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ticket one ♬ˎˊ˗ ⤷ You're the picture-perfect popular pretty girl—all style, smiles, and social status. Bucky is the typical campus dirtbag—loud music, attitude, and bad decisions. You can't stand him, and he fucking hates your guts. That is, until one house party changes everything. When Bucky catches you headbanging to classic rock instead of pop, instead of hating your guts, he ended up being inside your guts. You’re desperate to keep your arrangement quiet for the sake of your reputation, but Bucky is growing tired of being your dirty little secret.

ticket two ♬ˎˊ˗ ⤷ Once your situationship with “dirtbag Barnes” becomes more public, everyone around you only seems to widen the gap—filling both your heads with the wrong ideas until communication completely falls apart. And if things weren’t messy before… well, sugar, you’re both going down swinging.

you like the way we kiss in the dark? [prequel] ♬ˎˊ˗ ⤷ You're not afraid of all the attention. You're not afraid of running wild. But why are you so afraid of falling in love with the campus' dirtbag, Bucky Barnes?

the lewd sound of skin against skin fills the small bathroom that you’re currently in, fooling around with bucky while your dad is just downstairs.

“that’s it…”

bucky grins as you bite back your moans, being a good girl and not making a sound as you take him. he knows that you can’t, since the possibility of getting caught was right there.

any minute now, steve could accidentally stumble upon him fucking his precious little girl. your dad—and his best friend—would kill him if he knew what bucky was doing with you.

if he knew just how close the two of you were, to the point where you were about to cream on bucky’s cock and it wouldn’t be the first time.

it isn’t the first time that he’s had you like this, fighting everything inside of you to be quiet as to not alert steve. you’ve been in this position before because you both loved it, the thrill of getting caught pulling you close to the edge.

“if i let you cum on my cock, promise me that you won’t make a sound,” bucky breathed in your ear, snapping his hips faster.

the bathroom counter creaked underneath the weight of you both, your grip nearly cracking the material in half thanks to your own super strength you had inherited from steve.

you had inherited a lot of things from him, but his defiance wasn’t one of them.

your eyes glazed over as you looked at bucky. “i promise,” you whimpered quietly, and you meant it. he knew you did because you had always been such a good girl. always obeying him and taking his cock just right.

nobody else could make him feel this way. the pleasure that he got from your sweet cunt squeezing down on him and threatening to milk him dry was enough to drown out any guilt he felt.

any emotions that made him want to stop were always overshadowed the minute you started to cum, your cunt clinging to him for dear life and triggering his own orgasm.

the two of you came together, your hands leaving the counter to grip his arms instead. for good measure, bucky decided to take two of his fingers and stuff them in your mouth to keep you quiet.

almost instinctively, you began to suck on them, letting your orgasm wash over you and enjoying the feeling of bucky spilling inside of you.

his head dropped on your shoulder, pants leaving his lips and then a chuckle as he kissed the skin there.

his teeth then grazed your neck, rocking into you one last time before pulling out and watching as not a single drop of his seed spilled out.

“fuck, your cunt takes me so well honey,” he groaned as he helped you off of the counter, your legs shaking from the previous activities but bucky had no problems holding you up. “shall we?”

after getting cleaned up and erasing any evidence of what you had done, he offered you his hand and you took it immediately.

you grinned as you heard steve calling for you both, completely oblivious to what had just went on and having no idea that his best friend just fucked his daughter as he rambled about steaks.

Definitely, doing the grocery shopping close to Christmas was hell. The supermarket was about to burst from the sheer number of people inside; you could barely walk a few steps before your shopping cart collided with someone else’s. The constant beeping of the checkout scanners seemed endless, and at times you could hear women arguing over the last can of ham or some other supply for Christmas dinner. It was also hell having to shop for a party you hadn’t planned to throw until your daughter decided to leave invitations for your neighbors.

You wanted to be angry with her when a neighbor showed you the invitation, but part of you softened when you saw those lovely handmade cards with sweet Christmas drawings, glitter, and kitten stickers—and also because your little Amelia mentioned that you hadn’t thrown your traditional Christmas party in years. Not since your husband had passed away three years ago. You hadn’t had the strength or the spirit to continue those house parties you had started with him, but now it could be something for Amelia and you. So you ended up making the party official by inviting a few friends, including Bucky and little Kobik.

The shopping cart was overflowing with bags of snacks, a few bottles of red wine and cider, sodas and juices for the kids, ingredients for the turkey stuffing, and supplies to bake cookies with Amelie. The amount of things was almost overwhelming—you weren’t sure how much of everything to buy, so you were probably carrying more than you needed.

As you walked toward the checkout line, your phone rang. When you pulled it out of your coat pocket, a soft smile appeared on your face as you saw “Bucky 🦾” written on the screen. You answered quickly and rested the phone on your shoulder so you could keep pushing the cart to the end of the line.

“Hey, Buck. What’s up? Did the girls tangle your hair again?” you asked with a slightly teasing tone, remembering all the times Bucky had called you for that very emergency.

You heard a small snort that sounded like a suppressed laugh. Knowing Bucky, you were sure he was rolling his eyes.

“Nothing like that. I don’t let them touch my hair anymore.” There was a brief pause before Bucky spoke again. “Sounds like there’s a war on your end.”

Even with the phone pressed to your ear, the noise of the supermarket couldn’t be hidden. The metallic clatter of shopping carts crashing into each other was constant, along with the beeping of the scanners every time an item was rung up. From time to time you heard a baby crying or children shouting as they followed their parents, and you could also hear arguments echoing through the aisles.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Christmas turns shopping into a full-on odyssey,” you said, trying to keep your spirits up as the line moved slowly. “Why did you call, Bucky?”

“I’ve got a mission,” he said bluntly. You were about to take a breath to lecture him when he cut in. “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow. I won’t miss your party, and I won’t let Kobik down.” The determination in Bucky’s voice was clear, so all you could do was sigh, trusting that he meant it.

You knew what it meant when Bucky went out on a mission, and that meant looking after Kobik until he returned. You didn’t mind at all—you adored that girl, her sweet, cheerful, mischievous attitude. Besides, she would be a great helper alongside Amelie when it came time to decorate the cookies.

“In about two hours I can swing by to pick up the girls.”

“Thanks. I promise I’ll bring you something.”

You smiled softly at hearing his promise. His way of paying you back for taking care of Kobik was always bringing you something from wherever his mission took him—sometimes candy, chocolates, a local liquor, magnets, or postcards. After that, you ended the call and continued waiting your turn to pay.

☆

Two hours after the call, you finally arrived at Bucky’s apartment. From the other side of the door, you could hear the girls’ laughter and Bucky’s warnings about not running while holding pencils in their hands. When you knocked softly, it only took a few seconds for Bucky to open the door, greeting you with a warm smile.

He was wearing black sweatpants and a gray hoodie to keep out the cold of this time of year—a simple outfit, comfortable for the privacy of his home.

“Congratulations, you survived last-minute Christmas shopping,” Bucky said, stepping aside to let you into his apartment, a teasing smile on his face.

“Barely,” you replied with a half laugh as you walked in. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes in the checkout line.”

Bucky closed the door behind you, and the muffled sounds of the hallway were replaced by the warm atmosphere of the apartment. The smell of hot chocolate wrapped around you immediately, contrasting with the cold you were still carrying with you. Before you could say anything, two small figures came running in from the living room.

“You’re here!” Amelie shouted, stopping just in time in front of you to cling to your legs, wearing a proud smile for having beaten Kobik in their little race.

Kobik appeared in the same room moments later, breathing slightly hard and scrunching up her nose after losing. You reached out your hand to her, and the two of you high-fived the way you usually greeted each other.

“Hey, hey,” Bucky intervened, raising his voice just enough to get the girls’ attention. “Walking, remember the deal?”

Amelie made a small pout while Kobik rolled her eyes dramatically—just like Bucky sometimes did—but they obeyed, heading toward the dining table where papers, markers, and pencils were scattered in creative chaos. Bucky shook his head, though his expression radiated calm and discipline; you could still notice the tenderness in his eyes.

The girls shared whispers and complicit giggles as they hurriedly stuffed those sheets—covered in scribbles you couldn’t make out from a distance—into Amelie’s unicorn backpack.

“I tried to impose some order before leaving for the mission,” Bucky said softly, leaning a little toward you, “but I think I’ve already accepted my defeat. They’re like two little storms.”

You took off your coat and bag, hanging them where you always did, noticing the details that made you feel at ease: the warm lights decorating the shelf, a small Christmas tree in the corner, slightly crooked, a wrinkled blanket on the couch, a few cushions scattered on the floor, and some drawings Kobik had made taped to the wall. Everything had that imperfect yet cozy air that only comes from a place where someone truly lives.

You knew Bucky’s story—not just what was shared on social media or the internet, but also what he had told you in confidence. You felt deeply happy for him, because after so much suffering, he had built a home.

It wasn’t just the apartment or the improvised decorations; it was the laughter filling the space, the way Bucky moved naturally through the mess, as if he had finally learned to breathe without being on guard. There were scars that couldn’t be seen, stories heavier than any mission, but there—among broken crayons, blinking lights, and children’s voices—they seemed a little lighter.

“The fact that everything’s upside down means they’re okay,” you said calmly, even though a slight pressure appeared in your chest as you remembered the deathly silence that had once filled your own home.

You remembered the first months after losing your husband, and how your daughter seemed to have lost the sparkle that defined her. No laughter, no mischief, no jumping on your bed early on Saturdays wanting to go to the park or demanding her pancakes. Things were different now; she had become that bright star again, the one who filled your days with joy and gave you reasons to keep going and give your best.

You leaned your hip against the back of the couch as you cleared your throat softly, trying to ease that tightness.

“It makes everything feel more alive.”

“Yeah… I guess it’s still kind of new for me, but it’s nice,” he said. There was something vulnerable in his tone, barely noticeable, as if he feared that saying too much out loud might break the spell.

You looked at him with a gentle smile, understanding more than words could express.

“Are you going to offer me a cup of hot chocolate, or do I have to wait longer?” you asked jokingly, raising an eyebrow slightly. “It smells delicious.”

He let out a soft laugh, and for a moment, watching him walk into the kitchen and take a mug down from the shelf—looking relaxed, his hoodie slipping a little off one shoulder—you thought that maybe the chaos you had endured at the supermarket had been worth it.

☆

After a while of casual conversation and drinking hot chocolate while Kobik packed her backpack with everything she needed to spend the night at your place, it was time to leave Bucky’s apartment.

The two little girls and you were already dressed in several layers of clothing, while Bucky stepped outside without adding a single extra layer thanks to his resistance to the cold. You honestly envied watching him walk without shivering, the tip of his nose barely pink, as if it were the middle of summer.

Once you were in front of your car, you unlocked the doors, and Amelie and Kobik didn’t hesitate to open the passenger door to climb in and take shelter from the cold—but not before saying goodbye to Bucky. Amelie wished her “Uncle Bucky” good luck, and Kobik hugged him tightly, telling him she hoped he would catch lots of bad people.

With them already inside the car, you opened the trunk so Bucky could fit Kobik’s Cinnamoroll backpack in among the grocery bags. When you closed the trunk, you knew it was your turn to say goodbye.

It was impossible not to feel that small knot of anxiety in the pit of your stomach every time you had to part from Bucky when he went on a mission. All you could think about was the fear that he might not come back. You had tried so hard to label your feelings for Bucky as something platonic, but in moments like this you feared that maybe they weren’t anymore.

You lifted your gaze to him. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, his shoulders slightly tense. His blue eyes watched you closely, as if he too were weighing the importance of the moment.

“Come back safely,” you finally said, trying to keep your voice firm, with a hint of warning. “And… don’t do anything reckless.”

Bucky let out a small laugh, the kind he always used to take the weight off something you both knew was far from simple.

“Promise,” he replied. “You know I try to behave.”

But he didn’t move. Neither did you. The air between you felt heavy with unspoken words, with shared fears neither of you dared to voice. The silence broke when he took a step forward and, carefully, wrapped his arms around you.

The hug was warm, solid, longer than usual.

“I always come back,” he murmured near your ear, sending a shiver through you.

Your chest tightened at his words. You closed your eyes for a moment, resting your forehead against his shoulder, allowing yourself to feel him, to memorize that instant. In that small shared moment, you could sense a pair of bright, excited eyes watching the two of you together; even when they tried to whisper, you swore you could hear their little voices from inside the car.

When you finally pulled apart, you looked into his eyes, smiling faintly to lighten the heaviness of the moment.

“Don’t let them hit you in the face—you have to look presentable for tomorrow’s party,” you said with a playful tone as you moved toward the driver’s door.

Bucky snorted as a slight smile appeared on his face, shaking his head gently.

“You know if they do, I’ll be as good as new in a couple of hours,” he said with that smug charm that sometimes made you roll your eyes.

You smiled as you opened the driver’s door, got into the car, and fastened your seatbelt before starting it.

Amelie waved enthusiastically from her seat, while Kobik pressed her face against the window, puffing out her cheeks dramatically—both of them already buckled in.

“Don’t take long, Bucky-Bee!” Kobik shouted so he could hear her.

“I won’t,” he replied, giving a thumbs-up.

Before driving off, you looked at him one last time in the rearview mirror. Bucky was still there, watching until you turned the corner.

And even though fear still lingered in your chest, there was something else too: a quiet certainty that, sooner or later, you wouldn’t be able to keep calling what you felt for him platonic—and that you would have to guard those feelings very carefully.

☆

The warmth of the kitchen was comforting, wrapping around you like a refuge from the winter cold as you marinated and stuffed the turkey you had managed to get at the last minute from a local farm. The sweet aroma of freshly baked cookies floated through the air; they were resting on the far end of the counter, already decorated with enthusiasm and a certain charming mess thanks to your two little helpers. It made you smile to look at those gingerbread men, to whom the girls had given funny faces and attempted Christmas sweaters. Kobik had decorated a few cookies, trying to make them look as much as possible like Bucky, her uncles Sam, Bob, John, and Alexei, and her aunts Yelena and Ava.

