at the age of ten you’ve dropped that ideology the moment you saw a doctor rush in from the er and into the back of an ambulance in a speed unlike any you’ve seen—and you decided you wanted to be like him, too. 

you’ve stuck to that answer until you were about sixteen, then you decided you wanted to become a photographer who has her own studio at an apartment in brooklyn—and for the most part that’s what you truly planned on pursuing, but practicality had other plans.

your knuckles were beginning to sting after forcing it open as you typed away on your computer, hunched over the keyboard like a shrimp. you’ve already drank god knows how many red bulls but you were nowhere near done with heaps of paperwork and presentations you have to catch up on.

this isn’t where you imagined yourself to be. you were in a big city, sure—and you’ve got a somewhat high paying job—but this isn’t the version of your lifelong dream you wanted to spend the rest of your career in. this isn’t the situation you’d want little you to see whenever the ghost of her decides to come visit you in your dreams tonight. 

your parents have always given you the freedom to be whoever you wanted to be, whatever career choice appealed to you the most—whether it be a mortician or a snake milker, your parents were always behind you on every decision you made.

but practicality over passion loomed above your head like a stormy cloud that won’t leave, and now you’re stuck finishing numbers your co-worker should’ve done weeks ago—though it seems like you’re the only one responsible around here—and you’ve got a bunch of other deadlines to chase after, like a fish chasing for the bait stuck in a never ending sea. at least fishes are free to swim around as they please and not get stuck in a suffocating cubicle.

letting out another heavy sigh, your fingers wrapped around the cool surface of the canned beverage shoved in the corner of your desk before taking a hefty gulp. if you were going to suffer and wallow in your decisions, the least you could do was to keep yourself energized. as your fingers hovered over the daunting keys that stared back at you in what you like to imagine the same tired expression as yours, you heard someone call your name from somewhere behind you. 

“hey! we’re gonna be heading out for dinner, you wanna tag along?” trisha, the first person you’ve ever talked to since joining the company and, admittedly, your only friend around these parts, was already halfway through the glass exit of the office, blazer in one arm and another co-worker holding tightly against the other, when she invited you to join her. she looked at you expectantly, a kind smile playing on her lips. 

she had always made an effort to keep you included in things—no matter how big or small—she made sure to invite you or tag you along with whatever she’s got going, as long as the both of you were free. you could tell it was one of the only things left that’s keeping her tethered down to earth, lest she goes insane. and honestly, you weren’t far off from that too.

a part of you desperately wanted to clock out earlier than you usually do and not stay overtime to let yourself indulge in a little treat and eat out somewhere good—maybe chinese takeout or thai— and give yourself the rest you desperately need. but, you didn’t really feel like getting into any form of conversation right now, you needed to finish this spreadsheet. 

you mirrored back a warm smile of your own, “sorry, i’ve got a lot to catch up on. maybe tomorrow?"

“aww, alright. don’t work yourself too hard!” she waved, before peeking her head out from the exit one last time, “or do, go get that bag, girl.”

with an exasperated sigh and your head in your hands, just as quick as she momentarily pulled you out of work, you were face to face with the daunting, glowing screen of your monitor. 

your eyes felt heavier the second you lifted them up to read the numerics and alphabets on the screen, that dreadful weight heavying the already awful pressure resting on your shoulders. the job you currently have was thoroughly, and utterly draining out the life out of you—and you’re sure no amount of ibuprofen can pull you out of this one.

in a fit of pent up rage finally surfacing up and out onto the tips of your fingers, you tried to drink your woes away with another sip of the caffeinated drink beside you. instead, the can slipped from the pads of your palm and spilled onto the desk, dripping its contents down on the drawers and the floor below. 

cursing lowly to yourself, you pushed the wheels of your office chair backwards—the tires screeching softly against the waxed floor. you plucked a piece or two from the tissue box on your desk to start drying up the mess you made, and just when you were about to begin wiping the floor clean, the drawer on the bottom slipped open, revealing the contents that hid within it.

amidst the dozens of haphazardly arranged random colored folders and extra stapler bullets, was the letter your grandfather gave you a few years back, sat comfortably in silence.

visions of your memories of him rekindled in your head, back to when you visited him on weekends in that sweet quaint town he used to live in, and the last words he said to you on his deathbed as he handed you the letter you were currently ogling at like it was something otherworldly.

“open this envelope whenever you feel the weight of the world dragging you down.”

you pursed your lips, hands reaching down still smelling of red bull, and the tight air around the office started to wrap around the space of your cubicle specifically.

suddenly the buzzing of the air conditioner was too loud, the clacking of keyboards from your co-workers who decided to stay behind just like you were louder than you remember, and the light still radiating in front of you glared anticipatingly.

the contents of the letter was a mystery to you, hell, you surprised even yourself for holding off on opening it for this long. you didn’t find any need to be curious about what’s inside for a long time, since the world used to spin around under your feet before atlas suddenly decided to transfer its weight to you.

in a sudden change of events, the letter now rested in your grasp like it would be the answer to all of your problems. and a part of you silently prayed that it would—prayed that the almighty stars up above will finally give you something that could bring flavor to your stale world and make you feel alive again. you’ve been feeling tired and empty, even without acknowledging it yourself—and you already knew you have been for a long, long time. 

the envelope’s flap crackled as you flipped it wide with shaky hands, and the first sight of your late grandfather’s handwriting brought you a wave of nostalgia. like the paper in your hands was the most valuable thing ever, you lifted it out from its sleeve carefully, hesitance coursing through you.

another piece of paper fell onto your lap as you held the letter, your deadlines and spreadsheets long forgotten. it was the deed to your grandfather’s piece of land and the title to his farmhouse in the country. you couldn’t stop the startled gasp that left you, because sure, you expected a message from your grandfather, but you surely didn’t expect for him to include the deed to his property. 

“oh my god.” slowly, your eyes continued to widen, both in shock and overflowing gratitude, before tears began welling up in the corners of your eyes—threatening to spill and roll down your cheeks. your heart clenching at the thought of your grandfather caring for you this much definitely reduced you to a sobbing mess right here in your office cubicle.

the sound of your computer’s motherboard whirred in the background as you read the message written like a founding fathers', eyes sharper than ever and mouth going impossibly dry.

my dearest granddaughter,

when we least expect it, life sets us a challenge to test our courage and willingness to change. i want you to remember to never let life become a burden to you, it is not a problem you immediately ned to have an answer to, it is meant to be enjoyed and celebrated. never give up, you are a strong-minded girl, just like your mother.

i’ve enclosed in this letter the deed to my place, my pride and joy: the family farm. it’s located in pinefall valley on the southern coast. it’s the perfect place to start a new life. whenever you are ready, the place will be there waiting for you with open arms.

this was my most precious gift of all, your grandmother insisted i leave it in your hands instead of letting it rot away in the hands of others, and now it’s yours. i know you’ll honor the family name, my girl. best of luck. 

love, grandpa

being the cautious person that you were, you weren’t sure if this was the right choice to be made. you’ve spent a good chunk of your life nursing the dream of finally living in a big city—and now here you were, complaining about it just seconds ago like it was a ball and chain attached to your ankle, pulling you further and further down the pit you’ve willingly jumped into. 

with an unsteady exhale, you pressed your eyes closed and basked in the office air one last time—unwilling to give yourself the time to dwell on your decision—because you knew the second you start rethinking, you’re bound to start reconsidering things and before you know it you’ll be back at square one. 

you breathed in through your nose and shut your eyes to clear your head—this is it. you needed this. you need a fresh, clean start. and if you’re gonna find that in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, then so be it.

on a rainy early sunday morning, you left brooklyn with a hole right in the middle of your chest. as much as this city brought you most of your problems and made you impossibly homesick on some days, it was still the dream, and dreams are a hard thing to forget—especially when they come true. 

you weren’t only forfeiting an apartment and a job in exchange of living a new life—you were leaving behind everything you’ve worked so hard for for the past years leading up to now. it’s definitely a lot to be dropping, even with a hefty resignation payout. and you didn’t even have the chance to bid trisha a proper farewell—you hoped she could forgive you.

the bus was empty when you stepped inside. aside from the hooded guy situated at the far end of the vehicle, it was only you and the conductor exchanging glances and smiles before you decided on which corner you were going to sit and spend your next five hours on.

you guessed it wasn’t anyone’s interest to visit a small town that’s probably not even on the map, its name reeked of old-fashion—rugged around the edges. given how there wasn’t anyone lining up to visit the place, the place has probably been forgotten by time. hadn't it been for the fact that your grandparents lived there, you would’ve never managed to find the small town of stonefield even if you were with the greatest pioneer in the world.

as you expected, the sights on the way were nothing short of breathtaking. it felt refreshing to finally see the world outside of the four walls you’ve gotten so used to seeing—from the trees to the dozens of lakes you’ve passed by and admired from behind the bus’ windows—your life was beginning to breathe back in color, number by number.

it was beginning to feel very much like a hallmark movie. you—a career-focused woman from the city moves to a quaint small town, but you’re yet to meet a charming local who would swift you off your feet.

despite the feeling of anxiety ebbing at your chest—you could feel excitement slowly bubble up in the bottom of your chest, this could either be the worst or best decision of your life, and you’re beginning to feel confident that it’s going to be the latter.

you arrived at pinefall valley at around three in the afternoon—the wind gently blew against your warm cheeks as you clutched the handle of your suitcase nervously. you picked up your phone to look at the map you pre-downloaded before getting on the bus because despite being nervous about ditching your city life for a much calmer provincial one, you were also very nervous about getting lost and eventually ending up on television.

creepily enough, you didn’t pass by anyone on your way to your grandfather’s farm—you don’t remember this place having a large population anyway, but it was still unnerving to see the lack of people at this time of day. shrugging off the unsettling feeling from your shoulders, you pocketed your phone the moment the rocky and gravel filled roads began to fee familiar to you. as the old worn-down keys jingled inside the knob and the door swung open—you breathed in the air only the countryside could offer.

on the front porch sat boxes that contained some of your stuff that probably arrived the day before by the moving company, and you let the sight before you sink in as you stepped foot on the property. it was left the same way as you remembered—with a few unfamiliar things here and there, of course. there were a few baby photos of you hung up on the wall, a hopefully working sink and kitchen counter, a refrigerator, a television, a furnace, and a cozy bedroom that housed a queen-sized bed. 

“this is gonna be a lot of work.” you murmured to yourself, already mentally taking note of all the things that could use some rework. 

the place wasn’t the biggest one out there, but it was home. it still sang of a life that was once alive and breathing—and you were determined to bring it back to its former glory.

the first week in a new town didn’t bring you anything eventful. you haven’t gotten around meeting the townsfolk and all the wonders stonefield has to offer, and you’ve mostly cooped up working on your farm.

your days were primarily filled with you clearing out the enormous plot of land that could probably house four other homes just like the one you were currently living in. how rich exactly are your grandparents? there was an abandoned greenhouse to the left of your home. it needs a lot of renovation and a ton of money, but you figured if harvesting crops was your main source of income, it would probably be a good thing to invest on while you still have the funds to do so. 

clearing out rocks and grass patches was never something you’ve ever considered doing in your entire career, everything felt new to you. however, strangely enough, you couldn’t find it in you to stop. it brought comfort to you in ways your previous office job couldn’t offer, it didn’t matter if it left you boneless on your bed at the end of the day.

while cleaning, you’ve also discovered a cave filled with fruit bats along with a shortcut that you aren’t too sure where it leads to yet somewhere between the road to the greenhouse and your home. the place wasn’t just big, it was full of mysteries, too. hopefully the bats won’t be too much trouble, though.

the rooster from the neighboring barn has long since cawed into the ripe morning air, signalling that the sun has risen and it’s time for another day filled with cleaning up the land. but after a particularly rough day yesterday, you wanted to stay in bed for another hour or two, you’re now your own boss—a little sleeping in wouldn’t set you back too much. 

but as you rolled over to the other side of the bed, blankets comfortably wrapped around you like it too didn’t want to let you go—three loud consecutive knocks pounded on your door. 

knock! knock! knock!

with a tired groan, you rubbed your eyes and slipped on your slippers to make your way towards the door. who could possibly want to visit you at this hour? but a better question is; why would there be someone knocking at your door? you never left the farm even once, and you haven’t introduced yourself to anyone, is this how tight-knit communities are?

you hastily swung the door open, your messy hair and untidy appearance the last thing on your mind.

standing in front of you, was an elderly man, maybe late fifties or early sixties, and his head was slightly balding. he wore a kind smile on his lips and held a basket in his hands, and upon seeing you, his mouth stretched into an even wider grin.

“g’mornin’! i didn’t disturb you or anythin’, did i?”

you scrambled your still sleepy brain for a response, “n-no! not at all sir. i was just about to get ready for the day!” 

“i see,” with a chuckle, the man nodded in understanding. “let me introduce myself. i’m the mayor of stonefield; everyone here calls me arthur. word's gotten ‘round a new face has made its way to town and is now living in the abandoned farmhouse. i had to come see it for m’self!” 

you tipped your head up in understanding, “if that's the case then yes, that’s me! i’ve never gotten the time to roam around town just yet—so i don’t really know anyone right now.” you sheepishly explained, hands twiddling the side of your pajamas, “the farm’s been taking up most of my time since moving in.”

it's true. you've been cooped up in the property for the vast majority of your first week in stonefield, the closest you've gotten to leaving the place was walking near the edge of the fence that bordered between your farm and the outside to take out the trash—and even then, you've only managed to see a few people pass by.

he let out another hearty laugh before continuing, “oh well, it’s nice to have someone finally take care of this place, the previous owner who lived here was a good friend o’mine.”

“you were friends with my grandfather?”

mayor arthur’s eyes seemed to widen at that, he looked like he was about to drop the basket in his hands. “you’re norman’s granddaughter? oh how fast you’ve grown! last time i saw you, you were no taller than my hips! if i knew it was you who was moving in, i would’ve arranged for a proper welcome.”

you laughed, chest warming at the sight of seeing your grandfather’s friend still alive and kicking. you couldn’t remember who he is—you were very small when you met mayor arthur, after all—yet it was still comforting to see a face that once appreciated your grandfather the same way you did. 

“anywho, i jus’ wanted to give you this small welcoming gift. it’s a few packets of tomato seeds and a scented candle. s’not much, but i’m sure it’ll remove the smell of dust in the air.” 

“thank you! i appreciate it, i promise i’ll be sure to check the town out as soon as i could.” you kindly smiled, taking the basket from his hands.

“alright, i’ll leave you to it, then. have a good day!”

the wooden floorboards of the porch rattled underneath his leather boots with each step he took further down the stairs—allowing you to breathe out a sigh of relief. you figured you should get ready to begin another day of cleaning, and getting a gift from the mayor certainly was an unexpected way to start your morning.

back in the city, you usually woke up at around five in the morning to let yourself get ready for about an hour, after which you’ll find yourself something to eat from your painfully bland pantry—however if you are in a hurry you grab whatever’s the first thing you see on the streets on the way to your office—before getting ready a second time, by fixing your hair and makeup.

you leave your apartment at seven and arrive at the office at quarter till eight—a full thirty minutes early before your shift starts. for the entirety of the morning, all you can hear are the distinct clicking sounds of keys and whirring of printing machines—and maybe you’ll catch wind of the occasional gossip from your co-workers, but that’s a post-meeting exclusive rather than a daily occurrence.

after lunchtime activities are no different, except for the fact that you’re working on reports and proofreading haphazardly-made documents. you stress on about missing meeting notes until evening, and by then you’re too tired to eat anything decent, so you grab chinese takeout on the way back home.

now, all your eyes can see until the far distance are rocks, trees, shrubs, and more trees. it’s certainly a culture shock to be going from seeing computer screens on a daily basis to staring at rocks for more than an hour or two, but you like to think it’s a good change.

you’re in love with the idea of planting your own produce and eating the fruitions of your labor, and maybe you could share them with your future-friends-slash-neighbors, and you could all share and appreciate the fruits and vegetables you’re going to work so hard on tending to.

wiping the sweat rolling down your glistening forehead, you shoved the gardening shears you found inside the shed beside the farmhouse down to the ground to let your freehand dangle freely. you’ve managed to clear up enough space to plant the seeds mayor arthur gifted you this morning—it was already around ten in the morning and the next thing on your agenda is visiting the town as promised.

right after ridding yourself of your gardening clothes, you padded into town feeling slightly nervous about the environment you’re about to walk into. you’re no stranger to people’s judgments, and usually, they don’t bother you at all—but given the circumstances and how you’re fresh out of a job from the city—you’re slightly restless about what everyone in town would about a girl who had it all and traded it for the south coast life.

the general goods store was bigger than you thought, there were racks of produce in one corner, a handful of gardening supplies in the other, and a bunch of necessities and snacks were in the other surrounding shelves. you made a beeline for the seedling packets sitting right next to the leafy greens and started looking for squash and corn seeds, since they were vegetables in season right now as per the seasonal produce guide by snap-ed you’ve graciously educated yourself on beforehand.

“good morning.”

a sultry voice suddenly pulled you out of your reading on the back of the packets, causing you to let out an involuntary squeak in surprise. because you’ve been so engrossed—you didn’t notice the man in a turtle neck standing by the vegetable rack. he greeted you with a warm smile and a hand still holding a cabbage.

“sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” he carefully apologized, “i wasn’t sure how to approach you, but it’s nice to see the face everyone’s been talking about.”

nervously, your eyes drifted down to your feet before going back to his face. “wh-what do you mean?”

“it’s not everyday someone moves into town. so word about a city girl moving in spread fast.” the man turned to fully face you, face still holding that warm smile.

only then did you notice just how much he was towering over you—he looked like he was well over six feet. his auburn hair was combed over professionally, and his biceps were still visible even under all that fabric. he wore an endearing grin to match his pretty cerulean irises that put the blue skies above to shame, he was handsome. hallmark movie it is, then.

“i’m bucky, i work at the local clinic right next to this store.”

“o-oh! i do remember passing by a clinic, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” you replied, biting back the nervous laughter you would’ve let out and possibly embarrass yourself with. you gave him a small but kind smile back along with your name, now fidgeting the packaging of the seeds in between your fingers.

“how are you finding the town so far?”

"it's—it's nice... i haven't gotten around seeing the whole place, i mean i'm in the middle of doing that right now. but so far everything's really lovely and cozy. i really like it."

"so you haven't gotten a tour?" bucky's face almost looked pleased upon hearing those words come from you, before his lips dropped into a tiny frown. "i'd love to show you around, but you know—duty calls. i've got a home visit this afternoon with the elderly couple down the road, mrs. donovan. a lovely lady with an even charming husband." he punctuated his words in a tone you could only describe as teasing, and you couldn't keep the laughter that bubbled up from your chest.

bucky, looking very pleased with himself, leaned onto the vegetable rack with confidence. watching you with eyes that were nothing short of mesmerized.

suddenly, an equally burly and muscular man appeared from around one of the shelves, presumably the owner of the store. his hair glimmered blonde from the light that came in from the store's windows, giving his head an almost ethereal crown of locks.

"buck! quit loitering by my brussel sprouts and get your ass—oh my! it's the new girl!" he cut himself off from scolding bucky, voice sounding like an overworked parent who doesn’t have any time to deal with his teenager’s bullshit right now.

"sorry, i thought he was doing something else.” the blonde apologized, turning his head to squint at bucky accusingly. “is my friend over here giving you a hard time shopping? don't worry, i'll kick him out for you."

the brunette clicked his tongue, "steve, is this how you treat the town doctor?"

steve, or at least that’s what bucky called him, elbowed him right in his side, causing the doctor to recoil in faux pain.

"wow, a new face 's in town and you're already giving her a bad first impression. i was just trying to tell her about all the very lovely people we have ‘ere, y’see she's not that familiar with the area."

steve rolled his eyes, ignoring his best friend's teasing to continue looking at you. almost as if he was trying to memories every feature on your face. "oh, and you'd just love it if you could show her around, won’t you?"

"actually, while i would love to do just that, i've got an appointment with esther. which you would know if you even tried to listen to our conversation. and for the record, i wasn't loitering. i was about to buy these cabbages."

“sure you were.”

bucky lightly shoved steve’s shoulders, keeping the atmosphere light with his oh-so charming personality. “get back behind the counter, rogers. you shouldn't butt into other people's very private and very personal discussions, you know.”

steve gave him a flat look before retreating back to where he once stood, muttering a small whatever with annoyance evident on his face. as you watched him retreat to his post, bucky looked back at you with the same grin he’s been giving you since you first uttered a word to him.

“i’ll be the first to head out, city girl. i lost track of time and i’ve got abouuut—five minutes to walk to mrs. donovan’s house before our appointment starts.” he exclaimed, all most disappointedly. “it was nice talking to you.”

city girl. for no apparent reason, you felt your stomach do somersaults at the nickname. you’ve just met the guy and somehow he’s already making you feel things that causes your cheeks to redden. in embarrassment or endearment—you’ve yet to see.

tentatively, you pulled the hem of your shirt down to try and rid yourself of the feeling of butterflies in your stomach, the sound of his voice echoing in your head and etching itself onto the ridges of your brain. “what about your cabbages?”

“i just said that so he’d get off my back, but i’ll buy one of these soon.”

your laughter echoed inside the store one last time as his lips stretched into another smile, your cheeks were beginning to ache with how much you’ve been enjoying yourself in his company, no matter how short lived it was.

“it was nice talking to you too, bucky. i’ll see you around.”

“definitely.”

with a smile, your eyes followed his frame as he began to widen the distance between the two of you snd ounded a shelf to make his way towards the door. he gave you one last glance before his hands pushed the doors to the store open, and you watched his back disappear as the distance between you two grew. and just like that, the store went back to its quiet state from a few minutes ago.

you walked up to the register with a small skip in your step this time, one hand holding the seed packets and some fertilizers in the other.

“find everything you need?” steve asked, his hands busy with handling all the stuff you bought. “i hope my friend back there wasn’t too much trouble.”

“yup! and no, not at all. he’s actually very nice.”

“that’s what they all say, wait until you see him when there’s one slice of pizza left.” he joked, pulling out a paper bag from underneath the counter. “a rabid animal, that one.”

“you guys are close?”

“we live in a small town, everyone here’s close with each other.” he teased, “but i get what you mean. we’ve been friends since diapers, bucky’s basically a brother to me. that’ll be 19.99.”

steve watched you reached into your pocket to pull out your wallet, hands flat on the counter and a curious glint in his eyes. he wondered what could’ve possibly caused a city girl like you to move down to a town as hidden as stonefield—but he figured he should hold off on the questions for now.

“oh! i never got to properly introduce myself. my name’s steve rogers. but steve’s just fine. i’m the owner of this establishment.”

you gave him your name in return as you handed the exact amount, hands holding the paper bag in your arms like you were cradling a baby, “it’s nice to meet you, steve. i think i’ll be seeing you often.” you joked, head slightly nodding towards the array of fertilizers and gardening tools.

steve laughed and nodded politely as you turned around to walk toward the exit of the place. you realized the tension you felt since the first moment you took a step into the store was long gone, now replaced with a feeling of relief and comfort. you were surprised with how quickly you were growing accustomed to the new environment, but it’s no surprise since everyone has been nothing but kind to you.

you craned your head to look behind you before pushing the doors wide, grinning politely. “thank you for the fertilizers!”

steve lifted his sturdy hand into the air to wave you off, “come back soon!”

the fresh stonefield air wafted against your face the second you stepped out into the open. you figured you could take a quick stroll around town and take a peak at the beach downtown since you could vaguely make out memories of you fishing there with your grandfather when you were young.

the streets were no longer empty when you started walking along the cemented path, children were now playing amongst themselves in the playground that was situation in the middle of the town. and there were a few people sitting atop benches talking amongst themselves. the trees were quietly dancing along with the breeze—and you could distinctly make out the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline the further you walked into town.

eventually, the smell of saltwater invaded your senses as you stumbled across a beach with pristine white sand. the sun blared, heating everything in its wake as its rays of sunlight illuminated every space under its watchful vision—your skin welcomed the warmth the big star in the sky ever so graciously gave it, making the harbor sitting by the ocean towards your left the only thing that could offer you shade.

your feet collided against the grains of sand resting beneath the soles of your sandals, warming the calluses and skins in between. you don’t remember the last time you’ve been to the beach on your own accord—you’ve never had the chance to.

it somehow felt weird to be in somewhere so mundane and presumptive yet foreign at the same time. you’ll have to come back here on a different day to properly bask in the beautiful waters this town has been keeping hidden from the world—free of the horrors and corruption you hope it would never experience.

upon closer inspection, the harbor turned out to be a fish shop. you were craving some fresh fish, since your palette has been nothing but leftover stock of food from your previous grocery shopping back in the city—it was only natural you’d want something else for a dish.

the bell sang in the air the second you opened the door; the deck's decrepit timber material squeaked with each step you took. the shack felt like it was derelict and had deteriorated from all the years it had watched gone by; the place could probably be a family heir loom at this point—yet simultaneously it looked as sturdy as ever.

you meticulously trudged inside the shop with the paper bag still in hand, gazing at all the paintings of the ocean hung up on the wall, along with the replicas of certain fish decorated across it as well.

there wasn't anyone manning the counter when you arrived, and upon your arrival, someone was yet to appear behind it. you lightly tapped on the bell that sat right beside the register and the cup of fishhooks, hoping to find someone to talk to and happily buy fish from.

apart from the sounds of waves kissing the sand like a ritual it has known since the beginning of time and the squawking of seagulls from somewhere around the dock—you could almost hear a pin drop with how quiet things are.

you were about to turn around and come back some other time before a girl clad in jeans and a shirt emerged from the back door, dusting off the fabric of her top with hasty fingers.

"hi! sorry for the wait, haul just came in. you're in luck—today's fish is fresh from the sea!"

the lady seemed like she was about to tell you more about today's catch but upon closing in against the counter, after getting a good look at your face—her eyebrows furrowed in thought and her eyes narrowed as if she was trying to recognize you.

she hummed, the sound causing you to straighten your back. "i haven't seen that face before, you must be the new girl everyone's been fussing about."

they really weren't exaggerating when they say this place doesn't get that many visitors.

“i’ve been getting that a lot.” you awkwardly laughed, fixating your view on one of the framed sardines sitting idly beside the fishing rods.

“it’s such a pleasure to meet you! welcome to town! my name’s sarah wilson, i would shake your hand right now but i figured you wouldn’t be too fond of the smell afterwards.” sarah chuckled, continuing her endeavors of cleaning her shirt that seemed to have a speck of some sort on it. “so, what can i do for you today, miss?”

you pointed towards the crate of groupers towards her right, a wave of saltine wind gushing through the open windows of the fish shop clashed against your cheeks as you spoke. "can i get three pounds of those?"

"certainly! let me go wrap it up for you."

you left the store with the smell of fish still smothered on the tip of your nose, yet somehow it mixed in just right with the briny wind of the beach.

because you were new in town, sarah gave you a discount for the bag of groupers you bought. without even knowing your name, she's already found her way through your heart with a price too good to be true for three pounds of fish. and with a lighter heart than when you first came into town, you strode away from the dock grinning to yourself—excited for your future visits to the wilson fish shop.

you're fitting in just right with the community. you realized after a few months that you’ve spent less time counting the days until you lose the feeling of missing the city and more time tending to your crops like they were your mission in life—and they might as well be.

after what months of pondering about your direction in life, you were at a place where you believed you are truly happy with yourself. your sense of belonging was finally becoming, piece by piece.

it was another fresh start of the month, and by now your face has already been memorized by the locals with how often you've been leaving your farm compared to when you first got here. you are, after all, their new source of farm-to-table fresh vegetables.

your routine consisted of waking up before the sun rises to clean up the leftover debris by the green house, to watering and tending the crops, to clearing out some more area of the farm. you finish at around twelve pm, and by then you go and visit the town to talk and interact with all the lovely townsfolk.

you've gone from acquaintances to close friends with sarah who runs the fish shop with her brother, sam—who happens to own the saloon—and wanda who owns the ranch down the block from your farm. you've also met natasha, who you've come to find out is the local carpenter and owns a home hardware store just behind your farm.

steve's also grown accustomed to your face after seeing you almost weed out all of his fertilizers within a month, and you've grown quite a bond with the store manager over rising produce demand.

much to your dismay, however, you've run into bucky less times compared to them. only seeing him whenever both your schedules permit you two to do so—but you figured it comes with the job of being the town doctor and the town’s self proclaimed greatest farmer.

but still, on the occasional event you run into him down the street on the way to the store or the library, you always made sure to give him a warm smile and wave at him to which he waves back at you in return.

bucky, on the other hand, has interacted with you exactly fifteen times in the past months, including checkups. he’s been counting every moment—and not in the creepy way—he ran into you and you’ll flash him that pretty smile of yours he’s always somehow itching to see.

normally, bucky’s got his cool always in check—his nerves calm and his hands steady. but lately, like a boy with his first crush, he has to chew his lip every time you spoke to him to stop himself from stuttering out a reply back.

he could physically feel his cheeks warm up and the tip of his nose go red at each time you compliment his clothes for the day. whenever his stethoscope draws close to your chest to hear the thumping of your heart, his own organs roars loud in his ears and he ends up hearing his own rhythmic beating in the process.

he’s found himself walking into steve’s store more times than he needs to in hopes of catching a glimpse of you around the vegetable section. and maybe he’s been going down to wanda’s ranch to “check out the cows” because suddenly he’s very invested in whatever the chickens and barn animals are up to, and maybe he’s caught himself borrowing books at the library despite having the exact same copies of it back at the clinic just to gamble on the idea of you being there at the same time as him.

underneath the collected facade he’s put on is a man whose cheeks turn pink at the thought of you.

if only his schedule would allow it, he’d visit you on your farm and bother you with whatever’s on his mind at the moment. but for now, all he could do was wallow in his feelings at the saloon—his hand clutching an almost half empty mug of coffee—and the person lucky enough to be the audience of bucky’s misery was none other than sam.

“you gotta face this head on man." sam pushed, wiping a glass. "how about you try visiting her farm. y’know, bring her some of those dishes you've been making for us. the fastest way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach, barnes.”

bucky took a sip of his coffee with a sour expression, eyes glued somewhere between the barrels of rum behind the bartender in front of him.

“i don’t know, what if she finds it weird?”

sam scoffed, “now where did all that charm you’ve been boasting about back at steve’s go?”

“i just—i want to do this right... she gets along with everybody pretty well, and i want her to be the same with me.”

“steve told me you two get along just fine.”

bucky chuckled lowly, his arms folding onto the table with. “i go all red in the face with just a quick glance from her. it’s like my body’s reacting before i could even think about what to say.”

his thumb circled the rim of his mug as he pursed his lips, his eyes carefully traced the ripples of the brown liquid inside the ceramic before continuing. “y’think i got a shot at taking her to the flower dance next month?”

sam, too focused on mixing up the cocktail order from another client, only lifted his eyes to gaze behind bucky, head not moving an inch “yeah i do. but why don’t you go ask her yourself?” he smirked.

bucky felt his feet run cold the second he heard footsteps approaching the bar counter, heart racing at speeds he's absolutely sure cannot be healthy. he looked at sam one more time who mouthed go get 'er, tiger before focusing on the drink in his hands like it wasn't almost empty and you weren't approaching the bar counter.

he straightened his slumping shoulders the second your fingers landed on the surface, face now plastered with a lazy grin. "well if it isn't my favorite city girl."

you raised an eyebrow, "you know any other city girls?"

"no, jus' you. but you're still my favorite."

you laughed as you slid into the stool beside his, "it’s nice seeing you here!" you cheerfully greeted, instantly lighting up the room with your presence—or at least in bucky’s mind that’s exactly what you did. in the corner of his eye, he can see sam's smirk grow into a playful grin before hurriedly turning around to tend to another customer. "do you come here often?"

“gotta let loose somehow.” he replied, bouncing his left foot up and down to try and quell the sudden spike of adrenaline his heart’s been pumping out the second he laid eyes on you. sam’s never gonna let him hear the end of this—so he’s giving his all to put on the charming front he’s carefully curated.

“tell me about it. as much as i love my grandfather’s farm, it’s really a pain in the ass to maintain.”

“i’ve been told the place has been looking better than ever.” bucky replied smoothly. in all actuality, no one told him that. he’s noticed it himself each time he purposefully passed by your farm on one of his morning jogs. steve teased him for suddenly taking a different route from his normal one, but the doctor kept on insisting he’s always been going down that path.

he’s even caught you working away at the farm—your back facing him, knees flush to the ground and your cheeks stained with dirt. hands pulling apart the weeds on the ground with vigor as sweat dripped down to your clothes.

bucky thanked that the sun was nowhere near out when he witnessed the sight before him, the lack of light obscured his face from being seen. he felt a deep admiration for how hardworking you were. and by the end of the jog, his brain was already replaying the image of you over and over again.

“really?” you lit up instantly, “it’s good to know that i’ve at least got some amount of progress after breaking my back for months.”

you gave sam an order of sliders and a side of mozarella sticks before continuing your conversation. after declining an offer for a drink, you turned your focus back at bucky, who was giving you a look that spent your nerves in a frenzy.

“if you don’t mind me asking, what brought you here to little ol’ stonefield?”

you shrugged your shoulders with a smile, “wasn’t a big fan of the life i was living back at the city. i tried convincing myself that living in new york with a nine-to-five job was the dream i’ve always wanted.”

bucky sat in silence, attentively listening to you talk about the life you used to live back then.

“and then i—rummaged through my office drawer one day and i found a letter from my grandfather. it had the deed to the farm and i just…booked it and ran all the way here.“

“you look a lot happier than you did the first time you moved here.”

“really?” you teased, arm coming up to rest your chin on the palm of your hand. “did my medical records tell you that?”

bucky matched the smug look on your face with one of his own, almost as if you were challenging him to a contest of sorts.

“would you actually believe me if i said yes?”

“no way.” you laughed, hand slowly approaching the plate of sliders sam placed in front of you in between your conversation with bucky. “i’m curious, by the way, where did you study medicine? is there a college nearby?”

“i studied at columbia.”

“what!” the words came out louder than intended, your hands racing upwards to cover your mouth in mild embarrassment. “what!” you repeated, a lot quieter this time. “i used to live in new york! why’d you choose to work here instead of—you know—there?”

bucky hummed in thought, resting his forearms on the furniture in front of him. "this town is near and dear to my heart. i can roam the entire world for the rest of my life, but i'll always find myself coming back here. you can take a man out of stonefield but not stonefield out the man." he remarked, "so, i figured i'd just practice medicine here."

you took a bite out of your slider, "i can see why you feel that way, this place is great. the last time i felt this happy and free was back in freshman year.”

the atmosphere surrounding the two of you began to shift as subtly leaned in closer—you would’ve missed it if you blinked—but it was there. as if he was subconsciously gravitating towards you like it was the most natural thing that occurred to him.

“you must’ve had a lot of fun back then, city girl.” bucky’s head tutted towards one of the barrels of rum sitting behind sam, playful grin still lingering on his face. “you drink?”

it was a dangerous game to be participating in—you knew you get a bit much when you go drinking, and it especially doesn’t help the fact that you’ve got a not-so little crush on the man comfortably next to you. but you’ll allow yourself to let loose just this once—you’re now getting the chance to spend time with the man you’ve seen the least since moving despite wanting the opposite. and to top it off, who are you to pass on the opportunity of drinking with a man as pretty as him?

“i haven’t found the time to drink lately.” you murmured somewhat bashfully, taking another bite out of your slider.

“‘s that so?” bucky took a hold of the glass sam placed in front of him with that lazy charming smirk. dauntingly, he moved his weight from one arm to the other, almost inclining back on a non-existent wall behind him—looking all suave and laid-back—an almost convincing ploy to cover how his heart was drumming like crazy right now. “let me change that.”

you hesitantly pursed your lips in deep thought, a small hum vibrating through your throat. saturday nights are meant to be enjoyed, you reasoned. letting out a huff, you nodded your head in agreement with a grin. veggie deliveries will have to wait ‘til monday, then.

the walk to the wanda’s ranch was one of the short periods of time where you truly got to think. while yes, you like to daydream while rummaging through the soils of your garden to keep your brain busy was what you usually do—long walks were something you appreciated on a different level. as the leaves of the trees shuffled and your feet crunched against the gravel, you’d stare at the sky and think about whatever’s been bugging you, no matter how long ago or recent it was.

as you rounded a corner that brought you closer to your destination, sam’s words ricocheted in the back of your mind. while visiting sarah to buy your week’s worth of fish this morning–and to deliver some leeks and green beans she ordered–her brother offhandedly mentioned something about the freshness of your vegetables going great with bucky’s cooking. 

“bucky can cook?”

“yeah. he’s like our personal nutritionist. always insisting on preparing us healthy meals whenever he gets the chance to. and ever since you started supplying steve with those vegetables of yours, it’s like he never wants to stop anymore.” 

“huh.”

it checks out, you suppose. he takes care of people’s health for a living, it only makes sense he enjoys creating delicious and nutritious food for the people he cares for. hearing sam say those words did send a small jolt of pride in the pit of your chest, and you did spend all morning while watering the crops thinking about it like a hopeless romantic.

you couldn’t stop the giddy smile from forming, face contorted in excitement and your cheeks slightly duster pink. the only ones to witness your look of love sickness on you were the mushrooms and carrots sleeping deep underground—who were by now probably sick of hearing you fuss about the man working at the clinic.

come to think of it, you’ve also been running into him more often at the store. you were now steve’s new supplier of produce (you lived far closer than any of his previous ones, and they were of better quality too) and on occasions you buy fertilizers—which was very frequent, you’ve always, without fail, ran into bucky. and you’d stay at the general store longer than you had anticipated, but gladly so. 

you’ve even gone out of your way to give him some vegetables yourself, more so as an excuse to his face, after sharing that eventful night with him at the bar. since then, you’ve increasingly grown closer to the town doctor to the point that appointments were one of the things you looked forward to the most. 

you remember him visiting you at the farm one quiet afternoon the day after—to your surprise, he went out of his way to check on you. you were busying yourself as always clearing out the land, when out of nowhere a tall man with broad shoulders showed up with food in his hands. 

“shouldn’t you be resting?” 

your heart practically leaped out of your chest as the voice coming from behind you boomed, making you drop your shovel in surprise.

“christ, you scared the shit out of me. aren’t doctors supposed to treat heart attacks and not induce them?” you held a gloved hand against your thundering chest. 

bucky let out a laugh as he closed the distance between the two of you. he dressed like he just clocked out of work—his long sleeves were rolled up until his elbows and his necktie was hanging loosely against the buttons on the fabric. his right hand was pocketed while the other held a plastic bag.

“sorry, thought you could hear my footsteps.” he watched you dust yourself off the ground, eyes squinted. 

bucky, overcome with concern—and slightly overwhelmed with the desperation to see you again–decided to visit you the morning after your abrupt drinking session with him at the saloon.

he only drank a decent amount, being not too fond of drinking too much, and while you did drink as much as him, maybe even a bit less, your steps were wobbly and uneven while your voice slurred the moment your feet clashed against the floorboards of the saloon, and bucky graciously took you back home with his hand warming your back and your drunken ramblings in his ear.

it was a miracle, really, that you managed to keep your feelings for the guy closed and tucked away into one of the corners of your heart–effectively saving you from the embarrassment you’re bound to face the day after not just from bucky, but probably from sam too.

“whatcha got there?” you asked, tilting your head to the side to get a better glance at the contents of the paper bag he was carrying around in curiosity.  

he lifted it up to grant you a better look, whatever was inside was contained in a brown box–so you still had zero clue about what’s inside.

“food. i thought you would’ve taken the day off so i brought you something to eat.” his head steered towards the direction of where you were previously crouched at, hat over your head and your fingers through the ground. “but i guess not even alcohol can keep a girl away from her farm.”

“damn right. these carrots are my babies.” you glanced towards your front porch, fingers already pulling off the leather material encasing them. “would you like to go inside? we can share whatever you brought.” 

“what about your babies?”

“i was about done, anyway.” you shrugged, already heading towards the farmhouse. “come on, it’s hot out here.”

needless to say—your growing adoration for him sowed deeper that day.

your knuckles clattered against the oak surface of wanda’s ranch, the basket of potatoes sat bolstered in their sack against your chest, your gloved hands holding the material with extra care. 

not long after, the door jarred open to reveal your friend wanda—who was in similar clothing as you.

“good morning, city girl.” she teased, lips curling into a grin, “i see you’ve brought my potatoes! i can’t wait to try out this new recipe i saw on tv. thanks babe.” 

she expressed her gratitude and took the sack from you, “do you have anyone in mind to be your partner for the flower dance?” wanda queried, leaning against the door frame and her voice teasing and her eyes had mischief written all over it.

you gave her a pointed look—you know that she knew who you want to go to the event with, you’ve been mouthing off his name behind closed doors for weeks now. rolling your eyes, you crossed your arms and stood tall. “i dunno. i might not even go.”

“we all know you’ll be there, girl.”

“we don’t know that.”

now it was her turn to roll her eyes. you both knew you’ll be there despite your incessant attempts of saying otherwise.

shaking her head, she held the handle to the door and looked at you apologetically, “i’d love to stay longer and chat, but i gotta get back to work, the cows won’t milk themselves.”

chuckling, you nodded in understanding and bid farewell—wanda waved you off before promptly going back to milking the cows with how loud they were howling inside the barn. 

on your way back home, you heard a pair of elderly ladies sitting on the bench chattering about. now, it was absolutely none of your business to be eavesdropping whatever they were talking about. but with how loud they were talking about said business, you can’t possibly put all the blame on yourself.

you slightly tilted your head forward towards their direction—your steps decelerated as much as you can without looking like a weirdo.

“i saw bucky looking at flowers this morning, who do you think it’s for?” one elderly woman exclaimed, crossing her legs and her hand flailed in the air. 

the other responded, “the flower dance is just around the corner, isn’t it? maybe he’ll finally ask natasha out!”

your heart sank. six feet under—maybe twice more than that. just as fast as your heart dropped down like it was held dozens of meters up in the sky, you were hit with the whirlwind of emotions that came along with it.

your feet slowed into a halt, hidden somewhere behind a tree near the old pair, but still far enough for you to go unnoticed. you already heard a lot more than you should’ve—unfortunately—might as well listen to what else they have to say and most likely crush your hopes from shattered to fine powder.

