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Your phone buzzes in the middle of another spiraling of staring at a screen that is not going to change unless you press meaningless keys. Whatever moment you were going through, though, didn’t quite prepare you for what follows.

Seeing your mother’s name on the small screen at this hour doesn’t bring a sense of alarm. It instead brings a hollow tightness to your chest, the kind of heavy stillness that usually precedes a car crash. And when you pick up the phone, come the news, even though they don’t quite feel like that when they sound through the tiny speaker. It’s a physical weight, a heavy stone dropped into a pool, sending ripples that touch every single branch of your current life.

Your grandmother is gone.

The woman who used to smell like peppermint and potting soil, whose voice was the only thing that had ever truly made the world feel quiet. You had spent countless summers with her, back in the countryside, hands in the dirt as she taught you the right way to plant a rose, how to prune a tree so it could grow stronger. Suddenly, the spreadsheet still bright on your computer has shifted from a boring task to a full-on insult. How could the numbers and columns still be there, rigid and demanding, when the person who taught you how to breathe through a heatwave on a July afternoon is simply… gone?

Are you supposed to simply go back to your life as you think of her kitchen, of the way the sunlight always seemed to pool on the linoleum in a buttery square where her cat would always sleep? Or as you are swarmed with the memory of her hands, mapped with veins like the very rivers she lived near, strong enough to haul buckets of compost and yet still gentle enough to braid your hair?

Still on the phone, your mother tells you she has left behind the weathered cottage and the garden to your name. In your mind’s eye, you could already see it surrendering to the weeds way before her heart stopped beating. No one ever cared for it the way she did, even though it had been in your family for generations. Your grandmother had been sick for a while, now, and you’re sure no one else had taken the time to care for the one thing she always did. It was yours, now.

You spend the rest of that Wednesday night in a state of suspended animation. There’s no crying, at least not yet, but you move through your apartment like a ghost, packing a back with a mechanical efficiency you’re sure would scare your mother, folding clothes you haven’t worn in years. The decision to leave doesn’t come from a sense of duty, of being present for your mother or the clinical logistics of a funeral that always feel too heavy for people mourning. It is simply survival instinct, one that hits you so sharp and sudden it almost knocks the breath out of you. Looking around your cramped apartment, filled with ergonomic furniture you don’t really like and unfinished documents, you realized tonight you were running on empty. There was no more fuel to give the city. Your grandmother’s passing was the only trigger you needed to leave it behind. You needed to go back to the only place that still holds the scent of something real, even if that reality is currently buried under layers of grief.

And by dawn, your suitcase is thrown into the trunk of your car and you are leaving the city behind.

The drive is a blur of highway static and caffeine-induced insomnia until the asphalt finally gives way to the gray ribbons of the backroads. The further you get from the skyline, from the tall buildings that framed your every day for years now, the more the silence starts to ring in your ears, echoing the emptiness in your chest. Silence used to be nice. Whenever you visited your grandmother, left the busy days behind for maybe a week or two, the silence was comforting. A heated blanket, a balm that helped you heal.

But now, as you finally pull into the gravel drive of the cottage, silence is no longer the peaceful sanctuary you had promised yourself. It’s heavy. The house looks smaller than you remember, tired, as if without her spirit to hold it up, the walls are finally starting to give in to gravity.

When you stop your car and step out, you don’t go inside immediately. Instead, you walk around the side of the house, drawn to the back where the heart of her life used to beat.

And just like the silence you had craved, the peace you had always felt here crumbles, too, the moment you lay your eyes on the yard. The garden isn’t overgrown; you think you prefer calling it a green monster. It’s aggressive, a sprawling graveyard of things your grandmother used to love. Waist-high weeds have completely swallowed the lavender path, and the wild blackberry thorns have woven themselves into an impenetrable wall. The trellis, where her prized roses used to climb in disciplined rows, is now buckling under the weight of strangling vines that look like they’re trying to pull the cottage back into the earth. An old fountain is overrun.

Standing on the bottom step of the back porch, the scale of the neglect is paralyzing. Leaves you to wonder how long had been since your grandmother had been physically able to care for her own things. How long she had kept away from the flowers and plants that had always breathed happiness into her. Just like your own mind, her space, now yours, is tangled and messy, far too gone for one person to ever hope to fix. You look at your own hands, too soft and lacking callouses, and realize you don’t even know where to start. How are you supposed to honor her memory? When you don’t know the difference between tools, the right time to plant the seeds? Guilt hits you, then, with the kind of edge that drags a cold sweat down your spine. In her absence, the wild had claimed her legacy while you were busy in the city filling spreadsheets that mattered to no one. You want to make this house a home once more. But how does one do that with an empty heart?

The first two days are spent in a state of mourning that feels exactly like static, gray and thick. You stay inside, unable to look out the windows at the chaos, and move through the cottage like a diver underwater, every motion resisted by the weight of silence.

Tea goes cold before you remember to sip it. You stare at the floral wallpaper in the hallway until the patterns begin to resemble the columns and rows of your old work, except this wallpaper doesn’t scream at you in approaching deadlines. Here, time has no teeth. It doesn’t bite, just swallows.

For the last two nights, you’ve slept in the guest bed. Your old room feels too much like a museum of a person you outgrew and no longer recognize, and her room feels like hallowed ground you are nowhere near holy enough to tread upon.

By next morning, you find yourself in the kitchen, the buttery square of sunlight hitting the linoleum exactly as you remember it, except there isn’t a cat any longer. Hands begin to aimlessly open drawers, finding yourself needing a distraction, or trying to look for something, anything. Matches for a candle. A reason to stay despite finding this place so different from the one you’d once called your second home once. And you find it, tucked between a ball of twine and a stack of expired coupons, right in the middle of the junk drawer: grandma’s old address book with a faded floral cover that still smells faintly of the rose-scented hand cream she used every night. The edges of the pages are frayed, paper slightly yellowed. A small business card falls to the floor halfway through flicking through the pages.

Barnes Landscaping & Restoration

Something in your heart flips. Not because you recognize the name, but because you immediately see her familiar handwriting in it. Another piece of her left behind that now you get to keep.

“Good lad. Strong hands and he listens to the earth.”

A sharp lump forms in your throat. This small note, mindless, written by your grandmother at a time she needed to keep a reminder, is the first thing that managed to pierce the numbness since the phone call announcing her passing. You can almost hear her voice saying it, the appreciative tone she used for people who worked with their backs and not just their mouths. And even though the grief cannot be fixed by a landscaper, you know now that there’s a flicker of hope of fixing everything else around here. You aren’t a gardener, just a person used to staring at gray bars on a screen. But an extra pair of professional hands surely will be perfect to help you face the thorns outside the house.

After you pick up the phone on the wall and dial the number, there’s two rings and then the line clicks open.

“Barnes,” the voice on the other side says. You freeze for half a second, like now you’re unsure what you’re even supposed to ask for.

“Hi,” you start, voice cracking slightly from days of disuse. You realize you haven’t said a single word since you’ve come here days ago. “I’m… I’m calling about the property on the old creek road. It’s my grandmother’s, Caroline… was. Sorry. She’s passed and I’ve just inherited the place and—” You look out the window at the waist-high weeds and strangling vines. “I think the garden has gone to war and I don’t have a way of winning that fight.”

There is a long pause on the other end. You hear the faint sound of a truck engine idling.

“Caroline was a very sweet woman. I’m sorry for your loss,” the man says, voice softening a fraction. “She spoke about you a lot. Said you were lost in the city.”

That stings a little. Mostly because it’s true.

“I’m not in the city anymore. This is my home now,” you whisper.

Another silence.

“If you’d like, I can come over this afternoon. Take a look at the garden, you can tell me what you’d like to do with it. First consultation is free for Caroline’s granddaughter.”

The afternoon sun is thick and syrupy, casting long shadows across the linoleum, when the silence of the old creak road is finally broken. You stay tucked behind the lace curtains of the kitchen window, watching heavy tires roll over unkempt gravel. A beat-up, dark blue truck pulls into view, a workhorse of a vehicle, mottled with patches of primer and the red clay of the country. The engine cuts out, and when the door creaks open, he steps out.

Barnes.

He doesn’t look like any type of contractor you’ve ever hired in the city. There’s no clipboard, no neon safety vest. He stands by the door of his truck for a long beat, hands sliding into the pockets of his dirt-stained denim, eyes surveying the “green monster” you were apparently too terrified of. From your vantage point, you see how his yellow plaid shirt, faded from too many washes and too much sun, first buttons open to reveal a white top underneath, stretches taut across a pair of shoulders that look like they were built for the sole purpose of carrying the heaviest of weights. But that’s not where your eyes linger.

Instead, they stay glued to his left arm. You don’t mean to stare. Not really. But the silver metal shines when the sunlight hits it and holds your gaze even if you try to look away. Spread across fingers, forearm, bicep, until it disappears under the short sleeve of his shirt. While watching him, you find no attempt on his side to hide that arm.