When your two little helpers finished their work, they ran off to Amelie’s room to play with your daughter’s Littlest Pet Shop collection.

You sighed contentedly as you looked at the turkey, now ready to be placed in the refrigerator to rest overnight before going into the oven the next day. Once the turkey was inside the fridge, you washed your hands and began to tidy up the kitchen. You cleaned up the spilled flour, scattered sugar grains, and stray icing on the counter, and finally threw away the empty pizza box that had been dinner.

The silence that settled over the house was certainly suspicious; it could only mean that Amelie and Kobik were planning some mischief or had broken something.

You went up the stairs in complete silence, careful not to let the wooden steps creak under your weight, so you could see what the girls were doing—and possibly give them a little scare if you caught them red-handed.

As you walked down the hallway, you noticed that your daughter’s bedroom door was slightly ajar, and you could barely hear their whispers. You gently pushed the door open just enough to peek your head in and see what they were up to. A couple of toys were scattered on the floor, while the two of them sat at your daughter’s small tea table, drawing on the same sheet of paper as they ate chocolates from a small box that Kobik had surely brought from her house.

“I hope you can go to bed early after eating all those chocolates,” you said with a smile on your face.

The two little girls, who had been focused on their drawing, suddenly looked up. Both were startled and looked embarrassed at having been caught; Kobik’s whole face was flushed with embarrassment… or perhaps from remembering who those chocolates had been meant for in the first place.

“Mommy, no! It’s not ready!” your daughter squealed as she grabbed the sheet of paper and ran to her bed, shoving the drawing under her pillow to protect the surprise.

Kobik picked up the small plastic tray that had once been full of chocolates and now held only one, and ran over to you, offering you the last one in an attempt to make up for her slip.

You thanked Kobik with a warm smile and took the small chocolate ball, bringing it to your mouth. When you bit into it, it crunched softly and the cherry filling spilled over your tongue; the chocolate quickly melted in a smooth, silky way. It was an extremely good—and probably expensive—chocolate.

“Did you like it? I can tell Buckaroo to bring more tomorrow!” Kobik said with a wide grin.

“They’re delicious, I loved them, but it’s not necessary for him to bring more tomorrow,” you said as you rested your hand on her hair, giving it a gentle stroke before pointing at both of them with your index finger to begin your playful warning. “Now go brush your teeth, or the tooth fairy won’t visit you anymore.”

That was enough to send both of them running to the bathroom, laughing all the way.

☆

Bedtime was already approaching when the two girls ran into your bedroom, hopping onto the bed where you were sitting, your back resting against the headboard as you read a book.

“Mommy, your surprise is ready!” Amelie said, letting out small giggles of excitement.

Amelie quickly handed you a sheet of paper folded in half. You immediately recognized that little ritual Amelie and Kobik had turned into a tradition: the supposed love letters “written” by Bucky. For almost a year now, the two of them had taken their roles as improvised cupids very seriously. It was impossible not to notice that the overflowing hearts, the clumsily drawn flowers, and the cartoonish versions of Bucky and you were clearly their handiwork.

You couldn’t deny there was something endearing about those letters made by the girls—they made you smile, and sometimes you even pretended surprise and excitement just to make them laugh.

“Let’s see what it is,” you said as you set the book down on the nightstand.

You took the folded paper, glancing at them from the corner of your eye only to see those big, eager smiles and slightly flushed cheeks. The first thing you saw was a drawing of a large Christmas tree, decorated with heart-shaped ornaments and surrounded by presents drawn without much order. The contrast in styles was obvious: firmer lines mixed with crooked ones, carefully filled-in colors alongside smudges outside the lines.

When you opened the paper, tiny flecks of glitter fell onto your sheets. That was definitely new. On the right side there was a drawing of Bucky and you hugging, cheek to cheek, with reindeer antler headbands decorating your heads, glittery hearts floating around you. On the left side, written in a clumsy attempt at cursive, it said:

You are the prettiest in the whole world and I’ve liked you for a very, very long time. Will you be my Christmas date?

I promise to give you chocolates.

With love:

Uncle Bucky.

Buckaroo.

Bucky.

You wanted to laugh when you saw the nicknames—what the two of them called Bucky—crossed out in an attempt to correct each other’s mistakes. You had to bite your lip to hold back your laughter, though your smile was unmistakable.

The girls squealed with excitement and looked at each other as if this were their greatest triumph, then turned to you with eyes full of hope, waiting for your answer.

You cleared your throat lightly, building suspense and preparing to respond to that innocent letter made by your daughter and Kobik.

“Wow…” you murmured, stretching out the word as you lifted your gaze from the paper.

Amelie pressed her hands to her chest, holding her breath dramatically, and Kobik gave a small hop on the bed, unable to stay still. Both of them watched you as if the fate of the world depended on your answer.

“So?” Kobik asked, tilting her head. “Yes or no?”

You pretended to think for a few more seconds, letting the silence grow just to watch them squirm with excitement. Then you cleared your throat and smiled gently.

“Well…” you began, “if this invitation comes with such beautiful drawings, glitter included, and a promise that there will be chocolates… I think it would be very rude to say no.”

The two of them let out a muffled squeal at the same time.

“She said yes!” Amelie cheered, throwing her arms around Kobik’s neck.

“It worked! It worked!” Kobik repeated, nearly losing her balance as she returned the hug.

You laughed as the paper crumpled slightly in your hands.

“Now go to sleep, girls.”

When they finally climbed off the bed to go to sleep, you stayed behind, looking at the paper once more. You smiled, running your thumb over the glitter that still shimmered faintly under the light.

And even though you knew that letter had been nothing more than a child’s game, you couldn’t help a part of your heart from wondering—silently, hopefully—what would happen if, just this once, the game came dangerously close to the truth. But that was impossible… wasn’t it?

☆

It was just past 8 in the morning when Bucky arrived at your door to pick up Kobik.

When you opened the door, you found him standing there, still dressed in his tactical suit, which left his vibranium arm exposed. His face bore several scratches, bruises, and smudges of dirt scattered across different areas.

You frowned softly at the sight of the damage he’d taken during the mission. You wanted to lift a hand to his face to examine the scratches more closely, but instead you simply stepped aside to give him room to come in.

“I didn’t know you stopped punches with your face. I always thought you used your arm,” you joked lightly, trying to hide your concern.

Bucky let out a huff that barely concealed a small smile as he stood by the door and removed his boots, still stained with dried mud, careful not to dirty your floor.

“I’ll be as good as new in a few hours,” he said casually as he stepped into your home.

You closed the door softly behind him, your eyes scanning him from head to toe. His solid, intimidating appearance clashed with your home, warmly and cheerfully decorated for the holiday season—but somehow, he fit there more than he seemed to at first glance.

The contrast was almost ironic: the dark tactical suit and black-and-gold arm marked by the mission against softly blinking Christmas lights, the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the air, and small decorations hung with care. Yet Bucky moved through the space with an easy familiarity, as if that home were, at least in part, his too.

“Kobik’s still asleep,” you told him quietly.

You crossed your arms, still watching him, and that was when he noticed your gaze lingering on the scratches on his face. He raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked.

“That I don’t like seeing you like this,” you admitted bluntly. “No matter what you say, you’re still bleeding.”

For a moment, his expression softened. He stepped a little closer to you, lowering his voice.

“I came back. That’s what matters, right?” There was no sarcasm or malice in his tone—it was warm.

You nodded, though the tight knot in your chest didn’t completely disappear. You walked to the kitchen and took the first-aid kit from the highest shelf, the one you knew all too well.

“If you’re going to step into this house,” you said as you opened it, “at least let me do something useful.”

Bucky watched you for a few seconds, as if he were about to protest, but in the end he sat down on one of the chairs.

“Yes, ma’am,” he joked.

You stepped closer, gently lifting his chin so you could clean the scratches and apply bandages. The contact was brief, but charged with something neither of you named. Bucky held his breath for just a second, watching you closely, studying every movement and every feature of your face. His gaze made it seem as though he were questioning something.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“Next time, use the vibranium arm,” you joked lightly as you stepped back a few paces to give him room to stand.

You guided Bucky up the stairs—even though it wasn’t the first time he’d climbed them—to your daughter’s bedroom.

Both girls were fast asleep, and it was no trouble for Bucky to lift little Kobik into his arms. You helped cover her with one of her blankets so that when it was time to leave, the change in temperature wouldn’t affect her.

There were still a few of Kobik’s things outside her backpack—her box of crayons, some toys, and her slippers.

“I’ll help with this,” you said softly as you crouched down to pick up the slippers from the floor.

Bucky nodded and stepped out of the room, leaving you alone while you gathered the little girl’s belongings and carefully placed them inside her backpack.

When you stepped outside your house with the small backpack in your hands, you saw him helping Kobik—still half asleep—fasten her seatbelt.

“…And she said she loved the chocolates…” you barely caught Kobik’s sleepy voice.

Bucky heard your footsteps and startled. He tried to straighten up while his head was still inside the car, which resulted in him hitting it.

The sound of the bump fully woke Kobik, who laughed when she saw Bucky rubbing his head. You gasped, surprised and worried.

“Oh God. Are you okay?” you asked anxiously as you hurried closer.

Bucky’s ears were completely red, his pupils dilated, his right hand still rubbing the spot where he’d hit himself. His face showed embarrassment—and something else you couldn’t quite name.

“Did you like the chocolates?” he asked almost hurriedly.

You blinked, confused by the question, until you remembered Kobik telling you that he could bring you more of them.

“…They were good, but you don’t need to bring more,” you said modestly.

“I will,” he replied in a tone that left no doubt that he meant it.

He took Kobik’s backpack from your hands with that strange, almost childlike excitement, then placed it in the car and pulled out a small cardboard box.

“A souvenir from where the mission was,” he said as he placed the small box into your hands.

The little box was surprisingly heavy, making you wonder about its contents. Before you could say a word, Bucky was already walking toward the driver’s door, a wide smile on his face.

“See you tonight,” he said as he opened the door and slid inside in one smooth motion.

You just stood there, waving softly with one hand while holding the small box in the other. You watched as the car disappeared into the distance, then finally turned back toward your home, trying to open the box as you walked.

When you did, you found a beautiful glass snow globe with St. Basil’s Cathedral inside.

☆

Saying you were stressed would have been an understatement. You still hadn’t put on the dress you wanted to wear, your hair was damp from the shower you’d just taken, and you hadn’t even managed to put a single gram of makeup on your face. There was an hour left before people started arriving, and the turkey still wasn’t in the oven. The only thing that didn’t stress you out was thinking about Amelie, since you had already gotten her ready for the evening.

You were about to take the turkey out of the refrigerator when the doorbell rang. It felt like the world was crashing down on you at the thought that it might be a guest who had decided to arrive early.

You muttered curses under your breath as you walked toward the front door, preparing an excuse for your disheveled appearance. Before opening it, you let out a sigh, bracing yourself for embarrassment—but when you did open the door, you were surprised to see Kobik and Bucky standing there.

“Merry Christmas!” Kobik shouted, jumping up and down.

“It’s not Christmas yet, kiddo,” Bucky said.

“Merry almost-Christmas!”

You hadn’t expected the two of them to be the ones behind the door. Both were wearing matching green sweaters—undoubtedly Kobik’s idea. But what you least expected was to see Bucky carrying two bottles of wine and one of mead in one arm, while in the other he held a box of chocolates and a bouquet of red roses.

“We came early to help,” Bucky explained when he saw the confusion on your face.

“Come in, come in,” you said, your voice a little hesitant as your eyes flicked to the bouquet of roses, though foolishly you assumed they were meant for decorating the table rather than for you. “They’ll look great in the dining room!” you added as you hurried off to the kitchen to look for a vase.

As you rushed around searching for the vase, you muttered to yourself about everything that still needed to be done.

Bucky closed the front door behind them and went into the kitchen to set everything down on the counter. Your stress was obvious, so he placed his right hand on your shoulder to get your attention and make you stop what you were doing.

“Go upstairs. I’ll take care of everything,” he said confidently, giving you one of his half-smiles.

“But I have to put the turkey in the oven and keep an eye on it.”

“Who do you think handled that in the Barnes family?”

☆

You were still in your bedroom, getting ready, when the first guests began to arrive. You knew the early arrivals were some of the neighbors, since you could recognize their voices from the second floor.

Your concern was that Bucky wouldn’t be able to keep the guests entertained, being someone who was usually serious, but despite that—and despite not being able to clearly hear the conversations—everyone sounded lively, and from time to time laughter drifted up. Now you could only hope that Bucky’s social battery wouldn’t run out too soon.

Even the aroma of the turkey was beginning to reach your room, and to your relief, it didn’t smell burnt.

When you were finally ready, you looked at yourself in the mirror from head to toe to make sure you looked good, and you felt more than satisfied with your appearance. The red dress fit your figure beautifully, your hair was dry and styled, and your makeup made you look radiant.

When you finally went downstairs, there was already a considerable number of guests, and you greeted as many as you could. You smiled, slightly embarrassed, feeling like a poor hostess for greeting everyone so late, but Bucky had filled in successfully.

The roses were arranged in the center of the dining table; the turkey was almost ready to come out of the oven; there were snacks, cookies, and drinks for the guests; the children were playing in the backyard; and the side dishes and desserts that some guests had brought were perfectly arranged in the kitchen.

You had just finished putting on Christmas music through the speakers when you heard the doorbell ring once more. You thought that at least this time you’d be able to welcome the guests yourself, but once again Bucky stepped into his role as host and went to open the door.

You blinked in disbelief as the rest of the New Avengers—and Bob—walked through your doorway. Each of them carried something to share at the party: Alexei held two fruit-filled pirogi in his hands, Yelena carried a few bottles of vodka, Bob had a box of Christmas cookies, John brought a gingerbread house that looked like it had been made at the last minute, and Ava carried large bags of chips.

“Oh, you must be the owner of this beautiful house!” Alexei spoke first, with his usual explosive energy, as he stepped toward you.

You smiled, somewhat dazed, at the sight of an entire team of superheroes in your home. Despite their rough appearances, seeing them here in the middle of a Christmas celebration was surprising—and in some way endearing, especially seeing the effort they’d made to bring something to the party.