“i’ve always loved them together! they make such a cute couple!”

the lady with her legs crossed shook her head, a scowl evident on her face. “i wonder what took him this long! it was pretty obvious from the get go it was gonna be her, he could’ve asked her out ages ago!”

you left the second you the other old woman retaliated something in return, mumbling about timing and busy lives, not caring about whatever else they have to say. or rather, you couldn’t bear to hear what more they have to say, your heart was already heavy as it is.

the rest of the walk back home was a blur, and you no longer had the energy to install the water sprinklers you got from steve earlier this week–they’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. for now, you’re going to drown your misery with sitcoms and ice cream.

you didn’t feel foolish at all for liking a man like bucky, but a part of you did feel silly for feeling so defeated and disheartened just from hearing gossip. you began recounting each of your interactions with bucky that included natasha–and your mind came up with the definitive answer that the flowers were meant for her. they’ve known each other longer than you have, they’ve got a bunch of things in common, they’re basically meant for each other.  

plopping down onto the comfortable sheets atop your bed, you let out a blood-curdling muffled scream into the mattress, heart still lodged into the streets where you heard the world-destroying news from their throats. 

you were now armed with a new goal—get over your witless crush on bucky before the flower dance so you wouldn’t have to try and survive the pain of seeing him dance with another girl.

bucky didn’t know what to do. to be frank, he was completely losing it on steve’s couch. steve was sitting on a chair adjacent to the settee bucky was crying his heart out on (not really, but steve definitely sees it that way), and it seemed like steve was going to be the psychiatrist for bucky today.

“i used to talk to her about seven times a week. now it’s gone down to one, even zero! i feel like i made that one scenario up in my head to cope, so i think i didn’t see her all week.” bucky complained, gaze glued onto the ceiling light of steve’s living room.

it’s all that’s been on bucky’s mind recently. he checks on patients’ vitals a tad longer than usual with how his head is at a different place—he hasn’t been able to walk on the streets peacefully with the amount of times he thought he saw your face that day, only for him to turn around and see that it wasn’t you. 

and on the rare instance that it was you—you’d immediately duck your head and speedwalk out of whatever establishment the both of you were in. he chalked the first occurrence on bad luck, as well as the second time. but by the third—he was fully convinced that you were ignoring him.

he’s already racked his head on all sides trying to figure out what he had done for you to avoid him like he’s the plague, but bucky always circled to the conclusion that he had done nothing wrong, leaving him perplexed.

“you’ve been counting?” the blonde’s eyebrows raised in concern, slightly taken aback by what he heard. 

“subconsciously,” bucky defended, “i cherish every moment i get to see her. it’s practically part of my routine. but now, i didn’t see her once—not on the streets, your store, by the dock, it’s like she’s completely disappeared.” 

“and the problem is…?”

bucky’s blue sorry eyes shifted onto steve, “i’m supposed to ask her out to the flower dance, stevie. i already asked esther to save me some peonies.” his dragged his hands down his face, covering the flesh with his rigid fingers. 

his friend sat with his nose stuck between the pages of an art magazine, mindlessly flipping through each entry as he listened to the town doctor lavish in his feelings. “what stupid thing did you do this time, buck?”

“nothing!” he shot up from the couch, looking borderline unhinged. “i-i don’t think i did anything…i just—” bucky groaned, planting himself back onto the soft cushions. 

there were too many words in his chest and not enough courage to let them out. too many parts of him that had quietly started to expect you. with eyes full of longing and a few too many limbs craving for your presence, the words that ached to run free died on bucky’s tongue. he felt powerless—utterly crushed, even. but he couldn’t do anything but wait for you to come around again. because doctors don’t show up to checkups unless asked for. 

“i miss her.”

the days breezed by, and as fast as spring rolled around, the day of the flower dance came. you entered the secluded venue with your arm linked around sarah’s—eyes unintentionally scanning the area to look for the auburn haired man—to avoid him, of course. 

although it was your first flower dance, you knew this wouldn’t be your last. the place, though hidden in greenery, was absolutely breathtaking. the trees hid just enough of the sky and the sun’s light peeked through them like spotlights. the cool air kissed weaved through your hair as you stepped inside, all while waving at a few townsfolk. 

you were wearing an all-white dress with flowers decorated onto your hair. the dress belonged to wanda—she was kind enough to lend you the garment for the time being since it was your first time attending the annual event and you had no available white dress, you didn’t really have to prepare since you were already wearing the stress of moving in and fixing the farm.

wanda already went ahead of you, eager to go to the festival early with vision. you still had no idea who you wanted to ask to dance with—so you decided to head towards the food table for the mean time.

there were an array of dishes on display—from barbecue to dozens of seafood dishes—you set your sights, along with your stomach, on enjoying the free food the town had to offer.

as your hand carried an empty paper plate, a large warm hand cupped your shoulder. you jumped in your skin while your heart fell through your ass at the thought of whose face you’d be seeing when you turn around—it made you want to not turn around. 

before you could further debate on looking back, the voice the hand belonged to cut through your thoughts.

“lovely seeing you here.”

thank god. it was steve, you’ve never felt so refreshed when that wave of relief washed over you. 

“that’s a very beautiful dress! looks good on you.”

giggling, you turned your full attention to him. “thanks, steve.” 

he was dressed nicely—clothed in all white and a ranunculus placed in his breast pocket. he didn’t look half bad.

“who’s your partner for the dance?” you questioned, subtly trying to look around to see if you could catch a glimpse of bucky—because if steve was here, he’s bound to be in the same place as well. 

steve shrugged, coming forward to stand beside you and serve himself a cup of fruit punch. “i don’t plan on dancing.”

“what!” you shrieked, before covering your mouth and lowering your voice to a more respectable tone. “you aren’t serious. you’re wearing such a nice suit, you can’t let it go to waste!”

“no one’s asked me to dance with them yet, so i guess…i don’t really plan on participating in the dance. i’m okay with watching.”

no one’s asked him to dance?! a man that fine cannot be wasted and cast aside as a bystander!

with a look of seriousness suddenly replacing the smile on your face, an expression that steve could only slightly describe as terrifying, “dance with me, then.” you offered.

steve, shocked at what he was hearing, couldn’t help the confused sound he le out. “what? but didn’t he ask you to be—“

“who asked me to be their what?”

“nevermind.” steve shook his head, maybe bucky didn’t go through with his plan of asking you out, since here you are—standing alone and loitering around the food table. besides, you’re a close friend of his—and the festival was about begin, it wouldn’t hurt to dance with you when you asked him to. 

and he figured bucky needed a little push to grow his confidence.

 “alright, i’ll dance with you.”

steve craned his head in all directions in search of his best friend, bucky insisted he went on ahead to the festival but he is nowhere to be seen.

“alright, everyone!” mayor arthur’s voice boomed through the speakers, “to all of those ready and plan on participating in the dance, please step towards the middle with your partner!” he instructed, clearly excited to get things going.

“that’s our cue!” you cheered, grabbing steve by the hand and pulling him to where the others are gathered.

you stood in front of each other beside wanda and vision, who gave you a teasing look to which you tried waving off. 

“i see you’ve already found your partner.” 

“wanda! shhh, i’m only doing this for fun!” you scolded, voice barely above a whisper. 

wanda laughed incredulously, “i wasn’t saying anything!” 

you rolled your eyes and focused your attention back to steve, a nervous look now on your face. “okay, so i know i asked you to this dance, but i have no idea how to dance.”

steve laughed at that, genuine and sincere. “it’s alright, just follow my lead.” 

and as the music began and rang through the forest—bucky could feel his chest tighten and his fist tremble with how hard he was clutching it. 

okay, maybe he didn’t really have the right to feel this way. he wasn’t able to ask you out since he didn’t see you the entire week before the flower dance—yet it still sent a pang of sadness and worst of all jealousy through his heart at the sight of you dancing with steve. 

you looked like you were having a lot of fun. despite stepping on steve’s and your own foot more times than a normal person was capable of—you were laughing to your heart’s content. and bucky wasn’t fond of the thought that it should be him making you this happy. 

all he could do was watch at a distance and fix his tie to hide the look of hurt spread across his face.

“steve i am so so sorry!” you laughed, stepping over his foot again. “i genuinely have no idea what i’m doing.” 

the blonde holding your hands breathed out a hearty laughter, amused at your antics. “at least you’re having fun, that makes up for looking like an idiot.”

“rude. but i’ll let it slide, rogers.” 

his fingers gently guided your body to twirl around his, your dress flowing along with the air and the flowers made your smile glowing brighter with each step. 

the crowd cheered as the song subsided, and your feet were starting to go numb with how much it has collided into steve’s that noon. 

you excused yourself from steve with a giggle—claiming that you need to use the restroom and to take a breather—your heart beating relentlessly with joy from having so much fun. you made a beeline towards the small area quite a few steps away from the venue, but before you could make it any further away, a hand clasped your arm—making you stop and let out a small screech.

thinking it was steve, you quickly turned around to tell him off for scaring you the second time. 

“steve can you please stop ambushing me from behind—“

no. it wasn’t steve. no, it wasn’t wanda or sarah either. to your absolute terror and surprise, it was bucky.

“oh.” was all you could say, your throat suddenly running dry at the sight of the man in front of you.

maybe it was the side of you that was so deprived of him talking—but boy, did he look good. 

his hair was combed over, and he wore a suit similar to steve’s—but it looked so much better on bucky. his steel blue irises stared into yours, and he was angelic—with the rays of the sun shining against his back—it almost looked like he had a halo. 

he had a defeated look on his face, like he was desperate to see you. the second you turned around, the grip on his hand tightened as he murmured your name, the tone of his voice dangerously low.

“where’ve you been…?” he chuntered, grip persistent. “i haven’t seen you in two weeks.”

“i was just—busy with the farm.” you broke eye contact to look at your feet, unable to bear the look on his face because you know your resolve would crack if you stared a second longer. “can you- um…i—” 

“you can at least give me a better answer than that. i know you’ve been ignoring me.” 

you’ve been caught redhanded. and being the stubborn person you are, you held your gaze on the ground—heart starting to ache at the confrontation happening. in all honesty, you didn’t know what to tell him. you couldn’t give him the true, foolish reason as to why you’ve been circumventing away from him to an unreasonable degree.

“b-but it’s true, i have been busy.” you didn’t know if you were trying to convince bucky or yourself with how meek you were speaking, like the mere thought of raising your voice would cause your throat to close up and the dam that kept your feelings at bay to burst open.

bucky pursed his lips, his hold on you loosening but still intact, like he was deathly afraid you would disappear the second he’d let you go. “look at me when you say that.” he pressed, voice dripping with desperation.

“do you know how—how crushing it was for you to suddenly just… stop talking to me all of a sudden?” 

head still lowered down like a dejected puppy, all you could do was shift your weight from one foot to the other. 

“i—i thought i was doing things right, and then you just- just treated me like we’re strangers again, like it all meant nothing. i spent so many nights thinking and thinking about what i did wrong.” 

bucky stepped closer, the tip of his shoes almost touching yours, you could practically feel the warmth radiating from him. hesitantly, you built up the courage to look into his eyes—a decision you’ve come to regret after seeing the face of absolute devastation and sadness in them—like the act of you avoiding him was physically painful.

“and then i saw you dancing with steve, what’s up with that?” 

“wh-what do you care? the people i dance with are none of your business.”

in complete contrast to the conversation, bucky’s lips were hovering against yours. you didn’t make any effort to stop it because truthfully, you couldn’t find it in you to do so. you couldn’t lie to yourself that you didn’t like the feeling of his chest flush against yours. all your hard work of trying to forget about him dissipated into thin air the second his hands curled on your waist.

you don’t know who leaned in first, but it took you a second to realize his lips were already molding into yours, accompanied by a rough calloused hand grazing your cheek. his tongue pushing past your lips—feverish and wet and sloppy—and you could feel the jealousy practically oozing on it as it danced with yours—the intrusion causing you to let out a soft gasp bucky gladly swallowed. 

your hands grasped his neck to deepen the kiss, your own desperation growing clearer. you couldn’t think straight about how good it felt to finally feel his lips on yours—like it was something you didn’t admit you’ve been needing for a long, long time. 

bucky broke off the kiss to admire you—how pink your lips have gotten, swollen from all the kissing and your eyes—pupils blown, half-lidded and full of devotion. “tell me you want this.” 

you swallowed a breath caught in your throat, hips bucking against nothing in desperation as your cunt pulsed with pure need. “i-i wan’ you bucky— fuck please-“

you reached for the zipper of his slacks, eager and needy and wanting more.

he flipped you to face the bark of the tree, heavy hands coming to still your jittery hips desperately trying to relieve the ache in your cunt. he lifted your dress high enough to reveal the wet spot on the fabric of your pantie, and ran two fingers over it—causing you to yelp in response.

“please—bucky- i need you so bad—“

you heard the rattling of a belt clinging loose, and the thick head of his cock pressing against the entrance of your warmth, sliding it against your folds but not quite pushing in just to tease you. 

you groaned in frustration, hands scraping on the rough surface of the tree, “bucky— please put it in—“ you whined pathetically, wiggling your hips to try and entice him to end your suffering. 

“so impatient, city girl.” bucky murmured condescendingly, palm coming to run across your lower back before settling on your side, “alright, since you asked so nicely.”

bucky began to shove the tip of his cock to intrude into you, deliciously slow—he wanted to savor the feeling of being in your warm, welcoming walls before he completely ruins you for anyone else.

“fuck!” you whined, hands bracing against the tree while your hips pushed back to grind against his. “bucky—oh my god-”

“you’re so fucking tight.” bucky hissed, already falling apart just from being inside of you.

slowly, he began to pull out inch by inch, before pushing back inside all in one swift thrust. bucky had to quickly clamp a hand on your mouth to stop the loud wanton moan from echoing into the forest. 

“gotta be quiet, baby.” he leaned over closer to you, sheathing himself to the hilt inside of you—breath fanning over your ear and his hips burrowing impossibly deeper into your leaking pussy—your back bowing in the process.

wet, pornographic slapping filled the space in between the air and the bushes. his cock, thick and pulsing, began to drill into you repeatedly and you could feel your eyes go bleary and your knees give up at the sudden speed he decided to pick up at. if it weren’t for his large hand muffling the obscene sounds you were letting out—not squeezing or gripping, just strong enough to keep your sounds to himself—you would’ve been caught by anyone unlucky enough to be in these parts of the woods.

the leaves shook with each drag of his cock—sending a jolt of electricity up your spine as the knot in your belly slowly building up. he felt like he was splitting you open—your hands were scrambling behind him to find purchase as he continued to plow into your cunt, juices messily dripping down your legs. 

before you could ask for more, his thumb began to rub tight circles over your clit—swollen and throbbing—causing your hips to jerk back against him. he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck before sucking on that particular sensitive part of your skin, leaving red and purple marks in its wake.

“feel good, sweetheart? y’think steve can make you feel this good?” he moaned, still sucking on your neck like he couldn’t get enough of you, “keep quiet, doll.”

you changed his name like a prayer behind the skin of his fingers, biting your lip harsh enough to draw blood, the pleasure sowing itself deep into your abdomen and running up from your toes and through your entire body almost too much to handle—the coil in your stomach threatening to snap. you can feel how soaked you are, your slick was practically drenching your abandoned underwear bunched up around your ankles. 

his hands were harsh against your skin, clenching hard enough to leave bruises in its wake—you’re sure to look like you got beaten in an alley but only in specific places after this.

bucky could feel you getting close with how tight you’ve been clamping on his thick cock, pushing him closer and closer to sweet release, he rocked his hips with much more fervor and intensity—and you screamed at the change of pace—he pulled you back onto him as if to say you can’t run away from it.

his sweat stricken forehead pressed into your temple, “mine.” thrusting particularly harder into you, he bit down on the space between your neck and shoulder—a loud wanton moan ripped through your throat before you could stop it, fingers desperately clutching on the large hands that enveloped your waist.

you felt yourself cum before you even realize it, gushing and coating your already damp thighs in your juices leaving your body shaking while he painted your walls white with a groan of his own—his cum slowly began to trickle down your plush, now limp and numb thighs.

bucky slowly began to pull out all the while rubbing slow, comforting circles on your bruised hips and soaked thighs. 

suddenly it struck you—now hit with the clarity of post-orgasm, you quickly clambered to collect your bearings, leaving bucky with a confused expression and struggling to catch up with you as he hurriedly tucked his cock back in his pants.

“woah woah, are you sure you can walk right now—?”

you sputtered, “i-im— this was a mistake i shouldn’t’ve-“

he flashed you a look of disbelief, “a mistake? we just—“

“what if natasha noticed we’re both missing. i don’t want to cause any drama—“

bucky held up a hand to stop your rambling, brows furrowed and his head in a doozy. “wait, natasha? what does she have to do with all of this?”

“um,” you felt like a small child being asked by her parents to explain something they probably wouldn’t understand, all you needed to do was to twiddle your thumbs and you’d get the part. “aren’t you-? isn’t she your—you know…don’t you like her?”

“what?”

“i overheard some old people talk about you buying her flowers and the flower dance was coming soon so i thought—i thought—“

before you could continue mumbling about even further, bucky cut you off with a loud, obnoxious laughter that left him clutching his stomach in pain. 

“wh-what’s so funny—“

“is that why you’ve been ignoring me? you thought those flowers were for her?”

“i mean, aren’t they-“

“they were meant for you, city girl.” he shook his head with exasperatedly, “i was planning on asking you out to the flower dance, but you went ahead and ignored me for days on end. i ended up not going through with the plan when i saw you dancing with steve.”

“oh.” 

“yeah ‘oh.’ i thought i made it pretty clear i liked you.”

“they were talking about how you were taking too long and that probably meant you’ve already liked her for a long time! so i just thought you were being—you know—nice.” 

annoyingly enough, he let out another laugh. now suddenly feeling stupid, you stretched your arms forward to try and hide your face into the crook of his neck.

you were about to roll your eyes and complain about missing the food when all of a sudden bucky rushed to press his hand over your mouth once more.

“wait. shhh, someone’s there.” 

the words shut you up instantly, simmering your breathing down to barely audible to try and listen for whatever bucky heard that caused him to hush you up.

“hello?” someone called out from behind the trees, “is someone there?”

bucky held a finger against his lips and gripped your hips tighter, and you had to stop yourself from letting a giggle bubble up from your chest. 

as the footsteps began to fade out, you and bucky both simultaneously let out a shared laugh at the thought of almost getting caught by some poor townsfolk.

bucky leaned against the tree trunk he was previously railing you on, “we should um—probably get back.”

you nodded in agreement, “yeah i’m starving-“

“and you’re dancing with me this time.”

“Hi,” you managed, your voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “Welcome.”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just watched you from across the shop with those sharp blue eyes, as if you were the only thing in the room worth noticing. Then, slowly, he stepped forward. The sound of his boots against the wood floor was too loud, even over the rain.

You forced yourself to smile, tucking your hands against your apron. “Looking for anything in particular?”

His gaze flicked to the flowers around him—the rows of tulips, daisies, carnations—but came back to you almost instantly. “No.” His voice was low, rough-edged. “Just looking.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. You nodded quickly, reaching for the small bouquet you’d put together that morning—bright daisies and sprigs of baby’s breath, wrapped in soft brown paper. You always kept a few by the counter, little gestures for the shy customers. “Here,” you offered, holding it out. “On the house. For the rain.”

He stared at the bouquet like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Then at you. The silence stretched until your hand began to tremble, and you almost pulled it back—when he finally reached out. A black leather glove brushed your fingers as he took the flowers from you, and you had to bite down on a startled gasp. “Thank you,” he said, the words careful, deliberate. He pulled a roll of bills from his coat pocket and slid one across the counter. A hundred-dollar bill for a five-dollar bouquet.

“Oh, no—you don’t have to—”

His gaze cut into yours again, silencing you. Not cruel, not harsh. Just… final. “Take it.”

Your throat tightened, and you nodded, tucking the bill away quickly. “Alright. Thank you.”

He didn’t move for a moment. Just stood there, flowers in hand, watching you like he was committing every detail to memory—the tilt of your head, the nervous twitch of your fingers, the way you couldn’t hold his gaze for long. Finally, he gave a small nod, turned, and left. The bell chimed again, the rain swallowing him whole. You stood frozen for a long time, the shop suddenly too quiet, the hundred-dollar bill burning in your apron pocket. You thought it was a one-time thing. Just a stranger passing through on a rainy afternoon.

---

The bell chimed again the next morning, bright against the quiet rustle of petals you were arranging on the counter. You looked up—and nearly dropped the stems in your hands.

It was him.

The man from yesterday. The one who’d filled the shop with his thunderstorm presence, left with daisies and a hundred-dollar bill. He stepped inside like he owned the space, though he said nothing at first. His suit was different today—charcoal instead of black—but the gloves were the same. His eyes swept the shop in that same quick, assessing way before settling on you. You found yourself smiling automatically, though your voice wobbled. “Hello again.”

He nodded once, moving closer. “Morning.”

You fiddled with the ribbon in your hands. “Back for more flowers?”

His mouth twitched, just barely, like the question amused him. “Something like that.”

The air felt charged. You cleared your throat and reached for a bouquet of tulips. “These are fresh today. Spring colors. They’re lovely.”

He didn’t even glance at them. His eyes stayed on you, steady and unreadable. “I’ll take them,” he said.

You wrapped them quickly, fingers fumbling with the paper under the weight of his stare. He laid another bill on the counter—another hundred—for a bouquet worth maybe fifteen.

Your cheeks burned. “Sir, this is too much—”

“Keep it.” His voice left no room for argument.

You tucked the bill away, heartbeat quickening, and slid the bouquet toward him. “Alright. Thank you.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just stood there, flowers in hand, gaze lingering on you. It was different from yesterday—less curious, more deliberate. As if he’d come here with a purpose, and the tulips were only an excuse. Finally, he asked, “what’s your favorite?”

You blinked. “Favorite?”

“Flower.”

“Oh. Um…” You glanced around the shop, suddenly flustered. “Gardenias, I think. They’re… simple, but beautiful.”

He nodded once, filed it away. You could see it in the set of his jaw. Then he turned and left, the bell chiming in his wake. You stared after him, unsettled but oddly warm. The next morning, there was a box of white gardenias sitting on the shop counter when you arrived, no note. But you already knew who had left them.

---

The gardenias weren’t the end. They were the beginning. The next time he came in, he didn’t go straight for the counter. He lingered. Walked slow between the rows of flowers, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting something delicate.

You pretended to be busy, fussing with the stems in a vase, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. He didn’t look like anyone else who came through here—too sharp, too dangerous, too… magnetic. He stopped at the counter at last, resting one gloved hand on the polished wood. “You like gardenias.”

You startled a little. “I do.”

“They suit you.”

Your cheeks warmed. “They’re… simple.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he didn’t agree with the word. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned in just a little, his presence heavy and steady. “What else do you like?”

You blinked. “What else?”

“Food. Music. Where you go when you’re not here.”

Your stomach flipped. The questions weren’t casual, not the way he asked them. His voice was too low, too intent, as though he planned on remembering every answer. You swallowed. “Um… I like reading. I usually just go home after work. I’m… not very exciting.”

Something flickered in his eyes then—something sharp, almost dangerous. “Good.”

You frowned softly. “Good?”

“Means you’re not wasting your time on people who don’t deserve it.” He pushed a bouquet of pale roses toward you. “These. Wrap them.” You obeyed, fingers fumbling with the paper, conscious of his eyes on you the entire time. He paid, again far too much, and lingered a second longer before he finally said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And he did. The days bled into weeks. He became part of your routine, though you never said it out loud. You’d unlock the shop in the morning, set out the displays, and brace yourself for the moment that bell chimed and he walked in.

Sometimes he bought flowers. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just stood there, leaning against the counter, asking you quiet questions about your day. And slowly, the questions became instructions.

“Don’t walk home alone tonight.” “Eat more than just a muffin for lunch.” “Don’t talk to the men who loiter outside.”

You told yourself he was just being kind. Just looking out for you. But when you spotted his black car parked across the street one night, headlights off, and realized he was watching—waiting until you got safely into your apartment—your chest tightened with something you didn’t want to name. The scariest part wasn’t that he was watching. It was how safe you felt knowing he was there.

---

The office smelled like you. Not you exactly—he wasn’t that lucky—but the flowers you touched every day, the ones you told him you loved. Gardenias, roses, tulips, bundles of wild lavender tied up in neat twine. They crowded the corners of his office, spilling over in vases and pitchers, climbing along windowsills that used to be bare.

It was ridiculous. He knew it. The head of the Barnes Syndicate didn’t decorate with flowers. His men were already whispering, smirking behind their hands when they came in for orders and found the place looking more like a garden than a war room.

But he didn’t care. Every stem reminded him of your hands. The way you handled them so gently, trimming, arranging, never rushing. He’d caught himself staring more than once, smiling faintly as if the flowers were your private secret. He wanted to burn the image into his skull.

“Boss?” Bucky glanced up from the papers on his desk. Natasha stood in the doorway, sunglasses hooked on her shirt, one brow raised. Her eyes flicked over the room—the gardenias on the shelf, the tulips by the window, the roses near his chair. “You planning on opening your own shop?” she asked dryly.

“Shut up.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple with his metal hand.

Natasha smirked, stepping inside and dropping a file on his desk. “You’re getting soft. All this for a girl who sells daisies.”

His jaw tightened. “Careful, Romanoff.”

“I’m not saying it’s bad,” she countered, folding her arms. “I’m saying you’re obvious. Half the crew knows you’ve got a flower girl now.”

He stilled. The words hit something sharp in his chest. “She’s not—” He stopped. His voice dropped low, darker. “She’s mine.”

Natasha tilted her head. “Does she know that?”

His eyes narrowed, blue hard as ice. “She will.” The room went quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside.

Bucky reached over, plucked one of the gardenias from the vase, and turned it slowly in his fingers. He remembered the way your face lit up when you told him they were your favorite. That soft smile. The little stammer in your voice when he leaned too close.

The world was chaos, betrayal, blood. He’d spent his whole life building walls of steel and shadow. But you—your shop, your quiet, your kindness—were untouched by it. And he wasn’t about to let anyone, anything, change that.

“Make sure the shop’s covered,” he said finally, voice flat with command. “No one bothers her. Not a single soul.”

Natasha studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Understood.”

When she left, Bucky leaned back in his chair, the flower still turning in his hand. He should’ve felt stupid, surrounded by petals and stems. But all he felt was calmer, steadier, knowing some piece of you was in his world now. He wanted more. He’d take more.

---

The bell chimed, right on time. You were bent over the counter trimming stems when his shadow crossed the shop. You didn’t even need to look up anymore—you knew the weight of his presence, the way the air seemed to shift when he walked in. “Morning,” you said softly, glancing up with a small smile.

His eyes warmed just enough for only you to notice. “Morning, doll.” The nickname slipped out as if it had been waiting on his tongue. You blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t correct him. That alone sent something hot curling in his chest.

He moved toward the display of carnations but didn’t so much as glance at them. He was looking at you—always you. The flowers were a thin excuse by now, and you both knew it. “What’d you eat for breakfast?” he asked suddenly, voice low, casual only on the surface.

You hesitated, trimming another stem. “Just… coffee.”

He frowned, a line cutting between his brows. “That’s not breakfast.”

“It’s fine—”

“No.” His voice had that edge again, quiet steel that brooked no argument. He leaned on the counter, closer than before. “You need more than that.”

You bit your lip, looking down at the stems. “I wasn’t really hungry.”

His jaw flexed. He straightened, pulling out his phone. “What do you like? Pastries? Eggs?”

“Bucky, you don’t have to—”

“I asked what you like.” His tone softened, but it was no less insistent.

You murmured something about croissants before you could stop yourself, and he was already typing. Ten minutes later, a man you’d never seen before slipped inside, dropped off a white bag with a bakery logo, and left without a word. Bucky nudged it toward you. “Eat.”

You blinked. “You… you just had someone bring this—?”

“Of course I did.” His eyes softened again, watching you like you might vanish if he looked away. “You think I’m gonna let you starve?”

Your cheeks burned. You opened the bag and pulled out a still-warm croissant. His gaze followed every movement as you took a shy bite. “Good girl,” he murmured, almost to himself, but you heard it, and the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Later, in his office, Natasha raised an unimpressed brow when another delivery came in—this time boxes of delicate pastries stacked beside the flowers. “You feeding her now too?” she asked, smirking.

Bucky didn’t look up from his paperwork. “She doesn’t eat right.”

“You checked?”

“I asked.” His pen stilled. He glanced at the gardenias on the windowsill, the new croissant bag on his desk. His voice dropped, quiet, certain. “She’s mine to take care of.”

Natasha leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching. “You sure it’s not the other way around?”

But Bucky didn’t answer. He was already reaching for his phone again, thumb hovering over your number he hadn’t even asked for—but had anyway.

---

The bell had barely gone silent when you heard it: the click of heavy footsteps against the wet sidewalk. You turned the shop’s sign to closed and reached for your keys, glancing out through the window. He was leaning against a lamppost across the street, hands in his coat pockets, suit jacket darkened slightly at the shoulders from the drizzle. Your breath caught. Bucky didn’t wave. He didn’t call out. He just waited. The way a mountain waits—immovable, unbothered by the storm.

You stepped outside hesitantly, locking the door behind you. “Are you… waiting for someone?”

“For you,” he said simply, pushing off the lamppost.

Your fingers tightened around your keys. “Bucky, you don’t have to—”

“Doll,” he interrupted, falling into step beside you before you could finish. “It’s dark. You think I’m gonna let you walk home alone?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the weight of his presence swallowed the words. He wasn’t touching you, but somehow he filled the space around you completely. The streets were quiet, rain slicking the pavement. You tried to ignore the way his stride matched yours, the way his eyes scanned every shadowed alley and passing car like they were threats only he could see. “Do you do this often?” you asked softly.

“Do what?”

“Walk women home.”

His jaw tightened. “No. Just you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. At your building, you fumbled with the keys, aware of his eyes on the back of your neck. When you finally got the door open, you turned to him. “Thank you. But really… you don’t need to go out of your way.”

He leaned one hand against the doorframe, caging you in without touching. His gaze held yours, steady and unyielding. “This is my way,” he said quietly. “You’re not out here without me again. Understand?” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t even harsh. But there was no mistaking them for anything but a command. You swallowed hard, nodding before you could think better of it. His eyes softened then, the steel melting to something warmer. He dipped his head, brushing his lips against your temple, a ghost of a kiss. “Good girl.”

And just like that, he stepped back into the rain, leaving you breathless in the doorway, your heart pounding too hard to ignore.

It became a ritual. You didn’t even question it anymore—when the bell above your shop chimed closed for the night, he would be there. Always. A dark figure leaning against the lamppost, waiting to fall into step beside you. He didn’t ask if you wanted the company, and you didn’t ask why he bothered. The silence between you was enough.

That night, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and glowing under the yellow streetlights. You walked side by side, the only sound the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement.

You tried not to look at him too often, but it was impossible not to notice the way his hand would occasionally flex at his side—as if itching to touch you but holding back.

As you passed a small boutique on the corner, something in the window caught your eye. You slowed without meaning to, gaze snagged by the display: a delicate glass lamp, its shade painted with tiny pressed flowers. Soft light glowed inside, warm and golden, spilling petals and stems across the glass like a garden frozen in time.

It was beautiful. For half a second, you let yourself imagine it on your nightstand. The way the light would spill across your room, soft and comforting. The way you could fall asleep beside it, safe. But the thought made your chest ache. You dropped your gaze quickly and kept walking, quickening your pace until you matched him again. He said nothing, just glanced once at the boutique window before his eyes slid back to you.

At your building, he stopped as always, waited until you were safely inside. You whispered a soft “goodnight,” and he lingered a moment longer before vanishing back into the shadows.

You thought nothing more of it. The next morning, when you opened your shop, the lamp was waiting on the counter. The exact same one. You froze in the doorway, keys clutched in your hand. There was no note, no explanation. Just the lamp, plugged in and glowing faintly in the early light, casting warm petals across the shop walls.

Your breath caught, throat tight. The bell chimed, and he walked in. Calm. Steady. Like he hadn’t done anything at all. Your eyes snapped to him. “Bucky… did you—”

He set a paper bag on the counter. You caught the smell before you even peeked inside—croissants, still warm. He leaned one hand on the wood, watching your face. “You liked it,” he said simply. Not a question. A fact.

Your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” His eyes softened, but there was steel in them too—an unwavering certainty that made your heart stutter. “You want something, doll, you get it. That’s how this works.”

You swallowed hard, glancing at the lamp again. Its soft light seemed to fill the whole shop with a kind of warmth you didn’t know how to accept. “I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice lowered, a command wrapped in velvet. He reached across the counter, brushing his fingers against yours just long enough to make your pulse trip. “Don’t hide from me. If you want something, I’ll know.”

He left you standing there, the lamp glowing at your side, the croissants still warm in the bag, your heart pounding too loud for the quiet shop. And you realized something terrifying and undeniable, he was watching. Always watching.

---

The lamp glowed soft and golden on the counter, petals painted across its glass shade, when you finally found the courage to speak. He was there again, leaning his weight into the wood as if the whole shop belonged to him. His gloves were off this time, thick hands resting easily against the surface, blue eyes pinned to you in that steady, unblinking way that always left you a little breathless.

But today, the warmth in your chest twisted into something sharper. “You can’t keep doing this.”

His head tilted just slightly. “Doing what, doll?”

“This.” You gestured to the lamp, to the bag of pastries he’d brought without asking. “Showing up every day. Buying things I didn’t ask for. Acting like…” Your voice wavered, but you forced it out. “Like you own me.” Silence dropped between you, heavy and sudden.

No one ever told him no. No one ever raised their voice to him, not his men, not the people who feared his name. He could see your fingers trembling where they gripped the counter, but you still held his stare. The corner of his mouth twitched—something between amusement and disbelief. “Own you?”

“Yes.” Your throat felt tight, but you pushed on. “You don’t ask me out. You don’t… talk to me like a normal person would. You just decide things. You decide to walk me home. You decide I don’t eat enough. You decide I want a lamp. And I—” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t agree to any of it.”

For the first time since he’d stepped into your life, he looked caught off guard. Just for a flicker of a second, his eyes widened, like the ground beneath him had shifted. Then the surprise hardened into something else. His voice dropped, low and even. “You think I don’t know how to ask? You think I don’t know how to take a girl to dinner, buy her flowers, wait for her to say yes?”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, leaning closer, his gaze like ice and fire all at once. “I don’t do that with you because I don’t want to give you the option to say no. I don’t want you to walk away. I couldn’t stand it if you did.”

Your breath hitched. He exhaled slowly, raking a hand back through his hair. For a moment, he looked almost… raw. “You don’t get it. You’re already mine. Always were, the second you looked at me with those soft eyes and handed me daisies like I wasn’t a monster.” His gloved hand brushed the lamp, a subtle reminder. “You think I do all this because I don’t know how to court you? I do it because I can’t stand the thought of you needing something and not having it. Because I want to see you safe. Fed. Smiling.” His voice broke on that last word, just barely.

Your heart pounded so hard you swore he could hear it. You should’ve been terrified. And maybe you were. But under the steel in his voice was something else—something aching and desperate. Still, you held your ground, even if your voice shook. “Then ask me. Like a person. Not like… this.”

The room went still again. He studied you for a long, tense beat, and you could see the war in his eyes—control versus obsession, command versus care. Finally, his lips curved into something softer, almost rueful. He leaned in close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. “Fine, doll. I’ll ask.” His voice was rough, but there was a flicker of something new in it. “Dinner. Tonight. With me.”

The way he said it still didn’t sound like a question, but for the first time, you knew he was trying. And that unsettled you more than anything else.

---

Dinner with Bucky wasn’t what you expected. He came to the shop just before closing, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair combed back, his usual gloves on. He didn’t wait for you to lock up—he did it himself, sliding the key from your fingers with a quiet, “I’ll take care of it.”

The car waiting outside wasn’t the same sleek black one you’d seen lurking near your building before. This one was even darker, windows tinted, the kind of vehicle that made people cross the street when it pulled up. He opened the door for you, and his hand lingered on your lower back as you climbed inside.

The restaurant was one of those places you’d only seen in magazines—low lights, white tablecloths, the quiet murmur of money in every corner. The maître d’ didn’t even ask for a name; he bowed and led you straight to a private table at the back.

You shifted uncomfortably as you sat, smoothing the fabric of your dress. You hadn’t had time to change, still in the simple sundress you wore to work. Compared to the glittering couples around you, you felt out of place. But Bucky leaned back in his chair, eyes on you like there was no one else in the room. “You look perfect.”

Your cheeks warmed. “You didn’t even let me change.”

His mouth curved in that faint, dangerous smile. “Didn’t want to give you the chance to run.”

You frowned, half-playful, half-serious. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.” He poured you a glass of wine himself, ignoring the hovering waiter. “If I let you walk away, you’d start thinking too much. You’d talk yourself out of me. And I can’t have that.”

You looked at him, really looked. The way his metal fingers tapped lightly against the stem of his glass. The way his eyes stayed fixed on you, hungry and unblinking. “Bucky…” you whispered. “You don’t even know me.”

His jaw tightened. “I know enough.”

“That’s not the same.”

He leaned forward then, voice dropping. “I know you hate crowds but love little kids buying flowers for their moms. I know you hum to yourself when you sweep up the petals at night. I know you wear that same sundress every Wednesday because it makes you feel put-together.”

You blinked, startled. “You—”

“I pay attention.” His gaze softened, but the edge in his voice stayed. “More than anyone else ever has. Tell me I’m wrong.” You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your pulse raced under your skin. He reached across the table, taking your hand gently but firmly in his, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “I might not have asked the right way before. But I’m asking now. Let me have this. Let me have you.”

Your breath caught once again. The waiter appeared with menus, but Bucky didn’t even look at his. His eyes stayed on you, unwavering, as if the answer was the only thing that mattered. “Order something,” he said, tone clipped, smooth, the way he probably gave orders to his men.

You blinked, lowering your gaze to the menu. “You could say please, you know.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “I just did.”

“No, you told me,” you said quietly, the edge of a shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Telling isn’t asking.” That made him still. His head tilted, studying you as if you’d just spoken in another language. No one corrected him. No one pushed back. Certainly no one teased him. You turned a page in the menu, forcing your shoulders to stay loose, though your pulse hammered. “If you want me to do something, maybe try asking. Like a normal person.”

For a long beat, his eyes stayed locked on you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. You thought you’d pushed too far—until the corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Normal, huh?” His voice dropped low, velvet-dark. He leaned across the table just slightly, one hand resting near yours. “Alright, doll. What would please you tonight? Salmon? Steak? Or do you want me to ask sweeter?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it is.” His thumb brushed across your knuckles, light but deliberate. “You want me to say the words. ‘Please, sweetheart, pick something so I can watch you enjoy it.’ That what you want?”

You swallowed hard, caught between flustered and indignant. “It wouldn’t kill you to try it.”

For a long moment, he just watched you, silent, eyes burning into yours. Then, softly, deliberately, “please, doll. Order something. For me.”

Your lips parted in surprise. The weight of the words, the fact that he’d said them—not barked, not commanded—hit you harder than it should have. You ducked your head quickly, hiding your flush in the menu. “Okay,” you murmured, finally pointing to something on the page.

His grin widened, wolfish, triumphant. He sat back in his chair, content now, as if coaxing that small concession from you meant more than anything else on the table. But you caught the way his eyes lingered, sharp and possessive, even when his voice had softened. Like no matter how politely he phrased it, he still thought the end result was the same: you, bending to him. And part of you wondered if you minded as much as you should.

The dinner stretched on in a haze of soft light and low voices. The waiter came and went, but Bucky barely acknowledged him—every ounce of his attention stayed fixed on you. He did try, though. You could see it in the way he caught himself before giving another clipped order, the way he reshaped his words into something that almost sounded like a request. “Try the wine, doll,” he started to say, then stopped himself. His eyes softened, a little sheepish for once. “Would you… please try the wine?”

You bit your lip to hide a smile, lifting the glass to your lips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

He chuckled low in his chest, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it.”

But he kept doing it. Through dinner, through dessert, through the awkward-lovely rhythm of you teasing and him adjusting. He was clumsy at it, but he tried—for you. When the plates were cleared and the check was slipped onto the table, and ignored by him, you expected him to take you straight home. Instead, he offered his hand as you slid from your chair, steady and warm at the small of your back as he guided you out into the cool night. The city hummed around you—cars hissing down wet streets, neon signs buzzing faintly in the dark. You walked together in silence for a while, his stride matching yours, his hand never quite leaving your back.

Finally, you glanced up at him. “You really don’t ask for things, do you?”

He looked down at you, brow furrowing slightly. “I do now.”

“You tell me what I’m eating, what I’m wearing, when I should go home—”

“Because you don’t look after yourself the way you should,” he cut in, voice steady, but softer than usual.

“That’s not the same as asking,” you insisted, your tone gentle but firm. “You keep saying I’m yours. But you never asked me if I wanted to be.”

That stopped him cold. His steps slowed, then stilled entirely. He turned to face you fully, the glow of a nearby streetlamp carving hard shadows across his jaw. No one ever pushed him like this. Not his men. Not his enemies. And yet here you were, standing there in your simple dress, looking at him with those soft eyes that had undone him from the start—and daring to tell him no.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. His jaw worked, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand. His voice was low, rough-edged, but stripped of command. “Do you?”

You blinked. “Do I what?”

“Want to be mine.”

The words were plain. Honest. Asked, not ordered. Your heart lurched, caught between fear and something warmer, heavier. You didn’t answer right away, and you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip on your hand tightened as if bracing for rejection. But you didn’t pull away. You held on. “I don’t know yet,” you admitted softly. “But if you keep asking instead of telling… maybe I’ll figure it out.”

The silence between you stretched, charged and alive. Then, for the first time in longer than he could remember, Bucky let out a breath that wasn’t weighted with control or calculation. He brought your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles once, reverent. “Then I’ll ask,” he murmured. “As many times as it takes.” And when he walked you home that night, he didn’t touch your back, didn’t cage you in with his presence. He just walked beside you, his hand holding yours, as though that was enough.

The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual. His hand stayed in yours, heavy, grounding, but he didn’t say anything more after that promise. The city’s neon glow flickered across the wet pavement, painting the silence in color. At your building, you stopped at the door, fingers brushing the keys in your pocket. He didn’t reach for them this time, didn’t lean against the frame and cage you in. He just stood there, watching you. You hesitated, then looked up at him. “Are you… coming in?”

His jaw worked once. You saw the war in his eyes—possession urging him to say yes, control telling him to wait. For the first time, he looked almost… uncertain. “I want to,” he admitted, voice low, rough. “But I’ll ask. Do you want me to?”

Your chest tightened. The way he said it—like the words were foreign, dragged out of him against instinct—made something inside you ache. You shook your head gently. “Not tonight.”

For a flicker of a second, you thought he’d argue. That steel-blue stare locked on yours, intense enough to burn. But then he nodded once, sharp and deliberate, like it cost him something. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Not tonight.”

You slipped inside, heart pounding, and leaned against the door after you closed it. His shadow lingered on the other side, unmoving, until you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.

The next morning, the bell chimed right on time. You looked up from the counter and there he was again—sharp suit, gloves, eyes only for you. But there was something different about him. The usual possessive certainty was still there, but now it was tempered, measured. He set a small bundle on the counter—gardenias again, perfectly fresh. But this time, he didn’t say take them. Instead, he watched you closely, voice low. “Do you want them?”

