Just my own Fic Reblogs

You had talked to a handful of men. But none of them were worthy enough to meet in person. One had sent dick pictures straight away after receiving your match. Another had messaged you only in the middle of the night asking if you were giving it up yet. Another man only talked about himself when you had finally agreed to meet up.

You had almost given up. Until you met this guy. His name was Steve. He was a total sweetheart, though his height was on the shorter side. His deep blue eyes had caught you off guard when you met hi for the first time in person. You learned that he was a sickly man, having a ton of health problems. 

But then, just as you were putting your wine glass to your mouth, you felt a presence behind you and sniffed a too-familiar cologne wafting in the air.

He was walking towards your table when you had turned around fully. His jacket hung open, collar loosened, and that unbothered facade he wore so well was already cracking at the edges. His drink stayed untouched. Every time you smiled, his jaw ticked.

You’re moving on. He told himself it was fine. You deserved someone who made you happy. Someone who didn’t risk their life going on these damned suicide heists... Someone who wasn’t made of secrets and violence. But watching you there, with some polished guy in a tailored suit, made something ugly rise in his chest.

He wasn’t sure how he came to be standing in your view. Or when he started walking toward your table. Maybe it was the alcohol cruising in his system. Maybe he missed you. Maybe he didn’t want you to be happy while he was still brooding over you.

The air between you and Nick went tight. You hadn’t seen him in months, and somehow he looked even sharper — dangerous in a quiet, deliberate way.

“Nick,” you breathed.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t know you were into places like this. Guess things change fast. Could have fooled me, huh.”

Steve started to speak, but Nick’s gaze didn’t leave yours. That intense, storm-dark stare you’d spent months trying to forget.

“Mind if I say hello?” he asked, already pulling out the empty chair beside you.

You gave him a warning look. “Nick, don’t—”

He leaned closer, voice low, quiet enough that only you could hear. “You can pretend all you want, sweetheart, but I know that look. You’re trying too hard to seem happy.”

“Maybe I am happy,” you said. “I’m happy to finally be rid of you and your bullshit.”

He laughed under his breath but he was anything but entertained. “Then why are your hands shaking?”

You pulled them into your lap, glaring at him, but his words sank in like hooks. Your date said something about calling security, but Nick didn’t even glance at him.

He stood, finishing what he came for — not peace, not closure, just the simple act of reminding you he still existed. He will always exist in your mind. No matter how hard you tried to move on from him. He will always be in your line of sight.

“Enjoy your dinner,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the back of your chair as he passed. “But next time, pick somewhere less predictable. I always did have a thing for expensive tastes.”

When he walked away, you realized your heart was pounding loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear.

The night air was sharp when you stepped out of the restaurant. Steve had gone to call a car, and you told him you needed a moment. You knew it was a lie, but one that gave you the space to breathe.

You should’ve known Nick would still be there, waiting around for you just like always.

He was leaning against a sleek black car, hands in his coat pockets, city lights catching in his eyes. The kind of image that could be mistaken for calm — until you saw how tight his jaw was.

“Couldn’t even wait until I got home to start stalking me again?” you said, crossing your arms. “I’m sure the loneliness of your house misses you more than I do. I suggest you don’t keep it waiting much longer.”

Nick gave a quiet laugh, but it sounded hollow. “Stalking? That’s a strong word for checking on someone I used to care about.”

“Used to.” You threw the words back at him like they might sting. “Exactly.”

He stepped closer, the scent of whiskey and expensive cologne hitting you all at once yet again. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend it’s over for you,” he said softly, almost pleading. “I saw your face when I approached you. You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I did.”

That smirk of his tugged at his mouth. “You still wear my ghost, sweetheart. Every damn look, every breath. For fuck’s sake, your pupils still dilate when you look me.”

You tried to move past him, but his hand caught your wrist. Not hard, just enough to make you stop. The warmth of his touch was a mistake — it burned too familiar.

“Let me go, Nick.”

He didn’t. Not right away. His voice dropped low, rough with something between jealousy and longing.  “You really think that guy inside knows you? What was his name, ‘Steve’? The way you hate mornings but love thunderstorms? The way you hum when you’re nervous? The way you pick at your fingernails when your anxious, just like you’re doing now?”

Your throat tightened. You hated that he was right as you looked down at your hands.

Nick’s hand loosened, fingers brushing over your pulse before he let go. “I’m not here to ruin your night,” he said, quieter now. “I just… I had to see if it was real.”

“If what was real?”

“That look in your eyes,” he said. “The one that says you still think about me.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Cars passed. The restaurant buzzed behind you. Somewhere, Steve was probably wondering where you went.

Nick finally took a step back, forcing a smile that didn’t hide how wrecked he looked. “Guess I got my answer.”

You wanted to say something-- to tell him he was wrong, that you’d moved on — but the words wouldn’t come.

He opened the car door, hesitated just long enough to meet your eyes again. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” Then he was gone — taillights fading into the night, leaving you in the quiet, heart hammering, wondering which of you was lying more.

The door opened before you could chicken out, and there he was: John, casual in a hoodie and sweatpants, holding a tray of steaming food. His smile was the kind that made your stomach flip in ways the baby couldn’t take credit for.

“You feel ridiculous?” he teased immediately. “I was just about to see if anyone wanted some. Come on in before it gets cold.”

You stepped inside, letting the smell hit you fully, making your belly rumble again. “Thank you… I feel so silly,” you said, cheeks flushed.

“No way,” John said, leaning casually against the counter. “You don’t have to feel embarrassed. I’m impressed, actually. Most people wouldn’t have the courage to knock on my door asking for food.”

You laughed nervously, settling onto the couch. He set the tray down in front of you, lifting the lid and revealing a plate of perfectly cooked pasta. Steam curled around your face, and you closed your eyes for a moment, savoring it.

“Smells amazing,” you murmured, eyes wide as you took a tentative bite. Your hand instinctively rested on your belly. “Oh… wow.”

John smirked, walking closer. “Careful,” he teased. “You’ll have me feeding you every day at this rate.”

“You are offering,” you said, giving him a sly look. “Not like I’m complaining…”

He crouched slightly, playful in his approach, tilting his head. “You sure you don’t want me to feed you a bite? Just to make sure it’s safe for… uh, the little one?”

Your cheeks flamed hotter, but you nodded, holding the fork out. He took it gently, letting it hover near your lips, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Open up,” he said softly.

You did, letting him place the bite in your mouth. Heat pooled through your chest at the simple intimacy, and he grinned when you moaned softly at the flavor. “Told you it was good.”

You swallowed, laughing a little. “Okay, okay… you win. But next time, I’m bringing something too. You’re not spoiling me this much.”

He leaned back, hands tucked in his pockets, cocky but soft. “I’m holding you to that. But right now… I just want to see you enjoy it. You and the little one deserve it.”

You smiled, feeling warmth that had nothing to do with the food. “I guess I could get used to this,” you murmured.

John’s grin softened, a rare tenderness flickering in his gaze. “Good. Because I plan on doing it as much as I can.”

And in the little apartment, with the smell of garlic and the gentle teasing, something quietly sweet bloomed—a mix of laughter, closeness, and the unspoken thrill of being cared for, one bite at a time.

At first he grinned at his reflection. Your face stared back at him—your eyes, your mouth, the little crease between your brows when you were thinking too hard. “Hm,” he murmured, tilting his head. The voice was yours too. Softer than his. Warmer. Curious, Loki reached down and touched his—your—arm. And paused. “…Soft.”