There was something almost unreal about seeing them standing there near the entrance of your home like any other group of guests at a December gathering. No suits, no tactical formations, no visible contingency plans—at least none of the kind that usually involved explosions. Just laughter, food, and the soft clinking of bottles as they bumped together.

“Welcome,” you finally managed to say as a warmer smile spread across your face. “Make yourselves at home.”

“Little Kobik invited us, and we didn’t want to show up empty-handed, right, team?” Alexei said again, bumping his shoulder against John’s.

The small gingerbread house tilted to the side, the icing at the corners not quite dry. John shot Alexei a wary sideways glance as he heard his loud laugh.

Yelena gave you a crooked smile, assessing you with that sharp gaze that seemed to miss nothing.

“Relax,” she said casually. “We don’t usually break houses… just corrupt governments.”

Bob lifted the box of cookies as if it were a solemn offering.

“I brought sugar reinforcements,” he announced. “To balance out the vodka.”

John nodded gravely as he adjusted the gingerbread house on the table.

“It leaned a little, but it’s still standing,” he muttered to himself.

Bucky closed the door behind them and moved to your side, brushing his arm against yours almost imperceptibly.

“Sorry. Kobik invited them and…” he murmured quietly, until you interrupted him.

“Don’t worry. It’s a surprise to see them here, but I don’t mind,” you replied calmly, giving him a soft smile.

You looked around: Kobik running toward Alexei, Amelie watching Yelena with awe and admiration, Bob helping John straighten the gingerbread house while Ava teased him about it, Christmas music filling the space. A team of superheroes… sharing laughter, food, and an ordinary night.

“I guess,” you added softly, without taking your eyes off the scene, “this is the strangest Christmas party I’ve ever had.”

Bucky smiled—genuinely—and something in your chest tightened, warm and full.

☆

The night went on, filled with laughter, lively conversations, and far too much food for all the guests. Before long, Alexei’s pirogi had almost completely disappeared, Yelena’s vodka was rationed strategically—at least, she tried to—and John’s gingerbread house ended up missing a wall after a “structural inspection” led by Kobik. At times, you could hear Yelena arguing with Alexei over which Christmas carol was better, while he tried to force a Russian one at full volume.

You had forgotten what it felt like to have your house like this: alive, noisy, filled with different voices overlapping one another. For years, you had avoided hosting Christmas gatherings there, convinced that silence was the easiest way to deal with nostalgia. But that night, the bustle didn’t weigh on you; on the contrary, it filled spaces you hadn’t realized were still empty.

Even the stress of keeping an eye on the guests was something Bucky took off your shoulders. He was always close by, attending first to anyone who approached you asking for more food, more snacks, or more drinks.

“I didn’t know I missed this,” you murmured to yourself.

“Missed what?” Bucky asked, appearing at your side with two glasses in his hands—one of wine for you and one of mead for himself.

He held one out to you, and you accepted it without thinking.

“Everything,” you answered honestly. “The noise, the people, the mess… feeling like the house isn’t empty.”

Bucky carefully scanned the interior of the house, committing to memory the guests’ genuine happiness and the warmth overflowing from your home.

“It’s a good place,” he said. “It makes people let their guard down.”

You glanced at him as a teasing smile curved your lips.

“Including you. You’re wearing a Christmas sweater.”

He let out a brief laugh.

“Especially me,” he replied sincerely, his gaze returning to you.

The first to leave was John—too early, truth be told—but for a very good reason: visiting his son. After him, the guests with children and some neighbors followed. Little by little, the house emptied, revealing the mess you would eventually have to clean up.

At some point during the party, when there were no more kids left to play with, Amelie and Kobik went upstairs to your daughter’s room to sleep, afraid that Santa Claus wouldn’t come if they stayed awake.

Finally, only you and the remaining group of superheroes were left on the ground floor.

You were happy to finally meet them all in person. You had shared some great moments listening to anecdotes from missions they had all experienced together. Alexei didn’t hesitate to talk about yesterday’s mission when he noticed the crystal ball Bucky had given you sitting on one of your shelves, adding details that, in Bucky’s opinion, were exaggerated. He even ended up embarrassing Bucky by mentioning that, despite the mission being over, he hadn’t boarded the quinjet until he found something for you. You tried to calm your excited heart as you heard that, but deep down you hoped Alexei wasn’t exaggerating this time.

Luckily for Bucky, Yelena was the one who suggested it was time for the team to leave. She no longer wanted Bucky to suffer any more from her father’s verbal incontinence.

“It was a wonderful evening!” Alexei shouted, overly enthusiastic thanks to the mead. “You should throw parties more often!”

“Shh. Quiet, Dad,” Yelena hurried to say as she guided him outside your house.

“Thanks for the food,” Bob said, carrying containers filled with leftover dishes in his hands.

“No problem, it was a pleasure meeting you all,” you replied sincerely, a big smile on your face.

You looked for Bucky, but he was still inside your home. He wasn’t leaving with them.

“So we finally got to meet Bucky’s girlfriend,” Ava murmured—but not quite softly enough for you not to hear.

“Our soldier is in love!” Alexei shouted again as Yelena shoved him into the car.

You could only feel the heat rushing to your cheeks and ears as you heard them.

Did they really think you were Bucky’s girlfriend, or were they just joking? Yelena looked like she was almost dying of secondhand embarrassment at everyone’s reckless comments, and seeing that made you think it was probably the latter. The blonde tried to silence everyone and order them into the car while Ava, the designated driver, started the engine—but Bob spoke up as he climbed in.

“They are dating, right?” he asked the others casually, pausing for a second before closing the passenger door.

The silence that followed was brief… and then chaotic.

“Of course they are!” Alexei replied from the back seat, trying to get out of the car and forcing Yelena to shove him back in. “Just look at them! Christmas, kids, homemade food… it’s obvious. All that’s missing is a ring and a mini soldier to make it more than official.”

“It’s not obvious,” Yelena shot back, visibly embarrassed. “It’s awkward. And you’re making it awkward… Alexei, sit down!” she yelled as her father tried to lie across the passenger seats.

Ava looked at you through the rearview mirror with a curious—but not mocking—expression.

“I think they are. Or at least they function like it.”

That didn’t help at all.

You felt the heat crawl even further up your neck as you tried to form a coherent response, but none seemed appropriate. You opened your mouth, closed it, and finally let out a nervous laugh.

“Well…” you started. “It was a very nice evening.”

Alexei slapped the back of the seat enthusiastically.

“That’s not a no!”

“Alexei!” Yelena elbowed him as she finally got into the car. “Enough.”

“If you ever want to come back,” you tried to keep playing dumb about the subject, “the doors are always open.”

Finally, the car pulled away. Alexei managed to roll the window down one last time.

“Merry Christmas, future Mrs. Barnes!” he shouted before Yelena forced the window back up.

You stayed there for a few seconds, watching them drive away, your heart racing and your mind in complete disarray. It was possibly the first time in your life you had ever felt this embarrassed.

You walked slowly back into your house, still processing everything that had happened. You closed the door gently and rested your forehead against it for a moment, exhaling as you tried to ease the blush on your cheeks and calm the pounding of your heart.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Great, great, great.”

“Everything okay?” Bucky’s voice came from the kitchen, along with the sound of dishes being stacked.

You lifted your head and turned toward where his voice came from, crossing your arms as you walked into the kitchen. Your expression held a hint of amusement… and above all, nervousness.

“They’re… very expressive.” you said, trying to regain your composure.

Bucky let out a low chuckle.

“Alexei is expressive enough for everyone. He doesn’t know when to shut up.”

When you reached the kitchen, you found Bucky with his back to you, stacking dirty plates and dumping leftover food into the trash. Despite having laughed, his shoulders looked tense, and so did the line of his jaw.

Silence settled between you, different from before—heavier, more aware.

You knew Bucky had heard everything that was said outside; after all, Alexei’s voice seemed to have no concept of subtlety, and well… Bucky was a super soldier. He could hear even whispers if he focused.

“Hey.” he finally said as he turned halfway around. “About what they said…”

You looked at him, expectant, feeling a knot in your chest… or maybe it was hope.

“I just… wanted to know if you were okay.”

You smiled softly.

“I’m fine.” you replied. “Just… a little surprised.”

Bucky nodded, but he didn’t look away. A faint smile appeared on his face as he went back to tossing out the food scraps the guests had left behind.

“Anyway, the idea isn’t that crazy, is it?” he said casually—so casually it almost made you choke on your own saliva.

“What?”

“You and me.”

“What?”

Bucky turned around again, this time confused by your reactions. Now he doubted you were on the same page, seeing the confusion and nerves radiating from your face.

“We were each other’s date, right?” he said cautiously as he set the plate he was holding down on the kitchen counter. “Kobik told me you said yes—and that you liked the chocolates.”

Suddenly, everything made sense.

Your lips parted in a gasp of surprise, and both hands flew up to cover your mouth.

“They ate the chocolates in secret and I only tried one!” you exclaimed, not quite loudly enough, trying not to wake the girls. “A-And I thought the letter was just one of their games!”

Bucky simply brought a hand to his face, realizing he’d been foolish to trust the plan to the girls. His ears were red with embarrassment.

“They were supposed to be for you!” he muttered, his hand still covering his face as he felt stupid. “And what about the roses?! That was obvious.”

You tried to say something—really, you did. The words got stuck in your throat, and only choked breaths slipped out, born of nerves and embarrassment.

“You said you came to help, and I thought they were for decorating, not for me!”

Now he stared at you in disbelief, and you blushed even harder as you realized you’d been far too naive to catch all the signs.

“Did they suggest all of this to you?”

“Well…” Bucky continued, lowering his hand with a resigned sigh. “Technically, they wrote the letter. But the idea…” he made a vague gesture with his hand, “that part was mine.”

You looked at him, stunned, still processing the information. Your heart was pounding in your chest, a mix of surprise and tenderness.

Once again, Bucky felt foolish.

“I’m old-fashioned, and I thought it was a good idea, okay?” he tried to justify himself as he ran a hand back through his hair, attempting to calm the embarrassment eating at him from the inside and leaving his ears red.

“Bucky,” you murmured, “are you saying that…?”

He lifted his gaze, meeting your eyes. There was no trace of the confident soldier now; in his place stood a man who doubted, who weighed every word carefully.

“That I wanted to try.” he answered honestly. “That I’ve wanted to for a while, but I didn’t know how. And they…” a small smile tugged at his lips, “they seemed very convinced you’d say yes.”

You felt a knot form in your throat. You remembered every lingering glance, every subtle brush of your bodies, every hard goodbye, every moment you’d tried to convince yourself that what you felt was just friendship.

“I thought it was the girls’ game.” you admitted softly. “A very elaborate one, but a game in the end.”

A brief, heavy silence followed. Christmas music continued to play softly from the living room, a constant reminder of the almost absurd context of this confession.

“To be fair...” you finally said, your voice carrying a hint of amusement at the absurdity of it all, “I should’ve suspected something when I saw the glitter on the letter. It was clear there was a budget this time. And the letter was very convincing.”

He let out a nervous laugh.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.” you smiled. “Especially the part that said, ‘With love: Uncle Bucky, Buckaroo, and Bucky.’”

Bucky shook his head, amused, then looked at you with a different kind of seriousness. His gaze didn’t leave yours; there was something else there now—a quiet determination that contrasted with his earlier nerves.

“Look.” he said calmly, resting both hands on the counter. “I don’t want this to be awkward or for you to feel pressured. If for you it’s still just friendship, I understand. Truly.”

You slowly shook your head, surprised at how easy it was to do.

“It’s not just friendship.” you admitted. “I think it stopped being that months ago… I was just afraid to admit it.”

Bucky blinked, as if he needed a moment to process your words.

“Afraid of what?” he asked softly.

“Of losing you.” you confessed. “Of something changing and… not being able to go back.” You paused briefly, offering a bittersweet, vulnerable smile. “And, well—look at me. I’m a widow. And I’m a mother.”

Bucky frowned slightly at your words—not with discomfort, but with deep seriousness. He moved around the counter without hesitation and stopped in front of you, close enough for his presence to be felt, but without touching you yet.

“Don’t say that,” he said with quiet firmness. “Not like that.”

You lifted your gaze to meet his, finding a clear, sincere look—without a trace of pity.

“You’re warm.” he continued. “You’re strong, and you’re an incredible mother. You’re a woman who can light up a room just by being in it, and even if you haven’t realized it, some of my happiest moments have been with you.” He exhaled slowly. “What you say makes you ‘less attractive’ is what makes you real. And that… that’s exactly what matters to me.”

Your lips trembled, surprised by the knot forming in your throat. You wanted to say something, but Bucky spoke first.

“Listen to me.” he asked softly. “I’m not looking for something easy or perfect. I’ve already had too many broken things in my life. With you…” He paused briefly, choosing his words carefully. “I feel peace. What I’ve wanted to feel for so long.”

He raised a hand carefully, as if silently asking for permission before brushing yours. When you didn’t pull away, he intertwined his fingers with yours. His hand, rough as it was, held you with the gentleness one would use with something delicate.

Silence settled again—different this time: warmer, less heavy with doubt. Bucky took a deep breath before continuing.

“And about losing me.” he added. “I’m not going anywhere. Not for trying something that’s worth it.”

You looked at him, your eyes slightly glossy, and let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh.

“You always know what to say, don’t you?”

He only smiled gently, giving your hand a small squeeze before carefully pulling you toward him, as if giving you all the time in the world to stop him—but you didn’t. His strong arms wrapped around you in a firm yet warm embrace.

You rested your head against his chest, and despite all the horrible, disastrous things he’d been forced to endure, what was happening between the two of you had his heart racing.

It wasn’t the heart of a soldier on a mission, but that of a man allowing himself to feel after so long of holding everything back.

Bucky carefully rested his chin on top of your head, as if afraid of breaking the moment if he did too much. His arms tightened just enough for you to know he wasn’t going to let go.

“You scare me.” he admitted in a murmur. “But not in a bad way.”