Your lips parted. You blinked, then smiled softly, shy but certain. “Yes.”

His shoulders eased, just barely. He nodded once, satisfied, though the glint in his eyes still promised he’d never stop wanting to give you more than you asked for. And as you placed the gardenias in a vase by the window, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. He was still the storm hovering over your quiet life—but now he was learning how to ask before he struck.

---

The bell chimed when you left the shop that Sunday morning, keys tucked into your pocket and your bag over your shoulder. The sun was out for once, the kind of warm golden light that made the city feel softer, less sharp around the edges. You’d planned on wandering down to the farmer’s market, picking up fresh bread and maybe some fruit for the week.

You weren’t surprised when you felt him before you saw him. Bucky fell into step beside you like he always did, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the street. He didn’t say he’d been waiting, but he didn’t have to. “Going somewhere?” he asked, voice low and even.

“The farmer’s market,” you said. “Do you… want to come?”

It slipped out before you could stop it. You weren’t sure why you offered—maybe because it felt strange to keep pretending you didn’t see him watching you. Maybe because part of you wanted to see what he was like outside your shop, outside dim restaurants and shadowed sidewalks. His lips twitched, just slightly. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

The market was buzzing with people—kids tugging at their parents’ hands, couples wandering between stalls, vendors calling out prices. The air smelled of warm bread and herbs, the kind of scent that made you feel like the city wasn’t so heavy after all. Bucky stuck close, but not in the looming, possessive way he usually did. Today he just walked beside you, his broad frame making space for you in the crowd. He looked… normal. Or as normal as a man like him could look.

You stopped at a bakery stall, eyeing the fresh loaves stacked high. “These are always gone by the afternoon,” you explained, pulling a bill from your bag. Before you could hand it over, Bucky passed cash to the vendor instead, his gloved hand steady.

“Bucky—”

“Don’t argue,” he said softly, almost smiling. “Consider it me asking.”

You rolled your eyes but accepted the bread, and his smile deepened like he’d won something. At the flower stall—of course there was a flower stall—you noticed his gaze linger on you as you inspected the bouquets. For once, you didn’t feel self-conscious. You just let yourself enjoy it. Then you spotted a row of little jars at another table a few stalls away—local honey, the labels hand-painted with tiny bees. Without thinking, you grabbed his arm, tugging him along. “Come on, look at these—”

You let go as soon as you reached the stall, too focused on the honey jars to notice the way he froze for half a second when your hand touched him. His gaze dropped to where your fingers had been, his jaw tightening. He didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. But the weight of that touch lingered in his chest, hot and heavy, long after you’d pulled away. You picked out a jar, holding it up with a little smile. “Isn’t this cute?”

He nodded slowly, but his eyes weren’t on the honey. They were still on you, watching the way your face lit up in the sunlight, the way you smiled without thinking. And for once, he didn’t feel like the man everyone feared. He just felt like a man walking through a market with a girl who made him want things he’d forgotten he could have.

The market felt different with him beside you. Normally, you drifted through the stalls without much notice—just another face in the crowd—but with Bucky there, people stepped out of the way. Vendors straightened. Conversations dipped quiet for a moment before picking up again. You pretended not to notice, but you did. And so did he. His hand brushed the small of your back once or twice, subtle but guiding, as though keeping you in his orbit. At a food stall, the scent of frying dough pulled you in. You lingered over the handwritten sign—fresh fritters dusted in sugar—and before you could even reach for your bag, Bucky was already paying. “You don’t have to keep buying everything,” you said, exasperated but a little amused.

He handed you the warm paper bag, eyes steady. “I know. I want to.”

You bit into a fritter, the crunch giving way to soft, sweet warmth. A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. Bucky’s eyes softened. He didn’t take one for himself—he just watched you, like the sight of your smile was enough. You found a bench near the edge of the market, shaded by a tree. Sitting side by side, you let the crowd blur into background noise. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then you glanced at him, curious. “So… what do you do?”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Why?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve been… spending time together. You know a lot about me, but I don’t know much about you.”

His jaw tightened, as if weighing how much to say. Finally, he leaned back against the bench, gaze fixed on the crowd instead of you. “I run things. Businesses. Keep people in line.”

“That’s… vague,” you said carefully.

He huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. Vague’s safer.”

You studied him for a moment, the sharp set of his shoulders, the way he scanned the people moving through the market like he was cataloging threats. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… something. Something real.”

His eyes flicked back to you then, and for a beat, the weight of his stare pinned you in place. “Something real?”

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a long time, then finally said, “I don’t sleep much. When I do, I keep the lights on. Always have.”

You blinked, surprised at the intimacy of the admission. He hadn’t given you facts about his work, but he’d given you something raw instead. Something closer to the truth. You nodded softly. “That’s… real.”

His shoulders eased, just slightly. The silence stretched again, but it felt different this time—warmer, less guarded. You shifted, brushing sugar from your fingers, and without thinking, offered him the last fritter from the bag. He didn’t take it right away. He just looked at you, eyes flicking down to your hand, then back to your face. Finally, he reached for it, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. “Thank you.” The words were simple, but they carried weight.

As you sat there together, sharing sugared dough in the sunlight, you realized this felt almost like a normal second date. Almost. And though you didn’t notice it, he did—the way your shoulders leaned just slightly toward him, the way your knee brushed his. To anyone else, it was nothing. But to Bucky, it was everything.

The walk back from the market felt easier than you expected. Maybe it was the sunlight softening the edges of the city, maybe it was the paper bag of warm bread under your arm, or maybe it was simply that Bucky wasn’t looming as much as usual.

He carried most of the weight without asking—jars of honey, bundles of herbs, a carton of fresh eggs balanced in one hand. He hadn’t made a show of it; the moment you’d started to juggle too many things, he’d quietly relieved you of them. “You don’t have to carry everything,” you said, hugging the bread close to your chest.

“I want to,” he answered simply. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, “besides, you’re terrible at hiding how heavy it is.”

You ducked your head, a little embarrassed, but the teasing softened the moment instead of sharpening it. The streets thinned as you left the crowded stalls behind. For once, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop to admire the painted mural on a corner building, the stray cat curled in a sunbeam on the stoop. His gaze followed everything you touched with your eyes, memorizing it silently. “You seem… different today,” you said after a while, glancing at him.

“How so?”

“Less…” You searched for the word. “Commanding. More like…” You gestured at the bags in his hands. “This. Normal.”

He was quiet for a beat, then let out a low breath. “Maybe I just wanted to see what it feels like. Doing this with you.”

You blinked. “Feels like what?”

“Like I’m not who I am,” he said, eyes straight ahead. “Like I could just… be a man walking home from the market with his girl.”

Your steps faltered. He noticed immediately, his head turning, sharp blue eyes locking onto you. But he didn’t backtrack. He let the words hang there, bare and heavy. You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you shifted the bread under your arm and kept walking. As you reached your building, you touched the edge of his sleeve lightly, without thinking, to slow him. “Thank you,” you said softly.

“For what?”

“For coming with me. For trying.”

His gaze softened, more than you’d ever seen. He leaned down just slightly, his voice quiet, meant for you alone. “I’d try for you, doll. Always.”

He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t push. He just pressed the bags into your hands and waited until you were inside, standing guard in the shadow of your building until the door closed. And though you couldn’t see him, he stayed there for a long time, staring at the place where your fingers had brushed his arm, replaying it like a man clutching his first breath after drowning.

---

The weeks passed quietly, the rhythm of your little flower shop unchanged in all the familiar ways and altered in one very specific one. The bell still chimed at odd intervals, children still pressed coins into your palm for bouquets for their mothers, and old women still lingered at the counter to gossip. But now, James “Bucky” Barnes was a fixture.

He came every day. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes at closing, sometimes both. At first, he’d only bought flowers. Now, more often than not, he was simply there—watching, asking you questions in that low voice of his, or taking up a quiet corner of the shop where his looming presence managed to make the whole space feel smaller.

What surprised you most was how quickly he adapted to your routines. One evening, as you were dragging a heavy bucket of water toward the back room, you heard a faint scrape. When you looked up, Bucky was already carrying it with one hand, like it weighed nothing. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he said when you frowned at him.

“I’ve been doing this for years,” you reminded him.

“Not anymore,” he replied, setting the bucket down and fixing you with that firm stare that made arguments slip off your tongue.

After that, he just started doing things. Sweeping up petals after closing. Refilling water vases. Straightening displays. The strangest sight of all was him in his immaculate suit, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully trimming stems with the clumsy concentration of a man who had never held shears before. You caught yourself smiling one evening when he leaned too hard on the broom and nearly knocked over a pail of carnations. “What’s funny?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.

“You’re… bad at this,” you admitted, covering your mouth with your hand.

His lips twitched as though fighting a grin. “Maybe. But I don’t mind being bad at something if it’s for you.”

That made your chest tighten. Later, when he tried to lock up the shop himself, you shook your head. “You can’t just decide things, Bucky. You have to ask.”

He paused with the key in his hand, blue eyes sharp on yours. “Ask?”

“Yes. Like a normal person.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, silent. Then, with the barest hint of a smile, “may I lock up for you, doll?”

You blinked, heat rising in your cheeks, before nodding slowly. “Yes.”

He turned the key with a satisfied twist, and though he said nothing more, the look in his eyes told you he was storing that moment away, filing it under things he would never forget.

And that became the new pattern. The man everyone else feared—the man you still didn’t fully understand—swept floors and carried buckets in your flower shop. Not because you asked him to, but because he wanted to. Because it meant being near you, being part of your world, even if it meant stumbling through tasks that had nothing to do with his.

---

The idea came to you while restocking vases one quiet afternoon. Bucky had settled himself on the stool by the counter, jacket draped over the backrest, sleeves rolled up as he trimmed stems with more concentration than skill. It was still strange seeing him like that—this man who radiated danger, carefully adjusting the angle of scissors to keep a daisy neat. “You’re free tomorrow, right?” you asked, keeping your tone casual.

His head lifted, blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”

You hesitated, fingers brushing water from your palms. “There’s an exhibit at the museum. I thought… maybe you’d like to go with me.”

Silence. You felt suddenly foolish. Of course a man like him wouldn’t want to wander through quiet halls, looking at paintings. You opened your mouth to take it back, but he spoke first. “When?”

You blinked. “Noon?”

He nodded once, decisive. “I’ll pick you up.”

The museum was quieter than the farmer’s market, but no less alive. Families moved from gallery to gallery, tourists snapped photos, students sat on the floor sketching. You bought tickets at the front desk, and when you glanced over, Bucky was already scanning the lobby like it was a threat he had to neutralize. “You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you teased gently.

“I don’t like crowds,” he admitted, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Too many hands. Too many eyes.”

You offered him a small smile. “Then just look at me instead.”

Something flickered across his face at that—something raw and unguarded—before his expression smoothed again. He followed you into the first gallery without a word. The space was filled with soft light and framed canvases, oil paintings that stretched from floor to ceiling. You paused before one, studying the brushstrokes, and realized after a moment that he wasn’t looking at the painting. He was watching you. “You’re supposed to look at the art,” you said, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“I am,” he replied.

Heat crept up your neck, and you busied yourself reading the plaque beside the painting. As you moved from gallery to gallery, he stayed close, his hand brushing your back whenever the crowd grew too thick. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it surprised you. He had opinions—sharp, quiet observations about color, about shadow, about how one painting seemed “lonely” while another looked like “noise trapped in a frame.” His voice was low, thoughtful, nothing like the clipped commands he usually gave.

You stole glances at him while he studied the paintings. He didn’t fidget, didn’t check his watch or his phone. He looked, really looked, the same way he looked at you in the shop—like he was memorizing every detail.

At one point, you wandered ahead into a side gallery where a massive sculpture stood under a skylight. You stopped, tilting your head, trying to make sense of the twisting stone form. A moment later, his shadow fell across yours. Without thinking, you reached back and caught his hand, tugging him closer. “What do you think this is supposed to be?”

His hand stayed in yours, warm and steady. He didn’t pull away, didn’t tease. He just let you hold him, his gaze dropping briefly to where your fingers curled against his before answering. “Doesn’t matter what it’s supposed to be,” he said quietly. “Matters what you see in it.”

You didn’t even realize you were still holding his hand until you let go to gesture at the sculpture, your cheeks heating. He didn’t comment, though his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary. By the time you stepped back into the sunlight outside, the afternoon was waning. He carried the museum’s little pamphlet in one hand, folded neatly, like it was something precious. “Thank you,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself. “For coming.”

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “You ask, I’ll come.” And though his voice was steady, you couldn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his side—like he was resisting the urge to reach for yours again.

The walk home after the museum felt different than any other evening you’d shared with him. Maybe it was the soft glow of the setting sun bouncing off the buildings, or maybe it was the quiet between you—comfortable, not weighted the way it usually was.

You carried a little bag from the gift shop, a postcard print of your favorite painting tucked inside. He’d insisted on buying it when you lingered too long at the rack, ignoring your protests. Now it swung lightly from your fingers as the two of you turned down your street. He stayed close, as always, scanning shadows and corners. But he wasn’t tense. Not like usual. His shoulders looked looser, his jaw softer, as if he’d finally let himself breathe for once. At your building, you stopped at the door. He reached for the key the way he always did, but this time you didn’t hand it over. Instead, you turned it yourself, then hesitated. When you looked up at him, he was watching you, waiting. “Do you…” You bit your lip, suddenly nervous. “Do you want to come in?”

For a flicker of a moment, something raw crossed his face—surprise, then hunger, then something softer. His eyes searched yours as though trying to find a trick hidden there. “You sure?” His voice was low, almost rough. He was asking, not telling.

You nodded, stepping inside and holding the door open. He followed, quiet as a shadow, and the door clicked shut behind him. Your apartment wasn’t much—small, cozy, smelling faintly of lavender and bread. A few books stacked on the coffee table, a blanket draped over the couch, a vase of flowers by the window. His eyes swept the space once, but not with the sharp calculation you were used to. This time it looked like he was… curious. Taking in the pieces of your life he hadn’t been able to reach until now. You slipped off your shoes and gestured awkwardly. “It’s not much, but… it’s home.”

He stepped further in, silent for a moment, before his gaze found the vase by the window. White gardenias, still fresh, but starting to droop a little. “You kept them,” he murmured.

“Of course,” you said softly.

Something shifted in his expression then, subtle but undeniable. His shoulders eased even more, and when he finally sat down on the couch—careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb anything—he looked almost human. Almost ordinary. You brought him a glass of water, and he accepted it with a quiet, “thank you,” fingers brushing yours deliberately. The lamp he’d given you glowed faintly in the corner, casting its warm petals of light across the room. He noticed, of course. His eyes lingered on it for a long moment before he turned back to you. “Feels like you,” he said.

You tilted your head. “What does?”

“This place. The light. The quiet. All of it.” He leaned back into the couch, watching you with that same intensity he always did, but softer now. “I like it.”

Bucky didn’t sit like a guest. He sat like he belonged there, broad shoulders sinking carefully into your couch, his hand resting heavy on his knee. The lamplight painted him in soft gold, blunting the sharpness of his jaw, but nothing could dull the intensity of his eyes. They tracked you as you moved—setting the bread on the counter, tidying the little bag from the museum gift shop, fussing with nothing at all just to give your hands something to do.

You finally settled across from him, tucking your legs under yourself. He was too large for your space, all dark edges against your quiet home, and yet… he didn’t look out of place. Not anymore. “You’re quiet,” you said softly.

“I like it here,” he answered simply. His gaze flicked around the room again—the flowers on the sill, the stack of books on your table, the blanket folded neatly over the back of a chair. “Feels like you.”

Your lips curved, though you tried to hide it. “That’s because it is me. It’s my space.”

He studied you then, blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You let me in.”

The weight of those words settled heavy between you. He didn’t sound surprised. More like he was… marveling at it. Testing the shape of the truth on his tongue. “I trust you,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

His jaw tightened. His hand flexed once on his knee. “You shouldn’t,” he said, voice low, raw. “Not with me.”

The honesty in his tone chilled you, but it also pulled at something deeper. You leaned forward, resting your arms on your knees. “Then tell me why.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, like he was deciding whether or not to let you see past the walls he kept so carefully built. Then he shifted, elbows on his thighs, leaning closer. “Because I don’t stop. Once I want something—once I want you—I don’t let go.”

Your breath caught, heat rising to your cheeks. But instead of recoiling, you held his gaze. “Then maybe you should ask me if I mind.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you?”

You hesitated, heart pounding, before whispering, “no.”

The silence that followed was thick, humming with unspoken things. He leaned back slowly, the tension in his body still coiled tight, but his expression softened—just barely. “Good,” he murmured.

You didn’t know what possessed you then, but you rose and crossed to the kitchen, pouring him another glass of water, setting it down beside him like it was the most natural thing. He accepted it without breaking eye contact, his metal fingers brushing yours deliberately.

The night stretched longer, the city outside dimming into quiet. At some point, you found yourself curled in the chair across from him, head resting against your hand, listening as he told you little things—not about business, never that, but about the food he liked, the places he couldn’t stand, the way he hated the sound of clocks ticking. Small truths, but truths nonetheless.

When he finally stood to leave, it was later than you realized. He lingered at the door, one hand braced against the frame. “Next time,” he said softly, “I’ll stay.”

You didn’t argue. When the door closed behind him, your apartment still felt full. Heavy with his presence. And when you went to bed, the lamp he’d given you cast its warm glow across the room, reminding you that letting him in once meant you’d never be rid of him again.

The next night, he didn’t wait on the street. You closed up shop, locked the door, and there he was—already leaning against the brick wall, arms folded across his chest. The way he looked at you made the air feel heavy, like he’d been waiting for this moment all day. “Come on,” he said quietly, falling into step beside you.

The walk to your apartment was silent, but not tense. His hand brushed yours once or twice, and though he didn’t take it, you felt the weight of restraint in every step he took. When you unlocked your door and pushed it open, you hesitated. He didn’t ask this time. He didn’t have to. The question was in his eyes, and the answer was already in yours. “Stay,” you said softly.

Something uncoiled in him at that word, something he’d been holding too tightly. He stepped inside without hesitation, shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of your chair like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Your apartment filled with him—his size, his presence, the faint spice of his cologne. You made tea because it gave your hands something to do, and when you handed him a mug, his fingers brushed yours deliberately, lingering just long enough to make your pulse trip. He sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched. He drank the tea like he wasn’t used to it, sipping carefully, his eyes never leaving you. “Feels different,” he murmured after a while.

“What does?”

“This. Here. With you.” His gaze flicked around the apartment, then back to you. “It’s quiet. No one watching. No one waiting on me. Just… you.”

Your chest tightened. “Is that what you want?”

His jaw flexed. He set the mug down, metal fingers tapping once against the porcelain. “Yeah. More than I should.”

The silence stretched. You shifted under his stare, then finally leaned back against the couch, letting your shoulder brush his. He stilled at the contact, then eased, as if the world had just given him permission to breathe. The hours slipped by. You talked about nothing—books, music, the weather—and sometimes you didn’t talk at all. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, warm, almost domestic. When the clock ticked past midnight, you stifled a yawn. His head turned instantly, eyes narrowing. “You’re tired.”

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice was drowsy.

He stood, towering over you, then offered his hand. “Bed,” he said.

You arched a brow, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Excuse me?”

His mouth curved faintly. “To sleep, doll. I’ll take the couch.”

You hesitated, then nodded, leading him toward the small bedroom. He didn’t linger, didn’t push. He just pulled the blanket up to your chin once you were settled, his hand brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your throat ache. “Sleep,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes, the glow of the lamp warm against the walls, and the last thing you felt was the weight of his presence just outside the door—silent, steady, keeping watch.

The smell of coffee pulled you awake before the sunlight did. For a moment, you thought you were dreaming—the rich, dark aroma, the soft clink of ceramic from your kitchen—but when you sat up, the lamp still glowed faintly on your nightstand, and the blanket tucked under your chin smelled faintly of his cologne.

You padded quietly to the doorway, pausing when you saw him. Bucky stood at the counter, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he poured steaming coffee into your favorite mug. His jacket was still draped over the back of the chair from last night, his sleeves rolled up again. On the counter beside him was a loaf of bread you’d bought at the market, neatly sliced into even pieces, and butter softening in a small dish. It looked… domestic. Almost ordinary. And it made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for. “You don’t have to do that,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe.

He looked up instantly, sharp as always, but his expression softened when he saw you. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Figured I’d make myself useful.”

You smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You’re really bad at pretending this is normal.”

“Maybe,” he said, setting the mug in front of you. His voice lowered. “But I like pretending with you.”

The warmth of the cup seeped into your palms. You took a sip, humming at the taste—it was stronger than you usually made it, but good. He watched your reaction like it mattered more than anything else. “See?” he said, almost smug. “Better than what you usually drink.”

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “You think you can just take over my kitchen now?”

His grin widened, wolfish but soft around the edges. “If you let me.” For a long moment, you stood there, sipping your coffee while he leaned against the counter, watching you like the morning belonged to the two of you alone. When you finally set the mug down, he reached past you, brushing your wrist deliberately as he moved the butter closer to the bread. “Eat something,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes but picked up a slice anyway. “You know, most people say ‘please’ when they want something.”

He chuckled low, the sound warm and rough. “Please, doll. Eat something for me.”

You laughed then, quiet but real, and he looked at you like he’d just won a war without firing a single shot. And as you sat at your tiny kitchen table, him across from you with his coffee, you realized you weren’t just letting him into your apartment. You were letting him into your mornings, your routines, your life. He seemed to realize it too. Because when you reached for another slice of bread, he leaned back in his chair, eyes soft and possessive all at once, and said quietly, “get used to this. I’m not going anywhere.”

You thought he’d leave after breakfast—slip out the way he usually did, shadow heavy but fleeting. Instead, he stayed, long after the last crumb of bread was gone and your coffee had cooled. He didn’t hover, not exactly. He followed you with his eyes as you moved around your apartment, tidying plates, straightening cushions, feeding the little plant on your windowsill. Every small domestic motion seemed to hold his full attention, as if he were cataloging it all for later.

When you bent to pick up a book that had slipped under the table, he was suddenly there, crouched beside you. His metal fingers brushed the spine before yours could reach it. “Got it,” he murmured, handing it over. His eyes lingered on the cover—an old paperback, spine worn soft. “You like this one?”

“It’s a favorite,” you admitted, hugging it to your chest. “I’ve read it more times than I can count.”

He nodded slowly, eyes sharp, as though he were etching the title into his memory. You retreated to the couch, curling into the corner, and he sat at the other end—close enough that your knees brushed when you shifted. He leaned back, stretching an arm along the top of the couch, watching you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “You’re different here,” you said quietly.

“How?”

“Quieter. Softer.” You hesitated. “Like you’re not carrying the whole world on your shoulders.”

For a moment, something flickered across his face—something raw, almost vulnerable. “Maybe it’s because I’m with you.”

Your cheeks warmed. You turned your gaze toward the window, pretending to fuss with the flowers on the sill. “You say things like that too easily.”

“I don’t say anything easily,” he said, voice low, firm. “Not unless I mean it.”

The air grew heavier, thick with unspoken things. To break it, you stood and gathered the empty mugs. “I should wash these.”

“I’ll do it.”

Before you could protest, he was already in your tiny kitchen, sleeves pushed up, broad frame bent over your sink. The sight of him there—dangerous and untouchable to the rest of the city, carefully rinsing soap suds from your favorite mug—sent a strange ache through you. “You really don’t know how to act normal,” you teased gently, leaning against the counter.

He glanced at you, lips curving faintly. “This is normal. For me. If you let it be.”

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how easily he was weaving himself into your space, your life. When the mugs were clean and drying on the rack, he returned to the couch, looking far too at ease in your home. As though the line between visitor and resident had already blurred. And when you finally told him, half-awkward, that you needed to open the shop soon, he only nodded, standing slowly. His eyes swept the room one last time before settling on you. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, not as a command but as a promise.

And when the door clicked shut behind him, your apartment still felt full.

The second time he stayed, it felt less like a choice and more like inevitability. He didn’t even ask if it was alright—he simply slipped off his jacket, folded it neatly over the arm of your couch, and stretched his long frame across it like it was a habit he’d been keeping for years.

You went to bed with the lamplight still spilling warm gold into the hallway, the faint hum of the city outside, and the comforting knowledge that he was only a few steps away. It was deep into the night when you woke. Thirst pulled you from sleep, groggy and heavy-limbed. Padding into the living room, you found him still on the couch, blanket pushed low around his waist, one arm draped over the edge.

For a moment, you thought he was sleeping peacefully. His chest rose and fell, steady. But then you noticed the twitch of his fingers, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the low, almost inaudible sounds escaping his throat—half-formed words, broken whispers.

You froze. A nightmare. Your first instinct was to leave him be, let him fight his shadows alone. But something in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his breath hitched, made your chest ache. “Bucky,” you whispered, stepping closer. “It’s alright. You’re safe.” You reached out, intending only to brush your fingers across his shoulder, to anchor him in the present. But the instant your skin touched his, his metal arm snapped up, lightning fast, clamping around your wrist.

The pressure was startling, firm enough to hurt, and you gasped softly. His eyes flew open—wild, unmoored, glassy with panic. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t here with you. He was somewhere else. Then recognition hit. His grip loosened instantly, his chest heaving. “God—doll—” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You sank down onto the edge of the couch, cradling his arm with your free hand, your voice low and steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You didn’t mean to.”

But he was already shaking his head, his flesh hand scrubbing hard over his face. “Shouldn’t—shouldn’t touch you. Not when I don’t know where I am. Could’ve hurt you. Could’ve—”

You caught his wrist before he could pull further away. “You didn’t. You didn’t hurt me.”

His metal fingers trembled against your skin, so different from the usual deliberate steadiness you knew. He kept repeating it, almost under his breath, like a mantra breaking apart. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” you whispered, sliding closer, resting your other hand lightly against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your palm. “Look at me.” It took a moment, but his eyes finally lifted to yours—blue and raw, stripped of every layer of command and control. “You’re here,” you said softly. “With me. You’re safe.”

The tension in his arm eased by degrees, until his grip was nothing more than a loose circle around your wrist. He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven. “You shouldn’t have to… deal with this.”

“I don’t mind,” you whispered. And you didn’t. Not when it was him.

For a long time, you just sat there, your hand still against his chest, his breath slowly steadying under your touch. When his grip finally fell away completely, it wasn’t because he pushed you—it was because he let go, trusting you not to move. You didn’t. You stayed.

And when he drifted back into sleep, your wrist still tingled from the weight of his arm, but it wasn’t fear that lingered. It was the way his voice had broken on your name, the way he’d clung to your presence like it was the only thing anchoring him in the world.

By the time the apartment grew quiet again, you hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You’d sat there with him, your hand still resting over his chest, listening as his breath evened out beneath your palm. You told yourself you’d move once you were sure he was settled.

But your eyes grew heavy. The couch was warm beneath you, his body warmer still, and before you knew it, you were sliding sideways, cheek pressed against his shirt. His heart was a steady thrum beneath your ear, his arm—flesh, not metal—loosely draped over your back as though even in sleep he couldn’t help but hold you close.

The couch was small, too small for the both of you, but you didn’t notice. Not with the weight of him grounding you, not with the lamp’s glow painting soft gold across the room.

When you woke, morning light was spilling through the curtains, pale and thin. It took a moment to realize where you were—why your pillow was too firm, why your blanket smelled faintly of his cologne. You shifted, groggy, and felt his chest move beneath you. He was awake. His breathing was shallow, controlled, the way he sounded when he was trying not to disturb you. “Morning,” you whispered, voice rough with sleep.

His chest rumbled under your cheek with a low, uncertain sound. “You shouldn’t… have stayed here.”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were sharp, but not cold. There was guilt there, deep and quiet. “Why not?”

“I could’ve hurt you,” he said. His metal hand flexed once against the blanket, as though the memory of gripping your arm was still burning through him. “I did hurt you.”

You shook your head, propping yourself on your elbow. “You didn’t. You scared me for a second, but… you didn’t hurt me.” His jaw worked, but he said nothing. You studied him for a moment—his hair mussed from sleep, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way he looked so much younger like this, stripped of the armor he wore in daylight. “Bucky,” you said softly, “I wouldn’t have fallen asleep here if I didn’t feel safe with you.”

That silenced him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes flicking away for a moment as though he couldn’t bear the weight of what you’d just given him. Slowly, carefully, he brushed his knuckles across your cheek, his touch light, reverent. “You shouldn’t trust me that much.”

“Maybe not,” you whispered, leaning into his hand. “But I do.”

For the first time in longer than he could probably remember, his mouth curved into something almost fragile, almost grateful. You stayed like that for a long moment, the morning wrapping around you both like a secret. The couch was still too small, your neck was already sore, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Because for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were comforting him, or if he was comforting you.

---

The bell chimed as usual when he stepped into your shop, but today felt heavier somehow. Maybe it was the memory of the night before, of waking up in his arms on your too-small couch. Maybe it was the image of his wide, haunted eyes as he whispered apology after apology, and the way your chest had ached to soothe him.

You’d been thinking about that all morning. About how much he gave you—his presence, his protection, his steadiness—even if he never admitted it aloud. And for once, you wanted to give him something back. So you’d worked quietly before he arrived, hands steady even as your heart raced, trimming stems and tying ribbon. Now, as he approached the counter, you wiped your palms on your apron and brought the bouquet out from behind you.

It wasn’t like the ones you usually sold. This one was deliberate, personal. Deep blue delphiniums, soft cornflowers, pale forget-me-nots woven together in layers, all tied with a silver-gray ribbon. The colors matched his eyes perfectly—sharp and striking at the center, softer and gentler around the edges. You held it out shyly. “For you.”

He froze. For a man who seemed to always know what to do, what to say, he looked completely undone in that moment. His eyes flicked from the flowers to your face and back again, as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. “You made this… for me?” His voice was rough, low.

You nodded, your fingers twisting the edge of your apron. “You’ve brought me so much. I just thought—maybe you’d like to have something, too.”

He reached out slowly, almost reverently, and took the bouquet from your hands. His metal fingers brushed the ribbon with surprising gentleness, as though afraid he might crush the delicate stems. For a long moment, he just stared at it. Then his jaw worked, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “No one’s ever…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”

Your heart clenched. “Then I’ll just have to make sure it’s not the last time.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, something raw burning in them. He set the bouquet carefully on the counter, then reached across with his flesh hand, curling his fingers around yours. “Thank you, doll,” he said, voice unsteady. “You don’t know what this means to me.” But from the way he held your hand, from the way his thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles like he was memorizing the feel of you, you thought maybe you did.

Bucky carried the bouquet back with him, cradled more carefully than the files his men handed him daily. When he entered his penthouse, the first thing Natasha noticed wasn’t the flowers themselves—it was the way he set them down gently on his desk, like they were priceless.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Boss, if you keep this up, you’re gonna need a bigger office. Between the vases and bouquets, it’s starting to look more like a conservatory than a headquarters.”

He shot her a sharp look, but it lacked real heat. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the bouquet, fingers brushing over the ribbon like he still couldn’t believe it was real. “You got a problem with flowers, Romanoff?” he asked, voice low.

Natasha’s smirk softened into something almost approving. “Not with flowers. Just with you hiding in here behind them.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m not hiding.”

“You’ve skipped the last three meetings,” she countered, stepping further into the room. “You can’t keep pushing them off. People are starting to notice. And this next one—you can’t get out of it.”

His eyes darkened, steel sliding back into his expression. “When?”

“Tomorrow night.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Seven o’clock. You’ll be there, and you’ll sit through it, whether you like it or not.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. His metal fingers tapped once against the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Then he let out a slow breath, eyes flicking back to the blue bouquet. “Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”

Natasha tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve got her making bouquets just for you now?”

His lips curved faintly—dangerous, but softer than usual. “Yeah. She did.”

Natasha’s brows lifted. “And you’re going to tell her where you’re going tomorrow?”

His gaze sharpened again, voice dropping low. “No.”

“Bucky—”

“She doesn’t need to know.” His eyes lingered on the flowers, something fierce burning beneath the calm. “Not yet.”

Natasha studied him for a long beat before finally sighing. “One of these days, Barnes, you’re gonna realize she’s not just another thing you can keep in the dark.”

But he didn’t answer. He was already reaching for the bouquet again, his hand steady, his mind already far from the meeting Natasha had chained him to.

The following evening, Bucky was restless. He’d shown up at your shop like he always did, the bell chiming as he stepped in, but his presence felt heavier than usual. He leaned against the counter, silent, eyes fixed on you while you arranged fresh stems in a vase. His gloves were still on—he hadn’t even rolled his sleeves the way he sometimes did when he helped close up. “Long day?” you asked, glancing up.

His jaw flexed once. “Not finished yet.”

Something in his tone told you not to press. But you noticed the way his gaze lingered on you a little too long, as though he were memorizing everything about you—the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your hands as you tied ribbon.

When you locked up for the night, he was there as usual, walking you home. His stride was slower, though, deliberate. Like he didn’t want the walk to end. At your door, instead of leaving with his usual “goodnight,” he lingered. His eyes traced your face with an intensity that made your heart race. “You’ll stay in tonight,” he said softly.

You blinked. “I was planning to, yes. Why?”

He exhaled, the faintest flicker of relief passing across his features. “Good. I need…” He hesitated, words sticking like they were foreign in his mouth. “I need to be somewhere. But I don’t want you worrying.”

Your brows furrowed. “Where?”

His eyes softened, but the steel never left them. “Not a place you need to know about.” It stung, a little, but before you could respond, his flesh hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your skin. His touch was warm, but his grip was firm, almost desperate. “Promise me you’ll stay here tonight,” he murmured. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”

You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”

“Promise me.” His voice was low, commanding, but under it was something raw. Fear.

Your heart twisted. “I promise.”

Only then did his shoulders ease, just slightly. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there longer than usual. When he pulled back, his eyes burned with something unspoken. “I’ll be back,” he said simply. And then he was gone, melting into the shadows of the city.

You stood in your doorway long after he’d disappeared, the bouquet you’d given him still fresh in your memory. Whatever world he was going back to tonight, it wasn’t one you were part of—not yet. But the way he’d looked at you before he left made you wonder how long he could keep the walls up.

It was late when the knock came—so late the city outside had gone quiet, even the hum of traffic muted. You woke with a start, heart pounding, blinking against the faint glow of the lamp in your bedroom.

For a moment, you thought you’d dreamed it. Then it came again, firmer this time. Three heavy knocks that rattled the wood. You slipped from bed, pulling a sweater over your shoulders, bare feet whispering across the floor. When you peered through the peephole, your stomach dropped. Bucky. He stood close to the door, shoulders squared, hair mussed, suit rumpled. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with something fierce and unsteady. And his knuckles—flesh and metal both—were streaked with blood.

You unlocked the door quickly and pulled it open. “Bucky.” He exhaled your name like a prayer, his chest rising and falling hard. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, filling your small apartment with his presence, the door shutting behind him with a dull thud. You reached for his hand automatically, the blood stark against your skin. “What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said roughly, pulling back just enough to keep the mess off you. “It’s done.”

“Bucky—”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” His voice cracked low, raw, like he’d used up every ounce of steel at that meeting and had nothing left to shield himself with now.

You guided him toward the couch anyway, ignoring his protest. “Sit.” He hesitated, then obeyed, sinking down heavily. His shoulders were still tight, coiled with tension, his fists flexing and unflexing as though he hadn’t yet come down from whatever storm he’d just walked out of. You fetched a cloth and warm water from the bathroom, kneeling in front of him. He tried to take the rag from your hand, but you shook your head. “Let me,” you said softly.

For once, he didn’t argue. He let you cradle his hand, your smaller fingers working gently over the bloodstains. His skin was rough under your touch, his palm scarred, but you treated it like something fragile, as if the violence hadn’t seeped into the lines of his hand at all. He watched you in silence, blue eyes intent, following every stroke of the cloth. “You shouldn’t…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “You shouldn’t want to do this for me.”

“Maybe I want to anyway,” you whispered.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark. “You’re gonna ruin yourself, doll. Being close to me.”

You wrung out the cloth, wiping gently at his other hand, this one colder, harder. His metal fingers twitched under your touch, then stilled. “Maybe you don’t get to decide that,” you murmured.

His chest rose sharply, his eyes snapping to yours. The intensity there was almost unbearable—possessive, desperate, aching. “I came here,” he admitted finally, voice hoarse. “Because after it was over, all I wanted was you. Just… you.”

You finished cleaning the last smear of blood from his knuckles, then set the cloth aside. Without thinking, you reached up and pressed your hand against his jaw, tilting his face toward you. “I’m here,” you said simply.

And for the first time that night, his shoulders dropped, the fight bleeding out of him. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing, as though your palm was the only anchor he had left.

You didn’t let go of him right away. Even when his shoulders eased, when the fury and tension in him finally started to drain, you kept your hand at his jaw, kept your body close enough that he could feel your steadiness. When you finally shifted to stand, he caught your wrist—not tight, not desperate, but firm enough to stop you. His eyes opened, and there it was again: that raw, unguarded fear. Fear of you walking away. “Stay,” he murmured.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly. “But you need to rest. You can’t keep carrying all of this on your own.” You tugged gently until he let you go, then stood and gestured toward your bedroom. “Come on. You take the bed tonight.”

His eyes narrowed immediately. “No.”

“Bucky—”

“I’m not putting you on the couch in your own home,” he said sharply, rising to his feet. “I’ll take it. Always.”

The finality in his tone made you hesitate, but then you stepped closer, meeting his intensity with your own. “You came here for comfort, didn’t you? Then let me give it to you. Please.”

The word hung between you. You almost never asked him for anything. His jaw worked. He glanced at the bedroom door, then back at you, his expression caught between resistance and something almost… longing. Finally, he exhaled slowly. “Fine. But only if you stay too.”

Your breath caught. “Bucky—”

“I won’t sleep otherwise,” he admitted, voice low, hoarse. “Not without you.”

The ache in your chest deepened. You nodded once, quietly, and guided him into the bedroom. He moved carefully, stripping off his bloodstained shirt and leaving it folded on the chair before slipping under the covers in just his undershirt and slacks. He looked out of place in your small bed, too large, too coiled with silent tension.

You slid in beside him, the lamp’s glow soft across both of you. At first, he kept to his side, stiff and deliberate, as though terrified of crowding you. But when you reached out—just the lightest brush of your fingers over his wrist—he shifted closer, inch by inch, until his forehead rested against yours. “Sorry,” he whispered again, the word barely audible. “For last night. For tonight. For all of it.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you whispered back, eyes closing. “Not with me.”

His breath stuttered against your cheek, and then his arm—warm, heavy, trembling slightly—wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest. It was a long time before his breathing evened out, before the tension bled from his body completely. But when it did, he slept deeper than he had in years, anchored by your presence.

And you stayed there with him, awake for a long while, listening to the steady thrum of his heart and wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was learning how to let someone share the weight he carried.

---

You woke to the sensation of warmth. Not the sunlight—though that was spilling pale and soft through the curtains—but the solid weight of the man beside you. His arm was still around you, heavy and steady, his chest pressed to your back. For a moment you stayed perfectly still, afraid that moving would shatter the fragile quiet that had settled over him in the night.

Eventually, you stirred, stretching carefully. His arm slipped away immediately, as if he’d been awake already, holding himself too tightly so as not to trap you. “Morning,” you murmured, rolling to face him. He was lying on his side, head propped on his hand, blue eyes fixed on you. His hair was a little mussed, his undershirt wrinkled. But his gaze was sharp, searching, as though he were trying to read the truth in your expression. “You slept,” you said softly, surprised by how certain you were.

“Because of you,” he admitted.

Something in your chest squeezed. You brushed your thumb lightly across the back of his hand. “I’m glad.”

But he didn’t relax. His eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw flexing. “You don’t regret this? Letting me stay?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “No. Why would I?”

“Because you saw me last night.” His voice was rough, low, like he hated the words even as he forced them out. “Bloody. Angry. A mess. That’s who I am, doll. That’s what I do when I leave you here. And I don’t…” He trailed off, eyes flicking away for a moment. “I don’t want you to look at me different because of it.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbow, leaning closer, catching his gaze. “Bucky. I saw you. And I still asked you to stay.”

His throat bobbed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You shouldn’t have to comfort me.”

“Maybe I want to,” you whispered, echoing the words you’d spoken when you cleaned his bloodied hands.

The silence stretched, heavy but not unbearable. His hand lifted, brushing lightly over your head, fingers catching gently at the nape of your neck. “You’re not afraid of me,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You shook your head. “Not even a little.”

His eyes closed briefly, as though the weight of that truth was too much to hold. When he opened them again, they burned with something softer than you’d ever seen in him, something dangerously close to hope. And though he didn’t say the words, you could feel them in the way he held your gaze, in the way his fingers lingered against your skin.

For once, he wasn’t just the man who haunted your shop, who walked you home, who carried storms in his chest. For once, he was just Bucky.

---

The day had been quiet, the steady hum of your little shop wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. You were working at the counter, arranging fresh lilies into a tall glass vase, humming softly under your breath. Bucky had slipped into the back earlier, muttering something about moving crates that were too heavy for you, though you hadn’t asked him to.

You balanced the vase carefully in your hands—just a little too tall, a little too slick with condensation—and then it happened. The glass slipped. You gasped, a sharp sound breaking the quiet as the vase hit the floor and shattered. Water splashed across your shoes, stems splayed in every direction, and shards of glass glittered in a jagged circle around your feet.

“Doll?” His voice was immediate, sharp, and then he was there, bursting from the back with all the force of a man expecting the worst. His eyes swept the scene in an instant—the water, the flowers, the glinting glass around your shoes—and then locked onto you.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, holding your hands up like surrender. “I just—”

“Don’t move,” he snapped, the command biting. But his eyes softened a heartbeat later, voice lowering. “Please. Don’t move.” You froze, biting your lip. Shards glittered dangerously close to your ankles, one sliver already catching at your sock. Bucky’s chest rose hard with a deep breath. Then he stepped closer, gaze flicking up to yours. “Do you trust me?”

The question startled you—so direct, so weighted. But your answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

In one smooth motion, his hands found your waist, strong and steady, and he lifted you up out of the circle of broken glass. You startled, legs instinctively tightening around him as he held you against his chest, the strength in his arms effortless and certain.

Your heart hammered, breath catching as the world tilted. You could feel the hard lines of him through his shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat pressed to your chest. For a moment, you were frozen, caught in the intensity of his eyes as he looked at you—so close, so intent, like you were the only thing in the world. Then, before you could stop yourself, a quiet giggle slipped out. You ducked your head against his shoulder, cheeks warm. “You’re… really strong.”

The corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous, but softer than you’d ever seen it. His grip tightened just slightly at your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how easily he held you. “Damn right I am,” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “Strong enough to carry you as long as it takes.”

Your breath caught, the teasing words laced with something heavier, deeper. You clung to him just a little tighter, not because of the glass scattered on the floor, but because of the way he said it—as though he meant more than just this moment.