Barnes lets out a heavy sigh. Not a sigh of annoyance, or at least you don’t recognize it as such. He looks at the tangle of weeds and the buckling trellis not as nuisance, but as an old friend who has lost their way. There’s no rush to get the job done, no immediate knock on the door to get your attention. He is simply there, rounding the front of his truck as he looks around for details that surely escape you. Barnes looks like he belongs to the dirt, like the mud on his boots is a permanent part of his skin. He adjusts the brim of his cap, a movement that causes the fabric of his shirt to pull against the muscles of his back. There’s a quiet power in him, a “man of muscle” persona that’s just utilitarian, like he is a tool designed for this specific job. You can’t imagine him anywhere but here, amidst the messy chaos of your late grandma’s garden.

He touches a dry stalk, eyes some dead plants. The words from the address book return: he listens to the earth.

The door creaks behind you as you finally step out onto the porch, sneakers sinking slightly into the uneven boards, which have been worn down by years of sun and wind. You wrap your arms around yourself, though the day isn’t cold, just more of a habit that you’ve developed to shield yourself from the vastness of the yard that feels like it’s swallowing the cottage whole.

Barnes turns at the sound of you, and you then notice how he’s taller up close, broad through the shoulders in a way that makes the yellow plaid look borrowed from a smaller man. You don’t look at his metal arm again, and he doesn’t try to hide it or tuck it behind his body. It’s right there, part of him, gleaming faintly.

“Ma’am,” he says, removing his cap as a gesture all too long lost by men who called themselves gentlemen. The action reveals a sweep of dark hair damp at the temples from the heat, and without obstruction, you find it easier to see his eyes now, blue, color of ocean water. There’s no attempt to offer a handshake, and he doesn’t say anything more.

You offer your name back like it’s a gesture of gratitude. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Mister Barnes.”

“No need for the formalities. Haven’t been a Mister of much,” he corrects quietly. “I’m James. Most folks call me Bucky.”

His gaze drifts back to the yard, lingering on the strangled trellis. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Been a while since I was out here. Last time… must’ve been early summer. Told me the roses were coming in strong, wanted me to come trim the climbers before they got away from her. But I used to be here all the time. Helped her with some drainage plannin’, built the trellis for her.”

There’s a pause, and you see him narrow his eyes at a patch of what might once have been… well, anything, now lost under a sea of bindweed. “Should’ve checked when she went quiet. Figured she was just busy with her cannin’ or had some family visitin’. Didn’t feel right to push.”

You recognize the weight in the words. Guilt. A stranger who wasn’t a stranger to your grandmother, feeling the heaviness of not having visited her more often. It’s particular, how grief has a way of finding everyone who loved the same person and handing each of them their own particular version of it.

“She was good people. Always had coffee waitin’, strong enough to wake the dead. Talked about her grandaughter, well, you, a lot. Always said you were the prettiest girl in the big city. ‘suppose she wasn’t wrong.”

That lands too close to the bone while the numbness in your chest holds firm, a gray fog that keeps any sharper feelings at bay. Another time, in the city, you would have found Mister Barnes, James, Bucky, an incredibly handsome man. Maybe you would have said something warmer to him. You’re impressed, distantly, by the solid build, the quiet competence that radiates without needing to announce itself. But the grief sits too heavy, a stone lodged between your ribs. Flirting feels like a language from another life, one spoken under different air. Here, it doesn’t occur to you.

Bucky seems to interpret the silence on your end as discomfort. He clears his throat and gestures toward the almost collapsing trellis. “She loved those roses. So we’ll build them back up. Cut back what’s chokin’ ‘em, give the roots some air. They’re tougher than they look.”

We.

You don’t know what to do with that word. It does something to the wall of numbness you’ve been operating behind, finds a hairline crack and sits there. Something about the way he says it, not a sales pitch, not an empty promise to bill you later. This isn’t just a job for him. It’s a mission, a way to set right something that had slipped away while he wasn’t watching.

You nod, the motion feeling distant. “I don’t even know where to start. It’s a lot. And I’m not her, I barely know anything about this.”

He nods, once. Accepts that.

“It's a big job," Bucky says, back to practical. “Months, probably, before it looks like anythin’.” He glances at you sideways. "Depends what you want to do with the place."

You look at the cottage behind you, at the lace curtains still visible through the kitchen window.

“I want it to feel like her again,” you say. “Doesn’t need to be perfect. I just want it to feel like it has a reason to still be standing.”

Barnes is quiet for a moment. Then he says: “That's a good enough reason to start.”

The sound of a trunk horn wakes you up before the alarm goes off.

Your body registers it first of all, pulling you up from the unreliable sleep you’ve been managing since you arrived, and for one disoriented second, suspended in the gray space between dreaming and waking, your mind can barely place it itself. Then the floral wallpaper swims into focus, then the smell of old wood.

The clock on the nightstand reads 7:12. Outside, the truck engine cuts, a door swings open and closed, and then silence again. You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening in to the silence.

Bucky didn’t say he’d come this early. He didn’t say much at all, in full honesty. But you can already recognize the sounds of someone beginning to work in the garden that is now yours.

There is something deeply strange about it, a man like him moving through the wreckage of your grief at 7 in the morning while you are still horizontal and unwashed, yet the strangeness has an undertone to it that you can’t quite name. Maybe the particular relief of knowing that a problem is being faced even when you are not yet capable of facing it yourself.

By the time you manage to get up and get downstairs, you have pulled your hair back and traded yesterday’s clothes for something cleaner, which feels like the upper limit of what you can reasonably ask of yourself before 8 AM. The kitchen is exactly as you left it when you enter it to fill the kettle and set it on the burner before standing at the window.

Bucky is already deep into it.

He has positioned himself in front of the trellis, the worst of it, the structure that had looked to you like a lost cause from the moment you first saw it. Strangling vines have grown over it in layers, and he is working from the top down with a pair of long-handled shears, cutting in sections, pulling the severed lengths away and piling them to the side. The patience with which he does it makes it look like a delicate surgery.

You watch him work the way you watched him last time from this same window, with the glass serving the necessary distance for someone who is not yet ready to be in the middle of things. He reaches up to cut a particularly stubborn length of vine and the motion pulls his shirt taut across his back. You notice, again, the funny implausibility of his size relative to the delicacy of what he is doing. Hands, one flesh, one metal, moving through the overgrowth with the precision of someone looking for something they don’t want to damage in the finding.

The kettle whistles.

You make two cups of coffee on autopilot, as if the memory has already been embedded into you.

The back door opens just as you finish pouring the two cups, and Bucky walks over, registers you, then the cups, but he remains impassive.

“Mornin’. Didn’t expect you up this early,” he says. Doesn’t apologize for arriving at 7 AM, you notice. He’s just a man who assumed starting before the heat peaked was a given.

“I heard the horn.” With careful steps, you walk towards him and offer him a mug. “Grandma always had coffee waiting. Would feel wrong not to do the same.”

He takes the mug you extend with his right hand, wrapping his fingers around it, and you notice then the state of them. The knuckles. The deep lines of the palm, the hardened skin at the base of each finger, the kind of callouses that take years to build, sustained by the repeated act of choosing hard work.

“Thank you,” is all he gives you. Without being told, you realize that this isn’t the kind of man who fills silences out of politeness. That you can stand here and drink your coffee and not be expected to perform conversation, and that this is, somehow, the most considerate thing he could offer you right now. So you do just that. Stand there. Drink your coffee.

Eventually, Bucky finishes his coffee and then he’s back out the door, and back to work. You follow him this time, trailing behind him as you look at vines he’s begun working with. Up close, the damage is more visible than it was from the window. The vines have threaded themselves through every joint, every crossbar, working their way into the structure the way roots look for water by branching out and filling every small gap. But the trellis itself, the bone of it all, is still standing. Barely, but there, in a very unexpected way.

“You built this, right?” And even though it’s a question it sounds more like a statement because you remember what he told you already.

“Few years back,” he crouches to free a length of vine from the base, pulling steadily, working it loose rather than snapping it. “Your grandma wanted something that could hold the climbers through winter. Most prefab wouldn’t cut it.” Bucky glances up at the structure appraisingly, and you recognize the look of someone looking at something they’ve made a long time ago and are no longer sure what to think of it now. “Needs a few joints repaired, but the frame’s sound.”

Through the morning, he works and you watch, still keeping to the edge of things, mug gradually emptying before you fill it back. In the meantime, Bucky has uncovered a significant section of the trellis frame, and it is in this newly exposed stretch that he stops, crouches low, and puts the shears down.

What he’s looking at is a rose cane; or rather, what remains of one. It is gray-brown and leafless and looks, to an untrained eye like yours, like everything else in this garden, something that has long given up. But Bucky is looking at it with a particular kind of focus, one that makes you wonder if he’s reading something written in a language you definitely don’t speak, his metal fingers hovering just above the bark without quite touching.