You closed your eyes, breathing in his familiar scent—that mix of woody cologne, cold metal, and something that was uniquely him.

“Oh yeah?” you whispered. “And what’s the good way?”

“The kind that makes me want to stay.” he replied without hesitation. “The kind that makes me want the same things I wanted decades ago… quiet mornings, messy dinners, a couple of mischievous girls.” He paused briefly, smiling as he thought of Kobik and Amelie. “To build something that doesn’t break at the first crack.”

One of your hands gently gripped the fabric of his shirt, as if anchoring the moment to reality. What he wanted wasn’t far from what you considered a dream you thought you might never have again.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, without loosening his hold, having been hungry for this closeness with you for months. His eyes searched yours—open, vulnerable, unhurried.

“I don’t have grand promises.” he said. “Just this. Love. Patience. Presence. Honesty. And coming home—coming back to you and the girls.”

You swallowed and nodded.

“That’s more than anyone could ask for.”

For a second, it seemed like he might lean in closer, like the distance between you would disappear completely. But he didn’t. Instead, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing with you, sharing the silence.

Bucky hesitated just one more second, as if still giving you the chance to pull away. When you didn’t, he exhaled slowly, almost trembling.

“May I?” he murmured, his forehead still pressed to yours.

You nodded.

“Merry Christmas to me.” Bucky joked in a whisper that drew a smile from you.

"Merry Christmas." You whispered.

The kiss came softly, almost shy at first, as if you were both learning a new language. His lips were warm, firm without being demanding, and the contact was brief… but full of intention. There was no rush, no urgency—only the certainty that this gesture had been waiting to happen for a long time.

You had been an Avenger for three days.

Technically, you had been an Avenger for longer than that, if he counted the months of files, interviews, mission assessments, and cautious deliberation that had led Fury to finally put your name on the team roster. You had enhanced reflexes, a combat record that even Natasha raised an eyebrow at, and the kind of public image Stark’s media people had described as “valuable but chaotic.” You were a model, an occasional actress when a director could afford your schedule, a fixture at fashion weeks, charity galas, beach clubs, magazine covers, and gossip columns. You were also a very competent fighter with a worrying talent for making people underestimate you until they were already on the floor.

Bucky did not underestimate you.

That was what he told himself, anyway, watching you open every cabinet in the kitchen like you were personally offended by storage.

“Where do rich people hide mugs?” you asked.

Sam, who had been leaning against the counter with a bowl of cereal and the grim, protective posture of a man guarding the last of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, looked at you over his spoon. “You mean cabinets?”

“I checked cabinets.”

“You checked one cabinet.”

“It disappointed me.”

“There’s a difference.”

“This kitchen has seven ovens,” you said. “That feels excessive for people who eat protein bars like they’re being punished.”

“That’s because we are,” Sam said.

“You poor thing. Do you want me to call someone?”

“God, you’re worse before coffee.”

You gasped. “I haven’t had coffee?”

“You’re standing in the kitchen.”

“I’ve been betrayed by architecture.”

Bucky had not meant to laugh. It escaped him before he could stop it, barely more than a breath against the rim of his mug, but you heard it. Of course you heard it. Your attention snapped to him with terrifying precision.

Your sunglasses slid down your nose.

“Oh,” you said, with the pleased interest of a cat finding a glass too close to the edge of a table. “You laugh.”

“No,” Bucky said.

Sam snorted into his cereal.

You smiled at Bucky as if he had personally made your morning. “That was definitely a laugh.”

“It was a cough.”

“You should see a doctor about that. It sounded handsome.”

Bucky stared at you.

Sam put his spoon down. “And there it is.”

“There what is?” you asked, all innocence, which made it worse.

“The thing you do.”

“I do many things.”

“Yeah, and most of them are illegal in at least three states.”

You drifted closer to the counter, apparently unconcerned by the fact that Bucky had looked less startled the last time a man had pulled a knife on him in a parking garage. You rested your elbows on the marble and propped your chin in one hand, turning the full force of your attention on him.

“What’s your name again?”

“You know my name.”

“I know lots of names.” You smiled wider. “I wanted to hear you say it.”

Bucky took a sip of coffee. It bought him three seconds and no dignity.

“Barnes,” he said finally.

“Barnes,” you repeated, like you were trying it on. “Cute.”

“No.”

“Strong. Classic. Slightly broody. Very marketable.”

“I’m not marketable.”

“That’s what makes you marketable.” You lifted your sunglasses from your face and pushed them up into your hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll win you over one day.”

Bucky blinked.

Sam closed his eyes as if in prayer.

You said it so easily, so brightly, that for a second Bucky did not know what to do with it. People flirted with him sometimes. Not often, not casually, and never with the delighted confidence of someone announcing tomorrow’s weather. The flirting he noticed usually came wrapped in caution, curiosity, or the strange, hungry attention people gave the Winter Soldier when they had read too much, understood too little, and wanted to see what a ghost looked like up close.

This was different. You were not looking at the Winter Soldier. You were not even looking at Sergeant Barnes, the tragedy, the history lesson, the man out of time. You were looking at Bucky, annoyed and under-caffeinated at the kitchen island, with his hair still damp from the shower and his left hand curled around a mug someone had bought as a joke because it said “I survived another meeting that should have been an email.”

“I’m not something to win,” he said.

Your expression changed only slightly. The smile stayed, but something behind it softened with recognition, like you had heard the line he had not said and decided not to touch it in front of Sam.

Then you leaned across the counter, stole Sam’s coffee, and said, “We’ll workshop the phrasing.”

Sam made a wounded noise. “That was mine.”

“You called me ‘worse before coffee.’ This is justice.”

“I called you worse before your coffee.”

“Details.”

Bucky left the kitchen before you could catch the second laugh.

That was where it started.

It should have ended there, but you treated restraint like a rumor and Bucky’s sanity like a hobby. Within two weeks, you had settled into the compound as if you had been born under Stark-grade security lights. You learned where Tony hid the expensive snacks, which elevators were fastest when FRIDAY was not pretending not to judge you, and which training rooms had the best lighting for the occasional sponsored workout post Pepper pretended not to know about.

You were good at being watched. That was the thing Bucky noticed first, even before the flirting became a problem with a schedule. Cameras loved you. Rooms adjusted around you. People tracked your movements before they knew they were doing it, drawn by the easy glamour of someone who knew exactly how she looked and had decided to make that everyone else’s issue. You could turn your head half an inch and change the temperature of a photograph. You could laugh at a reporter’s question and make it sound like an answer.

Bucky understood performance. He had been made into one. The difference was that yours belonged to you. He respected the precision of it. The public saw sparkle, flirtation, lazy smiles, and a model who sometimes saved the world and somehow emerged from the fight with her eyeliner still intact. The team saw more. They saw the hours in the gym, the quick reads you made in the field, the way you listened when Steve gave instructions and ignored him when you had a better plan. They saw that you could play dumb in four languages and threaten someone in six.

Bucky saw all of that.

He also saw the way you looked for him when you entered a room. That was harder to ignore.

At first, he assumed you did it to everyone. You were friendly with Sam, outrageous with Tony, conspiratorial with Natasha, affectionate with Wanda, and shamelessly dramatic with Thor, who adored you after you once told him his arms looked like a horny Renaissance sculptor had carved them. You flirted like breathing, lightly and often, always with enough humor that nobody had to take it seriously unless they wanted to.

With Bucky, you made it personal. You found him in the gym one morning while he was working through a knife sequence alone. The compound was quiet, still blue with early light, most of the team asleep or pretending to be. He caught your reflection in the mirrored wall and kept moving, blade turning between his fingers as he shifted his weight, stepped, struck, pivoted, and reset.

“Morning, future husband.”

The knife stopped in his hand.

He looked at you through the mirror. “No.”

“You’re right. Too soon.” You set your water bottle on the bench. “Morning, future emotionally unavailable boyfriend.”

Bucky resumed the sequence. “That’s worse.”

“Morning, handsome man who definitely missed me.”

“I didn’t know you were gone.”

“That’s hurtful and untrue. You stared at my empty chair at dinner.”

“I was looking at the door.”

“Because you hoped I would come through it.”

“Because I was considering leaving.”

You pressed a hand to your chest. “God, the passion.”

He turned, knife loose in his hand. “Do you ever get tired?”

“Of you? Never.”

“Of talking.”

“Also no.”

Bucky pointed the knife toward the door. “Some of us are training.”

“Wonderful. I love a man with discipline.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re not training in that.”

You glanced down at yourself, as if surprised to discover you had arrived dressed for exercise. “This is athletic wear.”

“That sweatshirt has no back.”

“It has some back.”

“It has sleeves and ambition.”

You grinned. “You noticed.”

Bucky made the mistake of looking. The sweatshirt dipped low between your shoulders, leaving a long line of bare skin above the band of your sports bra. It was impractical, which probably meant it cost more than some cars. It was also distracting, which was clearly the point.

He looked away too late.

You saw it. You always saw it.

“I knew you liked me,” you said.

“I noticed fabric was missing.”

“You noticed my back.”

“Hard not to when half your shirt surrendered.”

Your laugh came bright and easy. “You’re funny when you’re pretending not to flirt back.”

“I’m not flirting.”

“You’re bantering. That’s flirting with plausible deniability.”

“It’s arguing.”

“With cheekbones like yours? Impossible.”

Bucky exhaled and turned back toward the mirror. “Are you here to train or talk?”

“I can do both.”

“I’m devastated.”

You came onto the mat beside him and held out your hand. “Give me a knife.”

“No.”

“Afraid I’ll impress you?”

“Afraid you’ll stab me to make a point.”

“Only a little.”

He should not have given you one. That was his first mistake. His second was forgetting that beneath the designer nonsense and the sparkling public menace was someone Fury had recruited for a reason.

You moved beautifully. Bucky had seen you fight on missions, but missions were dirty and practical, all impact and adaptation. Here, with nothing exploding and no one yelling in his ear, he could see the shape of your training. You were fast, lighter on your feet than he expected, with a dancer’s control and a vicious sense of timing. You let him push you back twice, then changed rhythm on the third pass and came under his guard, stopping the dull practice blade a breath from his ribs.

You looked up at him through your lashes.

“Oops,” you said.

Bucky’s hand closed around your wrist.

You did not pull away.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your pulse beat steadily beneath his fingers, quick but controlled. You were warm from sparring, a flush high on your cheeks, and a loose strand of hair caught at the corner of your mouth.

Bucky noticed it. He hated that he noticed it.

Your smile softened into something less theatrical. “You okay?”

The question slipped under his ribs more effectively than the knife would have.

He let go. “Fine.”

You tilted your head. “That means yes, or that means stop asking?”

“It means fine.”

“Mm. We’ll workshop that too.”

“There’s no we.”

“There will be.” You spun the practice knife once and offered it back handle-first. “I’m very persuasive.”

“You’re very annoying.”

“Foreplay.”

Bucky choked on air.

You patted his shoulder as you passed. “Don’t worry, Barnes. I’ll win you over one day.”

He watched you leave because apparently he had lost control of his eyes.

From the doorway, without turning around, you called, “I can feel you staring.”

“I’m checking that you’re leaving.”

“Progress!”

After that, Sam started keeping score.

Every compliment became a point. Every accidental smile became evidence. Every time you blew Bucky a kiss across a briefing room, Sam looked personally blessed by the universe. Bucky threatened to throw him off the roof twice. Sam remained unmoved.

It would have been easier to ignore if you flirted with Bucky the way you flirted with everyone else, bright and careless and harmless enough to laugh off. But you saved him seats. You asked him to watch your back even when you did not need watching. You looked for him when you entered a room, and sometimes, when the joke softened at the edges, Bucky caught the dangerous shape of something honest underneath.

He liked your precision. He liked the moments when the smile slipped sideways into something observant. He liked that when you teased, you watched for the line. He liked that you had never once called his left arm cool, had never asked to touch it, had never stared at the place where metal met skin with anything but the same open appreciation you aimed at the rest of him.

He liked you, and that made the flirting dangerous.

Bucky had spent too long as a weapon in other people’s hands to enjoy becoming anyone’s entertainment. He knew that was not what you were doing. He knew it with the part of him that assessed threats and the quieter part that had begun to understand kindness when it wore teeth. Still, knowing did not make it easy.

You were a public person. You had exes whose names still trended whenever you attended the same event. Actors, athletes, heirs, musicians, one princess whose denial in an interview had been so unconvincing that even Steve had understood it. You had a reputation the tabloids loved because it sold beautifully: glamorous, flirtatious, unserious, impossible to keep, impossible not to want.

Bucky did not care about tabloids. He cared that you laughed when other people flirted with you. He cared that sometimes you touched their arms. He cared that you were generous with your attention in a way that made everyone feel chosen for exactly as long as you wanted them to. He cared that he had no right to care. He cared that the idea of being one more person orbiting you, one more name in a gossip column, made something old and defensive curl beneath his ribs.

So he pretended not to want.

It worked about as well as all his other bad ideas.

The mission in Prague should have helped. It did not.

You handled a weapons broker with old Hydra ties in a red dress and heels, broke his composure with a smile, and nearly broke his foot when he touched you without permission. Bucky watched from surveillance while Sam and Natasha pretended not to notice the exact moment his jaw locked.

By the time the mission went bad, you had already put two men down, stolen a handgun from a third, and greeted Bucky in the hallway with blood on your knuckles and a cheerful, “Hi, handsome.”

He caught your chin to check the graze on your cheek before he could stop himself.

“Careful,” you said softly. “A girl might think you like her.”

“Extraction first,” he said.

“Romance later?”

“Move.”

“Bossy,” you said, and then you moved.

After Prague, the teasing changed.

Not enough for anyone else to notice immediately. You were still shameless at breakfast, still dramatic in the gym, still prone to calling him gorgeous in public just to watch his left eye twitch. But sometimes, when the room was empty or nearly empty, you let the joke soften at the edges.

You brought him tea one night without making a big deal of it, setting the mug beside him on the balcony and leaning against the railing with your own. The city glittered below the tower, restless and alive.