And when he finally set you down on the counter, out of harm’s way, his hands lingered at your waist, eyes locked on yours like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. His hands lingered at your waist even after he’d set you safely on the counter, his eyes locked on yours like he was trying to convince himself you were unharmed. Only when you shifted slightly—cheeks warm, fingers fiddling with the hem of your apron—did he finally step back. “Stay there,” he ordered softly. It wasn’t harsh, but it brooked no argument.

You opened your mouth to protest, then caught the flash in his eyes, the steel under the softness. You nodded instead, watching as he crouched to gather the scattered stems first, setting them aside with almost comical care before he tackled the glass.

He worked in silence, broad shoulders bent, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he swept every shard into a neat pile with practiced efficiency. He didn’t let you come near—every time you shifted on the counter as if to hop down, his gaze snapped to you, sharp as a warning. “You’re acting like I nearly lost a limb,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension.

“You could’ve cut yourself,” he muttered, scooping the last of the glass into the dustpan. “Slipped, fallen—”

“Bucky, it was a vase.”

He dumped the shards into the bin and straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t matter. Anything that touches you—anything that could hurt you—it matters to me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy, possessive. Your heart thudded in your chest. When he finally crossed back to you, he brushed his hands down, metal glinting faintly in the shop’s light. Then, to your surprise, he reached out and gently lifted your ankle, checking your sock, then the other. His touch was careful, almost reverent, like he needed proof with his own eyes that you were unscathed. “I told you I was fine,” you whispered, heat curling in your chest.

“I had to see for myself,” he murmured. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing lightly against the bone, before he finally let go.

You giggled then, nervous and shy, but unable to hold it back. “You really are strong, you know. Picking me up like that…”

His lips curved into something sharp and slow, a smile that was equal parts dangerous and softened just for you. “You liked that?”

You ducked your head, embarrassed, but nodded faintly. “Maybe.”

His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped closer, caging you gently where you sat on the counter. “Good. Because I’m not done showing you how strong I am.”

The words made your breath hitch, your pulse skittering wildly. And though he didn’t touch you again, though he only lingered there in your space, the promise in his voice wrapped around you like a second heartbeat.

The shop closed later than usual that evening—the broken vase had set you behind, and you insisted on mopping every last drop of water yourself while Bucky loomed nearby, pretending to help while really just watching you like a hawk.

By the time you stepped out into the cooling night, the streets were already washed in shadow. He fell into step beside you, as always, but tonight felt different. The air between you was warmer, charged, still echoing with the memory of his hands lifting you clear of the glass, your legs around his waist, your breathless little laugh against his shoulder.

You stole a glance at him as you walked. His jaw was set, his gaze sharp on the street ahead, but there was something softer in the curve of his mouth, something unspoken simmering in his eyes when they flicked toward you. “Thank you,” you said quietly, breaking the silence.

He turned his head slightly. “For what?”

“For earlier. For making sure I didn’t… get hurt.” You smiled faintly, shy. “And for carrying me. Even if it was just across a puddle of glass.”

The corner of his lips curved, slow and wolfish. “I’d carry you farther than that, doll. Anywhere you wanted.”

Your heart thudded, and you ducked your gaze to the pavement. When you reached your building, you turned to face him, suddenly reluctant to let the night end. He stood close, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin, close enough that the city noise faded into nothing. He studied you for a long moment, blue eyes intent, then lifted his hand. His knuckles brushed along your cheek, light as a whisper, before he leaned down. The kiss wasn’t on your lips. It was at the corner of your mouth, feather-light, lingering just long enough to steal your breath. When he pulled back, his gaze was burning, fierce and possessive but softened in a way you’d never seen before. “Goodnight,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

You managed a quiet, flustered, “goodnight,” before slipping inside, leaning against the door once it clicked shut. Your pulse was still racing. The ghost of his touch still lingered on your cheek. And you knew, with startling clarity, that something between you had shifted again—deeper, closer, and far harder to resist.

---

The last customer had barely left when you flipped the little sign on the door to closed. The shop was quiet, petals scattered on the counter, the air still thick with the mingled perfume of roses and lilies. Bucky was already there, leaning against the wall near the register, sleeves rolled up, watching you sweep the last of the day’s mess into a neat pile.

It was almost habit now—him staying until you locked up, walking you home like a shadow no one could shake. But tonight, as you tied off the trash bag and wiped your hands on your apron, you found yourself blurting something out before you could second-guess it. “Do you… want to come grocery shopping with me?”

His head lifted, eyes narrowing as though you’d just offered him something strange and dangerous. “Grocery shopping?”

You nodded, a little shy. “Yeah. Just the corner store, nothing big.”

For a moment, he just studied you, unreadable. Then his mouth curved, the faintest tug at the corner of his lips. “You’re asking me on a date to a grocery store?”

Your cheeks warmed. “Not a date. Just… normal. Something normal.”

That seemed to strike something in him. The teasing faded, replaced with that sharp, focused look he always gave you when he was paying too much attention. Finally, he pushed off the wall, slipping into his jacket. “Alright. Let’s go.”

The store was half-empty when you arrived, aisles humming faintly under fluorescent lights. You grabbed a basket, but before you could even step forward, Bucky plucked it from your hands, carrying it himself without comment. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, same as he always did when you tried to argue.

You shook your head with a smile and wandered down the first aisle. The ordinary act of choosing bread, fruit, milk felt almost surreal with him beside you. People glanced your way—some because of his presence, some because of his sheer size—but he ignored them, his attention fixed entirely on you. You paused at the shelf of pasta, biting your lip as you compared prices. He frowned. “What’re you doing?”

“Deciding which one to get.”

“Just grab both,” he said flatly.

You laughed under your breath. “That’s not how grocery shopping works.”

He arched a brow. “When I’m here, it does.” And before you could protest, both boxes were dropped into the basket.

A few aisles later, you spotted a display of apples, glossy and red under the lights. You reached for one, but he plucked the apple from your hand. “Too bruised,” he muttered, discarding it for another. Then another. Until finally he chose one and handed it to you, his expression deadly serious.

You bit back a giggle, putting it into the basket. “You’re very picky.”

“I don’t want you eating anything that isn’t good enough for you,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Your heart gave a little squeeze.

At the checkout, the clerk gave you both a curious look, eyes flicking from the man built like a soldier to the flowers still faintly clinging to your apron. Bucky ignored it, pulling out a roll of bills before you could reach for your own wallet. “Bucky—”

“Don’t,” he warned softly, sliding the cash across the counter.

You sighed, but your lips curved despite yourself. When you stepped back into the night, bags in hand, he shifted most of them to his own arms, leaving you only one light sack to carry. As you walked back toward your apartment, you realized your chest felt strangely full—like the simple act of buying apples and bread with him meant more than any extravagant gift could. And when you glanced up at him, his eyes already on you, you wondered if he felt the same.

The bags rustled quietly between you as you and Bucky made your way back to your apartment. He carried almost all of them, his broad frame cutting through the dim streetlight glow like a shield. Every so often, you’d catch him glancing down at you, his gaze lingering on your smaller bag as if he were annoyed you had any weight at all to carry.

By the time you reached your door, he was already fishing the key from your pocket—something he’d made a habit of, though tonight he looked at you first, waiting. You smiled faintly and gave him a nod. He unlocked the door, nudging it open with his shoulder, and followed you inside.

The apartment felt warmer with him in it, crowded but not in a way that unsettled you. He set the bags on the counter, already rolling up his sleeves like this was second nature. “You don’t have to help put everything away,” you said, slipping off your shoes.

“Not letting you do this alone,” he countered, already unpacking a bag.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re terrible at letting me do anything.”

“Only because you deserve better than doing it by yourself.”

The simple certainty in his tone made your chest flutter. You busied yourself with the pantry shelves while he stacked cans and jars, his movements precise, almost military. Every so often, he paused to ask where something went—not in his usual commanding tone, but softer, quieter, like he wanted to get it right. When you turned to find him awkwardly holding up a carton of milk, brows furrowed, you giggled. “That goes in the fridge, Bucky.”

He smirked, shaking his head as he set it inside. “Not my strong suit, doll.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “And here I thought you were strong at everything.”

His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and knowing, but softened quickly. “I am. Especially when it comes to you.” Heat crept up your neck. You ducked back toward the pantry, pretending to fuss with the bags.

When the last of the groceries were tucked away, he leaned against the counter, watching you tie the bags into a neat bundle. His presence filled the small kitchen, his eyes steady and unreadable. “This is…” He paused, exhaling. “Nice.”

You glanced at him, smiling softly. “It is.”

“I could get used to this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, you brushed past him on your way to the sink, your arm grazing his, a tiny, wordless acknowledgment. The evening stretched out lazily, the two of you lingering on the couch after the groceries were tucked away. You’d made tea, steam curling faintly between you, and at some point your head had drifted to the back cushion, eyelids drooping while Bucky sat beside you, quiet and watchful. “You’re falling asleep on me,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and almost amused.

“M’not,” you mumbled, even as your head tilted a little to the side, threatening to nod off completely.

His lips curved, subtle but there. “Doll, go to bed.”

You groaned softly, rubbing your eyes, and gave a small pout. “Don’t wanna move. It’s too far.”

The faintest laugh rumbled from his chest. “Too far? It’s ten steps.”

You cracked one eye open, playful despite your exhaustion. “Then carry me.” You hadn’t expected him to take you seriously. But before you could blink, his hands were at your sides, sliding under you with practiced ease. You let out a startled little gasp as the world tilted, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. He gathered you up without effort, cradled securely against his chest in a full bridal carry. Your breath caught, a laugh bubbling out as your cheek pressed against his shoulder. “Bucky—”

“Don’t pout at me if you don’t mean it,” he murmured, his voice quiet but edged with satisfaction.

He carried you through the small apartment like you weighed nothing, each step steady and sure. You didn’t protest—you couldn’t, not with the warmth of him surrounding you, not with the way he held you like you were something precious. By the time he set you down gently on the bed, pulling the blanket up over you, your heart was racing too fast for sleep. He lingered at your side for a moment, his eyes soft in a way they rarely were. “Better?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, cheeks warm, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Much.”

He exhaled slowly, almost like relief, before straightening. “Sleep, doll. I’ll be right outside.” And as you drifted off, you could still feel the phantom weight of his arms around you, carrying you like you were the only thing in the world worth holding onto.

---

It started with a lightbulb. You were balancing on the edge of a chair, stretching on tiptoe to reach the fixture above your counter when Bucky walked in. He froze in the doorway, eyes narrowing like he’d caught you dangling off a cliff. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Changing a bulb,” you answered, squinting up at the socket. “It burnt out last night.”

He stalked forward, plucking the box from your hand. “Get down.”

You turned your head, giving him a pointed look. “It’s just a lightbulb, Bucky.”

“Get down,” he repeated, voice soft but firm, like the sound of a lock clicking shut.

You sighed dramatically but stepped down, brushing dust off your apron. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re reckless,” he shot back, climbing onto the chair himself. It creaked under his weight, but he made quick work of the fixture, replacing the bulb in seconds before hopping down. He set the empty box on the counter like he’d just conquered something monumental. “See? No problem,” he said, smug.

You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched. “You act like you saved me from falling off a building.”

His gaze softened as he brushed a speck of dust from your shoulder. “Doesn’t matter how small it is, doll. I don’t like seeing you in danger.”

The habit stuck after that. A loose hinge on your cabinet? Bucky fixed it before you even realized it needed repairing. A crack in the paint near your window? He brought in supplies and patched it one evening, sleeves rolled and shirt clinging to his back while you tried not to stare too obviously. And it wasn’t just repairs. One night you came home with groceries, and before you could even set the bags down, he was unloading them, stacking cans with soldier-like precision. He held up a carton of tea, frowning. “You drink this?”

“Yes?” you said slowly, tilting your head.

He dropped it into the cupboard. “Not anymore. I’ll bring you something better.”

You crossed your arms, trying to look stern. “You can’t just replace my tea without asking.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Then I’ll ask. May I replace your tea with something that won’t taste like dishwater?”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. “Fine. You win.”

But the moment that stayed with you came later, when you offered something back. You’d picked up a box of his favorite pastries—something you’d noticed he always lingered over when you passed a certain bakery. When you handed it to him shyly at the shop, his expression faltered. He blinked down at the package, then at you, as if the gesture didn’t compute. “For me?” he asked, voice quiet.

“Of course,” you said, suddenly nervous. “You’re always helping me. I thought… you might like them.”

He opened the box, stared at the neat row of pastries, then at you again. His jaw worked, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. “No one does this for me.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers over his wrist. “They should.” His eyes darkened, burning with something fierce, something hungry—but instead of pulling you closer like you half-expected, he only nodded, as if committing the moment to memory.

---

It happened on an ordinary night, the kind where the city felt half-asleep and the shop was already dark behind you. Bucky walked you home as usual, his hand brushing lightly at your back whenever the sidewalk narrowed. The streets were quiet, the glow of the lamps stretching long shadows across the pavement.

You were telling him about a customer who’d come in earlier, half-laughing at their confusion between carnations and camellias, when your foot caught on an uneven crack in the sidewalk. You stumbled, breath catching as your balance tipped forward.

Before you could even react, his arm was around your waist. It wasn’t just a steadying touch—it was a full, protective pull, yanking you against his chest so hard your breath whooshed out. His other hand splayed across your shoulder, holding you there, shielding you as if the cracked pavement had been a bullet. “Careful,” he rasped, voice rough, too sharp for the small stumble.

Your heart raced, half from the fall, half from the intensity in his eyes when you looked up. He wasn’t just steadying you. He was possessing you, holding you so tightly you couldn’t have slipped away if you tried. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice wavered.

He didn’t let go right away. His grip stayed firm, the muscle in his jaw ticking as though he was fighting some deeper instinct. Finally, slowly, his fingers loosened, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering even as you stood straight again. “You scared me,” he admitted, voice low. The honesty in it startled you more than the stumble.

You swallowed hard, shy under his gaze. “It was just a crack in the sidewalk.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, the words sharp but weighted with something else—something you couldn’t quite name. “Anything that could hurt you… I won’t let it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. The silence stretched, heavy and electric, until you finally let out a small laugh to ease it. “Bucky,” you teased softly, “you act like you’re my personal bodyguard.”

His lips curved faintly, but his eyes never softened. “Maybe I am.” You didn’t argue. Not when your heart was still racing from the feel of his arms around you, not when the memory of his grip lingered like fire on your skin. And for the rest of the walk, his hand stayed at your waist, steady and sure, as if he didn’t trust the world not to trip you again.

---

It was late when you noticed it. The soft scrape of the couch, the low creak of springs shifting—quiet, but not quiet enough. You blinked awake in your bed, the faint glow from the lamp spilling into the hall. For a moment, you thought maybe you’d dreamed it. But then you heard the sound again, the unmistakable weight of someone moving restlessly.

You padded out into the living room, bare feet whispering on the floor. Bucky sat on the couch, shoulders hunched, elbows braced against his knees. His hands were clasped together so tightly the tendons stood out, and his jaw worked as though he was chewing back words. The blanket you’d given him earlier was pushed aside, rumpled like he’d tried to settle under it and failed. He looked up sharply when he heard you. His eyes softened, but only a little. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you whispered. You took a step closer, watching him carefully. “Nightmare?”

His throat bobbed. He didn’t answer, but the silence was loud enough. Your chest ached. You crossed the small space and lowered yourself beside him. For a long moment, you just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the quiet settle. Then, slowly, you leaned into him, resting your head against his arm. He went very still. You could feel the tension thrumming through him, the way his breath hitched, the careful restraint in the way he didn’t move. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you murmured.

He exhaled, a shudder slipping out despite himself. His arm shifted—hesitant at first—then wrapped around your shoulders, drawing you closer. You let him, curling instinctively against his side, your body fitting against his with surprising ease. The silence stretched. His breathing steadied, slow and deep, but you could still feel the echoes of the storm lingering in him. So you stayed, quiet and warm, letting your presence do what words couldn’t.

At some point, your eyes grew heavy again. The steady rhythm of his chest beneath your cheek, the weight of his arm holding you—it was too much comfort to resist. Sleep pulled at you until you gave in, drifting off curled against him.

When you stirred again, it was to the strange awareness of being shifted. His arms were around you, lifting you easily. Your head lolled against his shoulder, and you blinked blearily up at him. “You should be in bed,” he murmured, voice low and rough, though his eyes softened when he saw you awake.

“M’fine here,” you mumbled, not fully conscious of the words.

His lips curved faintly, but he didn’t set you down. Instead, he lowered himself back onto the couch, letting you settle against him, your cheek pressed to his chest this time. His hand brushed down your arm, steady and grounding. You drifted again, half-asleep, your last hazy thought the realization that he was calmer now—his heartbeat steady, his breathing even—as though holding you was the only anchor he needed.

---

The first thing you noticed when you woke was warmth. Not the blanket—you realized quickly it had slipped down in the night—but the steady heat of a chest under your cheek, the quiet rise and fall of someone breathing. It took only a blink to remember where you were, who you were on top of.

The early light from the window cut across the room, spilling soft gold on his face. His head was tipped back against the couch, lashes low, jaw unshaven and rough. He looked younger like this, stripped of the sharp edges he carried in daylight. Vulnerable.

You shifted slightly, the motion enough to stir him. His arm—still heavy across your waist—tightened instinctively, pulling you back before you could move away. His eyes cracked open, blue and still hazy from sleep, but the moment he realized where you were, they sharpened. “Morning,” you whispered, your voice catching at how close you still were.

His gaze searched yours, careful, guarded. “You’re still here.”

You smiled faintly. “Of course I am.”

He swallowed, his throat working, but he didn’t release you. His fingers brushed lightly along your side, almost tentative, as if waiting for you to flinch. “You don’t… mind this?”

Your heart skipped. You shook your head, whispering, “No.” The silence that followed was thick with things neither of you were saying. You could feel his pulse against your palm where it rested on his chest, steady but a little too quick. He was waiting—waiting for a crack, a sign that you’d regret what happened. Instead, you curled closer, nestling against him. “You slept,” you murmured, half teasing. “Didn’t even wake me this time.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “That’s ‘cause you were here.”

The words landed heavy, unpolished and raw, and for a moment neither of you breathed.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t break it. You just stayed there, your cheek against his chest, his arm secure around you, until the sounds of the waking city crept through the window and the day forced you to move. But even then, when you finally pushed yourself up, he let his hand linger at your wrist, reluctant to let go.

The morning moved slowly, like it didn’t want to let go of the quiet night before. You padded into the kitchen first, hair mussed, blanket still slung around your shoulders. Bucky followed a moment later, barefoot, his undershirt clinging faintly to his chest. He looked out of place and yet so settled, as if he’d been here a hundred mornings before.

You went for the kettle, but his hand slid past yours, already reaching for it. “Sit,” he said simply. You gave him a look, but he was already filling it with water, movements efficient, deliberate. You sank into a chair at the table, hiding a smile as you watched him. His broad shoulders bent under your too-small cupboards, his frown of concentration as he searched through your cabinets until he found the tea. He set it down with a grunt, muttering under his breath about “organizing this better next time.”

By the time he brought you a mug, he’d also sliced a piece of the bread you’d bought together, setting it on a plate with a seriousness that made you bite back a laugh. “You don’t have to take care of me every second,” you teased, wrapping your hands around the warm mug.

“Yes, I do,” he answered without hesitation, pulling out the chair opposite you.

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks. “That’s not very normal, you know.”

His gaze sharpened, then softened again, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t want normal. I want you safe. I want…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “…I want mornings like this.”

The honesty in his voice stilled you. Your throat felt tight, but you smiled anyway, shy and warm. “Then I guess I’ll let you keep making tea.”

For a long while, you just sat together in the small kitchen—the hum of the kettle, the creak of the chair under his weight, the soft sound of his breathing across the table. Ordinary, but not. Intimate in ways that left your chest aching. When you finally stood to rinse your mug, he was there instantly, taking it from your hands. “I said sit,” he reminded, his mouth curving faintly.

You rolled your eyes but went back to the table. Watching him wash the single mug at your sink, sleeves rolled, shoulders filling the space, you thought that maybe—just maybe—this was what he meant when he said he wanted mornings like this. And you thought, maybe, you did too.

--

It was one of those nights where the air felt restless, heavy with the promise of rain. The shop had closed hours ago, but Bucky lingered like always, walking at your side while the streets shimmered under the faint orange glow of the lamps. The first drop landed on your cheek just as you rounded the corner to your street. You brushed it away, glancing up at the dark sky. “Looks like we’re about to get drenched.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked upward, then back to you. “We’ll be fine. It’s not far.”

But by the time you reached the halfway mark, the drizzle had turned steady, cool drops soaking through your clothes. You let out a startled laugh, clutching the bag you carried tighter to your chest. “So much for fine.”

He caught the sound—the way you laughed, bright and unbothered—and something softened in his face. “You think this is funny?”

“A little,” you admitted, tilting your head back to the rain. “Feels kind of… freeing.” He watched you for a long moment, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense. The city blurred around you, people darting for cover, but he stayed rooted, unmoving, his eyes fixed only on you. “Bucky?” you asked, blinking the rain from your lashes.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until his hand lifted—hesitant, almost reverent—and cupped your cheek. The rain beaded across his glove, slid down his wrist, but his palm was warm, steady. You froze, heart hammering. “I shouldn’t…” His voice was low, strained, like he was fighting himself. “But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want this.”

Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding. It was slow, careful, almost cautious, as though he was giving you every chance to pull away. His lips were warm against yours, tasting faintly of rain and something darker, something entirely him.

For a moment, you were too stunned to move. Then you melted into him, your hand curling lightly into his shirt, your body leaning closer without thought. His thumb brushed along your jaw, grounding, steady, while his other arm slipped around your waist, drawing you nearer.

The world narrowed to the rhythm of the rain and the steady thrum of your pulse, the rest of the city fading away. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged, eyes burning through the thin veil of water between you. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll,” he murmured, voice rough and reverent all at once.

Your lips curved, trembling but sure. “Maybe I do.” He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, brushing another kiss—softer, fleeting—against your lips before tucking you firmly against his chest. The rain poured harder, but you barely noticed. Not with his arms around you, not with the weight of that kiss still lingering between you.

The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual, but it wasn’t the silence of strangers or awkwardness. It was charged, heavy with something unspoken—like every step still echoed with the kiss you’d just shared.

Bucky kept you tucked firmly against his side, his arm secure around your waist as though the rain or the night itself might try to take you from him. His head bent closer than usual, his hair damp and curling at the edges, his jaw tight with something you couldn’t quite read.

You caught him looking at you more than once. Not in the way he always did—observant, calculating—but softer. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, that you’d kissed him back, that you hadn’t pulled away.

By the time you reached your door, the rain had soaked through your clothes, dripping onto the floor as you fumbled with the lock. His hand covered yours, steadying, guiding the key into place. When the door clicked open, you stepped inside, turning back to him.

For the first time since you’d met him, he hesitated on the threshold. His shoulders were squared, his expression composed, but his eyes betrayed him—something raw flickering there. “You should get dry,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse.

“So should you,” you countered softly. “Come in.” For a beat, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, the door shutting behind him with a soft finality.

Inside, the apartment felt smaller than ever, the air thick with rain and warmth and the weight of what had just happened. You peeled off your damp sweater, tossing it over the back of a chair, and glanced up to find him watching you, his own jacket hanging heavy in his hand. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Finally, you whispered, “Bucky…”

He crossed the space in two strides, his hand lifting again to your cheek. You froze, heart hammering, as his thumb brushed a drop of rain from your skin. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he murmured, though his voice betrayed no regret.

You tilted your face toward his palm. “But you did.”

His lips curved faintly, a hint of something dangerous and tender all at once. “And I’ll do it again if you let me.”

You didn’t answer with words. You rose on your toes, closing the small space between you, your lips meeting his once more. This kiss was different—hungrier, deeper, the careful restraint from before crumbling under the weight of what you both had been holding back. His arm wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand cradled the back of your head like you were something breakable.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, murmuring your name like it was a vow. And in that moment, with the rain still dripping outside and his heartbeat thrumming against your chest, you knew something had shifted for good.

The rain had stopped by morning, leaving the city washed clean, the air sharp and cool when you cracked the window above your sink. Your apartment, though, was warm—warmer still with the weight of what had happened the night before. You padded into the kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, still in the oversized shirt you wore to bed. The smell of coffee hit you before you even saw him. Bucky was already there.

He stood at your counter like he owned the space, sleeves rolled, steam curling from the pot he’d set on. His jacket hung neatly on the back of the chair, his damp clothes from the night before draped over the radiator to dry. He glanced up when you entered, and for the first time in all the mornings he’d lingered here, his gaze softened in a way that made your breath catch. “Morning, doll,” he murmured.

You sank into a chair, watching him pour a cup. “You’re getting comfortable.”

He set the mug in front of you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I am.”

You wrapped your hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was weighted, thick with everything that had changed between you. Every glance lingered a beat too long, every brush of his hand near yours deliberate. When you finished your coffee, you stood to rinse the mug, but his hand caught your wrist lightly. “I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to,” you said, smiling.

“I want to,” he countered, voice steady, his thumb brushing once across your skin before he released you.

Later, you opened the shop as usual, but the rhythm of the day felt different with him around. He stayed longer than he usually did, claiming a spot in the back to “keep out of the way” but emerging whenever he thought you needed him—hauling a box, adjusting a display, even holding the ladder steady when you climbed up to reach a high shelf. “You know I’ve done this before,” you teased, glancing down at him.

“Not on my watch,” he muttered, knuckles white on the ladder. By the afternoon, he’d drifted closer, sitting on the counter while you arranged a bouquet for a customer. His eyes tracked every motion of your hands, and when you tied the final ribbon, he murmured, “blue suits you better than those roses.”

You blinked up at him, flustered. “That wasn’t for me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice low. “You’d make it look better.” Your cheeks warmed, and you quickly turned back to the flowers.

That evening, after you locked the door, he walked you home again. The air was still damp, the sky clear now, but his hand stayed at your back the entire way. At your door, instead of pulling back like usual, he lingered. “Let me in,” he said softly. Not a command this time, not quite. You hesitated only a moment before opening the door. Inside, you both shed your coats and shoes, the small apartment wrapping around you in its familiar warmth. He stood close, too close, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

For the first time, you didn’t look away. And though he didn’t kiss you again right then, you both knew it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. It was because the night before had changed everything—and you were both still learning how to live in that new space.

---

The first time he left, it felt strange. Bucky had woven himself into your days without question—closing the shop with you, carrying groceries, claiming the corner of your couch like it was his by right. He didn’t linger on the edges of your world anymore; he stepped directly into it.

But then one morning, he kissed your forehead at the door and said quietly, “I’ve got business I can’t put off any longer.” His eyes lingered on you like he hated the words coming out of his mouth. “I’ll be gone a while.”

You didn’t ask how long. You’d learned by now that some answers weren’t yours to demand. You only nodded, letting him go. When Bucky walked back into his penthouse, the silence struck him like a fist. It was too still, too immaculate, the air faintly cold from being shut up for days. Natasha was already there, perched on the arm of a chair like she’d been waiting. “Thought you’d moved out,” she said dryly, arching a brow.

He shrugged off his coat, dropping it onto the back of the sofa. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs.”

She tilted her head, eyes flicking toward the fresh bouquets lined along the window ledge. Some were old—petals curling, stems leaning—but the colors still painted the room in soft life. Your flowers. “Hard not to notice,” she said. “Your fortress looks like a greenhouse.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on the fading blooms, something tight twisting in his chest. He’d meant to bring them home, to replace them, to keep them fresh—but the shop, the walks, your laugh, your soft hands pressing tea into his grip… it had been easier to stay in your world than return to this empty one. Natasha’s voice pulled him back. “The meeting last week—you missed it. Again.”

He grunted. “Send them my apologies.”

“You don’t have apologies big enough for the people you’re brushing off.” She stood, crossing her arms. “You’re slipping, Barnes.” He shot her a look, sharp enough to silence most. But Natasha only raised a brow, unshaken. “What happened to you?” she asked, quieter now. “You used to live for this. Now I have to drag you back here by the collar.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He poured himself a drink instead, his eyes drifting once more to the flowers. One in particular caught his attention—a small blue bloom tucked into a vase. You’d given it to him, shy and smiling, saying you’d picked it because it matched his eyes. His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the glass. “I’m not slipping.”

“Then what do you call it?” Natasha pressed.

He looked at her then, his expression sharp, dangerous—but his voice was low, certain. “I call it finally having something worth more than this.”

Natasha studied him for a long beat, then huffed a quiet laugh. “God help her if she doesn’t know what she’s getting into.” Bucky said nothing. His eyes lingered on the blue flowers, softer now, before he turned back to the empty penthouse.

Bucky didn’t last the night. He’d tried—sitting in the penthouse office, staring at the stack of reports Natasha had dropped on his desk, the kind of paperwork he used to burn through without blinking. But the silence pressed in, suffocating. The city sprawled below him, restless and alive, but all he could think about was the warmth of your little apartment. The way your voice softened when you teased him, the way your hand lingered on his wrist when you passed him tea, the way you’d kissed him in the rain.

He set the pen down, unfinished page abandoned, and leaned back in his chair. His eyes found the vase on the windowsill again—the flowers you’d given him. The petals were curling now, the blue fading, but the sight of them punched straight through the cold shell he wore in this place. “Fuck this,” he muttered. Ten minutes later, he was gone.

It was well past midnight when the knock came at your door. You blinked awake, heart thudding, but you knew who it was before you even checked. The weight of his presence pressed through the wood like it always did.

You opened the door to find him there—damp from the mist outside, hair mussed, eyes burning with something fierce and restless. He didn’t say a word at first, just looked at you, drinking in the sight of you like he’d been starved. “Bucky?” you whispered, confused but soft. “It’s late.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, voice rough. The honesty in it knocked the air right out of you.

You stepped aside without thinking, and he slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him. He stood in your living room like he was both too big for the space and yet exactly where he belonged. His jacket hung heavy on his shoulders, but his gaze was only on you. “I thought you said you had business,” you murmured.

“I did.” He exhaled, a sharp sound, shaking his head. “But none of it mattered. Not when all I could think about was you.”

Your breath caught, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your chest. “You came all this way in the middle of the night… just to see me?”

His jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “I came because I needed to know you were here. Safe. Real.” The vulnerability under his words left you starstruck. For once, the weight he carried wasn’t hidden behind commands or possessive glares—it was just him, raw and unguarded, standing in your apartment like the man he didn’t show the world. And when you stepped closer, reaching out to brush the damp from his sleeve, his hand caught yours, holding it against his chest like an anchor. “I don’t care how late it is,” he said, voice low. “If you’ll have me, I’ll come back every night.”

The clock on your wall ticked quietly, the only sound filling the space between you. Bucky still hadn’t let go of your hand, his thumb brushing absently against your skin as though he couldn’t stand to stop touching you. His presence was steady, grounding—but you could see the faint lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the way his shoulders slumped despite his stubbornness. You rubbed at your eyes, fighting the pull of sleep. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice small, rough with drowsiness.

He tilted his head, gaze softening instantly. “Yeah, doll?”

“Carry me back to bed?” The words slipped out before you could second-guess them, half a murmur, half a plea.

For a heartbeat, his expression flickered—surprise, something darker, something warmer. Then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, into the kind of smile that always made your heart stutter. “You got it.” Before you could say anything more, his arms were around you. He scooped you up easily, strong and certain, bridal style once again. You gave a sleepy little sound of protest, more out of instinct than anything else, your arms looping around his neck as you curled against him. “You like makin’ me do this, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, almost teasing as he carried you through the dim apartment.

“Maybe,” you whispered, smiling faintly against his shoulder.

The bedroom door creaked open, and he nudged it wider with his foot. The room was still warm from earlier, the blankets rumpled. He lowered you onto the mattress with infinite care, like you were something fragile that might break if he wasn’t gentle enough.

But when you caught his wrist before he could pull back, your voice soft but certain, his entire body stilled. “Stay with me?”

His eyes flicked to yours—blue, burning, conflicted—and then he nodded once. “Always.”

He toed off his boots, shed his jacket, and slid onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, the space between you vanishing when his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.

You sighed, nestling into him, your hand curling around his forearm where it lay heavy across you. His breath was warm against your hair, steady and sure, but you could still feel the tension in him, the way he held you like he was afraid you might disappear. Sleep tugged at you again, and just before you slipped under, you whispered, “feels right… when you’re here.”

He pressed his lips to the back of your head, a kiss so soft you almost missed it. “Good,” he whispered. “’Cause I’m not going anywhere.” And for the first time in a long time—for both of you—you fell asleep without a trace of fear.

The morning crept in soft and unhurried, sunlight spilling across your bedroom in pale strips. You stirred slowly, awareness tugging at you in waves—the warmth pressed against your back, the steady weight of an arm looped around your waist, the faint tickle of breath brushing against your hair. For a moment, you simply lay there, cocooned in the quiet. Bucky’s chest rose and fell against you, solid and reassuring, his arm heavy but comforting, like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in sleep.

When you shifted slightly, he made a low sound in his throat, not quite awake but not fully asleep either. His arm tightened, pulling you closer, his face burying against the curve of your neck. The bristle of his jaw grazed your skin, and you bit back a laugh. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice still husky from sleep.

“Mm,” he rumbled, voice low, heavy with drowsiness. “Stay still. Too early.” You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into him. But when you wriggled again—just to tease—he huffed, pressing a kiss against your shoulder, lazy and soft. “Thought I told you to stay put,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin again, this time slower.

Your breath caught, warmth spreading through you. “You’re not usually this… affectionate in the morning,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a faint laugh, the sound vibrating against your back. “Don’t usually get mornings like this.” Another kiss followed, lower along your shoulder. Then another, featherlight at the back of your neck.

You giggled quietly, tucking your chin as if you could hide from the press of his lips. “That tickles.”

“Good,” he murmured, nipping lightly at your skin just enough to make you squeak. His arm tightened again when you shifted, holding you flush against him. “You’re not getting away.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you let out a breathy laugh, turning your head slightly to glance back at him. His eyes were half-lidded, blue softened by sleep but burning with something tender. The sight made your stomach flip. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, smiling despite yourself.

“Maybe,” he said easily, brushing his nose against your hair. “But you’re mine.”

The words should’ve sounded possessive, but in his voice—low, almost reverent—they were softer, gentler, like a confession instead of a claim. You didn’t argue. Not when his lips found yours a moment later, lazy and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to kiss you. And for once, maybe he did.

The lazy morning stretched long, unhurried, as though the world outside had decided to pause just for you. Bucky didn’t let you go right away. Every time you shifted like you might get up, his arm cinched tighter, his lips brushing your temple in silent protest. Eventually, though, your stomach growled loud enough to make you both laugh. “Fine,” he muttered, finally loosening his hold. “But only because you’re hungry.”

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging him along behind you by the hand, which he allowed with surprising docility for a man who barked orders at everyone else. He leaned against the counter while you rummaged through the cupboards, watching with that intent gaze that always made you feel both flustered and oddly cherished. “Eggs, toast… maybe fruit?” you mumbled.

“I’ll do it,” he said, already reaching for the pan.

You tried to argue, but he shot you a look over his shoulder—the kind that dared you to push back. You rolled your eyes but smiled, sinking into a chair as he worked. He wasn’t polished, but he was efficient, moving with the kind of quiet precision that said he’d cooked for himself far too many times in silence.

When he set a plate in front of you—scrambled eggs, toast buttered just the way you liked—you blinked, warmth spreading in your chest. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he cut in, his voice soft but firm.

The meal wasn’t fancy, but you couldn’t stop smiling as you ate together at your tiny table. He asked about your week, listened with rapt attention as you rambled about flowers and customers, and even smirked when you teased him about hogging the pepper.

The rest of the day unfurled lazily. You cleaned the shop’s ledger at the table while he stretched out on the couch, half-reading, half-watching you. At some point, he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with tea, setting the mug by your elbow without a word. Later, you both ended up tackling laundry, and you laughed when he insisted on folding with military precision. “You’re ridiculous,” you teased, holding up a perfectly squared shirt.

“Efficient,” he corrected, lips twitching.

By mid-afternoon, sunlight spilled through the windows, and you both ended up back on the couch. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest while his arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He pressed the occasional kiss to your hair, to your temple, slow and lazy, as though he couldn’t help himself. One kiss landed just behind your ear, ticklish enough that you giggled, turning to nudge at him. “Bucky…”

He smirked faintly, kissing you again, this time softer, lips lingering against your skin. “What?”

“You’re… distracting.”

“Good,” he murmured, nuzzling lightly against your hair before kissing you again, this time catching your lips in a slow, lazy press that left your cheeks warm.

You tried to hide your smile against his chest, but he felt it anyway, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your arm. The day melted into evening like that—quiet, ordinary, yet threaded with something so tender it made your chest ache.

Evening settled gently, the last of the sunlight fading from your windows, and for a while it felt like the day might slip into night without disturbance. You and Bucky lingered on the couch, your head nestled on his shoulder, his arm looped comfortably around you. His thumb traced lazy arcs against your arm while your favorite show played faintly in the background.

It was quiet. Too quiet, maybe, because the knock at your door startled both of you. Bucky’s arm tightened around you instantly, his body going taut beneath your cheek. The easy warmth that had colored the whole day dropped from his face, replaced by sharp alertness. “Stay here,” he murmured, voice low, already rising to his feet.

You frowned, but before you could protest, he’d crossed the room. He opened the door a crack, blocking the entrance with his body. Natasha’s voice slipped in, calm but cutting. “You’ve been hard to reach.”

Your brows shot up, but you stayed where you were, listening. Bucky didn’t move aside, didn’t open the door further. “Not an accident.”

“You’re expected tonight,” she said, and though her tone was casual, there was no mistaking the weight behind it. “You’ve dodged the last two. That’s not an option anymore.”

“I said I’d handle it,” Bucky bit out, jaw clenched.

From your angle on the couch, you could see Natasha tilt her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You can’t handle it from here.”

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. For the first time, you realized just how little you knew about what “business” meant in his world. Bucky’s body blocked you from the door, but the tension in his shoulders told you enough. “I’ll come,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Tomorrow night.”

Natasha arched a brow, then glanced past him toward you. Just for a second, her eyes softened with something unreadable before she nodded once. “Tomorrow,” she confirmed, and then she was gone.

Bucky shut the door with a quiet finality, leaning against it for a moment before turning back to you. His expression had softened again, but not all the way. There was still a shadow there, still a reminder of the part of him you didn’t see when he was folding laundry or kissing your shoulder in the morning. You sat up a little, hesitant. “Was that… work?”

He crossed the room, his jaw tight, and sank back onto the couch beside you. His hand found yours almost instinctively, like he needed the contact to ground himself. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Work.”

You studied him, unsure whether to push, but the look in his eyes stopped you. Not because it was cold—but because it wasn’t. It was protective, desperate, like he’d do anything to keep you from the parts of his life that led Natasha to your door.

So instead of asking, you curled against him again, letting your fingers twine with his. “Tomorrow,” you murmured softly, repeating his promise. His arm wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing your temple. “Tomorrow,” he echoed. But the way he held you, fierce and unwilling to let go, told you that if it were up to him, he’d never leave your apartment again.

The night he finally went, the shift in him was immediate. You’d gotten used to a certain softness around him—the lazy mornings, his arm around your waist as you drifted through the farmer’s market, the way his mouth curved when you teased him. But when he stepped out of your apartment that evening, dressed sharp and dark, there was nothing soft about him. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, his whole body coiled tight like a man walking into battle.

You tried not to worry. He’d promised he would be back. Still, when you finally drifted to sleep on the couch, the clock ticking toward midnight, the sound of a knock at your door jolted you awake. You knew it was him before you even opened it.

Bucky stood in the hall, shoulders broad, coat collar turned up against the chill. His hair was damp with mist, but it wasn’t the weather that made your heart lurch—it was his hands. His knuckles were split raw, streaked with blood, some dried, some fresh. His face was drawn, exhaustion and something darker carved deep into his features. “Bucky,” you whispered, reaching for him before you could stop yourself.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing past you into the warmth of the apartment. But the words rang hollow.

You shut the door quickly and followed him into the living room. He dropped heavily onto the couch, elbows braced against his knees, head bowed. For a moment, he just breathed, the weight of the night settling on him like armor he couldn’t shed. You crouched in front of him, your hand hovering near his without quite touching. “You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”

His eyes lifted, blue and tired, searching yours. Something in them softened, cracked, and for a moment he looked less like the untouchable man everyone feared and more like the one who’d spent the morning teasing you with kisses. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “I’m here.”

“It matters to me.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tight, but he didn’t pull away when you reached for his hands. Carefully, gently, you guided them into your lap, your thumbs brushing over the torn skin. You fetched the first aid kit you’d kept tucked away since the first time you’d seen him like this. As you worked, dabbing at the blood, his gaze never left you. His eyes followed every movement of your hands, every soft touch, every careful breath. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he murmured after a long silence.

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze steadily. “Maybe not. But I want to.”

His breath hitched, something raw flickering across his face. He leaned forward then, his forehead resting against yours, the distance between you vanishing. “Sweetheart…” His voice broke low, rough. “I don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.”

Your fingers tightened around his, careful not to hurt him but unwilling to let go. “That’s not your choice to make, Bucky.”

For a long moment, you stayed like that—forehead to forehead, his battered hands in yours, the room hushed around you. And though he never said what had happened out there, the way he clung to you told you enough.

Bucky was quieter than usual after you finished bandaging his knuckles. His eyes tracked every movement you made, like he was memorizing them, but he didn’t speak. Not when you cleaned up the kit, not when you coaxed him toward your bedroom. When you tugged gently at his hand, he followed without resistance. His shoulders looked heavier than they had all week, but the set of his jaw eased the moment you reached the bedroom door.

You crawled into bed first, expecting him to take his usual place at your side, but when you looked back, he was still standing there. His eyes softened, shadows clinging to the edges of his expression. “C’mere,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “I’m already here.”

He shook his head once, low and deliberate. He sat on the mattress, leaning against the headboard, legs stretched out. His hand patted his chest. “Here. Want you here.” Your breath caught, heat rushing to your cheeks. The request was tender, almost vulnerable, but it was also so very him—not asking, but needing, like the idea of you saying no had never crossed his mind. Still, you didn’t hesitate. You climbed up, settling carefully between his legs, your back against his chest at first. But when his arms wrapped firmly around you, pulling you closer, you shifted, turning just enough to lay half across him, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, faster than it should’ve been for a man trying to rest. His chin dipped, lips brushing your hair as he murmured, “That’s it. Stay right there.”

You shifted shyly, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt. “You’re comfortable like this?”

His arms tightened, pressing you flush against him. “More than comfortable.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. You just breathed together, your body melting into his, his warmth sinking into you until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. The tension in his frame slowly unwound, his muscles relaxing bit by bit as though your weight anchored him back to the earth.

