. "Yeah. I remember."

"You shut him down in about fifteen seconds. Polite and professional, but you made it very clear that line of questioning wasn't acceptable." Bucky meets your eyes. "After, when everyone was clearing out, you came up to me. Asked if I was okay."

You do remember that. He'd looked tense, and you'd acted on impulse.

"Most people tiptoe around it," he continues. "Or they go too far the other way and treat me like I'm fragile. But you just... asked. Direct. Like you actually wanted to know the answer."

"I did want to know."

"I know," he murmurs. "That's when I started paying attention."

Your chest aches. "Bucky, that was eight months ago."

"Huh. That so?"

"You've been—" You're trying to do math through the haze of feelings. "—this whole time?"

"Didn't know what to do about it," he admits. "Seemed like the kind of thing that could go real wrong real fast, if I misread the situation. And then you got kidnapped and told mercenaries about my forearms, so..." The corner of his mouth ticks up. "Figured that was a pretty clear signal."

You laugh, the sound slightly strangled. "Most people just... text, or something."

"I'm old-fashioned. Not gonna say I'm interested in a dame over text."

The check arrives. Bucky pays before you can even reach for your wallet, waving off your protest with a look that suggests arguing will be futile.

Outside, the air has cooled. You pull your jacket tighter, and Bucky's hand finds the small of your back, a warm point of contact as you walk to the motorcycle.

"Thank you," you say. "For dinner. For... all of this."

"Don't thank me yet." He hands you the helmet. "Still gotta get you home without crashing."

"Very reassuring."

"I'm good at what I do, sweetheart."

The endearment does the same thing it did in medical—your stomach drops and your hands forget what they're doing. You let him help you with the helmet again, hyperaware of every brush of his fingers.

The ride back is slower. Bucky takes the long way, and you don't complain, just hold on and watch the city lights blur past and try to commit this to memory—the rumble of the engine, the solid warmth of him, the way the night feels full of potential.

When he pulls up outside your building, you're reluctant to let go.

"So," he says after you've both dismounted, and he's walked you to your door. "How'd I do?"

"Fishing for compliments?"

"Maybe."

You pretend to consider it. "The motorcycle was a strong choice. Dinner conversation, solid and above average. Overall execution..." You tilt your head. "Eight out of ten."

His eyebrow arcs. "Only an eight?"

"Deducted points for making me wait eight months."

"That's fair." He steps closer, and your back hits your door gently. He braces a hand against the frame, leaning in. "What would it take to get to a ten?"

Your heart is hammering. "I might have some ideas."

"Yeah?" He's closer now, mouth near your ear.

"Yeah."

He kisses you. Slow and careful, like he's still figuring out what you like, and it's perfect—the warm press of his mouth, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, the way he makes this soft sound when you curl your fingers into his jacket and pull him closer.

When you break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"Yeah. Ten," you manage. "Definitely a ten."

"Good to know."

You both stare at each other for a few seconds.

"...want to make it an eleven?" you ask innocently.

His grin turns sly. "Depends," Bucky says. "Are you going to invite me up, or are we doing this in the hallway?"

Immediately, you fumble for your keys. Then drop them. Bucky catches them before they hit the ground—because, of course, he does—and unlocks the door himself while you try to remember how to breathe.

The apartment is dark. You shrug your jacket off and reach for the light switch, but his hand catches your wrist and pins it flat to the wall.

"Leave it." His mouth finds yours before you can argue, crowding you back against the closed door. The wood is cold through your sweater, the deadbolt rattling in its housing when he leans his full weight into you. His grip on your wrist loosens—slides away—and both hands frame your face, tilting you where he wants you, and this kiss is nothing like the one outside—it's open-mouthed and wet, his tongue pushing past your lips and licking into you like he's starving for it. You whimper, and he swallows the sound, hips rolling forward to press the full length of his cock against your stomach through his jeans.

Your hands shove under his jacket, dragging it off his shoulders. It hits the floor. He's wearing a henley underneath, soft cotton pulled tight over hard muscle, and when you flatten your palms against his chest, you can feel the kick of his pulse under your palm, uneven and fast.

"You have no idea," he says against your mouth. "How many times I've thought about this."

"Tell me." Your fingers twist into the hem of his shirt.

His grin is filthy. "Too bad you don't have the sodium thiopental, huh?"

He catches both your wrists in his metal hand—vibranium fingers cool and immovable—and pins them above your head. The position bows your spine, pushes your tits up against his chest, and the easy, one-handed control of it sends a sick throb straight between your legs.

"Thought about it during briefings." His lips drag down the side of your throat, teeth scraping, tongue pressing flat to your pulse before he sucks a bruise into the skin below your ear. "Watching you take notes. Biting your pen... wondering if you'd make that same face with my cock inside you."

Your brain short-circuits, hearing that. "Bucky—"

"—thought about it in the gym." He lets go of your wrists to grab your hips with both hands, fingers sinking into the flesh hard enough that you feel every individual fingertip, and drags you flush against his cock. He's thick and stiff against your belly, and he grinds into you, deliberately. "Every time you walked past in those skirts. Wanted to bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you until you forgot your own name."

With your newly freed hands, you yank his shirt up, and he helps, pulling it over his head in one rough motion. And God—the expanse of his bare chest, the raised ridges of old scars, the smooth vibranium plates where metal fuses with skin...

"Is this okay?" Your fingers find the seam where metal meets flesh, tracing the border.

"Yeah." His voice is already coming apart. "Touch whatever you want. I'm all yours." One eyebrow lifts. "You did tell three mercenaries my arms are disproportionately nice. Only fair you verify in person."

"I'm never living that down, am I?"

"Oh, not a chance."

Even still, you take Bucky at his word, running your hands over the hard plane of his stomach, muscle twitching and clenching when you scrape your thumbnail across his nipple. He lets you, hands loose on your waist, his gaze half-lidded and intent, tracking every movement of your hands.

"My turn," he says, and walks you backward toward the couch. When the backs of your knees hit the cushions, you sit, and he drops to his knees between your thighs like he belongs there, his hands finding the hem of your sweater.

"Off?" You nod. He pulls it over your head, and his hands are still on your ribs. He's looking at you—the lace of your bra cutting into the swell of your tits, your skin flushed and hot—and he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "Thought about this too," he admits.

Bucky leans in, presses his open mouth to the curve of your shoulder, and breathes you in—and you catch the warm smell of his skin—cedar soap and clean sweat and something underneath that's just him. "What you'd look like underneath everything..." his thumbs dig into the soft underside of your breasts through the lace, kneading, and it's not enough—not close to enough. You push into his hands, and he makes a low, rough noise, reaching around to pop the clasp.

The bra drops. Bucky sits back on his heels and just looks, and the naked hunger on his face at the sight of your bare breasts actually makes your nipples tighten. "You're staring," you whisper.

"Fuck yes, I am," he retorts, with no shame whatsoever. He leans in and closes his mouth over your left nipple, and your whole body jolts.

Bucky's tongue is obscene—broad, flat strokes over the stiff peak, flicking the tip, then sucking hard enough that your hips buck off the cushions. The right hand cups your other breast, squeezing, calloused thumb rolling your nipple between rough fingers while the metal one grips your ribcage, holding you in place. He bites down—not a nibble, an actual bite, teeth denting the soft skin around your nipple—and the sharp sting of it rips a moan out of you that you couldn't hold back if you tried.

"Fuck."

"You like that?" Switching sides, he drags his wet mouth across your sternum, and takes your other nipple between his teeth, tugging.

"Yes, God—"

"Good." His hands drop to your jeans, thumb popping the button and fingers hooking into the waistband. "Need to find out what else makes you sound like that."

You lift your hips. He tugs your boots off first, impatient, letting them thunk to the floor, then peels the denim down your legs, underwear with it—the cotton sticking slightly to the wet mess between your thighs—and tosses everything aside. You're bare beneath him now, legs spread, pussy visibly wet, and the cool air on your exposed skin makes you clench around nothing.

Bucky puts his hands on your knees and pushes them apart. Wide. Wider than you're normally comfortable with. His hands slide off your knees, and he stares between your legs with an expression that borders on reverent. You can see the exact moment his composure cracks—his left hand flexes at his side, vibranium plates whirring and recalibrating.

"Jesus Christ." His thumb swipes through the wetness gathered on your inner thigh, smearing it. "You're dripping."

The touch makes you squirm. "Bucky, please."

His palms slide up your thighs, grip firmly, and spread you open with his thumbs so he can see everything—your swollen clit and the wet mess of you smeared down your thighs. His breath is hot against the inside of your thigh. "Gonna eat this pretty pussy until you can't think straight."

Bucky drops his head between your legs and licks you from hole to clit in one long, filthy, and unbroken stripe.

The noise you make isn't dignified in the slightest. His tongue is hot and wide and thorough, dragging over every slick inch of you, spreading you open, lapping up the wetness like he can't get enough. He groans against you—a low, rough vibration that buzzes straight through your clit—and his mouth seals over your clit. He sucks, hard, and your hips nearly jerk off the couch.

"Oh fuck."

His metal hand clamps down on your hip, pinning you to the cushions. The vibranium is cold against your overheated skin, and the shock of it tears a gasp out of you. He doesn't let up—tongue working in tight, focused circles around your clit, then dipping lower to push inside you, fucking into your hole with pointed, deliberate thrusts.

"Don't stop." You're panting, fingers twisted in his hair, thighs shaking on either side of his head. "Please, please don't stop—"

—And he stops.

His mouth lifts off your clit with a slick, obscene pop, and you whine—hips chasing his face, fingers yanking at his hair. He lets you pull. Doesn't budge. He presses his open mouth to the inside of your thigh instead, unhurried, like he's settling in for a long night.

"Bucky, what the fuck?" you gasp.

"You know what I keep thinking about?" He drags his lips along the crease where your thigh meets your hip. "That transcript of yours."

Your stomach drops. You'd almost—almost—managed to forget about that detail Bruce had mentioned in passing.

"There's this one part I've read about... six times, now." His thumb digs slow pressure into your hip bone—nowhere near where you need it. "About the day I was reviewing camera placements with Stark?"

You swallow dryly.

"The part where you said you had to excuse yourself to the bathroom." His eyes find yours, and there is nothing lazy about them. "For ten minutes."

"That's not—the truth serum was—"

"—yeah, sweetheart? Then what were you doing in that bathroom?" He kisses the inside of your knee, soft and patient as a saint, his fingers trailing up and down your inner thigh without ever reaching where you're aching the most. "After you saw me roll my sleeves up."

"You know what I was doing."

"I probably do," Bucky agrees, his thumb sliding through the wetness between your legs, grazing your clit—one slow, deliberate pass—and pulling away. "But I want to hear you say it. No serum. Just you."

The sound you make is pathetic. "I touched myself," you grit out. "In the third-floor bathroom. At work. Because you rolled your fucking sleeves up."

Bucky hums. "That's my girl." He rewards you—spreads your pussy with his thumbs and drags his tongue over your clit in one long, flat stroke, then seals his mouth around it and sucks. Your hips lurch off the couch. His metal hand pins them back down, vibranium cold and immovable against your skin. One finger pushes inside you—thick, calloused, and crooking upward—and he fucks you with it in a steady, grinding rhythm while his tongue traces wet circles around your clit.

You're close again in under a minute, which must be a new record for you. The pressure in your belly winds tighter, your thighs starting to tremble, every nerve ending zeroing in on his mouth—

—his tongue goes flat. Slow. And his finger stills.

"No." You yank his hair hard enough that it has to hurt. "I was right there—"

"I know you were." He bites the soft skin of your inner thigh. "What else?"

"What else?"

"The mercenaries got the PG version." A second finger pushes in alongside the first, and he spreads them apart—slow and stretching. "I want the rest. What did you actually think about, when you thought about me?"

God. Where would you even start?

The truth is you've thought about him in every configuration your brain could render. Him on top of you. Behind you. Under you with his hands on your hips, guiding you down. You've thought about his mouth on your neck, your tits, and between your legs. You've thought about the metal hand wrapped around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, the weight of it, the cool press of vibranium against your pulse.

Bending you over your kitchen counter. Pinning you against the wall of his quarters. Even fucking you in the back seat of one of Stark's cars in the compound garage. You've thought about it slow and sweet, and you've thought about it mean and rough, and you've thought about every shade in between, and the worst part—the worst part—is that none of it was ever enough. Every fantasy ended the same way; alone, catching your breath in the dark, wanting the real thing so badly your teeth ached.

And now the real thing is kneeling between your legs with two fingers inside you, asking you to tell him about it.

"I thought about your mouth. This—specifically this. Your head between my legs," you babble out mindlessly.

"How detailed?" He curls his fingers and licks you in one long, merciless stroke.

"I've gotten myself off to you—" Whimper. "—more times than I can count. In my bed, with the lights off, imagining your hands on me. Both of them." His metal fingers flex against your hip. The plates shift and recalibrate under your skin. "I'd think about the vibranium. How it'd feel inside me. Whether it'd be cold the whole time or if I'd warm it up."

His fingers falter inside you—actually falter, rhythm breaking—and when he lifts his head, whatever game he was playing is over. His mouth is slack, the blue of his eyes barely visible, and there's a flush crawling up his neck that has nothing to do with exertion. "You thought about the arm, sweetheart?"

"Every night for weeks, Barnes. So don't you dare stop again, please—"

—this time, he doesn't. His metal hand replaces his right between your legs—vibranium fingers sliding in where calloused ones were. Cool at first—almost cold—then warming fast to your body heat, smooth and unyielding, precise in a way human hands don't get to be. The answer to a question you've been asking yourself for weeks. He finds your G-spot and locks on, pressing with perfect, unrelenting accuracy while his mouth seals back over your clit—sucking, licking, greedy, and graceless, and done teasing.

"Come." He says it against your pussy, the words vibrating on your clit. "You earned it. Come for me."

You come so hard your vision actually whites out. Your thighs lock around his head, your whole body curling in on itself, and you can hear yourself making sounds you'll be mortified about later—broken, desperate, his name tangled up in profanity. You clench around his metal fingers in hard, rhythmic pulses, and he keeps going—keeps licking, keeps fucking you through it, drawing every last aftershock out until you're twitching and raw-nerved and shoving at his forehead with a broken, "too much, too much—"

—Bucky pulls back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but it doesn't help—his chin is smeared with you, lips puffy and shiny, and he's grinning at you like he just won the lottery. "Okay?"

"I—yeah." You can barely string the words together. "I'm very okay, thanks for asking."

He laughs at that, and drops his forehead against your knee. His thumb drags slowly along the outside of your calf, and you reach down and push his hair off his forehead, damp and tangled from where you'd been pulling it. His eyes close.

Then he turns his head and bites the inside of your knee—soft, deliberate—and when he looks up, whatever gentleness was there has gone sharp.

His belt buckle jingles as he stands and works it open, fingers unsteady, and he shoves his jeans and boxers down in one motion. His cock bobs free—flushed dark, thick, the head slick with precome. It's veined along the underside, and... he's big. Bigger than you expected, and you expected a lot.

"Bedroom?"

"Bedroom," you agree, and he hauls you off the couch.

You stumble down the hall together, naked and dripping, his cock bumping against your ass with every step. Your bed is unmade from this morning. You don't care—eight months of picturing exactly this, and the real thing is standing naked in your doorway, and every late-night fantasy you've ever had about James Buchanan Barnes is about to become a debrief liability.

Crawling backward onto the mattress, you spread your legs, and he follows you down—settling his weight between your thighs. The head of his cock slides through the wet mess of your pussy, nudging your clit, and you both groan at the sensation.

"Condom." You manage the word. "Nightstand. Top drawer."

Bucky reaches over, yanks the drawer open, and grabs a foil packet. Tears it with his teeth. You watch him roll the latex down his cock—watch the way his hand squeezes the base, the way his abs flex, and the way his hips cant forward involuntarily when the condom snaps into place. He's shaking. Barely holding it together.

"C'mere." He pulls back, plants his feet on the floor, and grabs your hips, dragging you across the mattress until your ass is at the edge, legs open on either side of him. He fists his cock, lines the head up with your pussy, and presses forward—just the tip, just enough to stretch you open around the thick crown. Neither of you moves.

"You sure?" he asks, and his voice is wrecked.

"So sure." You hook your ankles behind his back and drag him forward. "I didn't fantasize about you for eight months to be treated like glass, Barnes."

He pushes in. Slow. The stretch is obscene—his cock is thick enough that your body has to work to take it, opening around him inch by inch, the drag of latex and the pressure of him splitting you apart making your mouth fall open. He feeds it to you in a slow, grinding roll of his hips, watching your face the whole time, watching the way your eyes go glassy and your lips part. His thumb catches your lower lip, and drags it down.

"There it is," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Same face as the pen."

Every version of this you've imagined—lights off, alone in your bed, biting your own hand to keep quiet—and not one of them accounted for the weight of him, or the heat, or the way his eyes refuse to leave yours. The real thing is so much better than the fantasy, that your brain can't hold both at once.

"Breathe," he says, and you realize you've stopped. You suck in air. He sinks deeper, inch by slow inch, until he bottoms out and his hips are flush with yours.

Full. You're impossibly, achingly full, stretched tight around the base of his cock, your own pulse throbbing where your body grips him. The room disappears. There's nothing left but his breath and the stretch and the blood hammering in your ears.

"Fuck." His forehead drops against yours. His arms bracket your head, barely holding him up. "Eight months. Doesn't even come close."

"Move," you dig your nails into his shoulders. "Please move."

He pulls back—slow, the friction dragging against every nerve ending inside you—until just the head is still inside, and holds there. Your pussy clenches around the tip, greedy, already trying to drag him back in.

And Bucky slams forward.

The sound you make is filthy—wrenched out of you by the force of it, a noise you've never heard yourself make. He fills you in one hard stroke, cock driving deep enough to jolt through your stomach, and the wet slap of his hips against your ass echoes off the bedroom walls.

"Yeah?" He drives in again. Harder. "That the face you made in that bathroom?"

"Yes."

He finds a rhythm. Deep, deliberate strokes that drag against you on every thrust, his hips snapping forward hard enough to punch the breath out of you. Your fingers claw at the sheets, hips rocking up to meet him. He grabs your left leg—hooks his hand behind your knee and pushes it up, folding you nearly in half, thigh pinned to your chest. The angle opens you up. He drives in further, the head of his cock bearing down on that aching spot, and your vision swims.

"Oh God, oh fuck—right there, right there..."

"I know." He picks up the pace, hips driving forward, headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, damning rhythm. His metal hand slides between your bodies—vibranium fingers finding your clit, still tender and buzzing from his mouth—and he works it in fast, tight circles while he fucks you. Your brain gives up trying to process both at once.

Your pussy grips him so tight you can feel the drag of every vein, even through the condom.

"Look at me." Your eyes had screwed shut, and when you force them open, his face is right there—colour high on his cheeks, his mouth bitten red, the tendons in his neck standing taut. "Spent eight months picturing you like this." His hips don't slow. "Wasn't gonna miss the real thing."

"You like this," you breathe—the truth serum's ghost, or maybe just you, done pretending. "You've thought about this. Me under you. Saying your name."

His hips stutter. One uncontrolled thrust that hits deep and wrong and makes you both gasp, and the look on his face when he recovers is the most dangerous thing you've ever seen on a man who's killed people for a living.

"Bucky—Bucky, I'm—" The sentence dissolves. You're right there, seconds from it, every muscle locked—

"—then stop holding back." He doesn't slow down. If anything, he fucks you harder, driving his cock into you at an angle that makes your thighs shake. His thumb bears down on your clit, ruthless. "No more hiding it. Show me, sweetheart. C'mon."

You hold on for three more seconds. Two. One—

—and you stop fighting it. The orgasm opens through you like a wave—starting where his cock is buried and rolling outward through your belly, your chest, and the backs of your closed eyes.

And Bucky unravels, in kind.

His rhythm goes first—that controlled, deliberate pace dissolving into something graceless, hips driving forward without any of the precision he'd held onto all night. Then his voice—a sound he didn't mean to make—splintered your name in his mouth. Three more strokes, rough and uncoordinated, nothing left of the man who'd been calmly edging you on the couch—and he buries himself as deep as he can get before he finishes, filling the condom.

Pitching forward onto the mattress, Bucky barely catches his weight on his forearms before he sinks down onto you—heavy, heaving, the entire length of his body pressed to yours like he's a gigantic, living weighted blanket. His breathing hasn't slowed; it's hot and uneven against your throat. Every part of him is pressed to every part of you.

Your fingers are still dug into his back. You can't really make them let go.

The room smells like sweat and salt and the faint chemical bite of latex. Your sheets are destroyed. Neither of you moves. You're not sure either of you can.

"Okay," you wheeze, when you can form words again. "That was definitely an eleven."

His laugh vibrates against your collarbone. "Yeah?"

"Might even be a twelve."

He lifts his head. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and the look on his face is so stupidly satisfied that you want to kiss him and shove him off the bed in equal measure. "High praise."

"Well earned."

He kisses you—slow, thorough, the taste of you still thick on his tongue—and eases out. You wince at the loss, the sudden emptiness after being so full, and he makes a low, apologetic sound. "Don't move." The condom gets tied off and tossed in the trash, and then he disappears into the bathroom.

A warm washcloth. His knees on the bed beside you, nudging your legs apart. He cleans you up—the come leaking down your thighs, the mess smeared between your legs, the sticky residue of lube and wetness—with careful, unhurried strokes. Gentle where you're swollen, pressing the warm cloth against your pussy and holding it there until the sting fades.

"You don't have to—"

"—I want to." The cloth folds, wipes the inside of your thigh, and then presses his mouth to the red marks his fingers left on your hip. Then he tosses the washcloth toward the bathroom, misses, and doesn't even care to fix it. Back in bed, he pulls you against him—your back to his chest, his arm heavy across your waist.

"So," you say, after your breathing evens out. "This is happening."

"Yeah." His thumb digs into the knot at the base of your neck, kneading it loose. "But it's okay, that it is, right?"

"Of course it is." You tilt your head to look at him. "But, we're going to have to tell people eventually, you know. HR has forms."

"Forms," he repeats, sounding amused.

"Oh, yeah. So many forms. There's a whole disclosure process for intra-team relationships. Did you know that?"

"Uh, no. I didn't know that." He presses a kiss to your temple. "The paperwork will be worth it."

Bucky's fingers find yours across your stomach and lace together—metal and skin, cool and warm. You settle back against him, smiling.

"Is it weird," you murmur, "that I'm kinda glad I got kidnapped?"

"...yeah, sort of. But it's not like I'm complaining about the outcome, sweetheart."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I am.”

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s optimism,” he teases.

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

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

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

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

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

You look at him. “Again?”

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

“Sounds familiar,” you murmur.

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

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

Except this time, you’re part of it.

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

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

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

You glance at him. “Why didn’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart stutters. “I know, Buck.”

But that’s the lie you both settle for.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not. He hasn’t been for weeks.

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

That’s when he thinks of you.

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

He should’ve kissed you.

God, he should’ve kissed you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky’s breath catches. “I’m not—”

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky shrugs. “As I’ll ever be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Terrible?” he offers with a wry grin.

“Different,” you whisper. “Older.”

His gaze softens. “So do you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile. “Good. I missed this.”

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

“Among other things.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

He hides it well. He always did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swallows. “Yeah. Me too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky exhales through his nose. “Never better.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky grins. “Yeah, maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if it kills him.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only if it’s good,” Andrew jokes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance over at him. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothin’.”

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

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

You blink. “What?”

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

You stare at him for a second, caught off guard. The memory is so vivid it startles you—the diner, the cheap plates, his teasing grin. “I… guess I did.”