“You’re thinking loudly,” you said.

He looked at you. “Didn’t know that was part of your power set.”

“It’s not. You get a line between your eyebrows.”

“Maybe I’m brooding.”

“You do that too, but this is different.”

He huffed, taking the mug. “You catalog my facial expressions?”

“Only the handsome ones.”

“Sounds time-consuming.”

“It is, but I’m committed.”

The familiar rhythm was there, but gentler. Bucky let it sit between you.

After a while, you asked, “Do you hate it?”

“What?”

“All of this.” You gestured vaguely, meaning the tower, the team, the city, the life none of you had chosen cleanly. “The attention.”

He looked down at the tea. “Some days.”

“Yeah.”

“You?”

You smiled without much humor. “Some days.”

It should have surprised him. It did not.

You turned your mug in both hands, rings catching the light. “People think it’s the cameras that get old, but cameras are easy. They don’t want anything you can’t predict. It’s the people who look at you and decide they know what’s there. The ones who think access and affection are the same thing.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “You’re good at making them think they got something.”

“I had to be.” You glanced at him. “It’s easier to choose what they take.”

He understood that too well.

Something in his expression must have shown it, because your voice gentled. “I don’t flirt with you because I think you’re easy to embarrass.”

“I am not easy to embarrass.”

“You once short-circuited because I called you pretty.”

“I didn’t short-circuit.”

“You walked into a chair.”

“It was in the way.”

“It was furniture, baby. That’s where it lived.”

Bucky shook his head, but the laugh came easier this time.

You smiled into your mug. “I flirt with you because I like you.”

The air changed.

You did not look away. Neither did he.

“You like everybody,” he said, because old defenses were familiar and his voice still worked around them.

Your smile stayed, but something in it dimmed.

“I’m nice to everybody,” you said. “That’s different.”

He knew that. He had known it for a while, which made his answer crueler than he meant it to be.

You looked back out over the city. “Anyway. Don’t look so scared. I wasn’t asking you to catch up all at once.”

He should have said something then. He knew that later, with a clarity that annoyed him. He should have told you that he liked you too and had no idea what to do with it because wanting things still felt like reaching across a minefield. He should have done anything except stand there holding the tea you had brought him and watching you retreat behind a smile.

Instead, he said nothing.

You did not punish him for it. That would have been easier. You kept being yourself, kept calling him handsome, kept saving him the seat beside you in briefings and pretending it was because you needed “emotional support eye candy.” But you stopped letting the softer moments linger.

Bucky noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything about you now.

Which was why the gala was a disaster before it even started. The event was one of Tony’s, though Pepper had done the actual work and Tony had mostly provided money, branding, and three separate opinions nobody asked for. Bucky tried to get out of it. Steve said attendance mattered. Sam said Bucky needed to stop treating black tie like a war crime. Natasha said nothing, which was worse because her silence contained judgment.

Then you walked into the common room before the cars arrived, and Bucky forgot every argument he had prepared.

You were wearing gold. Not bright gold, not the kind that shouted for attention because it did not know what else to do. This was deeper, warmer, a liquid shade that caught the light when you moved and made your skin look sunlit. The dress crossed over your chest and left your shoulders bare, fitted through the waist before falling in a long line that split high over one thigh. Your hair was styled away from your face. Your mouth was painted soft and glossy. Diamonds winked at your ears like little threats.

The room went briefly, stupidly quiet.

Tony recovered first. “Okay, great. So we’re all underdressed at our own event.”

“You look beautiful,” Steve said.

Wanda smiled. “Very beautiful.”

Sam whistled. “Damn. Barnes, you breathing?”

Bucky looked at him with murder in his heart.

You turned toward Bucky last, which was deliberate. He knew it was deliberate because he knew you now, knew the rhythm of your performances, the way you built a moment and chose where to land it. Your eyes moved over him in his black suit, slow enough to be rude, warm enough to make his spine tighten.

“Well,” you said. “There goes my ability to behave.”

Tony groaned. “Please don’t start before we’re in public.”

“I make no promises.”

Bucky adjusted his cuff because his hands needed something to do. “You ever behave?”

“For you? I could be convinced.”

“Unlikely.”

“Progress,” you said, pointing one manicured finger at him. “You didn’t say impossible.”

Sam leaned toward Steve. “I give him two hours.”

Steve looked confused. “For what?”

“For whatever emotional constipation this is to resolve.”

“I can hear you,” Bucky said.

“I know.”

You crossed the room and stopped in front of Bucky. Up close, your perfume wrapped around him, warm amber and something floral he could not name. Your smile was bright enough for the room, but your eyes searched his face with a quieter question beneath it.

“You clean up nice, Barnes.”

“So do you.”

For once, the answer came without a fight.

Your expression flickered.

Then Tony clapped his hands. “Wonderful. Compliments exchanged. Sexual tension acknowledged by everyone except the two people causing it. Let’s go raise money.”

Bucky was going to kill him.

The gala was worse than he expected. Not because of the security. That was manageable. Not because of the crowd either, though he disliked being surrounded by people who wanted to shake his hand and pretend they were not checking whether the metal one felt cold.

It was you. It was the way you belonged there.

The second you stepped onto the carpet, the cameras found you. Your whole posture shifted, not into someone false, exactly, but into someone sharpened for public consumption. You became the woman from magazine covers and fragrance campaigns, the one whose face sold fantasies Bucky did not want to examine too closely while standing three feet away from you.

Reporters called your name, and you gave them what they wanted. A smile over your shoulder. A laugh when one of them asked who you were wearing. A teasing answer when another asked whether there was anyone special in your life.

“Oh, I’m working on it,” you said, and somehow your eyes found Bucky past the cameras.

The reporters followed your gaze.

Sam made a sound as if he were choking on joy.

“Is that Sergeant Barnes?” someone called.

You widened your eyes with perfect innocence. “Is it?”

“Are you two here together?”

Bucky braced himself.

You only smiled and said, “We’re teammates.”

It was the right answer. The professional answer. The safe answer.

Bucky hated it.

Then you reached back without looking, caught his sleeve, and tugged him forward.

“Come on, handsome,” you murmured, low enough that only he heard. “You look like you’re about to bite someone.”

“You’d enjoy that too much.”

“Depends where.”

His brain briefly stopped producing language.

You smiled for the cameras.

Bucky stood beside you under the lights and tried not to look like a man thinking about teeth marks on your skin.

Inside, the ballroom was all polished marble, tall windows, white flowers, and wealth pretending to be benevolence. The Avengers were strategically scattered around the room, mingling with donors and keeping a casual watch, but Bucky barely paid attention to any of it.

You disappeared into the crowd like light through water.

He tried not to watch. He failed immediately.

Everywhere you went, people leaned in. Men and women, donors and celebrities, people with expensive watches and practiced laughs. You gave them that glittering public smile, touched a forearm here, accepted a kiss on the cheek there, let someone admire your dress with a grace that made Bucky’s hand curl around his glass until he heard the stem complain.

Sam appeared at his side. “You’re gonna break that.”

Bucky loosened his grip.

“You know,” Sam said, accepting a champagne flute from a passing waiter, “for a guy who’s not interested, you sure look like you’re planning to challenge half the room to ritual combat.”

“I’m watching security.”

“Security is not six foot two, British, and trying to make her laugh by the ice sculpture.”

Bucky’s gaze moved before he could stop it.

Sam hummed. “Interesting.”

“I hate you.”

“That has been established.”

The man beside you was exactly the kind of person Bucky had seen in magazines he pretended not to notice on coffee tables. An actor, probably. Handsome in a polished, expensive way, with dark blond hair, a white dinner jacket, and the lazy confidence of a man used to doors opening before he touched them. He was standing too close. You did not seem bothered. That was part of the problem.

You laughed at something he said.

Bucky hated him.

“Who is he?” Bucky asked.

“Oh, we’re doing that?”

“Wilson.”

Sam took a sip of champagne and looked delighted by the entire situation. “Julian Hale. Actor. British. Very famous cheekbones. Dated a princess once, if the internet is to be believed, which it isn’t, but sometimes it gets lucky.”

Across the room, Julian Hale touched your waist.

It was brief. A guiding hand, barely there, the kind of touch that could be explained away by the crowd, by the noise, by the half step he encouraged you to take so someone could pass behind you. You did not flinch. You did not step away. You kept smiling.

Bucky’s vision narrowed.

Sam’s voice changed. “Hey.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to invent a new international incident.”

“His hand’s on her.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s tone was careful now, without the teasing edge. “And she can remove it if she wants to.”

Bucky knew that. The knowledge landed hard because it was true. You were not helpless. You were not cornered. You had broken a weapons broker’s foot in heels and threatened his hand in Russian. If you wanted Julian Hale away from you, he would be away from you.

The problem was not that Bucky thought you needed saving. The problem was that he wanted to be allowed to care.

That was worse.

You looked up then, as if you felt the weight of him watching. Your eyes met his across the room. For half a second, the public smile slipped. Something else took its place, something private and questioning.

Bucky did nothing.

Julian leaned down to say something near your ear.

You looked away first.

Bucky set his glass on the nearest tray and walked toward the balcony. The night air helped, but not enough.

Outside, the music softened behind the closed doors, reduced to bass and strings through glass. The balcony overlooked the city, all lights and distance, and Bucky gripped the stone railing with both hands until the cold settled into his metal palm and the other hand stopped wanting to hit something.

He was being ridiculous. He knew that. He had no claim on you. He had made sure of it, in fact. Every time you had stepped closer, he had stepped back. Every time you had offered him a joke with honesty folded inside it, he had taken the joke and left the honesty untouched.

Except you had never been holding a knife.

You had been holding out your hand.

The door opened behind him.

Bucky did not turn around. “I’m not in the mood, Wilson.”

“Tragic,” you said. “I wore the good dress and everything.”

His eyes closed briefly. Of course.

You came to stand beside him at the railing, close but not touching. For once, you did not fill the silence immediately. Bucky could see you in the corner of his eye, gold dress shifting in the wind, one hand resting on the stone, the other holding your shoes by their delicate straps.

“You left your own party,” you said after a moment.

“Not my party.”

“You’re on the posters.”

“Against my will.”

“You look very handsome on them.”

He glanced at you despite himself. “That why you came out here? To tell me I photograph well?”

“I came out here because you disappeared.”

“You were busy.”

Your eyebrows rose slightly. “Was I?”

“With Hale.”

Bucky regretted it the second it left his mouth. Not because it was false, but because it sounded exactly like what it was: jealousy dressed badly as observation.

Your mouth curved. “Julian?”

“You on a first-name basis with everybody who puts a hand on you?”

The silence that followed was not loud, not dramatic, but it cut cleanly through the air between you.

Your smile faded.

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

“That came out wrong,” he said.

“Did it?”

“Yes.”

“What part?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Your posture had changed, the playful ease folding away into something guarded. Not hurt, exactly, or not only hurt. Disappointed. That was worse. He had seen you deflect rudeness from reporters, donors, strangers who thought your smile gave them permission. He had never wanted to be counted among them.

“All of it,” he said.

You studied him for a moment, then looked out over the city. “He’s an actor. We did a campaign together three years ago. He flirts because he likes attention, and I let him because attention is half of this room’s currency.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Bucky’s jaw worked.

You turned toward him, shoes dangling from two fingers, the city light catching in your earrings. “Because that sounded a little like you think I don’t know when someone is touching me.”

His chest tightened. “I don’t think that.”

“Good.”

“I know you can handle yourself.”

“Great.”

“That’s not what bothered me.”

Your expression shifted.

The admission sat between you, more revealing than he had intended, but Bucky forced himself not to retreat. He was tired of retreating. Tired of watching you offer him chances while he pretended they were traps.

Your voice went softer. “What bothered you?”

He looked down at his hands on the railing. Metal and flesh. Past and present. Both capable of holding too tightly if he was not careful.

“I didn’t like him touching you.”

The honesty was rough, but it was honest.

You inhaled slowly.

Bucky made himself meet your eyes. “I know I don’t have a right to that.”

“No,” you said. “You don’t.”

The answer landed where it should.

Then you stepped closer.

“But you could,” you said.

Bucky stared at you.

The city noise seemed very far away.

You smiled faintly, but there was no performance in it now. No cameras, no audience, no easy escape disguised as a joke. “That’s been on the table for a while, Barnes.”

His heart beat once, hard.

“You flirt with everyone,” he said, because apparently some stubborn, stupid part of him needed to hear you say it again.

“I perform with everyone.” Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth. “I flirt with you.”

He had no defense against that.

“You told me you liked me,” he said.

“I did.”

“I was an ass.”

“A little.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your expression softened. “I know.”

“I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“I know that too.”

The gentleness nearly undid him. Bucky could handle anger. Anger had edges he understood. He could handle teasing because it gave him somewhere to hide. But you were looking at him like you had seen the frightened thing beneath the jealousy and decided not to make it bleed for your entertainment.

He wanted to kiss you so badly it felt like pain.

You seemed to read that too. Your mouth curved, the menace returning just enough to make his pulse jump.

“Careful,” you said. “You’re looking at me like I’m winning.”

Bucky turned fully toward you. “You always this smug?”

“When I’m right.”

“You think you’re right?”

“I think you’re jealous, annoyed about it, wildly attracted to me, and about three seconds away from doing something reckless.”

He stepped closer. “That so?”

Your eyes brightened. “Two seconds.”

“Still think this is funny?”

“A little.” Your voice dipped. “I also think you should kiss me before I start flirting with someone else just to prove a point.”

His hand caught your waist. You went still, but not with fear. Bucky felt the change in you beneath his palm, the quick breath, the way your body answered before you had time to make a joke of it.

“Don’t,” he said.

Your eyes lifted to his. “Don’t what?”

“Flirt with someone else.”

The words should have embarrassed him. Maybe they would later. Right now, with you this close and the city wind moving around you, he could not make himself care.

Your smile faded into parted lips.

“Bucky,” you said, and it was the first time you had used his name instead of Barnes.

That was what broke him.

He kissed you. For a second, it was almost careful. His mouth found yours with all the restraint he had spent months pretending was indifference, one hand at your waist, the other still braced on the railing because touching you with both felt like admitting too much at once.