His brows furrowed slightly as his hands wandered experimentally. The sweater sleeves hung over his hands. The knit was thick and warm, the sort of thing meant for curling up on a couch rather than ruling kingdoms. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers. Comfortable. Then he shifted again, touching his stomach. Your stomach. There was a softness there. Plush, warm, yielding beneath his palm in a way that startled him. He squeezed lightly. “…Oh.” Another squeeze.

Then a thoughtful hum. You had always described yourself with such cruel words. Too soft. Too much. Too plumpy. Yet standing there in your shape, Loki found himself… fascinated. His hands traced over the curve of your hips next. The softness of your thighs. The gentle weight of your body. It was warm. Real. Alive in a way sculpted warriors and statuesque Asgardians rarely were.

“You are built for comfort,” he murmured to the mirror, sounding almost reverent. He shifted his weight and the leggings stretched pleasantly as he moved. Flexible. Soft. Practical.

And suddenly— Suddenly he understood something that had puzzled him for months. Why he loved watching you curl up on the couch. Why your sweaters made him want to wrap his arms around you. Why the sight of you bundled in blankets made something strange and protective stir in his chest.

Because this body— Your body— Was made for warmth. For holding. For softness. His hands rested on the curve of your stomach again, thumbs rubbing lightly. “How have you convinced yourself this is anything but beautiful?” he murmured quietly.

Footsteps approached. Loki didn’t notice until you walked into the hallway and froze. Because standing in front of the mirror… Was you. Except the other you was poking thoughtfully at their stomach.

Your eyes widened. “…Loki?”

He turned. Your own face looked back at you with a slightly guilty expression. “Oh,” he said. Then he looked down at himself again, poked your stomach once more, and added thoughtfully, “I believe I owe you an apology.”

You blinked. “For what??”

“For not realizing sooner how lovely you are.”

You stared.

He gestured vaguely to himself. “This form is extraordinarily comfortable.”

“YOU ARE WEARING MY BODY LIKE A SWEATER.”

“And it is a very nice sweater.”

You marched forward, cheeks burning. “Turn back right now!”

Instead he tilted his head, examining you carefully. Then smiled. Slow. Fond. “Oh no,” Loki said softly. “I rather think I prefer you this way.”

Your brain short-circuited. “…What?”

His magic flickered, dissolving the illusion. Suddenly Loki stood in front of you again—tall, dark-haired, impossibly smug. But his hands moved immediately to your waist. Warm. Firm. Drawing you against him. Exactly where he’d just discovered he liked you most.

His arms wrapped around your soft middle like he had every right to be there. “You are warm,” he murmured against your temple. Your face felt like it might combust. “And soft.”

“…Loki.”

Not the tactical Wakandan suit. Not the sleek black combat gear. The original. 1940s olive uniform. The patches slightly yellowed. The fabric thick and worn. A faint crease still marking where medals once rested.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until—

“Doll.”

You nearly jump out of your skin.

Bucky Barnes stands in the doorway, barefoot, hair loose around his shoulders. He looks tired in that soft, post-shower way.

And then he sees what you’re holding.

Everything in him stills.

“…Where’d you find that?”

“In the back of the closet,” you say quietly. “I didn’t know you still had it.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He walks over slowly, like he’s approaching something fragile. His vibranium fingers hover over the fabric but don’t quite touch. “I thought I threw it out,” he murmurs.

“You didn’t.”

Silence settles between you. Heavy. Not uncomfortable — just full.

You smooth your thumb over the sleeve. “It’s beautiful.”

He huffs softly. “It’s old.”

“It’s you. It's your history. Your time.”

That makes him look at you. Really look at you. Not the super soldier. Not the assassin. Not the Avenger.

Just James.

“Can I ask you something?” you say.

His jaw tightens slightly. “…Yeah.”

“Will you wear it?”

Immediate tension.

“Why?”

“Because it’s part of you,” you say softly. “Because I never got to see you like that. Before everything.”

His throat moves when he swallows. “That guy doesn’t exist anymore, doll.”

You step closer.

“Maybe not. But he mattered. And he still lives here.” You press your palm gently to his chest.

His breathing shifts.

“You don’t have to,” you add quickly. “I just… I think you deserve to be remembered as him, too. Not just the things they turned you into.”

There it is. That fracture behind his eyes. He exhales shakily. “You’re gonna make me regret loving you so much.”

You smile faintly. “Too late.”

He hesitates a moment longer. Then nods. “Okay.”

———————

You wait in the bedroom while he changes. It takes longer than you expect. When the door finally opens— You forget how to breathe.

The jacket fits snug across his broad shoulders. The sleeves sit just right. The trousers tailored like they were made for him yesterday instead of eighty years ago.

His hair is brushed back, loose but cleaner somehow. Younger.

But it’s his expression that undoes you. Not pride. Not arrogance. Uncertainty. “Feels weird,” he admits. “Like I’m playin’ dress-up as someone better than me.”

You cross the room slowly. “You’re not pretending.” You reach up and smooth the collar. “You survived,” you whisper. “That’s not a downgrade.”

His metal hand rests at your waist, hesitant. “Steve used to say I cleaned up nice,” he mutters.

You smile. “He was right.”

He rolls his eyes but there’s a hint of warmth there. You step back just enough to take him in fully.

And then— Your voice cracks a little. “You look like a hero.”

His composure shatters at that. He pulls you into him suddenly, burying his face in your shoulder. “I wasn’t,” he whispers.

“You were,” you answer immediately. “And you are.”

His grip tightens. For a long moment, he just stands there holding you, uniform fabric rough under your hands, heart pounding steady and human against your chest.

Finally he murmurs, voice small, “Okay. One last time.”

You tilt your head up. “Yeah?”

He nods, eyes shining just a little. “One last time as Sergeant Barnes.”

“The one near your eye. Means you’re thinking murderous thoughts.”

“I’m driving with you in my vehicle. Murderous thoughts are natural.”

“It’s not your vehicle. Dean stole it.”

“Borrowed,” Dean called from the backseat.

“Grand theft auto with confidence is still theft,” Sam muttered beside him.

You turned in your seat, lowering your voice into an atrocious imitation of a posh accent. “Arthur, darling, perhaps unclench. You’ll wrinkle prematurely.”

Dean barked a laugh.

Ketch’s jaw flexed. “That accent is offensive on multiple levels.”

“Cor blimey,” you said solemnly. “The poor bloke’s upset.”

“I’m going to leave you on the roadside.”

“You’d miss me.”

“I assure you, I would not.”

You grinned and kicked your boots up on the dash.

He hated that grin most of all. Because it made him want to smile back.

The case was in rural Ohio: a string of disappearances, livestock drained of blood, locals whispering vampire.

It wasn’t vampires. It was worse. A nest of ghouls had moved into an abandoned cannery outside town, and by nightfall everyone was bruised, irritated, and covered in something foul.

Dean and Sam went around back. You and Ketch were sent through the front.

“Try not to stab me by accident,” you whispered as you moved through the dark corridor.

“I’d never do it by accident.”

“Aw. You do care.”

“Quiet.”

You flashed your light over rusted hooks and broken machinery. “You know, for a trained assassin, you’re very grumpy.”

“For a hunter, you’re shockingly unserious.”

“Humor keeps me young.”

“Your impulse control keeps me aged.”