“Is it…” Dead? That word cannot even slip past your lips.

“Dormant,” he corrects hastily. “There’s a difference.”

Then, his fingers pinch a small section of the outer bark away from the cane and he shows you the inside, which is very unmistakably green.

Alive.

“Oh.”

He stands back up, retrieves his shears and keeps working. You stay where you are a little longer, looking at the exposed cane with it secret green interior.

“She had a catalogue. Like mail-order flowers or somethin’. Used to argue about it,” Bucky says after a while, from slightly above and to your left, his attention still on the vine he’s cutting. He doesn’t feel like he’s making conversation, more like he’s just thinking out loud. “There was this one climber she’d ordered, I forget the name, she was convinced it would come back every year without any help. I told her it wouldn’t survive the first frost without protection. Stubborn thing, planted it anyway, said she’d take her chances.”

“Did it survive?”

Scanning the remaining vines with a slow eye, Bucky points to the largest dormant canes, one that is thicker than the others at the base.

“Third year runnin’.”

He doesn’t say it smiling. But the corner of his mouth does something, a small upward shift, before he ducks his chin slightly like he is trying not to make a thing of it; then goes back to cutting.

You stand there for another moment, before going back inside to refill the kettle, because the alternative is to stand there, in the middle of his work, like you belong there, and you’re not quite ready to believe that yet.

Making him tea is an accident, the first time.

You hadn’t planned it. You are in the kitchen, making a cup for yourself, the way you have been every afternoon since you arrived, and your hand simply reaches for a second mug. Muscle memory, maybe, or the particular guilt of drinking something warm while a man is pulling thorns out of the ground thirty feet away. You bring it out without overthinking it, set it on the porch railing and go back inside before he has to acknowledge it.

Bucky leaves the mug empty on the railing when he leaves.

The second time is less accidental.

A lavender path runs along the south side of the garden and is entirely invisible under a season’s worth of bindweed and creeping grass. Bucky has moved on to it after working on the trellis for a while, and he approaches it with the same care he approached the roses.

You have been watching from the porch for most of the morning, cup of tea gone cold in your hands, when he stops and looks back over his shoulders at you.

“You could help with this part,” he says, a statement of fact he’s choosing to share. You look down at your hands, then back at him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I know. Doesn’t matter for this, you’re just pulling.”

So you go in.

He hands you a pair of gloves without comment, the thick gardening kind, slightly too large, and you understand when you pull the first weed that this is why; the bindweed has thorns worked into it, a little too vicious, finding skin without any warning. You work at the edge of the path while he takes the denser middle section, and for a long stretch of time the only sounds are the pull and tear of vegetation.

The quiet between you has changed since the first day. It has lost the quality of two strangers being careful around each other, and it’s something simpler now. Still as quiet, but more comfortable now, like you’ve both established, without many words, that you trust each other enough to be silent together. You find that you can think in it, without the static that has followed you since the news broke.

“Is this one?” You hold up a stem you’re not sure about, something with small dark leaves that doesn’t quiet look like the rest of the weeds, but you also haven’t seen before.

Bucky glances over from where he’s kneeling. “Clover. Leave it.”

“…Why?”

“Pollinators like it. And it’s not hurtin’ anythin’.”

You put it back down carefully, tamping the soil around the base the way you’ve watched him do it, pressing with two fingers. There’s no comment from him on the imitation but you have the sense, even without looking his way, that he notices it. That’s the thing about Bucky, you’ve come to realize; he notices most things without making you feel watched.

Noticing without watching is a quality you have been trying put words to since the first day, when he looked at the rose cane the way most people look at something they love that has been damaged. There is a particular kind of attention he gives to things that is completely different from the attention you grew up being taught to pay. In the city, attention was a performance. In meetings, you looked at whoever was speaking to show them you were present, notes taken to demonstrate engagement. But here, Bucky’s attention is a different thing entirely. It is simply where his interest is. No performance, no proof. He looks at a plant and you believe that looking is the entire point of what he is doing.

And for the first time since his arrival, you find yourself wondering what it would feel like to have that quality of attention turned on you fully. Not the sideways glances you’ve caught, but the whole thing. If he’d find the flaws in your build, or if he’d look for the green under the bark.

Then you pull another weed, because this is not the time.

You are both working toward the center of the path from opposite ends when your hands converge on the same section, and you find the first live lavender stem. Bucky sees it first, a small cluster of gray-green stems, flattened under the weight of everything that has grown over them, but intact. He stops your hand and points.

“There.”

You lean closer, seeing the almost unrecognizable lavender, pressed flat and pale from the lack of light, but the leaves are still soft when you touch them, still releasing a faint dry fragrance that hits you all too softly. Then you hear him make a sound, like something has just occurred to him.

You glance over.

He is still looking at the ground, at the lavender next to you, an expression on his face like he’s actively deciding whether or not to let out whatever thought has come to mind.

Then, without looking up, without any preamble whatsoever:

"Why can't the flower ride his bike?"

You blink twice. Bucky’s jaw is set, expression aggressively neutral, like he has not just said what he said.

“… What?”

“… It’s just somethin’ that came to mind. An old joke I told your grandmother once.”

A pause hangs, your face doesn’t move except for your slightly furrowed brows.

“Okay. Why can’t the flower ride his bike?”

“Lost his petals.”

Bucky says it completely straight, the same tone he uses to tell you about drainage ingredients and soil composition and which weeds are worth keeping.

The laugh comes from somewhere so far down that it immediately surprises you on the way out. Not a small involuntary thing, but a bigger, louder laugh, one that takes over your whole chest and makes your eyes water before you’ve caught up to it. There’s no dignity to the sound that comes out of you, that escapes before grief has any chance to intervene. You press the back of your wrist to your mouth and it makes no difference at all.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s looking at you like he’s fighting very hard not smile, and losing that battle.

“That is the worst joke I have ever heard,” you manage, when you can speak again.

“Yeah. But you laughed. Was about time.”

The smile is still on your face when it happens.

It arrives quietly, the way the worst things do. One moment you are laughing, the sound of it still warm in your chest, and then something catches, a foot finding a loose board in the dark, and the warmth quickly dissipates.

Because the laughter had felt good. Physically good, the first thing in weeks that has cut cleanly through the haze, and the goodness of it is exactly what undoes you. The thought arrives fully formed and merciless: she will never hear you laugh again. Will never know you were here, in her garden, laughing at a terrible joke told by a man she liked very much.

The tears come before you can stop them.

You turn away from him immediately, a reflex, one hand coming up to cover your face. Tears that had been waiting, pressurized, behind the numbness for days, weeks, and are finally seeping through a moment of weakness. You try to breathe through it and can’t quite manage, and now you’re crying without much composure, without careful management you’ve been applying over your grief like a bandage of the wrong size.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be—”

“You don’t have to be.”

You don’t answer. You keep your hand over your face because looking at anything feels impossible right now.

“It’s not right,” you get out, eventually. “That I can laugh when she’s— I shouldn’t be laughing yet, it’s too soon, it means I’ve already started—”

“No.”

Bucky settles into stillness beside you, not touching, just present.

“Doesn’t work like that. Laughin’ doesn’t mean you’re done grievin’, or that you’re lettin’ go of anythin’. Just means you’re still here.”

You try to breathe.

“She would have wanted you to laugh. Grief will sometimes be loud, and then quiet, and then loud again. That’s okay.”

The tears are still coming but something in your chest has eased, just slightly. Finally, you lower your hand, and the garden comes back into focus. Bucky is giving you the courtesy of not watching you reassemble yourself, staring at something else which is, you think, exactly what your grandmother meant when she wrote that he listens to the earth. You’re part of it, too.

You wipe your face with the sleeve of your shirt and exhale slowly.

“I’ve been holding that in for a while,” you say.

“I can tell.” Another pause. “You know your grandma had no patience for held-in things. Would’ve had you cryin’ into a cup of coffee on the first mornin’.” The corner of his mouth gives up the fight entirely, shows a real smile, there and then gone just as quickly. “You want to keep goin' or call it for today?”

“Let's keep going,” you say.

He nods, once. Puts his gloves back on and you do the same.

From then on, every afternoon, somewhere around the point when the sun peaks and the garden becomes briefly inhospitable, Bucky takes a break he doesn’t announce and appears at the edge of the porch. You have started timing the kettle to it, which you admit only to yourself and no one else. You sit on the steps, he leans against the railing, and the conversation comes in the same way everything does with him: unhurried, arriving when it arrives.

He tells you things about himself. Careful, not because he doesn’t want to share them, but because you can tell he’s not sure whether you want to hear them. (You do, you come to find out.) Then tells you things about the garden and about your grandmother in the same tone, as if they are the same subject. That she once spent an entire afternoon arguing with him about the correct way to stake a climbing rose, and he let her win, and she knew he let her win and never brought it up again.