Then you made a soft, pleased sound against his mouth and everything careful in him snapped. Bucky pulled you closer. Your shoes dropped to the balcony with a quiet clatter, your hands coming up to grip his jacket as he deepened the kiss. You tasted like champagne and gloss, sweet and warm, and you kissed him like you had been waiting to do it for so long that patience had become offensive. Your fingers slid into his hair. He groaned before he could stop himself.

You smiled against his mouth.

He nipped at your lower lip in warning.

You gasped.

The sound went straight through him.

“Still annoying?” you whispered.

“Yes,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“Still not interested?”

He kissed your jaw, felt your pulse jump beneath his lips, and tightened his hand at your waist. “Don’t push it.”

“Oh, baby,” you breathed, and the endearment hit differently now, stripped of performance and made intimate by the way your voice trembled. “Pushing it is my best quality.”

Bucky drew back enough to look at you. Your lipstick was smudged. Your eyes were dark. The woman who had smiled for a hundred cameras looked at him like she wanted to be ruined somewhere private and had already decided he was the only man in the building qualified for the job.

His entire body went hot.

“We’re leaving,” he said.

Your brows lifted. “Are we?”

“Yes.”

“Together?”

He gave you a look.

There it was again, that wicked smile. “Just confirming. You’re new to this whole admitting-things process.”

Bucky bent, picked up your shoes, and caught your hand.

You laughed as he pulled you toward the door, bright enough that two people near the bar turned to look when you stepped back inside. Sam spotted you first, his face transforming with open delight.

Bucky glared at him. “No.”

Sam’s mouth opened.

“Wilson.”

Sam closed his mouth with visible effort.

You wiggled your fingers at him as Bucky guided you past. “Goodnight, Sam.”

Sam looked as if Christmas had come early. “Goodnight, future Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky kept walking.

You nearly tripped over your own laugh. “Future Mrs. Barnes?”

“Don’t encourage him.”

“I don’t know. It has a ring to it.”

Bucky leaned closer as you reached the corridor. “Keep talking, and I’ll throw you over my shoulder.”

The sound you made was small, sharp, and not laughter.

Bucky stopped walking.

Your voice softened. “Promise?”

Something dark and hot moved through him.

“Car,” he said.

“Elevator,” you countered.

“We’re not doing this in an elevator.”

“Cameras?” you guessed.

“Cameras.”

You paused. “Right. Sensible. Deeply disappointing, but sensible.”

The ride back to the tower was torture. The partition stayed up. Your shoes lay abandoned on the floor. Your lipstick was ruined, his tie was crooked, and every time your hand drifted toward his thigh, Bucky caught your wrist before you could make the driver’s job any more uncomfortable.

“You’re very strict for a man who just dragged me out of a gala,” you murmured.

“You were going to behave until we got upstairs.”

“I never agreed to that.”

“No,” he said, pulling you across the seat and into his lap with one arm around your waist. “You didn’t.”

Your breath caught, hands landing on his shoulders as your dress rode higher over your thighs.

Bucky’s hands settled at your hips. “This a problem?”

“No.” Your voice came out softer than before. “Definitely not.”

“You wanted attention.”

“I usually do.”

“You’ve got it.”

Your smile flickered, and for the first time that night, you looked almost overwhelmed.

Bucky stroked his thumbs over your hips. “Still with me?”

“Yeah.” You let out a breath and laughed quietly. “Sorry. It’s just…”

“What?”

“You.”

That did something stupid to his chest.

His hands tightened on your hips.

“Me?” he asked.

You nodded. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, Barnes.”

His body reacted hard to the words, but underneath that, something else opened, uncertain and hungry in a way that had very little to do with sex and everything to do with being wanted by someone who knew he was difficult.

“Bucky,” he said.

Your brow creased. “What?”

“My name.” He swallowed. “When it’s like this, use my name.”

The softness that moved through your expression was almost unbearable.

Then you leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, your hands gentle at the sides of his face.

“Bucky,” you whispered against his mouth.

He held you tighter.

By the time the car reached the tower, both of you looked bad enough that Natasha stopped in the lobby, took one look at your face, Bucky’s mouth, and the shoes in his hand, and smiled.

“So I see,” she said.

Bucky kept walking. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“Eventually.”

Clint, who had been crossing the lobby beside her with a pastry in hand, pointed at Bucky. “Steve owes Sam twenty bucks.”

Bucky closed his eyes.

You grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the elevator. “Goodnight!”

Natasha’s voice followed you. “Hydrate.”

The elevator doors closed on your laughter. Bucky hit the button for the residential floors.

You leaned against the wall, still laughing. “Hydrate.”

“Don’t.”

“I like her.”

“Everyone likes her. That’s how she gets away with everything.”

“You like me, and I get away with almost nothing.”

Bucky looked over at you. “You think you get away with nothing?”

“With you? Absolutely not. You’re very mean to me.”

“You’ve been sexually harassing me for months.”

“I have been romantically persistent.”

“You called me a slutty Victorian ghost in front of Fury.”

“You were wearing that coat.”

“It was tactical.”

“It had drama buttons.”

Bucky stepped closer. “You like the coat.”

“I love the coat. I wanted to climb you like a tree in the coat.”

His mouth twitched. “At a debrief?”

“It was a very boring debrief.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet.” You hooked one finger into his loosened tie and tugged him closer. “Here you are.”

The elevator rose.

Bucky let himself be pulled. Your smile softened when he came near, and he thought, not for the first time, that the worst thing about you was not the flirting. It was the moments after, when the joke stepped aside and left all that wanting visible.

He cupped your jaw. “You sure?”

You blinked. “About you?”

“About tonight.”

The question sobered you slightly, but not in a bad way. You held his gaze. “Yes.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Two glasses of champagne over four hours, one of which I abandoned because Julian started explaining his movie to me.”

“Tragic.”

“Deeply.” Your fingers slid over his wrist. “I’m sure, Bucky.”

His name in your mouth still hit like a touch.

“And if I say something you don’t like?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you.”

“If I do something you don’t like?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“If you want to stop?”

“I’ll tell you.” Your voice softened. “I need you to believe me.”

He nodded once.

You leaned in, brushing your mouth over his. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”

The elevator doors opened.

Bucky caught your hand and pulled you into the hall.

“Tell me,” he said.

Your steps faltered.

He looked back. “You had plenty to say before.”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

Bucky smiled.

It was not a nice smile.

“Oh,” you said faintly. “You’re going to be awful.”

“You like awful.”

“I like you.”

He nearly lost the thread entirely.

His room was closer than yours. He chose his because it was familiar. Controlled. Sparse, though less than it had been when he first moved in. A few books on the shelf. A jacket over a chair. Clean sheets because Steve had once broken into his room, taken one look at the bed, and muttered something about “bachelor despair.”

Bucky unlocked the door. You stepped inside and went quiet. That, more than anything, made him nervous. He watched you take in the room, the low light, the neatly made bed, the absence of clutter. There was no judgment on your face. Just curiosity, and something like care.

“You can say it,” he said.

You turned back. “Say what?”

“That it looks like nobody lives here.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“But you thought it.”

“A little.” You walked to the bookshelf, trailing one finger along the spines without pulling anything out. “Mostly I thought it smells like you.”

Bucky shut the door. “That a good thing?”

You looked over your shoulder. “Very.”

The lock clicked. The sound changed the room.

He crossed the room slowly. You stayed where you were, one hand still on the shelf, chin lifted like a challenge.

“Last chance,” he said.

Your eyes darkened. “For you or me?”

“For behaving.”

That smile again. “I already told you I’m bad at that.”

Bucky stopped in front of you. “I noticed.”

“Still interested?”

His hand lifted to your face, thumb brushing the ruined edge of your lipstick. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Could be a friendly escort.”

“To my bedroom?”

“You’re old-fashioned.”

His thumb pressed lightly against your lower lip. “Open.”

Your lashes fluttered, and for one perfect second, you did exactly what he told you. Your lips parted beneath his thumb, breath warming his skin.

Then your eyes narrowed with returning mischief. You bit his thumb. Gently.

Bucky stared at you. You smiled around it.

He laughed once, low and disbelieving, and the sound seemed to please you until his metal hand closed around your hip and turned you, backing you into the shelf with careful force. Your breath caught. A few books shifted behind you.

“You think you’re cute?” he asked.

“I know I am.”

His mouth brushed your cheek. “You’ve been poking the monster for months, sweetheart.”

The pet name slipped out before he could stop it. He felt the effect immediately. Your breath stuttered, your hand tightening in his jacket. His gaze sharpened.

“Oh,” he murmured. “You like that.”

You looked irritated, which would have been more convincing if you were not flushed to your chest. “Don’t be so smug.”

“You’ve been smug since March.”

“I was charming.”

“You were a menace.”

“You liked it.”

His hand slid from your hip to your thigh, following the open slit in your dress. Your words caught as his fingers found warm skin.

“I did,” Bucky said.

Your eyes snapped to his.

He held your gaze, hand moving higher by slow degrees. “‘S’that what you wanted to hear?”

For once, you did not have an immediate answer.

He leaned in, his mouth hovering over yours. “You wanted to get under my skin so bad.”

“I did get under your skin.”

“Yeah.” His fingers tightened on your thigh. “You did.”

Your lips parted.

Bucky kissed you before you could fill the silence with something clever. He kissed you deep, pressing you back against the shelf until he felt your body yield beneath his. Your hands gripped his shoulders, then slid under his jacket, pushing it down his arms with impatience.

Your fingers went to his tie next.

Bucky caught both your wrists. You stilled immediately, breathless against his mouth.

His eyes searched yours. “Still okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Bucky,” you said, and the impatience in it soothed him more than any soft reassurance would have. “I swear to God, if you don’t touch me, I’m going to become difficult.”

“You’re already difficult.”

“I can get worse.”

“I know.”

You tugged against his grip. “Then do something about it.”

The last of his restraint went very, very quiet. Bucky released one wrist and guided you back toward the bed. You went willingly, though you tried to keep your smile in place. It slipped when the backs of your thighs hit the mattress. He stood in front of you, close enough that your knees brushed his legs.

For a moment, he just looked at you.

Your chin tipped up. “What?”

“Trying to decide where to start.”

Your breath caught.

Then, because you were you, your smile returned. “I can make suggestions.”

“I bet you can.”

“Several.”

“Generous.”

“I’m a giver.”

Bucky’s hand went to your jaw, not rough, but firm enough to quiet you. “You’re a brat.”

Your eyes lit.

He felt that reaction everywhere.

“And you like that too,” he said.

You swallowed. “Definitely.”

“Better.”

Your thighs pressed together.

Bucky noticed.

He lowered himself slowly, one knee touching the floor between your feet.

Your expression changed at once.

“Oh,” you said, much smaller than before.

Bucky looked up at you, his hands sliding over your calves. “Still got suggestions?”

Your mouth opened.

No sound came out.

He smiled again, slower this time. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

His lips brushed the inside of your knee.

You watched him like you were afraid to blink.

“I had a whole speech prepared,” you said.

His mouth moved higher. “Did you?”

“Very persuasive.”

“I’m sure.”

“I was going to tell you how much you want me.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, just above the slit of your dress. “I know how much I want you.”

Your breath hitched.

“Do you?” you asked.

Bucky looked up at you. “You want me to prove it?”

The answer left you quickly. “Yes.”

He smiled. “Good.”

His hands slid farther beneath your dress, slow enough to make it deliberate, warm flesh and cool metal moving over your thighs with the same careful pressure.

Your fingers curled into the edge of the mattress. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I’ve listened to you run your mouth for months.” His lips brushed higher, close enough that your next breath went uneven. “Let me have my fun.”

“Your fun is very mean.”

His mouth curved against the inside of your thigh. “You want me to stop?”

Your answer came too fast to be dignified. “No.”

Bucky’s smile deepened. His hand slipped higher, thumb tracing the edge of your underwear beneath the dress, and your knees tried to close around his shoulders. He let them. He even turned his head and kissed the inside of one thigh.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

You gave a breathless laugh. “I’m being polite.”

“Liar.”

“I am a delight.”

“You’re soaked.”

Your entire body went hot.

Bucky looked up at you with the unbearable calm of a man who knew exactly what he had found. His thumb pressed again, dragging lightly over damp fabric, and your grip on the mattress tightened hard enough that your knuckles ached.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “All that talking, and this is what you wanted?”

You swallowed. “Among other things.”

“Still making suggestions?”

“I’m trying to decide if I hate you.”

His eyes warmed. “You don’t.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but then he leaned in and kissed you over your underwear, and the argument vanished somewhere between your ribs and your throat. The sound that came out of you was embarrassingly soft. Bucky heard it anyway. His fingers flexed against your thighs, and the next kiss was slower, firmer, open-mouthed enough that your hips lifted before you could stop them.

He made a low sound of approval that went through you like heat.

“That’s it,” he said, the words rougher now. “There you are.”

His fingers hooked into your underwear. He paused there, waiting.

You looked down at him. “Bucky.”

That was all you had to say.

He drew them down your legs, taking his time despite the way his breathing had changed, and tucked them into his pocket with a look that made your pulse jump.

“Really?” you asked.

His hands returned to your thighs. “You want them back?”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

His smile was sharp. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he leaned in.

The first touch of his mouth was enough to knock the air from your lungs. Bucky groaned like he had been the one waiting, like the taste of you had answered some question he had been refusing to ask all night. His hands gripped your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the bed, and you fell back onto one elbow, the other hand flying to his hair.

“Fuck,” you breathed.

He hummed against you.

His tongue moved over you again, and your hand tightened in his hair.

“Bucky.”

He groaned at the sound of his name, one hand sliding higher to hold your hips down when they jerked toward his mouth. His mouth was hot and merciless, his stubble scraping the inside of your thighs, his metal hand cool against your hip where the dress had bunched around your waist.

You tried to say something. It came out as a broken little sound.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark enough to make your stomach twist.

“You had a comment?”

“I forgot it.”

“Good.”