You snickered, then something moved above you. Ketch shoved you hard. A ghoul dropped from the rafters where you’d been standing, claws slicing through empty air. You hit the floor hard, breath knocked out of you. Ketch had his blade out before you’d blinked. Efficient. Brutal. Three clean strikes and the creature collapsed twitching.

You stared.

He offered you a hand up like nothing had happened. “Well?” he said.

“You pushed me.”

“To save your life.”

“You do care.”

His ears went pink. “No,” he snapped. “I care about mission success.”

“Mhm.”

He turned away so quickly he nearly tripped over the corpse.

Later, in the motel room, you found him in the bathroom cleaning blood from a cut on his cheek. The fluorescent light was cruel. He still looked unfairly handsome.

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

“I’m aware.”

“Sit.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sit down before I manhandle you.”

He looked scandalized. “You couldn’t.”

You raised a brow. He sat. You wet a towel and stepped between his knees. He went very still as you tilted his chin toward the light.

“This from the ghoul?” you asked softly.

“Yes.”

“You should’ve let me handle it.”

“You didn’t see it.”

“I usually see everything.”

“Clearly not.”

You dabbed the cut harder than necessary.

He hissed. “Vindictive.”

“You love it.”

“I assure you, I do not love anything about you.”

“Liar.”

His gaze lifted to yours. For once, there was no sharp remark waiting there. No smirk. No polished disdain. Just something quieter. More dangerous.

Your hand slowed.

The room seemed suddenly smaller.

“You infuriate me,” he said, voice low.

“I know.”

“You’re reckless.”

“I know.”

“You mock me constantly.”

“You make it easy.”

“And yet,” he murmured, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth, “I look for you whenever you leave a room.”

Your breath caught. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“It is.”

You should have stepped back. Instead, you leaned in slightly. “You’re not nearly as charming when you’re honest.”

“And you’re not nearly as insufferable when you stop speaking.”

“Rude.”

Then he kissed you. No warning. No hesitation. One hand braced on your hip, the other cupping the back of your neck as if he’d been restraining himself for months and finally decided restraint was overrated. You made a startled noise against his mouth. Then kissed him back harder.

The towel dropped to the floor.

When you finally pulled apart, both breathing unevenly, he looked almost annoyed by it. “Well,” he said stiffly.

You laughed. “Did you just well me after that?”

“I’m regrouping.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s adorable.”

“Don’t say adorable.”

“Sorry.” You kissed him again, quick and wicked. “Devastatingly adorable.”

He groaned and hauled you back in by the waist.

—

The next morning, Dean walked into the motel room and froze. You were wearing Ketch’s shirt. Ketch was making tea.

Sam slowly backed out into the hallway.

Dean pointed between the two of you. “No.”

“Yes,” you said cheerfully.

“No.”

Ketch sipped from his mug. “Terribly sorry.”

“You’re not sorry at all.”

“Not remotely.”

Dean looked personally betrayed. “I leave for eight hours.”

“It is not a good morrow,” you muttered, shoving two strawberry Pop-Tarts into the toaster.

His blue eyes narrowed. “What manner of Midgardian ritual is this?”

“Breakfast.”

“That?” He pointed as if insulted on behalf of all cuisine.

You pulled the pastries out, slid one onto a plate, and handed it over. “Try it before you judge.”

Thor took it delicately between two fingers like it might explode. He examined the frosting. The rainbow sprinkles. The suspiciously artificial scent of strawberries.

“This food is… flat.”

“Just eat it.”

He took one bite. Then another. Then a third so large half the pastry vanished.

The silence that followed was terrifying.

“Well?” you asked.

Thor slowly lowered the Pop-Tart and stared at it like it had revealed the secrets of the cosmos. “This,” he said hoarsely, “is glorious.”

You snorted. “It’s processed sugar.”

“It is art.” He devoured the rest in two bites, crumbs scattering into his beard. “Another.”

You laughed. “Absolutely not. You need water first.”

“Another,” he repeated, louder.

By the time Tony walked in twenty minutes later, Thor had discovered brown sugar cinnamon, wild berry, and cookies & cream. There were wrappers everywhere. Thor stood on a chair, one foot planted dramatically on the counter, holding a foil packet aloft.

“STARK!” he thundered.

Tony blinked. “Why is there frosting on your hammer?”

“Because your realm has hidden treasures from me!”

Tony glanced at you. “What did you do?”

You grinned sheepishly at him. “I created a monster.”

Thor jumped down, grabbing Tony by the shoulders with alarming enthusiasm. “Bring forth more of the pastries!”

“They’re Pop-Tarts, Point Break.”

“POP-TARTS!” Thor roared to the heavens. “I SHALL HAVE THEM STOCKED IN EVERY CHAMBER!”

Bruce entered next, froze at the chaos, and quietly backed out. Too late.

“Banner!” Thor shouted. “Come partake of the strawberry rectangles!”

Natasha walked in, surveyed the wrappers, and deadpanned, “He found junk food.”

“Worse,” you said. “He likes it.”

Thor turned to you with crumbs on his mouth and genuine wonder in his eyes. “You knew of these delights… and did not tell me sooner?”

You shrugged. “You never asked.”

Every. Time.

You weren’t dating.

You just—

Shared looks that lasted too long. Stood shoulder to shoulder during briefings. Fell asleep on opposite ends of the same couch and somehow woke up tangled. Normal friend things.

Obviously.

The mission went wrong. It always does. When the jet door opened and he stepped out, your stomach dropped. There was blood on his collar. Too much of it. You were already moving before anyone said anything.

“Medbay,” you snapped, grabbing his arm — gently, but firmly.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You’re bleeding through your jacket, Buck. You’re hurt!”

He glanced down like he hadn’t noticed. “Ah.”

You didn’t let go.

The medbay was quiet except for your breathing — and his. You peeled the torn fabric back carefully. A deep gash across his ribs. Not life-threatening. But ugly. Angry.

You cleaned it with steady hands. Until you didn’t. Your fingers started shaking. You didn’t realize you were trembling until he gently caught your wrist.

“Hey.”

“I told you to be careful,” you whispered, and your voice broke in the middle of it.

His eyes softened immediately. “You think I wanted to get sliced open?”

“That’s not what I—” You swallowed. “You scared me.”

There it was. The thing you never said. You scared me because losing you would ruin me. His metal thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“You were shaking when I walked in,” he said quietly.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Silence.

Your hands hovered near the bandages. You wouldn’t look at him. “I just…” You exhaled, and it came out uneven. “You matter too much to me.”

The words hung there. Heavy. Dangerous.

He went very still. “How much is too much?” he asked softly.

You laughed — but it wobbled through the air. “Enough that I can’t pretend this is casual anymore, Bucky.”

His heartbeat picked up beneath your hand.

You finally met his eyes.

“I just want to be yours,” you said, voice barely steady. “I love you.”

There it was. No mission. No excuse. No deflection. Just truth.

For a split second he looked stunned — like he’d been bracing for rejection for so long he didn’t know what to do with acceptance.

Then his expression changed. Soft. Certain. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling you gently closer despite the bandages. “You’re already mine.”

Your breath caught.

His forehead rested against yours. “I’ve been trying not to cross a line,” he admitted quietly. “Didn’t want to push you. Didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

“What we had was torture.”

A huff of laughter left him. “Yeah. It was.” His hand slid to your waist — deliberate now. Not accidental. Not hesitant. “I love you,” he said. No stutter. No fear. “Have for a while.”