When you tilted your head slightly, you found his eyes already on you, blue and intent even in the dim light. Without a word, he dipped down, his lips brushing yours in the gentlest, laziest kiss you’d ever felt—more a question than a demand, more a sigh than a claim. You smiled against his mouth, shy and soft, and he kissed you again, this one lingering, his thumb tracing idle circles at your waist. You giggled when his stubble scratched your cheek, and his lips curved faintly against yours.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low and rough, “don’t giggle when I’m trying to kiss you.”

You flushed, hiding your face against his chest, and he chuckled quietly, his mouth pressing into your hair instead. It wasn’t long before your breaths synced again, the weight of the day pulling you toward sleep. But this time, when his body stilled beneath you and his chest rose and fell in the deep rhythm of rest, you knew he was holding you not out of fear, but because—for once—he could.

---

The fight started small—like most things between you and Bucky did. It was late afternoon, and you’d decided to run down the block to grab milk before closing the shop. Harmless, ordinary. When you returned, juggling the bag in one hand, Bucky was already waiting at the door, his expression sharp, his shoulders rigid. “Don’t do that again.”

You blinked, startled by the clipped tone. “Do what?”

“Leave without telling me.” His voice was low, edged, the kind that made most people freeze.

You frowned, setting the bag down on the counter. “Bucky, I was gone ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes is long enough for something to happen,” he shot back, stepping closer. “You can’t just walk out without me knowing where you are.”

Your chest tightened—not with fear, but with frustration. You’d had this conversation with him before. The way he framed things like orders, the way he seemed to assume he had the right to tell you what you could and couldn’t do. You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. “You didn’t ask me, Bucky. You told me.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “So? I don’t want you at risk. I’m not gonna apologize for that.”

“That’s not the point.” You stepped closer too, your voice rising just slightly. “I’ve told you before—I need you to ask me. Not command me like—like I don’t have a choice.” For the first time, he faltered. His mouth opened, then shut again, his jaw tightening. You could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to push back this hard. Your heart hammered, but you pressed on, quieter now, more vulnerable. “If you want me to tell you where I’m going… then ask me. I’ll tell you. Gladly. But don’t bark orders at me, Bucky. That’s not how this works.”

The silence stretched, thick with tension. His hands flexed at his sides, metal fingers clenching once before he exhaled slowly. “No one talks to me like that,” he admitted finally, his voice rough. “No one pushes back.”

You softened, your frustration edged with something gentler. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you need someone who will.”

His eyes locked on yours, something raw flickering there—anger, yes, but also respect. And maybe, just maybe, a trace of relief. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful. “…Will you at least tell me next time?”

You bit back a smile, though your cheeks warmed. “See? Was that so hard?”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. And though the tension didn’t vanish completely, you knew you’d broken through something important—that he’d actually heard you. And Bucky, for all his control, didn’t know what to do with that.

The shop was already locked for the night, the ledger closed, and the soft glow of your single lamp lit the room. You’d expected Bucky to be restless after your argument—brooding, maybe even distant—but instead he lingered in the doorway, watching you curl up on the couch with a book.

When you looked up, you caught that same flicker from earlier—the one that said he’d actually listened. He crossed the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the couch. For a moment he just sat there, silent, his hands flexing once on his knees. Then, in a voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him, he asked, “can I hold you?”

Your breath caught. The simple question, asked instead of commanded, made your chest warm. You set your book aside and smiled softly. “Yes.” Relief flickered in his eyes. He shifted back, opening his arms. You climbed into his lap carefully, your knees bracketing his thighs, your arms looping around his shoulders. He drew you in immediately, strong arms banding around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’d been starving for this.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just curled into him, your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His breath stirred your hair, slow and deep, as though the tension had finally bled from him.

His hand slid up and down your back, not possessive now, but gentle, grounding. When he tilted his head down to press a kiss to your temple, you giggled quietly, shyer than you meant to be. “What?” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin.

“Nothing,” you whispered, though your cheeks warmed. “Just… it tickles.”

His lips curved against your hair. “Good.” He kissed you again, lower this time, at your cheekbone. “You’re sweet when you giggle.”

You hid your face against his shoulder, and his low laugh rumbled through his chest. “Don’t hide from me, doll,” he said softly, shifting to tip your chin up with his finger. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. “I like seeing you happy.”

The moment stretched, warm and quiet, until your lashes fluttered and you leaned forward, brushing a quick kiss against his jaw. His arms tightened, his breath catching, but instead of claiming more, he held you steady, letting you settle against him again. And there, curled in his lap, you realized that maybe—just maybe—he’d heard you after all.

---

It was a quiet afternoon in the shop, the kind where the sun streamed lazily through the front windows and you could hear the faint hum of the city outside. You were trimming stems at the counter when Bucky walked in, his presence filling the room the way it always did—solid, steady, magnetic.

But instead of his usual lean against the counter or wordless offering of help, he paused. His hands slid into his pockets, his eyes scanning the flowers before finally settling on you. There was something different in his gaze—not sharp or commanding, but hesitant. “Doll,” he said quietly, and when you looked up, you noticed the faint tension in his jaw. “Can I ask you something?”

You smiled faintly, setting down the shears. “Of course.”

He shifted, almost like he wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “There’s a gallery opening. Tomorrow night. I was thinking…” He trailed off, then forced the words out, softer now. “Would you come with me?”

The question caught you off guard—not because of the invitation itself, but because of the way he asked. Not a command, not an expectation. A question. You tilted your head, curious. “A gallery?”

“Yeah,” he said, lips twitching faintly. “Art. Paintings. You like that kind of thing, don’t you?”

Your chest warmed. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.” His voice was low, steady, but his eyes flickered away for a moment, almost shy. “It’s… not really my scene. But I figured maybe you’d like it. And I’d like to take you.”

Your heart skipped. For all his power, his control, this moment felt different. Vulnerable. Human. You stepped closer, brushing your fingers lightly against his sleeve. “I’d love to.”

Relief flashed across his face, subtle but undeniable. His hand covered yours, warm and solid, and he exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. We’ll make a night of it.”

The promise in his voice lingered long after, and for the first time, you realized this wasn’t just about keeping you safe or close. This was him trying—awkwardly, earnestly—to give you something that felt like a real date. Something normal. Something yours.

---

The night of the gallery opening, the city felt different—brighter, sharper, like it was holding its breath. Bucky picked you up just as he promised. You’d taken care with your appearance—clean lines, a favorite dress, a touch of perfume—but as soon as you stepped out of the car and saw the crowd, you realized it wasn’t the same kind of “dressed up.”

Everyone else glided past in tailored suits, glittering jewelry, gowns that looked like they’d cost more than your entire rent. The women’s heels clicked against the marble entrance, men’s watches caught the light, champagne flutes sparkled in elegant hands. They looked polished, untouchable. A different world entirely. And you? You felt… small. Pretty, yes, but simple.

You faltered just a little at the entrance, but Bucky noticed immediately. His hand slid firmly into yours, anchoring you. “You’re perfect,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. His eyes caught yours, steady and unflinching. “Don’t even think about it, doll. They’ve got nothing on you.”

Heat crept up your neck, but you nodded, letting him lead you inside. The gallery itself was stunning—high ceilings, gilded light fixtures, and walls lined with canvases that demanded silence. The crowd murmured in low, cultured tones, laughter muffled behind polite smiles. It felt like stepping into another universe.

You noticed quickly how people looked at him. Heads dipped in acknowledgment, eyes flicking toward him as he passed. A few men approached with polite greetings, their voices threaded with deference. Women gave him longer looks, curious, measuring.

You didn’t know their names, but you could feel it: he belonged here. Even if he stood a little apart from the crowd, he carried himself with an authority that made people move out of his way without realizing they had.

And then there was you, clinging to his hand. For a moment, you worried you looked out of place—until you caught him watching you. His gaze softened, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. The look in his eyes made you forget the polished crowd, the crystal chandeliers, the undercurrent of wealth and power humming through the room.

“This one,” you whispered after a while, pausing before a painting of blue-gray waves crashing against dark rocks. The colors pulled you in, fierce and haunting, yet strangely calm. “I like it.”

Bucky leaned close, his hand still around yours, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Because it looks like my eyes?”

You flushed instantly, glancing up at him in surprise. The smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you he’d said it on purpose. “Maybe,” you admitted shyly, but your smile gave you away.

He chuckled softly, his arm sliding around your waist. And just like that, the crowded room, the expensive clothes, the stares—they all faded. Because no matter what world he belonged to, in that moment, he was looking at you.

The gallery opening stretched on, the crowd shifting like a tide of silk and crystal. Every so often, someone approached Bucky—men in sharp suits, women draped in jewels, people who clearly knew who he was. Their greetings were subtle, respectful, often accompanied by a dip of the head or the briefest handshake. You noticed how quickly their eyes slid to you afterward, measuring, curious, but no one dared to say much beyond polite murmurs.

Bucky’s arm stayed around your waist through it all, his touch steady, grounding. He answered their greetings in clipped tones, a man who knew he didn’t need to waste words. The difference between how they treated him and how you knew him in the quiet of your apartment made your head spin.

At one point, a server passed with a tray of champagne. You hesitated, unsure if you should take one, but Bucky plucked a glass easily and offered it to you, his lips twitching faintly at your shyness. “Go on, doll. You’re allowed.” You took it, fingers brushing his, and felt oddly proud when you managed a small sip without feeling out of place. He leaned down, his voice low and meant only for you. “You doing okay?”

Your heart fluttered—not just at the words, but at the way he asked them. Quiet, careful, not assuming. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

For a while, you walked together through the halls, pausing before a few pieces of art. He didn’t say much about them, but you could feel his eyes on you as you spoke, listening as though your thoughts mattered more than the art itself.

And then, almost before you knew it, he was steering you away from the noise, out onto a balcony strung with soft lights. The city sprawled below, glittering, alive. Out here, the hum of conversation dimmed, replaced by the quiet night air. You set your half-empty glass on the railing, exhaling slowly. “They all know you,” you said softly, more observation than question.

Bucky glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “They know of me.”

The correction made your stomach flip. You turned toward him, searching his face. “And what should I know?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hand reached for yours instead, fingers lacing with deliberate slowness. “Just that I wanted you here with me. That’s all that matters tonight.”

The way he said it—firm, certain, yet soft enough to make your chest ache—kept you from pressing further. You squeezed his hand, letting the quiet stretch between you, filled only by the glow of the city lights. When you finally left the gallery, his hand never let go of yours.

The car ride home was silent but not heavy. His hand rested over yours the entire drive, his thumb brushing absentminded circles against your skin, and every so often his eyes flicked to you, as if reassuring himself you were still there.

It wasn’t until he walked you upstairs, the city hushed around you, that he finally broke the silence. “You looked beautiful tonight,” he said simply, voice low, the words meant only for you.

Heat flooded your cheeks, but you smiled shyly, your fingers tightening around his. “Thank you for bringing me.” His lips curved faintly, and for once, the powerful, untouchable man from the gallery was gone. It was just Bucky—your Bucky—looking at you like you’d given him more than he’d ever thought to ask for.

---

Bucky’s office was dim, the blinds drawn against the daylight. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk, though a closer look would’ve shown smudges of ink on his knuckles where he’d signed contracts and notes. He’d spent the whole morning hunched over the desk, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp and clipped as he handled one matter after another. The work never stopped; it simply waited for him to return.

Natasha leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her gaze steady on him as he hung up the latest call. She’d been patient—quiet even—but her silence was its own kind of weight. When he finally looked up, she pushed off the wall. “You’ve been slipping,” she said, matter-of-fact.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’ve been managing.”

“Managing?” Her brow arched, cool and unimpressed. “You’ve been avoiding meetings. You skipped the last sit-down with the heads. You didn’t show up to the import check. That’s not managing, Bucky. That’s negligence.”

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the shift of his weight. “Everything that needed to be handled was handled.”

“Not by you.” Natasha’s tone sharpened. “And people notice. You can’t disappear into that flower shop every other day and expect them not to talk.” At the mention, his eyes flickered, a spark of something softer breaking through. Natasha caught it instantly. “There it is,” she said, quieter now. “You’ve been different. Lighter. Hell, even I noticed. But you can’t keep living in both worlds without one swallowing the other.”

Bucky’s hand curled into a fist against the desk. “She doesn’t know.”

“And she shouldn’t,” Natasha countered. “Not unless you’re ready to bring her in. Because if she stays in the dark, she’s a liability. Not because she’s weak—because she’s unprepared. And unprepared means vulnerable.”

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The thought of dragging you into his world, of letting you see the blood and steel behind the quiet moments you shared—it twisted something in his chest. He wanted to keep you untouched. Untouched and his.

Natasha’s voice softened, though it never lost its edge. “You’re at a crossroads, Bucky. Either you pull back, or you let her see who you really are. But you can’t keep her in the middle. That’s where it gets dangerous.”

His eyes narrowed, jaw working, but he didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t have an answer. Because she was right. The silence stretched, heavy as the air between them. Then finally, his voice came out rough, low. “I can’t let her go.”

Natasha tilted her head, unreadable. “Then you’d better figure out how to keep her safe. Before someone else decides she’s the best way to get to you.” The words hung in the room like smoke, impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt something he didn’t allow himself often: fear. Not for himself, but for you.

That night, you noticed something was different the moment Bucky walked through your apartment door. Usually, when he came to you after a day of work, there was a rhythm—sometimes tired, sometimes sharp-edged, but always softened the moment he saw you. Tonight, though, he lingered in the doorway longer than usual. His coat stayed on, his posture stiff, his eyes shadowed in a way that made your chest tighten. “Hey,” you said softly, trying to draw him in. “Long day?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough. He shut the door quietly, almost too quietly for a man who usually moved with certainty. His gaze flicked over you—like he was making sure you were really there—before he crossed the room.

When he pulled you into his arms, it wasn’t like before. Not just affection, not even just need—it was desperation. His grip was tight, almost crushing, his face buried in your hair. You froze for a moment, startled, before sliding your arms around him, holding on just as firmly. “Bucky,” you whispered, trying to lean back enough to see his face. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed against your temple, and you could feel his heart hammering through his chest. Finally, in a low rasp, he said, “you don’t understand how dangerous it is.”

Your breath caught. You’d always known, in some quiet corner of yourself, that there was more to him than the man who carried your groceries and folded your laundry with military precision. But hearing it now, in that tone—it was different. “Dangerous… for me?” you asked carefully.

“For you,” he confirmed, his hands tightening on your waist as though to prove his point. “Being with me… it paints a target on you. And if anyone ever—” His words cut off, sharp, like the thought itself was unbearable.

You stayed quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then, softly, you said, “and if you left? If you pulled away?”

He finally lifted his head then, his eyes finding yours. They were raw, unguarded, and the sight of them nearly broke you. “I can’t,” he admitted hoarsely. “I’ve tried to think about it. Tried to imagine it. But I can’t, doll. I can’t stay away from you.”

Something in you cracked open at the confession, equal parts fear and tenderness. You lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing gently over the stubble there. “Then don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t stay away. Just… let me be here. With you.”

His breath shook, his metal hand lifting to cover yours where it rested against his cheek. He leaned into your touch like a starving man, his eyes shutting for a moment. When he opened them again, his voice was steadier, though still low. “If I do this—if I keep you close—it means you’ll see things. Parts of me, parts of my life… I’ve kept them from you on purpose.”

You swallowed hard but nodded. “Then show me. I’d rather see than be left in the dark.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, searching, as if weighing the truth of your words. And then, finally, he exhaled, pulling you back against his chest. “Alright,” he whispered into your hair. “But once you’re in, sweetheart… there’s no going back.”

And though his tone carried warning, his arms held you like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.

---

It started with a question you hadn’t expected. A few days had passed since that night in your apartment—the night Bucky had admitted he couldn’t let you go. He hadn’t said much more about it, but you felt it in the way he hovered a little closer, in how often his hand found yours, in the quiet determination that lingered in his eyes.

So when he showed up at your shop one afternoon, leaning against the counter with that intent look of his, you thought he was there just to keep you company. Instead, he said, “there’s a gala this weekend. I want you to come with me.”

You blinked. “A gala?”

“Big one. Everyone who matters will be there.” He didn’t elaborate who everyone was, but the weight behind his words made it clear. Then, softer, “I want them to see you with me.” The warmth in your chest almost made you forget to breathe. Official. That’s what it sounded like.

He didn’t waste time. The next day, you found yourself swept into a world you’d never touched before. The tailor’s boutique looked more like an art gallery than a store—marble floors, velvet curtains, rows of gowns shimmering under soft lights. You hovered near the entrance at first, your fingers twitching nervously at your sides. The place smelled faintly of leather and perfume, expensive in a way that made you want to keep your hands tucked safely away.

Bucky, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease. He guided you forward with a hand at the small of your back, his voice steady as he spoke to the attendant. “Something for her. For Saturday night.”

The attendant’s eyes widened just slightly, recognition sparking as she nodded quickly. Within minutes, you were being ushered into a fitting room with armfuls of gowns in every shade and style. The first dress was sleek, dark, clinging in ways that made you self-conscious. You stepped out hesitantly, smoothing your hands over the fabric. Bucky’s eyes lifted instantly. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even breathe for a moment. His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, before he finally said, “beautiful.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. “It’s… too much, maybe?”

“Not enough,” he countered smoothly, his voice rougher than usual.

You ducked back into the fitting room, your pulse racing. The next dress was brighter, softer, with delicate embroidery along the bodice. When you stepped out this time, he leaned forward slightly in his chair, his elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. “This one’s good,” he said, but his tone wasn’t casual—it was thoughtful, assessing, almost protective. “But I want something that makes them stare.”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “That sounds… intimidating.”

“Good,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “They should be intimidated.”

By the third dress—a deep navy that shimmered when you moved—you felt the air change. Bucky stood this time, crossing the room in a few strides. His hand lifted, brushing along the fabric at your waist, not quite touching you, but close enough to make your breath catch. “This one,” he said, voice low and certain. “Matches your eyes. And when you walk in with me wearing this, no one’ll dare forget it.”

You giggled softly, nerves twisting with warmth. “Bucky… it probably costs more than my whole apartment.”

His lips curved faintly, but his gaze stayed steady. “You let me worry about that.” And in that moment, as the silk whispered around your legs and his hand hovered at your side, you realized: this wasn’t just a dress. This was a declaration.

The attendant had just whisked the navy gown away to be pressed and boxed when something caught your eye. Off to the side, away from the racks of shimmering evening wear, hung a small collection of lighter dresses—soft fabrics, airy shapes. The kind of thing you’d wear in the shop on a warm day, not at some glittering gala.

One in particular made you pause. A simple sundress, pale with little embroidered details along the hem. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t dripping with jewels or stitched with silk. It was… sweet. Something you could actually see yourself wearing, not just trying on for someone else’s world. The attendant followed your gaze. “That’s from a quieter line,” she explained with a professional smile. “Not evening wear, but if you’d like to try it, you can.”

You startled slightly, glancing back at Bucky, who was still flipping idly through a lookbook the attendant had left with him. He looked up at the hesitation in your posture. “Try it,” he said simply. Not a command this time, but a suggestion—an invitation.

You hesitated. “I couldn’t… it’s not—”

His brow arched, the faintest curve of a smirk playing on his lips. “Doll, if you want to try it, you try it.”

So you did. The fabric was soft against your skin, the cut loose but flattering. When you stepped out, you felt lighter somehow, less like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s world and more like yourself. Bucky’s gaze lifted immediately. For once, he didn’t move, didn’t speak right away. His eyes roamed slowly over the dress, then back to your face. You fidgeted under the weight of it, tugging gently at the skirt. “It’s simple. Too simple, probably. Not for…” You gestured vaguely to the opulent boutique around you. “This.”

Still, he didn’t say anything. Just stood, crossing the room with quiet steps until he was right in front of you. His hand reached out, brushing the edge of the fabric at your hip, his thumb pressing lightly into the material. “You look…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, almost frustrated with himself. “You look like you.”

Your cheeks warmed. “That’s… good?”

“It’s perfect.” His voice was rougher than usual, sincere in a way that left no room for doubt. “The gala needs the navy gown. But this one? This one’s for me.”

Your heart fluttered, and before you could argue—before you could even tell him you couldn’t possibly afford something like this—he was already glancing over his shoulder at the attendant. “We’ll take both.”

Your mouth fell open. “Bucky—”

His hand lifted, brushing against your cheek, silencing the protest before it could fully form. His eyes softened, that steady, unyielding gaze fixed only on you. “Let me.”

And standing there, wrapped in a simple sundress in a boutique that reeked of money and power, you realized it wasn’t about the price. It was about him wanting you to have something that made you feel yourself, even in his world.

Bucky didn’t let you change out of the sundress. The attendant had neatly packaged the navy gown, slid it into a garment bag, and made a note of the transaction, but Bucky had waved her off when she offered to take the sundress back to the fitting rooms. “She’s keeping it on,” he’d said, casual but with the kind of finality no one ever argued with.

And so you found yourself leaving the boutique hand-in-hand with him, the evening air brushing against your legs as the hem of the simple dress swayed with each step. It felt strange—like you were supposed to be polished and expensive after a store like that, but instead you felt like yourself. More than that, you felt like his.

He opened the car door for you, but instead of giving the driver an address for home, he leaned down and murmured, “let’s take a walk first.”

The driver pulled away a few blocks later, leaving you and Bucky in a quieter part of the city. The streets were lined with little shops and cafés, the kind that glowed warmly in the evening. He guided you toward one tucked between a bookstore and a flower stall, the kind of place you might’ve gone with friends—if you’d had the time.

Inside, the café smelled like coffee and sugar, the hum of conversation gentle and low. No one looked twice at you. No one cared that you weren’t in glittering gowns or pressed suits. And Bucky—your Bucky, who had filled a marble-floored boutique like he owned the world—looked almost out of place here. His broad shoulders crowded the small table, his hands too large around the delicate porcelain cup. But the way he watched you, leaning forward as though you were the only thing that mattered, made the rest fade away. “You like it here?” he asked, his voice softer than the quiet jazz playing in the background.

You smiled, stirring your drink absently. “It feels… normal.”

“Normal,” he repeated, like the word was foreign on his tongue. His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Guess I could get used to that.”

For a while, you sat together in that small café, talking about nothing and everything. He asked you about your favorite flowers—not the ones that sold best, but the ones you secretly kept for yourself. You teased him about how he never drank his coffee until it was practically cold. He listened, his hand finding yours across the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in steady circles.

And when you left, walking slowly down the street, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop at the little bookstore window, linger at the flower stall, laugh at the sight of a dog sticking its head out of a taxi. At one point, you tugged his hand without realizing, pulling him closer to something that caught your eye—a display of postcards painted with watercolor scenes of the city.

He didn’t comment on the gesture, but you felt the weight of his gaze as you flipped through them, your fingers brushing over the colors. When you finally slipped back into the car, the sundress soft against your skin and a paper bag of postcards in your lap, Bucky leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “You looked beautiful in the gowns,” he murmured, his tone low, almost possessive. “But this? This is what I’ll remember.”

And you realized it wasn’t the marble floors, or the glittering chandeliers, or the navy silk that made the night feel important. It was him. It was this.

---

The gala was nothing like the gallery. From the moment you stepped into the ballroom, it was clear this was a different level of opulence entirely. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light across the space, polished marble gleamed beneath your heels, and the air hummed with the low thrum of strings from a live orchestra. Guests glided past in gowns stitched with gemstones, tuxedos pressed to perfection, diamonds glittering at throats and wrists.

You’d taken extra care tonight, wearing the deep navy gown Bucky had chosen for you, the one that shimmered with every movement. It hugged you in ways that made you nervous at first, but when you saw the way his gaze lingered on you before you left your apartment—sharp, reverent, possessive—you knew you didn’t regret saying yes.

At first, you kept to his side, your fingers woven with his, your steps perfectly matched as he led you through the crowd. His presence was magnetic; people parted for him instinctively, their eyes darting toward you with open curiosity. Some smiled, others whispered, but all of them looked.

The first introductions came quickly—men with quick, firm handshakes, women with perfectly painted smiles. They greeted Bucky with respect, almost deference, and then turned their attention to you. The questions came in polite tones—your name, how long you’d been in the city, whether you enjoyed the gala.

You answered as best you could, but each new set of eyes made your chest tighten. You weren’t used to being the center of attention, and in a room like this, the stares felt heavier than silk gowns and diamond necklaces combined.

So you inched closer. It was subtle at first—your hand tightening on Bucky’s, your shoulder brushing his arm as someone else struck up a conversation with him. He didn’t move, didn’t draw you in, just let you settle where you wanted. But as the night stretched on and more people gathered, you found yourself tucking yourself closer and closer into his side.

By the time he was cornered by a trio of older men discussing investments, you were practically pressed to him, your arm sliding around his. His body was solid against yours, steady in a way that kept you grounded. He shifted slightly then, not pulling you in but adjusting just enough that you fit more comfortably against him. You realized you were hiding. And that he was letting you.

Between conversations, he leaned down just once, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured, “you okay, doll?”

Your breath caught, but you nodded quickly, whispering back, “Just… a lot of people.”

His hand slid down, resting against the small of your back, warm and firm. “Stay close, then.” And you did. Through introductions, through polite laughter, through glasses of champagne that you barely sipped. You stayed tucked into his side, your cheek brushing his shoulder once when you leaned in to whisper something shyly, and his answering smirk told you he didn’t mind in the slightest.

It was overwhelming, yes. But the whole night, Bucky’s presence wrapped around you like armor. You weren’t just there as a guest—you were there as his. And judging by the way people looked at him, then at you, that message was loud and clear.

The gala bled into night, the golden chandeliers giving way to the hush of the city as you and Bucky slipped into the car. The door shut, muting the noise behind you, leaving only the soft hum of the engine and the faint rustle of your gown as you shifted against the seat.

For the first time in hours, you exhaled, your shoulders slumping slightly. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself until now. Bucky’s hand found yours almost immediately, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady rhythm. “You did good,” he murmured, his voice quiet but certain.

You smiled faintly, though your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t really do anything.”

His eyes slid to you, blue and intense even in the low light. “You were with me. That’s everything.”

The words settled heavy in your chest, warm and strange, like they meant more than you knew how to hold. The car turned, and instead of heading toward your apartment, you noticed the streets getting sharper, quieter, the buildings taller and glinting under the city lights. You glanced at him, curious. “This isn’t the way home.”

He didn’t look away, didn’t let go of your hand. “No. I want to show you something.” When the car pulled up to a gleaming tower, you felt your breath hitch. This was the kind of place you’d walked past before but never imagined entering. The doorman nodded the instant Bucky stepped out, opening the door like it was second nature. No questions, no hesitation. Just respect.

He offered his hand to help you out of the car, steady and sure, and guided you inside. The lobby was marble and glass, understated yet impossibly expensive. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to shout. The elevator ride was silent except for the low hum of the machinery and the sound of your heartbeat thudding in your ears. His hand stayed at the small of your back, grounding you. When the doors opened, you stepped directly into his penthouse.

It was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, the city sprawled out beneath like a living map of light. The furniture was sleek, dark, carefully chosen—luxury without clutter. A bar lined one side of the space, glassware gleaming faintly under soft recessed lighting. There was a piano, too, its polished surface reflecting the skyline. You turned slowly, taking it all in. “This is… yours?”

“Mine,” he confirmed simply, watching you carefully as you moved further inside.

It felt surreal, like stepping into the part of him he’d kept hidden. The part that wasn’t coffee shops and farmer’s markets, but glass towers and quiet power. You drifted toward the windows, resting a hand against the cool glass as you looked out over the city. Behind you, you heard his steps, deliberate and steady, until his reflection appeared beside yours. “Why tonight?” you asked softly. “Why show me now?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Because after tonight, there’s no pretending. Everyone saw you with me. They’ll keep seeing you. And I don’t want you walking into this blind.”

You turned, looking up at him. The shadows in his eyes were still there, the weight of his world, but so was something else—something softer, rawer. “I told you I’d rather see than be left in the dark,” you whispered.

His hand lifted, brushing lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw. “I know,” he murmured. “That’s what scares me.”

And then, before you could answer, he bent his head and kissed you. Not the shy, tentative kisses of your apartment, but something deeper, firmer, threaded with everything he hadn’t said aloud. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him as though he needed to remind himself you were really there. The city stretched endlessly below, but in that moment, all you could feel was him.

Bucky didn’t stop at the kiss. When he finally drew back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand slid down to lace with your fingers. “C’mere,” he murmured, tugging you gently away from the windows. “Let me show you around.”

The penthouse unfolded like something out of a dream. He guided you first through the living space—sleek lines, soft lighting, and a bar stocked more like a high-end lounge than a home. Past that was a dining area, the table long enough for ten but polished to a shine that suggested it wasn’t often used.

Then he took you down the hall to the master suite. The bedroom was spacious but not ostentatious, anchored by a bed large enough to swallow you whole. It was softened by details you hadn’t expected—heavy curtains, a worn leather chair in the corner, books stacked neatly on a nightstand. Not the kind of impersonal room you imagined in a man like him.

But it was the closet that stopped you cold. The space was larger than your entire bedroom at home, walls lined with dark wood shelves and neatly arranged clothing. His suits, pressed and orderly, filled one side. On the other, though—where you expected emptiness—were rows of neatly folded soft fabrics in your size. Pajamas. Sweaters. Undergarments in delicate lace and cotton, still with tags. Even shoes, flats and slippers and a pair of heels you knew you hadn’t bought. Your steps faltered. “Bucky…”

He watched you carefully, his hands tucked in his pockets, his jaw tight. “I didn’t want you to come here and not have anything.”

You turned slowly, looking at him. “You… bought all this?”

“I had someone pick it up,” he admitted, shrugging one shoulder like it was nothing. But the way his eyes never left your face told you it wasn’t nothing. Not to him.

Your throat tightened. It wasn’t just that he’d thought of it—it was that he’d prepared for the possibility of you being here long before you ever were. You smiled softly, shy but earnest. “Thank you.”

His shoulders eased just slightly, and he stepped closer, brushing his knuckles along your arm. “Just want you comfortable, doll. Always.”

Before you could answer, a voice carried from down the hall, low but sharp. “She’s here, then?”

You turned, startled, as Natasha appeared in the doorway. She was different from how you’d pictured—tall, poised, her red hair a striking curtain around a face that gave nothing away. She leaned casually against the frame, though her eyes, green and assessing, flicked over you in a way that made you straighten unconsciously. Bucky didn’t flinch. “Yeah. She’s here.”

Natasha’s gaze lingered on you another beat before she gave the faintest of nods. “Good. Better she’s here than in the dark.”

You weren’t sure what to say, so you offered a small, polite smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Her lips curved, just barely. “We’ll see if you still think that later.” Then, with a glance at Bucky, “she’ll need to know more. Sooner rather than later.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, but he nodded once. Natasha’s gaze softened—if only slightly—before she slipped away as quietly as she’d come. The silence left behind felt heavier than the closet full of clothes, heavier than the glittering view outside. But when Bucky turned back to you, his eyes softened, grounding you once more. “You okay?” he asked. And this time, he phrased it like a question.

You let out a shaky breath, smiling faintly. “Yeah. I think so.”

Once Natasha’s footsteps faded, he tugged you gently back into the hall, his hand warm and steady around yours. “C’mon,” he said, softer now. “There’s more.”

The penthouse was larger than you’d realized. He showed you the kitchen first—polished stone counters, state-of-the-art appliances, cabinets so tall you wondered if he ever actually used them. But there were signs of him here too: a coffee mug left out near the sink, a half-empty bottle of scotch on the counter, a dish towel folded with military precision.

From there, he led you to a smaller sitting room, tucked away from the sweeping skyline. It felt more lived in than the main space—cozier, with a blanket folded across the back of the couch, a chessboard set up mid-game. You wondered if he played with Natasha, or if the board had been waiting for an opponent he hadn’t found until you.

He showed you a study too, lined with dark shelves and heavy books, the scent of old paper lingering faintly. A few leather-bound journals lay stacked neatly on the desk, a fountain pen resting perfectly parallel beside them. You didn’t ask, but part of you wondered what he wrote in them.

By the time you circled back to the master suite, the nerves that had knotted your stomach earlier had softened into something else—curiosity, warmth, and the quiet awe of realizing this was his space. And now, in some way, yours too. He paused at the bedroom door, his eyes flicking to you. “You should get ready for bed. The pajamas are in the closet.”

You bit your lip, shy but smiling, before disappearing into the walk-in again. The set you chose was simple—soft cotton, a pale color trimmed with delicate lace. It fit perfectly, hugging you without clinging, comfortable in a way that made your breath catch. He hadn’t just guessed. He’d known.

When you padded back into the bedroom, barefoot, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the pajama top, Bucky was already waiting. He sat at the edge of the bed, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, the city lights spilling across him through the windows. His gaze lifted the moment he heard you. And it lingered.

You froze for a moment under the weight of it, heat rushing to your cheeks. “They… fit,” you murmured.

His lips curved faintly, but his eyes stayed intent, almost reverent. “Told you. I just want you comfortable.”

You crossed the room slowly, and when you stopped in front of him, he reached for your hand, pulling you gently between his knees. His metal thumb brushed over your knuckles, his touch careful, grounding. “Stay here tonight,” he said quietly. Not a command. A request.

You nodded, your chest tight, your heart racing. “Okay.”

He exhaled softly, his hand sliding to your waist as he pressed a kiss against your stomach through the thin cotton. Then he looked up at you, his eyes blue and raw. “You look like you belong here.” And for the first time, standing barefoot in silk-soft pajamas in his penthouse bedroom, you believed him.

---

The bed was cold when you rolled over, your hand brushing against rumpled sheets where Bucky should’ve been. For a moment you thought maybe you’d imagined it—the weight of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his chest pressed to your back—but the faint indentation in the mattress told you he’d only slipped away recently.

You sat up slowly, tugging the pajama top tighter around you, and padded out into the hall. The penthouse was hushed, the city beyond the windows muted in its endless glow. You followed the faintest sound—paper rustling, a pen scratching—to the study.

There he was. Bucky sat behind a heavy desk, sleeves rolled up, a lamp casting sharp shadows across his face. Papers were spread across the surface, neat columns of numbers, ledgers, notes scrawled in his firm hand. He didn’t look up at first, but the moment your bare feet padded against the rug, his gaze lifted. “Doll,” he murmured, his voice softening instantly. He set the pen down and held out a hand. “C’mere.”

You crossed the room, shy but certain, and when you reached him, he tugged you gently onto his lap. You settled sideways across his thighs, your head resting against his shoulder. His hand smoothed along your back, slow and steady, grounding you. “You should’ve eaten first,” he said, brushing his lips against your temple. “I’ll text Natasha, have her send something up.”

You hummed, your voice muffled against his shirt. “I didn’t come looking for food.”

His brow furrowed slightly as he angled his head to see you. “No?”

You shook your head, cheeks warming. “…I missed you. In bed.”

For a moment, the silence stretched. Then his chest rumbled with a low exhale, almost a laugh but not quite. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough. “You’re gonna kill me saying things like that.”

You smiled shyly against him, and after a moment, curiosity tugged at you. You shifted just enough to glance at the papers scattered across the desk. Numbers, neat rows and totals, some underlined, some circled. “What’s all this?”

“Work,” he said simply, but when you didn’t look away, his mouth softened. “Keeping track of everything. Shipments, money in, money out. Making sure it all balances.”

You blinked, surprised. “You do the books yourself?”

“Trust’s hard to come by,” he said dryly, though his thumb traced idly over your hip. “Don’t like letting anyone else touch the numbers.”

Your lips curved faintly. “I do my shop’s books too. Every night before I close.”

That earned you a glance, one brow raised, a flicker of amusement breaking through his guarded expression. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s not as complicated, but… numbers don’t lie. You can see the whole picture if you know where to look.”

His smirk deepened just slightly. “Smart girl.” He tapped one of the ledgers with a calloused finger. “Wanna help me, then?”

You looked at him in surprise, then back at the papers. The idea of being folded into this part of his world, even in something as simple as numbers, made your heart beat faster. Slowly, you nodded. “Alright,” you whispered. “Show me what you’ve got.”

And for the next hour, you sat curled on his lap while he walked you through the ledgers, his voice low and steady, his arm always around you. It was strange—intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not just the touch of him, but the trust of it.

Bucky’s voice had become a low murmur in your ear, patient as he explained the rows of numbers. You tried to keep up, scribbling a few notes in the margin of his ledger, but the warmth of his chest and the steady rhythm of his hand tracing circles over your thigh slowly lulled you. Your head grew heavier until it finally settled against his shoulder. He noticed the shift instantly. Your pen slipped from your hand, rolling across the desk. Bucky caught it without looking, setting it aside, his gaze softening when he realized your breaths had evened out. You’d fallen asleep on his lap, curled up like you belonged there.

For a while, he just let you rest, one arm wrapped around you protectively, the other turning pages with a deliberate quiet. Every so often, he brushed his thumb over your side or adjusted the blanket he’d pulled down from the back of the couch. A knock broke the silence. Sharp, precise. He didn’t even raise his voice when he answered, “come in.”

The door opened, and Natasha stepped inside, a tray balanced in her hands. Steam rose from a pot of tea, plates neatly covered. Her sharp gaze flicked over the scene in front of her—you asleep, Bucky’s arm wound firmly around you—and her lips curved just slightly. “She’s out,” she said softly, setting the tray down on the corner of the desk.

“Mm,” Bucky grunted in agreement, his hand still smoothing idly along your back.

Natasha straightened, crossing her arms. “You should put her in bed.”

His jaw tightened, and he shook his head once. “She’s fine here.”

The redhead studied him for a beat longer before nodding. “I’ll leave you two, then.” She turned to go, but paused at the door, glancing back with a raised brow. “You’re softer than I thought you’d be, Barnes.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just shifted slightly, holding you a little closer, his gaze fixed on your sleeping face. Natasha’s faint chuckle followed her out of the room. The penthouse grew quiet again. He leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the curve of your cheek against his chest. His hand stilled over your side as he bent to press the gentlest kiss to your hair. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, so quiet you didn’t stir. “I’ll keep you safe. Always.”

The breakfast tray sat untouched on the desk, the tea growing cooler by the minute. But Bucky didn’t care. You were warm, you were breathing steady, and you were here.

And for him, that was enough.

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

bucky barnes taglist: @harleycao @wkhannah @star-yawnzzn @baguwagu @averyhotchner @umbreoni

✦Author's Note: This is an alternate timeline Avenger's AU! Starts some time after Age of Ultron, but Hulk never went off world. Enjoy!✦

A shift of weight. Armor settling. A sound your bones have known since you were twenty.

Your gaze keeps moving even though it shouldn’t. Past the nobles, past the ministers, to the line of ceremonial guards under the arch. Silver. Blue. Helms polished to a mirror.

Him.

His posture is regulation-perfect. Shoulders square, hands behind his back, sword straight. His helmet hides everything—except it doesn’t. Through the narrow slit of the visor, you catch a flash of skin. The glint of wet. A tear slips, slow and unashamed, cutting a clean path down his cheek.

Bucky doesn’t move. He is a statue that forgot how to be stone.

The priest pauses for the crowd to murmur amen. Somewhere, someone coughs. Your new husband squeezes your hand for the benefit of the witnesses. You keep your eyes where they’re not supposed to be.

You mouth a thought you shouldn’t give shape to. Not words—just the ache of them.

Across the hall, he tips his head a fraction. Another tear gathers and falls. His mouth moves behind steel. You can’t hear it, but you know it: first heartbreak, then oath.

The bells toll. Your ring slides onto your finger, a cold circle that doesn’t know your name. The crowd erupts. Banners ripple. Trumpets stab the air.

And over it all, the smallest answer: clink. A gauntlet flexes. A sword hilt creaks in his hand.

The moment shatters. You smile where you’re meant to. You say the right words. You walk back down the aisle feeling like glass that hasn’t decided where to break.

When you look for him again, he’s gone.

Later, the castle is a body swallowing noise. Laughter ricochets through stone and dies in drafts. Rose petals stick to your hem. The crown is a headache with jewels.

You stand at your window and let the night lean in. Beyond the balustrade, torches shiver in the wind. The moon drags light across the courtyards like a slow blade.

You listen.

At first, nothing. Then—quiet, exact, inevitable:

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

You don’t turn when the door opens. The air changes; the room recognizes him before you do.

“Your Highness,” he says, low. The title doesn’t fit his mouth.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Not tonight.”

The door closes with a soft click. Boots slow on stone. Armor breathes—tiny expansions, metal answering the shape of his chest. You can feel him stop just behind you, close enough that the heat of him conquers the cold from the glass.

“How did you get past the posts?” you ask.

“I taught most of them to stand their posts,” he says, and the corner of your mouth threatens to lift. “They blinked. And I’m not above a balcony, if I have to.”

“You are not climbing my balcony in full armor.”

“Wasn’t my first choice either.”

You turn. He’s still armored, helmet tucked under his arm. His hair is damp at his temples. The strap line on his jaw is angry and red. His eyes are worse—tired and bright at the same time.

“You cried,” you say, because the lie would break you.

He locks onto your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “Seemed like the honest thing,” he says, quiet.

For a second, neither of you move. Then you put your palm flat on the curve of his chestplate. It’s cool, steady. The faintest vibration under your hand—his heart, reined in hard.

He looks down at your hand, then back up. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“What?”

“The ring.”

You look at it. Gold, flawless, wrong. “Only when I think about it.”

“Then don’t,” he says.

“That’ll be easy.”

He exhales, shaky. “I stood there and counted how many steps it would take to get you out of there.”

“And?”

“Too many,” he admits. “Not if I wanted you alive at the end of it.”

“So you stayed.” You try not to make it sound like accusation.

“I stayed,” he says, and the words almost snap. “I stayed, and I watched them put their hands on you and tell the world it meant something.”

“Bucky.”

He flinches at his name like it’s been a knife and a bandage both.

“Say it again,” he says.

“Bucky.”

He sets the helmet on the table with a careful, final sound. His right hand—warm, scarred—rises to your cheek. His left—metal—hesitates, then joins it. Cold and warm bracket your jaw. You lean into both.

“You looked like a queen,” he says. “You looked like a star walking into a room that didn’t deserve you.”

“You looked like the only real thing in it,” you breathe.

His mouth moves. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything but alive.

“I told myself I’d keep it simple,” he says. “Come in. Make sure you’re breathing. Leave.”

“How’s that going?”

“Terribly.”

You watch his throat work. You see his eyes threaten and refuse. You rest your hand over the seam where metal joins skin. The plates shift under your fingertips, a whispering clock.

“How long do we have?” you ask.

“Not enough,” he answers. “But longer than nothing.”

“Good,” you say, and slide your fingers into the straps at his shoulders.

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your wrists gently. “Talk to me first. Or I’ll forget how.”

“All right.” You don’t pull away. “Tell me what you would’ve said if the church was empty.”

He looks at you like that’s cruel. Then he nods, because he’s braver than anyone realizes.