“Smug,” you accused, but there was no strength behind it.

He kissed your thigh. “Pretty.”

That was unfair.

You made a sound that was half a laugh and half a whimper. “You can’t call me that when you’re down there.”

“I can call you whatever I want when you’re this wet for me.”

Your head tipped back, eyes closing. “Jesus.”

“That bother you?”

“No.”

“Then take it.”

His mouth returned before you could recover, and this time, two fingers pressed against you, spreading slickness before easing inside. Your body took him greedily, clenching around the slow push of his fingers, and Bucky’s groan vibrated against your clit.

Your hand tightened in his hair again. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He set a steady rhythm, fingers curling inside you while his mouth worked over you with devastating focus. The room narrowed to the scrape of his stubble, the pressure of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, the soft obscene sounds of his mouth between your legs. Your thighs began to tremble, and his metal hand shifted from your hip to your stomach, pressing you down when you tried to arch away from how good it felt.

“Don’t run,” he said against you.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m preserving my dignity.”

He laughed softly. “Little late for that.”

You would have cursed at him if he had not chosen that moment to curl his fingers again, hitting the place that made your whole body go tight. His name broke out of you, too loud, too needy, too honest, and Bucky made a sound like that alone could have ruined him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me have it.”

The orgasm hit hard enough that the room went white at the edges. You came with his mouth still on you and his fingers buried inside you, thighs shaking around his shoulders while he worked you through it. He softened his mouth, slowed his hand, but kept touching until your breath turned into little broken sounds and you had to tug at his hair.

“Bucky,” you gasped. “Too much.”

He stopped immediately.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your breathing.

Then he kissed the inside of your thigh, gentle now, and stood.

You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. His hair was a mess from your hands, his tie loose, his shirt still buttoned but wrinkled where you had grabbed him. His mouth was wet from you. He looked wrecked and controlled at the same time, which felt deeply unfair when you were sprawled on his bed with your dress around your waist and your ability to speak in complete sentences somewhere on the floor.

He leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head. “You okay?”

You nodded, then remembered words. “Yeah.”

His gaze searched yours. “Too much?”

“No.” Your hand lifted to his face, thumb brushing his lower lip. “Just enough to make me regret every time I let you leave a room without doing that.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Every time?”

“I’m dramatic, not dishonest.”

He turned his head and kissed your palm.

You caught his tie and pulled. “Come here.”

He came willingly, covering your body with his and kissing you deep. You tasted yourself on his mouth and moaned into it, hips lifting against him. He was hard where he pressed between your thighs, thick and restrained by the fabric of his pants, and the feel of him made you impatient all over again.

Your hands went to his shirt.

This time, he let you.

The buttons were more difficult than they had any right to be, mostly because he kept kissing you and partly because your fingers had not fully recovered. Bucky made a low, amused sound against your mouth when you fumbled with the third one.

“Don’t laugh,” you warned.

“I’m not.”

“You are spiritually laughing.”

“Spiritually?”

“Don’t question me while I’m undressing you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The words were dry, but his breath caught when your hands finally pushed the shirt open. You smoothed your palms over his chest, feeling the heat of him, the hard lines of muscle, the scars where skin changed and history refused to be quiet. He went very still beneath your touch.

You noticed immediately.

Your hands slowed. “Okay?”

His eyes flicked to yours.

For a second, the room held its breath.

Then he nodded. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Using my lines on me?”

“They’re good lines.”

His shoulders eased, just a little. “I’m sure.”

You sat up enough to kiss his chest, right over his heart. Bucky’s hand came to the back of your head, not pushing, just holding. You kissed another scar, then another, careful not because you thought he might break, but because you wanted him to know you saw him and wanted him anyway.

When you looked up, his expression had gone quiet in a way that stole some of the teasing from your tongue.

“Still with me?” you asked.

His hand slid along your cheek. “Yeah.”

The word came out rough.

You kissed him again. This time, the kiss was slower. His hands moved over your back, finding the closure of your dress, and you let him turn you enough to work it open. The fabric loosened with a soft whisper. He drew it down carefully, and you lifted your hips so he could pull it away.

Then you were in front of him in nothing but jewelry and the ruined remains of your composure.

Bucky stared.

You gave him half a smile. “Careful. A girl might get shy.”

“No, she won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

The answer landed low in your stomach.

He touched you then, both hands moving from your waist to your ribs, thumbs brushing beneath your breasts before he lowered his mouth to follow. Your head fell back as he kissed and licked and learned you with the same terrible patience he had used between your thighs. When his mouth closed around one nipple and his metal hand held your waist still, you arched hard enough that he had to press you back down.

“Sensitive,” he murmured.

“Observant.”

“Smart mouth.”

“You like my mouth.”

“I do.” His eyes lifted to yours. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”

Heat rushed through you. “Have you?”

“Every time you called me handsome in front of half the team.”

“You poor thing.”

“Every time you blew me a kiss across the gym.”

“I was motivating you.”

“Every time you bent over a briefing table like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

You blinked. “I always know what I’m doing.”

His mouth curved. “I know.”

Then he kissed lower, over your stomach, and the laugh that had been forming turned into a gasp.

You reached for his belt. “Bucky.”

He caught your wrist again, but only to bring your hand to his mouth and kiss your knuckles. “What do you want?”

“You.”

“Specific.”

“You are such an asshole.”

He smiled. “Specific,” he repeated.

You stared at him, breathing hard, pride fighting a losing battle with need.

“I want you inside me,” you said finally.

His expression changed.

“I can do that,” he said.

Your smile came back, softer this time. “Competent?”

His hand went to his belt. “Very.”

He stripped without performance, which somehow made it worse, shirt hitting the floor, belt sliding free, pants pushed down with a controlled impatience that told you he was closer to the edge than he looked. When he finally climbed back over you, bare and warm and heavy between your thighs, your ability to joke deserted you entirely.

He noticed.

“Quiet again,” he said, mouth brushing yours.

“Busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Reconsidering all my life choices.”

His smile softened. “Regrets?”

“Mostly that I didn’t try harder.”

Bucky laughed, but it caught when your hand slid between your bodies and wrapped around him. He was hot and thick in your palm, his hips pressing forward before he could stop himself. His forehead dropped to yours.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

“Not so cocky now, are you?” you whispered.

His eyes opened.

You smiled up at him, thumb stroking over the tip of his cock, and watched his restraint fray in real time.

He caught your wrist after another stroke. “Condom.”

It was not really a question, but you nodded toward the nightstand. “Please tell me Steve’s bachelor despair intervention included supplies.”

Bucky huffed a laugh and reached for the drawer. “He’s thorough.”

“Heroic, really.”

He found one, tore it open, then paused. “You’re sure?”

You looked at him then, at the seriousness under the heat, and something in you softened so quickly it almost hurt.

“I’m sure,” you said. “I want this. I want you.”

His jaw tightened.

You touched his face. “Bucky.”

He kissed you as he rolled the condom on, and the kiss was so intimate that it made the next moment feel even sharper. He settled between your thighs, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to you. The first press of him stole the air from your lungs.

He stopped immediately. “Okay?”

“Yes.” Your hands gripped his shoulders. “Just go slow.”

His forehead rested against yours. “I’ve got you.”

You believed him.

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust even though his breath was rough against your mouth and his whole body shook with the effort of holding back. The stretch was intense, almost too much, then perfect, then overwhelming all over again. You clung to him, nails pressing into his back, and Bucky whispered praise against your mouth until he was fully inside you and both of you went still.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved.

You had flirted with him for months. You had imagined this, wanted this, teased him because wanting him quietly had started to feel impossible. But imagination had not prepared you for the weight of him, the heat of him, the way his body covered yours like he had finally stopped deciding whether he deserved to be there.

Your throat tightened.

Bucky brushed his nose against yours. “Hey.”

You swallowed. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” You managed a smile. “You’re just a lot.”

His mouth curved faintly. “I’ve heard that before.”

You pinched his side.

He laughed under his breath, then groaned when the movement made you clench around him. His eyes dropped closed.

“Oh,” you said, interest returning through the haze. “You like that.”

“Don’t start.”

“I think I should start.”

He drew his hips back slowly and pushed in again.

Your words dissolved.

Bucky’s smile was brief and devastating. “That’s what I thought.”

The pace stayed slow at first, deep enough to make your breath catch every time he filled you. His metal hand slid beneath your hip, lifting you slightly, changing the angle until pleasure sparked bright and sudden through your body. Your head fell back into the pillow.

“Bucky.”

“I know.” His voice was rough. “I know, sweetheart.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer, needing more of his weight, more of his heat, more of the quiet sounds he made when you clenched around him.

He kissed you through it. Messy, breathless kisses that kept breaking when one of you moaned or when his rhythm faltered because you dragged your nails down his back. He muttered your name against your mouth, then against your throat, then into the curve of your shoulder as the careful pace began to slip.

You liked the moment he lost patience.

You liked it more than you should have.

One second, he was controlled, moving like he could make restraint last all night if he had to. The next, your hips lifted into his at the wrong angle or the right one, and something in him broke. He caught your wrists and pinned them above your head with his metal hand, the cool pressure making your whole body tighten around him.

His eyes snapped to yours. “Okay?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, don’t stop.”

He did not.

The next thrust drove you higher on the bed, hard enough to pull a cry from your throat. Bucky made a low, wrecked sound and did it again, deeper this time, his body pressing yours into the mattress while his free hand gripped your hip. Every thrust pushed the breath out of you. Every drag back made you desperate for the next one.

“Still got something to say?” he asked.

You tried. You really did.

What came out was not language.

Bucky’s mouth found your neck, teeth scraping just below your jaw. “Mouthy little thing until I get my cock in you.”

The words should have embarrassed you. They did embarrass you, which was unfortunately part of the problem. Heat rushed through you so sharply that you clenched around him, and Bucky swore, hips stuttering before he recovered.

“There it is,” he said. “You like being talked to like that?”

“Yes.”

His hand tightened on your wrists. “You like me jealous?”

Your eyes flew open.

He lifted his head, looking down at you with his hair falling loose around his face and his mouth swollen from kissing you. There was vulnerability beneath the possessiveness, something exposed and honest enough to change the shape of the question.

You pulled against his hold, not to get away, but because you wanted your hands on him. He understood after a second and let go.

You touched his face at once. “I like when you want me enough to stop pretending you don’t.”

His expression shifted.

Then he kissed you, and the kiss was almost too much, too deep and too honest for the frantic movement of his hips. You held onto him as he fucked you harder, his body heavy over yours, your name breaking out of him like a confession. Pleasure built again, faster this time, sharpened by the orgasm he had already given you and the steady drag of him inside you.

“Bucky,” you said, voice breaking. “I’m close.”

His hand slid between your bodies.

You nearly sobbed when his fingers found your clit.

“Come for me,” he said. “Let me feel it.”

You did.

The orgasm tore through you, harder than the first, your whole body locking around him as pleasure crashed hot and bright through your veins. Bucky held you through it, thrusting shallowly while you clenched around him, his mouth at your temple and his voice rough with praise you could barely understand.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fuck, that’s it. So pretty like this.”

The praise only made it last longer.

By the time you came back to yourself, Bucky was shaking above you, jaw tight, every muscle in his body pulled taut with restraint.

You wrapped your arms around his neck. “Come on, baby.”

His breath caught.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “I want it.”

That was enough.

Bucky buried his face against your neck and came with a broken groan, hips pressing deep as his body finally gave in. You held him through it, fingers in his hair, your own body still trembling beneath his. For a long moment, he stayed there, breathing hard against your skin, heavy enough to ground you but not enough to hurt.

The room went quiet around you.

Eventually, his arm shifted, bracing some of his weight. “Am I crushing you?”

“A little,” you said.

He started to move.

You tightened your arms around him. “I didn’t say stop.”

His laugh was exhausted and warm against your shoulder. “Brat.”

“Sweetheart,” you corrected.

He lifted his head.

You smiled up at him, softer than you meant to. “You said it first.”

Something flickered through his face.

Then he kissed you, gentle now. “Sweetheart,” he said, quieter, like he was testing how it felt when nobody was hiding.

You felt embarrassingly close to crying, which was rude of your body after everything else it had already done tonight.

Bucky noticed. His thumb brushed your cheek. “Hey.”

“I’m fine.”

His brow rose.

You huffed. “I am.”

“That means yes, or that means stop asking?”

The echo of your own question from months ago made your chest ache. “It means I’m fine.”

“Mm,” he said. “We’ll workshop that.”

You stared at him.

The smile came slowly.

“Oh, you absolute nightmare.”

He kissed you again before you could say anything worse.

Afterward, Bucky cleaned you up with a gentleness that left you strangely quiet. He disappeared into the bathroom for a minute and came back with a warm washcloth, his boxers pulled on haphazardly, his hair a disaster and his expression too careful. He moved slowly, checking your face more than he needed to, watching for any sign that you had changed your mind now that the wanting had settled.

You caught his wrist when he finished.

“Bucky.”

He looked at you.

“I’m fine.”

His shoulders eased by a fraction. His fingers turned in your grip until he was holding your hand.

“Yeah,” he said.

You tugged lightly. “Come back to bed.”

He did.

The bed dipped under his weight, and you shifted toward him immediately, which seemed to surprise him even after everything. You rested your cheek against his chest, one leg thrown over his, the sheet pulled messily around your waist. His arm hovered for half a second before settling around you.

“You’re thinking loudly again,” you murmured.

His fingers moved once over your back. “You’re going to be unbearable now.”

You smiled against his skin. “I was unbearable before.”

“Worse, then.”

“Probably.” You lifted your head enough to look at him. “You can handle me.”

His gaze moved over your face. “Yeah?”

“You’re very competent.”

That got you a small smile.

You rested your chin on his chest. “Are you okay?”

He was quiet for long enough that you did not think he would answer. Then his hand slid slowly up your back, warm and steady.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.

There was no self-pity in it. Just honesty, rough around the edges.

You softened. “Do what?”

“This.” His fingers brushed your shoulder. “Wanting someone. Having it. Keeping it without waiting for it to go bad.”

Your heart hurt.