Relief hit you so hard it made your knees weak. “You absolute idiot,” you whispered.

He smiled, that rare soft one he never gave anyone else. “Guess we both are.”

You leaned in first this time. The kiss was careful — mindful of stitches and bruises — but it was warm and sure and full of every touch you’d both pretended not to mean.

When you pulled back, your hands were still trembling.

He noticed. “I’m okay,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“You still shaking.”

“Shut up.”

He pressed another kiss to your forehead. “You can be scared,” he said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I might need tactical support.”

Natasha’s laugh crackled in his ear. “For confessing feelings to your best friend of twenty years?”

“Seventeen,” Steve corrected automatically.

“Cute that you know the exact number.”

He sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “This was a mistake.”

“It was a mistake when you let yourself pine for nearly two decades,” Natasha said. “Knock on the damn door, Rogers.”

He stared at the wood like it had personally insulted him. Then he knocked.

A few seconds later, the door swung open. You stood there in socks and one of those oversized sweaters you always stole from thrift stores, hair messy, face bare, and somehow you looked exactly the same as the girl who used to split her lunch with him in Brooklyn and nothing like her at all.

“Steve?” you blinked. “Why do you look like you’re about to deliver bad news? What's with the flowers?”

He glanced at the flowers. “That obvious?”

“Very.” You stepped aside. “Come in.” Your apartment smelled like cinnamon candles and coffee. There were books stacked on every surface and a blanket tossed over the couch. Homey. Warm. You.

Steve stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room while you eyed him.

“You’re sweating,” you said.

“I don’t sweat much.”

“You are now.”

Natasha snorted in his ear.

Steve yanked the comm out and shoved it in his pocket.

You frowned. “Were you talking to yourself?”

“No.”

“Interesting answer.”

He handed you the flowers like a shield. “These are for you.”

Your expression softened immediately. “Steve…”

“I know they’re not great flowers. The guy at the store said they were cheerful.”

“They are cheerful.” You smiled, and it hit him straight in the chest. “Thank you.”

You set them down carefully and turned back to him. “So,” you said slowly. “What’s going on?”

This was it. He had rehearsed speeches. Thoughtful speeches. Charming speeches. A few dignified speeches. Instead, what came out was, “I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

Your face went blank. Then your eyes widened. Then you froze completely.

Steve felt every bit of confidence leave his body in one violent rush. “Oh,” he said quietly.

You still didn’t move.

He took a step back. “Right. Okay. I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung that on you.” Still nothing. His chest ached. “I just thought… Nat said I should stop waiting for the perfect time and I guess she was right, but maybe this was the wrong time and—”

“Steve—”

“You don’t have to say anything.” He was already backing toward the door now, panic making him ramble. “Really. Forget I said it. We’re fine. We’re still us.”

“Steve.”

“You don’t feel the same, and that’s okay, I just—”

“Steven Grant Rogers.” That stopped him dead. You were staring at him now like you wanted to shake him. “I froze because I’ve imagined you saying that to me since I was sixteen,” you said.

He blinked. “What?”

You crossed your arms, cheeks pink. “I froze because I thought I was hallucinating. Or having some kind of stress-induced episode.”

Steve’s mouth opened. Closed. “You…” He swallowed. “You imagined me saying it?”

“For years,” you said. “Which is humiliating now, so thanks for that.”

“I thought you didn’t—”

“I thought you didn’t.”

“I’ve been in love with you since you punched Tommy Garrison for calling me shrimp.”

You gasped. “I was nine!”

“It was very romantic.”

“I chipped a tooth.”

“You were magnificent.”

You made a strangled laugh and covered your face with your hands.

Steve was still staring at you like the world had tilted. “So…” he said carefully. “You feel the same?”

You peeked through your fingers. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He crossed the room in three strides. “Unfortunately?”

“Well, now I have to deal with the fact that my best friend is Captain America and annoyingly handsome.”

He smiled so hard it almost hurt. “Sounds difficult.”

“It’s a burden.”

Then his expression softened. “Can I kiss you?”

You dropped your hands. “Took you long enough.”

The kiss was warm and careful at first—years of friendship handled like something precious. Then you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. He made a surprised sound against your mouth. When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, you pressed your forehead to his.

“You know,” you murmured, “Natasha absolutely knows about this already, doesn’t she?”

Steve sighed. “Probably.”

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. You picked it up and snorted. “What?”

You turned the screen toward him.

Natasha: Finally. He owes me twenty bucks.

Steve groaned. You laughed, grabbed his hand, and tugged him toward the couch. “Come on, Rogers.”

“What now?”

You had talked to a handful of men. But none of them were worthy enough to meet in person. One had sent dick pictures straight away after receiving your match. Another had messaged you only in the middle of the night asking if you were giving it up yet. Another man only talked about himself when you had finally agreed to meet up.

You had almost given up. Until you met this guy. His name was Steve. He was a total sweetheart, though his height was on the shorter side. His deep blue eyes had caught you off guard when you met hi for the first time in person. You learned that he was a sickly man, having a ton of health problems. 

But then, just as you were putting your wine glass to your mouth, you felt a presence behind you and sniffed a too-familiar cologne wafting in the air.

He was walking towards your table when you had turned around fully. His jacket hung open, collar loosened, and that unbothered facade he wore so well was already cracking at the edges. His drink stayed untouched. Every time you smiled, his jaw ticked.

You’re moving on. He told himself it was fine. You deserved someone who made you happy. Someone who didn’t risk their life going on these damned suicide heists... Someone who wasn’t made of secrets and violence. But watching you there, with some polished guy in a tailored suit, made something ugly rise in his chest.

He wasn’t sure how he came to be standing in your view. Or when he started walking toward your table. Maybe it was the alcohol cruising in his system. Maybe he missed you. Maybe he didn’t want you to be happy while he was still brooding over you.

The air between you and Nick went tight. You hadn’t seen him in months, and somehow he looked even sharper — dangerous in a quiet, deliberate way.

“Nick,” you breathed.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t know you were into places like this. Guess things change fast. Could have fooled me, huh.”

Steve started to speak, but Nick’s gaze didn’t leave yours. That intense, storm-dark stare you’d spent months trying to forget.

“Mind if I say hello?” he asked, already pulling out the empty chair beside you.

You gave him a warning look. “Nick, don’t—”

He leaned closer, voice low, quiet enough that only you could hear. “You can pretend all you want, sweetheart, but I know that look. You’re trying too hard to seem happy.”

“Maybe I am happy,” you said. “I’m happy to finally be rid of you and your bullshit.”

He laughed under his breath but he was anything but entertained. “Then why are your hands shaking?”

You pulled them into your lap, glaring at him, but his words sank in like hooks. Your date said something about calling security, but Nick didn’t even glance at him.

He stood, finishing what he came for — not peace, not closure, just the simple act of reminding you he still existed. He will always exist in your mind. No matter how hard you tried to move on from him. He will always be in your line of sight.

“Enjoy your dinner,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the back of your chair as he passed. “But next time, pick somewhere less predictable. I always did have a thing for expensive tastes.”

When he walked away, you realized your heart was pounding loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear.

The night air was sharp when you stepped out of the restaurant. Steve had gone to call a car, and you told him you needed a moment. You knew it was a lie, but one that gave you the space to breathe.

You should’ve known Nick would still be there, waiting around for you just like always.

He was leaning against a sleek black car, hands in his coat pockets, city lights catching in his eyes. The kind of image that could be mistaken for calm — until you saw how tight his jaw was.