“Guess you forgot,” he says quietly. You open your mouth to answer, but the words stick. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, too quiet. His eyes are on you, steady and sad, like he’s seeing something you’re only just starting to remember. He clears his throat, looks away, and grabs his coat. “Anyway, I should go. Long day tomorrow.”

You nod slowly. “Right. Of course.”

At the door, he pauses. “Goodnight, doll.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

When the door closes, you stand there for a long time, your back to it, the faint smell of soap and tea still clinging to the air. You don’t know why the stupid detail bothers you so much—why it leaves your chest tight and your eyes stinging. But you can’t shake it.

Because he’s right. You do hate cucumbers. And you can’t quite remember when you started pretending otherwise.

---

It starts as something small, almost imperceptible—a ripple under the surface of a life you’ve been trying to convince yourself is whole. After the night of the cucumber remark, everything feels… tilted. The moment itself had been nothing, really. A few harmless words in a quiet kitchen. But they’d cracked something open that you’d spent months keeping tightly sealed.

Now, the smallest things catch at you. Andrew’s laughter, too practiced. His kisses, always polite and brief. The way he talks about the future in tidy, well-planned sentences—his job, the house you’ll have, the way “Mrs. Reid” rolls so easily off his tongue.

You smile when he says it. You always smile. But inside, there’s this quiet voice that keeps asking, when did you stop belonging to yourself?

You start noticing how often you nod when you don’t agree. How many times you laugh even when something doesn’t strike you as funny. How you smooth over the rough edges of who you are to fit the life that’s being built around you.

It isn’t bad, you tell yourself. Andrew is a good man. Gentle, thoughtful. He works hard, treats you well, makes sure you never walk home alone. He listens when you talk—or at least, he listens enough to respond in all the right ways.

But sometimes, when he looks at you across a dinner table or from the driver’s seat of his neat little car, you get the sense that he’s seeing a version of you that isn’t real. A woman built from good manners and careful words. A woman who never picks fights, never rolls her eyes, never swears when she drops something heavy.

And every time, you think of Bucky. Of the way he’d grin when you cursed, teasing you just to see if he could make you do it again. Of how he never flinched when you disagreed with him, never made you feel smaller for it. Of how, somehow, he could read your silences better than most people could read your words.

You try not to think of it, but the thought follows you like a shadow.

You see Bucky again a week later, almost by accident. You’re on your way back from the tailor with your arms full of packages—bolts of fabric, invitations, a box of new gloves. The wind’s sharp and biting, tearing at your hat, and you’re juggling everything when a voice behind you says, “you always did try to carry the world by yourself.”

You turn, startled—and there he is. Bucky stands a few feet away, collar turned up against the cold, hair mussed by the wind. He looks better than he did last week, or maybe it’s just that he’s smiling, a little shyly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.

“Buck,” you breathe, shifting the packages. “What are you—”

“Was passin’ by,” he says easily, stepping closer. “Figured you could use a hand.” You start to protest, but one of the boxes slips, and he catches it before it hits the ground. He looks at you with that same half-smirk he’s always had—the one that makes your heart stutter for reasons you don’t want to name. “Still stubborn as ever,” he murmurs.

“Still nosy,” you shoot back automatically, though the words come out softer than you intend.

He grins, just a little, and takes the rest of the boxes from you before you can argue. “C’mon, doll. I’ll walk you home.”

The walk is quiet at first. The city hums around you—the whistle of a streetcar, the chatter from shop doors, the faint smell of roasted nuts from a vendor down the block. The two of you move in step like you used to, your gloved hand brushing against his sleeve every so often.

It feels almost normal. Almost easy. He asks about the wedding, and you tell him bits and pieces—the dress, the flowers, the venue—but even to your own ears, it sounds rehearsed, like you’re reading from someone else’s script. When you trail off, Bucky glances at you sideways. “You happy?”

The question lands like a pebble in a pond—small, but the ripples keep spreading. You blink, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”

He shrugs, eyes on the pavement. “Just seems like a thing a guy oughta ask his friend before she gets married.”

You laugh, but it doesn’t sound right. “Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?” He doesn’t answer, just nods slightly. The silence stretches between you until you add, “Andrew’s good to me. You’ve seen that.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’ve seen it.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach twist. The rest of the walk is quieter. You talk about safe things—the weather, Steve’s latest SSR gossip, a new bakery opening down the street. When you reach your building, you pause at the steps, clutching your packages tighter than necessary. “Thanks for helping,” you say.

“Anytime,” he replies.

You linger a moment longer, the wind tugging at your coat. “You should come by Sunday. We’re having dinner with Steve. Just the three of us, like old times.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, finally, “alright. Sunday.”

You smile, relieved. “Good.” When you go inside, you can feel his gaze following you up the stairs. You don’t look back.

Sunday comes, and with it, a quiet warmth you didn’t know you’d been missing. The three of you sit around your little kitchen table, laughing about nothing—the way Steve still can’t cook, the way Bucky still eats like a man starved. For a few hours, it’s as if the years between you’ve been peeled away.

You pour coffee while Bucky leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, telling a story about one of the guys from the docks. His voice is rich and low, easy with laughter. You’ve missed that sound more than you realized.

When the story ends, Steve gets up to wash dishes, leaving you and Bucky alone for a moment. You watch him quietly. The curve of his jaw. The scar by his temple. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. You shouldn’t look at him like that, but you do anyway.

He catches your gaze and holds it. Something flickers between you—familiar, dangerous. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but Steve comes back, clattering dishes, and the spell breaks. Later, after the dishes are done and the laughter’s faded, Bucky lingers at the door. You walk him down to the stoop, saying goodnight like always. The street’s quiet, washed silver by the lamplight. “You really are happy?” he asks again, voice almost lost to the wind.

You hesitate. “I’m supposed to be.”

He studies you for a long moment, then nods, as if that’s answer enough. “Take care of yourself, doll.”

He starts to turn away, but you reach out, catching his sleeve. The fabric is rough and warm under your fingers. “Bucky.” He looks back, and for a heartbeat, everything stops—the air, the sounds, even your own pulse. You want to say something. To tell him that you don’t know how to do this—how to want two different lives, how to stop pretending. But the words won’t come. So you just let go. “Goodnight.”

He hesitates, then tips his head slightly. “Goodnight.”

When he walks away, you stay there for a long time, the cold biting through your coat, your heart pounding like it’s trying to tell you something you already know. And somewhere down the street, Bucky doesn’t look back—because he’s afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to keep walking.

---

The afternoon is one of those deceptive early-winter days—bright sun, brittle cold, wind that nips at your cheeks but never quite steals the warmth from the light. The four of you—you, Andrew, his mother, and Steve—have spent the better part of the day at the reception hall, finalizing decorations and seating arrangements. Bucky had tagged along under the excuse of “lifting heavy things,” but truthfully, he just couldn’t stay away.

The hall itself is beautiful in that sterile, echoing way—pale walls, high ceilings, windows that catch every bit of sunlight and spill it onto the polished floors. There are samples of floral arrangements along one wall, stacks of folded linens, a small buffet table with coffee and pastries that have long gone cold.

You’ve been moving nonstop for an hour—bending, rearranging, lifting centerpieces, trying to visualize how it’ll all come together. You’re tired, your hands ache, and the hem of your skirt keeps catching on your heels.

Bucky watches from the side, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed. Steve’s beside him, dutifully holding a roll of seating charts while Andrew and his mother discuss silverware with the event planner. “Careful, sweetheart,” Andrew calls as you lean over to move a stack of chairs. “You don’t have to do that yourself.”

You smile, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “I’m fine. Just making sure the space works.” It’s right about then that your purse slips off the chair where you’d set it—and the entire contents scatter dramatically across the floor. Lipstick, coins, a small notebook, a handful of folded receipts. You let out a startled sound, bend to grab it—and promptly hit your knee on the edge of the table. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that the word slips out before you can stop it. “Goddammit.”

The sound echoes, far too loud in the open space. For a second, the entire room freezes. Andrew’s head snaps up from where he’s been talking with his mother. She blinks, the faintest twitch of disapproval crossing her expression—not much, just the tightening around her mouth, a small flicker of polite discomfort that might have gone unnoticed if Bucky hadn’t been watching her.

Steve looks like he’s about to laugh, then catches himself. Bucky turns away, biting down on the grin that’s already threatening to break loose.

You flush hot, half from embarrassment, half from frustration. “I—sorry. Table jumped out at me.”

Andrew recovers quickly, his voice smooth, reassuring. “It’s alright, darling. Maybe watch where you’re stepping next time.”

You nod, forcing a small laugh, and crouch to gather your things. You can feel your face burning. Bucky moves forward before you can stop him, crouching beside you. “Here,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it. His gloved hand brushes yours briefly as he hands you your lipstick. “You kiss your fiancé with that mouth?”

You shoot him a look, half scandalized, half amused despite yourself. “Don’t start.”

He smirks. “Couldn’t help it. Been too long since I heard you swear.”

“Should I be flattered that you missed it?”

He shrugs, sliding a coin toward you with one finger. “Maybe I just missed you.”

The words hang in the air a moment too long. You swallow, eyes flicking to his, but before you can respond, Andrew’s voice cuts across the room, “everything alright?”

You stand quickly, clutching your things to your chest. “Yes. All fine.” Bucky rises slower, expression carefully neutral, though you catch the flicker of amusement still dancing in his eyes.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of polite conversation and half-hearted planning. Andrew’s mother offers notes on napkin folds, Steve provides the occasional grunt of agreement, and you smile so much your cheeks hurt.

But you feel Bucky’s gaze every time you speak. Every time you laugh too softly or fidget with your gloves. When you finally leave the venue, the daylight’s already fading into that soft gold that makes everything look warmer than it is. Steve walks ahead with Andrew and his mother, deep in conversation, while you and Bucky lag behind, the cold air frosting your breath. He glances sideways at you. “You okay?”

You exhale a laugh. “Just humiliated myself in front of my future mother-in-law. Totally fine.”

“She’s gonna live,” he says with a grin. “Hell, I think it was worth it just to see her face.”

You groan. “She looked like I’d cursed out a priest.”

“She kinda did,” he teases. “Never thought I’d say this, but I missed hearin’ you swear.”

You glance at him, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe. But you used to call me worse than that.”

You roll your eyes. “When you deserved it.”

He laughs, genuine this time—the sound so warm and familiar it hits something deep inside you. “You got a mouth on you when you’re mad, sweetheart. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I was sixteen,” you protest, shoving your hands in your coat pockets. “Everyone had a mouth at sixteen.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, looking ahead. “But you had fire.” That quiet tone—low, almost reverent—steals the humor right out of the air. You look up at him, but he’s not smiling anymore. His eyes are distant, thoughtful. You walk the rest of the way in silence. Not uncomfortable, just… heavy. The kind of silence that carries too many words neither of you can afford to say.

When you reach the corner where you’ll part ways, you stop. “You’re walking the wrong direction again.”

He smirks faintly. “Never said I was goin’ anywhere in particular.”

You hesitate. “You didn’t have to come today, you know. I know it’s not exactly your kind of thing.”

“I didn’t mind,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you lie automatically.

He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head slightly. “You’re allowed to be more than ‘fine,’ you know.” You open your mouth, but no answer comes. He gives you a small, tired smile. “See you soon, doll.” You watch him walk away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his figure fading into the crowd until he’s gone.

That night, Andrew calls—his voice smooth, polite, talking about dinner with his parents and the guest list. You listen, answering when you need to, but your mind drifts elsewhere. You think of the way Bucky had knelt beside you without hesitation. The quiet teasing. The memory of your younger selves flashing between you for one breathless second. You think of how Andrew had said, “watch where you’re stepping,” and how it had sounded less like concern and more like correction.

You hang up the phone with a headache and a hollow ache in your chest. When you turn off the light, you whisper into the dark—a soft, frustrated word that you’d never say out loud. Bucky would have laughed. And for the first time in a long while, you do too—quietly, bitterly, but real.

---

The night of the dance comes almost by accident—one of those things Steve insists on, claiming it’ll “do everyone good to get out.” He’s been helping with a fundraiser for returning veterans, something organized at a converted ballroom downtown. There’ll be live music, dancing, food, and a chance, he says, to feel normal again.

You’d refused at first. Between fittings, dinner invitations, and endless lists from your mother and Andrew’s family, your days already feel like borrowed time. But Steve is relentless—and Bucky, of course, is going. So you give in.

The evening is cold enough that your breath ghosts in the air as you step from the cab. The building glows warm through tall windows, laughter spilling onto the street in bursts as couples sweep in through the doors. Music drifts faintly out—brass and strings, something upbeat and elegant.

You smooth your gloves, nerves prickling under your skin. Andrew couldn’t come; a late dinner with a client, he said, promising to make it up to you over the weekend. He’d kissed your cheek on the way out the door, already thinking about something else.

Now, standing under the soft halo of the marquee lights, you almost turn back—until you hear a familiar voice. “Hey, doll.” Bucky’s leaning against the doorframe, coat open, tie slightly undone. He’s smiling—that lazy, easy grin that used to make your stomach do strange things when you were younger.

You exhale. “You look—”

“Don’t say it,” he warns playfully. “I already know.”

You grin despite yourself. “You were going to say it anyway.”

“Maybe,” he admits, pushing off the wall. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

It’s simple, unembellished, and it lands harder than it should. You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “Thank you.”

He offers his arm with a flourish. “Shall we?” You take it before you can think better of it. The hall inside is alive—bright lights glinting off polished floors, the air full of warmth and perfume and brass. A small band plays near the stage, their instruments gleaming under the glow. Couples swirl across the floor, the sound of laughter weaving with the rhythm of the music.

Steve finds you both near the entrance, already grinning, already holding two glasses of champagne. “You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say, smiling.

Bucky raises a brow at the glasses. “Since when do you drink the fancy stuff?”

Steve shrugs. “Figured I’d start celebrating before anyone gets sentimental.”

“You’re the sentimental one,” Bucky teases. “You cried when you saw that puppy in the paper last week.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You two haven’t changed a bit.”

For the first hour, everything feels easy. You sit together at a table near the floor, watching dancers spin, the band switching between swing and slower numbers. Steve gets dragged onto the dance floor by a brunette in a red dress, who you’re pretty sure is Peggy, leaving you and Bucky to nurse drinks and trade quiet jokes.

But as the night wears on, something shifts. The music slows. The lights dim slightly, turning everything gold and soft. Couples begin to drift together, the chatter thinning into quiet laughter. You’re fiddling with your glass when Bucky stands. “Come on.”

You blink up at him. “What?”

He nods toward the floor. “Dance with me.”

“Bucky, I don’t think—”

He extends his hand, palm up, eyes steady. “It’s just a dance.”

Your heart stutters, but you take it. His hand is warm around yours, solid. The other settles lightly at your waist as he guides you into the rhythm. It’s slow, easy—the kind of song that sways more than moves, leaving space for breath between every step.

You haven’t danced together since before the war. Back then, it had been all laughter and clumsy steps—your heels on his boots, his grin bright enough to fill the room. This feels different. Older. Heavier. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as you try to keep your eyes anywhere else. “So,” he says quietly, his voice just audible over the band. “Big day’s coming soon.”

You nod. “Two months.”

“You nervous?”

You laugh softly, though it sounds a little hollow. “Should I be?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking down to yours. “Guess that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re happy.”

You swallow. “You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”

“Maybe,” he says, smiling faintly. “But you still haven’t given me an answer.”

You look away, focusing on a couple nearby, the woman’s patterned dress catching the light as she spins. “It’s not that simple, Bucky.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

The music slows further, the last few bars stretching out. His thumb traces an idle circle at your waist—so small you almost think you imagined it. You glance up at him. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I’ve spent half my life lookin’ out for you, and the other half trying not to.”

Your breath catches. “Bucky—”

He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can say more. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna ruin your night.” The song ends, but neither of you move right away. You’re still caught in the slow sway of it, the warmth of his hand, the nearness of him. Finally, he steps back, the loss of his touch like stepping into cold air. “Thanks for the dance, doll.”

You nod, voice soft. “Anytime.”

He smiles—that quiet, sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—and turns away before you can say more. You stand there, trying to steady your breathing, watching him move toward the bar. The crowd shifts around you, but everything feels strangely far away—the music, the laughter, the shimmering gold of the lights.

When Steve returns, flushed and grinning, you force yourself to smile. You make small talk, you drink another glass of champagne, you laugh in all the right places.

But every time you glance across the room, Bucky’s already looking at you. And when the band starts another song—something slow and aching—you can feel the pulse of it in your bones, the echo of his hand still at your waist. You know, with sudden terrible clarity, that the world you’ve built is about to crack.

The cold hits like a slap when you step outside the ballroom, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the swell of brass and laughter. The sky is a heavy gray-black, the kind of night that promises snow. Streetlights cast soft circles on the pavement, and the air smells faintly of salt and smoke.

You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders and exhale, trying to steady yourself. Inside, the party is still going strong—laughter, footsteps, clinking glasses. You can still hear the echo of the band through the doors. The sound feels far away, like it belongs to someone else’s life.

You hadn’t meant to come out here. You just needed air. Space to breathe. You’re halfway down the steps when the door swings open behind you. “Figured I’d find you out here.” You turn. Bucky stands in the doorway, coat over one arm, his expression unreadable. His hair’s a little messy from the heat inside, his tie loose. He looks nothing like the man who’d smiled and danced with you an hour ago. He looks like someone who’s come to do something he can’t take back.

“Hey,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. “Needed a minute.”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping down beside you. “Me too.”

The silence stretches, filled with the low hum of the city and the distant sound of a passing car. You look out toward the street. “It’s getting late. I should—”

“Don’t go yet.” It comes out sharper than he means, and he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sorry. Just—just wait a minute.”

You hesitate, then nod. He steps in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. The lamplight catches the faint scar at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw. You can see the muscle in his throat move when he swallows. “You can’t marry him,” he says quietly.

The words hit like a physical thing—not shouted, not dramatic, just certain. You stare at him, the wind tugging at your shawl. “What?”

He exhales hard, almost laughing, not because it’s funny, but because he’s run out of ways to hold it in. “You heard me.”

“Bucky—”

“Don’t.” His voice cracks slightly, the word raw. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. You’ve been pretending long enough.”

You step back, shaking your head. “You don’t get to say that.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“You don’t,” you repeat, louder this time, the tremor in your voice betraying you. “You had years, Bucky. Years to say something, and you didn’t. You went off to war, and you didn’t write, you didn’t—”

“I thought I was dead!” he shouts, then lowers his voice quickly, the sound cracking in the cold air. “I thought I was dead, and when I wasn’t, I didn’t know how to come back. You think I wanted to ruin what we had?”

“You already have,” you whisper.

He laughs—quiet and bitter. “Yeah. Guess I did.” You turn away, hugging your arms around yourself, staring out at the blur of passing headlights. Your breath clouds the air, your chest tight. He steps closer, voice low again. “I’m not tryin’ to hurt you, doll. I just—” He stops, searching for the words. “Every time I see you with him, it feels like I’m watching somebody else live your life. And I can’t keep doin’ it.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do.”

He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his hand drop. “You think I don’t see it? The way you look when you’re with him—polite, careful. Like you’re walkin’ on glass. You used to laugh with your whole body, you know that? You’d throw your head back and snort like it was the funniest thing you ever heard. You don’t laugh like that anymore.”

You blink, and your vision goes blurry. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.”

You shake your head, half laughing, half crying. “God, you think you can just come back and tell me I’m unhappy? You think you can just say that and everything changes?”

He takes a step forward, closing the space between you. His voice drops, rough and steady. “No. I think I can tell you the truth. I love you, and I have since before I even knew what that meant.” The words hang there, suspended in the cold air, heavy enough to change the shape of the night. You stare at him, heart pounding, your mouth open but no words coming out. He laughs again, softer now, broken. “I know. I know I’m too late. But I’d rather ruin what’s left than spend another day pretendin’ I don’t still feel this way.”

You whisper, “Bucky, stop.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. Not this time.”

“Don’t do this to me.”

“I’m not doin’ anything to you,” he says quietly. “I’m tryin’ to be honest. For once.”

You step closer without realizing it, until you’re only a breath apart. The air between you feels electric, sharp, full of everything you’ve both been avoiding. “You don’t get to tell me you love me now,” you say, voice shaking. “Not after all this time.”

He swallows. “I know.”

You look up at him—his eyes, his face, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious and painful all at once. “Then why are you saying it?”

“Because I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You should pull away. You don’t. The touch is so light it barely registers, but it’s enough to make your heart lurch. You realize you’ve been waiting for it—for years, maybe.

And then he kisses you.

It isn’t careful. It isn’t perfect. It’s desperate, aching, years of silence collapsing into one impossible moment. His hand finds your face, yours fists in the front of his coat. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and regret.

For a second, you let yourself fall into it—the familiarity, the warmth, the terrible rightness of it. Then reality slams back. You break away, breathless, trembling. “Don’t,” you whisper. “Please.”

He takes a step back immediately, hands raised like surrender. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, voice thin. “No, you’re not.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. “You’re right. I’m not.”

You stand there in the cold, neither of you moving, the echo of the kiss still pulsing in the space between you. Finally, you turn. “I have to go.”

He doesn’t stop you this time. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You walk away, your heels striking the pavement, each step harder than the last. You don’t look back, because if you do, you’ll break. Behind you, Bucky stays where he is, the wind tugging at his coat, the sound of the music from inside drifting faintly through the doors. He runs a hand over his mouth, as if he can still taste you, and lets out a shaky breath that turns white in the cold air.

When Steve finds him later, still standing outside under the lamplight, he doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to. “Guess she went home,” Steve says quietly.

Bucky nods, staring down at the street. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

Bucky laughs once, soft and bitter. “Not even close.”

Steve doesn’t say anything after that. Just claps a hand to his shoulder, solid and wordless, before leading him toward home.

That night, you sit on your bed in the dark, your shawl still around your shoulders, your hair still styled from the dance. The mirror across from you reflects a version of yourself you don’t recognize—flushed cheeks, tear-stained eyes, a ring on your finger that feels heavier than gold.

You press your fingers to your lips and close your eyes. The ghost of him is still there—the warmth of his hand, the tremor in his voice when he said your name. You tell yourself it was a mistake. That it won’t happen again. That it doesn’t change anything. But deep down, in the place where you’ve hidden everything that still feels alive, you already know it does. Because no matter what happens next—no matter how much you tell yourself otherwise—that kiss didn’t feel like the end of something.

It felt like the start.

---

The morning after the dance dawns gray and breathless, the kind of quiet that feels like the city itself is holding still. You wake long before your alarm, eyes open to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The bedsheets are cold beside you—Andrew had stayed at his parents’ house last night after the dinner he mentioned, something about convenience, early meetings. You’d told him it was fine. You’d meant it.

But now, the silence in the apartment feels unbearable.

Your shawl is draped over the chair where you tossed it last night. One glove sits on the floor, half under the bed. Your lipstick is still smudged faintly around the corners of your mouth. You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror for a long time—your eyes red-rimmed, your hair a little messed up from sleep.

You look like a woman who hasn’t slept. You look like a woman who’s done something unforgivable. You press your palms flat on the table, forcing a breath through your lungs. You should feel guilty. You do feel guilty—but not in the way you expected. The shame sits alongside something else, something more dangerous. You feel awake.

You make it through breakfast without tasting a thing. The paper sits unread beside your plate, the coffee untouched. Every tick of the clock seems louder than the last. You keep hearing his voice, low and rough.

You can’t marry him. You used to laugh with your whole body. I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.

You try to drown it out with reason. Andrew is good. Steady. The kind of man your parents dreamed you’d marry. He’s kind to you, even if his kindness sometimes feels more like careful politeness than love. You’ll have a warm home, safety, a life without turbulence.

Bucky is none of those things.