“She said something about you,” you tell him eventually. “In the address book, next to your number. I don’t know if you’d want to know.”

Bucky just looks at you.

‘Good lad. Strong hands and he listens to the earth,' you tell him. Exactly as she wrote it.

He looks away, out at the garden. Pulls the brim of his cap down a fraction, which you have figured is exactly what he does when something lands somewhere tender. There’s a long enough silence that you start to worry you’ve misstepped.

But then, quiet: “That’s good to know.”

That’s all.

The worrying starts a month in, and it announces itself in the most ordinary way.

You are inside the house when you hear it, a single sharp sound from somewhere in the garden, metal against stone, followed by a silence that has a different quality than the usual working silence.

When you move to the back door, what you find is Bucky standing very still beside the railing with his left hand pressed flat against his right forearm, metal protecting the flesh.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” He says it so quickly and flatly that it’s very obviously a lie.

“Bucky.”

He looks at you then, a brief evaluating look, and something about whatever he finds in your expression makes him relent. He lifts his metal hand to show you: a long shallow scratch along the inside of his forearm, from a piece of broken border edging he had been repositioning. Doesn’t look deep from where you’re standing, but the way he’d been holding it suggested it had stung considerably more than nothing.

“I have a first aid kit inside,” you say."

“It’s fine.”

“I didn’t ask,” You say it the same way he says most things. A fact, not an argument. “Come inside.”

He does, and sits at the kitchen table carefully, as a man who has learned to take up the right amount of space and no more, while you find the first aid kit in the cupboard where your grandmother always kept it, between the spare candles and the batteries.

The scratch is genuinely minor. You clean it without ceremony and he watches the process with patience, and you are aware, more than you have been at any point working alongside him in the garden, of how close you are. The kitchen is small. His flesh arm is resting on the table and you are sitting in front of him, and the afternoon light is coming through the window at an angle that does something very specific to the planes of his face. It highlights the blue in his eyes, too.

You focus on the first aid kit instead.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, but there’s no mention that he wants you to stop. Maybe he just feels required to offer you the exit.

“She’d have done it,” you say simply.

His eyes move to the window. “You’re not her.”

A small thing. It doesn’t need to be more than it is. But he finishes it in a way that makes it harder to simplify it: “I like that about you.”

You press a small strip of gauze into place with your thumb, smoothing the tape at the edges. There is no logical reason to take this long finishing a minor scratch. You both seem to know that, but neither of you moves away.

Your eyes travel, briefly and without meaning to, to where his metal arm rests next to his body. The afternoon light catches the articulated joints, the way it sits completely still the way flesh and bone rarely does. Your eyes drift away before it becomes a thing, but he sees it.

“You can look,” Bucky says. Not an invitation exactly. He’s just handing you a door you didn’t know you were standing in front of. “Most people do. Just usually they try harder to pretend they don’t.”

“I wasn’t—” you start, and then stop, because you were, a little. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve been one of the only people in a long while who just… let it be there. First day I came out, you looked and moved on. Treated it like it was part of a person instead of the whole story of one.”

You don’t know what to do with that, so you stay quiet and let him have the floor.

“Most people either stare and can’t stop, or they work so hard at not lookin’ that it becomes its own kind of starin’. Both make a man feel like a curiosity. You just… handed me coffee.”

“Seemed like the right thing to do.”

The corner of his mouth moves. “People don’t always do the right thing.”

Another silence, but it’s more comfortable now. There’s no need to fill it, you’ve both learned how to live inside it, but you continue anyway. A breach in his persona that you intend to explore, if he’ll let you.

“How long have you had it?” you ask, and you say it to his arm, because starting there feels like less an inconvenience than meeting his eyes.

“Fifteen years, give or take.”

The number lands heavier than you expect. Fifteen years is long enough to become the shape of a person. Long enough that you cannot picture the version of him that preceded it, and you suspect, that maybe he can’t always either.

“Work accident,” he adds, not because you asked. Just because the words are sitting there and he’s decided to pick them up. “Land clearin’ job, upstate. Big contract, the kind you don’t turn down when you’re twenty-five and tryin’ to build somethin’ from nothin’. There was an equipment failure. It was fast. Everythin’ else after was slow, though.”

You don’t say sorry, because something tells you he has a particular and well-earned exhaustion with that phrase. Instead, you ask: “What was the hardest part? After.”

He considers it for a bit.

“Knowin’ what my hands were supposed to do and not being able to trust them to do it anymore.” Bucky glances down at his right hand, the lines in the palm, the built callouses. “I’ve worked since I was seventeen. This kind of work, specifically. It’s the one thing I knew how to be. For a while I genuinely didn’t know who I was without it. Or if there was a version of me that existed separate from it.”

“But there was,” you finish for him.

“Took some convincin’. And a lot of broken things. Broke more fence posts learnin’ to calibrate the grip on that side than I care to admit. Had to relearn the pressure for everythin’. Soil density, stone, root systems. The sensitivity is different, temperature reads different. But some things are easier now. The metal doesn’t tire, doesn’t cramp in the cold.” He makes a face then, without self-pity, but still a bit funny. “Other… things are still being figured out, ‘til this day.”

“Fifteen years in and still figuring it out?”

“Most things worth doin’ take longer than that.”

You sit with that for a moment.

“I used to think that people would always see it first and everythin’ else second. That it would just be the thing that preceded me into every room,” he says, arriving at something he doesn’t often take out into the world. “But I have found that some people make it easy to forget it ever felt like a problem.”

Although he doesn’t look directly at you when he says it, his eyes now on his metal arm, you know he means you, even through the subtext.

You smooth the edge of the bandage one more time, a gesture with no remaining practical purpose, and then you fold your hands in your lap.

“For what it’s worth… from where I’m standing, it’s a good arm.”

He blinks. It's the closest to caught off guard you've ever seen him.

“Beg your pardon?”

“The arm. It’s good. Found the green inside the rose cane, pulled the lavender out without breaking it. It’s done something good. Just thought someone should say it.”

“… Thank you.”

And he means every syllable.

When he leaves that afternoon and you stand at the kitchen window watching the truck back out over the gravel, you notice something funny that takes you a moment to identify, unfamiliar after weeks of weight.

You are already thinking about tomorrow.

Not with dread. Not with the gray, flat, nothing that has colored every day since you arrived. It’s hopeful. You want tomorrow to come because that means you’ll see him again.

It’s a Thursday morning when Bucky announces he’ll start working on the fountain at the center of the garden. You’d looked at it weeks ago, and it was left on standby to be dealt with eventually. That eventually is today, which is how you both end up here, on your knees in the dirt, staring at the vines that have overtaken it.

“Pull toward you,” Bucky says (for the third time) because you keep pulling sideaways and the vine system underneath is apparently connected in a way that means you’re undoing his work every time you do. “The root runs that direction. You’re fighting it.”

You scoff. “I know I’m fighting it, I’m trying to remove it.”

“You remove it by not fighting it.”

“… Very zen for someone covered in mud,” you shoot back, even though technically he’s not covered in mud. But there’s a streak of it along his jaw where he’d wiped his face with the back of his wrist without thinking, and his shirt has long given up on any pretense of cleanliness. He looks at you, patience of a woman who has decided not to rise to it, and then reaches across and repositions your hands on the vine, both of his hands, flesh and metal, bracketing yours briefly.

“There, now pull.”

You pull, and the vine comes away from the stone in one satisfying length, roots and all.

“Oh.”

The fountain is old. Limestone, you think, or something like it, pale gray and carved simply, a wide basin sitting on a short column. Someone, maybe your grandmother, maybe your grandmother with Bucky’s help, had planted climbing things around its base and they had done exactly what climbing things do when left without guidance: they engulfed it entirely.

Clearing it takes the better part of the morning.

The heat is real today, thick, settling into the back of your neck and staying. You’ve both abandoned the idea of breaks, working through the mess in sections, passing the shears back and forth without needing to ask. You’re working closer together than you have been before; when he reaches past you to get a root system threading the far side of the basin, his metal arm crosses your line of sight close enough that you could close your hand around it if you moved a few inches to the left.

“Hand me the trowel?”

Find it, pass it over, and he takes it with his right hand, the left braced flat against the side of the basin to keep his balance while he works at the base and you watch the metal fingers spread against the stone for a moment before you make yourself look at something else.

And by noon, the fountain is mostly exposed.

You both sit back on your heels and look at it. The limestone is dark with old moisture in places, and there’s green algae mapped across the north face where the water must have pooled and sat. The pipe inlet at the base of the column is corroded but present.

“Think it still works?” you ask.

“Possibly. I imagine the line was shut off some time ago. If it hasn’t cracked in the cold and the pump is still… Where’s the external water shutoff?”