“Couldn’t even wait until I got home to start stalking me again?” you said, crossing your arms. “I’m sure the loneliness of your house misses you more than I do. I suggest you don’t keep it waiting much longer.”

Nick gave a quiet laugh, but it sounded hollow. “Stalking? That’s a strong word for checking on someone I used to care about.”

“Used to.” You threw the words back at him like they might sting. “Exactly.”

He stepped closer, the scent of whiskey and expensive cologne hitting you all at once yet again. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend it’s over for you,” he said softly, almost pleading. “I saw your face when I approached you. You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I did.”

That smirk of his tugged at his mouth. “You still wear my ghost, sweetheart. Every damn look, every breath. For fuck’s sake, your pupils still dilate when you look me.”

You tried to move past him, but his hand caught your wrist. Not hard, just enough to make you stop. The warmth of his touch was a mistake — it burned too familiar.

“Let me go, Nick.”

He didn’t. Not right away. His voice dropped low, rough with something between jealousy and longing.  “You really think that guy inside knows you? What was his name, ‘Steve’? The way you hate mornings but love thunderstorms? The way you hum when you’re nervous? The way you pick at your fingernails when your anxious, just like you’re doing now?”

Your throat tightened. You hated that he was right as you looked down at your hands.

Nick’s hand loosened, fingers brushing over your pulse before he let go. “I’m not here to ruin your night,” he said, quieter now. “I just… I had to see if it was real.”

“If what was real?”

“That look in your eyes,” he said. “The one that says you still think about me.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Cars passed. The restaurant buzzed behind you. Somewhere, Steve was probably wondering where you went.

Nick finally took a step back, forcing a smile that didn’t hide how wrecked he looked. “Guess I got my answer.”

You wanted to say something-- to tell him he was wrong, that you’d moved on — but the words wouldn’t come.

He opened the car door, hesitated just long enough to meet your eyes again. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” Then he was gone — taillights fading into the night, leaving you in the quiet, heart hammering, wondering which of you was lying more.

And then you stop. Completely. Butcher. In his room. Standing with his back half-turned toward you, digging through a duffel bag like a man on a mission. Shirtless. Your brain goes blank. Not slow. Not buffering. Just gone. Short circuits. Broad shoulders. Scars scattered like stories you don’t get to hear. Muscles shifting under skin like he doesn’t even realize what he looks like. Or worse like he does.

“Door’s not just for decoration, love.” His voice snaps you back so fast it almost hurts.

You jerk, eyes darting anywhere but him. “I knocked!”

“Didn’t wait.” He turns then. Slowly. And that oh my FUCK, that’s worse. Because now it’s not just seeing him, it’s him seeing you seeing him.

That crooked smirk spreads like he’s been handed a gift. “…bit early in the day to be starin’, ain’t it?”

Heat floods your face. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Course you weren’t,” he hums, completely unconvinced. He doesn’t move to grab a shirt. Doesn’t even pretend to. Instead, he leans casually against the table, arms folding like he’s settling in for a show. “Go on then,” he adds. “What d’you need?”

You forget. Actually forget. “…what?”

“What. Do. You. Need?” he repeats, slower this time, eyes sharp with amusement.

Right. Right. Focus. “I—uh—I was looking for—” you gesture vaguely, brain scrambling, “—a file. Frenchie said you had it.”

“Mm.” He pushes off the table, walking past you. Too close. Way too close.

You can feel the heat of him, the faint scent of smoke and something darker, something that sticks. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to.

“Next time,” he says quietly as he passes, voice brushing your ear, “might wanna keep your eyes up here.”

You don’t turn around. You can’t. Because if you do, you’re not sure you’ll look away.

You tell yourself it won’t happen again. You’re smarter than that. More careful. Which is why the second time you see him half naked is somehow worse.

You knock. You wait. You even call out, “Butcher?”

“Yeah, come in.”

Clear invitation. Safe. You open the door. And immediately regret every life choice that led you here. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed this time. Still shirtless. Hair damp like he just got out of the shower, a towel draped lazily around his neck. Water still clings to his skin, trailing down in slow lines that your eyes absolutely should not be following— But they are. Oh, for fuck's sake, they are.

“…you do this on purpose?”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

He looks up. Grins. “Do what?”

You gesture at him, vaguely furious. “This!”

He glances down at himself like he’s just now noticing. “Oh,” he says, deadpan. “Forgot my shirt.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Swear on it.”

You give him a look.

He leans back slightly, bracing his hands behind him, completely relaxed under your scrutiny. “Funny though,” he adds, eyes flicking over your face, “you keep showin’ up for it.”

Your stomach flips. “That’s not— I knock!”

“And I answer.”

“That’s not the same as—” you stop, exasperated. “You could put a shirt on!”

He tilts his head, considering. “Could,” he agrees. Doesn’t move. Silence stretches.

Your heartbeat gets louder. And louder.

Then—

“You done lookin’?”

Your eyes snap up to his.

He’s watching you. Really watching you now. Not just teasing. Not just joking. Something sharper underneath.

You swallow. “I wasn’t—”

“Right,” he cuts in softly. “Still not starin’.”

There’s a beat. Then he reaches for a shirt beside him. Pulls it on. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact. “…happy now?” he asks.

You should be. You’re not.

After that, you start avoiding him. At least—you try to. Butcher makes that difficult. He’s always around. Always close. Always watching just a little too close, like he’s waiting for something. For you.

There’s the third time. You don’t knock. You should. You know you should. But you don’t. You push the door open cautiously, peeking in. “…Butcher?”

Silence. You step inside. Empty. Relief washes over you so fast it almost makes you laugh.

“Right,” you mutter to yourself. “Finally—”

“Miss me, did ya?”

You jump. Actually jump, spinning around— And there he is. Behind the door. Shirtless. Again.Of course. Your hand flies to your chest. “Are you serious?!”

He looks entirely too pleased with himself. “Bit jumpy today.”

“You were hiding!”

“Wasn’t hidin’,” he shrugs. “Just standin’.”

“Behind the door.”

“Details.”

You stare at him. He stares back. And something shifts. Because this time— You don’t look away. Not immediately. Not at all, really. Your eyes flicker over him but you don’t flinch. Don’t scramble. Don’t pretend. You just… stand there.

And he notices. Of course he notices.

That smirk falters. Just a fraction. “…well,” he says slowly, “that’s new.”

Your arms cross over your chest, more for something to do than anything else. “What?”

“No running off,” he says, studying you now. “No excuses.”

You shrug, trying for casual and landing somewhere dangerously close to bold. “Maybe I got used to it.”

His eyes narrow slightly. Not angry. Interested. “Yeah?” he murmurs.

You nod. Big mistake. Because he steps closer. Slow. Measured. Like he’s testing something. And you don’t move. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. But you don't move. You stand there.

“Used to it,” he repeats, voice lower now. “Or just enjoy it?”

Your breath catches. You should joke. Deflect. Do literally anything other than what you do next. “…maybe I do.”

Silence. Heavy. Charged.

His gaze sharpens, something darker flickering underneath the usual cocky amusement. “Careful,” he says quietly. “That sounds a lot like an invitation.”

Your pulse stutters. “Maybe it is.”

The words hang between you.

You don’t even recognize yourself right now. But you don’t take them back.

For a second— A long second— He just looks at you.