He’s reckless, restless, full of jagged edges and ghosts that won’t leave him. His hands still tremble when he doesn’t sleep. He disappears for hours to “walk,” though you suspect he’s not walking so much as running from his own mind.

But when he’d kissed you—God, when he’d kissed you—there had been no distance, no pretending. Just truth. Raw, terrible, beautiful truth. And now you can’t un-feel it.

You find yourself outside his building before you realize you’ve even left home. The cold gnaws at your fingers; your breath fogs the air. You’re in your best coat, a hat tugged low, gloves clasped tight as if they’re the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door. Every part of you is screaming not to go inside—but your feet move anyway. The hallway smells faintly of tobacco and cheap soap. The floorboards creak underfoot. You reach his door, heart hammering, and knock before you can talk yourself out of it.

It takes a moment. Then footsteps. Then the latch.

When the door opens, he looks… wrecked. Bucky’s hair is rumpled, his shirt half-buttoned, his eyes red-rimmed like yours. He blinks when he sees you, caught between surprise and something softer—something like disbelief. “Doll.”

“Can I come in?”

He steps aside wordlessly. The apartment is small—one room with a narrow kitchen, a half-drawn curtain separating the bed from the rest. There’s a record player on a crate, a mug on the windowsill gone cold. Everything smells faintly of metal polish and smoke.

You take off your gloves, set them down on the table, and stand there, unsure what to do with your hands. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s afraid if he blinks you’ll disappear. “I shouldn’t be here,” you say first.

He nods once. “Probably not.”

Neither of you move. The silence stretches. Finally, you force the words out, “what happened last night can’t—”

“—be undone,” he finishes for you. His voice is steady, quiet. “I know.”

You swallow. “Andrew—”

“Doesn’t love you the way you deserve,” he says, too quickly.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t make him the villain. He’s good to me.”

“I know he is,” Bucky says softly. “But he doesn’t see you.”

You turn away, pacing to the window. “You keep saying that. That he doesn’t see me. What does that even mean?”

He moves closer, not touching you yet. “It means he doesn’t know the way your hands shake when you’re excited. Or how you hum when you cook. Or how you hate cucumbers but love the smell of mint. He doesn’t know how you look when you’re mad and trying not to cry. He doesn’t know you fall asleep reading, or that you talk in your sleep sometimes.” You close your eyes. “He doesn’t know you,” Bucky finishes, voice low. “Not the way I do.”

“That’s not fair,” you whisper. “People change, Bucky. I’m not who I was before the war. Neither are you.”

“Maybe not,” he says, and now he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back. “But you’re still you. The real you. And I’m still the fool who fell for you before either of us knew what love was.”

You turn around, ready to tell him to stop—but he’s looking at you with that same quiet honesty that’s always undone you. No pleading. No bravado. Just truth. Something in you breaks. “You think this is easy for me?” you snap, tears stinging your eyes. “You think I haven’t spent every night trying to make myself believe that I can do this—that I can marry him, smile, build a life that’s good, even if it’s not…” You trail off, breathing hard.

“Not what?” he asks softly.

“Not you.” The words hang there like a confession torn from your chest.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes darkening. “Say that again.”

You shake your head, tears slipping free. “Don’t make me.”

He takes a step closer. “Say it.”

You look up at him, voice trembling. “It’s not you.”

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just studies your face—every tear, every tremor. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, “then don’t marry him.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Bucky—”

“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, firmer now. “Don’t spend the rest of your life pretending this never happened. Pretending you don’t feel it too.”

Your throat closes. “You’re asking me to destroy everything.”

“I’m asking you to be honest,” he says. “For once. Just with yourself.”

The silence that follows feels like standing on a precipice. You can hear the tick of a clock somewhere, the distant sound of a car outside. Finally, you whisper, “if I walk away from him, there’s no going back.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “But maybe that’s the point.”

You meet his eyes, and for the first time in months—maybe years—you feel something that isn’t fear. You feel clarity. You leave his apartment an hour later, the sun beginning to rise pale and pink over the rooftops. The streets are still quiet, the city half-asleep. You walk the whole way home.

By the time you reach your door, your fingers are numb, your heart raw. You set your ring on the table—gold glinting in the soft morning light—and sit beside it, staring until the sun burns through the window. When the phone rings, you don’t answer. Not yet. You don’t know what you’ll say to Andrew, not really. You just know it has to be true. And for the first time in a long, long while, that feels like enough.

That afternoon, Bucky finds Steve at the diner, coat unbuttoned, eyes still tired but different now—lighter somehow. Steve raises a brow when he slides into the booth. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “I didn’t.”

“She come by?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”

Steve studies him for a moment. “You tell her?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Bucky looks out the window, where sunlight spills across the street, turning everything gold. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “But for the first time since I came home… it feels like maybe things might be right again.”

Steve smiles faintly. “That’s something.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, fingers curling around his coffee mug. “It is.”

Outside, the city hums to life again—the promise of something new on the horizon. And somewhere across town, you sit by the window, your ringless hand resting over your heart, breathing in the quiet morning air. You don’t know what comes next.

But you know who you want to face it with.

---

It happens on a Sunday. The kind of pale, overcast morning that seems to hum with quiet finality—the sort of day that feels like the closing of a chapter, even before anything has ended. Your hands tremble only once when you lace your gloves. Then again when you look in the mirror and see the faint indentation where your ring used to sit. It’s strange how something so small could leave a mark so deep.

Andrew had called three times since last night. You’d answered none of them. You’d written him a letter—neat, careful handwriting, the kind of letter that doesn’t waste words. You apologized, you explained just enough, you didn’t say Bucky’s name. You thanked him for being kind. For being safe. For giving you a life you could have loved, if your heart hadn’t been somewhere else.

When you finished, you folded it, sealed it, and set it gently in his mailbox before you lost your nerve. Then you walked. The city feels softer than usual—washed clean from an early morning drizzle, streets gleaming faintly under the muted sun. People bustle past you in coats and scarves, voices muffled, the world continuing as if nothing monumental has shifted. But for you, everything has.

Bucky doesn’t hear the knock at first. He’s just come back from the docks, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the mist. There’s a record playing—something scratchy and old, the kind of jazz you used to hum when you worked beside him at the old diner near Flatbush.

He’s been trying not to think about you; he’s failing. So when the knock comes, soft but steady, he almost doesn’t answer. Some part of him is terrified to open that door, afraid that seeing you—or not seeing you—will finally undo him for good.

But he does. And there you are. Your coat’s damp at the hem, your cheeks stinging from the cold. There’s no ring on your hand, and your eyes—God, your eyes—look clearer than he’s ever seen them. “Hey,” you say, voice small but sure.

He blinks, then steps aside automatically. “You came.”

You nod, stepping inside. “I did.” The air in the room feels charged, the same way it did that morning in his apartment. But this time, there’s no hesitation between you. No guilt. Just a quiet certainty settling in your bones. “I ended it,” you say.

Bucky freezes. “You what?”

You meet his gaze. “With Andrew.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, struggling to find breath. “You sure?”

You nod once. “I told him the truth.”

For a moment, neither of you move. Then Bucky lets out a slow, unsteady breath and takes a step forward—one, then another, until you’re standing close enough to feel the warmth of him through your coat. “What did you tell him?” he asks softly.

“That I couldn’t marry someone I didn’t love,” you whisper.

He searches your face, voice barely a murmur. “And who do you love?”

You don’t look away this time. “You.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s full. Alive. Like the first inhale after years of holding your breath.

And then he’s kissing you.

It isn’t desperate this time. It’s steady. Sure. The kind of kiss that feels like coming home after too long away. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the tear that slips free. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he murmurs against your lips, “hey, hey. Don’t.”

You laugh, half-sobbing, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

You nod, smiling through the tears. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He exhales shakily, relief breaking over him like sunlight. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

“Maybe I do,” you tease gently, your hand resting over his heart. He covers it with his own, fingers threading through yours. His pulse beats strong under your palm. You stay like that for a long time—standing in the quiet of his apartment, the city noise drifting faintly through the window. It feels fragile, this peace, but also real. Earned.

Eventually, he guides you to the small kitchen table, sets a kettle on the stove, and makes tea—the way he used to when you were kids, strong and too sweet. You sit across from him, elbows on the scarred wood, steam curling between you. He watches you for a moment, eyes soft. “You sure you’re okay?”

You smile. “You’ve asked me that three times.”

“Can’t help it.”

“I know.”

You reach across the table, covering his hand with yours. “I think I’ll be okay, Buck. For the first time in a long while.”

He nods slowly, thumb tracing circles against your wrist. “You know this won’t be easy.”

“I know,” you say. “But at least it’ll be real.”

He looks at you then—really looks—and you see the weight lift from him. The guilt, the fear, the quiet ache that’s been hiding behind his smile since the war. “Real sounds good,” he murmurs.

The weeks that follow aren’t simple. There are whispers, of course. Muted condolences from neighbors who think you’ve been jilted. Polite confusion from Andrew’s family. Your mother’s disappointment—quiet, tight-lipped, the kind that cuts deeper than yelling.

But there’s also laughter again. You and Bucky and Steve falling back into a rhythm that feels like the world before it went to hell—coffee at the diner, evenings spent walking home through the city, warmth slowly replacing what had been hollow.

Sometimes, it’s quiet—hands brushing on park benches, shared cigarettes in the cold, Bucky’s coat around your shoulders. Sometimes, it’s loud—dancing in his room to bad jazz, arguing about who cheats at cards, Steve rolling his eyes fondly from the doorway. And every now and then, when you least expect it, he’ll reach for your hand—just a touch, light and unassuming—and it’ll still take your breath away.

It’s early spring when you wake in his bed for the first time with sunlight spilling through the window, his arm slung across your waist. The city hums faintly outside—car horns, laughter, the world moving on.

You turn your head, watching him sleep. He looks younger like this. Peaceful, almost. You reach up, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. His eyes open slowly, blue and soft, and he smiles—that same crooked grin that’s undone you a hundred times over. “Mornin’, doll.”

You grin back. “Morning.”

He leans in and kisses you, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything except the promise that you’re both still here. When he pulls back, he murmurs, “you know, I still think about that night at the Expo sometimes.”

You laugh, low. “When you vanished to find Steve?”

“Yeah,” he says, smile widening. “Should’ve kissed you then.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “You made up for it.”

He hums, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Not done makin’ up for it.”

You smile against his skin. “Good.”

Outside, the city keeps moving—trains and laughter and sunlight spilling over everything. The world isn’t perfect. It never will be. But for the first time, it feels like yours again. And when Bucky pulls you close, his voice low against your ear, you know with absolute certainty that you did the right thing.

extra notes: this fic has been done for months, probably since tloas came out in october. i still think months later it's one of my favorites so i hope y'all liked it as much as i do <3

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

It started in sophomore year. 

New school year, new state. Your parents uprooted your entire family's life again for a job, claiming it was final this time.

You were reluctant, it had happened too many times already since you were still in your diapers. Still, you came with.

Not like you had a choice.

You were used to it at this point. Ever since you moved away and lost contact with your childhood best friend you became more detached. Reminding yourself not to get attached to anyone because getting attached when you eventually move away means losing a part of your heart again. 

It was safe, you remind yourself. Because you don't know when your parents' job would have you moving again.

This time you found yourself in New York. 

Your family moved into a small two bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. The neighborhood was safe enough that your parents can leave you unattended as they work their jobs to provide a good future for you. Also in walking distance to the subway line to your school.

All was going too well until your Science laboratory class had you partnered with one James Buchanan Barnes. 

You tried to stay away, you really did. But the universe seems to have a cruel reminder that no man really is an island as it kept partnering you to the shy quiet boy who always had a piece of Star Wars merch on him.

Now in senior year, your parents stayed true to their words and haven’t uprooted again. Graduation was on the horizon and you and James, who much rather be called Bucky, is now your best friend.

Mysteriously, sweet love letters telling you how amazing and beautiful you are started appearing inside your locker. At first you had a hunch it was Bucky but when you opened it up he started to tease you about it, sealing in your head that maybe the harboring feelings that had grown over the years was one sided.

“New letter from your mysterious admirer?” Bucky joked as he swiped the latest love letter from your hand.

“Hey, give it back!” You yell out as you try your best to reach for the sweet note but Bucky kept his hand up high, his other hand on your waist to keep you from reaching it.

The years have been kind to him, the once skinny and scrawny kid you got as a partner is slowly growing into a tall and handsome man.

Bucky grins down at you, that stupid lopsided smirk of his making your stomach do a weird flip. “What? I just wanna see who's trying to woo my best friend,” he teases, dangling the letter just out of reach. His thumb brushes over the folded paper—too casually—like he doesn't know every word written on it.

“You know what’s wild?” He leans in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Somebody keeps leaving these for you and yet nobody ever claims them.” A pause. “Suspicious, don’t you think?” “Don't be a dick.” You huff at his teasing voice and thankfully due to how close he let you be just to whisper to your ear, you were able to jump and grasp the letter back in your hands.

"I'm not being a dick," Bucky quips back. "I'm protecting you, like any good best friend would."

He's still holding you close to him. Your back is flushed against his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder. This shouldn't be making you feel things you remind yourself but it does. He smells like the same body wash that you’ve grown accustomed to when you have sleepovers at the Barnes’ household and a hint of spice from the perfume you bought him, it’s so explicitly Bucky.

His hand is still at your waist, still trailing his finger over your hip bone leaving shiver on its wake.

You sigh and open the letter again so he could also read, "he said I looked like an angel when he saw me at the library." You say softly as you reread the letter out loud this time, "I wish he would approach us."

Bucky hums in response to your words, his chin on your shoulder still. He was a little too comfortable at the moment, having you pinned against him like that.

He reads the note, fingers still tracing circles on your hip. "An angel, huh," he muses. "Pretty words." There's a hint of something in his voice, but you can't quite place it. "And yet, he never actually talks to you."

"He's probably just shy." You say fondly.

Bucky hums in agreement and for a moment, you two were lost in your own little world as he continued leaving shivers in your skin's wake.

For a second as Bucky held you, he considered coming clean about the letters. How he feels but before he could say anything you turn to face him.

"Anyways," you say with an exhale putting a little distance much to his dismay. "Are we still on for after school?"

Bucky couldn't have held back the disappointed look on his face even if he wanted to. He was secretly relishing the close proximity but now that you'd stepped away, he had to mask his true feelings behind a cool facade.

"Of course," he responded, shoving his hands into his pockets to appear nonchalant. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

He tried to act unbothered, but you've known him long enough to see through his facade. It was no surprise then when he tacked on with an almost whiny remark. "Just us?"

“Of course” you smile, play pushing your fist to his stomach, “who else would join us? Unless you invited Sam and Steve?”

Bucky grunts slightly at your playful punch, but he gives you a quick smirk in return. "Nah. This is a you and I thing." He leans a little closer and adds in a quieter, more serious tone, "I don't like sharing you." The hint of seriousness leaves butterflies in your stomach.

You roll your eyes to hide your smile as you push him back a little, "alright Bucko, you got me to yourself later."

And with that the school bell rings, signaling that you both needed to hurry to your respective class.

"I'll see you later Bucky!"

Bucky gives you a crooked half-smile as he pushed his glasses back up to his nose, watching as you hurry off to class. He's left standing in the hallway, fighting the urge to call you back. He really should tell you the truth that he was behind the letters—the words were right there on the tip of his tongue. But he chickened out, like always.

The low hum of your car stopped once you turned off the engine, the only sound filling the silence of the night was the slight movement of the fishing boats against the pier. You rested your forehead over the steering wheel, sighing in the dark.

You ran away from Baton Rogue after the messiest moment of your life, a divorce after a four year marriage with Noah, who was supposed to be the love of your life, the person you would spend your life with.

It started in February, the day you decided to go and surprise him at his office; little did you know you would be the one surprised, when you found out he was banging his long time best friend Theresa on his desk.

You were in shock for a week or so, and once you snapped you filed for divorce, trying to work things out peacefully. The only thing you wanted was to get out of his life for good. But he wouldn't let go that easy, after all, he was an important CEO, his family owned an energy conglomerate and they were traditional, a divorce would look bad, even a silent one.

Noah tried winning you back for the sake of his reputation. Promised the moon and stars, to not cheat again… Theresa, the resentful one, couldn't stand it so she got revenge and leaked a sex tape for everyone to see.

It was like pushing down a piece of domino in order to watch the whole thing fall down.

After six months of back and forth in the courthouse, avoiding the press and trying to put your life back together you decided Baton Rouge wasn't a safe place to stay anymore. You felt that you've become the entire city's clown, and you could sense people's pitying looks every time they crossed paths with you.

That's when your aunt offered you her house in Delacroix, a quiet place where you could start off your new life. Which honestly, you needed.

You had to figure out what to do next, whatever that meant.

Suddenly everything you've planned with your life was gone.

Destroyed.

It haunted you every single night when you laid on your back and tried to fall asleep.

'Maybe we can travel to Europe once we have our first child'. 'You think it would be a he or a she?' 'I just hope that he has your eyes'.

You pulled your head away from the steering wheel, looking around. It was lonely. Quiet. Peaceful. No one was there to ask any questions. It was perfect, for now.

The main door creaks once you open it. The lights were on, just like you were told they would be. There's no one waiting for you inside. You walk slowly to the couch, leaving one of your suitcases by the wall. The clock ticking on the wall is the only thing keeping you accompanied.

You don't allow yourself to cry. Not yet.

The truth is, you've been holding back for months now. Your family told you to keep your chin up and look forward, to not show any vulnerability because people would tear you apart if you did. Now, you were numb.

The air is filled with the smell of floor cleaned. Everything is so tidy that it feels wrong to break down, as if your feelings were something dirty to let out.

You take off your shoes, sitting down on the edge of the bed without unpacking and you finally accept that nothing nor anyone is going to magically do this easier.

Everything was over.

You didn't know how many days passed, when a firm knock was heard on the other side of the main door, finally breaking the silence. It was a surprise, since the only thing that you've heard in the past few days were the fishers getting ready to start their days by the morning, and them unloading their ships at evening when the sun set.

Not that you would've seen with your own eyes the sunset. Or anything at all. You just guided yourself by the slight lightning filtering through the curtains. You have been eating once a day and you only remembered showering four times since you arrived here.

Another knock, and then someone trying to force the knob.

"I swear to god if you don't open this door I'm going to kick down the door", the well known voice of your best friend, Natalie, filled the whole room. Before you could do or say something else, the door opened completely.

You heard the dramatic gasp leaving her lips as she gauged the disaster you were.

There were instant soup packages in the coffee table, your luggage was scattered all over the floor and you… well, you have been crying on a daily basis. Your eyes were swollen, and your spirit broken.

"Enough", she said, practically dragging you into the bathroom. "You've been ignoring my calls for days, it's time for you to get back on your feet and… holy shit, when was the last time you showered?"

You don't even have time to respond or feel ashamed when she turns on the shower and throws you over there as if you weighed nothing, which honestly, could be true by this point by the way you've been neglecting yourself.

The cold water hit your skin, making you squeal. "What the hell, Natalie?!" you yell, trying to scramble out of the shower, but she simply closes the bathroom gate and stays near, guarding the door. Once you stop trembling you find strength to adjust the water temperature, taking off your soaked clothes and putting it on the shelf.

A few hours later, the house is as tidy as it was when you first arrived. Natalie had went to the local market and stuffed your fridge and the cabinets with enough supplies for a month or so and cooked some comfort food, practically staring at you until you ate the last drop of it.

"You okay?"

You were about to nod, but you ended up shaking your head. "I don't think so. I just… I just don't know what to do anymore."

"Live. Not neglect yourself to death while you're isolated", she says bluntly. "Your sheets stink, by the way. You gotta do some laundry urgently or else people are gonna think you've died."

"That, I know" you mumble, rolling your eyes, finally feeling a small glimpse of yourself coming back. "I know that I gotta live, what I don't know is… how should I do so. I just… I planned my whole life with him, you know? And now that he's gone, I don't know what I am anymore, what should be next for me. I've been holding back for so long because people practically forced me to be strong…"

She reaches for your hand, squeezing it softly to reassure you. "You're allowed to grieve. What you shouldn't do is throw everything away and sink on your misery. Girl, you are a damn millionaire, thanks to that cheating scumbag. It's not like your life is over for good. You just have to find a different path for you. Being a wife wasn't the only thing meant for your life, gotta make yourself clear on that."

You knew deep down she was right, but it was so scary at the same time.

"But if you don't want that money I certainly know of someone who happens to dream about visiting Europe and would appreciate a donation to her cause." She added, with a lopsided grin that made you chuckle.

Well, it was a genuine first one after months of feigning joy.

Natalie stayed for a couple weeks, until you were noticeably better.

She cooked breakfast, lunch and dinner and helped you unpack and re-decorate the space to make it more vintage chic and less Victorian ghost (her words, not yours). She also forced you to get up from bed every single morning to walk by the pier and see the sunrise while doing some stretches, until one day you were finally doing it on your own.

It was November 16th now, you realized it thanks to the tear-off calendar she gently brought for you, one gift to make sure you lived one day at the time. She made you promise you will reintroduce yourself to the world before going back to the city.

Delacroix was a small town, it was the kind of place where no one was a stranger for long and everyone noticed when someone new showed up.

You were currently at one local coffee shop, hearing the murmur of distant conversations, while taking a deep breath.

You could leave if you wanted to. No one would judge you or claim about it. But you had to do it. One step at a time, you reminded yourself.

Before you could turn around and leave, your phone buzzed on your pocket. You pulled it out only to see a text message from Natalie.

Please tell me you've met a hot guy already.

That made a smile tug up your lips and decided it to do it for her. Not meeting the guy, just order a coffee and breathe fresh air while drinking it on the sidewalk table.

The barista takes your order, your regular order for autumn—a maple pecan latte. Something painfully familiar that makes your stomach churn with the memory, but you try to shake the thought. That was something yours, even before you met Noah. It didn't matter how many times he bought one for you.

Once you have your latte with you, you take a few steps back and turn around without hesitating, colliding with a solid wall of muscle. The cup slips down and spills all over the floor.

So long, starting a new life.

"Oh my god, I'm really sorry", you said by reflex, after staring at the whole mess on your feet. The hem of your white coat was splashed with coffee.

"No, no…" he says, almost at the same time. "It was my fault."

His voice doesn't match his aspect. You were expecting something rougher, maybe raspier. Instead, he speaks low, careful, as if he measures every word before letting it slip past his lips. Then you notice his eyes. Piercing blue. He doesn't make eye contact with you for long, his gaze drops shyly while he rushes himself to fix the situation, taking some napkins from the counter.

He crouches down instinctively, blotting at the floor like the coffee might somehow crawl back into the cup if he apologizes enough. "I really didn't see you," he adds, quieter now. "I wasn't paying much attention."

"It's okay," you say again, though your hands hover uselessly in front of you, unsure whether to help or just… disappear. "It was my fault too."

Your eyes flick to the mess on your coat, then back to the ruined latte pooling between your shoes. You swallow, chest tightening—not because of the spill, but because it feels stupidly symbolic. Of course this would happen the first time you try to exist again.

The barista is already grabbing a mop. "I'll go ahead and remake that for you," she says kindly, like she's learned not to ask questions in a town like this.

The man straightens, rubbing the back of his neck. Up close, you notice he looks… tired. Not in a dramatic way. Just someone who hasn't slept enough, who carries silence around him like a habit.

"I can pay for it," he offers quickly.

You shake your head. "You really don't have to."

"I insist," he says, then winces slightly, like he's worried insisting might be too much. "I mean— only if that's okay."

A pause stretches between you. It's not an uncomfortable one exactly. Just something unfamiliar.

"…Okay," you finally say.