Which is how you end up in the small utility space beside the back door, the two of you shoulder to shoulder in a space that was clearly not designed for more than one person, while Bucky shines his phone torch at the copper pipework running along the wall and explains what you’re looking at and what he intends to do with it.

You are not listening to him as carefully as you usually do.

This is new, and you’re aware of it as a thing that is new. In the early weeks, Bucky’s presence had been a comfort primarily because it was a constant and because it was directed outward, at the garden, at the definable and fixable concrete. You could absorb the company without it requiring anything of you. Somewhere in the middle weeks, it became something you looked forward to specifically, the two cups of coffee and the particular silence that had grown familiar.

But this, right now, is something else again.

It’s the awareness of him as him, in a utility cupboard, explaining the gate valve, and something in you has oriented toward the way he moves and talks to you. Helplessly and without drama, just the natural consequence of conditions.

There is a difference between dormant and dead.

You’d thought it applied only to your garden.

“—so if you turn this one first, counterclockwise, and then the secondary valve gives, you’ll know the line is intact—”

“Bucky.”

“—and if it doesn’t, then we’re lookin’ at—”

“Bucky.”

He stops, looks at you, which in this space means looking at you closely.

“Sorry,” you say. “I missed the last part. Which one first?”

A brief pause, and then: “This one.” He takes your hand, your right and his right, and guides your fingers to the valve. “Counterclockwise. Slow.”

There’s a shudder in the pipework when you turn it, a gargle and the sound of water moving through old joints, and then: nothing catastrophic.

“Secondary,” Bucky continues, and you feel him behind your shoulder, leaning in to watch.

You turn the second valve, and the pipe hisses.

“Give it a minute.”

You give it a minute.

When you both walk back out to the garden, the fountain is running.

The water comes up through the basin inlet in a steady, narrow column, spills over itself and begins to fill the basin slowly, moving over the algae and the old stone. The sound of it is small and even and has been absent from this garden for long enough that it sounds almost strange to your ears.

Both of you dirty, both of you tired, you stand beside each other watching it, heat still pressing down from above.

“It works,” you say.

“It works,” he agrees.

Neither of you says anything else for a while.

You think about your grandmother's hands on this stone, over decades, the same hands that braided your hair and hauled compost and pressed the seeds into the earth. You think about Bucky standing at the edge of her overgrown garden on the first day.

Still here. That’s what he’d said when you’d been crying on the lavender path. Laughing doesn't mean you're done grieving. It means you're still here.

You are still here.

And you, here, don’t make a decision, exactly. Or if you do, it isn’t the kind you feel yourself making. It’s more like you just stop holding something.

Whatever small distance remains between you and Bucky as you watch the fountain is quickly closed when you shift toward him and kiss him.

It’s all too brief. Soft. His cheek is warm from the sun when you touch it, and he smells like turned earth, but nothing really compares to how his lips taste against yours. To how he kisses you back, for a full second, and you swear you can feel his body leaning in, and maybe you’ve got the power of sight because even with closed eyes, you can feel his metal hand hovering and reaching for your waist.

Except he doesn’t. He goes completely still and then steps back.

Bucky’s not unkind in the way he does it, but he does it nonetheless. One step that reestablishes a distance. Very briefly, he looks like a man who has just pressed his hand to a bruise he’d forgotten about.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it, which somehow makes it worse.

There’s warmth in your face when you look at him now, but not from the heat. “No, I’m sorry, that was…”

Was… what?

“This isn’t a good idea.”

This is the part where you say something, a distant corner of your mind observes. But the embarrassment has arrived, sudden, and you’re caught between it and the question of what he had done in that one still second before he moved away. Because it had not been nothing. You are certain, with the certainty of someone who has spent the last weeks learning how to read a careful person, that the way he kissed you back, even for a split moment, had not been nothing.

“Okay.”

It’s the only word small enough not to make it worse.

Days later, you make lemonade for the first time. You don’t examine the decision too closely. It’s hot, genuinely hot, the first real heat of the season pressing down on the cottage and the garden like a hand, and lemonade makes sense in a way that has nothing to do with anything else. You bought lemons a few days ago after finding a recipe with your grandmother’s handwriting tucked inside a cookbook. You follow it exactly, including the ungodly amounts of sugar mentioned at the end.

When you carry the pitcher and two glasses out to the porch, Bucky is working at the far end of the garden on the vegetable patch and he sees you from a distance. Straightens up. Looks at you. Walks across the garden toward the porch.

There’s something different about watching him move toward you versus watching him work, something you register without deciding to. He takes the glass you pour and drinks most of it standing up, deeply thirsty, then looks at you with mild surprise.

“Tastes exactly like your grandmother’s.”

“Found the recipe in the cookbook.”

You pour him another glass when he hands you his empty one, a silent request for more. Then he sits on the porch steps instead of leaning on the railing, which he hasn't done before, and you sit beside him at a reasonable distance.

This isn’t so different from the first day you stood side by side looking at the green monster. Of course, the garden is changed now, less of a green monster and more of a slight green inconvenience, nowhere near finished, but visibly different. The trellis is cleared and the roses are staked and the lavender path is at least recognizable. There is structure reappearing where before there was only chaos. Clear evidence of work. Evidence that things can be found again if one is willing to look.

You sit on the porch steps and drink too-sweet lemonade that tastes like every summer you spent here, and beside you Bucky is quiet in the way he is always quiet, which is to say completely and without apology, and it makes you think about the lavender pressing itself flat in the dark for years and still releasing fragrance when someone touched it.

There is a difference between dormant and dead.

You’re on the porch when a storm announces itself with the first roll of thunder somewhere past the treeline. Crouched by the vegetable patch, Bucky hears it too, and you see him pause his work and tilt his head back slightly, reading the lines of the sky.

The first drops are fat and isolated, hitting the porch boards, and then between one breath and the next, the sky opens entirely.

Bucky runs toward the porch steps in a few strides, and you both stand under the narrow overhang and watch the garden disappear into gray curtains of rain. The tin roof above you turns the downpour into something enormous, a sound that swallows everything else, and the smell of wet earth hits almost overwhelmingly.

“That came fast,” you almost yell over the rain.

“Saw it coming from the ridge about an hour ago. Didn’t think it’d move this quick.”

Wind picks up and drives the rain sideways under the overhang in a fine spray that finds your arms and your face, and Bucky shifts in front of you, blocking some of it.

“Come inside, there’s no point standing out here.”

The kitchen is dim with the storm light, and the sound of water on the roof fills the cottage from wall to wall. With careful hands, you put the kettle on, because that’s what you do, and Bucky leans against the doorframe that separates the kitchen from the hallway, carrying some self-containment of a man in someone else’s house, even after months.

You’ve noticed that he does this, chooses doorframes and porch railings and the edge of things, rather than the middle. Somehow, that makes you impatient today.

“You can sit down. You’ve been here every day for months.”

“I know.”

“You’re not going to wear out the chair.”

In an act that almost feels like rebellion, he doesn’t move, and you turn back to the kettle. Rain is relentless against the roof, and the kitchen feels smaller than it usually does, storm drawing in the walls somehow.

After the water has boiled, you set his mug on the table and sit, before Bucky crosses to the table, pulls out a chair and sits with the kind of particular quietness he always does since the other week’s incident. He’s always too careful around you, now, since that kiss. Like you’re an explosive device he’s terrified of setting off.

He drinks his tea. You sit down across from him and drink your own.

This should be comfortable. They used to be, your silences, for long enough that you’d stopped noticing them as silences. But this one has something in it, something that has been building in the open field of your garden. Things changed that day at the fountain; nothing broke, not fully, but something bent, and now both of you have been carefully working around it, pretending it doesn’t change the entire geometry of your relationship.

“Roses are gonna need checkin’ after this,” he says eventually, trying to loosen up the air just a fraction. Another time, you would have appreciated the gesture, but right now it makes something unsettling burn in your throat. “Heavy rain on new stakes can—”

“Can we not?”

A pause. Bucky looks genuinely confused.

“Not what?”

“Talk about the garden. For like ten minutes. Can we just sit here and not make it about the garden?”

A brief recalibration moves across his face. “All right.”

“Look, I need to say something,” you start, and you hadn’t planned to start saying anything at all, but the storm and weeks of careful distance have apparently reached some sort of threshold. “About the fact that you come here every morning and we work together, and talk about my grandmother, and your arm, and roses, and yet… you still sit across the table from me like you’re deciding whether you’re allowed to be in the room or not.”

His jaw does the small ticking thing while he chooses his next words very carefully.

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to be…” He stops, then starts again. “There’s a line.”

“What line?”

Bucky exhales, slow. “You hired me to do a job. You were grieving’, no, you are grievin’. There’s a power in that, in me bein’ here every day while you’re in the middle of somethin’ that hard, and I have no interest in bein’ the kind of man who takes advantage of a situation because he—”

“Bucky, I kissed you.”