Then he huffs out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Bloody hell,” he mutters. And suddenly he’s right there. Close enough that you have to tilt your head up slightly to meet his eyes. Close enough that the air feels thinner. “Been wonderin’ how long it’d take,” he says.

“For what?”

“For you to stop pretendin’.”

Your stomach flips. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Always am.”

“Cocky.”

“Gets results.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Not now. Not when he’s this close. Not when you can feel the heat of him again, stronger this time, intentional.

“Still think you’re not impressed?” he asks, quieter now.

Your throat feels dry. “…didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t deny it either.”

His hand lifts—Just slightly. Like he’s going to touch you. But he doesn’t. Lets it fall. And somehow that’s worse. “Next time,” he says instead, stepping back just enough to break the tension—just enough to make you notice the absence, “try not to take so long to admit it.”

Your breath comes back all at once. “…next time?”

That smirk returns. Slow. Dangerous. “Oh, there’ll be a next time,” he says easily, reaching for a shirt and finally—finally—pulling it on. But his eyes never leave yours. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint my favorite audience.”

And then— Just like that— He walks past you. Leaving you standing there, heart racing, thoughts a mess, one very clear realization settling in: You’re definitely going to walk in on him again. And next time? It won’t be an accident.

You last exactly two days. Two. That’s how long you manage to avoid him after… whatever that was. You throw yourself into anything else—helping Frenchie, reorganizing supplies, even willingly sitting through one of Hughie’s rambling explanations just to stay occupied.

Anything to not think about the way Butcher looked at you. The way he stepped closer. The way you didn’t move. Didn’t want to. It’s embarrassing, honestly. You’re better than this. Smarter. More in control. So yeah—two days.

Then you’re standing outside his door again. You don’t even remember walking there. Just suddenly… there. Staring at the wood like it personally offended you. “This is stupid,” you mutter under your breath. You should leave. Turn around. Make literally any good decision.

Instead you knock. Once. Soft. There’s a beat of silence. “Door’s open.” Of course it is. Your hand hesitates on the handle for half a second. Then you push it open. And step inside.

He’s not shirtless. That’s the first thing you notice. And weirdly? That’s disappointing. He’s leaning back in the chair, boots kicked up on the table, shirt on (tragic), sleeves rolled, watching you like he knew you’d show up. Which he probably did. “Thought you were avoidin’ me,” he says casually.

You shut the door behind you. “I wasn’t—”

“Mm.” That sound again. That I don’t believe you for a second sound.

You cross your arms. “I’ve been busy.”

“Sure you have.”

God, he’s annoying.

You take a step further into the room. “You always this full of yourself?”

“Only when I’m right.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Miss me?”

Your stomach flips. You hate that it does. “No.” Too quick. Too sharp.

His smirk widens. “Liar.”

You open your mouth to argue.

“Door.”

You blink. “What?”

“Lock it.”

Your brain stutters. “…why?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because I said so.”

That should annoy you. It does annoy you. But something else curls underneath it—something warmer, heavier, pulling at your instincts in a way you don’t fully understand. “You don’t get to just—”

“Either lock it,” he cuts in, voice dropping slightly, “or leave.”

Silence. A challenge.

Your pulse kicks up. You turn. Slowly. Reach back. And lock the door. The click echoes louder than it should.

When you turn back,. He’s already standing. Closer than before. Not too close. But closer. And watching you like he’s finally got what he wanted. “Good girl,” he says quietly.

Your heart is racing now. “Happy?” you ask, trying to sound unimpressed.

“Getting there.”

He takes a step toward you. You hold your ground. Barely. “Y’know,” he continues, circling slightly—not touching, just there, “most people knock, get what they need, and leave.”

“I do that.”

“You wander in, stare at me like I’m somethin’ on display, then pretend you don’t like what you see.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t—”

“Don’t lie.” Soft. Firm.

Your back hits the table before you even realize you’ve been stepping back. He notices. Of course he does.

A flicker of something satisfied crosses his face. “Been real patient with you,” he says, voice lower now. “Thought I’d let you come to it on your own.”

You swallow. “Come to what?”

His eyes drop—briefly—to your lips. Then back up. “To this.” And then he’s there. Close enough that there’s no space left to pretend. Your breath stutters. “Still gonna tell me you’re not impressed?” he murmurs.

Your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “…no.”

“Yeah,” he hums. “Didn’t think so.”

His hand comes up again. This time it doens't stop. His fingers brush your jaw, light at first, like he’s testing if you’ll pull away. You don’t. You can’t. That small touch sends something electric down your spine. “Been watchin’ you,” he admits, almost lazily. “Every time you walk in. Every time you try not to look.”

Your grip tightens on the edge of the table. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“Not really.” Honest. Of course it is.

His thumb shifts slightly against your skin, tilting your chin just enough. “Supposed to make you stop pretendin’ you don’t want this.”

Your heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts. “And if I don’t?” you whisper.

A beat.

“Then I let you walk out that door,” he says. No hesitation. No bluff. “But,” he adds, leaning in just enough that you can feel his breath now, “you won’t.”

Your breath hitches. “…you’re very sure.”

“Always am.” There’s that cocky edge again.

But underneath it, Something steady. Certain. Waiting. And God help you— He’s right. Because you don’t move. Don’t push him away. Don’t make a joke. Don’t break the moment. You just look at him.

And that’s all he needs. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he closes the distance.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s not rushed either. It’s deliberate. Controlled. Like everything he does. His hand shifts from your jaw to the back of your neck, firm enough to keep you there, not enough to trap you.

Giving you the choice.

You make it. Your hands find his shirt—gripping, pulling him closer—and that’s when something in him snaps. The control cracks. Just a little. The kiss deepens, rougher now, more intent, like he’s done waiting, done pretending this isn’t exactly what he’s wanted.

What you’ve both wanted.

Your back presses harder against the table as he crowds closer, heat everywhere, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.

“See?” he mutters against your mouth, breath uneven now. “Knew you’d come around.”

You should argue. You don’t. Because right now? He’s right. And you hate that you like it.

When you finally pull back, your breathing is a mess. So is his—just slightly. His forehead rests briefly against yours, a rare pause in all that sharp confidence. “…took you long enough,” he murmurs.

You let out a shaky breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “But you keep comin’ back.”

—you blink at him. “…What?”

Clark’s gaze softens like he’s remembering something fond. “Blue sweater,” he says quietly. “Coffee in your left hand. It was raining. You were standing outside that little café on 8th. I couldn’t stop watching as you waited for the bus.”

Your stomach tightens. You’ve been to that café. A lot.

“…Clark,” you say slowly, “that was months ago.”

His head tilts slightly. “I know.”

The way he says it makes your skin prickle. Because he doesn’t sound embarrassed. He sounds certain.

You give a small, uneasy laugh, leaning against the kitchen counter. “You’ve got a really good memory.”

Clark steps inside your apartment. You don’t remember inviting him in. The door clicks shut behind him. “It isn’t memory,” he says gently.

Your fingers tighten around the mug in your hands. “…Then what is it?”

Clark’s eyes flicker over you. Not casually. Not politely. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s comparing you to something. “Observation.”

Your pulse jumps. “You… observed me drinking coffee last year?”

“Yes.” His answer comes too quickly. Too simply. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You set your mug down. “…Why?”

Clark is quiet for a moment. Then he takes a step closer. The floor barely creaks under his weight. “You smiled that day,” he says.

Your chest tightens. “I smile a lot.”

“Not like that.”