“I would’ve said I love you,” he begins, voice steadying as he goes. “Not the pretty kind. The kind that learned the sound of your footsteps in the corridor and decided it was a prayer. The kind that made me memorize the guards’ rotations so I could put you on the safest horse when we traveled. The kind that made me fix your dagger grip because the thought of you cutting yourself hurt more than the thought of me getting stabbed.”

You swallow hard. “I would’ve said I love you, too,” you say. “Not the easy kind. The kind that kept me awake to watch you walk the perimeter in the rain. The kind that made me carry your dog tags in my pocket for luck when you were gone. The kind that made me turn my head in lessons so I could see you in the courtyard and breathe again.”

He blinks like that one knocks his balance. “You carry—?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “When you’re away too long.”

“You little thief,” he whispers, and his laugh breaks into something that’s not quite a sound.

“Arrest me,” you say.

“I would,” he says. “But I’m busy planning a rescue.”

“Tell me.” You step closer. “Tell me the plan.”

He leans his forehead to yours; the edge of the chestplate cools your collarbone. The metal hand settles at the nape of your neck, careful as a blessing.

“They’re sending you to his capital,” he says. “Two weeks from now. I rode escort there once—before you. There are tunnels in the cliff under the keep. Old smuggler routes. They brick them, the sea opens another. It always does.”

“Will you be there?” Your voice is a thread.

“Before you arrive,” he says. “I’ll meet you in the chapel at dusk the first night. If you can’t get there—” He kisses your temple. “—look for starlight in the western window. If I can’t reach you, I’ll leave signs. A coin under a candle. A flower with no scent on the altar.”

“You’ve thought about this.”

“Since the first time I saw you pushed into a parade,” he says. “Since the first time they called you Our Glory and didn’t see your hands shaking.”

You breathe like you haven’t all day. The room moves again. The world gets a contour.

“Now kiss me,” you say.

He doesn’t make you ask twice.

His mouth meets yours like a promise kept. It’s not soft—he’s past soft. It’s precise. Patient. Starved. You feel the control in it, the discipline, the way he holds back so you won’t have to. You rise to your toes. The kiss tilts, deepens, finds the shape of something you almost forgot: relief.

When you break, he chases you a fraction, forehead tipping to yours. Your hands are already at the buckles.

“Is this allowed?” he asks, wry, breathless, reverent.

“Nothing tonight is allowed,” you say, smiling wet. “Help me not care.”

He does.

He unclasps the plates at his shoulders, not looking away from you. The armor loosens with soft sounds, practical and intimate. When he slides off a gauntlet, your fingers catch his—skin to skin now—and he exhales like that details him more than prayer.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs.

“So are you.”

“Not from fear,” he says.

“Me either.”

He raises your hand to his mouth and kisses the base of your thumb, then the ring that doesn’t belong, then the skin beneath it. He doesn’t rush the symbols; he rewrites them.

“Tell me something true,” you whisper.

He kisses your palm. “I count your steps when you’re nervous,” he says. “I listen for the change when you calm down.”

You close your fingers around his. “I braid my hair the way you taught me. So it won’t snag when I ride.”

He smiles, real and small. “You listen.”

“Always.”

His metal hand lifts the chain from his neck—the tags you’ve held in secret. He sets them in your palm. “Wear them tonight,” he says. “So I know you’re real.”

You slip the chain over your head. The cool weight settles against your sternum. “So you know I’m yours,” you correct softly.

He looks like a man getting sunlight after years underground.

You move together. No rush. He unlaces your sleeves like he’s practiced it a thousand times in his head and none in the world. You unbuckle the last of his armor and guide it to the floor, piece by careful piece, until he is just a man with a metal arm and eyes that look at you like home. When your mouth finds his again, it’s a decision, not an apology.

You pull him by his collar to the window seat where the moon paints the stone pale. His hands map the edges of you, respectful, grateful, memorizing. You kiss until your lungs protest and then some. You stop only to breathe and to laugh once—soft, surprised—when his stubble tickles your jaw.

“Do you remember the orchard?” you ask against his mouth.

“When you dared me to steal apples under the sentry lanterns,” he says. “You took the bite and handed me the rest like a coronation.”

“You laughed,” you say. “I’d never heard you laugh like that.”

“I hadn’t either,” he admits.

You kiss him again. He takes your wrist, turning it, and presses a kiss into your pulse like he’s syncing to it. His metal thumb strokes along the inside of your forearm, the plates articulating with delicate precision as if made to trace you.

“I’m not letting them turn you into a symbol,” he says. “I’ll break the statue before I let them. We’ll build something that breathes.”

Your answer is another kiss, longer. When you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together. “What if we fail?” you ask.

“Then we fail loud,” he says. “Together.”

“Together,” you repeat, and it tastes right.

The fire lowers itself, the room sinking into copper and shadow. You help him pull off the padded gambeson beneath the plates, fingers tangling, laugh getting stuck on a sob that doesn’t fully arrive. He kisses the sound away. You choose to forget the world.

The rest is touch and breath and the simple language of two people who have run out of brave faces. The night folds in close. The window fogs. The dog tags cool and warm against your skin with each inhale.

Dawn is thin and colorless when you wake. The fire is a bed of sullen coals. His cloak is around your shoulders, heavy enough to be a promise. The rest of him is gone.

You know better than to panic; he is a ghost when he needs to be.

You cross to the window and press your hands to the cold stone. In the courtyard below, the guard assembles like a chessboard coming alive. Helmets. Spears. Banners that mean treaties and borders and the reason you did what you did last night.

A rider peels away from the line and guides his horse to the gate. He wears his helmet again. The sun kisses the curve of his shoulder. The metal arm catches it and throws it back.

He doesn’t look up. But he tips his head, a fraction. You feel the response in your chest like a tug on a thread.

“Steel and starlight,” you breathe into the glass.

He pauses. You can’t see his mouth. You don’t need to. You recognize the shape of the vow even from here.

A second rider falls in beside him, then a third. The gate opens. Hooves bite the cobbles. He rides through without breaking formation. The world swallows him like it always does when it’s not ready for men like him.

You stand there until the courtyard empties. Until morning finds you steady.

You pull the cloak tighter. The dog tags are warm against your skin. The ring on your finger feels less like a sentence and more like a detail you cannot wait to ruin.

Behind you, the door knocks once, polite, the day arriving with attendants and obligations and a new, practiced smile. You wipe your cheeks with your thumbs, square your shoulders, and let the mask of your own making settle.

“Enter,” you say, voice even.

The door opens. Perfume and chatter and footsteps rush in. You turn—princess again, wife on parchment, threat with a pulse.

But inside, something else is awake. Not hope. Not yet. Something sharper. A plan with a heartbeat.

You look out at the gray edge of the sky one last time and picture a chapel in a cliffside city, western windows full of starlight. You picture a coin under a candle. A flower with no scent on the altar. A man who learned your footsteps and decided to live for the sound.

You don’t know when he’ll reach you. You just know the truth, heavy and quiet as a vow:

He’s already on his way.

As I begin writing this it has occurred to me that most of these people here have been recced before but IDC OKAY I STAND BY MY OPINIONS 😭

@54nboo ‘s fic incoming is her first Bucky fic ever and I was astounded when I learned that. Still am to be honest. It’s a long boy (10k words) but I ate that up like it was 2, for real the characterization, the banter, the action scenes? She makes writing look so damn easy. Don’t ask me about scammer!Bucky LMAO

@barnesonly is the mastermind author of Lust but I owe a read of Little Dove and Illegal. Please atp I need a week off work to clear my reading debt. I think I’ve recommended oneshots like Miss Rabbit before, which was… (sighs, takes off pants) really well-written

There is one person that uses one specific text channel in th Discord exactly as God intends it and that’s @blowingbarnes — not only does she instigate horny thoughts in the hivemind, she goes beast mode and writes/compiles/edits the goonery into a fic so hot you’ll get hospitalized for third degree burn. I’m still not over this story 😭

@chateaubarnes … Aluri, Aluri, Aluri (I’m shaking my head as I say this). In this fic she literally said “somebody’s gonna shut up, but it’s not the one who has their mouth occupied.” Whenever a fic makes reader bicker with Bucky, I bite my lip like a whore, and you made me a whore.

@daystarpoet melted my independent woman heart with this fic. Is it sad to confess that I haven’t been on a date where we don’t go 50/50? This fic really made me think about my real life experiences LMAO… 😭 the ending especially was really sweet. I also have the rest of a soldier’s solace to read! rubs hands

SOOO there’s this summer fic by @earthsmightiestbenders and it’s a Stucky fic and it involves popsicles… the blush I blushed reading this. If you want two super soldier popsicles, this is what you need!!! Doctor’s orders!!! My girlies with oral fixation please rise up

@emmathefanficgal is not only the sweetest person ever but she has LOTR fics???? I”M SORRY TO PAUSE REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING HERE but LOTR FIC (← this links to Ao3)??? I AM READING IT RIGHT AWAY I AM ALREADY SMILING THE FIRST WORD IN THE FIC IS “ARAGORN” 😍😍😍😍

I think the first fic I read by @firingstars is this one where Reader matchmakes Bucky and it’s giving Materialists. It’s giving movie. I feel like this is one of those fics that are iconic in the fandom so people have probably read it already BUT I didn’t realize there was a sequel and I’m running to that as soon as I finish typing this!!!

When I first saw the teaser to @flockoff-featherface ‘s series with Bucky and Dungeons and Dragons I had a freaking seizure. I love Bucky, I love Dungeons and Dragons, and I love the beautiful mind that put them togetherrrr 😭😭😭 I can’t wait to start reading this I already know it’s gonna be so damn good

Fresh out of this fic Survival Tactics by @heldbybarnes and it’s such a well-written Stucky smut fic, like… adrenaline highs and wanting to feel alive. I’m locked in metaphorically and literally (in between Steve and Bucky hehe). Also there’s this delicious sub!Bucky fic that tickles my brain. And somewhere else 😭

Call me a priest the way I preach about @houseofhyde every time I get the chance to. You should read her fics if you haven’t. I recently freaked out in the comments of Bucky Bossa Nova (this fic… is an earthworm in my brain) and there is also a series of pieces for mechanic!Bucky that pops my hood right off. Huh who said that?

Bri (@iamthatonefangirl)’s blurbs are lethal bullets because oh my lord. I’m dizzy. I really think it’s best for you to go to her Bucky masterlist and get lucky by randomly picking one. This one featuring John Walker (seriously this man has crept into my subconscious in ways that are unexpected) is dangerousssssss asdfghj

I confess I haven’t read @its-in-the-woods ‘s series but they wrote this cute little thing with Bucky that has me kicking my feet giggling. I love me a filthy smut fic but this sweet one is really giving me butterflies in my stomach. He carries her up the stairs and they’re giggling and I’m horny—

@juniebjonesin ‘s mind is a beautiful thing and she will let you know, as she did in this absolute miracle of a smutty drabble. I don’t need to say a lot, let me leave you with a quote: “so you mean to tell me… all this time i've been cumming down your throat and on your ass… i could've been inside you?”

@opheliabbarnes is another writer I’ve recommended! she’s known for nerd!Bucky fics (I haven’t read the longer ones I SWEAR I WILL) and I’m also really looking forward to reading The Hare, but I got reeled into her writing with her drabbles… I think what I’m revealing here is I’m a whore which is not new information

@rosesaints ← I could just leave the username there she needs no introduction I’ve recommended her fics many times and I am still in awe of the way she writes—she blends humor and heart so effortlessly. My favorite fic ever might be this one, I think about it very very often <3

Pauline @superbassbuck is not only super kind but also a really versatile writer. My first fic-love of hers is Grade-A and then Wildflower, which all featured single dad!Bucky and overall positive vibes, but then she put out one hundred sleepless nights and it’s soooo deliciously dark but soooo good. Like 😭 HOW

I am lowkey scared of reading @wildflowersandvibranium ‘s The Oddity of Falling (the chat cried and I don’t know if I’m mentally strong enough for that) but am happy to recommend Bread Buns should you be in a tender state like I am. Bucky’s a baker, you’re a bunny farmer, you meet in a market. Cutest thing to ever exist.

@winterdecember is the reader that keeps us going. And she has taste so go look at her reblogs. My TBR got 2x longer I fear.

✿ Operation: Lover’s Retreat (You Think) - Sent on a recon mission in the Carpathian Mountains, you treat it like a romantic getaway including but not limited to bath bombs, a sparkly kazoo, and one shared bed. Bucky remains constantly torn between exasperation and deep affection.

✿ Unqualified, Unhinged, and Unforgettable - A bunch of excited, hopeful rookies have the absolute displeasure honor of being trained under you.

✿ Chaos Counseling - You accidentally becomes the Avengers' unofficial therapist, delivering unhinged wisdom that changes lives whether they like it or not.

✿❦ Glitter, Gunfire, and Grape Juice - You throw yourself between a rookie and an energy blast. Bucky panics.

✿ Infected by the Chaos - Overtime, your questionable tendencies and unpredictable phrases have rubbed off onto your boyfriend. The team reacts by trying their best to un-corrupt the supersoldier.

✿ Pain Pills and Confessions - You’re loopy after surgery and nothing is safe. You flirt with Bucky annd ask if he’s single, despite being his partner. ✿ Surprise Dinner Dates - Both you and Bucky try to plan surprise dinners for each other. One goes much more smoothly than the other.

✿ Fake Dating - You convince your very real boyfriend Bucky Barnes to pretend to be your boyfriend at a high-profile gala after flirting with a Latvian arms dealer to get intel.

✿ Raccoon Negotiations - You finally get to meet a talking raccoon whom tries multiple times to bargain for your boyfriend’s metal arm.

⛆❦ Comedic Relief - After overhearing teammates call you the "comic relief" and question your seriousness, you begin to doubt your place on the team despite being a genius in disguise. Bucky finds you spiraling in your lab, reminds you of your brilliance, and confesses how deeply he values and loves you.

✿ Cookie Baked Disasters - You somehow manage to bake poisonous cookies which prompts Bucky to supervise all your baking endeavors from now on.

✿ Haunted Beach - You thought the team beach vacation was actually a haunted mission. Bucky, hopelessly in love and increasingly resigned, follows and watches you as you search for ghosts.

✿❦ Origami Apocalypse - You got hyperfixated on origami for 36 hours straight, covered yourself in glitter, and forgot to sleep. Bucky found you mid-fold, sighed like a man deeply in love with a problem, and gently dragged you back to food, water, and reality again.

❦ Uncharacteristic Rescue - You save Bucky from near-death with a level of ruthless precision, but the aftermath leaves you quiet, careful, and afraid to let your chaotic brilliance show again.

✿ Your Targeted Grudge [Part 2] - You develop an increasingly personal rivalry with the self-checkout machine at Target, convinced it’s intentionally trying to ruin your shopping experience. Bucky, equal parts resigned, in love, and terrified, watches you spiral and tries to keep you from declaring war on all future machinery.

To be fair, you did work better when you were synchronized.

He’d read briefs out loud, and you’d jot down the talking points he’d need for his next meeting. You’d read tweets about him, and he’d toss out ideas on how to seem more likeable. You never used them.

No offense—he was a capable man. But you were the reason he worked. He’d hired you in the wake of a PR disaster, headlines screaming Congressman Barnes Hires All-Male Team in 2025, and suddenly he was scrambling for a fresh-faced woman to be photographed beside.

It wasn’t that he disliked female aides—he just didn’t know how to talk to women in the 21st century. Especially not on Capitol Hill. You were the exception. He didn’t have to “get” you. You just… were.

It helped that you dressed the part: power suits Monday through Friday, save for the occasional dark denim jeans you insisted were “dressed up” with loafers. Very rarely did you wear a dress, no that was saved purely for events or galas. You told him it was how you demanded respect on the Hill—something aides were rarely given.

It had been a year since he hired you, and it didn’t take all of twenty minutes for the two of you to fall into a routine that had him feeling like he was finally making that difference he couldn’t shut up about in the press.

“A day off? Barnes, you sign my checks. You know I consistently work overtime.”

“Right, okay.” He nodded, leaning back in his leather chair, fabric sighing underneath him. “Why don’t you take one?”

“Are you on glue? You have approximately forty seven meetings tomorrow.”

“Listen, we’ve gone over the presentation so many times I think I’ll dream about it tonight. Go home early.”

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear as you glanced at the clock. How had it been 6 o’ clock already? “Fine, but only because Co-Star told me to engage in self-care today.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It means I have big plans to pass out before nine,” You chuckled. “And you don’t dream,”

”If I did, it would definitely be about the presentation. Modernizing public transit, come on.”

”Nerd.”

“Go get some rest, seriously. You deserve it.”

You brushed past the words, but when they came from him, they had a way of lingering—like something that settled quietly under your skin.

“Okay, but promise me you’ll leave before ten.”

He simply waved you off as you shut the door behind you. Somewhere in that first year of working together, Barnes had let slip pieces of his past—not entirely of his own free will. You’d dragged it out of him after putting out a Twitter fire when old footage of the Winter Soldier started making the rounds.

After he’d confided in you, though, that’s when your relationship began to take a turn. Barnes trusted you. You figured it was because you held his career in your tired hands…but sometimes you wondered if that was something he shared with anyone else.

Congressman Barnes didn’t date. Scared of 21st-century women, remember? Not that it stopped girls from tweeting about him—and occasionally at him. To be fair, you’d seen his calendar. The man barely had time to eat, and on some days, you had to remind him to do even that.

Since working for him, you didn’t have time for dating either. About two months into your Hill job, an aide across the hall showed some interest—but you never even made it to a first date before he mysteriously quit.

So you went home alone. Every night. For an entire year. Your rose-shaped friend was always waiting, but most nights you were so burnt out you’d collapse into bed—eyeliner smudged, heels kicked halfway across the room.

Which was exactly what you had envisioned for tonight, almost reaching the elevator to freedom before you heard your name.

Sighing, you turned slowly, polite smile curling onto your lips. When you saw it was your closest friend on the Hill, Naz, you could let your face relax.

“Boss letting you off early, hm?”

“I know, alert the media.” You shifted your work bag to your other shoulder, the leather strap surely leaving a mark from its weight. “I have a hot date with my pillow lined up,”

“No, not gonna work. The one night we leave at the same time, and you want to waste it at home? Au contraire, my friend.”

“Naz, I’m—”

“Exhausted? Same! Let’s talk about it over tequila.”

“Last time you convinced me to go out with you, I ended up calling Royal Caribbean cruise lines trying to claim a free week in Cabo.”

“And it almost worked.”

“I don’t know…”

“I’m taking it as a yes. Marcus and Ginny are going too. Just one drink, hm?”

“Just one drink.”

You were, for lack of a better word, shit-faced. One drink had turned into three, with a shot or two in between. You were gasping for air as you laughed alongside Naz, who signaled to the bartender for another round.

“Okay, seriously.” Naz turned to you, wiping a tear from laughing. “Out with it—what’s the secret to the mysterious James Barnes?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve somehow cracked the code to making him not hate your guts.”

Marcus chuckled, nodding. “I walked into his office by accident my first day—swear he looked at me like I’d just shot his mother.”

“He’s just serious, that’s all,” you said, your tone clipped but a little slurred as you sipped water.

“No, no. You… speak his language.”

“You mean English?”

Naz shook her head, half-lidded from her last shot. “There’s some kind of… bond between you. He looks at you like you’ve got the key to the city or something.”

“Maybe I do.”

“She’s so avoidant,” Ginny laughed.

You shrugged, a sly grin tugging at your lips as the three of them stared like they were waiting for you to crack. Truth was, you were avoidant when it came to questions about your boss. It was practically part of your job description—he valued privacy more than almost anything. And in your mind, he’d earned it.

“I think she secretly wants him.”

“Naz!” You hissed, but your mind was hazy from the amount of tequila you’d consumed, so a giggle followed. “You can’t say things like that,”

“Come on, we’re all friends here!”

“I want to fuck Captain America.” Marcus solemnly admitted. “And I’m not scared to admit it.”

“Marcus, you’ve admitted that sober,” You rolled your eyes. “Plus, Captain America isn’t that cute.”

“What?” Ginny gaped. “Okay, you’re drunk.”

“That might be true, but…I don’t know. I’ve met him, not really my type.”

Marcus’s eyes widened. “You’ve met—I officially hate you. How could you not tell me?”

“Of course I have. I’m Congressman Barnes’ assistant.”

Naz took one look at your smug face and laughed. “You love that title, don’t you?”

You did. There was something intoxicating about being known as his assistant—his well-oiled machine. On the Hill, that title was almost a badge of immunity. People didn’t mess with you; the intimidating shadow of Congressman Barnes was usually deterrent enough.

Once, another Congressman tried to tell you that you had “no business” using the color copier on a different floor. Barnes had simply leveled him with his infamous death stare, and minutes later, the asshole delivered the copies to your desk himself.

Sure, if you thought about it long enough, you were faced with the reality that what you loved most was the security behind it. Being taken care of in a heavily male-dominated field certainly made you grateful—but you didn’t let your feelings go farther than gratitude.

You’d be horrified if the Congressman knew how often you thought about his insistence on walking you out whenever you worked late. How he didn’t just ask, but required you to text him when you got home safely.

It was nothing more than him being a good boss.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

“If Captain America isn’t your type,” Ginny’s eye held a mischievous glint that caught in the low-lit bar. “What is?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t gotten laid in like a year,”

“Are you fucking serious?” Naz’s face dropped. “You’re being hyberbolic.”

“No, no I’m serious. Ever since I got this job, I’ve had no time for that.”

Marcus and Ginny shared a quick glance while you focused on gulping your water. The room had mostly stopped spinning, but sobriety was still a distant speck on the horizon.

“Since you got the job, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Marcus smirked. “What a coincidence.”

“Coincidence how?” You droned, but you knew where he was going with this.

“Funny how you start working for Barnes and stop getting laid.”

“Because I’m busier now. I said this already.”

Naz shook her head. “Wonder why you’re so busy,”

“I’m sorry, are we not all aides? You guys know how busy this shit is.”

“I still find time to fuck,” Marcus shrugged.

“Good for you.”

“Let’s play a game,” Naz held a lazy finger up. “Fuck, Marry, Kill,”

You ran a hand over your face. “Jesus Christ,”

“Marcus—Fuck, Marry, Kill: Captain America, President Riston, and Congressman Perry.”

“Okay well you know I’m fucking killing Perry. God, I hate that guy.” Marcus shuddered as he spoke about his boss. “Which means…”

You opened your phone as you felt it vibrate against your leg, the illuminated screen catching your eye as you scanned a few emails. One was from Congressman Barnes—subject line read, ‘Only RSVPing if you can go.’

You swiped your finger over the notification, unlocking your phone to find an invitation he’d forwarded. Another gala. Your cheeks warmed—probably from the alcohol—as you read the subject line again. You knew he hated those: the packed rooms, endless small talk, all of it a little too much for him. But somehow, he never seemed to mind when you were beside him, notebook in hand and smile at the ready.

Shaking your head with a chuckle, your thumb hovered over your messages app, where you intended to send him a text responding to his email—

“Let me guess,” Naz’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. “Your man is emailing you at this late hour?”

“Maybe to invite you over to…go over policy briefs?” Ginny’s voice had a flirty lilt to it.

You rolled your eyes, setting your phone back in your pocket.

“I believe we were playing a game?”

Bucky was halfway to sleep, his head dipping toward the harsh mahogany of his desk before he jerked upright again. He didn’t regret sending you home for the night, but he definitely was defying your order to not stay too late.

He couldn’t help but email you when he saw the invitation—something not out of the norm for the two of you. There were no ‘business hours’ on the Hill, which meant sometimes an email or text came through to your phone as late as midnight, and you always answered.

Something he noticed. He beckoned, you came.

You usually called. Whatever you had to say was typically too complex or lengthy for an email, and you were old-fashioned. Something he appreciated about you. Your number was one of the only ones he had saved, something his friend Sam Wilson loved to remind him of.

The vibration of his phone had stirred him at his desk, brows furrowed when he glanced down and saw your name on his screen. He sighed, figuring you were calling to remind him that he had given you the night off, and here he was, emailing you about galas.

He answered after a single ring.

“Hey, about the email—“

“I believe we were playing a game?”

His face scrunched in confusion as he heard your voice, slightly muffled and surrounded by noise. He heard some laughs—none he recognized—but a quick calculation told him you were probably at a bar.

“Hello?” he repeated.

It wasn’t the first time you’d butt-dialed him. But it was the first time it hadn’t happened at work.

“Yes, yes, okay. Since you’re so adamant—your turn. I want to know your type.”

Bucky froze when he heard a voice he didn’t recognize, wondering if this counted as eavesdropping. Then again, you had called him, and something in him—something he didn’t care to examine—kept him from hanging up.

“Fuck, Marry, Kill… Yelena Boleva, President Ritson… and Congressman Barnes.”

His stomach dropped. He should’ve ended the call. Everything in him screamed to hang up, but his fingers only tightened around the phone.

“Okay, fine, fine! Only because you convinced me to drink a fourth margarita are you getting this out of me,” your voice—muffled but unmistakable—hit him like a punch, lodging itself firmly in his head.

“God, okay. Kill…Ritson. His latest bill kind of pissed me off. As much as I wish I could swing that way…I have to fuck Yelena. She does kind of do it for me in that dark, emo kind of way.”

He’d never heard your voice like this—so casual, so smug, so sure.

“Are you saying what I think you’re—“

“And fine, marry Barnes. Only so I could fuck him more than once.”

“Oh my god!”

“Legend!”

The tips of Bucky’s ears went hot. The heat crept down the side of his neck, spread across his chest, and pooled low—heavy, insistent.

“And ask me tomorrow and I’ll deny this, but…sometimes in his office I have to decide between wanting to sit on his thighs or his face.”

“Holy fucking shi—“

He hung up then.

His grip faltered. The phone slipped from his hand, clattering onto the desk as he sat frozen, breath hitching, eyes fixed on nothing but the image you’d just burned into his mind.

He could feel the way his pants were tightening against his grey slacks, a lazy hand absentmindedly palming himself to appease the growing ache, eyes squeezed tightly shut as he let the scene continue to play—a movie he’d never admit he’d played before.

But the picture cut short as he wondered how the hell he was going to face you now.

You weren’t sure how you got home. You were slightly impressed by how you’d managed to change out of your work clothes and into pajamas in your drunken stupor, but you had no time to think about that.

You were late.

Somehow, in forty-five minutes, you’d managed to shower off the night, slip into black slacks and a fitted sweater, and sweep your hair up into a claw clip—just in time to rush out the door.

Biting into a protein bar—your sorry excuse for breakfast—you scrolled through your phone while waiting for the cab to pull up outside your building. The little red 3 on the phone app caught your eye. Three missed calls. All from Naz, about an hour after you’d left the bar.

You chuckled, picturing her spam-calling you in some drunken ploy to get you to come back.

But then you saw it—an outgoing call to your boss. Around 11 p.m.

After further investigation, your phone app told you the call lasted two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, leading you to wonder what you could have possibly discussed in such a short amount of time.

“What the…” you murmured, barely noticing the cab pulling up.

You had zero recollection of calling him. Maybe it was about today’s presentation. Or the gala invite. You wracked your brain and came up with nothing.

Maybe he’d mention it at work.

Except, he didn’t.

In fact, he barely met your eyes when you walked into the office, only glancing at the coffees in your hand from the in-house Starbucks the building finally received. You tried not to think about it, but the way he jumped when your fingers brushed had you questioning what exactly you called him for.

“Are you okay?” You finally asked at lunch, when his head seemed so far into the clouds he didn’t hear you collecting his lunch order. “You seem…out of it.”

“Just tired.”

“How did the presentation go this morning?”

He simply waved his hand, grunting something under his breath, which you knew meant one thing: he bombed.

“Barnes, what happened? We rehearsed the talking points—”

“I didn’t fucking sleep last night, okay?”

“This is the Hill. Who gets a good night’s sleep?”

He only scoffed, eyes fixed on a brief sprawled lazily in his hands instead of you.

You planted a hand on your hip, then crossed the room to lean on the edge of his desk. “Hey—I saw on my call log this morning that I called you last night. What did we talk about?”

His head snapped up.

The color drained from his face, his mouth parting as his breath caught.

You arched a brow, a soft chuckle escaping. “I went out with some of the other aides. I hope I didn’t wake you… or say anything crazy.”

He didn’t answer right away—just cleared his throat, eyes steady on you. “You don’t remember calling?”

A flicker of heat crept up your neck. “I know.” You tried for humor, but it came out thinner than you’d like. “Clearly, I’ve had better nights.”

“You called about the gala invite I sent you.” His tone was low, steady. Like it had been rehearsed. “It’s in your email if you don’t remember,”

“I’m sorry, won’t happen again.”

“I hope not.”

That was just the beginning.

After that, you and Barnes were never on the same page. Every request for a strategy meeting, every email with notes—ignored or delayed until the moment had passed. Even tracking him down in person felt like chasing a ghost.

Then came the quiet gut punch: your desk, moved without warning, shoved back into the bullpen—the cramped, noisy stretch outside the Congressmen’s offices. From the center of his orbit to the outer ring in one silent, deliberate move.

You were stunned. You’d spent a year learning this man—his coffee order, his past, the precise levers that made him tick from the inside out—only to have it all undone by one drunken call.

The confusion curdled into anger. If it was such a big deal, why not just fire you? Sure, replacing you would be a headache—finding someone else to learn the job, to learn him—but that only made his cold shoulder feel more calculated.

What made it worse was that the other aides noticed.

That protection—his unspoken shield over you—was starting to slip away. You were startled by how much you missed it. Missed spending hours in his office, trading quiet quips while you both worked, his terrible impression of your so-called “phone call voice,” the occasional round of trash-can basketball when the day got long.

If you were honest, you missed him.

The realization sat heavy in your chest, unsettling in a way you didn’t want to name. You weren’t supposed to think of him like that. But somewhere in the blur of long days and late nights, you’d become friends. And friends… knew things. You knew every detail about him that mattered. And he knew a questionable amount about you—enough that losing it felt like losing more than just a job.

The circled date on the calendar stared back at you as days passed, the gala looming over your head. You always attended galas by his side, whispering names into his ear so he didn’t have to memorize them, strategizing where to stand and what to say in the quiet corners of banquet halls…but in those instances, you were in sync.

Now, you couldn’t be more dissonant.

And yet, he told you the car would pick you up this Saturday at 7 o’clock sharp, and you simply nodded.

As the weekend day crept by, you grew more and more uneasy. Did you really have to go to this gala? He’d managed to get through the past week with barely talking to you, couldn’t he manage a simple event?

No, the truth was he had bombed that one presentation, almost tweeted something insanely cancellable, and somehow lost half a policy brief on Microsoft Word. The man was a disaster.

So you sucked it up and curled your hair, tucking strands elegantly into a half-up half-down situation, paired with the pearl earrings he had gifted you last Christmas. You borrowed a dress from Ginny—who, in her words, ‘didn’t have the balls to pull off such a number at a government gala.’

As you stepped into the icicle colored silk floor-length gown, you caught your reflection and scoffed. Ginny was full of shit—sure—but even you had to admit, the dress did you justice. It skimmed rather than clung, the fabric falling in a way that felt effortless, while the cowl neck struck that perfect balance between sophisticated and just dangerous enough.

You tapped at your phone while waiting outside, a slight shiver running over your arms—not from the chill in the air, but from the sleek black SUV that slid to a stop. Barnes rounded the car with that effortless precision, swinging the back door open before you even had a chance to look up.

When you did, your cheeks warmed. He drank you in, eyes lingering a moment too long, before stepping forward to help you into the vehicle.

Your eyes couldn’t resist tracing him—from the sharp cut of his suit to the way his slacks hugged his thighs, to his hair, swept back just enough to look effortless. You saw him in a suit almost daily, but something about the picture of him holding open your door, dressed to the nines…excitement pooled in your stomach at the thought of this under different circumstances.

“A pocket square?” you teased, trying to cut through the thick tension settling over the night. “Feeling ambitious tonight?”

“Doubt anyone will notice,” he murmured, “with you standing next to me in that.”

“Too much?” You smoothed the skirt of your dress, glancing up at him from where he still held the door, catching the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

“Something needs to distract them from the fact that I have no idea what we’re raising money for.”

The door clicked shut, and suddenly the world felt… normal. Just for that instant, sitting in the backseat while he rounded the car, you could have stayed there for hours—time stretched and softened around the quiet, unspoken rhythm between you.

As soon as he settled in on his side, the car zoomed off into the night.

The gala was polished and pointed, just like every other one. You whispered instructions in his ear—who to greet, who to charm, who to avoid. For a fleeting moment, you were back in sync.

Then he vanished. Once his rounds were done, the warmth melted away, leaving the cold, rigid soldier you’d come to know over the past week. Any attempt to close the distance—your fingers brushing against his jacket—was met with a shudder. Even leaning in to whisper sent him on edge, as if your presence alone was a threat he had to contain.

You couldn’t make sense of it.

You knew he was a very guarded man, but never with you. With you, he confided. He trusted.

Just when you thought the evening might finally be over, a reporter asked Bucky about a policy neither of you had prepared for.

His eyes flicked to you, searching, and you felt your stomach clench. You had no answer either. Both of you froze, the hum of the gala fading into a tense silence. His jaw tightened, a faint flush rising to his neck, and you realized—this was uncharted territory for the composed Congressman you’d spent a year navigating.

You gathered by the look on his face that it was time to leave.

This time, he flung your door open, letting out a sharp huff without waiting for you to get in. He strode to his side, leaving you to close the door behind you—a small, mundane motion that somehow felt far heavier than it should.

“George,” you snapped at the driver, scrolling Twitter for any hint of your boss being embarrassed at the gala. Nothing. Yet. “Take us both to his place.”

“What? No. It’s late,” Bucky protested.

“We need to get ahead of that reporter,” you hissed. “He’s notorious for eviscerating politicians over the smallest slip. I’m surprised they even let him in.”

”Then we’ll go to the office,”

“What is your issue? I’ve been to your place hundreds of times, and it’s closer to mine than the office. We’ll do some quick recon and I’ll get a cab home.”

He silently breathed, leaning back on the leather seats of the backseat, legs slightly spread open. They caught the corner of your eye, the way his thighs twitched underneath the smooth-pressed fabric of his slacks. Your fingers moved on the screen, but your eyes were looking anywhere but.

His hand rested on the center seat, fingers splayed, veins catching the soft glow of the overhead light. He stared out the window, calm and controlled—or at least trying to be—but every small movement pulled your gaze in. You couldn’t help noticing the way the light traced the line of his wrist, the slight flex of his fingers. Something about him, even like this, made your pulse hitch.

You tried to snap out of it.

You even looked out your own window.

Which meant you didn’t notice the way his eyes traveled over your dress. From his height, the cowl neck dipped just enough to reveal the top of your chest, and suddenly the collar around his neck felt tighter, as if he were holding himself back. His Adam’s apple bobbed against his tie, caged by fabric he wished your fingers would curl around.

He ordered George to stay out front, arguing with you over letting you take a cab at this hour. You finally relented, following him up the stairs into the ivy-covered brick apartment building.

You’d been here before. Countless times.

But now, the air was charged with something you couldn’t name as you felt tension radiate off of him.

“What happened back there?” His voice was tense. “You always know the answers.”

“Not always. I’m a good assistant, but I’m not an encyclopedia. I can’t possibly know every single thing going on at any given point.”

He tossed his keys on the counter, hands rising to rest on his hips. “That’s what I pay you to do.”

“Well then I’m not very good at it, because I don’t even know what’s going on here.” You gestured between the two of you, leaning your wrist on the marble countertop.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb. You barely look at me anymore—what’s going on with you?”

“Nothing’s going on with me. Maybe something’s going on with you if a reporter managed to stump you.”

You scoffed, mouth hanging open. “You don’t even read half the stuff I send you anymore. How do you know that wasn’t in one of my emails?”

“Then you’d have known what he was talking about.”

You pressed your lips together, annoyed at how effortlessly he out-smarted you. “You’ve been weird since that call. And don’t say you haven’t—because you moved my desk the very next day and left me wondering what the hell I said ever since.”

For a moment, you thought you spotted remorse. But it was quickly replaced by indifference.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Clearly it did if it affected you this much! Did I say something rude? I know I say that you’re a pain in my ass sometimes, but I don’t actually mean it.”

“You didn’t say anything rude.”

“Then what?” You threw your hands up. “What could I have possibly said that would cause all this?”

“You really want to know?” His voice dropped low—lower than you thought possible.

“Yes,” you said, exasperated.

He drew in a slow, measured breath, like admitting it cost him something. Strands of hair fell forward as his gaze dropped to the floor, and he shook his head softly.

“You called… by accident. And I… you were playing some game with the aides. Fuck, Marry, Kill.”

Your face scrunched, a shrug escaping like it was nothing—but he didn’t stop.

“You said you’d marry me,” he murmured, voice thick. “So you could… fuck me more than once.”

It was like the wind had been knocked out of you. Your mouth hung open, your eyes blinking rapidly, struggling to process the words he’d just spoken.

Bits and pieces came rushing back as he recounted your words, and your stomach dropped as you remembered exactly how you said it.

“I,” You breathed. “Bucky, I’m so—”

“Once you said you didn’t remember calling, I didn’t want to tell you. Didn’t want you to feel embarrassed,”

Of course. Because an aide wanting to fuck her boss was not only beyond embarrassing, but completely unethical and grounds for immediate termination. All this time, he’d regarded you as a silly girl with a pathetic crush.

“So you moved my desk because you were uncomfortable.” You murmured, cheeks reddening with every passing second. “God, I feel like an idiot—I can’t believe you had to hear that. I don’t even know what to say.”

“I moved your desk,” His voice came out strained. “Because I couldn’t stop imagining you bent over it.”

Your eyes lifted, eyelashes heavy as you blinked. “W-What?”

“Hearing you say those things, it…it opened a door I wasn’t sure you wanted to enter. But I’ve been waiting on the other side of it for a while.”

He took a slow step toward you, your nails curling around the edge of the countertop as if it would ground you. Your skin vibrated with need, the air now electrified with something much deeper than either of you knew what to do with.

“D-Did I say anything else?” The last word was barely a whisper as he loomed over you, head dipping to meet your eyes.

“Hmm,” he murmured, the back of his hand brushing your forearm so lightly it could have been rendered an accident. “You also said… that sometimes—”

His fingers pressed into your arm, thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin. Your eyes fluttered closed as his head leaned closer, nose brushing your ear, and your stomach flipped.

“—you have to decide whether to,” he whispered, voice low and deliberate, “sit on my thighs… or my face.”

A gasp escaped you as his teeth grazed your earlobe, the embarrassment of your words at the bar mingling with the desperate heat of wanting him to touch every part of you now.

“I don’t think I can handle knowing anything else I said,” You whimpered softly as his fingers pushed the hair off of your neck delicately, tracing your clavicle with his nails.

“I hung up before I could hear anything else,” He admitted softly. “Didn’t want to know any more of your desires that I can’t grant you,”

Your eyes rose to meet his. “What’s stopping you?”

“We shouldn’t,”

“But?”

“I really fucking want to,” He breathed, fingers pressing into your waist soft enough not to bruise but hard enough to feel the heat behind them.

“Then kiss me,”

His eyes lingered on your mouth, the faint sheen of gloss catching the low light like it was meant for him alone.

When he finally moved, it was slow—agonizing—closing the space between you as though giving you every chance to pull away. His breath was warm against your lips, the faintest brush sending a shiver down your spine before he finally claimed your mouth in a kiss that was deep, deliberate, and far too overdue.

Your fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer. His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, urging you flush against him. You felt the rumble in his chest when he exhaled into the kiss, his other hand threading into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen it.

It wasn’t rushed—it was the kind of kiss that told you he’d thought about it. Wanted it. Ached for it. And now that he had you, he wasn’t letting go.

His head leaned against your forehead, breath strained but synced with yours, “Tell me to stop,”

“No,” Your defiance was quiet, but the storm inside your head was loud. “Don’t stop,”

“If we keep going, I don’t think I ever will.”

Your thighs pressed together, a sad attempt to snuff out the flame growing between your legs. He seemed to notice, eyes dropping to your dress as his metal hand brushed the strap that sagged on your shoulder.

“Please,” Your voice was just above a whisper.

“Fuck it,”

His hands found you with a rough urgency, steering you back until your spine met the fridge. The sharp kiss of cold metal against your bare skin drew a startled gasp from you—one he swallowed greedily as his mouth claimed the curve of your neck. His lips were warm, his teeth grazing just enough to send a shiver rushing down your arms.

Your fingers tangled in his jacket as his hips pressed into yours, the hard line of him through his slacks leaving no mystery to what he wanted. His hands slid up, catching the thin straps of your gown before moving with deliberate patience to the zipper at your back.

It came down in one slow, measured pull. The silk gave way instantly, pooling at your feet in a whisper, leaving you standing in nothing but a sheer slip that clung to every contour.

He leaned back, just far enough to take you in. His gaze was molten, slow-tracing every inch as though memorizing the sight. One hand lifted, brushing over your collarbone before gliding lower, the pads of his fingers skimming the fabric with a reverence that made your pulse stutter.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” He muttered, lips dragging against your collarbone.

“You gonna do something about it?”

He smirked—low, knowing—before scooping you up as though you weighed nothing. Your legs locked around his torso instinctively, heels digging into the small of his back. Fingers tangled in his hair, you pulled just enough to tilt his head, letting your lips trace along the sharp line of his jaw, tasting the faint salt of his skin.

His grip on you was unrelenting, palms mapping the curve of your hips and the swell of your thighs with greedy precision as he carried you from the cool, dim kitchen into the warmer shadows of his bedroom.

He set you down with a tenderness that contrasted the roughness of moments before, the mattress sinking under your weight. Then he was above you, his frame blotting out the light, a knee nudging between yours until they gave way for him.

His hand began a slow descent—over your ribs, the shallow rise and fall of your breathing, across the slight tremor of your stomach—until it hovered just above the hem of your slip. The path of his fingers was deliberate, as if every inch of you was something he had to claim in turn.

You drew a sharp breath as his thumb dove deeper into your inner thigh, finally hovering over the warmth of your core. Your nails dug into his shoulder once he circled your clit, a low chuckle escaping him.

“So wet already? We haven’t even gotten started,”

You couldn’t respond. Not when fingers plunged into you suddenly, swirling around through the slick hollow as his lips bruised yours. They quickened as you squeezed his arm, head falling back against the lush comforter, eyes slamming shut at the way your hips moved in unison with his hand.

“So needy,” He commented. “Look at you, desperate for this.”

“Bucky,” You groaned, urging his fingers to move faster and satiate your growing need.

“Nuh uh, not yet.” He pulled his fingers out of you then, catching your gaze as he dipped them into his mouth, the sound of him sucking sending a sharp rod of pleasure up your spine.

His fingers tugged at the hem of your slip, as if asking for permission. Your fingers joined his as you both pulled it over your head, his eyes widening at the swell of your breasts that appeared to flush from his touches.