There it is, words laid on the table along with any dignity you might have left. Bucky looks at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, stripped of its usual careful management. Whatever he’s feeling, however, he’s trying hard to not let it show.

“I know.”

“And you stepped back.”

“I know that too.”

“I’m not asking for an explanation.” (You are, a little.) “I just… you said it wasn’t a good idea, but every day you come and you drink my tea and talk to me and notice everything while not saying anything and I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know what to do with you, with the fact that you didn’t want that.”

Rain is at its peak now, the downpour making the world outside the window entirely abstract and the kitchen feels like the only room left on earth.

Bucky has both hands around his mug, flesh and metal, and he’s looking at them rather than at you.

“Look… it’s not that I didn’t want to. That wasn’t the problem.”

“Then I don’t think I understand what the problem is.”

His expression does something complicated that you don’t find the vocabulary for. It isn’t closed, by any means, and that’s the thing that stays with you afterward, turning it over in the sleepless stretch of the night. It isn’t the face of a man who doesn’t feel anything. It’s the face of a man who feels something but has decided, for reasons you don’t have access to yet, that the feeling isn’t safe to act on.

The storm moves on eventually, and Bucky goes back outside as soon as the rain eases, checking the rose stakes just as he said he would.

Nothing, technically, changes in the following days. Nothing you can give a name to, anyway.

Bucky still comes at seven. The truck sounds the same on the gravel, the door swings open and closed with its own strange creak. Coffee gets made sometimes, other times tea (never again the lemonade). Work gets done.

But something shifts anyway.

He talks less. There’s no way to read it as a punishment, because it isn’t one, or as sulking. It’s not that. Afternoons on the porch steps, which had become part of the day you oriented toward without admitting it, still happen, but they’re shorter, and the conversation stays closer to a surface level. You talk about the garden and what needs to be done next week.

There’s nothing else that stretches into deeper roots, like the time he told you about how he lost his arm. Never again does he ask anything personal about you. Never mentions your grandmother again. Whatever personal territory he had slowly opened over weeks closed again as a quiet act of privacy.

It hits harder than you had expected it to.

Because he is scrupulous about the distance, about leaving every day at the same time, leaving no room for hope of a longer evening. There’s no more pause at the truck door before getting in, a small delay that wasn’t forgetfulness. He just leaves, now, and you stand on your porch watching him go.

And then comes an ordinary day when something breaks open.

It’s a regular Friday. You have been inside most of the morning, working through the last of your grandmother’s paperwork at the kitchen table, the administrative aftermath of a life that keeps arriving in envelopes even months after the fact.

You bring Bucky coffee after lunch, and when you come around the side of the cottage you find him crouched at the base of the climbing rose, admiring something fascinating: it’s blooming.

Pale red buds cracked open at the tips, three or four of them along the highest cane, reaching toward the afternoon light. You stand there with the mug in your hands, looking at the roses while something rises in your chest. This is the beginning of something. A second chance.

Bucky rises to his height next to you and you hand him his coffee without looking away from the roses. The quiet distance that has been maintained for weeks is gone, dissolved in the warmth of this moment, because there is no architecture of caution that holds up against the first bloom of something you’ve rebuilt together.

When you finally turn to look at him, he’s already looking at you.

And that’s really all it takes, comically. That is the entire mechanism of it, managed silence and dormancy coming apart at the seams with one look too full of things he has been keeping behind professionalism and boundaries.

This time, Bucky’s the one who closes the distance between the two of you.

His mouth finds yours without hurry, without the frantic quality of something held back too long. He moves with intention, giving you every opportunity to see it coming, and his hand comes up to your face, warm, rough-palmed, cupping your jaw too quickly like he has thought about this a hundred times already.

You stop thinking, because what else is there to think but the touch of his lips on yours?

The paperwork on the kitchen table and the Wednesday night phone call that tore your life apart all recede to somewhere very far away, and what remains is only this. The smell of earth and roses, the solid pressure of him under your fingertips when your hands steady themselves on his chest.

He kisses you the same way he tends to things, with attention that isn’t performance, letting the kiss exist completely in itself without rushing toward anything else. Flesh thumb moves once along your cheekbone, tongue presses against the entrance of your mouth and allows itself in because you let him, and his metal arm snakes around your waist and brings you closer because you let him.

Your fingers curl into the worn fabric of his shirt while time does something strange. Loses its forward momentum and simply rests, hanging, until you decide to make it move again.

There’s nothing to say to improve the silence when he pulls back only a few inches, forehead dropping to yours. Morning birds are suddenly very loud, and the fountain is running, and the roses are blooming right there, and his breath is slow and warm against your mouth, and…

Tasting the way your mind runs ahead of your thumping heart, Bucky squeezes your hip gently, bringing you back to him. You're thinking about your grandmother's handwriting on the back of the business card.

He listens to the earth.

He knows how to listen to you, too.

“I tried,” he says, very quietly. Rough at the edges, like he’s been struggling to keep the words down. “I want you to know that. I tried real hard.”

“I know,” you say against his mouth. Deep in your gut, you know what he means. Tried to stay away.

“Kept tellin’ myself that it wasn’t right. That you were grievin’, that you’d come here to heal somethin’ and I was just the man hired to fix your garden, it wasn’t my place to—”

“Bucky,” you interrupt, fingers tightening around his shirt and leaning that much closer again that you’re almost kissing when you speak. “Come inside with me.”

Hesitation is gone when he follows you inside, through the back door and into the dim warmth of the cottage. Walking together through the hallway, Bucky closes the distance and doesn’t let go of you the whole time, while heavy steps sound on the floor and you walk him with a very specific location in mind.

He kisses you differently when you get there. Outside, by the roses, it was a start. Now, walking past the door of your bedroom, his right hand finds your face again, with the same instinct, but he exhales against your mouth and kisses you harder. Desperate, a man who pushes his lips against yours like he has never wanted to kiss anyone else in his entire life. Kisses your mouth and the soft place at the corner of it, and the line of your jaw when he pulls back, then your temple, then back to your lips again because stopping seems impossible.

Your hands find his shoulders, the dark hair at his nape, and every point of contact registers with a vividness that makes the last months feel like an absurdity. Like you had both kept yourselves from drinking water on the premise that you weren’t sure you deserved to be thirsty.

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed and draws you toward him, keeping you standing between his legs as he stares up at you. His right hand moves with certainty when he reaches for one of your wrists and brings it to your lips, kissing the skin. Blue eyes watch his own fingers move across your skin before they close, feeling you warm and real and present, and he keeps having to relearn this fact from the beginning every few seconds, because a part of him has not yet fully accepted that you are here and that you are letting him do this.

His left arm, however, stays where it is.

At his side, against the bed. And of course you notice it, so you reach for his left hand anyway while you move to sit on his lap, straddling him. Half of him freezes; his right hand moves over your collarbone, dips under your shirt to trace your shoulders. His left side, in the meantime, feels like it’s been dipped in a bucket of ice-cold water.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” You turn the metal hand over in both of yours, the articulated joints and cool weight of it, and you kiss it slowly, dragging your lips over every ridge, mapping every inch of the metal. Under your touch, Bucky almost crumbles, breathing unsteady, and you swear you almost feel him shaking.

“…Fifteen years. I haven’t… I never trusted it enough. The calibration for—” He’s looking for the word, but can’t seem to locate it in any comfortable dictionary while your lips trace his hand like it’s sacred. “This. I don’t know what I’m doin’ with this hand when it comes to this.”

“You found the green inside the rose cane,” you remind him again, just like the last time you talked about his arm. “Pulled the lavender out without breaking it.” Both your hands bring his metal palm flat against your face, warm skin against cool metal, and you watch his blue eyes build up a storm. You hold very still so he can feel that you are not afraid, that there’s nothing in you rejecting any of him. “You already know how.”

Metal fingers move then, slowly, tracing the hinge of your jaw, and he watches them, or watches you, reading the feedback, adjusting. You barely move at all, except for a shiver that runs through your spine when the metal touches the back of your neck, but the fingers quickly curling in his hair to pull him closer are enough indication that this shiver has nothing to do with fear. Fifteen years, and some things still aren’t figured out. You feel more than inclined to help him.

Both his arms move to wrap around you and he pulls you close, pressing his mouth to your hair before he lays you down.

His right hand moves through your hair, across your ribs through your shirt, learning you with the patience he gives everything, and his metal hand follows (more carefully, but follows nonetheless). The cool metal traces the same path a heartbeat later, fingertips gliding like he’s afraid the warmth of your skin might burn him if he presses too hard.

It’s strange to be on your back on the bed that used to be yours as a child (you were never brave enough to take over your grandmother’s bedroom, but you did manage to move out of the guest bedroom), the quilt soft and familiar beneath you, while Bucky is above you. But the strangeness doesn’t make you falter, not even when his flesh hand slips under the hem of your shirt and spreads, palm flat against the bare skin of your stomach.