Another step closer. “You had just read something on your phone. A message, I think. Your shoulders relaxed at whoever was texting you.” He lifts a hand slightly, like he’s tracing the memory in the air. “You tucked your hair behind your ear and looked up at the rain.” Your breath catches. “You closed your eyes for a second.”

The room suddenly feels too small. Too quiet.

Clark’s voice lowers. “You looked peaceful.”

You stare at him. “How do you know that?”

Clark doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies your face like he’s reading something only he can see. “You don’t look like that much anymore.”

Your heart thumps. “That’s… a weird thing to say.”

Another step. Now he’s only a few feet away. “You work too much,” he says softly. “You sleep less than five hours most nights. Your heart rate spikes when your phone buzzes.”

Your mouth goes dry. “…Clark.”

“You skipped lunch today.” The air leaves your lungs. “And yesterday.”

Your brain scrambles. “How would you—”

“I hear it.” Your voice cracks. “…Hear what?”

Clark finally lifts his eyes fully to yours. And for the first time since you’ve known him— there is nothing shy in them. “I hear everything.” The words land heavy between you. The refrigerator hums. A car passes outside. Clark takes another slow step closer. “You were happiest last October,” he repeats quietly.

Your back presses against the counter now. “…Why are you telling me this?”

Clark studies you for a long moment. Then his hand lifts. Your heart stops when his fingers brush the sleeve of your sweater. “You wore this one today,” he murmurs.

Your throat tightens. 

“It looked good on you then, too.”

You swallow hard. “Clark… this is starting to feel a little—”

“I was right there.”

Your breath stutters. “You… what?”

Clark’s voice is calm. Matter-of-fact. “Across the street.”

Your skin goes cold. “You were standing under the café awning,” he continues. “You almost spilled your coffee when someone bumped into you.” You remember that. You do. “And I caught the cup before it hit the ground.”

Your mind scrambles through the memory. You remember the cup tilting. You remember it not falling. You thought— You thought you’d caught it. “…That was you?”

Clark smiles faintly. “Yes.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. “Why didn’t you say anything?” His gaze darkens slightly. “I wasn’t ready yet.”

A long silence fills the apartment. “…Ready for what?”

Clark finally steps close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him. His voice drops. “To introduce myself.”

Your stomach flips. “That’s… not normal, Clark.”

“I know.” He says it so easily. Like he’s already accepted that part.

Your fingers grip the counter behind you. “So what—you’ve just been watching me for a year?”

Clark’s eyes soften. “Longer.”

Your breath catches. “…What?”

“You moved into this apartment two years ago,” he says gently. “You cried the first few nights because you felt lonely. Because you’d just wished thigns had goen differently with your ex.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “How—”

“You dropped a box in the hallway.” Your chest tightens. “Your neighbor helped you pick it up.”

Clark’s voice lowers. “You thanked him three times.”

Your legs feel weak. “You remember… all of that?”

Clark looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “Of course I do.” The room feels suddenly very, very small.

“Clark,” you whisper, “that’s not normal.”

His expression softens almost sadly. “I know.” His hand finally settles against the counter beside yours. Not touching. Just there. “You looked happiest last October,” he repeats quietly.

Your heart pounds. “Why does that matter so much to you?”

Clark watches you like you’re the only thing in the world. “Because I decided something that day.”

Your throat tightens. “…What?”

Clark’s voice drops to something deep. Certain. “That it’s my job to make sure you look like that again.”

Your breath catches. “That’s not your—”

“I can fix it.” The calm confidence in his voice is terrifying. “You’re tired because people keep hurting you. Stressing you. Taking things from you.”

Your pulse spikes. “Clark…”

“I can stop that.” He leans down slightly so his voice is softer. Closer, his mouth is barely inches from your ear.. “They don’t have to be a problem anymore.”

Your heart stutters. “…What does that mean?”

Clark studies your face. Then he smiles. Not shy. Not awkward. Something far more dangerous. “It means,” he says gently, “I’ve been paying attention.”

You sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Were you trying to make me breakfast?”

He scowled, clearly offended. “Trying? Please. I succeeded with the tea, didn’t I?”

You arched a brow, amused. “So the toast’s just a bonus disaster?”

Crowley smirked, stepping into the room and setting the mug on your nightstand like it was a priceless treasure. “I could’ve conjured breakfast, of course. But you humans get so weird about it when I use magic.”

“Because the last time you conjured breakfast, the eggs tried to bite me.”

“They were ambitious,” he said dryly. “I respect that.”

You giggled, pulling the covers around your shoulders as you accepted the mug. The tea was perfect, naturally. Crowley didn’t do anything halfway—not for you.

He sat on the edge of the bed, studying you with that complicated expression he wore whenever he thought you weren’t looking. Equal parts adoration and exasperation, like he was still trying to figure out how he ended up here—willing to burn toast and wear aprons for a mortal.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured, warmed more by his effort than the drink. “You’re the King of Hell. Pretty sure making breakfast in bed is below your pay grade.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me. Do you have any idea what the demons would say if they saw me like this? Apron and all.”

You gave him a sly smile. “Probably that it brings out your eyes.”

He scoffed, but a faint blush dusted his cheeks, barely visible beneath his usual smug exterior.

After a moment, he reached out, brushing his fingers down your arm—gentle, almost reverent.

“I may be the King of Hell,” he said softly, “but you’re the only one who makes me want to rule a little less cruelly. Just for you.”

Your chest ached, but in the good way—the way love hurts when it’s big enough to feel real.

You set the mug down and leaned into him, arms wrapping around his waist. He hesitated for half a second before sinking into the embrace, his nose buried in your hair.

“I love you, you know,” you whispered.

He had one arm draped over his eyes, the other stretched across the back of the couch. You tucked yourself into his side, careful of the cut on his ribs but refusing to leave any space between you. Slowly, his arm dropped to wrap around your shoulder instead, tugging you in closer.

You didn’t even realize you’d started to doze until you felt him shift, his breath brushing against the top of your head.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “I’m staying right here forever.”

You smiled against his chest, heart aching in the best way. “Forever, huh?”

He gave a quiet hum. “Mm-hmm. Warmth is rare. Peace is rare. But you… you make me feel both.”

You tilted your head up just enough to see him blink down at you, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. The killer, the shadow, the revenant—all gone. Just Tomas.

“You’re not just staying because I’m warm,” you teased gently.

“No,” he admitted. “I’m staying because this… you… feel like something I never thought I’d have again.”

He closed his eyes again, arms tightening around you just slightly. “So yeah. Right here. Forever.”

And you didn’t need to say a word after that. You just stayed—his warmth, his peace, his forever.

--

The morning sun bled through the blinds, pale and soft. It draped across Tomas’s back, outlining the quiet strength of his frame as he stood by the small kitchen counter, making tea like it was a mission he had to survive.

You padded in barefoot, blanket still around your shoulders, hair a mess. He turned when he heard you, gaze flickering over you quickly—lingering, then retreating, like always.

“Sleep okay?” he asked, voice low but casual.

You raised an eyebrow, sliding onto a stool at the counter. “Mm, yeah. Especially once you wrapped around me like a possessive space heater.”

He froze for just a second, fingers tightening on the kettle.

“I don’t recall doing that.”

“Oh?” You leaned forward, a slow smirk spreading across your face. “You also don’t recall whispering, ‘You’re warm. I’m staying right here forever.’?”

His shoulders stiffened. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

You snorted. “Tomas. Come on. I have witness-level memory of you being a total sap.”