“I don’t need you to be good at it right away,” you said. “I just need you not to punish both of us because you’re scared.”

His eyes met yours.

You held his gaze. “And I need you to talk to me before you start glaring at actors like you’re deciding where to hide the body.”

His mouth twitched. “He had it coming.”

“Bucky.”

“He touched your waist.”

“You dragged me out of the gala and fucked me in your bed. I promise you won that exchange.”

A laugh broke out of him, surprised and real, and you grinned because you had earned that.

After a moment, he said, “I don’t want to be one more person in the crowd looking at you.”

You went still.

Bucky looked away, as if the confession had cost more than he meant it to. Before he could retreat completely, you touched his jaw and guided him back.

“You’re not,” you said.

His eyes searched yours.

“You were never that,” you continued. “That’s why it was so annoying when you kept acting like you were.”

His brows lifted. “Annoying?”

“Deeply. Tragically.” You tapped his chest. “I was doing excellent work.”

“You were harassing me.”

“I was courting you.”

“You bit my thumb.”

“You liked it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “I did.”

Your pulse jumped, even now.

Bucky noticed that too, and his expression warmed with a darker kind of satisfaction. “Interesting.”

“Behave,” you warned.

His mouth curved. “That’s my line.”

“You’ll live.”

“I might.”

You were smiling when the next words slipped out, too soft to be a joke and too honest to call back.

“I wanted a boyfriend, you know.”

He froze.

For one terrible second, all the warmth in the room seemed to hold still.

Bucky lifted his head.

You tried for a smile, but it felt shaky at the edges. “Emotionally unavailable boyfriend, technically. I’m flexible.”

His expression softened in a way that made your throat tighten.

“Yeah?” he asked.

You could have backed away. Made it a joke. Given him the escape hatch you had always been so good at pretending you did not need. Instead, you looked up at him and let the truth sit plainly between you.

“Yeah.”

Bucky’s hand came to your face. His thumb brushed over your cheek, so gentle it made the rest of him feel even heavier beside you.

“I can do boyfriend,” he said.

Your heart gave a stupid, hopeful little kick. “Can you?”

“I’ll probably be bad at it.”

“I’ll workshop you.”

He huffed a laugh. “Of course you will.”

“I’m very persuasive.”

“You’re very annoying.”

“Foreplay,” you said.

His mouth curved.

Then he kissed you, and this time, there was nothing frantic in it. It was slow and deep and almost painfully sweet, a kiss that felt less like surrender than arrival. You wrapped yourself around him and let him take his time, because Bucky was warm and solid beside you, because his mouth was soft when he wanted it to be, because the man who had spent months pretending not to want you had finally stopped pretending.

Much later, you woke to pale morning light and the smell of coffee.

For one disoriented second, you thought you were in your own room. Then you shifted and felt the pleasant ache in your thighs, the warmth of a body beside yours, and the weight of Bucky’s arm around your waist.

You opened your eyes.

He was awake, propped on one elbow, looking at you like he had been caught doing something private.

“Hi,” you said, voice rough with sleep.

His expression eased. “Hi.”

“You watched me sleep? Very gothic of you.”

“I woke up two minutes ago.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe ten.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

His mouth twitched. “Apparently.”

The answer was too easy. Too honest. It warmed you all the way through.

You stretched carefully, then winced.

Bucky’s hand moved at once. “Sore?”

“A little.”

His face changed. “Too much?”

“No.” You turned into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Exactly enough.”

He looked unconvinced, because he was Bucky.

You sighed. “I will accept pampering, though.”

“That so?”

“Yes. I’m very delicate.”

He looked down at the marks his mouth had left on your neck, then back at your face.

You smiled. “Emotionally.”

That got you a quiet laugh. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, then your mouth, soft enough that you melted into it despite the morning breath concerns you decided not to acknowledge because romance required sacrifice.

A knock sounded at the door.

Both of you froze.

Then Sam’s voice came through from the hall. “I’m not coming in because I value my life, but Steve wants to know if you two are alive, Natasha says hydrate again, and Tony says if the bed is broken, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”

You buried your face in Bucky’s chest.

Bucky closed his eyes. “Go away, Sam.”

“I also brought coffee.”

You lifted your head. “Wait.”

Bucky looked betrayed.

You patted his chest. “Baby, I love whatever brooding domestic morning-after thing you’re doing right now, but I need coffee if I’m going to survive the team knowing you rearranged my insides.”

From the hall, Sam made a delighted choking sound. “Oh my God.”

Bucky threw a pillow at the door.

It hit with a soft thump. Sam laughed all the way down the hall.

You collapsed back against the mattress, laughing too, and after a second, Bucky gave in. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until your laughter softened into a smile against his skin.

“You’re trouble,” he said.

“You knew that on Tuesday.”

“I knew it before then.”

You tipped your face up. “And yet.”

His eyes moved over you, warm and a little helpless, the way they had looked last night right before everything changed.

“And yet,” he agreed.

You smiled, pleased enough that he narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was letting the moment breathe.”

“The moment can suffocate.”

Your smile widened. “You’re so romantic.”

Bucky rolled you beneath him before you could laugh again, his body settling carefully over yours, one hand braced beside your head. His hair fell around his face, soft with sleep, and he looked less like a ghost, less like a weapon, less like the man who had spent months standing at the edge of his own wanting.

He looked like yours.

Or almost yours. Enough to make your chest ache. Enough to make you brave.

“So,” you said, touching his jaw. “Did I win you over?”

Bucky looked at you for a long moment, then bent until his mouth hovered over yours.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and warm, “you have no idea.”

Then he kissed you, and because you were a menace, because he was smiling against your mouth, because you had never known how to leave a victory unannounced, you wrapped your arms around his neck and whispered, “Progress.”

“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”

“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.

“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”

Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”

Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”

“Have I met him?”

“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”

You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.

Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”

You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.

“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”

“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.

You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.

You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.

Out steps a mountain of a man.

Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.

“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.

“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”

His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.

“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”

He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.

“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”

You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.

“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“

“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.

Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”

Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.

“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.

Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’

But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.

“Try it again,” an order, not a request.

Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.

“Terminal clamp.”

You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.

“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.

“Pop it,” he calls out.

You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.

You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.

Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.

“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”

He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.

“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”

“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.

“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.

“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.

Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”

You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.

“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.

“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”

A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”

A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”

You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.

“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”

Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.

He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”

He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”

“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”

He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.

“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.

“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”

His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.

“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“

“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.

“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“

“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.

“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.

Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”

That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.

“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”

He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.

“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.

“Shit—“

You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.

You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.

It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.

That’s worth celebrating.

You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.

You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.

You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.

Bucky.

The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…

You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.

As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.

You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…

You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.

Nothing.

Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.

Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.

Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.

With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.

You really wish you kept those beers.

When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.

Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?

The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.

You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.

You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.

You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.

Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.

When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.

Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.

He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.

You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.

You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.

But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.

Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.

The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.

Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.

But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.

By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.

You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.

“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.

He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.

You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.

So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.

On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.

You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.

Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.

Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.

You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.

So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.

This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.

The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.

Occam’s Razor strikes again.

You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?

Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?

Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.

Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.

It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.

You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.

The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.

You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.

“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.

“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”

“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”

She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”

You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.

“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”

“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.

“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”

There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”

You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”

“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”

“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”

“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.

You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.

“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.

“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.

“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.

“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”

You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.

“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”

You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”

Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”

Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.

“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.

“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.

“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”

A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”

You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.

While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.

You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.

Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.

You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.

It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.

Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.

Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.

The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.

“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.

Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.

“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.

“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“

“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”

She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”

You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.

You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.

You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.

Your lips part.

Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.

He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”

You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.

“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.

Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”

“Then you should drink with us.”

“Not interested.” You blink.

“…why not?”

He shrugs.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.

“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.

A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”

“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”

Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.

Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.

Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.

Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.

Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.

Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.

You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…

Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.

This turns out to be easier said than done.

You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.

Then a knock interrupts.

You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.

Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.

“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.

Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”

His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”

Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.

“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”

He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”

“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.

“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”

“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.

“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.

“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.

“Then at least let me watch.”

Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.

“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.

“Smells good.”

His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.

“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.

“I told you not to call me—“

“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”

Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.

“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”

From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“

Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.

“You asked me to fix your shower.”

“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.

“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”

Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”

He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“

“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”

“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”

“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”

He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.

“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”

You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”

“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”

You scoff.

“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”

“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”

With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.

“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.

“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.

“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”

You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.

“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”

“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”

He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”

“What night?” Bucky grunts.

“The night we were drinkin’.”

He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”

“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”

He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”

Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”

He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”

Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.

“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”

“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”

“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.

“It’s — well, I’m just—“

“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.

“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”

You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?

You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.

“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.

“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.

“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.

For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”

You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”

“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.

“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.

“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.

Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.

“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”

You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”

“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.

“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”

“I thought you got things to do today.”

“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”

It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.

A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“

“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—

“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.

“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.

“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.

“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”

Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”

He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”

Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.

“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”

“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.

“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”

You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.

“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.

“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.

“And?”

You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“

Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”

He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”

A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.

The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.

A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.

A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.

Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.

A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.

But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.

You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.

When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.

You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.

You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.

Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.

You take a large sip of beer for courage.

“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”

You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.

Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.

Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.

“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”

Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”

“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”

“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“

“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”

There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”

Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.

“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”

He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”

Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.

Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.

You blink.

“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”

Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”

“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”

“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”

“I got what?”

“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”

Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”

The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.

“Uh…”

He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?

You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.

“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.

“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.

“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”

“Please don’t,” you groan.

He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—

“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.

You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?

But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.

For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.

Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.

Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.

When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.

“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”

By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.

You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”

Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”

Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”

She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”

“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.

“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.

“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“

After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.

Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.

That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.

The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”

Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.

“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.

“Good to see you again, Viz.”

You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.

But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”

“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”

“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.

“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.

“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.

“Nat’s just a friend.”

“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”

The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.

Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”

You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.

As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.

You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.

“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”

You’re dragged away before you can say a word.

Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.

As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.

Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.

Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.

Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.

“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”

A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”

“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”

“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”

“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”

“Maybe four years ago,” he says.

“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.

“Whaddya mean?”

He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“

Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.

“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”

The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”

“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”

“Nope — not Texas.”

You pout. “Gimme a hint.”

“East coast.”

You stare.

“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.

“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”

“Worse. Brooklyn.”

Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”

“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.

“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”

“A story for another time.”

He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.

“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.

He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.

“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.

You balk. “I never said that—“

“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.

“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.

Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”

“Yeah — do you know him?”

He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.

“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”

“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”

Bucky nods. “Good…good.”

Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.

“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.

“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”

You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.

Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.

“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.

You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.

“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.

“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.

Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.

“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”

“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.

“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”

“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.

“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.

“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”

You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—

“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”

Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—

“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.

The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.

“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.

“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”

Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”

You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”

Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”

She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.

“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.

“Thought I’d walk you back.”

You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”

“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”

“You can see my door from here.”

“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.

Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”

“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”

You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”

“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”

“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.

Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.

“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.

Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?

“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.

“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.

“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.

“You think that’s enough to stop me?”

Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”

Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.

It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.

Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.

But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.

You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.

Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.

Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.

While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.

You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.

“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.

Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.

“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.

Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.

So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.

When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.

You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.

And then you hear it.

It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.

A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.

You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.

“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”

Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.

Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.

Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.

You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.

Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”

You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.

His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”

Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”

“But you didn’t.”

The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.

“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.

“Bullshit,” he counters.

“It’s the truth—“

“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”

You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”

“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”

There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.

“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.

“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.

“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.

You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.

But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.

“I know,” you whisper back.

This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.

He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.

You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.

You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.

And then he kisses you.

Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.

You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.

His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.

The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.

“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.

His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.

And then he gently pushes you off his lap.

Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.

“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.

“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”

“Then why did you stop?”

He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.

“I know. You shouldn’t.”

Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”

He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”

“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.

“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”

You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”

“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”

“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“

He barks out a humorless laugh.

“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”

All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—

He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“

“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”

Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.

“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”

His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.

“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.

He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.

The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.

Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”

Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.

He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”

Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.

“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.

The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.

Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.

What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.

Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.

But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.

And Bucky…

You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.

You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.

His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.

He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.

Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.

On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.

Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.

You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.

So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.

The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.

But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.

You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.

The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.

But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.

“Where’ve you been?”

You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.

“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”

His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”

You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.

“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.

“What for?”

“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”

He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”

A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”

Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”

Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”

He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”

A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”

“You need money?”

“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“

“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”

“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“

“Because it helps me to not think about you!”

The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.

“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.

“Gee, thanks.”

“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”

“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”

“Kid…”

“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”

“That’s not why I’m here—“

“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”

Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”

“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“

Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.

You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”

You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”

He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”

Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”

“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”

His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.

Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.

But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.

His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.

“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.

“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”

The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…

“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”

He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…

You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”

As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.

Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.

“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”

You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.

“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”

Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.

“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”

A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.

Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.

You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”

Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.

“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”

He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.

You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.

It’s the easiest decision to make.

You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.

Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.

“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”

“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”

He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”

Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”

“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.

“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.

It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.

“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”

His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.

“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.

Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.

“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”

Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.

Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.

Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.

“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”

You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”

“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.

“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.

But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.

But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”

His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.

“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”

“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.

“More, Bucky, please.”

He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.

“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.

His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.

You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.

“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.

“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.

“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”

You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.

“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.

“But—“

“No.”

You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.

Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.

Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.

He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.

“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.

“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.

“S-so— so good—“

“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”

“…m-more?”

Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.

He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.

“Bucky,” you warn.

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”

A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.

“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”

The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”

He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.

The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.

He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.

“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.

He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.

Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.

You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”

He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”

“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.

“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”

His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.

You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.

You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.

With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.

His good girl.

“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.

“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”

A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.

Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”

The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.

“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”

“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”

“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.

“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”

Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.

The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.

Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”

You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.

“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.

“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”

Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.

His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.

“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”

His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.

“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”

Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”

All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.

“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.

“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.

“Shit—“ you exhale.

Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.

“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”

He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.

“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”

His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.

“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“

Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?

“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.

Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.

“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.

“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”

He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.

A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”

There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.

“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”

Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.

“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”

You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”

“Me? Never.”

A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.

“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.

“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.

His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”

A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”

He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”

You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.

“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”

Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.

Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.

sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!

good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!