He nods once, relieved, and steps to the counter. While he does, you move to the side, dabbing at your coat with napkins that don't help that much. Coffee stain: undefeated.

When he comes back, he doesn't hand you the cup right away.

"Looks like they added an extra napkin," he says. Then softer, almost like an afterthought, "and a lid this time."

You huff out a quiet laugh before you can stop yourself. It surprises you almost as much as him.

"There you go," he says, holding it out.

Your fingers brush his when you take it. The contact is brief—nothing electric, nothing cinematic—but you feel it anyway. Maybe because it's the first time in a long while someone has touched you without expectation.

"I'm—uh—" He hesitates. "I'm sorry again. About your coat."

"It's fine," you say, and this time you mean it. "I guess I am an infallible ingredient for disaster."

Those words take both of you by surprise and you blush, realizing you just thought out loud. Another pause stretches between you.

"Bucky", he says after a while. "That's what they call me, at least. My name is James."

You blink. Then: "I'm—"

You stop for a second, saying your name feels heavier than it should. Like introducing yourself is quite a big deal in this new version of your life. You say it anyway.

He repeats it once, quietly, like he's testing how it sounds in his voice.

"Well," Bucky says, rocking back slightly on his heels, "I should probably—" He gestures vaguely toward the door. "Stop causing public disturbances."

You smile, small but real. "Probably."

He takes a step back, then another, clearly unsure if the moment is over yet.

"It was nice meeting you," he adds. "Even… like this."

"Yeah," you say. "It was."

When he finally leaves, the bell over the door jingles softly behind him.

You stand there for a moment longer, latte warm in your hands, heart doing something unfamiliar—not hope, not excitement. It just… feels.

Your phone buzzes again.

So… any hot townie?

You glance at the door once more before typing back.

spilled some coffee on a stranger. Didn't cry. I'm counting it as a win.

After a minute or so, you take your latte outside and sit at the small table by the sidewalk, letting the November air bite gently at your cheeks.

Bucky has been sanding the same spot for the third time when Sam finally says something.

"You know," Sam starts casually tightening a bolt, "if you keep doing that, the boat's gonna end up with a hole."

Bucky doesn't look up. "I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" Sam squints at the hull. "Cause from where I'm standing, you've been attacking the same six inches of wood for ten minutes."

Bucky pauses and looks down, then shifts the sander a few inches to the left.

"Better," Sam says, satisfied. He wipes his hands on a rag. "So, why are you brooding now? You only get like this when something's stuck in your head."

Bucky exhales through his nose. "I spilled coffee on a woman. That's all."

"Uh-huh." Sam hums. "And then you came back here, stared at this boat for ten straight minutes, and sanded the same spot into oblivion."

Bucky turns the sander off. "I was thinking."

"About the boat?" Sam asks.

"…Yes."

Sam raises an eyebrow, Bucky just shoots him a look and Sam just shrugs, completely unbothered.

"I'm just saying," Sam continues, picking up another plank, "you've been walking around like you forgot where you put your brain. That usually only happens when something interesting shows up."

"You done?"

"Oh no," Sam says brightly. "I'm just getting started. And I'm dying to know what mystery lady has finally cracked the code in that Robocop brain of yours."

Bucky flipped him off without even looking and kept sanding on the same spot.

The community center is quieter than you expected.

Not silent—just low. The hum of lights and scrape of a chair somewhere down the hall are occasionally heard. Sunlight stretches the floor in pale bands, stopping just short of your shoes.

You linger by the bulletin board longer than necessary, reading the same few flyers twice. Three times. You tell yourself you're comparing options, but really you're stalling. Letting your body catch up to the decision you already made by walking through the door.

A step sounds beside you. Not rushed. Not trying to be quiet.

"Those change every couple of weeks." You glance over at the source of the voice.

She's holding a stack of papers, hair pulled in a way that looks practical rather than intentional. Her voice is calm, conversational —like she's commenting on the weather.

"Oh," you say. "I didn't know."

She nods, eyes flicking briefly to the board before settling back on you. Not with scrutiny, just curiosity. "Yeah. Some of them come back around".

There's a comfortable pause. She doesn't fill it. "I'm Sarah," she adds eventually. You give her your name. It still feels strange, but not bad. "First time?" she asks.

You hesitate, then nod. "I'm new in town. My aunt Gracie lived by the pond, she let me borrow her house for a few months."

Her face lit up at the mention of your aunt, but it's not surprising. People loved her. "That makes sense, I mean… I can see the resemblance. Well, If you ever need anything, front desk is usually the best place to start."

You swallow and nod again. She smiles and steps back, already turning as if the moment has reached is natural end.

"Nice meeting you," she says.

"Yeah," you reply. "You too."

She disappears down the hallway without fanfare leaving you alone with the board again. Nothing about it has changed. Same flyers, same crooked corners. But your shoulders drop a fraction anyway.

You pull one page free and go over to the front desk. Yoga class was some way to start, it could help you relax. You also sign a clipboard for updates, and organize a few faces by the time you step back, not enough to call them familiar, but enough for you to nod if you passed them again.

Outside, the town moves at an unhurried pace. A couple of kids ride past on bikes, laughing too loudly. Someone waves from across the street, and it takes you a second to realize the gesture is meant for you—not because they know you, but because that's what people do here. You return it, awkward but sincere.

By the time you reach the water, you realize something quietly important: you're not watching anymore. You're participating. In pieces. In fragments. But still.

That's when you notice the boat.

It sits close to the dock, larger than the others, unmistakably mid-repair. The paint has been sanded down in uneven patches, bare wood exposed where someone stopped and started again.

You slow, drawn in by something you can't explain.

The boat rocks gently with the water, steady despite its rough edges. It creaks when a wave nudges it too hard, but it stays afloat. The parallel settles in quietly.

Still here. Still holding. Still in progress.

You stand there for a moment longer, breathing in the smell of freshwater and sun-warmed wood, then continue on, the town behind you and around you now: not fully yours, but no longer detached either.

"Progress isn't linear." Your therapist doesn't say it gently.

You stare at the spot on the rug between your shoes, tracing the pattern with your eyes. You've heard versions of that sentence before—on social media, in well-meaning advice— but this one lands different. Maybe because you've spent almost two days rooting in bed… again.

"You can have good days," she continues, "and still fall apart later. That's how healing works."

You nod, even though something tight in your chest resists. "It feels like… like every single step I've taken just… dissipated"

"I know," she says. "That's usually the hardest part. But every single step you've taken counts."

You almost laugh at that. Almost.

When the session ends, you leave with that sentence following you out the door, clinging lightly, like it doesn't want to be forgotten.

Progress isn't linear, you repeat it to yourself later, as you stare into your coffee until it's gone lukewarm. The cup is warm in your hands, but the comfort doesn't quite register.

You take a sip. It tastes faint, diluted. You must've added too much cream. You're right here, upright, trying to participate in the day—and yet, part of you feels slightly out of sync, like you missed a step and never found the rhythm again.

Across the street, Bucky pauses.

He's mid-conversation with Sam, carrying a toolbox when his attention drifts slightly. He notices you staring into your cup, the tension on your shoulders, posture folded as if you were trying to take up less space.

"…you listening?" Sam asks.

"Yeah," Bucky says automatically. He isn't.

Sam follows his gaze, then smirks. "Oh. That her?"

Bucky blinks. "What?"

"The mystery lady," Sam continues easily. "The one you were brooding about the other day because you spilled her coffee."

Bucky stiffens. "I wasn't brooding."

"You absolutely were brooding," Sam cuts in. "You almost threw our load back into the pond and made a hole to the boat. Tell me that's not her."

Bucky exhales, like he's humoring this conversation more than engaging in it. "You're reading too much into it."

Sam laughs softly. "Uh-huh. That's why you're still watching."

"C'mon," Bucky says shifting his grip on the toolbox, already turning back toward Sam's house. "We're gonna be late".

Sam doesn't argue.

They make it a few steps before Bucky slows, just enough. He tells himself it's nothing—just checking his footing, just habit— but when he glances over his shoulder, his breath catches anyway.

You're still there. Still wrapped around that coffee like it's anchoring you to the moment, gaze unfocused, presence gentle and distant all at once. Sunlight hits the side of your face, softens the line of your jaw.

For a second, everything else fades. And he hopes —quietly, unexpectedly— that he'll run into you again.

The days begin to settle into something recognizable. You start going back to the community center once or twice a week. At first, you arrive early and leave quickly, slipping in and out before anyone can expect too much of you. Over time, you linger. Long enough to help fold flyers. Long enough to learn which chair doesn't wobble.

People begin to nod when they see you. Some of them remember your name. The ones who don't, smile at you anyway.

Some days you feel present, grounded enough to join conversations halfway through. Other days, you hover at the edges, content to listen, to exist without contributing more than a nod or a laugh.

Both kinds of days count.

Without even noticing, Sarah starts to be a part of your routine. You think Natalie would like her if she met her. She often asks how the yoga class is going, inviting you to new workshops.

She starts introducing you to everyone at town.

Between errands and classes, you find yourself walking by the docks more often. The boat you saw the other day is still there.

It changes slowly—planks replaced, paint smoothed, rust disappearing inch by inch. You don't linger, not really, but you register the progress, how it's slowly becoming solid again. Reliable. Whole.

Weeks pass like that — small conversations, familiar routes, the steady presence of something being repaired without urgency.

One afternoon, as you're helping stack chairs, Sarah leans against the doorframe beside you.

"We're doing a cookout this weekend," she says. "Family, friends. Low-key… you should come, if you want."

You glance at her, surprised.

"I will think about it."

Sarah smiles. "Well, if you come to a decision, it will be right by the docks. Just follow the smoke and the smell of the grill."

And there you were.

Standing in front of the mirror longer than necessary, adjusting nothing, questioning everything. The dress —too much? Not enough? You tell yourself it's just a cookout. Plates of food, loud voices, kids running around. Normal.

Still, your hand hovers over the door handle like it might burn.

By the time you arrive, the yard is already alive. Music drifts through the air, something warm and familiar. Smoke curls lazily from the grill, laugher rising and falling in waves. Sarah spots you immediately and her face lights up like this was always part of the plan.

"You made it," she says, pulling you in before you can second-guess yourself. A plate appears in your hands. Someone introduces themselves. Someone else asks where you're from. You answer in autopilot, smiling when prompted, nodding at the right moments, but it all feels slightly muffled, like you're underwater.

Sarah notices immediately, but she doesn't crowd you. When you excuse yourself to stand near the edge of the docks, she follows with her gaze, then turns quietly to Sam.

"Hey," she says low, nodding in your direction. "She's sweet. Just… a little checked out."

Sam glances over. "I see that. You want me to do something about it?"

"Think you could talk to her?" Sarah asks. "Invite her out sometime. Coffee, town stuff. She's trying."

Sam hums, thoughtful. "I guess I can do that."

Bucky hears it mid-step. He's passing by with Cass and AJ—one tugging at his sleeve, the other arguing about dessert—when the words land. He freezes so abruptly the kids nearly walk straight into him. He glances in your direction, processing Sarah's words.

"Uncle Bucky?" Cass looks up. "Why did you stop?"

He doesn't answer.

Sam turns, catching the way Bucky has gone still, like someone pressed pause on him. The realization hits, and Sam's mouth twitches.

"Oh," he says. "You mean… her?"

Sarah follows the glance, then smiles—slow, knowing. "Is that the one?"

Bucky blinks, finally registering what he's done. His expression shutters instantly.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Cass an AJ, sensing blood in the water, immediately pivot their attention to Bucky. "Uncle Bucky has a crush!"

"I do not," Bucky mutters.

Cass cranes his neck. "You look nervous."

"I'm not," he says, trying to resume his walk like nothing happened. Sam gets in his way, grinning.

"Relax, man. I was just gonna invite her out… Unless you want to?"

Bucky opens his mouth—then closes it again.

That's when you approach, still a little distant, still polite, unaware you've just become the subject of discussion.

"Hey, Sarah," you say softly. "Sorry—um, I think, I'm gonna head out. Thank you for inviting me. Really."

Sarah's face softens instantly.

"Of course, sweetheart." She clears her throat once and nudges Bucky's arm with purpose. "Why don't you walk her home?"

He startles. "What—?"

You glance at him at the sound of his voice and pause. It takes half a second. Maybe less. But recognition flickers across your face, subtle and unguarded. Not shock. Not tension. Just a quiet realization.

"Oh," you say gently. "You were—um. From the coffee shop".

He nods, a little stiff. "Yeah. That was me."

"It's almost dark," Sarah continues, already turning back to you. "And he was just heading that way anyway."

You hesitate. "I don't wanna be a bother."

"You're not," Bucky says, too quickly—then reins himself in. "I mean. It's no trouble."

Sarah presses leftovers into your hands and gives Bucky a look that's equal parts warning and encouragement.

As you walk away together, the noise of the cookout fades.

The street is dim, lit by porch lights and the soft glow spilling from windows. Somewhere behind you, laughter drifts from some of the houses you pass by, but it fades with every step until it's just the sound of your shoes against the pavement.

Bucky breaks the silence first.

"So," he says, voice low, almost tentative. "How you've been doing?"

You think about it for a moment, eyes on the ground. "Okay," you say finally. "I think. Some days better than others. Everyone here is very welcoming, I think I made the right choice by coming here."

He hums softly, a sound of agreement more than anything else. "That's kind of the reason why I'm still here."

You glance at him, surprised. "Still here?"

He hesitates, then nods. "Yeah, I'm staying with the Wilson for now. Helping out, fixing the boat."

"Oh," you say, the pieces clicking together. "So you both are working on the boat that's in the middle of the docks?"

"Yeah," he replies. "Mostly Sam. I just… hand him tools and get in the way."

That earns a small smile from you. You walk a few steps before adding, quieter, more to yourself than to him, "I like watching it change. The boat, I mean. Little by little."

Bucky glances at you, something thoughtful passing through his expression. "Me too."

Your place comes into view sooner than expected. You slow without meaning to, steps growing smaller as the porch light casts a warm circle on the sidewalk. The night feels different here.

"Well," you say softly, stopping at the door. "This is my place."

Bucky nods, hands tucked into his jacket like he doesn't quite know where to put them. He looks around once, then back at you.

"I'm glad you're here," he says, and then, as if worried it might be too much, adds, "I mean… around, in town."

You hesitate, then speak, almost under your breath. "I'm still figuring things out."

Bucky meets your eyes. "Yeah," he says. "So am I."

"Goodnight, Bucky." You say, unlocking the door and stepping inside without turning around.

"Goodnight," he replies as you close the door gently behind you.

For a second, you just stand there. Then you lean back against the door, the wood cool through your clothes, and finally let yourself breathe. Your heart is pounding loud, insistent, like it's trying to remind you that you're still here. Still capable of feeling this way. You press a hand to your chest, half amused, half overwhelmed by it.

Nothing happened, and yet you think of the way he looked at you when he said he was figuring things out too. The quiet in his voice. The steadiness.

Outside, footsteps fade down the street.

Inside, for the first time in a long while, your heart races for something that doesn't scare you.

January

The bell above the door chimes softly when you step inside, the sound familiar enough now that it doesn't spike your nerves. It feels like you're slipping back into a version of yourself you almost forgot existed.

The holidays have come and gone. Two weeks away. Two weeks of family dinners, forced smiles, familiar bedrooms that no longer feel like home. Delacroix looks the same when you return—quiet, unbothered by your absence.

You order your usual without hesitating, warming your hands inside your coat sleeves while you wait for your coffee. January has thinned the place out. Fewer people. Lower voices.

"Hey," Bucky greets standing a few feet away, jacket half-unzipped, hands tucked into his pockets.

You look up, then smile before you can help yourself. "Hey."

"You were gone," he says, then winces slightly. "I mean… I didn't see you around for a while."

That makes you blink, caught off guard. "Yeah. Holidays. I went to visit my family."

"Right," he says, nodding. "That makes sense. I noticed."

Something in your chest softens at that. The idea that your absence left a shape somewhere.

"I, uh—" He continues, then stops. "I was actually hoping I'd run into you."

Your chest tightens, just a little. "Oh?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, not in a weird way. I just—" He pauses, taking a deep breath. "I was wondering if you'd wanna get coffee sometime. Like… on purpose. No accidents required."

You look down at your hands, at the counter, anywhere but his face. The instinct to retreat flickers. The voice that says careful. The one that says don't rush.

But there's another one now, the slurred words from Natalie after getting wasted on New Year's: You're not trapped anymore. You're free to start rebuilding your life.

Finally, you lift your eyes back to him. He's watching you, open and unguarded, not pushing. Just waiting.

"I…" You hesitate then let out a breath that feels like stepping forward instead of back. "I think I'd like that. But gotta warn you… I might be a little awkward."

His shoulders ease, like he didn't realize how tense he was until that second. A small smile pulls at his mouth before he shrugs lightly. "I already spilled coffee on you. I think we're past pretending we're cool."

He hesitates, then adds softly, "I'm… not great at dating either."

The admission hangs there between you. Just brutal honesty.

That makes you smile, something warm loosening in your chest. The barista calls your name and you reach for your cup, fingers warm around it.

Bucky steps aside to let you pass, then hesitates. "I'll—uh… I'll wait for you out of the community center. Sarah told me you're volunteering at the library."

"Yeah, I'm free this Wednesday. I usually stay around at the community center hosting bingo for the elders."

Sam chimes in, apparently getting out of the bathroom, while drying his hands with a rag. "Then Bucky's joining you for bingo," he says grinning. "He's practically a relic already."

"Sam," Bucky warns.

"I'm serious," Sam continues. "Thank god you're back. He's been death-staring into the pond like it personally wronged him, like you were—"

"Okay," Bucky cuts in, a little too quickly. He reaches out, grabs the back of Sam's jacket, and starts dragging him toward the door. "We're leaving."

"Oh, come on man! I was mid-sentence," Sam protests, laughing as the bell jingles overhead.

"You were done," Bucky says pushing him outside without looking back. The door swings shut behind them, cutting Sam off mid-laugh.

You're left standing there, coffee in hand, heart doing something unfamiliar and unsteady. A moment later, Bucky reappears at the window. He hesitates, then lifts a hand in a small, almost sheepish wave.

"Wednesday?" he mouths.

You nod, smiling before you can stop yourself and he nods back before disappearing down the street.

You take a sip of your coffee while looking outside. There's an old instinct still there; your shoulders subtly tense, your breath held just a second.

But then, you remember his voice. The way he looked slightly flustered while Sam was practically saying out loud the way your absence affected him… and something else stirs.

A careful hope, tentative as his voice had been. A warmth that has nothing to do with the coffee in your hands.

You don't name it yet.

You just recognize the feeling of beginning again, unfolding slowly, right were you are.

Her fingers found the letter in her pocket, the paper soft now from constant folding and unfolding, the ink slightly smeared where her thumb had traced over Mayor Powell's signature. A man she'd never met, in a town she'd never heard of until her brother had come home one evening with news of the position. White Creek, Montana. Teaching position. Room and board included.

Montana? As if she were some scandal-plagued woman fleeing her past, rather than simply someone whose eyes had marked her as cursed from birth.

She pulled her hand from her pocket and adjusted her bonnet, though there was no one to see her out here except the driver, who hadn't spoken more than three words since they'd changed horses at the last station. The brim cast her face in shadow. A habit now, after twenty-six years of watching people's expressions change when they noticed. The confusion first, then the recognition, then the sign of the cross or the averting of eyes or, worse, the whispered conversations that followed her like a cold draft.

One brown, one green. The devil's mark, some called it. Witch-eyes.

She'd tried not to let it define her, but it had anyway.

She'd spent her childhood with her nose buried in books. Her parents had known, even when she was small, that finding a husband would be difficult for a girl with devil's eyes. So they'd scrimped and saved to pay for her to sit the teaching examination, to give her the means to support herself when no man would.

Her marks had been good. High enough that she'd earned her certificate without issue.

For all the good it had done her.

The schoolhouses in town wouldn't hire her, parents didn't want a woman with the devil's eyes teaching their children to read. The families who could afford private tutors took one look at her face and found other candidates. She'd been reduced to taking on the children no one else wanted to teach: the slow learners, the ones whose families could barely scrape together pennies for her services.

It hadn't been enough. Not nearly enough.

Her brother had made that clear the night he'd presented her with the letter. I can't keep supporting you, he'd said, not unkindly but with the weariness of a man who'd reached the end of his patience. You're twenty-six years old. What you make as a pupil teacher barely covers your thread and fabric. This is an opportunity. One I had to call in more than a few favors to get for you. You know how hard it is, given... how you are.

He'd married six months ago. A nice enough girl who kept a clean house and didn't complain about taking over the cooking and washing that had been her domain for years. But three people in a small house meant thin walls and the kind of awareness that made everyone uncomfortable. Her brother wanted privacy with his new wife. Wanted to start a family without his spinster sister listening to every creak of the bedframe through the wall.

She'd wanted to tell him that traveling alone to the frontier, to some tiny settlement she'd never heard of, seemed less like an opportunity and more like an exile. But he'd been right, hadn't he? She was a burden. An unmarried sister with nowhere else to go, taking up space that should belong to his growing family. And to be honest, living with Jeremiah after their parents passed, under his rules, hasn’t been easy. Ever.

So she'd packed her things. One trunk with her few dresses, her winter cloak, and the quilt her mother had made before she died. And the carpetbag at her feet now, heavy with books and slates and the few precious pieces of chalk she'd been hoarding.

The landscape had changed as they traveled west, but it hadn't emptied. If anything, the trees had grown denser: tall pines that stretched toward the sky, their trunks thick enough that three men couldn't wrap their arms around them. Timber country. That's what the last station master had called it when she'd asked about White Creek. Logging town, he'd said. Rough place. You sure that's where you're headed?

She'd shown him the letter, and he'd shrugged.

----

The wagon began to slow. She leaned forward, peering through the gap in the canvas cover, but all she could see from her side were trees. Endless trees, their shadows long in the late afternoon light.

"We're here, miss," the driver called back.

Here? She turned to look out the opposite side and felt her stomach drop. There was a structure, barely. A rough cabin set back from the road, smoke rising from its chimney. Stacks of cut lumber lined one side, and she could see the worn paths where wagons had come and gone. But no town. No church steeple or row of buildings or anything resembling civilization.

"This isn't the town," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

The driver was already climbing down. "No, ma'am. But this is where your fare was paid to."

"I don't understand." She gathered her skirts and moved toward the back of the wagon, where he was already pulling down her trunk. "My brother paid passage to White Creek. The town. Where the school is."

"Don't know nothin’ about that." He set her trunk down with a heavy thud that sent up a small cloud of dust. "Just know the fare was paid to the lumber post. Happens sometimes, a fellow arranges for someone to meet a passenger here and guide them the rest of the way into town. Common enough."

She climbed down carefully, her legs unsteady after so many hours sitting. "Then... someone is supposed to meet me?"

He shrugged, already reaching for her carpetbag. "Couldn't say, miss. I just drive where I'm paid to drive."

The late afternoon air was cooler here, flooded with the scent of pine and fresh-cut wood. She looked around, seeing no one. No horse tied up waiting. No helpful guide ready to escort her the rest of the way.

"How far is the town from here?"

"Few miles, I'd reckon. Not a terrible walk, but you don't want to be doing it in those skirts." He handed her the carpetbag, and she took it automatically. "You could wait here, see if someone comes along."

"Could you-" She swallowed. "Could you take me the rest of the way? I can pay. I have-"

"Sorry, miss." He was already moving back toward the driver's seat. "Got to turn around, head back to Clayton. This wagon's needed for the evening stage. They're waiting on me to swap out horses and-"

"Please." The word came out desperate. "I'll pay whatever you ask."

But he was shaking his head, gathering the reins. "Can't help you, miss. Schedule's a schedule."