He finds the bottom of your shirt and lifts it, inch by inch, and when the fabric clears your head, he sets it aside carefully before returning both hands to you. Flesh and metal cradling your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as if the shape of you is a miracle he never expected to hold.

His voice says things while he worships you, words that he has been carrying too long in his chest. That he had felt it early, earlier than made sense, that he’d genuinely tried to stay away, that he believed he was doing the right thing because you were in the middle of grieving.

“I kept thinkin’ that if I just kept my head down long enough it’d go away. That I could go home and sleep it off like a cold,” he says, his mouth at your temple. Then leans down and presses his mouth to the center of your chest, right over your heart.

He kisses lower, open-mouthed, while his hands keep moving, always touching. The right hand slips beneath the waistband of your pants, easing the fabric down with a care that makes your breath catch. The metal hand helps, fingertips hooking the other side, sliding the material away as though he’s afraid even the brush of denim might mark you. When you’re bare beneath him, he sits back on his heels for a moment, just looking. Both hands rest on your thighs and he strokes upward in perfect unison, reverent drags of fingers that leave trails of heat and coolness in their wake.

“You’re so beautiful. I never let myself believe I’d get to touch you like this.”

Open mouth follows the path his hands have already started, kissing the curve of your breast, the soft plane of your stomach, the dip of your hip, while his fingers never stop. They trace over the hollow of your throat, then come down over your sternum, finding your breasts and pushing the fabric of your bra aside. His flesh hand cups one breast with impossible gentleness, thumb brushing over the peak until you arch into him, sighing his name. It hardens under his touch and he looks at you smiling, like he’s proud of his achievement, or maybe just in awe that his rough hands still have enough soft touch in them to make you feel good.

Either way, you barely notice when he settles between your legs, still not rushing there either. He kisses the inside of your thigh first, both hands moving to cradle your hips and spreading you open, then higher, until his nose is tickling the space between your thigh and your panties, where a wet patch has formed. Metal fingers curl around the soft fabric and push it down your legs in a gentle motion, and then without warning, without fireworks, his mouth finds you, warm and delicate.

“Bucky…” You sing his name in a soft melody, legs closing around his head instinctively, but his metal hand curls around your thigh and pushes it open again, not forcefully, but with enough firmness to keep you in place. His tongue speaks a new language into the wetness of your cunt, licking every whisper of your wetness, a stripe, then smaller hits, then focusing on your clit until you are almost begging for mercy.

You thread your fingers into his dark hair and pull, and mercy is not an option when he groans against you, the sound vibrating through your bones. Tug, pull, push, legs shaking around his head as he throws both your legs over his shoulders and goes to town as if staying alive depended on it.

‘Bucky’, you call again, needier this time, a dying whine on your lips, and he closes his eyes as if savoring the sound, but never relenting.

Even when your hips start to buck and your fingers tighten almost painfully in his hair, Bucky stays right where he is, a devoted lover, too focused on your pleasure. The flat of his tongue drags up the center of you in a long stripe, then circles your clit with patient pressure until something starts to burn behind your eyelids: not stars, maybe an all-out supernova.

“Bucky, oh my god,” your voice cracks in the middle and he answers by sliding his metal fingers into one of your hands, pulling it from his hair and instead lacing your fingers together against the mattress. In eating you out he never takes more than you can give, as if he knows exactly what the limit of your pleasure is, but he toes it with every lick until he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, soft, warm, until you can almost swear your slick is now a mix of your wetness and his own drool.

You come hard, sudden and overwhelming, like you haven’t in a while, in maybe too long, with his name on your mouth sounding more like a pathetic plea. It’s been a minute since your voice sounded like this for anyone. It’s been a minute since you’ve allowed yourself to feel anything at all. Bucky doesn’t pull away until you’re trembling and soft and breathless, and even then he only replaces the warmth of your cunt with other skin for his mouth to touch as he kisses up your body with slick-covered lips.

 “Still with me?” he whispers against your stomach, kissing the sweat away.

You nod, heart thundering in your chest. “That was… you’re… God. Bucky.”

A chuckle slips past his lips, which is just as surprising to you as anything else happening today, because when have you ever heard this man this carefree in all the months you’ve spent together?

“I’m not God. But it’s good to know I still got what it takes to please my woman.”

That makes you pause, only a little, and you move the one hand still in his hair to press over his heart.

“Is that what I am now? Your woman?”

Bucky looks up from your stomach, eyes finding yours in the dim afternoon light, blue and steady.

“If you want to. I’ll take whatever you want to give me.” His right hand moves to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “A friendship. A warm bed. Somethin’ in between. I’m not a man who needs a lot, but I’m not gonna pretend I don’t have a preference.”

“And what’s your preference?”

“You,” he says, too simply. “All of you. In my arm, next time I go to town to get some supplies. So I can take you to see a movie, or out for dinner, or both if you want. In my bed, so I can pull from you every night the same faces you just did.”

That makes you chuckle, and you realize you are still more out of breath than you thought.

“I like your preference,” you whisper to him. “I think it's mine, too.”

Bucky Barnes, a man on the edge of his own composure, finally pushes himself up and reaches for the buttons of his shirt, but his fingers are clumsy, the tremor of want making a simple task all too difficult. Through the haze of your recent pleasure, you reach up, covering his hands with yours.

“Let me.”

You undo them one by one, and as the fabric falls away, the breadth of him is almost overwhelming. Years of hard work have carved muscle into his frame, but there are scars, too, old ones, pale and faded, mapping stories across his skin. There’s a line where the flesh meets metal on his left shoulder, almost screaming at you, but you don’t react, don’t even flinch. Instead, your fingers trace the edge of it gently, the same way you touch any other part of him, and you lean up to kiss the scarred skin. Bucky is attempting to kick his boots off when you do, and you feel him stagger right there, as if it’s too unexpected, too soon despite it being on his body for fifteen years now.

You wait for the anger, for him to ask you to stop. Instead he exhales slowly, sheds his pants and boxers and lies down over you, mattress dipping under your combined weight. His body against yours is a revelation; strong and thick, radiating heat that rivals the summer sun.

You open your arms and he comes to you, settling between your legs with a care that very few men have ever shown you. Between your bodies, you feel the hard length of him, pressing not all subtly between your folds, not yet pushing in, but resting there. Blue eyes meet yours again, his brows furrowed in what seems to be a man deeply lost in thought. One of your hands reaches up, strokes the spread of his cheek.

“You are incredible. So beautiful,” he whispers against your temple, closing his eyes as he inhales the scent of your hair.

“You’ve said,” you reply, letting humor make the moment feel less heavy. Bucky grips your thighs a little harder.

“Don’t mock an old man laying his heart out to you,” he says back, the same amount of lighthearted fun in his tone, but you know he means it, deep down.

Before you have a chance to reply, he leans forward and kisses you deeply as he lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your entrance. He doesn’t push in right away, instead just rocks gently while your mouths work together, sliding through your slick folds and coating himself. You moan against him and he swallows it in a breath, and that’s when he finally presses forward, inch by careful inch. Soft praises are whispered against your lips when he pulls back, and he moves slowly, giving you time to adjust, but your body still struggles to keep up, given how sensitive you still are.

Bucky moves with soulful patience, metal hand buried in the pillow next to your head and flesh hand gripping your hip, and every thrust feels like a question that is answered with the way you wrap your legs tighter around his waist every time, feet digging into the small of his back.

“You’re okay?” he gasps, searching your eyes for any trace of discomfort. Is the metal too cold, is he too heavy?

“I’m okay,” you breathe. “I’m okay, Bucky, keep going.”

The thrusts start slow, metal arm braced beside you, fresh hand cradling the back of your head with his fingers threaded through your hair. He angles his hips just right, grinding against that stop deep inside you that sets sparks lighting up behind your eyes. You meet him thrust for thrust, hands roaming where they can reach, nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, his shoulders, holding on to his biceps and he kisses your neck, your collarbone, mouth open and wet.

The pace stays unhurried, passionate in its restraint. Every slide of his cock drags deliciously, building heat low in your belly, and soon enough you can feel another orgasm begin to coil, slower this time. But Bucky’s control is fraying, obvious in the way his breaths turn ragged, in the slight stutter of his hips. It’s been too long for him, and you’re too warm, too wet, too many years of self-imposed winter, and the sound of your voice calling out his name is a catalyst he can’t fight.

His teeth graze your shoulder, eyes blown wide.

“I can’t… fuck—” he chokes out. “I’m gonna—”

He realizes he’s at a point of no return before he’s ready to be. With a frustrated groan, he braces himself with his metal hand and pulls out, the friction of the exit making you cry out in protest. Hot stripes of cum spill across your stomach in thick pulses, painting your skin as he weakly strokes himself through it with a shaky hand. His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open on a silent gasp.