He sighed, finally turning to face you—cheeks just the faintest shade warmer than usual.

“I was tired.”

“Mhm. And cuddly.”

“…It was cold.”

You smiled into your tea as he handed you a mug, avoiding your eyes.

“You don’t have to pretend it didn’t mean anything,” you said softly, catching him off guard. “Because it did. To me, at least.”

He looked at you then—really looked. And something shifted in his expression, something that softened the walls he always kept up.

“I meant it,” he said quietly. “Every word. I just… I’m not used to this. To you. To being held without fearing I’ll vanish when I wake up.”

You set your mug down, stepping closer, slipping your arms around his waist.

“Then let’s make a deal,” you whispered. “You don’t vanish. And I won’t let go.”

He exhaled like you’d pulled the breath right from his lungs, arms slowly wrapping around you in return.

“…You’re warm,” he murmured again, barely audible.

You smiled against his chest.

That’s what pulls him out of it. He exhales slowly, runs a hand over his mouth, and finally steps forward. Picks the test up. Looks at it closer this time, like maybe it’ll change if he stares hard enough. It doesn’t. He lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving huff of a laugh. “…We’re having a baby.” It’s not a question.

When he walks back into the bedroom, you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clenched in your shirt, eyes searching his face like you’re bracing for something—fear, anger, doubt.

Nick sees it immediately. And it guts him. “Hey,” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “Hey, none of that.” He crosses the room in a few strides and crouches in front of you, big hands coming up to hold your face, grounding you. “Look at me.”

You do.

“I’m not mad,” he says firmly. “I’m not… running, or whatever the hell you think.” His thumb brushes under your eye. “You kidding me? That’s—” he shakes his head, almost smiling, overwhelmed. “That’s mine. That’s ours.”

Your breath stutters. “You’re… happy?”

Nick lets out a low laugh, something rough and real. “Terrified,” he admits. “But yeah. Yeah, I’m happy.” He presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes for a second like he needs to steady himself. Then his hand slides down, slow, almost reverent, to rest against your stomach. Something shifts in him right there.

You feel it.

Nick has always been protective—dangerous men are, it comes with the territory—but this is different. This is deeper. Quieter. Colder. More final. “You’re not going out alone anymore,” he mutters, already thinking ahead. “No more late nights. No more—hell, I’m getting someone with you when I can’t be there.”

“Nick—”

“No,” he cuts in, but his voice isn’t harsh. It’s firm. Unmovable. “You don’t get it. This isn’t just you now.” His hand presses a little more firmly over your stomach, like he’s shielding something already. “This is everything.”

—

The change is immediate. It’s in the way he walks—closer to you, always between you and the door, the street, anyone who looks twice. It’s in how his hand never really leaves you anymore, always resting at your back or your hip or low on your stomach like he needs constant reassurance you’re still there.

Alive. Safe.

His guys notice. They see the way Nick’s temper shortens, the way he doesn’t tolerate mistakes anymore. The way one wrong move gets you a look that could end careers… or lives.

“Boss has something to lose now,” someone mutters one night. They’re right. And that makes him more dangerous than ever.

—

But at home? He’s different. Softer in ways he doesn’t let anyone else see.

You wake up one night to find him sitting beside you, lamp on, just… watching you. “Nick?” you mumble.

He startles slightly, like he didn’t expect to be caught. “Go back to sleep,” he says quietly.

You push yourself up on your elbows, squinting at him. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

He hesitates. Then his hand comes to your stomach again, gentle. “Just making sure,” he says.

“Of what?”

His jaw tightens slightly. “That you’re still here in the morning.”

The words hang heavy between you. You sit up fully now, reaching for him. “Nick…”

He exhales, shaking his head like he said too much. “I’ve buried people for less than what I do every day,” he mutters. “I’ve made enemies that don’t forget. And now—” his hand spreads over you again, protective, possessive in the quietest way. “Now I got you. And a kid on the way.”

You take his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. “We’re not going anywhere,” you whisper.

His eyes search yours like he wants to believe that. Like he doesn’t. “…I might leave it,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Leave… what?”

“All of it.” His voice is low, serious. “The business. The jobs. The whole damn thing.”

That does shock you. Nick doesn’t walk away from things. Nick is the thing people don’t walk away from. “Nick… you built this.”

“I know.”

“And you’d just—what? Walk away?”

His gaze drops back to your stomach. “For them?” he says quietly. “Yeah.” There’s no hesitation. No doubt. Just that same terrifying certainty he brings to everything—except now it’s pointed in a different direction.

Not violence.

Not power.

You.

Your future.

Your child.

“I don’t need the money,” he continues. “Don’t need the reputation. All that does is paint a target on your back.” His jaw tightens. “I’m not raising my kid in that.”

You swallow hard. “You really mean that.”

He looks at you like it’s obvious. “I’d burn the whole thing down if it meant you were safe.”

Your breath catches at that—at the intensity, the promise, the quiet threat underneath it.

And then he softens again, just for you. His thumb brushes your cheek. “You’re not losing me,” he says. “You’re gaining a version of me nobody else gets.”

You lean into him, heart full and aching all at once. “Good,” you whisper. “Because they don’t deserve you.”

"I prayed for you," you said quietly, voice tight. "After everything. After what they did to you."

He scoffed, head tilting back to blow smoke at the ceiling. "Prayer’s a sign of faith, sweetheart. Not desperation."

Your hands balled into fists at your sides. "I had faith. In you."

For a second—just a second—he flinched. But it was gone just as fast, replaced by that smirk he wore like armor.

"And look where it got you," he muttered.

Silence bloomed between you, sharp and aching. You swallowed, throat burning from more than the smoke he filled the room with.

"It doesn’t feel like you care," you whispered.

Soldier Boy finally looked at you then, really looked—like he was seeing something break right in front of him and didn’t know how to fix it. His mouth opened, but no words came out. They never did.

Because Soldier Boy didn’t know how to love. He knew how to fight, how to kill, how to tear the world apart—but not how to hold someone without hurting them.

You wiped your sleeve across your eyes before he could see the tears.

"I needed you to care," you said, voice cracking. "I need you to care."

He stood there, jaw tight, muscles tense like he was preparing for a blow. But no blow came. Only your silence, your heartbreak, the way you turned away from him like you couldn’t stand to look anymore.

Soldier Boy crushed the cigarette under his boot, the smell of burning tobacco lingering.

"I don't know how," he said finally, voice raw and broken in a way you'd never heard before. "Nobody ever taught me how."

You let out a shaky breath, tears sliding freely now.

"I would've," you said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear. "If you’d let me."

But it was too late. It had always been too late.And outside, the world kept burning.

--

“Is something troubling you, my love?” His voice was soft but laced with concern, his usual strength seeming to soften just for you.

You hesitated, unsure of how to express the strange, fluttering feeling inside you. Instead, you simply looked up at him, your heart thumping in your chest.

“Can I hold your hand?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ragnar’s brow furrowed for a moment, as if he was trying to process the simplicity of the request, then his lips curled into a small, knowing smile.

“Of course,” he replied, his tone full of quiet affection.

Slowly, he extended his hand toward you. You placed your palm in his, feeling the strength of his callouses against your softer skin. The moment you touched, a warmth spread through you, making the chill of the night air feel like nothing.

He tightened his grip just slightly, as if to say he would always be there.

“You know,” Ragnar murmured, “this is a warrior’s hand. But for you, I’ll be gentle.”