She watched him climb back up, her heart beginning to pound in a way that had nothing to do with exertion. "Wait. At least, could you wait until I knock? Make sure someone's here?"

The look he gave her was hard to read. Something between pity and impatience, maybe. Or perhaps just the desire to be done with an uncomfortable situation.

"You'll be fine," he said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "Like I said, happens all the time out here."

It was only then that she noticed the sign. Rough wood, nailed to the post beside the cabin door. The letters were uneven but clear enough:

WIVES WANTED

She stared at it, her mouth going dry.

"What is this?" she asked, turning back toward the wagon.

The driver was already urging the horses forward. "Just an advertisement, miss. Same as you'd see for seed or dishes or whatever else folk are looking for. Don't mean nothing by it."

"But-"

The wagon was moving. She took three steps after it, but the wheels were already picking up speed, and her skirts caught around her ankles. She stopped, watching helplessly as the driver guided the horses back onto the road without so much as a backward glance.

And then she was alone.

She stood there, carpetbag in one hand, staring at the sign until the words seemed to blur together.

Wives wanted.

Her gaze moved to the cabin itself. Sturdy enough, from what she could see. Logs chinked with what looked like moss and mud, a stone chimney with smoke rising steadily into the darkening sky. Then to the woods surrounding her on all sides: dense and deep, full of shadows that were growing longer by the minute.

She had three choices, really. Wait here by her trunk like a piece of abandoned luggage and hope someone comes along before nightfall. Start walking toward where she assumed the town might be, and risk getting lost in a remote place she didn't know -maybe being eaten by the wildlife- or… knock on that door.

The guide, she thought, trying to hold onto reason. If her brother had truly arranged for someone to meet her here, they wouldn't necessarily be waiting at the door. How could they know which day she'd arrive? Which hour? It wasn't as if she'd come by train with a published schedule.

That had to be it. Someone from the town was meant to collect her here, and she'd simply arrived at an inconvenient time.

She picked up her carpetbag, left her trunk where it sat -too heavy to carry to the door anyway- and walked toward the cabin. The packed earth was hard under her boots, worn smooth by years of foot traffic.

She raised her hand and knocked. Three raps that sounded too loud in the quiet.

Nothing.

She waited, counting slowly to twenty in her head. The smoke continued to rise from the chimney. Somewhere in the woods, a bird called out, the sound strange and unfamiliar.

She knocked again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

She muttered a string of curses. Who could reprimand her in this god-forsaken place, an owl?

Someone had to be here. You didn't leave a fire burning unattended, not out here where everything was wood and tinder-dry despite the season. It was dangerous. Foolish.

She knocked a third time, harder still, and called out, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then she heard it, movement from inside. Heavy footsteps. The scrape of something being moved.

The door opened.

----

The man who did it was tall -way easily over six feet- and for a moment, all she could process was the size of his body filling the doorway. Then the details came into focus, each one more mortifying than the last.

He was bare from the waist up.

No shirt. Not even an undershirt. Just skin and muscle and a fine sheen of sweat that caught the fading light despite the cool air. His suspenders hung loose at his sides, still attached to his work pants but doing nothing to preserve any sense of modesty.

A thin, dark trail of hair ran south of his belly button, beneath the waistband of his pants, which sat lower than they should without the garters holding them up. She could see the rise and fall of his breathing, the way his shoulders filled the entire frame of the door.

She tried to keep her eyes on his face, but they betrayed her, dropping to his chest before she could stop them. It was like those sketches in her history books, the ones of Roman statues that she'd studied with purely academic interest. Except this wasn't marble. This was flesh and warmth and the kind of raw physicality she'd never encountered outside of her imagination.

Her gaze snapped back up, heat flooding her cheeks.

Blue eyes met hers. Glassy, slightly unfocused. His face was covered in several days' worth of beard, dark and unkempt, and there was a flush high on his cheekbones that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

He blinked at her slowly, his brow furrowing.

"Can I help you?"

His voice was rough, scratchy in a way that suggested he hadn't used it much today. Or that he was unwell.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

"I-" The words stuck in her throat. She was staring. She knew she was staring, but she'd never seen a man without his shirt before, and certainly not one who looked like he'd been carved from stone and then somehow given life. "I'm sorry, I-"

Get it together.

She forced herself to meet his eyes and keep them there, even though her face felt like it was on fire.

"I'm the new teacher," she managed.

----

He had to be hallucinating.

That was the only explanation that made any kind of sense. The fever had finally cooked his brain enough that he was seeing things, hearing things, and apparently talking to them now, too.

He was in bad shape when he'd decided to stay at the post instead of making the walk back to his own cabin. That trek through the woods, uphill most of the way, had seemed impossible when he could barely stand without his head spinning.

The other men had already cleared out by the time he'd dragged himself here, off to their own places or down to the saloon for Saturday night drinking and cards and whatever else passed for entertainment in White Creek.

He'd managed to strip off his shirt and suspenders before collapsing onto one of the cots, and he'd been drifting in and out ever since. The fire needed tending, but the thought of getting up to deal with it made his muscles ache in protest.

The knocking had started a while ago. He'd heard it through the haze of fever. Three sharp raps that he'd tried to ignore. Could've been anyone. A peddler, maybe, though what kind of fool tried to sell goods at a lumber post on a Saturday evening, he couldn't say. He'd burrowed deeper into the thin blanket and willed whoever it was to go away.

Then he'd heard a mumble.

A woman's voice.

That's when he knew the fever had him good and proper. There was no reason for a woman to be at the post. No reason for any woman to be out here at all, except maybe Mary when she came up with the sheriff to deliver mending, and that wasn't until- when? Monday? Tuesday? Hell, he couldn't remember.

The knocking came again, harder, and the voice called out.

Hello? Is anyone there?

Christ.

He'd forced himself upright, his head immediately protesting the movement with a sharp spike of pain behind his eyes. His body was slick with sweat despite the chill in the air, and when he stood, the room tilted sideways for a moment before righting itself.

He'd made his way to the door, his bare feet heavy on the wooden floor, and pulled it open.

And there she was.

A woman. An actual woman, not a fever dream. Young. Dressed like she was heading to church, all buttoned up and proper with a carpetbag in one hand. Pretty enough, though it was hard to tell with most of her face in shadow from that bonnet.

She was staring at him.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and realized belatedly that he was shirtless. That he probably looked like hell. That he was swaying slightly on his feet.

"Can I help you?" The words came out rougher than he'd intended.

She just kept staring, her mouth opening and closing like she'd forgotten how to speak. Her eyes dropped -just for a second- and then snapped back up to his face.

Finally, she managed: "I'm the new teacher."

He frowned, his fever-addled brain struggling to make sense of the words.

Teacher?

He wrinkled his nose, trying to think through the fog in his head. He'd been in town just three days ago, had walked past the bulletin board outside the general store like he always did. There'd been the usual postings: requests for labor, advertisements for patent medicines, a notice about a town meeting he'd had no intention of attending. Nothing about a school. Nothing about hiring a teacher.

And he would've heard. White Creek was small enough that news traveled fast, especially news like that. The women would've been talking about it. Hell, the men would've been talking about it too, complaining about the cost, probably, or arguing over where they'd even put a schoolhouse.

"Didn’t know we were openin’ a school," he said, and even to his own ears, it sounded doubtful.

She looked taken aback, her brows drawing together beneath the brim of her bonnet.

"Open?" she repeated. "No, it's not- it's not a new school. I'm here to replace the previous teacher. Miss..." She paused, clearly trying to recall the name. "Miss Hartley? She married and left the position."

Bucky shook his head slowly, which was a mistake, the movement made the world tilt again, and he had to brace one hand against the doorframe to steady himself.

"Ma'am," he said, trying to keep his voice gentle despite feeling like his head was splitting open. "There ain’t no school here. Maybe Sunday school at the church for the kids when the circuit preacher comes through, but that’s..." He trailed off, watching her face.

Something was changing in her expression. The confusion was still there, but it was being joined by something else. Something that looked a lot like dawning horror.

"That can't be right," she said, but her voice had gone thin. "I have a letter. From Mayor Powell. He hired me specifically to-"

"Mayor Richards," Bucky corrected automatically, then wished he hadn't when he saw her face fall further. “Look, don’t mean to be rude, but the mayor -Richards- he’s more interested in spendin’ town funds on fixin’ up the saloon than on education. Ain’t been talk of hirin’ any teacher."

She was staring at him now, but not the way she had been before. This was different. This was the look of someone watching their world come apart at the seams.

"No," she said quietly. "No, that's not- my brother, he said-"

Her hand went to her pocket, fumbling for something, and she pulled out a folded piece of paper, already soft and worn at the creases. She stepped closer -close enough that he caught a faint scent of lavender and travel dust- and held it out to him.

"Here. It's all explained in the letter. If you could just read-"

He took it, his fingers clumsy, and that's when he saw her eyes.

One brown. One green.

Different colors, clear as day now that she'd stepped out of the shadow of her bonnet and into the light spilling from the cabin behind him. He blinked, thinking maybe the fever was playing tricks on him, but no. They stayed the same. Mismatched and striking and...

He didn't react. Didn't have the energy for it, honestly, and besides, he'd seen stranger things. There'd been a fellow in his unit during the war who'd had six fingers on one hand. People were born looking all kinds of ways.

He focused on the letter instead, squinting at the words. His head was pounding hard enough that reading was a chore, but he managed to pick out the important bits.

White Creek. That was right, at least.

Teaching position... previous teacher departed... room and board included...

Mayor Powell.

And there, at the bottom, a signature that could've been anyone's scrawl.

Shit.

He looked up at her, then back down at the letter. She'd been tricked. That much was obvious. Whether it was her brother's doing or someone else's, he couldn't say, but this letter was about as genuine as a three-dollar bill.

"Ma'am," he started, trying to figure out how to say this without making everything worse. "I’m real sorry, but... none of this is true."

He watched her face carefully, saw the way her breathing was starting to come faster.

"Mayor’s name is Richards, not Powell. And there’s no teachin’ position. No school at all, ‘cept like I said… sometimes on Sundays." He held the letter out to her. "Don’t know who wrote this, but somebody’s been dishonest with you."

She took the letter back with shaking hands. Her chest was rising and falling too quickly now, like she couldn't quite catch her breath.

Damn.

His head gave another vicious throb, and he had to close his eyes for a second against the pain. When he opened them, she was still standing there, looking like she might either scream or faint or both.

"Look," he said, keeping his voice as gentle as he could manage. "Don’t mean to be rude, but I’m sick as a dog right now. You’re welcome to come inside and sit for a minute. There’s coffee I can heat up, and it’s warmer than standin’ out here." He paused, seeming to remember himself. "Name’s Barnes. James Barnes. Most folks call me Bucky."

She introduced herself quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. Then she hesitated, her eyes darting past him into the cabin, then back to his face. Then down to his bare chest. Then, unmistakably, to the sign nailed up beside the door.

WIVES WANTED.

Her gaze came back to him: shirtless, sweating, standing in the doorway of a shady cabin in the middle of nowhere, and he saw the calculation happening behind those mismatched eyes.

He couldn't exactly blame her for the doubt.

----

The world tilted sideways.

Not literally, though given how light-headed she suddenly felt, it might as well have been. Everything she'd held onto for the past month, every miserable mile in that wagon, every night in those filthy way stations, every moment of doubt she'd pushed down because at least she was going somewhere, to something-

All of it. Gone.

A lie.

No school. No position. No Mayor Powell.

She looked down at the letter in her hands, the paper now trembling visibly. The ink hadn't changed. The words were still there, neat and official-looking. But they meant nothing. They'd never meant anything.

Her brother had done this.

Jeremiah had looked her in the eye, had handed her this letter, had told her he'd pulled strings with an old friend to get her this opportunity. Had watched her pack. Had put her on that first stage with her trunk and her carpetbag full of books and the last of her savings sewn into the lining of her skirt.

Had sent her here. To nothing.

The urge to laugh came suddenly and sharply, but she swallowed it down because if she started, she wasn't sure she'd be able to stop. And then what? She'd fall apart in front of this half-naked stranger while standing in the middle of the wilderness as the sun set behind the trees?

She forced herself to think. To push past the panic that was making her chest tight and her breath come too fast.

The money she had left wouldn't get her back home. She'd counted it three times already during the journey, watching it dwindle with each fare and meal. Even if it could -even if by some miracle she could afford the return trip- what was waiting for her there?

Jeremiah had made his position clear. He didn't want her. His new wife didn't want her. She was a burden, an embarrassment, a spinster sister with devil's eyes taking up space in their house.

If he'd been capable of this -of lying to her face, of sending her across the country to God knows what- what would he do if she showed up on his doorstep again?

She looked up at the man in the doorway. He was still watching her, his expression difficult to read. Concern, maybe. Or just discomfort at having a strange woman on the verge of hysteria standing outside his door.

The light was fading fast. The woods around them were already deep in shadow, and she could hear sounds she couldn't identify. Animals, probably. Or the wind through the trees. Or something worse.

She had nowhere to go. No one to turn to. And night was coming.

The man -Mr. Barnes- had invited her inside. Had mentioned coffee. Warmth. He'd said he was sick, which was obvious enough from looking at him. Fever-bright eyes, that sheen of sweat, the way he'd braced himself against the doorframe like standing was an effort.

A sick man was probably less dangerous than whatever was in those woods.

Probably.

Her eyes flicked once more to the sign. Then back to him, shirtless and swaying slightly, clearly unwell.

She didn't have a choice. Not really.

"I..." Her voice came out thin and unsteady. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Thank you. I'd appreciate that. The coffee, I mean. And somewhere to sit."

He nodded and stepped back from the doorway, gesturing her inside with a movement that looked like it cost him effort.

She crossed the threshold, her boots loud against the wooden floor, and set her carpetbag down just inside the door. The cabin was sparse, a few cots along one wall, a table with chairs that had seen better days, the fireplace with its dying fire. It smelled of smoke and sawdust and something else she couldn't quite place. Sweat, maybe. Or illness.

She turned back toward the door.

"Ma'am?"

But she was already stepping outside again, back into the rapidly cooling air. Her trunk was still sitting in the middle of the road where the driver had left it, and she wasn't about to leave it out there overnight. Everything she owned was in that trunk.

She heard him behind her. "What are you-" but she'd already reached the trunk and was bending to grab one of the handles.

She'd barely lifted it an inch off the ground when she heard boots on the packed earth and a muttered curse that sounded more exasperated than angry.

"Christ, just- leave it."

She looked up to see him coming toward her, still shirtless, still clearly unsteady on his feet.

"I can manage," she started to say, but he was already there, shouldering her aside with less force than he probably intended but enough that she stumbled back a step.

He grabbed both handles and lifted the trunk like it weighed nothing, though she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched. Fever or not, he was strong, she'd give him that.

"You shouldn't be-" she tried again. "You're sick. I can-"

"Inside," he said shortly, already turning back toward the cabin. "Both of you."

She followed, feeling useless and foolish and still trying not to stare at the way his back muscles moved under sweat-slicked skin as he carried her trunk through the door.

----

He set the trunk down just inside the door, letting it drop the last few inches with a heavy thud. His breathing had gone rough, and when he straightened, she saw him close his eyes briefly, like he was fighting off a wave of dizziness.

"You shouldn't have done that," she said quietly. "You're clearly unwell."

"It's fine." But his voice was strained, and the way he moved suggested it was anything but fine.

She looked around the cabin properly now. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, and there was a dented coffeepot sitting on the edge of the stone. Cups on the table. A water bucket near the door.

"Let me," she said, moving toward the fireplace before he could protest. "You said there was coffee. I can heat it up. You should sit down before you fall down."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but another wave of something -pain, nausea, dizziness- seemed to pass over him, and he sank onto the nearest cot instead.

"Wood’s by the hearth," he managed. "Should be enough to get the fire goin’ again."

She nodded, already moving. It felt good to have something to do, something practical that didn't require her to think about the fact that her entire life had just collapsed around her ears. She could build a fire. She could heat coffee. These were things she knew how to do.

She crouched by the hearth, finding the pile of kindling and split wood where he'd indicated. The embers were still glowing faintly, and she carefully added the smaller pieces first, blowing gently until they caught.

Behind her, she heard him shift on the cot, heard the creak of the frame.

The fire began to grow, flames licking up around the new wood. She added a larger piece, then another, until it was burning steadily. Then she reached for the coffeepot.

----

He should close his eyes. Should try to sleep off this fever before it got any worse. But he found himself watching her instead, lying on his side on the narrow cot, his head pillowed on one arm.

She moved purposefully around the small space, her skirts swishing softly as she tended the fire, reached for the coffeepot, and positioned it over the flames. Every movement was made with focus, like she was grateful to have something to do with her hands.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been under the same roof as a young woman. Mary didn't count; she was the sheriff's sister-in-law. The girls at the saloon didn't count either, for different reasons.

But she, buttoned up in that traveling dress, her hair neat beneath her bonnet despite the long journey, there was something about her that made it hard to look away.

Even though he was as sick as he was. Even knowing he probably looked like death warmed over.

He wondered if after all that traveling, the corset bothered her. It had to, didn't it? All those whale bones and laces, squeezing her flesh. How did women even breathe in those things? What would she look like without it? Without all those layers of propriety and fabric-

Christ.

He closed his eyes, disgusted with himself. The poor woman had just had her entire life pulled out from under her, had traveled God knows how far only to find out she'd been lied to, and here he was, thinking about getting under her skirts like some kind of animal.

His ma had raised him better than that.

But his ma had been gone a long time now. And he'd been out here in the wilderness for two years, working himself half to death six days a week and spending his Sundays trying to remember what it felt like to be something other than tired.

He opened his eyes again and they reached for her. Couldn't help it.

----

When she looked over her shoulder a few minutes later, he was asleep.

Or unconscious. It was hard to tell. His breathing had gone deep and uneven, and he was lying completely still except for the occasional twitch of his fingers.

She turned back to the fire, waiting for the coffee to heat through. After a moment's hesitation, she reached up and unpinned her bonnet, setting it carefully on the table. There was no point wearing it indoors, especially not at this hour, and she doubted he'd object even if he were awake enough to notice.

Which he clearly wasn't.

The coffee was hot enough. She poured herself a cup, the bitter smell filling the small cabin, and retrieved one of the hard biscuits from her carpetbag. Not much of a dinner, but she'd eaten worse during the journey. At least it was something.

She sat at the table, breaking the biscuit into smaller pieces to soften in the coffee, and found herself looking at him.

Really looking, now that he couldn't catch her at it.

Underneath the grime and the sweat and the obvious illness, he was... handsome. Striking, even. Strong features, dark strands of hair that curled slightly where it was damp against his temples. The beard made it hard to see the shape of his jaw, but she could imagine it well enough. And his body… well. She'd already seen more of that than was proper.

No ring on his finger. Not that it meant anything. Plenty of men out here probably didn't bother with rings, even if they were married. Though given the sign outside...

He made a sound -half groan, half whimper- and shifted restlessly on the cot.

She put down her cup and crossed to him, crouching beside the cot. Up close, she could see the flush high on his cheekbones, the way his skin seemed to radiate heat even from a few inches away.

Carefully, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.

Burning.

He was burning up.

She pulled her hand back, biting her lip. He needed water. Cool cloths. Someone to watch him through the night to make sure the fever didn't get worse.

She looked around the cabin: at her trunk by the door, at the dying light outside the windows, at the complete absence of anywhere else to go or anything else to do.

Well then.

She stood, moving back to the water bucket near the door. If she was going to be stuck here until morning anyway, she might as well make herself useful. And honestly, what else was there to do? Sit and think about how thoroughly her life had fallen apart?

No. Better to stay busy. Better to help someone who actually needed it, even if that someone was a half-naked stranger who lived in the woods.

----

She found what she needed easily enough. The post was clearly meant to be a waystation of sorts, there were basic provisions stored in crates along one wall. Extra blankets, some dried meat, and a few tins of beans. And, mercifully, some clean rags that looked like they'd been meant for cleaning tools but would work just as well for her purposes.

She soaked one in the water bucket, wrung it out, and returned to his side.

The heat from the fire was already making the cabin warm. Too warm, especially after she'd built it back up. She could feel sweat beginning to gather at her temples, at the small of her back beneath all her layers.

She pressed the cool cloth to his forehead, and he made a small sound that might have been relief.

The cabin grew warmer still as she worked. She'd need to reach his wrists, his ankles, under his arms. She remembered that much from when her mother had been sick, years ago. Fever had to be brought down from the extremities, not just the head.

Her collar felt like it was choking her.

She sat back on her heels, glancing at him. Still unconscious, still burning up.

No one was going to see. And she could barely breathe.

She reached up and unfastened the top three buttons of her high collar, letting the fabric fall open enough that she could take a proper breath. Better. She rolled her sleeves up to her elbows -carefully, precisely, the way she'd been taught- and secured them there.

There. Much more practical.

She wet another cloth and carefully lifted one of his arms, pressing the cool fabric against the inside of his wrist, then higher, into the hollow of his armpit. His skin was slick with sweat, burning hot under her fingers. She tried not to think about the impropriety of it, about the fact that she was touching a man she didn't know in ways that would have scandalized everyone back home.

He needed help. That was all that mattered.

She moved to his feet next, unlacing his boots with fumbling fingers and setting them aside. His socks were damp with sweat. She peeled them off -tried not to notice how strangely intimate even that felt- and pressed cool cloths to his ankles.

"You need to drink," she murmured, though she wasn't sure he could hear her. She retrieved her cup of coffee -now lukewarm- dumped it out, and filled it with fresh water from the bucket.

Getting him to drink while unconscious was harder than she'd anticipated. She lifted his head as carefully as she could, supporting it with one hand while she brought the cup to his lips with the other.

"Come on," she said softly. "Just a little."

Most of it ran down his chin and neck, soaking into the pillow beneath his head, but she thought some of it made it into his mouth. Enough, maybe.

She set the cup aside and reached for another cloth, wiping the water from his face and neck. His beard was rough under her fingers, and she found herself wondering absently what he looked like clean-shaven.

The fire crackled. The cabin was stifling now.

She unbuttoned her cuffs entirely, pushing the fabric up past her elbows. Her hair was coming loose from its pins -she could feel it, sticking to the back of her neck- but she didn't care.

She'd deal with propriety in the morning.

For now, she had work to do.

----

The hours blurred together.

She lost track of how many times she soaked the cloths, how many times she pressed them to his burning skin. The fire needed tending. The water bucket needed refilling from the pump outside.

By the time she collapsed into the chair near his cot, she was exhausted.

Her hair had long since given up any pretense of being properly pinned. She could feel it falling around her shoulders, sticking to her neck and temples with sweat. The cabin was stifling despite the cool night air outside, and she'd unbuttoned her dress almost to her sternum just to be able to breathe.

Improper didn't even begin to cover it. But there was no one to see, and she was too tired to care.

She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes.

This was her life now. Stranded in the middle of nowhere with a sick stranger, no money to get home -not that home wanted her anyway- and no prospects beyond hoping the town might take pity on her in the morning.

If there even was a town.

If any of this was real.

The thought hit her suddenly, sharp and overwhelming: Jeremiah had sent her here specifically to get rid of her. To dump her somewhere so remote, so impossible, that she'd have no choice but to-

What? Marry the first man desperate enough to overlook her eyes? Disappear into the wilderness and stop being his problem?

A sound escaped her throat -half laugh, half sob- and then the tears came.

She pressed her hands over her face, trying to muffle the sound, trying to hold it together, but it was useless. Everything came pouring out: the humiliation, the betrayal, the bone-deep terror of having nowhere to go and no one to turn to.

She didn't hear him wake up.

Didn't realize he'd moved until his voice cut through her crying, rough and confused.