He leaned back against the headboard, legs spread, that slow, dangerous smirk curving his mouth. “Alright, doll… go on. Show me what you said you wanted.”

Your breath caught, eyes searching his like maybe you’d misheard. But his grip on your thighs told you otherwise—firm, unyielding—as he hauled you forward and up, settling you over him.

Before you could protest, his hands anchored you in place and he dragged you down onto his mouth. The first brush of his lips was molten, the first sweep of his tongue stealing every ounce of air from your lungs.

A gasp tore from you, one hand gripping the headboard, the other tangled in his hair as if you could keep him exactly where you needed him. But you didn’t have to—he was ravenous, sucking, licking, groaning into you like your taste was the only thing that mattered.

Your hips began to move on their own, slow at first, then desperate, grinding against his mouth until your head tipped back and the sound of your moan filled the room. Every flick of his tongue felt like it was pulling you higher, pushing you closer, and he didn’t let up—not even for a breath.

You began to feel a buildup of pressure in your stomach, eyes squeezing shut as your eyelids turned white—and you came completely undone on his mouth. His fingers squeezed tighter onto your hips, not relenting as you rode the wave of pleasure his mouth was gifting you.

Your eyelids fluttered open, and he was already pushing you backwards onto your back. He unbuttoned his shirt with a fervent pace, unbuckling his slacks next until he was bare before you. You’d dreamed about this moment—about him pumping his slick head while his eyes dragged over your body.

Dreamed about plunging into you and not stopping until you screamed his name.

He crawled over you, eyes locked on yours, unwavering, as the tip of him teased your entrance. When he pressed forward, stretching you just enough to feel every inch, a soft whimper escaped your lips. Instinctively, you gripped the sides of his face, needing to see him, to feel that gaze anchored on you in this moment.

He slid fully into you, slow at first, letting you adjust, then began to move with measured, deliberate thrusts. The wet heat between you made each motion effortless, fluid, almost hypnotic. Your breaths tangled with his, moans mingling as he maintained eye contact, as if every movement, every touch, was a silent conversation only the two of you could understand.

“So fucking tight, just like I knew you’d be,” He muttered. “Thought about this every single day for the last week—hell, every day since I hired you,”

You bit your lip as he began to hit the very back of you. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Didn’t think you felt the same,”

“Well, now you know. So fuck me harder,”

His eyes were untamed, dark with need. Hips snapping forward, he drove into you harder, faster, and a sharp cry tore from your throat. With a practiced lift of your hips, he found the spot no one else had ever touched, and you gasped at the exquisite precision. Sweat beaded along his forehead, glinting in the dim light, evidence of the raw intensity between you as he moved with a relentless, consuming rhythm.

Your nails raked down his back, anchoring him to you as your core tightened around him. He grunted, each forceful thrust sending a jolt through both of you, skin slapping against skin. The air between you felt thick, charged, every movement pressing the two of you closer, hearts pounding in sync as pleasure wrapped tight around the room.

“Gonna lose it—” he grunted, voice breaking as his pace refused to slow. You hooked your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, silently urging him to give you everything. His face was unreadable—somewhere between strain and surrender—until his rhythm broke into rough, deliberate thrusts. Each one hit deeper, slower, sloppier, until he buried himself fully with a sharp breath, warmth spilling into you as his body trembled above yours.

Your chest rose and fell violently, struggling to catch your breath from how much your body ached with pleasure. He rolled over slightly, staring up at the ceiling beside you.

“Holy shit,” You breathed.

He nodded, glancing over at you, hand splayed on his chest. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this,”

“We definitely shouldn’t have done that.” You stated.

He looked at you, eyes still glazed with lust—but layered with something heavier, something that lingered. The corner of his mouth curved, and you couldn’t help but mirror it, your own lips tugging into a smile as your fingers threaded lightly over his. You swung a leg over him, settling onto his lap, and the heat of him pressed through the lack of barrier between you. Every muscle in his thighs flexed beneath you, solid and unyielding, grounding you in the moment. His hands slid up to cradle your hips, thumbs stroking lazy circles, one brow lifting in silent question.

“My turn.”

Alexei ignored her.

You smiled warmly as he approached, already reaching for a cloth to gently dab at the blood on his face.

“You’re lucky you’re made of bricks, Alexei,” you said softly, scanning him for more injuries. “Looks like you took more than a few hits.”

He puffed out his chest. “Yes, but look! Still standing. Still beautiful.”

You laughed under your breath, cleaning the cut with careful fingers. “Mostly beautiful. Though I think your nose might be crooked again.”

He gasped theatrically. “No! Not the nose! How will I charm the nurses now?”

“You’re in luck,” you said sweetly, patting his arm. “We’re immune to your charms but I still want you in the med bay, please. Let’s get that arm checked out and your ribs, too. You're favoring one side.”

He let out a dramatic sigh. “Anything for you, solnyshko.” His grin widened as he winked his eye at you. “You patch me up, I’ll tell you all about how I saved everyone. Twice.”

“Deal,” you said with a smile, stepping aside so he could follow the others down the hallway.

You shook your head, watching him lumber off, humming cheerfully, even bruised and dusty, Alexei was still a big child beneath all that bluster.

While Alexei disappeared down the hallway, already beginning his dramatized retelling to a passing tech, gesturing wildly with his good arm, you turned back toward the jet, just in time to see Ava stepping off the ramp with a quiet grunt, one arm wrapped tightly around her middle, the other clutching the railing like it might float away. She moved gingerly, each step measured, the pain clear in her posture, even if she was doing a great job of pretending otherwise.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Ava,” you called gently, jogging a few steps closer, “you’re limping.”

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice was calm, too calm, and she didn’t look at you directly.

“You always say that when you're not,” you replied, already lifting your comm to your mouth. “Medbay, I need a wheelchair to Hangar One. Now, please.”

“I don’t need…”

“You do,” you said firmly but kindly, cutting her off with a smile. “I can see your ankle from here, and I think it’s trying to leave your foot.”

She huffed out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the woman who just fell through a collapsing stairwell and landed like a superhero with a pulled ribcage and a twisted ankle. I heard the whole thing over comms, including the extremely creative swearing,” you smiled at her innocently.

That earned you a small smile in return.

The wheelchair arrived within a minute, pushed by a medtech who looked vaguely terrified of Ava. You gently coaxed her down into the seat, ignoring her muttered protests, as you squat beside her to check the swelling at her ankle.

“It’s already puffing up,” you murmured. “We’ll need x-rays, just to be safe.”

She sighed, clearly embarrassed. “I was trying to phase through the floor to break the fall.”

“And you phased into a fridge instead, didn’t you?”

“I... may have misjudged time and space a little bit.”

“Mm-hmm,” you said, fighting a smile as you gave her knee a gentle pat.

“Please don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I would never,” you said sweetly, then added with mock seriousness, “but I will offer you a deal. No disappearing in radiology this time, okay?”

Ava blinked. “I was nervous last time. I didn’t mean to vanish.”

“You ghosted the technician mid-scan. She still talks about it.”

“That’s not my fault,” she muttered, cheeks pinking.

“Let’s just keep you visible until we get a diagnosis, yeah?” you said with a wink, tapping the edge of the wheelchair lightly.

Ava sighed again, but her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. “Fine. Only because it’s you.”

You smiled warmly in return.

As Ava disappeared down the hall, and not literally this time, you turned to find Yelena leaning against a supply crate like she’d been waiting for her moment.

“I didn’t get so much as a hello,” she said with mock offense, arms crossed, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “And I only got half blown up.”

You let out a soft laugh, walking over to her and gently brushing away a bit of ash clinging to her sleeve.

“I saw the blood on your temple. You sure you’re okay?” you asked, your voice already laced with quiet concern.

She shrugged. “Tiny cut. I’ve had worse hangovers.”

You gave her an approving once-over anyway, just to be sure. “Well, you still look good.”

Yelena grinned. “I know.”

Behind her, John Walker strode over, looking smug and sore in equal measure as he adjusted his shoulder strap with a wince, then paused beside the two of you.

“I don’t need patching up,” he said immediately, like it was a point of pride.

You raised a brow. “That’s why you’re walking like your spine was replaced with rusted springs?”

“I’m just sore. That wall came out of nowhere.”

Yelena snorted. “Walls do that, don’t they? Sneaky things.”

You offered him a friendly smile. “Glad to hear you’re unbreakable. Still, I’ve got an ice pack with your name on it, just in case that ‘soreness’ turns out to be something pulled.”

John chuckled and held up his hands. “No need, Nurse Sunshine, but thanks for the concern.”

Yelena’s smirk deepened. “How do you do this? Even the Boy Scout over here likes you.”

“I don’t like her,” John protested weakly, then glanced at you. “I mean, I do. You’re nice. Just… not like that.”

“I’m flattered either way,” you replied with an easy laugh, the warmth in your voice never faltering.

Yelena gave you a fond little nudge on her way past. “Don’t let the Winter Grouch give you trouble,” she murmured. “He’s bleeding and brooding. Prime Bucky mood.”

“Noted,” you whispered, drawing in a deep breath as you prepared to turn and face the inevitable but Yelena caught the subtle shift in your mood and paused.

She tilted her head, studying you with that sharp, perceptive gaze of hers. “Hey, you’re smiling,” she said, “but you’ve got that look.”

“What look?” you asked lightly, fiddling with the strap of your med bag.

“The one you get when someone’s been a jackass to you and you’re pretending it doesn’t bother you.”

Your smile wavered for just a second. “It’s nothing. I just… sometimes feel like I’m in the way. Like I’m being annoying. I know they’re all tired and hurt and don’t want someone hovering but I’m just simply here to help.”

Yelena frowned. “You are not a nuisance.”

You blinked.

“I mean it,” she added, stepping closer. “You walk into the room, and it actually feels lighter. We’d all be dead or grumpier without you and Bucky’s just... well, you know. Bucky. Don’t take him seriously.”

A soft laugh bubbled out of you. “Bukcy grumpier than he already is? That’s a terrifying thought.”

“Exactly, so do your thing, patch us up! Smile at us. Fuss over us. We need it, even when we pretend we don’t.”

You looked at her, clearly touched by the sincerity in her tone. “Thanks, Lena,” you murmured with a smile.

She gave you a quick, awkward shrug and started backing away. “Don’t get weird about it.”

“I won’t,” you teased, eyes shining. “I’ll just journal about it later.”

“Ugh,” she groaned, shaking her head as she walked off, leaving you alone in the almost empty hangar. Almost. 

You knew he was still there, watching from just out of sight in the shadow, hoping that you might forget him and leave. 

You didn’t need to look to know where he was – slightly to the left of the jet, behind one of the grounded transports, where the shadows ran deepest. You sighed, so this time it was the hide and seek tactic. 

He had a whole repertoire of avoidance tactics by now. He’d beeline for the far exit the second the ramp dropped, trying to slip past you in the blur of disembarkment. He’d stride with a confident grimace on his face as if late for something important, trying to hide the limp in gait and muttering ‘I’m good’ without meeting your eyes, hoping you'd be too busy to stop him. Once, he barked at the mechanical crew about malfunctioning weapons so loudly it echoed through the entire hangar, like this could distract you from seeing his dislocated shoulder. 

He’d timed more than a few disappearing acts to the exact moment you were wrapping gauze around someone else’s arm, his absence marked only by a faint smear of blood on the floor.

The thing was: none of those tactics had ever fully worked.

You almost always caught him, not because you were fast, but because you were constant. You didn’t chase; you simply watched, patient and unwavering, and somehow ended up beside him just when he thought he’d shaken you off. And every single time, it ended the same way: a grumpy exchange, his voice clipped and curt, your smile trying its best to stay steady… and then him following you to the med bay with all the warmth of a snowstorm.

And today was not going to be an exception. 

You took a deep breath, adjusted your med bag on your shoulder, and started walking toward him, calm, unhurried, like this was the most natural thing in the world, because it was, because he was hurt, and even if he didn’t want kindness, he still needed care. 

“I can see you, you know,” you said gently as you rounded the transport.

Bucky didn’t move, he stood with his back to you, one hand braced against the metal side of the jet, the other pressed to the steadily bleeding wound on his side, his dark hair was damp with sweat, a smear of grime streaked across his cheekbone – a man made of iron and exhaustion.

“I’m not in the mood for lectures,” he muttered.

You smiled softly, stepping closer. “Lucky for you, I don’t give them.”

“I’m fine,” he grunted trying to pass you by, but the dark smear of red spreading across his t-shirt just beneath his arm was hard to ignore and in addition to that he was walking a little too stiffly, jaw tight.

“No, you’re not.”

You quickened your pace and managed to step in front of him, blocking his path before he could make it to the elevator. You tilted your head up to meet his eyes, those sharp, tired eyes, and gestured toward the wet patch on his side.

“You’re bleeding,” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

“I’ve had worse, they all heal,” he muttered, barely meeting your gaze.

“That doesn’t make this one any less important.”

He exhaled like you were the most exhausting person alive. “Go patch up someone who actually needs it.”

You just gave him another warm smile, the one that always got under his skin, the one that said I’m not going anywhere, Barnes.

“Oh, I am,” you said. “You.”

He gave you a look that could freeze lava. “I said I’m fine.”

“Let me look,” you asked quietly. “Just look.”

He finally turned his head toward you, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes, something raw, cornered, tired and angry. 

“Why do you always do this?” he snapped. “Why can’t you just leave it?”

The words weren’t loud, but they hit harder than they should have, you swallowed, keeping your expression steady and your voice gentle.

“Because you’re bleeding, Bucky, because it’s my job, and because I care.”

He winced.

“Come to the medbay,” you said, nodding toward the corridor behind you. “Please, let me help.”

He stared at you like he didn’t understand why you were making such a fuss about it, but eventually, wordlessly, he started slowly moving in the right direction.

You walked in silence, a careful distance between your shoulder and his, not too close, never too close. He didn’t like that, or maybe he didn’t like you, and the thought of your arm accidentally brushing his was too much. You weren’t sure.

You used to tell yourself he was like this with everyone and to a certain point that was true, Bucky Barnes didn’t exactly ooze warmth with the rest of the team either, but somehow… somehow it felt different with you - colder and sharper.

At first, you thought it was just because you were new. People like him took time to open up, to let others into their world but time passed, it was six months now, and nothing had changed or maybe it had, maybe it had gotten worse. 

You tried not to dwell on it, but your brain kept cataloging every moment he flinched away from your touch, every time he refused to look you in the eye when you smiled, every muttered “I didn’t ask you,” or clipped “Just don’t talk”, and you tried, you really, really tried to let it slide off your back, to tell yourself it wasn’t personal.

But it felt personal, because you didn’t just care about him as a medic, or even as a teammate. You liked him, even more than that.

There was something steady in him, something tired, yes, angry and closed-off and jagged, but steady and kind, in these brief, flickering moments that he seemed to hate himself for.

You saw that, you felt it, and you liked him, quietly, fiercely, which made the way he shut you out all the harder to swallow.

You wanted to believe he didn’t actually hate you, that it wasn’t your voice or your warmth that irritated him, but something else, some fear or scar you weren’t meant to understand. And yet, every time he pulled away or acted like you were unbearable, it left a bruise in a spot no bandage could reach.

You glanced over at him as you reached the hallway leading to the med bay. He was walking stiffly, blood still blooming through his shirt, jaw clenched like stone, as if he were headed for an interrogation room, not a place meant to help him heal.

He very obviously didn’t want to be here, not with you.

You swallowed hard against the familiar ache in your throat and forced on that small, professional smile, the one you’d worn too many times before.

Don’t take it personally… don’t make it anything… just do your job.

Because if he really did hate you for whatever inexplicable reason… you didn’t think you wanted to know.

The med bay was quiet, even Alexei’s booming voice was absent, which could only mean one thing: everyone else had already been checked, patched up, and cleared. This time, the injuries hadn’t been serious.

You set your bag down and pulled on a pair of gloves, while behind you, Bucky hovered just inside the doorway, tense as a loaded spring.

“You can take the cot,” you said softly, nodding to the padded bench where you treated most of the team.

He hesitated, as if the simple act of sitting felt like surrender but eventually, without another word, he crossed the room and lowered himself stiffly onto the edge.

You pulled out gauze, saline, antiseptic, scissors.

Bucky flinched slightly at the sound of the tray rattling into place, but his face stayed neutral and cold, just as usual.

“I’ll start with your arm,” you offered gently. “Then I’ll take a look at your side.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my side.”

You glanced up, his jaw was locked, lips pressed into a thin line and his vibranium fingers flexed against his thigh.

You kept your tone warm and steady. “You’re still bleeding, Bucky.”

“It’s not deep.”

“It’s bleeding through your shirt.”

“It’ll stop.”

You swallowed and carefully seated yourself in front of him to reach his arm, gently taking his flesh wrist to begin cleaning the cut that ran jaggedly along his forearm. You worked in silence for a few seconds, watching the way his muscles stayed coiled under your touch like he was resisting the urge to bolt. It was nothing new, he always did. 

You spoke softly, eyes still on your work.

“I need to check the wound on your side.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

His voice sharpened. “Don’t push this.”

“I’m not pushing,” you said, meeting his eyes. “I just… I care if something’s wrong and it is.”

Something flickered in his expression – not quite anger, not quite fear, you couldn’t name it. 

“Let me help you to pull it off,” you offered and reached for the hem of his T-shirt.

“I can handle it,” he muttered, already shifting, fingers hooking the edge of his tattered black T-shirt. “You’ll see it’s nothing.”

You leaned back slightly, watching as he tried to pull the shirt over his head, his breath hitched mid-motion, a soft sound of pain escaping before he could swallow it down, while the fabric stuck to his side where the blood had dried, tugging at the skin.

You stepped forward quickly. “Wait, don’t hurt yourself more. Let me…”

“No.”

His tone was harsh as he shoved your hand away, his arm still raised, shirt half-bunched around his ribs, every line of his body stiff and defensive.

You froze, a beat passed, then another.

“Bucky, I just want to help you,” you said, desperately trying to bite back tears that threatened to well up in the corners of your eyes. 

He didn’t move, but didn’t say anything either, so you reached for the scissors on the tray, holding them up between you, giving him time to see and react if needed. 

“I’ll be careful.”

Another silence.

Then, finally, a barely audible: “Fine.”

You moved close again, as you gently slid the cold edge of the scissors beneath the hem of his shirt. You felt, rather than saw, the way he tensed, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the unsteady rhythm of his breathing.

The sound of the scissors snipping through fabric seemed too loud, too sharp. Bucky kept his eyes locked on the wall across, teeth grinding together to keep anything else from slipping out. You worked in silence, peeling the shredded, blood-soaked shirt from his body piece by piece, the fabric clinging to the wound at his side, warm and wet and sticking.

He hated this. Every second of it.

Hated the way the air touched his skin, hated the way he could feel your eyes taking him in, even if they were just scanning for damage, hated the way he sat there like a goddamn puzzle you had to piece back together again, like he couldn’t even take care of himself, couldn’t manage that on his own.

He would rather charge into enemy fire than sit here under your hands and let you see him, let you see all of it - the battered, bruised chest, the old lacerations across his ribs, the jagged web of scar tissue where his shoulder ended in steel.

It was disgusting, he knew it was, he saw it in the mirror when he dared to look, saw it in the way people hesitated when their eyes caught on the place where man became machine.

He waited for that from you, waited for the breath that hitched too long, for your fingers to still, for the quiet, involuntary reaction you didn’t mean to give because no matter how warm your smile was, no one wanted to look at this.

And God help him, he didn’t want you to.

He could’ve taken it from anyone else, from a stranger, a medic without a face or a voice but not you, not when he’d spent months trying to build walls between himself and the unbearable ache of wanting you that was driving him mad every single day.

Because if things were different –  in another world, another life, he still dared to dream of from time to time – you wouldn’t be tending to him like this, you’d be touching him differently.

He’d feel your delicate fingers splayed across his stomach, slow and teasing, tracing lazy patterns over his skin just to hear him groan. 

You’d climb onto his lap in soft cotton sleepwear, fingers curling into his hair, lips brushing his ear and he’d have your legs around his waist, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders as he rocked into you slow and deep, swallowing every whimper and every sigh from your perfect, plush lips.

And maybe, maybe there’d be mornings where you’d wake him with kisses against his jaw, sliding under the sheets to trail your mouth lower, lower, until he was gasping your name and fisting the sheets, your voice humming sweet praise against his skin as you ruined him with nothing but your mouth and that sunshine-soft devotion in your eyes.

In another life, he’d earn the sound of you falling apart underneath him and he’d memorize it, worship it. But in this life?

He was just a grumpy, half-broken supersoldier bleeding on your floor again, a silent burden with a history no one wanted and a body no one could love, something to fix and release, stitch and forget.

He flinched when your fingers brushed the raw edges of the gash on his side.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

He didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

He hadn’t stood a chance.

Not from the very beginning, not from the first moment you stepped into the med bay, bright-eyed and steady-handed, soft-spoken but somehow commanding the whole damn room without raising your voice once.

Warmth rolled off of you like sunlight through glass, not the loud kind, not the fake, performative shit that cracked when it was tested. You were real, you were constant, you remembered names, remembered birthdays, brought people coffee the way they liked it without asking. 

They’d started calling you “Sunshine” within a week, even Alexei, loud and blunt and impossible to embarrass, had switched to calling you solnyshko in his thick Russian accent, like it was second nature. 

And Bucky?

He’d been gone for you the moment you touched him.

He remembered it too well. The first time he’d been sent to you: reluctant, annoyed, still bleeding from some rooftop mess in Prague with a shallow cut above his brow that wouldn't stop dripping into his eye. He expected antiseptic, cold metal tools, instructions barked without eye contact.

Instead, he got you.

Smiling up at him like he wasn’t some grim relic dropped into your workspace, you’d stepped close, murmured something about how the cut made him look very “stoic and tortured, like a brooding detective” and stood up on your tiptoes to reach him properly, steadying yourself with one palm on his chest, while pressing a patch to his brow.

Plaster, you’d joked, the strongest glue known to mankind, emotionally and medically.

Your breath had ghosted across his cheek, your fingers, so soft and casual, had brushed just under the line of his jaw and Bucky had gone hard so fast it made his stomach twist with panic. He’d stood there frozen, every muscle locked, fighting instinct with sheer will, horrified that you might glance down and notice the unmistakable bulge straining against his suddenly-too-tight pants. 

And two hours later, drenched in sweat and halfway through beating a heavy bag to pulp in the training room, he still hadn’t shaken the feel of you off.

He tried, every day, tried to unsee you, to pretend that he didn’t care, to spook you away with ignorance, tried to forget the sound of your voice saying “you’re okay, I’ve got you” like it was true, like it could ever be true for him. 

He tried to avoid being treated by you whenever he could. It was simply too much to bear, in some ways even worse than anything he’d endured in HYDRA’s basements. Having you so close, breathing against his skin, your touch light and careful… and not being able to touch you in return – it was torture of its own kind.

And now, with your fingers skimming the raw edges of his side, your face so close again, eyes filled with concern that couldn’t possibly be meant for him… he simply wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

Bucky shifted in his seat again, trying to breathe normally, trying to think, and the leather creaked beneath him, betraying every twitch of tension in his body. 

You moved back to the tray beside him, picked up a syringe, and checked the vial like you always did.

“I’m going to give you a local,” you said softly. “Painkiller and a bit of anesthetic. Should take the edge off before I start stitching.”

“No.”

Your head lifted slightly, surprised by the sharpness of his tone but you didn’t flinch.

“Bucky…”

“I said no,” he snapped, eyes locked ahead, jaw grinding tight. “I don’t want anything in my system, not now, not ever. I can take it.”

You just nodded. “Alright,” you said. “Then I’ll be quick. Let me know if it’s too much.”

Too much.

It already was. Not the pain and not the gash.

You.

Your fingers were back on him a moment later, brushing near the edges of the wound, wiping away blood with sterile gauze. The contact was brief, barely pressure but it didn’t matter. It never did.

The moment your hand touched his skin, his body betrayed him.

Heat flushed beneath the surface, cruel and immediate, his breath caught in his throat and his cock throbbed helplessly in his tactical pants, already half-hard from the second you'd knelt in front of him to examine the wound earlier. Now it was worse, aching, twisting up beneath his belt, too present and impossible to ignore.

Fuck. No. Not again. Not here.

He shifted, subtly, or at least as subtle as he could manage with adrenaline roaring in his veins and you so close he could smell the hint of citrus from your tee on your lips.

You moved in closer to thread the needle, and his gaze dropped for a fraction of a second not by choice, but instinct, and there it was again: the way your lips parted slightly in focus, the way the curve of your jaw tilted just so, the shape of your fingers, the slope of your throat, the warmth radiating from you.

And all he could think, all he could fucking think right now, was what it would feel like to have you straddling his lap, your thighs tight around his waist, grinding down against the ache in his jeans while he held you steady by the hips. How would it feel to have your hands buried in his hair, tugging hard, needing him closer, needing more and him giving it to you, gladly, worshipfully, with a hunger he hadn’t let himself feel for anyone in years.

How he’d grab a fistful of your shirt, shove it up, bare your stomach and your breasts to his mouth and kiss his way down until you were shivering, hot and soft and completely at his mercy. 

How you’d moan for him, sweet and desperate, head tipped back, your voice already wrecked from whispering his name like it was the only thing you could remember.

And when you’d finally start to sink down on him, taking him in inch by inch, deep and slow and ruinous, he’d hold your hips down and take his time, grinding slowly up into you until you were crying for him, clawing at his back, writhing under the need for him.

He wanted to hear you beg with voice cracking, breath stuttering, he wanted to see you come apart for him with tears in your lashes and his name spilling from your lips like prayer.

He’d mouth at your throat, your shoulder, sink his teeth into the delicate line of your collarbone just to hear how you’d whimper at the edge of pain, only to soothe it a second later with his tongue.

He wanted to know what kind of sounds you’d make for him, what kind of mess you’d become under his mouth, what it would be like to feel your smile against his skin while you writhed beneath him.

God, he’d give anything, anything just to know how you tasted.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, trying to force his breathing even, trying to shut it all down.

There was no place for thoughts like that, not here, not now, not ever and not with you.

Not when he was a mess of scars and steel, and dark memories still keeping him awake at night, not when all you’d ever seen of him was what was broken. 

He was a soldier, not a man, something salvaged and repurposed, not someone you would ever choose to touch unless it was necessary. Certainly not someone you’d ever moan for, arch for, someone you would want.

Bucky swallowed hard and tried to focus on the sting of the needle entering his skin,  anything to keep the tension from turning visible.

Because if you noticed… if you so much as glanced down… if you knew that your fingers brushing his skin made his breath hitch not in pain, but in desperate, pulsing want.

If you knew that the way you leaned over him, the slope of your collarbone just inches from his mouth, had his thoughts unraveling into a mess of things he had no right to imagine.

If you knew that every time you smiled at him he wanted to drop to his knees and bury his face between your thighs and stay there until you forgot your own name.

If you knew even a small fraction of all that … he wasn’t sure he’d survive the humiliation.

The needle dragged through his skin, a sting, then a tug, again and again, your hands were steady as ever, moving with focus and care. You didn’t rush, you never did and he welcomed the pain, it was at least somewhat distracting.

At some point he must’ve shifted a little too sharply because you paused and looked up at him, brows knitting.

“You alright?” you asked softly. “Is it hurting too much?”

“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly, too sharp.

You kept your eyes on him, studying his face, and he swallowed hard, blinked once and looked away.

“I said I’m fine,” he rasped.

You returned to your work, lips pressed together, gaze dropping to the wound as you continued stitching in silence.

Bucky stayed still as stone, blood thundering through his veins, sweat prickling at the back of his neck, focused on the rhythm of your hands, the even glide of the needle, the way your fingertips ghosted over him as you wiped away the excess blood.

You were nearly done. Just one more stitch, just one more soft sweep of gauze to catch the last streak of blood, just one more whisper of your fingers along the edge of his ribs. 

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, just for a second, and out of a sudden it was simply too much. You were too close, eyes warm and full of that open-hearted care you gave everyone, but that somehow always wrecked him more than anything.

He could feel himself slipping, unraveling under your touch, under the heat of his own skin, under the pulse pounding between his legs and the ache twisting in his gut like punishment.

You moved slightly, reaching for the tape to dress the wound and your hip brushed his knee, barely, barely, but it felt like fire, and he snapped.

Before you could speak again, before you could even exhale, Bucky shot up from the cot like he’d been burned. The stool beneath you scraped across the floor as he moved, too fast, too rough, and his shoulder caught yours in a hard shove.

You stumbled back, shocked, almost tumbling from the stool.

“Bucky!”

He didn’t hear the rest, didn’t want to, he just bolted through the door and didn’t stop moving, didn’t dare to stop, because if he did, if he let even one more word sink in, he might’ve turned around and done something he couldn’t take back. 

By the time he reached his quarters, his hands were shaking.

He slammed the door shut behind him with more force than necessary, rattling the frame,  pressed his back to it and then just stood there, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched at his sides, heart thundering against his ribs, blood rushing loud in his ears.

Everything was too much, no, you were too much and yet, all he wanted was to run back to you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hoarse.

He was so hard, so painfully, furiously hard, his cock straining against the inside of his pants, the fabric already damp with precum, throbbing in time with his pulse like it was punishing him for letting you near him again..

It had never been this bad, it was unbearable.

He stumbled into his quarters and barely made it to the couch, fingers shaking as he fumbled with the zipper of his pants, nearly tearing it in the rush, as he slumped on it heavily, dragging his boxers down just enough to free himself, already slick, already leaking so hard it hurt.

His hand wrapped around himself, and he groaned, low, ragged, desperate, head falling back against the cushions. He squeezed tighter, trying to relieve the ache, but it only made the tension worse, the pressure coiling tighter in his gut.

He bit down on another desperate groan, and your name slipped past his lips before he could stop it.

"Fuck, Sunshine…"

Bucky hissed through his teeth, head tipped back, sweat beading at his temple, fisting his cock with rough, tight strokes, eyes clenched shut as image after image tore through his brain.

You on your knees between his thighs, looking up at him with that soft, open smile, your hands trailing up his legs, patient and warm. The sweet flutter of your lashes as you leaned in, the heat of your breath against the head of his cock, your lips wrapping around it, and the aching reverence in your eyes like you wanted him not because you were kind, not because you pitied him, but because you craved him.

You in his bed, flushed and gasping, sheets tangled around your waist as you rocked beneath him, saying his name in that same soft voice you used when stitching him up, only now it was broken by pleasure, by need. He’d have his hands on either side of your head, holding himself there, watching your eyes roll back and your face twist with each thrust, feeling you flutter around him, close, so fucking close.

You bent over the counter in his kitchen, your scrubs still on, pants pushed just low enough for him to take you, your hands braced against the tile, back arched, moaning like you belonged to him while he drove into you from behind, rough and deep, gripping your hips like they were the only thing keeping him sane.

He could practically hear the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of you, your heart-shaped ass arching back into him, wiggling just right as his palm landed on one cheek with a sharp smack, your breathy curses spilling into the air, broken and desperate, the sweet, wrecked little “please” before his fingers slid between your thighs, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over your clit.

And then… you straddling him in the dark on the sofa, chest to chest, your arms around his neck, your mouth at his throat whispering, “You’re okay, I’ve got you.” Not because he needed saving, but because you meant it, because in this dream, you weren’t afraid of him, you held him tight, rode him slow, deep, grinding your hips down on him, needy moans, spilling over your lips as he came inside you, shaking and undone, filling you to the brim with his cum.

He jerked faster, harder, chasing it, chasing you, the dream of you, the one thing he would never have, not really, not the way he wanted.

Thick, hot ropes of cum painted his belly and hand, his grip still tight around his cock, milking out every last desperate pulse. His chest heaved with shallow, ragged breaths as he slumped back against the couch, utterly spent, his hand sticky and trembling, and looked down at the mess across his stomach. He scrubbed his metal hand over his face, dragging his fingers through his hair with a groan. 

For the next few days, Bucky avoided you like his life depended on it. He disappeared before you entered a room, skipped mealtimes, changed his training hours, and if your footsteps echoed down a hallway, he took the nearest exit. It wasn’t subtle, and it certainly wasn’t kind, but it was the only way he knew to keep the need from consuming him every time he saw your face.

But he couldn’t avoid you forever, so when avoidance stopped being an option, whatever fragile balance had existed between you before suddenly to your surprise shattered into something far more painful.

Bucky had always been gruff, distant, unreadable, barbed around the edges. You could live with it, you had lived with it for months and never taken it personally. You kept telling yourself he was like that with everyone.

But now… it wasn’t just coldness anymore, it was something meaner, something much sharper.

Bucky wouldn’t even look at you when you walked into a room, wouldn’t speak unless he absolutely had to, and when he did, his words were clipped and flat, like they left a bitter taste in his mouth. The warmth you kept trying to offer, the soft smiles, the careful concern, were now met with eye rolls, snorts, and outright dismissal.

And you couldn’t understand why.

You played the conversations back in your head every night, quietly lying in bed long after the tower had gone still. Had you said something wrong? Had you touched a nerve you didn’t know existed? You weren’t pushy, you didn’t force your care on anyone, you just wanted to make sure he was okay, that he knew someone was looking out for him, even if he didn’t ask for it.

Especially because he didn’t ask for it.

And maybe that was the mistake.

But God, you couldn’t stop trying. Every small kindness was an attempt to bridge the gap, every careful word was another thread you cast across the distance he kept growing between you but it never landed.

Instead, it drove him further, every kindness seemed to piss him off more, like he couldn’t stand you caring, like your presence was some cruel trick he couldn’t figure out the punchline to.

Sometimes he glared at you like he wanted to shout, like he was choking on something he couldn’t say, and the only way to survive it was to shove you away as hard as he could.

And still… still, you stayed and kept wondering why on earth the man you had so stupidly fallen for was such a jackass towards you.

You’d never said it aloud, not to anyone, not even to yourself, but it was there, thick and painful in your chest every time he walked into the room, every time he stood too close, every time he looked at you like your love was a burden he hadn’t agreed to carry.

And that, more than anything, made your heart break in silence.

You tried to hide it, God, you tried, but lately, you were tired in a way you couldn’t patch not with excess of coffee and not with sleep, that had started to avoid you too. Your smiles wavered a little more often, your hands hesitated, and slowly you started to wonder if maybe he was right, maybe you were just hovering, just annoying, just… too much.

One morning, you’d brought fresh bandages down to the gym during training. You always did and everyone appreciated it.

Except him.

“We don’t need your charity,” Bucky had muttered as you knelt to check on Ava’s twisted wrist. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

Everyone had heard it.

John had cleared his throat loudly, muttering something like “Jesus, man” under his breath. Ava had looked away, clearly uncomfortable and Alexei had offered you a gentle, apologetic shrug before loudly demanding you to check his very serious (imaginary) injury instead.

Yelena had walked straight over and planted herself between you and Bucky, glaring up at him with a force only she could wield. “Say thank you,” she’d said flatly. “Now.”

But Bucky had just walked off, face like stone, jaw grinding as he pulled his sweatshirt over his head.

Later that day, you’d tried to bring him fresh ice packs after training, you hadn’t even said anything, just offered them quietly, gently, like you always did.

He hadn’t even looked up.

“Don’t hover,” he said, voice low and sharp. “I don’t need them.”

That one had cut deep.

You hadn’t answered, just turned and walked out, your chest hollow, the ice packs still clutched in your hand.

The others noticed, of course they did, and they did their best to soften it, to shield you where they could.

Ava stopped by the med bay more often, even when she didn’t need anything. John lingered longer during patch-ups, tossing you dumb jokes to make you smile, even Alexei, blunt and bumbling, started bringing you terrible coffee and terrible compliments in the mornings.

Nothing of it made the sting go away.

You kept doing your job, quietly, kindly, as if the person you’d fallen in love with wasn’t tearing you down piece by piece until the day he finally broke you.

It was during a briefing, the entire team gathered around the table, mid-discussion about the next mission. You were there to offer medical assessments, speak up when necessary. You always stood off to the side, out of the way.

Bucky had been tense from the start, pacing, arms crossed, clearly on edge, and then you’d made the mistake of speaking without being asked. 

You had noticed that the structure they were infiltrating had weak points that might collapse under heavy stress and that the team should avoid the northwest stairwell if possible, because if that broke there would be no way medics could reach them.

You barely got the words out before his voice cut across the room like a whip.

“Oh, thank you, Sunshine,” Bucky said mockingly, turning toward you with a sneer. “I’m so glad we have a fucking ray of light here to tell us how to do our job. Maybe next time you can bring cookies to the field too. You know. For morale.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

No one breathed.

Your throat tightened, heat prickled behind your eyes, too fast, too sudden, you blinked quickly, trying to smile, trying to laugh it off, but your lip wobbled.

“Bucky…” John started, his tone edged in disbelief but it was too late. 

You pressed a hand to your chest like it could hold the pieces of you in place, gave a soft, choked sound, and turned on your heel.

You left the room as fast as you could, but the tears were already falling before the door even hissed shut behind you.

Bucky just stood there with an annoyed expression on his face before turning around and leaving in fast strides.

Yelena stared at him in silence, then she moved, fast.

She caught up with him in the hallway as he stalked off, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Hey,” she snapped, grabbing his arm and yanking him around. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Back off, Yelena.”

Bucky yanked his arm free but didn’t move away, he didn’t answer either, didn’t even look at her.

She stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “No. No walking away from this. You’re gonna stand here and tell me what the hell you’re doing.”

“Leave it alone, Yelena,” he muttered.

“No.” Her voice was sharp, deadly. “You’re not just being a grump anymore, you’re hurting her and that deliberately. And for what?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed.

“She didn’t do anything to you,” she went on. “Nothing. She’s the only person in this whole tower who’s never asked for anything back, she’s gentle with you, she’s kind and you treat her like she’s poison. Why?”

He said nothing, just stared at a point past her head like he could will himself somewhere else.

Yelena jabbed a finger into his chest.

“She came in every day this week and smiled at you. She brought you clean wraps, asked how your stitches were healing, even after you walked by her like she’s an empty air.”

His jaw flexed, his shoulders tensed but still, he said nothing.

Yelena stepped closer.

“You’re not just being an asshole anymore. You’re being cruel, you made her cry in front of the entire team.”

“I didn’t mean…” he snapped, then caught himself.

She narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t mean to, what?”

He looked away.

“Bucky.”

Silence stretched and his hands flexed at his sides like he was holding something back with everything he had.

Finally, he spoke. 

“Because I can’t stand it.”

Yelena blinked.

“Because she’s just so fucking nice and bright, and I’m…”

He stopped.

Yelena tilted her head. “You’re what?”

His lips twisted. “I’m this… broken, dark, unnecessary, unlovable something,” he ground out, eyes flashing. “And she’s just… Sunshine. All the damn time.”

Yelena said nothing.

“How can someone be so…” He stopped again, swallowing hard. “So stupidly sweet? So lovely just by breathing? It’s like she doesn’t even know what kind of world she’s in. Like she thinks if she’s kind enough, soft enough, people will stop bleeding.”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “She’ll get herself killed trying to be loved by everybody.”

Yelena’s voice was low, cutting. “She doesn’t want to be loved by everybody.”

Bucky froze.

The air between them went still, almost fragile, waiting for one wrong word to shatter it into pieces too small to sweep up.

He didn’t speak.

Yelena stepped closer, her eyes narrowing, sharp with understanding now. “She wants you.”

He closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

“Bullshit.”

“No,” Yelena said, firm. “It’s not.”

He swallowed hard, jaw grinding like he could chew the words down before they ever reached his throat. “She’s just…” His voice cracked. “She’s kind. She’s like that with everyone.”

“She’s kind,” Yelena agreed, nodding. “But she’s not careless with it. She doesn’t give pieces of herself to just anyone.”

She paused, looking him dead in the eye.

“And you’re not just anyone, you matter to her. More than you think, more than she’d ever say out loud.”

Her voice softened, just slightly.

“She loves you, Bucky. Even if you’re too scared to see it.”

“Don’t.” He turned sharply, like he couldn’t bear the word.

Yelena didn’t flinch.

“Don’t you see it?” she pressed. “The way she looks at you? Like you’re something worth waiting for, like she’s hoping you’ll let her in? But every time she smiles at you, you just look away like it hurts.”

“Because it does,” Bucky snapped, finally meeting her eyes. “Because I don’t know how to take it, because she wants someone whole and I’m not. I’m not some sweet fucking project she can fix with soft hands and careful words.”

Yelena didn’t move.

“I’m not the good guy,” he hissed. “I’m not soft, or stable, or someone who deserves someone like her. I’m a weapon with a retirement plan. That’s all.”

“You’re not.”

He ignored her. “And she, God, she walks around here like a goddamn sunrise, like nothing’s touched her, like she still believes in something.”

“She believes in you.”

“Yeah. Well, then it’s her mistake.”

The words exploded out of him, echoing through the corridor.

He turned away again, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing like he could outrun the way his chest was tightening. Like he could shove the image of your tear-streaked and hurt face out of his mind if he just moved fast enough.

You folded your stuff with trembling hands, but it wasn’t the nerves.

This was heartbreak, settling into your chest like a quiet and cold frost.

You didn’t even know why you were folding things so neatly. It wasn’t like you owed this place a tidy exit but maybe it was instinct, or maybe you just needed to hold on to something you could control while everything else crumbled around you.

You blinked down at your bag where your hoodie sat on top, the soft one you liked to wear on chilly days, the one he had once glanced at for a second too long. You hated that you remembered that, that you still cared.

But God, you did. You cared too much.

You loved him and that was the worst part. You’d fallen so stupidly, quietly, deeply in love with a man who flinched every time you got close, who looked at your kindness like it burned him. who spoke to you like you were a wound he didn’t ask for.

You sniffed, angrily wiping your sleeve across your eyes.

Because damn it, love or not, you weren’t going to keep letting him crush you.

You weren’t someone’s emotional punching bag. You weren’t going to keep showing up every day with soft smiles and careful words just to be told you were too much, too sweet. too naive, too present.

If Bucky Barnes hated you that much, if your love, your existence was so unbearable to him, then fine – you wouldn’t force yourself into his life, and you certainly wouldn’t beg.

You zipped the bag shut, you were retreating, yes, but this wasn’t weakness, this was grace in the face of cruelty, a self-respect.

You paused by the door, glancing once, only once, around the space you’d come to think of as yours. 

It was the place where you’d laughed with Yelena, where Alexei had once shown up with a massive toolbox and a mission, declaring your wobbly desk chair “an insult to your delicate spine” and then spent a whole afternoon fixing it.

He’d left behind a chair that somehow creaked louder than before, but you hadn’t said a word, especially not after he had patted your shoulder and told you in that booming, earnest voice, “You take care of all of us. Someone has to take care of you.”

It was ridiculous and so oddly touching, and had made you smile for hours that day.