"Hey- hey, don't-"

She jerked her head up, swiping at her eyes with the heels of her hands. He was sitting up on the cot, swaying slightly, one hand braced against the wall for balance.

"You shouldn't be up," she said automatically, her voice thick and unsteady. "You need to rest."

"Ma’am you're crying." He said it like it was a problem he needed to solve, like he couldn't quite process why she'd be upset.

"I'm fine." She stood, wiping her face again, trying to pull herself together. "Please, just lie back down. You're still-"

But he was already on his feet, moving toward her with the unsteady determination of someone who wasn't thinking clearly. Fever-bright eyes, unfocused but concerned.

"Listen, I-" He stopped in front of her, too close, near enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. "I know this is bad. I know you got dealt a shit hand. But we’ll figure somethin’ out in the mornin’, alright? The town… someone'll help. You won't be-"

"You don't know that." The words came out sharper than she intended. "You don't know anything about me or what I-"

"I know you came all this way for nothin’," he said quietly. "I know that ain’t fair. And I know-" He swayed slightly, and she reached out instinctively to steady him, her hands landing on his bare arms. His skin was still too hot, slick with sweat. "Ma’am, I know you’re scared."

She was. God, she was terrified. And having him say it out loud, having someone acknowledge it, made her throat close up all over again.

"I'm sorry," she managed. "I don't usually- I'm not-"

"It's alright." His hand came up -she thought maybe to touch her shoulder, to offer some awkward comfort- but then his expression changed. The concern shifted to something else. Confusion. Alarm.

"I don't-  He blinked hard, like he was trying to clear his vision. "I don't feel very well."

"I know," she said gently, still holding his arms. "That's why you need to-"

"No." He shook his head, which seemed to make everything worse. "No, I mean I really don't-"

His knees buckled.

She saw it happening but couldn't react fast enough. One second he was standing, and the next he was falling forward, his full weight crashing into her.

She tried to catch him, tried to brace herself, but he was huge and completely deadweight. They both went down hard as his body drove her to the floor.

She screamed, the sound echoing in the empty shed as she fell. Pain exploded at the base of her head, and a brilliant white light flashed behind her eyes.

Then all went dark.

Next chapter

“I can hear you breathing, Specs,” he murmured through the door—far too clearly.

You mouthed a quiet shit, hand flying to the doorknob. You cracked the door just wide enough to poke your head out, eyes immediately dropping to his grey sweats. Definitely not event attire. Definitely not date-with-Sharon attire.

“W-What are you doing here?” you managed, your cough doing nothing to hide the wobble in your voice.

“I left my water bottle earlier,” he said, like this was the most normal thing in the universe. His eyes dropped—briefly, unmistakably—to your bare thighs and oversized shirt. “Wanted to grab it before practice tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

In your defense, it was the only word your brain supplied.

“You didn’t answer my text.”

His voice was casual, but it hummed with something underneath—something that made the back of your neck spark.

“I was, um…” You nudged the door open wider, stepping aside so he could slip in. “Busy.”

“With?” he asked, not even pretending he wasn’t nosy as his eyes swept the kitchen. They landed immediately on the forgotten water bottle sitting by the sink, but he didn’t move toward it.

“I told you—homework,” you started, but your voice cut off as he walked right past it and headed down the hall.

“Hey!”

You scrambled after him, socks sliding traitorously on the wood floor. By the time you caught up, he’d already let himself into your room, standing inside like he owned the place.

You stopped in the doorway, breath catching at the sight of him calmly surveying your space—the rumpled bed, your open laptop, your headphones still pooled like a crime scene, and the pillow you’d screamed into lying face-up on the floor.

Your brows knit together, mouth falling open.

“What,” you demanded, “are you doing?”

“Just seeing what you were busy with.”

He finally turned toward you, clearing his throat like he’d said something neutral. “Where are all your books?”

“My what?” You planted a hand on your hip, staring him down.

“Your textbooks. Notebooks.” His chin tipped toward your perfectly neat desk. “You’re a disaster when you’re actually working, so… where are they?”

“Uh…” You blinked, brain momentarily buffering. “In my bag.”

“Thought you were doing homework.”

You let out a frustrated breath, shaking your head. “Okay—what is this?”

He didn’t flinch. “Are you here alone?”

“Yes?” It came out like a question. Because seriously—what the hell?

His eyes dropped, pointedly, to your bare legs. “Then where are your pants?”

Your cheeks ignited. Right. Those.

You tugged uselessly at the hem of your shirt, like two inches of cotton were going to magically fix this. “In my dresser.”

“Why aren’t you at the event?” he asked, jaw ticking.

You huffed. “Why aren’t you?”

“I asked you first,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “I told you, I didn’t feel like going.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Neither is ‘I left my water bottle,’ but here we are.”

His eyes flicked over your face, lingering like he was trying to decode you. “You avoiding me?”

“That’s a reach.”

His eyes narrowed at you. “What the fuck was that earlier?”

“What was what?” You crossed your arms, annoyed, defensive—mostly because you had no idea where he was going with this.

“With Wanda’s brother.” He said it like a diagnosis. His eyes flicked around your room as he talked, catching on the newly rearranged posters, the cleaner desk, the subtle signs you’d tried to pretend you weren’t spiraling alone in this space. Something in his stare made your stomach twist, like he was seeing more than he should.

“He was all over you,” Bucky muttered.

“There’s nothing between me and Pietro,” you half-laughed, half-exhaled.

“That’s not what it looked like at Blip.”

“What do you care?” you shot back before you could stop yourself. “You had a date for the event anyway.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “How are you this dense, Specs?”

“Excuse me?”

“I was lying, okay?” He said it fast, like it physically pained him. “I didn’t have shit to do besides sit at home.”

You blinked. Your arms slowly dropped from their defensive fold. “Why would you lie?”

He looked everywhere but at you, tongue pressing against his cheek in frustration—at himself, not you. “Because he’d fucking asked you to go,” he finally said, voice low, flat, like it was obvious. “And I didn’t wanna show up looking like an idiot with nothing.”

Your breath tangled in your throat.

He didn’t move closer, but the room suddenly felt smaller anyway. He shoved his hands into his sweats pockets, jaw tight.

“I didn’t want you walking in with him,” he muttered. “Happy now?”

“Probably not the word I’d use,”

“Why did you ignore those texts?” His voice was low now, like he could pretend you didn’t hear the question.

“Which texts?” you asked, your stomach knotting.

“You know which ones,” he said, jaw tight.

Your tongue went numb. You’d been trying to forget those words, pretending they were nothing, but now they were here, alive and dangerous in the small space between you.

“I… I didn’t think—” You faltered, twisting your fingers together. “I thought maybe you were just drunk, or… or saying it to mess with me.”

“Drunk?” His laugh was short, almost bitter. “I wasn’t drunk. I meant it. I meant all of it.” His eyes softened slightly, but the heat underneath didn’t fade. “And then I saw you with him,” he gestured vaguely toward your walls as if Pietro’s presence haunted the room, “and I… I didn’t want to look like a fool, so I stayed quiet.”

You froze, heart hammering, mind spinning. “Wait… you—”

“I wasn’t gonna let anyone else get to you first,” he admitted, voice dropping to a low growl. “Not him, not anyone.”

The weight of it pressed against your chest. You wanted to protest, to explain, but the words caught in your throat.

“And that’s why I’m here,” he added, stepping a fraction closer. “Because I can’t… I can’t just let you sit there thinking I didn’t care.”

Your face twisted then, scoffing. “You’re so fucking confusing,”

His brows raised. “Me? I’m confusing?”

“One minute you’re acting like nothing matters, like I’m just part of your weird orbit, and the next you’re—” You gestured haphazardly toward the memories piling up in your mind. “…here, saying things that make me think maybe you do care. Or maybe you don’t. I can’t tell, and it’s exhausting.”

He blinked, eyes flicking to your hands nervously fidgeting, then back up at your flushed face. “I’m not… I don’t mean to confuse you. I just…” He paused, voice rougher, quieter. “I don’t know how to do this right. You’re not easy to ignore, Specs. Not for me.”

You stared at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief, your chest tight. “Not easy to ignore,” you echoed, almost under your breath.

“Yeah,” he admitted, stepping closer, the space between you shrinking. “Not easy at all.”

The weight of his gaze, the intensity in his voice, made your heart stutter. You didn’t know if you wanted to scream, laugh, or collapse entirely, but one thing was certain—you couldn’t walk away from this. Not now.

“Can we just go back?” he asked, voice low, almost careful, like he wasn’t sure he wanted your answer.

“To what?” you whispered, voice small, caught under the weight of him staring at you like that.

“Just… not this,”

You nodded quickly, eyes falling to where his lip darted to wet his lips. They slid into a grin before his eyes flickered down a final time. “Good. Now go put some pants on. This is inappropriate.”

You frowned, cheeks burning as you yanked at the hem of your shirt like it would somehow save you. His smirk widened, the kind that promised he knew exactly what he was doing—and that only made your pulse spike faster.

You spun around, yanking a pair of sweatpants from your dresser before ducking into the closet. Behind you, the soft thump of the twin bed sinking echoed through the room—he’d hopped on, just like he always did.

The tension in your chest eased slightly, a quiet relief settling over you as he slipped back into his familiar, teasing-but-not-threatening self.

When you stepped back out, you caught sight of him—leaning against the wall, legs dangling off the side of the twin bed, earbuds in, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room. The second he noticed you, his gaze snapped up, a small, crooked grin tugging at his lips.

“You know,” he started as you made your way over and eased onto the bed beside him, “they make these without wires now.”

“I know that, asshole,” you rolled your eyes, a small smile betraying your annoyance. “They’re also expensive.”

He hummed, glancing down at your phone lying on the pillow you’d dropped earlier. “I like this song.”

One earbud popped free, and he held it out to you. Your fingers brushed his briefly as you took it, slipping it into your ear. The chords of Linger by The Cranberries floated in, and instinctively, you scooted closer, keeping the wire from pulling taut.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just the music, the faint brush of his hand against yours, and the quiet closeness that felt heavier than anything either of you had said.

“Surprised you’d like a band like The Cranberries,” you murmured, voice barely above the music. “Doesn’t seem like your thing.”

“If it’s your thing, it’s my thing, Specs,” he said softly.

Heat rushed to your cheeks—you knew you were blushing, and now there was nowhere to hide it.

“Do you even know my name?” you scoffed, trying to break the tension, to distract yourself from the closeness pressing in.

But then he said it. Your name—low, familiar, yet like a breath of fresh air. It pulled you in, your gaze locking with his, so close you could feel his breath on your face. His eyes flicked to your lips and back up to yours, and suddenly the music around you faded, drowned out by the rapid beat of your own heart.

Slowly. Achingly slowly, he leaned in—and you didn’t pull away. His lips brushed yours, soft, testing, lingering for the briefest moment before he pulled back just enough to look at you.

The shift in his expression made your stomach dip.

For a heartbeat, panic flickered. Did I do something wrong?

Your hands lifted on instinct, fingers brushing the frames of your glasses, thinking maybe they were the problem—

His voice stopped you cold.

“Don’t you dare take those off.”

Then you met his eyes. Blue flecks burning with something fierce, something wanting. And just like that, he was on you again, lips pressing harder this time, hands sliding to your forearm, squeezing gently. A shiver raced down your spine, and for the first time all night, you felt the weight of his attention, of his desire, fully on you.

He pressed closer for a moment longer, letting the heat of his lips and the intensity in his eyes anchor you in the moment. Then, almost cruelly, he pulled back just enough to let you breathe, though your chest still heaved and your lips tingled from the contact.

“Okay there, Specs?” His grin was slow, teasing, the kind that promised he knew exactly the effect he had on you. His hand stayed on your forearm, thumb brushing along your skin, a silent tether.

You wanted to complain, to shove him away, to call him every expletive you knew—but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you just blinked up at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and wanting more.

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” He commented, fingers still tracing circles on your arm.

“I,” You gulped, feeling the heat on your face from his attention. “I’ve only…done it once.”

He blinked, a slow, deliberate blink, like he was processing your words. “… you’ve only done it once?” His voice dropped low, almost a growl, and the faintest edge of something possessive threaded through it.

You nodded, twisting your fingers together in your lap. “Yeah… I thought I just needed to… check a box. I didn’t know it could feel like… this,” you admitted, voice trailing, cheeks burning hotter than ever.

Bucky leaned closer, his gaze intense, flicking between your eyes and lips. “Huh,” he murmured, the single word heavy with curiosity, disbelief, and something sharper, more protective. “And here I thought… maybe you and Pietro…”

Your stomach twisted, embarrassment and irritation sparking simultaneously. “I would never!” you snapped, though your voice was quieter than you meant it to be.

He raised his eyebrows, half-amused, half-surprised. “I mean, you didn’t have pants on,”

Maybe it was the way he was looking at you now, but a surge of confidence ripped through you when you said, “Maybe I was hoping you’d come over,”

His pupils darkened, and a deep, low noise escaped him, vibrating in his chest. “Careful, Specs,” he murmured, inching closer. “I might just make it twice for you… maybe three.”

Before you could react, his hand reached up, cupping your face, fingers warm against your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. Your breath caught as he leaned in, eyes locking with yours. Time slowed, the hum of the apartment fading to a single point: him.

His lips brushed yours before pressing harder, more insistently. You felt yourself melt into the kiss, heart hammering, the room shrinking until it was just the two of you.

Then—footsteps. Loud, unmistakable, stomping and chatter through the front door.

Wanda and Nat.

You both froze, eyes snapping apart, the sudden intrusion slicing through the tension. Bucky’s grip on your face lingered just a moment longer before he stepped back, running a hand through his hair with a frustrated groan.

“They’re home,” you whispered, breathless, voice tinged with panic and disbelief.

Before you could even register the panic fully, Bucky shot up. His movements were quick, precise—almost predatory—as he crossed the room and quietly pulled your bedroom door shut, the click of the lock echoing like a punctuation mark in the suddenly quiet space.

Your eyes widened, heart pounding in your chest, but before you could protest, he turned, gaze smoldering, and strode toward the bed.

“You’re gonna ruin me, Specs,” he muttered, voice low and rough, as he stood in front of the bed, between your legs. In one swift motion, his hands gripped firmly behind your knees, and pulled your thighs to wrap around his waist. The sudden closeness made your breath hitch, your body pressed flush against his.

His hands slid to your hips, steadying you as he captured your mouth in a kiss that stole your breath. It was fierce, demanding, yet there was a possessive gentleness woven in that made your stomach drop. You clutched at his shoulders instinctively, nails digging into fabric, as the world narrowed down to the heat of his lips and the strength in his arms.

Outside, the faint echo of footsteps from the hallway reminded you both of reality—but here, now, in the thick tension of the room, it might as well not exist.

Your body was on fire, your mind screaming at you to stop, to slow down—but you couldn’t, not with the way he was looking at you, not with the way his hands held you as if you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

“Roomie!” You heard Wanda’s happy voice sing from outside your door, your head turning toward the door as Bucky’s lips fell to your neck, like he’d starve without your skin in his mouth.

“Studying!” You meekly called back, your voice cracking at the way his teeth nipped at your ear.

“Human anatomy,” he murmured into your ear, the words low, rough, teasing, and a strangled laugh escaped your throat despite yourself.

You reluctantly nudged him back, eyes wide as you looked up at him. “You have to go.”

“I have nowhere better to be than here, Specs,” he murmured, voice low, a dangerous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You feel like explaining what we’re doing in here behind a locked door?” Your voice wavered, part accusation, part flustered panic.

For the first time that night, you saw the cogs in his mind turning—the potential explanations, the justifications, and the sudden intrusion of reason threatening to break the spell. He let out a long sigh, dragging a hand down his face as if to wipe away the intensity of the moment.

Your gaze drifted, unbidden, to the curve of his sweatpants, the evidence of his arousal impossible to ignore. Heat pooled in your stomach, your mouth going dry as the reality of him—right here, so close, so impossibly tangible—hit you like a punch.

Your chest heaved, matching his, the heat of the moment still lingering in the space between you. Sweat clung to your skin, and for a long moment, neither of you moved—just breathing, letting your racing hearts set the pace.

Finally, he straightened, running a hand down his neck, eyes dark but softened. “Okay,” he said, voice low, almost reluctant. “I’ll… sneak out.”

You blinked, “Sneak out?”

“You’re right, too many questions and they’re probably drunk anyway,” he murmured, glancing toward the door, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “But… I’ll be around, Specs. Don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easily.”

Your lips parted, words faltering, but all you could do was nod, feeling the echo of his presence linger long after he slipped toward the door, leaving the room heavy with warmth—and possibility.

You sat on your bed, chest still heaving, fingers lingering on the edge of the comforter as your mind replayed every brush of skin, every tug of clothing, every whispered breath. Minutes passed in silence, the room heavy with the lingering heat of what had just happened.

Then—your phone buzzed. The screen lit up, startling you in the dim glow of your bedside lamp.

Asshole: don’t ever answer the door like that again unless you know I’m on the other side.

A slow, maniacal grin spread across your lips, teeth catching the light. That smug little message? Definitely deserved a reply.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart hammering as the memory of his hands, his lips, the dark heat in his eyes replayed in your mind. Finally, you typed:

You: noted. asshole.

Days went by.

You were still reeling from what had unfolded in your dorm, the lingering scent of him on your pillow the only proof it had really happened. That little secret—shared just between you and Bucky—thrived in the subtlety, in the way it existed only in the spaces you both occupied.

In Newspaper class, your gaze flicked toward his desk, almost by habit, only to find him already watching you. He chewed on his pencil, canines peeking just enough to remind you of the way he’d nipped at your neck, and a shiver ran down your spine despite the crowded room around you.

Pepper’s words washed over you like background noise, the soundtrack to a scene where the world existed only around you and him. Every glance, every movement replayed in your mind like a film you couldn’t pause.

After class, he was swept away by the boys, leaving your attention to be hijacked by Bob’s insistence that you stop by the photo room. Reality intruded, yanking you out of the lingering haze, though your eyes kept flicking toward where Bucky had just been.

It existed only in two places—your mind, replaying every stolen breath and heated whisper… and your phone, where he’d littered your inbox with messages that made your pulse stutter.

I like that top on you.

Can’t focus on the teacher. only thinking about you.

Say you’ll come over later.

Each text felt like its own spark, warm and dangerous, lighting up your screen in a way that made you want to hide your phone against your chest and grin like an idiot.

The kind of messages no one had ever sent you before.

The kind that made you feel chosen.

And as you walked toward the photo room, the hallway buzzing with the noise of everyone else’s normal lives, you had to force yourself not to unlock your phone again just to reread them.

“You’re really distracted today,” Bob remarked, leaning against the doorway with a raised brow.

You just grinned, cheeks warming, refusing to shatter the fragile veil of secrecy. The thought of anyone else knowing—the excitement, the thrill—you feared it would vanish like smoke if it escaped. So you let yourself ride it, letting the grin linger a moment longer than necessary.

But then came the doubts—sharp, sudden, uninvited.

How long would Bucky even stay interested?

A guy like him—sure of himself, experienced, wanted—what could you possibly offer that he hadn’t already had a dozen times over?

You tried to replay his words in your head, the way he’d said your name like it meant something, the way his hands steadied you like he’d been waiting—wanting—but the warmth of it wasn’t enough to smother the insecurity flaring up inside you.

It spread quick, licking up your ribs, settling hot beneath your skin.

A reminder: You were new to this. He wasn’t.

And you hated how small that made you feel.

So you wanted to do something.

Something bold.

Something that told Bucky—without a doubt—just how badly you wanted this…just how badly you wanted him.

The thought alone sent your pulse sprinting, but the moment you tried to type anything flirtatious to him, your fingers froze. Every draft sounded either painfully awkward or plain pathetic. There was no middle ground.

You needed help.

Real help.

Someone who knew how to toe the line between subtle and suggestive without combusting from embarrassment.

There was only one person you trusted with that kind of vulnerability.

The only person who held her own secret in your hands…and who could hold yours in hers.

Wanda.

And luck was finally on your side—an away game meant the boys were occupied, and Wanda was holed up in her room nursing an ankle sprain instead of screaming on the sidelines. No roommates barging in, no Bob taunting you, no Natasha grilling you with knowing eyes.

Just you. And Wanda. And the terrifying task of asking for advice on how to flirt with a boy who’d kissed you like you were oxygen.

You padded down the hall, rehearsing what to say—something casual, maybe a joke—before promptly deciding that was impossible. You paused outside her room, inhaled like you were about to enter a courtroom, and knocked gently.

“Come in!” Wanda called, cheerful despite her injury.

You slipped inside. She was sprawled on her bed, ankle propped on a pillow, scrolling through her phone. The second she looked up at you, her brows pulled together.

“You look… panicked,” she said slowly. “What happened?”

Perfect. You didn’t even have to ease into it.

You shut the door behind you, heart pounding.

“Wanda,” you whispered, crossing the room, “I need your help. Like… girl-to-girl help.”

Her eyes widened with interest, her grin growing. “Oh, this is going to be good,” she said, patting the bed. “Tell me everything.”

“I’ll just come right out with it,” you said, nodding like you were bracing for impact. “I kissed Bucky.”

Wanda gaped—a full-body jolt—nearly toppling off her bed.

“What?”

“I know,” you rushed, hands lifting like you were surrendering. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more interested in your brother—”

“Oh, screw my brother,” she cut in, eyes sparkling. “This is so much better!”

“It is?”

“It IS,” she squealed, bouncing in place despite her injured ankle. “I knew something was happening, but you two are so hot and cold I was getting literal whiplash!”

“You and me both,” you muttered, dropping onto the edge of her bed. “So… will you help me text him?”

“Text him about what?”

You felt the heat blooming across your neck immediately—too warm, too obvious. “Well… I wanted him to have something to be excited about after the game tonight.”

Wanda’s jaw fell open, her grin slowly morphing into something wicked.

“Roomie,” she whispered reverently. “I apologize. I was unfamiliar with your game.”

She leaned in, eyes gleaming like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s make Barnes lose his mind.”

Bucky’s whole body throbbed with that familiar, post-game ache—the burn in his shoulders, the pulsing fatigue in his legs, the sting along his ribs where someone had thrown an elbow. Worth it. All of it. They’d blown the other team out of the water, and the bus buzzed with victory chatter: plans for Blip, trash-talk, a couple guys already passing around an aux cord.

But he sat alone, stretched out in his own row, sweat cooling sticky beneath his jersey. His heartbeat hadn’t quite come down—not from the game, but from something else entirely.

He dug through his gym bag, shoving aside shoulder pads and a half-crushed water bottle until his fingers closed around his phone. The screen lit up in the dim aisle, casting a soft glow across his face.

A notification blinked at him.

Specs: how was the game?

A slow smile tugged at his mouth. He unlocked his phone, thumb pausing for half a second—not because he needed to think, but because it felt…good. Like something about this message mattered more than it should.

He typed back:

We won

The typing bubble popped almost instantly.

He exhaled, chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with sprinting up and down a field for two hours. The idea of you, curled up somewhere with your phone in your hands, thinking of him—waiting for him—spread heat through his veins, curling low and addictive.

Another text appeared.

Specs: so you’re in a good mood?

He chuckled under his breath, head tipping back against the stiff bus seat.

Even better now that I have your attention.

The reply barely gave him time to breathe.

Specs: good

Specs: i was looking to have yours for a few minutes

Something kicked low in his stomach—sharp and immediate. He shifted in his seat, fingers already flying.

All yours now

Specs: I’ve been thinking..

Bucky’s throat tightened, thumb tapping the screen slower this time, like he suddenly needed to choose his words with precision.

What have you been thinking about, doll?

The bus droned on around him—teammates laughing, someone yelling about a missed call, music bleeding through cheap speakers—but Bucky only heard the blood rushing in his ears as he waited for whatever you’d say next.

Your fingers tightened around your phone, knuckles blanching as doll echoed through your head in his voice—low, rough, lived-in. It played like a movie trailer, all smoky lighting and slow motion.

Wanda leaned over your shoulder, chin propped in her hand as she read it with you. Her eyes widened, then sparkled with a kind of delighted mischief.

“Damn, Roomie,” she breathed, grinning so hard it nearly split her face. “I don’t even think you need my help. He’s already halfway feral.”

You groaned, burying your face in her pillow before popping back up like a jack-in-the-box. “Don’t say feral, oh my god.”

“I’m sorry, but he is!” Wanda giggled. “You sent ‘I’ve been thinking’ and the boy basically sat up straighter in another time zone.”

”Okay, what about—”

You began to type.

Across town, Bucky sat up straighter in the velvety stadium seat, the roar of the crowd fading behind him as he read your message. The words hit him like a hand to the chest, breath catching, pupils darkening.

Specs: the way your hands sank into my skin the other night, pulling me closer

Back in your room, Wanda let out a full-bodied howl. “The other night?!”

“Uh—don’t worry about it!” you squeaked, cheeks blazing. You stared at the screen like you could will the typing bubble to life.

And then it appeared.

Asshole: oh yeah?

Asshole: hasn’t left my mind once

Your stomach dropped and lifted at the same time—roller coaster physics and pure adrenaline.

Wanda leaned over again, then choked. “Do you have him saved under ‘Asshole’?”

You slapped your phone to your chest like that might smother the evidence. “It was an accurate label at the time!”

“Roomie,” Wanda said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “I’m starting to think you two might actually destroy each other, and honestly? I support it.”

“What do I say now?” you whispered.

Wanda grinned like an agent of chaos. “Something that’ll make him lose every brain cell in his jock head. So… what do you want him thinking about?”

The message hit Bucky like a punch to the gut.

His eyes dragged over each word slowly, like his brain needed time to register just how bold you were being. His breath stuttered. A low burn crawled down his spine, pooling hot and heavy as he shifted in the velvet seat.

He hovered forward, elbows braced on his knees, one hand gripping the fabric of his warmup pants in a desperate effort to ground himself. The bus felt too warm, too close, too loud—even though no one was paying him any attention.

Then he re-read it.

Specs: i need to feel that again. Need to feel how desperate you are to touch me, how hard you breathe when you’ve got me right where you want me. How hard I’ll breathe when you climb on top of me

His pulse jumped.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. He could swear he could still taste you on his tongue. The memory of your breath against his jaw the other night flared white-hot.

Another shift. Another subtle, futile attempt at adjusting himself without drawing attention. He swallowed, throat dry as chalk.

If he’d been in a good mood after winning, this… this sent him skyrocketing into another universe entirely.

His fingers trembled with the effort to keep his reply coherent.

And somewhere miles away, Wanda stared at you in stunned awe.

“…Okay,” she whispered, “I take it back. You might be the one who destroys him.”

“Am I doing okay?” You nervously chewed on your lip.

“Roomie, I think I’m into you right now.”

You barked a laugh, almost forgetting the anticipation of his next message.

Asshole: how quickly can you get to my dorm?

You’d created a tornado of chaos in your room, clothes flung across every surface as you hunted for something—anything—that matched the moment you were marching toward. Every shirt felt too casual. Every sweater felt too sweet. Every bra felt too innocent… except the one.

The good one.

The one with the tags still attached, sheer fabric whispering against your fingertips as you pulled it on. It pinched slightly as it settled over your chest, but it made your silhouette look sinful in the mirror—so you ignored the sting and let the thrill tighten low in your stomach.

Thank God you’d done an everything-shower the night before. Your skin was still soft, still carrying the faint scent of the lotion you’d taken your time rubbing in. You checked your reflection one last time, breath unsteady, and grabbed your jacket.

The night air slapped you the moment you stepped outside. A sharp chill bit through your jeans, tugging a shiver out of you, but your pulse didn’t slow. If anything, it beat harder—thick and humming under your skin—as you crossed campus toward his dorm.

Every step was a countdown.

There was a thrill rushing through you that you didn’t recognize at first—a nervous, electric anticipation that soaked into your bones. Before Bucky, you’d thought the most you could feel about sex was the urgency for it to be over. A thing you endured more than you enjoyed.

But tonight?

Tonight you walked through the cold with goosebumps decorating your arms at the thought of it beginning.

At the thought of him.

Seconds passed between your knock and the moment the door yanked open—Bucky filling the frame, chest rising, hair damp from showering off the sweat. His eyes swept over you in one slow, stunning pass, and whatever he saw made his jaw tighten. Before you could breathe, his hand wrapped around your wrist and he pulled you inside.

The last time you’d stepped into this room, you’d come with one objective: finish your pitch.

Tonight, you had something else to finish.

“Anyone home?” you murmured, watching him flip the lock with a quiet click that vibrated straight through you.

“Steve went to Blip with the rest of the team.” He turned back to you, gaze sharpening, zeroing in like he’d suddenly remembered what hunger felt like. “I had no idea you had that in you, Specs.”

Be confident, Wanda’s voice echoed in your skull like a spell.

You lifted your chin, pulse tripping but your voice steady. “Well… you never asked.”

“I’ll regret that forever,”

Bucky pressed you against the front door, his hands sliding to your hips, fingers curling against the skin beneath your jacket. His lips found yours with an urgency that stole your breath, tongues tangling in a heated dance as you pressed into him, soft gasps punctuating the rhythm.

Then, with a smooth, effortless motion, he dipped lower, scooping you up. Your legs curled around his waist instinctively as he backed you against the solid wood, holding you close. The world outside the dorm faded, leaving nothing but the heat between you and the thrum of your own racing heart.

Bucky’s grip on you never wavered as he lifted you higher, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. The warmth of his body pressed against yours made your pulse spike, and the steady, confident rhythm of his steps sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’re insane,” you murmured, half-laughing, half-breathless.

“Only for you,” he whispered back, a low grin brushing against your ear as he carried you through the dorm. The hallway seemed impossibly long, every step a mix of tension and anticipation, your legs tightening around his waist as if to anchor yourself to him.

When he reached his room, Bucky didn’t pause. He kicked the door closed with a swift motion, the click of the lock echoing in the small space. You barely had a moment to catch your breath before he lowered you gently onto the bed, hovering above you, lips finding yours again with a renewed intensity. Your hands fisted in his shirt as the world narrowed to the heat of his gaze, the brush of his fingers across your skin, and the intoxicating closeness that left you dizzy with desire.

“Had me nearly shaking on that bus,” His husky voice spoke in your ear, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. “I need to feel you, doll,”

His hands slid up your sides, brushing against the edge of your bra as he lowered himself slightly, chest warm against yours. Every brush of his skin set sparks along your nerve endings, leaving you trembling with anticipation.

“You have no idea what I’m going to do to you,” he whispered, eyes dark with need, lips brushing yours in a teasing, dangerous half-kiss.

“Show me,” you breathed, chest rising and falling against his.

“First…all of this is in the way.”

You shifted, letting him pull your sweater off, leaving you in just the bra. His eyes roamed your chest, and a low, guttural gulp slipped past his lips. The way he looked at you—like he’d never seen anything so perfect—made your heart stutter.

“Fuck…Specs, all for me?”

You met his gaze, pulse hammering in your ears. “All for you,” you whispered.

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, lips barely brushing yours. He didn’t rush. Not yet. Instead, he let his forehead press against yours, breathing mingling with yours, fingers trailing lightly along the curve of your sides, just enough to make your skin tingle. Every inch of him radiated heat, and you could feel it pressing into you, a magnetic pull you didn’t want to resist.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured, lips brushing yours in fleeting, teasing touches.

Your knees went weak as his hands trailed lower, fingers brushing the waistband of your jeans. You tried to steady your breathing, but your pulse betrayed you, hammering in your ears, echoing the ache between your thighs.

He smirked against your lips, sensing your reaction. “Patience, Specs. I could stay here all night, making you guess…making you wait.”

You shivered, pressed closer, heart thundering. “I don’t know if I can wait,” you whispered, voice shaking.

“Good,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Because I don’t plan to.”

And then his lips captured yours fully, slow and demanding, leaving no space for thought—just the heat, the need, and the undeniable pull of two people finally giving in to what had been building between them for months.

“Want every part of you…” he murmured, letting his hands linger on your sides before pulling away just enough to tease.

You tried to steady yourself, heart pounding, as he began pulling off his own shirt, revealing the muscles flexing with every small movement, the lines of his chest and arms stark in the dim light of the room. You couldn’t help but stare, heart hammering, heat pooling low in your stomach.

Every movement he made seemed to demand your attention—the way his shoulders shifted, the curve of his biceps, the sharp line of his jaw catching the soft light. You felt drawn in, powerless to look away, and the tension between you twisted your stomach in ways you weren’t entirely prepared for.

You tried to focus on anything else—his messy hair, the faint scrape of stubble along his jaw—but it only made your pulse race faster. Every brush of his hand against your arm, every step he took closer, seemed to ignite something inside you. You could feel it in the way your body warmed, the subtle hitch in your breath, the way your knees went weak, and it was all because of him.

There was no pretending anymore; your attention, your desire, was entirely his.

“Not leaving anything between us tonight,” he whispered, leaning close again, breath hot against your ear. “You feel that?”

Your knees went weak at the intensity, and you could only nod, biting your lip as he inched closer, pressing his chest to yours, fingers brushing lightly over your arms and shoulders.

The room was silent except for your rapid breaths, and the tension between you both was so thick it felt like it could pull you under.

“Listen to me,” he muttered, his voice rough, edged with restraint. “If at any point you want to stop, you tell me, okay? We’ll go only as far as you want to.”

“I have no intention of stopping,” you breathed, heat pooling low in your chest.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, a low growl of approval in his throat.

The words were like oxygen, filling you with a mix of heat and confidence. You pressed closer, needing him as much as you wanted to be needed, every heartbeat echoing in the silence between your ragged breaths.

He paused, letting his hands linger at your hips, giving you a moment to catch your breath. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, voice low and steady, almost reverent. His fingers traced the sides of your jeans before slowly tugging at the waistband, sliding them down with careful, deliberate movements.

You felt a rush of heat, a mixture of anticipation and nerves, as he settled closer, positioning himself between your legs—not rushing, just holding space with a steady presence. His eyes met yours, searching, asking without words if you were okay.

“Look at me,” he whispered, his thumb brushing your thigh. “Tell me if it’s too much. Just… let me be here with you.”

You nodded, chest rising and falling with excitement and nerves. He smiled, a flicker of mischief in his eyes, and lowered his mouth to the inside of your leg. His fingers delicately thumbed you through the fabric of your panties, mouth pressing kisses against your skin.

Then, without warning, his forefingers hooked around the band, pulling slowly. You lifted your hips to allow him to pull your panties off, a low sound in the back of his throat as he kept his eyes on you. His tongue swiped against your heat, your head falling back against his pillow. He made another stroke, sucking gently against your bud.

He kept that pace for a moment before picking up his pace, jaw working as he slid his tongue into you, moans vibrating against you. Your fingers curled around his comforter as he swirled around the hood of your pussy, quickening in short laps.

“Fuck,” You whispered, gasping for air at the sensation you’d never felt before.

His finger hooked into you as his tongue worked, slowly pumping in and out of you to keep the pace of his mouth. He began to devour you, motivated by the sound of your moans getting louder.

“You like that, baby?” He murmured.

You couldn’t respond—words had fallen short as the sound of him licking and sucking enveloped your mind.

“No one’s ever touched you like this,” he continued—not a question, but a certainty, spoken with a reverence that made your stomach twist. He bit the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate, claiming inch by inch. “No one’s ever had you like this.”

“And no one else will,” he whispered against your skin, voice rough with something possessive and hungry. His hand slid up your waist, steadying you, grounding you. “You hear me?”

“Yes,” You yelped as he lapped again, licking a long stripe against your slit and curling his tongue as he reached the top. “God, yes,”

Your stomach tightened, a fire igniting inside you as the sensation built, overwhelming in its intensity. He didn’t pause, didn’t slow—just held you, guiding, grounding, and drawing every shiver from you.

Your eyelids squeezed shut, breath hitching in rapid bursts, heart hammering in your chest as the sticky hot pleasure struck like lightning, a loud moan escaping your mouth as you felt your release arrive.

“That’s it,” you could feel the satisfaction in his words. “Come right on my mouth, doll,”

You obliged, legs beginning to shake against his face, white behind your eyelids as you rode the wave of sheer pleasure.

He didn’t bother wiping the glistening sheen from his chin as he lifted himself up to press a kiss to your lips, hunger evident in his eyes as his hands worked to pull the sweatpants off his body. In your haze, you glanced over to see the way his cock sprung free from the waistband, bobbing back up to slap his stomach.

You couldn’t help but feel the way your mouth dried. Somewhere in the low light, you heard a packet rip open, latex rolling over skin.

“You okay, baby?” He murmured as he climbed on top of you. “Tell me you want this,”

“I want this,”

He smirked, arm muscles twitching as he settled between your legs. “I want to hear how much you want it,”

“Badly,” You groaned, nails dragging up his forearms. “W-Want it really badly, Bucky,”

“There it is—say my name again,”

“Bucky,” Your hand snaked up his neck, pulling him closer to you, “Please,”

“What a good girl,” He cooed, dipping down so that the soft flesh of his head brushed your throbbing core. Your breath was uneven as you kept your eyes on his.

His muscles didn’t give way when he continued to lower, tip pressing and stretching into you. A groan escaped his lips at the way you tightened around him, swallowing him whole.

“This okay?” He breathed, lips brushing yours from the proximity.

“Keep going,” you pleaded, desperate to feel the way he filled your hole.

That’s all he needed—confirmation to fully enter you, permission to split your folds with his twitching cock. His hips began to move with fervor, sliding in and out with ease from the remnants of your peak. Your nails dug into his back, head tilting back even further in response to his quickening pace.

It didn’t take long before his thrusts became hasty, like you were a missing puzzle piece. You couldn’t stop the way your breath turned into full-on moans, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed. The way his face twisted in pleasure after each one gave you enough reassurance that they were music to his ears.

“So fucking tight,” he murmured, lips against your neck as he buried his head in your shoulder in an effort to be closer to you. “You were made for me,”

His words ignited flames in your stomach, licking at your core. You’d be more verbal if you weren’t in a state of utter euphoria.

You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, forcing him harder into you as you clawed at his back.

“Keep doing that and I’ll be done for,” he groaned, angling his hips so that he took you even deeper.

You shuddered slightly. “Want you to fill me up,”

“Jesus Christ,”

His thrusts became sloppier, breathing more ragged. The sound of skin slapping filled the air around you as your ears began to ring—you were about to come crashing down again.

You both came undone, in tandem and loudly. His grunting was labored as he snapped his hips into you a final time, seed spilling into the latex around your clenched walls. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as he pulled out of you, settling beside you on the crumpled comforter.

After a moment, he stood, stalking toward the bathroom to discard the evidence—returning with a washcloth. Delicately, he wiped you clean, the warmth of the fabric comforting your aching core.

He pulled on his sweatpants before handing you the sweater you arrived in, looking slightly reluctant to do so. Once you pulled it over your head, he offered you a blanket once he glanced at the way your legs softly shook.

“How was that? Are you okay, doll?”

His voice came out low, warm, almost tender in the dim light.

You nodded, eyes fluttering, still half-lidded and hazy. Breath shaky. Muscles molten.

A soft huff of laughter left him. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this quiet.”

You managed a crooked smile. “Guess you fucked the words out of me.”

Fire sparked in his eyes again—amusement, pride, something darker curling behind it. His grin edged smug. “Such a dirty girl, Specs.”

“Just because I’m into school doesn’t mean I’m a prude,” you shot back, breathless but not defeated.

The mattress dipped as he sat down beside you, back hitting the wall, long legs stretched out. The shift jostled you slightly, bringing you closer to the heat of him.

“Oh, no,” he said, head tilting as he looked at you like he was replaying every second just passed. “The way you were texting me? You’re far from a prude.”

You let your fingers trace absently along the sheets. “What can I say? I like to write.”

He chuckled under his breath, a low sound that vibrated in his chest. “I’m hoping there’s more where that came from.”

There it was—quiet, unhurried, but unmistakable.

A request. An invitation. A desire for more, spoken like a secret he trusted you with.

And you were grateful.

Grateful that he said it first. Grateful that the moment didn’t demand answers you weren’t ready to give. Because just because he’d growled possessive things into your skin didn’t mean it was an oath or a promise.

“I can practically hear you thinking,” he murmured, nudging your knee with his. “What’s going on up there?”

“What…” You cleared your throat, trying to gather the words that kept slipping through your fingers. “What do we do next?”

His lips twitched. “Soon as you catch your breath, we do it again.”

A surprised laugh broke out of you—warm, involuntary. “No, I mean… what does this mean? For—”

“For us?” he finished, voice low but steady. You nodded, grateful he intercepted your floundering.

“You tell me,” he said. “And please don’t say you came here thinking it would be a one-time thing.”

“I didn’t,” you blurted, heat blooming across your cheeks. “I just didn’t know if you did.”

He let out a quiet breath, almost something like disbelief that you could even imagine otherwise. Then, softly but without hesitation:

“Specs, I’m not going anywhere.”

Your gaze lifted to his—eyes meeting through the slight fog on your glasses. You searched his expression for the usual smirk, the cocky half-grin, any trace of teasing or bravado.

But there was none.

Just certainty.

“Me neither.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

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A/N: AHHH OMG I LOVED WRITING THIS HOLY SHIT. Finally;)

Main tag list: @flockoff-featherface @avgdestitute @loganficsonly @the-salty-asian

Because you weren’t made of glass. Bucky could probably punch you square in the face, and you would be fine. It might take you a couple of minutes to bounce back, but you would be fine. Being a genetically mutated superhero would do that to a person. 

It wasn’t as if you kept the secret maliciously. Your relationship with Bucky was so new, and he looked at you like you were so normal; you didn’t want to break the facade. And you were going to tell him. Eventually. Soon. Maybe once you told him you loved him and he said he felt the same way. 

Bucky told you he loved you first, actually, and that was over a month ago. The admittance was not followed by you unveiling your secret identity. 

So, after four months of dating and falling in love with Bucky Barnes, there no longer seemed to be a right time to tell him you were a superhero. You couldn’t exactly blurt something like that out, and the truth was now veiled under the fact you had kept it from him for so long. He had shared so many secrets with you right from the start. He had never been anything but honest. 

You bit the inside of your cheek and scratched at a phantom itch on your head as Bucky moved around your apartment. The thoughts waging war in your head were much louder today. You could tell him right now, probably. Maybe he wouldn’t be that mad. 

Or maybe he would be disgusted by your secretive nature and the fact that you weren’t as delicate as he thought and he would storm out forever. 

There was really no way of knowing. 

“You okay over there?” Bucky called, slipping the window closed as more dark clouds rolled over the city. “Look like you’re about to burst into flames.” 

“What? Oh, yeah, I’m totally fine,” you laughed, but the sound was grating on your ears. Completely unnatural. 

Your boyfriend raised a brow and stared. “Uh huh. Right.” 

You tried again. Something different. “I was just thinking about work. It’s been so hectic lately, you know? And with the new clients, my boss has been on my ass and I don’t know what to wear tomorrow, actually. There’s a meeting and none of my good blouses are clean.” 

Apparently, word vomit did the trick. Bucky huffed out a fond laugh and met you in the middle of the living room. He placed a soft hand against the back of your head—always gentle—and brought you forward until his lips met your forehead. His hands slid down next, tucking your hair back and framing your face. 

“You’re gonna do great. I’ll do some laundry tonight. Nothing to worry about.” 

“You don’t need to do my laundry, Bucky. That’s ridiculous.” 

Another kiss to your face. “I want to. It’s about to rain. That’s the perfect time for laundry.” 

“I don’t think there’s a connection between the two,” you argued, moving your hands to his waist. 

Bucky pretended to think, head bobbing as he weighed fake thoughts. “Eh, I think there is. You haven’t been around for as long as I have.” 

So, Bucky did your laundry last night, and you had a blouse to wear to the stupid meeting that you hadn’t been thinking about even as you walked into the conference room. Perhaps you would have been more focused on it if you hadn’t looked at your phone right before, a text lighting up the screen and bypassing your Do Not Disturb. 

Bucky: Stay at the office. I hear there’s something going on by your apartment. Not safe for you. I’ll call when it is. I love you. 

Not safe for you. 

Right. 

Two weeks ago you saved an old woman from a robbery and smashed a guy’s face in before lunch, but that wasn’t important. A couple more weeks ago, low-level extraterrestrials invaded some astronomy lab and you were the one to neutralize the issue. But Bucky didn’t know that. He had been out of town, thankfully. 

You stared out the office window and bit at your thumbnail, knee bouncing and skin beginning to prickle under the weight of anxiety. 

Bucky said to stay away. He was watching the situation—whatever it was. 

Your good deeds might be plastered across a few cereal boxes in the grocery store, but that wasn’t your only job. You were known to be a random force in New York. You did good, but you weren’t the sole protector. You weren’t even a fully contracted superhero, as much as the government hated that. 

More of a vigilante. Just a girl who was in a freak accident a few years ago and had been using the outcome to help people. Sometimes. Not all the time. 

When a beam of light struck the office window, the meeting halted. The room’s attention shifted out, and you caught the small disturbance happening a few blocks away. But there was no fighting. It wasn’t another rogue alien to be taken down. There was an entire bank robbery with helicopters and police stacked in front of large doors. 

How were you supposed to ignore that? 

~~

Rain dripped from your mask and slid down the sore plane of your neck as you ambled into your apartment several hours later. As it turned out, the scene was so large because the bank robbery was actually a hostage situation and the guys were crazy and there were several other factors involved, but you were too tired to recount them in your mind. 

A few bruises were blooming along your cheeks as you tripped over your coffee table. Not even a groan left your lips; you were too focused on being soaked to the bone. 

Light—you needed to turn a light on before you faceplanted into another piece of furniture. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you thought about Bucky. You hadn’t texted him back. You’d have to do that soon, or he’d worry. He might even come over to check on you, and you were too out of it for that to be a good idea. 

Your hand moved blindly around the wall by your kitchen, finally flipping the light on just as you peeled your mask from your face. The pure oxygen was overwhelming. You blinked your eyes to clear the rainwater from your lashes, and then your heart stopped beating. 

Bucky was in your living room. 

The front door was ajar, his coat was still firmly on his shoulders, and an umbrella dripped even more water onto your rug. You hadn’t even heard him come inside. 

The hum of the heater and the busy street were the only sounds between you. Your jaw was slack, and both of you stood frozen. 

And then, at the same time, you spoke. 

“You—” 

“I can explain—” 

Another lapse of silence. 

You opened and closed your mouth and Bucky’s expression morphed into stone. “You’re hurt.” 

Your hand immediately flew to the ache in your cheeks, but that was not your focus. “I meant to tell you. I didn’t want to keep it a secret, but there was no good time. I love you. I’m so sorry, Bucky.” 

It didn’t seem like he was really listening to you. Bucky dropped his umbrella into a puddle on the floor and held you by your shoulders, pulling you out and then turning you. “Anywhere else? What happened?” 

Now facing the wall, you continued with your pleas, ignoring the unzipping of your uniform as Bucky probed for more injuries. “I wasn’t sure how you’d take it at first, but then the longer I kept it from you, the worse it would have been to tell you. And I didn’t want to make your life more difficult. You seemed so happy to have something normal for once.” 

“Make my life more difficult?” Bucky muttered under his breath. You felt his cool fingers slide up your ribs and trace a few bruises. “Anything bleeding?” 