And it was also the place where you had sat on your bed in the quiet, wondering how someone so closed-off could have eyes that held such storms.

No more wondering. You were done.

You stepped into the hallway with shoulders squared, holding your chin high, and you kept your eyes forward, even as your chest caved in around the ache.

You were leaving. You loved him, yes, but you loved yourself too, and that meant knowing when it was time to go.

You woke up with your head literally splitting.

That was the first thing you registered – pain, blooming and hot at the base of your skull. Every heartbeat sent a fresh wave of nausea through your gut, and your limbs felt heavy, wrong, disconnected.

The pain pulsed behind your eyes, throbbing down your neck and into your spine. It was a slow, creeping kind of pain, the kind that made it hard to tell where it ended and where your body began. 

The floor beneath you seemed like a smooth metal, cold and way too perfect to be concrete, and the air smelled of dust and oil and something burnt.

There was something over your head, rough canvas brushing your lips, warm and stifling as you could feel your own breath bouncing back at you, too fast, too shallow.

A bag, there was a fucking bag over your head.

Your pulse spiked, dizzy, hot, and you forced yourself to take a slow breath, then another. Keep the panic down. Think.

Your last clear memory was… what? Packing. Leaving. Walking to the garage.

And then… nothing.

Your heart stuttered as faint footsteps echoed in the distance, muffled voices threading between them. Metal groaned, a door, maybe, and the voices grew closer, sharper.

Fear overrode pain as you tensed, every muscle coiling. Keys rattled. A lock turned.

You barely had time to brace before rough hands clamped around your upper arms. The startled cry that slipped from you was pure instinct, but it didn’t slow them.

“On your feet,” one of them barked.

You were hauled upward with no gentleness but your legs buckled immediately and for a moment, you thought you’d crash right back to the floor but a hand gripped under your arm, holding you up as you swayed, half-upright, your head lolling forward.

And then the hood was yanked off.

Your eyes burned at the sudden brightness, not blinding, but after the suffocating dark, it felt like staring into the sun. Shapes swam in your vision and it took a few seconds to focus, to blink back tears and pain.

Concrete walls. Exposed, rusted metal beams stretching into a high, very high, ceiling. Hanging lights flickering overhead. A warehouse. Old, industrial. 

And men – three of them, from what you could see, all unfamiliar except for one – the new tower technician that loved chocolate cookies and always had a silly joke ready to throw your way.

But it wasn’t any of their faces that made your stomach twist, it was the cold, heavy pressure at your throat.

You tried to look down as much as your position allowed and saw it, or rather felt it – a thick metal collar around your neck, black and seamless, with a faint green flicker pulsing just beneath the surface.

You instinctively tried to jerk back, to fight, but your legs didn’t cooperate and the man holding you only tightened his grip, steadying you like you were some auction object that needed to stay upright for display.

“What is this?” Your voice came out hoarse, scraped raw by the bile clawing up your throat. “What… what the hell is this? What do you want from me?”

You were bait, that much was obvious, but for who? It didn’t make any sense. Who would be reckless enough, stupid enough, to walk into this? You had no rich, no powerful friends. You had nobody.

A commotion stirred at the far end of the space, too distant for you to see. Footsteps pounded and another man appeared, breathless.

“He’s here. He’s coming.”

You lifted your head as far as you could manage, straining against the weight in your limbs, as you watched figures emerge from the shadows. There were more men with guns and between them, moving at a controlled, deliberate pace, was someone who made your heart lurch violently in your chest.

You blinked, once, twice, as if your vision had blurred and needed clearing before you almost choked on your own breath.

Bucky?

What the hell was Bucky doing here? The one man on Earth who’d made it perfectly clear he’d rather chew glass than be in the same room with you. The guy who could turn the air in a hallway to ice just by glancing your way. And yet here he was, and your stupid heart still tried to sprint straight out of your chest like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

His hair was tousled and his shoulders taut, every line of him coiled in barely restrained fury. His eyes scanned the room, and the moment they landed on the cage you were standing in, he stopped. 

Not the stop of surprise, not even shock, but the kind of stillness that comes when something deep inside snaps tight, when every nerve and every muscle strains against the need to act.

His eyes found you instantly, locking on like a sniper scope, and didn’t move. The air around him seemed to hum with the effort it took not to launch himself straight at the men flanking your cage. You’d never seen him look at you like that before, so fierce, unblinking, like nothing else in the room existed but you.

After a moment of hesitation he moved again, coming closer, so close that you could clearly see his slow and unblinking gaze sweeping over you, taking in every detail. It lingered at your throat, on the strange collar biting into your skin, at the faint bruise you felt pulsing along your temple, at your bare feet, the cage. Each detail seemed to hit him like another blow to the ribs, and his jaw clenched so hard you thought it might splinter.

You watched Bucky’s fists clenching at his sides, metal fingers flexing with quiet violence, his eyes never leaving you, not even for a second, and you could see it  – the crackling rage just beneath his skin, the split-second decision he wanted to make, to rip through every one of them, collateral be damned.

 “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” a man stepped forward from the shadows, his tone almost conversational, though the smug curl of his mouth made your stomach turn. “You can’t save her.”

Bucky’s stance shifted, subtle but unmistakable the barest lean forward, like he was calculating the distance between himself and the man’s throat.

The man’s smile widened. “See that collar?” He pointed lazily, as though he were pointing out a piece of artwork. “It’s wired. One signal from my friend up there,” he jerked his chin toward a figure on a metal catwalk above, hand resting on a small trigger device, “and her head comes off before you even make it to the bars.”

He rapped his knuckles against the cage. “And this? Vibranium. You could throw yourself at it all day, soldier, and it wouldn’t make a dent.”

Your skin went cold, but you couldn’t look away from Bucky. His jaw worked, his breath sharp through flared nostrils.

“So here’s how this goes,” the man continued, voice dropping into something slicker, deadlier. “You surrender, now, and maybe she walks out of here. She’s unimportant, just a leverage. Hydra only wants its asset back.”

The word asset made Bucky’s face flicker, just for a second, before his expression shuttered again.

Bucky didn’t move at first, his chest rose and fell slowly, his expression almost as if carved from stone, but you could see it, the hesitation, the desperate search for any way out that didn’t end with you hurt.

The man’s smirk widened, sensing it.

“So… what’s it gonna be, soldier?” he drawled. “Or maybe you’d rather take your time deciding? We can make it… educational for you.” His gaze slid to you, and his smile turned wicked. “Maybe let my men have a little fun with that sweet little thing before you come to your senses.”

The man standing at your side shifted, and before you could react, his hand clamped hard around your jaw, forcing your face toward him. His breath was hot and foul as he leered down at you.

“Get your hands off her,” Bucky’s voice was low, almost too quiet to hear, but it carried like a gunshot.

The man didn’t so much as glance at him, instead, he crushed his mouth to yours in a greedy, bruising kiss, his other hand shoving hard against your breast.

White-hot disgust and fury surged up your throat as you screamed into him, twisting in his grip, fighting to wrench free. His fingers dug harder into your cheeks, and unable to get free you just bit down as hard as you could.

The man yelped, jerking back with a curse, blood streaking his mouth, but your small victory lasted all of a heartbeat before a sharp crack split the air, his open palm connecting with your jaw. Your head snapped to the side, the world tilting, and a sharp buzz filled your ears as they rang.

Bucky moved before the sound had even finished echoing. It wasn’t a lunge, but the kind of forward step that made the men around him stiffen, guns rising a fraction higher. His hands fisted at his sides, the vibranium fingers flexing, as if remembering what it felt like to crush bone.

“Touch her again,” he said, voice low and steady, “and I will paint these walls with you.”

The leader’s smirk didn’t waver, but his eyes flickered just for a heartbeat toward the figure high above on the catwalk, the one with his thumb resting lazily on the trigger.

“Temper, temper,” the man drawled. “Make no mistake, Barnes, you’re not in a position to make threats. Every second you stall, she pays for it. You want her breathing? You want her in one piece? Then you get on your knees like the obedient little dog you are, and put your hands where we can see them.”

You caught it, that split-second flicker in Bucky’s eyes, the one that said he was about to do something catastrophically stupid. 

This was insane. What the hell was he thinking? For all the ice between you, all the sharp words and cold shoulders, there was one thing you couldn’t deny: you still loved that man. 

You loved him. God help you, you loved that grumpy, stubborn, impossible man, loved him so much that the thought of Hydra’s claws sinking back into him made bile burn the back of your throat. 

You’d heard enough about what they’d done to him, seen enough of the shadows in his eyes, to know he’d never survive it again, not really. And if he got dragged back there because of you… you’d never forgive yourself.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You wanted to scream at him to turn around, to not let these bastards use you to drag him under, to tell him you weren’t worth it, but your mouth had gone completely dry and felt as if it had never known how to speak, leaving the words stuck in your throat.

“Bucky, don’t…” you managed to sob, stepping forward, fingers curling desperately around the cold vibranium bars like they could hold back what you already knew was coming.

“Shh, Sunshine.” His voice was soft, steady, and the smile he gave you was something you’d never seen before, surely not from him, and never aimed at you. It was warm, reassuring, achingly tender, like a sliver of sunlight breaking through a storm. You hadn’t even known he could smile like that, let alone at you.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, low and certain. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

“Bucky, no…” you whimpered, the plea scraping raw in your throat, tears blurring your vision. “Don’t do this. Please. I’m not worth it.”

“Sunshine,” he said, quietly but with such certainty in his voice, like he was telling you the simplest, truest thing he’d ever known. “You’re the only thing in this whole damn world that’s worth it. Nothing else matters. Nothing ever has.”

He didn’t look away, not once, as he moved.

One knee hit the ground first, the dull thud of it echoing through the cavernous space, and for a fleeting, desperate second you thought he might stop there, that maybe he was feigning it, buying time before striking. That maybe you wouldn’t have to watch this but then the other knee lowered, slower, heavier, deliberate, as though every inch cost him something he’d never get back. 

His shoulders stayed square, spine locked in stubborn defiance, even as the posture stripped him of the power he’d fought for years to reclaim. The sound of his breathing filled your ears, controlled, measured, but a little too sharp at the edges.

For one last heartbeat, his hands remained loose at his sides, before he lifted them, palms open, offering himself up to the men surrounding him.

Astonishment twisted with guilt in your chest, squeezing the air from your lungs. It wasn’t surrender. You felt it in your bones, it was a bargain, a trade – him for you. And God, it hurt.

The man who had spent months keeping you at arm’s length, who had made you believe you meant nothing to him, was putting his life in their hands for yours, and all you could do was stand there, caged and useless, as he gave himself away.

Two men stepped in close, one on each side, and grabbed his wrists, yanking them back hard enough to strain his shoulders. You saw the small flex of his biceps, the subtle shift in his posture, the instinct to fight still there, before he forced himself to go still.

The click of the first cuff was sharp, the second came with a twist of his arm, pulling the joint past its natural range. It must have hurt, and you saw it in the slight hitch of his breath, the subtle tightening in his jaw.

One of them gave the cuffs an extra jerk, forcing his arms higher, his shoulders arching uncomfortably, another man stepped in and shoved him forward a fraction, making him bow just enough to strip the last illusion of control from him.

He still didn’t look at them, his eyes stayed locked on you, steady, unflinching, that impossibly warm smile refusing to fade, as if he could will you into believing this was all right.

It wasn’t. God, it wasn’t. It was wrong in every way that mattered, a twisting, aching wrong that hollowed you out from the inside.

And it was all your fault, because you hadn’t been careful enough, because you weren’t strong enough. Yelena wouldn’t have been caught like this. Ava wouldn’t have. You knew it, and you hated yourself for it, you hated that you were the weak link he was about to destroy himself to save. 

The first blow came almost before they’d even stepped back. You screamed, clutching the bards of your cage.

A heavy, gloved fist smashed across Bucky’s jaw, the crack of impact echoing in your ears. His head snapped to the side, a thin ribbon of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.

The second strike slammed into his ribs, making his bound shoulders jerk, as he doubled slightly, the pull of the cuffs biting into his wrists, but he forced himself upright again, breath sharp through his nose.

"Welcome home, Soldat. Hope you’re enjoying the welcome party," one of them sneered, and a boot drove into Bucky’s side. His muscles jerked under the blow, every tendon straining as he fought to keep his balance.

The hits kept coming, fists to his face, elbows to his back, another kick to his ribs. They didn’t pause, didn’t give him a second to brace. 

Then another kick drove into his side, harder than the rest, and his balance finally broke. He hit the floor on his shoulder, the breath punched out of him, as he sprawled on the cold concrete.

“Stop it!” you screamed, your hands clutching the vibranium bars with knuckles turning white. “Leave him alone! Cowards! He did what you wanted.”

“Not so tough now, huh, Soldier?” one of them sneered, kicking him in the back as he crumpled to the floor.

Bucky didn’t make a sound, he took the hits in silence with nothing more than a grunt when a fist connected with his jaw just right or the smallest, roughest exhale when his head was snapped back by an uppercut.

“Look at him,” a voice jeered over the sound of another strike. “All that muscle, all that metal, and still just a bitch on a leash.”

“Bet she’d scream louder for me than she ever would for him,” someone else laughed.

A kick landed in his back, forcing another breath out of him. 

“Look at you,” one of them said, crouching down to grab a handful of his hair and wrench his head back, making him meet his eyes. “Kneeling like a good little dog for some wet hole. Don’t you worry, we’ll treat her right. We’ll put that pussy to good use, and you’ll get to watch. You’ll get to watch every second of how we’ll fuck all her holes.”

It all stopped as abruptly as it started.

“Enough!” the leader’s voice cut through the room, and the others stepped back instantly. “There’ll be time for more fun later. Get ready to move. We leave in ten.”

They filed out in a loose cluster, footsteps fading until the warehouse fell quiet again.

You dropped to your knees.

The tears came fast and hot, blurring your vision as you pressed your hands to the barrier between you. You didn’t care that your shoulders shook, or that your voice broke when you whispered his name.

“Bucky…”

He stirred. One eye was already swelling shut, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, his chest lifting in uneven gasps.

Tears slipped down your cheeks. “You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have surrendered. Why did you do that? You hate me.”

A beat of silence followed and you were already afraid he had passed out, but then finally his voice reached you, hoarse but clear.

“Hate you?” he murmured, his voice quiet but steady enough for you to catch every word. “Oh, Sunshine, I’m just a fucking idiot. The biggest damn idiot alive, and I can’t…” He broke off, jaw tightening. 

“I need you to understand something before they… before anything happens,” he went on, each word slow, like dragging glass through his throat. “I don’t hate you, I never did and I never… I never meant to hurt you.”

Bucky inhaled deeply and continued, “Every time I was cold, every time I cut you down or walked out, it was just me trying to get some air, to keep myself from drowning in this thing I can’t shut off. You walk into a room and I forget how to breathe. You smile at me and it feels like the first warm day after years in the snow, and I … I just simply don’t know what to do with that.”

There was no hesitation in him, just that raw, stripped-bare honesty you’d never thought you’d hear from him, not in this lifetime.

His mouth twisted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I knew I didn’t have a chance with you,” he went on. “You’re everything I thought was gone from the world. You are so warm, so kind, too damn good. And me? I’m the thing they built in the dark to kill people like you. So I figured it’d be easier, if you just stayed away from me. For you and for me. That if I made you hate me, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much, that maybe I could survive watching you give that smile to someone who deserved it.”

Your pulse thundered, your fingers tightening around the cold bars until they ached.

“But the truth is,” he went on, voice breaking in the middle, “I love you. I fucking love you, and I’ve never loved anybody like this before, and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, I wouldn’t give, or do, or trade, to keep you safe. If they take me now, I’m fine with that, but if they lay a hand on you…” his breath shuddered and faded away.

“Oh my God, Bucky…” you sobbed, shaking your head, not believing any of this could be real.

“Listen to me,” he cut in. “Listen carefully! Whatever happens, stick to Ava. She’ll get you out. Promise me.”

“I… I don’t understand.” You covered your mouth with a trembling hand, choking back another sob.

“We just needed a clear view on where they were keeping you,” Bucky said, his tone almost mocking before it hardened. “And those cocky, self-sure idiots were so wrapped up in the idea of bagging the Winter Soldier, they didn’t bother to check me for anything else, just took my guns.” His lips twitched in a smirk, but it didn’t last, as in the next heartbeat, his expression turned deadly serious.

“Remember, no matter what happens, you follow Ava.” His voice was low, urgent, almost a growl. “Promise me.”

“Bucky…”

“Promise me,” he cut in, steel in his tone. “I need to hear it.”

“I… I promise,” you breathed. “But Bucky…”

His head dipped once in relief, “Good, and Sunshine … I’m sorry I hurt you,” he murmured. “I’m so damn sorry.”

You were crying openly now, hunched low against the bars, hands trembling, tears coming in hot streams that blurred the room into streaks of shadow and light. You tried to swallow it down, to find some semblance of control, but your breath hitched and broke in uneven bursts and your bottom lip trembled so violently it hurt with nose running and cheeks wet and blotchy, and you didn’t even care.  

“Bucky, listen to me…” you managed, your voice cracking so badly it didn’t even sound like your own. But the rest of the words wouldn’t come, they just died in your mouth, swallowed by the chaos that suddenly ensued.

It started with a flicker in the corner of your eye, a shimmer in the air, and then she was there.

Ava.

Her form snapped into view inside the cage, crouched beside you, eyes sharp and scanning.

“Hey,” she breathed, quick and urgent. “Hold still.”

“Ava…?” you mouthed, still stunned.

“No time,” she muttered, already reaching for the collar at your throat, her fingers moving with brisk precision. “We’re getting you out of here.”

You barely heard the shouts that followed, the sound of boots pounding, of something crashing, open gunfire, grunts that sounded an awful lot like John, the deep roar of Alexei rising above it all like a battle cry and Yelena’s sharp commands slicing through the din.

They’d come for you. All of them.

But your eyes were on Ava, whose hands shimmered in and out of phase as she tried to disable the collar. She hissed when her fingertips sparked off the tech.

“Shit. This is custom made.”

“Can you…?”

“Yeah. Just…give me a second.”

You nodded, trying to stay still despite the chaos, you couldn’t see Bucky, you just knew he was somewhere just out of your line of sight, still cuffed on the floor where they'd left him.

Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.

With a sharp click and a sudden hiss of pressure, the collar snapped loose and you gasped as Ava pulled it off, tossing it behind her like a venomous thing as she instantly turned her attention to the lock of the cage. It gave in much more quickly and with satisfied huff she turned back to you.

“Come on,” she said. “We’ve gotta move.”

But you weren’t listening because from the corner of your vision just past the open door of the cage you saw something – the leader of the HYDRA men, positioned just beyond the falling debris and shadows with his gun raised and aimed at Bucky. 

Bucky had managed to get back to his feet but his hands were still bound with the vibranium cuffs that refused to yield even to his strength no matter how much he struggled against them. 

Yelena had spotted the gun too, you could see it in the way her shoulders coiled, but she was too far, her path blocked by the chaos.

Bucky saw him too and then… he just stopped struggling, his arms fell still, all resistance gone. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet the cold, smirking eyes of the man about to end him.

He looked… so calm, unimpressed, almost bored, with a smile on his lips, like he’d already made his peace with what was going to happen. It seemed he almost dared the man to pull the trigger.

“No!” you screamed, and your body moved before thought could stop it.

You shoved Ava aside and bolted through the door.

Your legs screamed in protest, but you didn’t stop, not for the fear, not for the ache, not for the warning shouts that followed you as you dove forward, the world slowing around you.

The gun fired. 

But you were already there, just in front of Bucky.

The impact slammed into your side like a sledgehammer and you screamed as fire exploded through your ribs.

You hit the floor hard, hands pressed instinctively to your side, something warm and wet seeping through your fingers… blood… so much blood…

The warehouse tilted around you.

Somewhere far away, Alexei roared, a deep, thunderous sound, and the ground seemed to shake as he barreled forward. The gunman didn’t even have time to scream before Alexei’s fist smashed into his chest, sending him airborne into the wall with a sickening crack.

The body dropped. The gun skittered across the floor. 

Yelena appeared in your periphery, face pale, hands shaking as she pressed down on your wound. “No, no, no… stay with me…!” and through the ringing in your ears, another sound cut through – raw, savage, and nothing like a human voice.

“NO!”

Bucky was there, fighting against his restraints like a man possessed until Ava freed him with a sharp snap of the cuffs. His arms were around you instantly, pulling you into him, holding you as if he could shield you from the damage already done.

You turned your head toward him, as you tried to give him a smile, but failed.

“Bucky…” Your voice was thin, trembling, each word tasting of copper. His eyes found yours – those beautiful, deep blue eyes, wild and glassy with terror.

“I love you,” you breathed, coughing red onto your lips. “I love you too. Always have…”

And then the world went black.

Bucky’s boots echoed hollowly against the linoleum floor, back and forth, back and forth.

Pacing. Always pacing.

His bruises were already fading. Supersoldier healing worked as perfectly as always, but he looked somehow worse now than when he had left the warehouse all covered in blood. Your blood. 

He was pale, his jaw tight with tension, and his fingers kept threading through his hair, over and over again, like maybe if he yanked hard enough, he could wake himself from this nightmare.

He had asked.

Then begged.

Then threatened.

But they still wouldn’t let him in.

“She’s in surgery,” the nurse had said gently, hands folded like she knew exactly who he was and how little comfort her words offered. “They’ll update you when they can.”

He’d nearly broken the doorframe when they said "it’s a tough situation". His hands had clenched around the edge of the metal table and crushed it against the wall before anyone could stop him. 

So now, they were keeping him outside, pacing like a caged animal.

Yelena came in quietly, holding a cup of coffee. She crossed the room with that cautious kind of grace, like approaching something volatile. 

“Here,” she said simply, holding out the cup.

Bucky didn’t take it at first, just stared through her like he was still seeing the blood pooling beneath you on the warehouse floor. Then he blinked, hand jerking out to grab it. His fingers trembled around the paper cup.

He didn’t drink.

“Any news?” he rasped, voice barely there. “Yelena, I’m… I’m going mad. I need to see her.”

Yelena leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her expression was softer than usual, even sad.

“I know,” she said. “But maybe next time don’t throw a metal table at a wall when the doctor says it’s a ‘tough situation.’”

Bucky flinched.

“They’ll tell us when they know something. You need to be patient.”

“I am patient,” he growled, dragging both hands through his hair again, the cup completely forgotten and trembling in one hand. “I’ve been patient for months. I just wanted the best for her. Can you understand that?”

“I know you did,” she reassured him with a small nod. 

“Why did she do it? God! Why? Why would she take a bullet for someone like me?”

“Because she loves you, you moron!”

“Dear God, you were right. She does, she really does. She said that when…” Bucky’s voice cracked as if that revelation was the most unbelievable, impossible thing in the world. 

Yelena looked at him, long and steady, he turned away, jaw tight, teeth grinding.

A beat of silence passed before heavy boots entered the room.

Alexei.

“Any news?” he asked, voice gruff but careful.

Bucky didn’t answer.

“She’s strong,” Alexei said, easing into a chair that creaked under his weight. “They’ll fix her up. She’s tougher than you think.”

“She shouldn’t have had to be,” Bucky said, staring down at the cracks in the tile. “If I’d just…”

“Hey.” Alexei leaned forward. “You blame yourself, you’re gonna drown in it. She needs you here. Not spiraling.”

Bucky didn't look up, as his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

Another pair of footsteps entered.

John.

Even he looked subdued, uncertain, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes darting awkwardly around as if seeking for threat.

“Barnes,” he started, cautious. “Hey, I…I just wanted to say…”

Bucky looked up slowly, eyes sharp and wild, and bared his teeth.

“Don’t.”

John stopped mid-step, the snarl in Bucky’s voice was quiet but dangerous.

“Don’t say anything comforting. Don’t tell me it’s gonna be okay. Don’t act like you know a single damn thing about what this is.”

John blinked, opened his mouth and closed it.

Yelena lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah, probably not your moment, Cap Junior.”

Alexei huffed. “Let him snarl. He’s scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Bucky snapped, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears.

He sat down heavily, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, metal fingers digging into his scalp, human hand curled tightly around the forgotten, crushed and leaking coffee cup.

“I’m… fucking terrified.”

The room went still.

“I love her.”

It came out like a confession and a collapse all at once, the kind of truth that had been rotting in his chest for too long, finally clawing its way out.

“I love her,” Bucky said again, more desperate this time, as if he had to convince himself that saying it out loud might make it more real.

“I’ve loved her from the moment she smiled for the first time at me like I wasn’t something broken,” his voice crack.

“She’s the only sunshine I’ve ever had. The only good thing. The only thing that made all the noise go quiet.” 

A bitter, humorless laugh tore from his chest.

“And I pushed her away. Treated her like shit because I thought if I kept her at arm’s length, I’d be safe.”

His voice faltered, the words catching. “And she… she loved me. She fucking loved me all along. Me…”

He looked up with a stunned, hollow expression on his face that told he still couldn’t believe it, that he still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that it was possible, that someone could really love him.

He swallowed hard, eyes glassy. “I… I don’t know how to live without her.”

The silence that followed was deafening, sharp and suffocating. Quiet glances darted between Yelena, Alexei, and John, each of them catching the other’s eye, then shaking their heads almost imperceptibly, as if daring anyone to speak, but knowing there were no words that could make it right, no comfort that wouldn’t sound like a lie.

The door swung open, the sound slicing through the silence like a gunshot and Bucky sprang to his feet so fast the chair behind him skidded with a screech and hit the wall.

The doctor, a young man in his forties with soft hands and weary eyes, froze in the doorway, eyes going wide like he’d just walked into a lion’s den.

“No,” Bucky said, already breathless, with uneven steps striding toward the doc.

“No… no… no… don’t tell me she’s…”

The doctor actually flinched.

Bucky surged forward, and Alexei instinctively stepped in front of him, holding out a hand like a shield.

“Easy,” he muttered. “Give him a second.”

Doc peeked nervously from behind Alexei’s shoulder, adjusting his glasses with fingers that visibly trembled. “She… she survived the operation.”

Bucky froze mid-step and the whole world seemed to stop with him.

“What?” His voice broke, low and hoarse, almost too afraid to believe it.

“She made it,” the doc said, gently now, peeking around Alexei to look at Bucky. “There was internal bleeding and a rib fracture, but the bullet missed her lung by a few millimeters. We stabilized her. She’s unconscious but…” He swallowed. “She’s stable.”

For a long second, no one moved.

Then Bucky staggered back and dropped into the chair like his legs had given out, eyes glassy, mouth open in silent shock as he covered his face with both hands, shoulders shaking, and… wept… no shame, no restrain… just two hot streams running down his cheeks.

Two months had passed since you were finally cleared from the med bay, and in that time Bucky had appointed himself your full-time caretaker, and by caretaker, you meant prison warden disguised as a Victorian nursemaid. 

You weren’t allowed to lift a grocery bag, open a door, or even pour your own damn coffee. If your eyes flicked toward the top shelf for more than a second, he was already there, plucking whatever you wanted down like some grim-faced butler with shoulders that could block out the sun.

It didn’t matter if you were perfectly capable, Bucky read your needs straight from your lips and was halfway to fetching them before you’d even realized you wanted them. 

At first, it was sweet, then it was… smothering, and by now you were starting to feel less like a recovering human being and more like a particularly delicate crystal vase he was convinced would shatter if left unsupervised.

And you were horny. 

Suddenly, you had the hottest, most ridiculously built, dangerously attractive supersoldier boyfriend… who insisted on treating you like you might snap in half if he so much as breathed on you too hard. Which was, frankly, a torture, especially when you’d wake up to find him shirtless, hair mussed, sipping coffee like a damn Calvin Klein ad and not doing a single thing about the ache he’d put in you.

It came to a head on a lazy Saturday morning.

You woke to find him already out of bed, hair a glorious mess, standing at the kitchen counter in nothing but a pair of sweatpants slung low enough to make you forget your own name. He was stirring sugar into your coffee, because of course you weren’t allowed to make your own, humming under his breath like some brooding, muscle-bound guest star on Desperate Housewives, the kind who has every bored suburban wife on the block peeking over the hedge just to watch him move.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he murmured, setting the mug carefully in front of you as you came closer like you were a patient in an ICU. “Careful, it’s hot.”

That was it, that was the moment you decided you’d had enough.

You took a slow sip, eyes on him over the rim, letting your gaze linger on his chest, his shoulders, the trail of hair disappearing under those sweatpants and without warning, you reached out and hooked your fingers into the waistband, tugging him a step closer.

“Sunshine…” His voice went wary, but his body didn’t move away.

You tilted your head, giving him your sweetest smile. “I’m healed, remember?” Your hand smoothed over his abs, nails scratching lightly, just enough to feel the hitch in his breath. “And unless I’ve forgotten basic anatomy, I’m pretty sure this,” your palm slid lower, “isn’t a danger to my recovery.”

“Not the point,” he muttered, though his voice had gone rough, his pupils blown.

“Feels like the point to me,” you whispered. “You’ve spent two months treating me like glass, Barnes. But I’m not glass. I’m flesh and blood. And right now, I’m very, very warm flesh in need of…” you pressed your mouth to his ear, “…attention.”

He swallowed hard, his hands twitching at his sides like he was fighting himself. “You keep this up, Sunshine, and I’m not gonna be responsible for what happens next.”

You grinned, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, your voice dropping to a purr.

“Good. I’m not asking you to be responsible, Bucky. I’m asking you to fuck me, and… I want you to do it right.'

You let the pause hang, then tilted your head, teeth catching your lower lip in mock innocence.

'I’d say you owe me that… seeing as I took a bullet for you.”

That was when the dam finally broke.

It happened fast. One second you were smirking up at him, the next his mouth was on yours, hard enough to steal the breath right out of you, and his vibranium hand slid up your thigh, fingers squeezing possessively, while the other gripped your jaw, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. 

He kissed like a man starved, his tongue swept against yours, deep and claiming, swallowing every little gasp you made as his grip on your jaw tightened just enough to make your pulse race.

“Oh, I will fuck you,” he muttered against your lips, the word low and rough, before kissing you again, harder this time, his teeth grazing your lower lip until you whimpered. 

That sound must have done something to him, because his hand on your thigh moved higher, hooking beneath your knee to drag your leg over his hip. 

The kiss never broke, it only deepened, messy and consuming, until you could taste your own ragged breathing between his. When he finally pulled back, his lips red and eyes pure hunger, it was only far enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, down the column of your throat, where his teeth scraped lightly over your pulse point.

“Do you have any idea,” he rasped, lips ghosting over your skin, “how many times I’ve gotten myself off thinking about this? About you?” his voice roughened with every word he spoke. “For months, Sunshine… I’ve been picturing the way you’d sound… the way you’d taste… the way you’d feel, clenching around me.”

Shit, it was too damn hot to hear, the filthy image his unfiltered confession conjured in your head sending a shiver through your whole body, running so deep he felt it. His answering groan was pure, unrestrained want as his hand slid between you, cupping you through your thin pajama pants, his thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles over your throbbing clit.

“Believe me Sunshine, I will fuck you so good you will forget your own name. Gonna show you,” he murmured, nipping lightly at your neck, as he scooped you up like you weighed nothing, “exactly how much I’ve been wanting you.”

Your legs locked around his waist on instinct as he carried you back to the bedroom. You caught sight of the half-finished coffee cooling on the counter, the sun spilling through the blinds and then his shoulder slammed the door shut with a finality that made your stomach twist in anticipation. 

The next thing you knew, you were flat on your back, his weight settling over you, all heat and muscle and weeks of coiled need. His fingers pushed your shirt up and over your head in one smooth, impatient motion, his eyes darkening at the sight of bare skin.

“Still sure you’re okay?” he asked, but it didn’t sound like hesitation this time, it sounded like a warning.

You hooked your fingers in his hair and pulled him down. 

“Not glass,” you murmured, crushing your lips against his. 

“Not glass,” he repeated with a low growl, and the look in Bucky’s eyes was anything but gentle now as his hands slid slowly down your sides, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants, tugging them off in one smooth motion.

Before you could even gasp, he was kneeling between your thighs, pushing them wide, spreading you open for his gaze. His tongue darted over his lips like a starving man confronted with a long-denied feast.

The cool glide of his metal fingers traced through your slick folds, lingering just long enough to make you shiver before his thumb found your clit, teasing in quick, perfect circles. Your back arched off the mattress with a moan you couldn’t bite back. God, you were more than okay, you were trembling, aching, soaked for him, almost embarrassingly so, every nerve tuned to the first real touch you’d been craving for what felt like ages.

“Beautiful, so fucking beautiful,” he whisperred as his hands gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking once before he leaned in, his breath warm against you and then his mouth was on you.

The first stroke of his tongue made your hips jolt, a gasp tearing from your throat. He groaned in approval, the vibration shooting straight through you as he licked deeper, slower, savoring you like he’d been dying for the taste.

Bucky’s grip was firm, keeping you spread for him, every flick and swirl of his tongue deliberate, unhurried like he was going to wring every single sound out of you before he let you go.

“Sweet,” he murmured against you, his voice rough, “knew you’d be.”

When you tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer, he growled low in his chest and sucked harder, making you cry out. He didn’t let up, working you with his mouth until your thighs trembled and your breath came in short, desperate gasps.

“God, Bucky…” you choked out, but he only hummed, sending another shiver through you, his tongue pressing exactly where you needed it.

Your fingers fisted in his hair, pulling, urging, but if you thought that would make him hurry, you were wrong. Bucky was thorough, controlled, and so damn focused it made your head spin.

He slid one hand up to your stomach, holding you down when your hips tried to lift off the bed, while the other gripped your thigh, his thumb digging into your skin just enough to remind you who was in control.

He latched onto your clit, sucking with a slow, devastating pull that made your back arch and your breath break. You whimpered his name, and the sound must’ve been exactly what he wanted, because he growled against you and the vibration made your toes curl.

“Bucky… oh, shit… yes… yes… oh God…” you mewled, hips jerking in an instinctive plea for more.

“Shhh, my sweet girl,” he murmured, his lips brushing your slick heat as the words ghosted over you. “Take it easy… let me take care of you.”

Before you could even process that, his tongue slid lower, teasing at your entrance before pushing inside, deep and relentless. Your thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t seem to mind, if anything, his grip tightened, pinning you in place while he fucked you with his mouth.

You could feel him moan into you, like your taste alone was making him lose his mind and every slow drag of his tongue, every flick against that aching spot, built you higher, tighter, until the pressure in your stomach was unbearable.

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice ragged as he pulled back just enough to wrap his lips around your clit again. “C’mon, baby. I’ve been starving for this.”

Your vision blurred, heat flooded you and then you broke, the orgasm ripping through you so hard you cried out, your whole body shaking as he kept going, licking you through every aftershock like he had no intention of stopping.

Only when you had turned into a whimpering, moaning mess, trying to push at his head, to escape the devastating onslaught of his lips and tongue, did he finally relent and sat back on his heels, lips and chin glistening, eyes dark and hungry as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

He didn’t give you time to catch your breath. Still on his knees between your legs, Bucky crawled up over you, the bed dipping under his weight until his chest pressed to yours. His mouth found yours instantly, hot and hungry, and you tasted yourself on his tongue, heady, intoxicating, intimate in a way that made your cheeks flush and your pulse race.

You whimpered against him, and he swallowed the sound greedily, one hand sliding up the side of your body to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over the hard peak until you arched into him. The other hand found your hip, holding you in place as his hips rolled, letting you feel every inch of the thick, hard length straining against his sweatpants.

“Feel that?” he murmured against your lips, voice a low growl. “Been like this for months… every time you walked into the room, every time you touched me, drove me fuckin’ insane. That time you patched the gash on my side…” his mouth curved in a breathless smirk, “…I bolted right after because if I’d stayed one more second, I would’ve come in my pants like some desperate fuckin’ teenager.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, savouring every drag of his lips against you, before his hand slipped back between your thighs. You gasped at his touch, as his metal finger parted your folds and slid inside you.  

“Still so wet for me,” he said, almost in awe. “Still ready.”

Your hands fumbled for his sweatpants, urgency replacing every other thought. 

He shoved his pants down just far enough for his cock to spring free – thick, flushed, and already dripping precum that smeared against your thigh.

Jesus, he was gorgeous. Heavy and perfectly shaped, a thick vein running along the underside, pulsing like it was just as desperate as you. You wrapped your hand around him, feeling the heat and weight, and his groan was deep enough to make your toes curl.

You tried to guide him to you, pressing the broad, leaking head to your entrance, but his hand closed over yours, firm and commanding.

“Not yet,” he rasped, eyes dark and locked on you.

He took over, sliding himself through your folds in long, unhurried strokes, the wet sound obscene in the quiet. Every pass rubbed your clit just enough to make you gasp, just enough to make you want to scream.

You bucked your hips, desperate for more.

“Please,” you hissed.

Bucky just smirked, finally pressing the thick head into you… only to pull back again. Then he did it again, and again, slow, shallow, infuriating.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dragging the tip against your swollen entrance before retreating. “So beautiful, so fucking needy you’d take it all without thinking. You want it that bad, Sunshine?”

“Yes…God, yes…”

But instead of giving in, he kept up the torturous rhythm, the head of his cock breaching you just enough to stretch, to burn, before he denied you again until you were shaking, nails digging into his ass, trying to drag him forward.

“Beg prettier,” he growled, pressing in one last shallow thrust that made your breath catch. “Then maybe I’ll give you what you’re so fucking desperate for.”

Your nails dug harder into his ass, your voice breaking as you pleaded, “Bucky… please, I need you. I need all of you. I’ll do anything, just… fuck me.”

Something in his eyes changed, the smirk fading, replaced by something darker, hungrier as his fingers tightened on your hips, the metal one biting just enough to make you gasp.

He slammed into you in one brutal, perfect thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch made your mouth fall open in a soundless cry, your whole body clenching around him as your back arched.

You both moaned in unison.  His was low and broken, yours high and desperate as he filled you completely, stretching you until the air caught in your throat. He stilled there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in, feeling the tight flutter of your walls around him.

“Fuuuck,” Bucky groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his voice rough and wrecked. “You feel… unreal… better than I ever let myself imagine.”

The first thrusts were deep and heavy, slow enough to make your nails bite into his skin, forcing little gasps from your throat, but the longer he kept that pace, the rougher his breathing became until the restraint shattered, and he started to drive into you harder, faster, like every second apart had been fuel for this moment, and he was burning it all in you.

His hips snapped forward with a sharp, relentless rhythm that drove you into the mattress, and every sound he made, the low grunts, the hiss of his breath, the occasional broken moan, wound you tighter. 

“You wanted it, Sunshine,” he rasped, fucking you like he meant to prove it. “So take it. Take every…” 

a sharp thrust stole your air  

“... fuckin’ ...”

another made you moan in pleasure as your nails clawed at his back

 “... inch.”

You could barely answer him, your voice dissolving into needy, incoherent moans and pleas, and he was eating up every sound, fucking you harder, chasing both your pleasure and his like he’d been starving for this.

Your moans grew higher, sharper, as his thrusts turned downright punishing, the kind that had the headboard thudding in time with his hips as every inch of him was inside you, claiming, wrecking, ruining you in the best way possible.

“Common, Sunshine…,” he groaned, sweat dripping down his temple, his eyes dark and locked on yours. “let me hear you… let me hear you scream.”

And you were screaming now, or maybe moaning, you couldn’t tell, the sounds tumbled from you without control as he pistoned into you, each thrust harder, faster, his cock dragging over that perfect spot until you were a moaning, drooling, whimpering mess beneath him.

Your nails scored his back, leaving hot trails of sting in their wake, and he just growled at the pain, driving into you harder. You couldn’t even form words anymore, just desperate little sounds, your thighs trembling around him.

“Yeah… that’s it,” he panted, thumb finding your clit and circling it in hard, perfect strokes. “You gonna come for me? You gonna soak my cock like I know you want to?”

“B-Bucky…” you gasped, your entire body winding tight, the pressure coiling low in your belly ready to snap.

“Do it,” he hissed. “Come on, Sunshine. Let go, I want to feel it.”

You shattered, your vision went white and your mouth opened on a cry as the orgasm tore through you, pulsing around him, every nerve on fire. You felt him groan into your neck, hips slamming forward as if he could get impossibly deeper, his rhythm breaking into ragged thrusts.

“Fuck… fuck, I’m gonna…” he choked out, pulling you tight against him, and then he was gone, spilling hot and thick inside you with a deep, wrecked moan on of your name as he held himself there, buried to the hilt, shaking from the force of it.

For a long moment, the only sound was your combined breathing, ragged and uneven. His forehead rested against yours, his body still trembling with aftershocks, and when his eyes opened again, there was nothing but raw, unguarded affection in them.

He didn’t pull out right away, instead, he just kissed you, slowly, tenderly, savouring every drag of his lips against yours, until your heartbeat began to ease and your legs loosened from around him.

When he finally slipped free, you winced at the sensitivity and he immediately stilled, cupping your cheek with that careful, searching look like he was scanning you for damage.

“You okay?”

You almost laughed. “Bucky, I just came so hard I think I saw God and angels. I’m fine.”

He didn’t look convinced, in fact, he looked downright concerned as he disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a warm, damp cloth, kneeling between your thighs.

“Let me,” he murmured, and you knew better than to argue. He cleaned you gently, almost too gently, muttering under his breath about “making sure you’re comfortable” like the overprotective menace he was.

Then came the water, then the blanket adjustment, then him physically tucking you into bed like you were about to be read a bedtime story.

“Bucky, I’m not an invalid,” you grumbled, though you couldn’t stop the fond little smile pulling at your lips.

“Shut up,” he said, but there was no heat to it. “You’re my girl, and my job is to take care of you.”

You shook your head, exasperated, but when he slid in beside you and pulled you against his chest, his warmth wrapping around you like a second blanket, you simply wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders and snuggled closer. His hand traced lazy, grounding circles on your back as he nuzzled against your hair.

“You know you drive me crazy, right?” you murmured into his skin.

“Yeah,” he said, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Guess we’re even.” 

You gave a little huff. “I’m serious. All this… fussing over me like I’m made of sugar. It’s ridiculous.”

He chuckled low in his chest. “You love it.”

“I do not,” you protested, even as your fingers curled into his bare side and your head tucked closer under his chin.

“Mm-hm.” He sounded unconvinced. “That little face you make when I pour your coffee for you? Or when I carry all the groceries in one trip? Sunshine, you practically glow. Don’t think I don’t notice.”

You tilted your head back just enough to glare at him. “I tolerate it because you’d pout if I didn’t.”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a grin. “Pout? I don’t pout.”

“You pouted when I tried to open my own soda last week.”

“That was different,” he said, tone all mock seriousness. “You could’ve hurt yourself.”

You laughed, unable to help it, and shook your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to yours in a slow, lazy kiss, “are mine.”

That shut you up, not because you agreed (you’d never give him the satisfaction out loud), but because the warmth in his voice went straight to your chest and melted every last bit of resistance.