“What? No.” Bucky turned you back around, your suit now back in place as he searched your neck. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry for not telling you. I know you’re probably so so mad at me. And if you don’t want this anymore, I completely understand. You didn’t sign up for this. I’m not normal.” 

You watched as Bucky furrowed his brows and shook his head slightly, but again, he was only half listening. He was checking your head now, pressing with his fingers along the base of your neck and along your hairline. 

“I really do love you. And I promise—wait, you’re being gentle,” you realized, snapping yourself out of your rambling when you felt his familiar fingers only barely pressing against your skin. 

That made Bucky pause. He stood up fully and met your eyeline, hands dropping to his sides. “What’re you talking about?” 

You stayed in his gaze for a moment, and then reasoned, “Well, I just figured you might be more… I don’t know, rough? Once you found out who I was. That I’m not fully human.” 

“Why would I be rough with you?” 

Uncertainty took over then. You fiddled with your fingers by your waist. “‘Cause you could? I wouldn’t need gentleness.” 

Bucky’s shoulders dropped a fraction. He shook his head again, biting into his lip as he went to touch you once more. His hands were on your face, and they felt the same as they did yesterday—before he knew. 

“I’m careful with you because I love you. I want to be gentle,” he said with his voice so low. “And I know I might not be the smartest, but I had my suspicions. I was waiting for you to tell me.” 

“You knew?”

Bucky tried to hide his smirk and failed. “Like I said, I suspected. Why do you think I always came over right after the mysterious superhero that looked a lot like my girlfriend was talked about on the news?” 

“I wear a mask. You can’t even see me,” you mumbled, avoiding Bucky’s teasing. 

“I can recognize you just about anywhere. Even under a mask. And I do your laundry. Often. Now, you gonna actually tell me if you’re hurt anywhere?” 

You sighed in defeat, abandoning your further arguments. With a soft, I’m really fine, Bucky concluded his examination and let you take a shower. It wasn’t until much later that night that you sat and talked about it. About all of it. 

To you, it was serious.

His relationship with the mystery woman outside the compound hadn’t lasted very long. It ended ugly and with betrayal that cut deeper than he’d admit out loud.

She cheated with some guy she called an “old friend” Simon. She begged him to forgive her, swore it didn’t mean anything and it was a one time mistake. But Bucky wasn't interested in her excuses or lies. Once the trust was gone, it was gone. He wasn’t about to try to glue pieces back together knowing the cracks would always show and have a constant reminder of her betrayal by having to look at her everyday. He didn't need to go to bed at night wondering what she was doing or who she was with.

Bucky was done with her, once and for all.

Bucky needed a friend because it was what he so desperately needed and that’s where you came in.

Late nights brewing hot tea in the kitchen. Breaking into Tony’s ridiculously expensive stash of chocolate that he always hid in the top cupboard. Dunking cookies in milk, laughing at dumb movies, sitting shoulder to shoulder with books open but barely reading. It was just the little comforting things.

The things Bucky needed and loved doing, especially with you.

You got close. Closer than you had ever expected.

The walls Bucky had built around himself started to crumble piece by piece, especially during the times you smiled at him like he was worth something.

And maybe that’s why he looked so completely pissed and defeated when you walked into the common room with some guy’s arm slung around your shoulders.

This guy was no good, he could tell just by the aftershave he was wearing.

“Hey, everyone,” you said, voice quiet and nervous. “I'd like to introduce you to my new boyfriend. This is John.”

The team greeted John with handshakes, hugs and even ‘bro’ hugs as Sam liked to call them.

But Bucky just sat there with his fists clenched in his lap, jaw locked, staring ahead like the world had just ended.

And for Bucky, that's exactly how it felt.

John really did look the part. He was tall, he wore an expensive suit with shiny shoes and an expensive watch. His hair slicked back neatly with hair gel, though by how greasy it looked, it looked as though John had used the whole tube.

But there was something in John’s eyes that put Bucky on edge, there was something behind those eyes Bucky just didn't like about John.

Just as arrogant as Tony, he thought.

John's gaze flicked to him, a smirk etched into his features.

“Oh, you're the famous Bucky Barnes.”

John said, flat toned. But that smirk? It wasn't casual, it wasn't friendly. Not even close.

“You don't seem as scary as I imagined.” John chuckled, one posh hand slipped into the pockets of his tight slacks.

Bucky’s jaw twitched but kept focused on the white wall ahead. His vibranium arm whirred with the tension of the clenched fist.

Keep cool Barnes, keep cool.

But it didn't take too long for the cracks to start showing in yours and John's relationship.

It was very subtle at first. John would interrupt you mid sentence, intentionally being contradictive, making comments that he would disguise as a joke.

Intentionally being a dickhead.

Then as time went on John’s mask began to fall.

“Do you really think you should be wearing that? It’s a bit tight, you're going to attract unwanted attention.” he muttered one evening before training.

“Oh for fuck sakes Y/N! You're too damn sensitive. Why can't you ever take a joke?” whenever you would scowl at his immature comments.

The others noticed of course. Clint’s eyebrows nearly shot off his head. Natasha’s lips thinned every time she witnessed one of his digs.

But you being the sweet and stubborn you just kept brushing it all off, as if trying to make it hurt less.

Bucky however felt his blood boil hotter with every passing day that John was around. There were days Bucky was more tempted than others to ring John's neck.

Bucky often imagined what it would feel like to hear one of John’s pathetic bones crack under the pressure of his arm.

Because he’d heard those same words before. Cruel, narcissistic, leaving you to feel smaller than you deserved to be.

He just couldn’t stand watching it happen to you.

Things came to a boiling point one Friday evening.

The team had gathered in the common room for a takeaway and films, a rare moment of downtime that you cherished when it happened. You sat cross legged next to John, food in your lap and snacks on the other side of you. Your shoulders were tense and your smile felt a little forced.

Halfway through one of the films, you offered a light hearted joke on the plot. A few chuckles were heard, but your smile soon faded when John snorted.

“Babe, please don’t embarrass yourself tonight. Then again, you never seem to get it.”

The room fell silent. So silent that you could absolutely hear a pin drop. Your throat suddenly felt like sandpaper and it was hard to breathe. It felt as if there was no air and you were suffocating under the stares.

You tried to laugh it off, but nothing sound came out.

And that's when Bucky stood abruptly, his own food flying off his lap. His heavy breathing cut through the silence of the room. All eyes were on you.

“Get the fuck out.” Bucky’s voice boomed. His nostrils flared and vibranium arm whirring by his side, ready to punch that irritating smirk right off this guy's fucking face once and for all.

John blinked, chuckling as if finding this whole exchange humorous. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Bucky shouted. “You’re not welcome here. Not after the way you’ve been treating her.”

John scoffed. “Oh come on, Buck. She knows I’m only teasing.”

Bucky stepped forward, eyes blazing. “No you're wrong, John. Teasing doesn’t leave her looking small. Teasing doesn’t make her laugh like she’s trying not to cry. You’re not teasing her, you’re tearing her down and I've had enough of it.”

The weight of his words hung in the air.

John sneered, glancing around the room for backup. “Are you all just going to let him talk to me like that?”

Natasha crossed her arms. “He’s not wrong though.”

Sam gave a sharp nod. “She deserves better, man. Way better.”

John’s expression changed like the weather. He looked angry as he turned back to you, as if expecting you to defend him. “Y/N?”

You swallowed the hard lump in your throat, torn between instinct and the truth. For so long you’d brushed off his cruelty and comments. But the look in Bucky’s eyes, he was furious, he was protective of you and you realised it tonight. It made something inside you snap.

“I… I just think you should go,” you whispered, avoiding his stare.

John’s face twisted into disgust. “You are fucking unbelievable.” He shouted, causing you to flinch at both his words and anger.

He snatched his coat, muttered something under his breath, and stormed out.

The slam of the door echoed and rang in your ears.

The silence was intense. Embarrassment crept up to your cheeks.

Wanda leaned forward gently. “Are you all right, Y/N?”

You nodded quickly, though your throat felt tight. “I’m fine honestly. Just… I’m so sorry you all had to see th-”

“No,” Bucky said firmly, interrupting your train of thoughts, his voice softer now but no less intense. “Don’t apologise Y/N. He should never have spoken to you like that. Not once. Not ever.”

Your eyes met his, and something in your chest shifted. For a moment, you weren’t sure whether you wanted to cry or throw your arms around him.

“Thank you Buck.” You murmured instead, eyes glossing over.

When the evening officially ended and the team headed off to their own rooms, you lingered in the kitchen staring thoughtfully into your lukewarm cup of tea. Your chest felt tight, and your shoulders slouched under the weight of what happened tonight. Your mind replaying everything John ever said to you, his jokes, his control over you.

Bucky found you there, sitting on the stool in the kitchen staring out into the void.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You gave a weak smile. “I will be. Just… I just feel stupid, you know? For not seeing it sooner.”

“Don’t.” His tone was fierce, but not with you. “People like him Y/N, they’re very good at hiding it, at twisting things and never taking accountability for it. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your throat tightened. “Still. I thought… I thought he cared. I only wanted that.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “He didn’t deserve you. Not even close.”

The words were simple, but the way he said them was low, steady, filled with genuineness and made the warmth spread through your chest despite the ache.

You studied him for a long moment, searching his face for any signs he's lying. “Do you really mean that?”

He stepped closer, blue eyes locking with yours. “Y/N… you deserve someone who sees you for who you are, doll. Someone who makes you feel stronger and taller, not smaller. Who knows exactly how lucky they are to have you.”

Your breath caught. “Bucky…”

He swallowed hard, fighting the war inside himself. For years he’d kept it buried. Convinced he wasn’t good enough for you, convinced you deserved someone whole. But watching that man tear you down had snapped something inside him.

Bucky didn't just need you. He loved you.

His voice was raw when he finally admitted, “I’ve always seen you that way. Even when I tried not to.”

The air between you shifted, heavy with something unspoken, finally given breath.

You blinked, heart drumming fiercely against your ribcage. “You… you’ve always…?”

“I thought it was better if you didn’t know,” he said, voice low. “When I was with someone else, when you deserved more than a broken mess like me, I thought keeping it to myself was protecting you. But tonight, seeing him like that… God, Y/N, I can’t just stand by and let you think that’s all you deserve. Because it’s not. You deserve everything. You deserve love.”

Tears stung your eyes, but for once they weren’t from pain.

You reached for his hand. The cool metal of the vibranium was steady beneath your palm.

“Bucky…” Your voice shook. “All this time, I thought you didn’t want me.”

His laugh was rough, almost disbelieving. “Want you? Doll, I’ve been in love with you longer than I ever care to admit.”

The words settled over you like a balm, like sunlight breaking through a storm.

You laughed at something the barista said. A small, bright sound that seemed to echo only in his chest. And for a moment, he forgot how to speak.

“What I… uh…” He started, his tongue tripping over the rehearsed line he’d practiced in the mirror. “I mean, I just wanted to…”

You tilted your head, noticing his sudden hesitation, the way his eyes lingered on your smile. “Everything okay?” you asked, a teasing lift in your voice that made him want to melt.

He swallowed hard. Normally, he could be smooth. Normally, words came to him without effort. But now, they were like butterflies trapped in his throat, fluttering, impossible to catch.

And then, without any warning, the rehearsed line completely abandoned him. He didn’t remember the clever thing he’d meant to say. He didn’t remember the joke, the casual comment, the casual compliment he’d imagined delivering flawlessly. All he remembered and all he could think  was you.

“You’re… beautiful.”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them. He immediately wanted to retract them, cover them up with a joke, anything to make it less… real. But the way you stopped laughing, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, made him realize it was already too late.

“Wow,” you said softly, and for a heartbeat he thought maybe he’d imagined it. “That… was really sudden.”

He scratched the back of his neck, feeling the heat creeping up his face. “Yeah. I, uh… didn’t mean to- I mean, I did, but not like that… I mean-”

You laughed again, this time more gently, and it was like a soft balm on his nerves. “It’s okay,” you said, reaching out and brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I kind of… wanted to hear that.”

Relief hit him like a wave, and his heart started racing in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment. He realized then that it wasn’t just the words he’d said, but how easy it felt to say them. How natural it felt to admit the truth.

“You really are,” he added, trying to sound more composed, more intentional this time. “Beautiful. And not just… like, looks. Your laugh, your smile… everything. It’s…”

You reached across the small table and lightly tapped his hand, stopping him mid-sentence. “You don’t have to explain it,” you said, eyes sparkling. “I get it.”

He blinked, a little dumbfounded by how easily you accepted it. Usually, moments like this were awkward, full of tension and second-guessing. But with you… it felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. Warm, inevitable, impossible to ignore.

For a few minutes, you both just sat there, smiles lingering, words unnecessary. The café around you faded, the chatter of other patrons dimmed, the clinking of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine becoming background music to the moment.

He found himself memorizing every detail: the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, the little dimples that appeared at the corners of your mouth, the soft sound of your laughter echoing in his mind long after it had faded.

“You know,” he said finally, trying to steady his voice, “I don’t usually just… blurt things out like that.”

You tilted your head, curiosity dancing in your gaze. “Do you normally rehearse compliments before giving them?”

He chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Something like that. But I guess… I don’t need to rehearse anymore.”

“Because?”

“Because the truth… it’s easier than I thought.” He paused, letting the words hang between you, delicate as a breath. “Especially when it’s about you.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you laughed softly again, but this time it was quieter, more intimate. “You’re really bad at hiding your feelings, you know that?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Yeah. I guess I am. But maybe… maybe I don’t want to hide them anymore.”

For a moment, silence settled over you both, comfortable and unforced. He could feel the rhythm of your breathing, the warmth of your presence, the subtle brush of your fingers against the table. And in that silence, he realized something he hadn’t before: words didn’t have to be perfect. Compliments didn’t need a script. All that mattered was honesty, and he had plenty of that to give.

“Then I’m glad you said it,” you said finally, voice soft. “Because I’ve been waiting for someone to.”

His chest tightened at your words. Waiting… for him. The idea made his heart feel simultaneously heavy and light, like gravity and flight in one surreal mix.

“You don’t have to wait anymore,” he whispered, leaning slightly closer, just enough that he could feel your warmth without breaking the unspoken boundary. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your hand found his, fingers intertwining naturally, effortlessly. “Good,” you said simply, and it was enough. More than enough.

He laughed, a little breathlessly, because he felt ridiculous and elated all at once. “I might get distracted again,” he admitted, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You have that effect on me.”

“Then maybe you should keep watching,” you said, leaning in just slightly. “See what other truths slip out.”

He smiled, heart full, mind finally quiet, and he knew that no matter how many words he tried to rehearse in the future, none would matter as much as the ones he could say in moments like this. Moments when laughter and honesty collided, when the world fell away, and all that was left was her.

“You’re beautiful,” he repeated, softer this time, more certain.

“And I mean it,” you added, voice warm, eyes locking with his in a way that made the world dissolve completely.

You lean against the headboard, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’ve been back in the 21st century for a while now, Buck. You can handle a little technology.”

He groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’ve fought aliens, robots, and gods. And this…” he waves the phone dramatically in the air, “...is still scarier.”

You laugh, reaching out. “Hand it over before you accidentally set off nuclear codes.”

He drops it into your palm like it weighs a ton. “Wouldn’t put it past Stark to build that feature in just to mess with me.”

Shaking your head, you start tapping through the menus, only to discover the problem almost instantly. “Buck… no wonder you’re confused. It’s in another language.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Another language?”

“Yes,” you chuckle, biting your lip as you try to navigate purely from memory. “And I don’t even know which one. The text looks vaguely Korean?”

He groans again and flops backwards on the bed, throwing his metal arm over his eyes. “See? Conspiracy. Stark’s out to get me.”

“Uh huh,” you tease, fiddling with the settings. “Or you pressed the wrong thing and switched it accidentally.”

“Same difference,” he mutters.

It takes a few tries, but eventually you flick it back into English. With a little flourish, you hand it back. “There. Good as new.”

Bucky eyes the screen with suspicion, as though it might bite him. “Not so scary when you do it.”

“Exactly why you keep me around.”

His lips twitch, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through. “Among other reasons,” he murmurs, almost too soft to hear.

Your heart stutters, but before you can think too hard, he’s frowning again. “What’s this? It wants me to add a contact?”

“That’s where you save people’s numbers,” you explain patiently.

He shoots you a playful side eye. “Look at you, talking like I didn’t grow up in the 1940s when rotary phones were state-of-the-art.”

“Exactly,” you giggle. “So add my number. Come on, you’ll need it.”

He dutifully types it in, slowly, carefully, like each digit might set off a booby trap. When he finally hits ‘save,’ he exhales like he’s run a marathon.

You grin. “Congratulations, Barnes. You’ve officially joined modern civilisation.”

“Don’t mock the elderly,” he deadpans, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him.

You bump your shoulder into his. “Now pick a picture for my contact.”

He scrolls through his sparse camera roll. A few shots of the skyline, one of Steve’s old notebook, and then your breath catches. There are several of you.

You hadn’t even realised he’d taken them. One of you laughing at something Sam said, another of you holding two cups of coffee, sunlight catching your hair.

Bucky stares at them far longer than necessary. His thumb hovers but doesn’t select any.

“Go on,” you prompt gently. “Any of them will do.”

But he shakes his head. His voice is quiet, almost reverent when he finally speaks.

“None of these are good enough.”

The words steal the air from your lungs. “Buck-”

“They don’t even come close,” he continues softly, his eyes lifting from the screen to meet yours. “Not to… you.”

Your cheeks warm instantly, your heart skipping a beat. For a moment, the room feels smaller, quieter, like the world has slipped away and it’s just the two of you.

He swallows, thumb still hovering over the photos. Then, almost shyly, he lifts the phone. “Can I… take one now? For me?”

Your throat goes dry. “You want a picture of me?”

“I want my picture of you,” he admits, voice low. “Not one I snapped when you weren’t looking. Something real. Something that’s just… mine.”

The honesty in his eyes leaves you breathless. “Fine,” you whisper, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You try to smile naturally, but under the weight of his gaze, it’s impossible not to feel self-conscious. He holds up the phone, the camera clicking softly. When he lowers it, he’s still staring at you, his expression softened into something that makes your chest ache.

“That’s the one,” he says, saving it without hesitation. “Perfect.”

You blink rapidly, caught somewhere between flustered and fond. “It’s just a photo,” you murmur, trying to play it off.

“Not to me.”

The silence that follows is thick with unspoken things. His hand drifts toward yours on the bed, fingers brushing lightly. He doesn’t push, doesn’t take more than you’re willing to give, but the warmth of his touch lingers.

Your lips curve into a small, nervous smile. “At least you’ve mastered one bit of technology.”

He chuckles, low and warm, his thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. “Yeah. The most important part.”

You’re still smiling when he tugs you closer, slow and careful, giving you every chance to pull away. When you don’t, when you lean in instead, his lips brush yours in the softest of kisses.

It’s brief, tentative, but it leaves you dizzy all the same.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his smile is boyish, almost shy. “Think I could get used to this modern stuff if you’re the one teaching me.”

You laugh softly, your heart still racing. “Lucky for you, I’m a patient teacher.”

You'd notice the lines between his eyes as he was focused on the book in his hands. You'd notice the way his tongue would dart out between his lips when he got to a really good part of the book. 

You'd notice the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. 

And you noticed other things too.

Like the way his hair sometimes curled at the ends when he hadn’t bothered tying it back. Or the faint scar along his jawline that your fingers often itched to trace. Or how, whenever you tried to make him laugh, he did this tiny half-smile, just enough to give you hope he didn’t mind your attention.

It had become a habit, really. Tossing him compliments, cheeky remarks, even a wink or two. You knew the others thought you were bold, but they didn’t see the nerves twisting in your stomach every time you dared to flirt with him. 

And yet… there was absolutely nothing from him.

He never flirted back, never encouraged you further. At first, you chalked it up to his reserved nature. Then, maybe he was simply shy. But after six months of little to no progress, you had begun to wonder if perhaps James Buchanan Barnes just wasn't interested in you at all.

Still, you kept trying. Because giving up felt worse than rejection.

The evening was quiet, which was rare in the Avengers’ common room. Sam had somehow convinced Tony to put on one of those panel style quiz shows, and the team had sprawled out across the sofas and armchairs, bowls of snacks and glasses of wine scattered around.

Bucky sat at the far end of the sofa, next to Steve. You’d taken a spot beside Natasha, close enough to steal glances at him without it looking too obvious.

Conversation drifted lazily between rounds of the game on TV. Someone asked Clint about his kids; Natasha rolled her eyes at Tony’s commentary. It was warm and familiar. It felt like… home.

Then Sam leaned forward, mischief glinting in his eyes. “So, Barnes,” he said, “you’ve been sneaking out of the compound quite a bit lately. Gonna tell the class why?”

Bucky frowned, caught off guard. “What d’you mean?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. Every few nights, gone for hours. You’re not exactly subtle.”

Steve smirked into his glass, which was answer enough.

Your stomach dropped. Your heart drummed dangerously fast against your ribcage.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, but when he spoke, his voice was calm. “I’ve… met someone.”

The room erupted in questions, teases, laughter. You tried to keep your face neutral, though you felt heat rise to your cheeks, a prickle at the back of your throat. You blinked quickly to stop any tears that threatened to roll down your cheeks. 

“Met someone?” Natasha arched a brow. “Is that why you’ve actually been smiling lately?”

“Tell us more!” Wanda pressed, grinning.

Bucky ducked his head, that rare, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. The same one you’d once thought was meant for you. “She’s… different. Normal. Makes me feel like I can breathe, you know? We’ve been seeing each other for a while now. It’s… it’s looking serious.”

You heard the words, but they blurred together, muffled beneath the rush of your pulse in your ears. Serious.

It was ridiculous, how much those four syllables hurt.

You laughed along with everyone else, or at least you thought you did. You forced a smile, nodded, even tossed in a teasing comment about how you never imagined Barnes going soft. It sounded like you, or close enough that no one would notice.

Except maybe Natasha, whose sharp eyes lingered on you a beat too long.

Inside, though, your chest felt hollow. All those silly little daydreams you had, him finally giving in to your flirting, him catching your hand one day and not letting go, him leaning in close with that gravelly voice murmuring something just for you, they all dissolved in an instant.

Because there was someone else. Someone who wasn’t you.

Later, when the night wound down and everyone drifted off to their rooms, you stayed behind in the kitchen under the pretence of tidying up. Really, you just needed a moment.

You rinsed out a glass, staring at the stream of water until your vision blurred. You’d known, deep down, that your crush was one-sided. But hearing it confirmed, watching his face soften with genuine affection at the thought of another woman…

It was a quiet kind of heartbreak. Not loud, not dramatic. Just a dull ache you couldn’t quite shake.

“Hey,” came a voice behind you. Soft, familiar.

You turned, startled, to find Steve in the doorway. His expression was kind, but there was something knowing in his eyes.

“You all right?” he asked gently.

You forced a smile. “Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He didn’t press, and you were grateful for it. He just nodded, gave your shoulder a squeeze, and left you to your thoughts.

Back in your room, you curled beneath the duvet and let the silence settle around you. It hurt. God, it hurt so much but at the same time, there was a strange sense of clarity.

Bucky deserved happiness. He deserved someone who made him feel normal, who eased the weight he carried. And if that wasn’t you, then… well, at least he’d found it.

Maybe one day, you’d find someone too. Someone who looked at you the way Bucky looked when he spoke about her.

For now, though, you would hold your head high, plaster on a smile when you needed to, and keep being the teammate he could rely on. Even if your heart would never quite stop aching when he walked into the room.

Because sometimes love wasn’t about being theirs. Sometimes it was about wanting them happy, even if that happiness wasn’t with you.