When the last spasm of his body fades he slumps forward, landing on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry, that was… I swear I can last longer, just… has been a while…,” he rasps, breath still coming in harsh pants. “I didn’t even—I wanted to ask you where… where you wanted it and I—”

“Inside,” you say, breathless but slightly deadpan.

“… What?” His voice is tentative, as if he’s sure he’s misheard you through the gaze of his own orgasm.

“If you had asked, I would have told you to come inside me.”

Bucky exhales, though there’s barely oxygen left in his lungs after you’ve punched it out of him with those words.

“Do you wanna fuckin’ kill me?” he breathes against your mouth, and it would sound like half a laugh if he wasn’t almost breaking apart.

That’s when you feel him moving again, right hand slipping between your bodies and tracing feather-light patterns over the sticky mess on your stomach before gathering it on his fingers. Two thick fingers are now shiny with it, and he brings them down between your legs without hesitation, rubbing them over your swollen clit in one slow circle. Immediately, your hips jerk, a sharp gasp punching out of you.

Bucky doesn’t tease, just pushes those two fingers inside you in one smooth stroke, feeding his own release back into your cunt. The wet sound it makes is obscene in the quiet room, mixing your arousal with his release, his fingers stretching you open around them as they curl and search for that same spot his cock had hit not too long ago.

“Bucky,” you whimper, thighs trembling around his wrist.

His eyes are locked on where his fingers disappear inside you, dragging his cum deeper with every thrust of his fingers. “Promise I’ll fill you up proper next time. Just take my fingers for now.”

A third finger is added to the others, stretching you fuller, and his thumb finds your clit again, circling in time with the curl of his fingers. Pressure builds fast, too fast, burning hot in your belly. Every time your slick drools from inside you, he coats his fingers in it and fucks it right back inside you, making it messier.

It hits you not long after like a storm crashing over your garden, all too overwhelming and sudden, pulling you under. Your cunt clamps down around his fingers and you come with a loud cry and Bucky doesn’t stop. Just keeps fucking you through every spasm, drawing it out while he murmurs soft praise against your neck until you’re oversensitive and still clenching around him like your body refuses to let him go.

You don’t know this yet, but tonight you’ll fall asleep in his arms, and it’ll only be the first of many nights.

A year later

You and Bucky have finished the garden. Well, sure, Bucky has told you enough times that gardens are never truly done because living things require continued attention and presence, the willingness to show up before the heat peaks and stay past the point of easy. But it at least looks like itself again, the place it was always trying to be underneath all the strangling vines.

On a Tuesday afternoon, you are standing in front of the fountain with your second cup of tea of the day when Bucky comes around to meet you, cap on backward, shirt damp from the exertion of honest work.

“Finished your tea without me,” he says by way of greeting.

"I made you a cup. It's on the porch."

Bucky doesn’t move toward it. Instead, his hands slide firmly around your waist and with a sudden huff of effort, he hoists you clean off the ground. He doesn’t just lift you, he sweeps you into a wide twirl and the garden blurs into a smear of lavender purple and rose red.

“Bucky!” you gasp, laughing as your feet dangle and your head is thrown back with the afternoon sun dancing through the trees. Eventually he sets you down again, then steals you a breathtaking kiss.

“Had to get you out of your mind. You had that look.”

You raise an eyebrow, still feeling a bit dizzy. “What look?”

"The one where you're thinkin' something and decidin' whether to say it."

You huff in fake disapproval before you start making your way back to your porch, Bucky following right behind.

“I don't have a look,” you say just as you sit on the first few steps, watching the garden ahead of you.

“You have about twelve looks.” He comes to sit beside you, close enough that his shoulder presses against yours. “I’ve memorized all of them. That’s number four.”

“Bucky, you did not catalogue my looks.”

“You got the happy look, mad look, thinkin’ about your grandmother look, somethin’s on your mind look—”

“You’re making those up.”

“—stubborn look, which looks exactly the same as your grandmother’s stubborn look, for the record—”

“Absolutely not—”

“—lemonade look, which you think I don’t notice but you always make lemonade when you wanna ask me somethin’ you think I’ll say no to, I’ve verified this over twelve months of data—”

You laugh, an undignified full-chest sound, something that still surprises you because you can’t quite believe, all this time later, that it comes this easily when you’re around him. How little it costs you to just be happy when he’s with you.

“Anyway, number four. What’s on your mind.”

A Wednesday night in a city apartment, spreadsheets blurring into gray bars. A phone call that broke the world open. A business card in a phonebook. Two cups of coffee made without intention. Dormant, dead, the green inside the rose cane. A man who showed up and didn’t stop showing up. How life will look like five years from now. Ten. Eighteen.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start.

“You’ve been thinkin’ since about six this morning, based on when you stopped bein’ asleep next to me and started starin’ at the ceiling.” His right hand finds yours on the step between you and covers it. “Take your time.”

“The garden looks good,” you say.

A pause. He knows you well enough to let you take the long way round.

“It does,” he agrees.

"It feels like her."

He is quiet for a moment, that particular quality of quiet that you know now is not absence but presence, the whole of his attention given without requiring you to perform for it. Then he offers you an out; he continues for you.

“Everything’s growin’ fast,” he says, eyes scanning the spread of the garden before settling back on your face. “We’re gonna need a bigger fence. Probably more hands to help by next season.”

That makes you smile, and you lean in until your head is resting against his shoulder. “Yeah, I know. But we’ve already taken care of the extra set of hands. They’re just… attached to a body currently about the size of a lemon.”

His gaze softens impossibly at that. His metal hand reaches out, rests flat and protective against your stomach, a motion he has repeated every day since the news was confirmed by a doctor appointment.

“A lemon? Did you see that on your app?”

“Yep,” you say, chuckling. “Was thinking about the nursery this morning. When we should start building it.”

The two of you stay like that on the porch steps while the afternoon moves around you and the garden your grandmother had loved and left you lives on with you.

Slowly, things have gone back to normal, roses blooming, lavender coloring the path.

Things that are worth having will sometimes take longer to come. But they arrive, anyway, so long as you tend them and give them water and time to grow.

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You had promised yourself you would not spiral today. That promise sits thin as you step out of the library, the familiar pressure of deadlines stacking one on top of the other until breathing feels like a chore instead of a reflex that keeps you alive. There is a quiet pride in having stayed back this late, in choosing tables and notes over distractions, in being the kind of second year who does not get noticed for the wrong reasons. You’re someone who slides through corridors without anyone remembering her name but still remembers every page she read, every line she underlined, every small victory that does not need witnesses.

It should have been a clean exit. Library to hostel. Bed. Maybe a shower if energy allows. A voice cuts through that careful plan. “Hey. Hey, wait.” Your name follows, said with the kind of casual certainty that makes your stomach drop because you do not remember giving it to a him. You slow before you mean to, hate yourself for it immediately, then stop fully because pretending not to hear it is useless now. He is leaning against wall near the steps, fourth year scrubs on, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder like rules never applied to him in the first place. Bucky Barnes.

The name exists in your head long before this moment, passed around in whispers and rolled eyes. The kind of senior everyone knows without knowing, the kind who never seems stressed, the kind who smiles like he expects the world to bend for him because it usually does. He looks at you like this is normal. Like calling you over has not just rearranged your internal organs. “Yeah… You. From second year, right?” The nod comes before you can stop it. Your mouth opens, and closes. Something about air refusing to cooperate. He does not seem to notice, or maybe he does and just enjoys it, because his smile tips slightly. “Good. I was hoping it was you.” Hoping implies intention. Intention implies choice. Your brain scrambles to keep up. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a record book, thick and familiar and immediately ominous. Oh no. He holds it out like a peace offering. It’s not. “I need this filled. Clinical entries. You know how it goes.” Of course you know. Seniors handing down record books like curses, juniors swallowing irritation because no one ever says no. It is tradition dressed up as mentorship, exploitation wrapped in smiles. You have watched others do it, complained quietly about it, sworn you would find a way out if it ever landed on you. It has landed on you.

“Uh,” your voice finally shows up. “I… I have my own, uhmm records. To finish.” He hums, just acknowledging a fact that does not change anything. The book does not move. His hand stays steady between you, patient in a way that feels practiced. “I know. Everyone does. You’re good at it though. Got neat handwriting. I’ve seen your stuff.” Being seen has never felt like a gift. It feels like exposure, like someone has pulled back a curtain you forgot was there. You wonder who told him. You wonder when he looked. You wonder why it matters. You take the book because not taking it feels impossible. Your fingers brush the edge of his fingers for half a second too long, heat flaring where there should be none. You hate that too. “Thanks,” he says, like you have done him a favour already. “I’ll need it by Monday. You can just slip it under my door. Room 318.” Monday. Your mind does the math without permission, counts hours you do not have, pages you do not want to fill, resentment blooming immediately. Your mouth wants to say no now, wants to choke the word out before it becomes habit. Instead, what comes out is a quiet okay that feels like a betrayal. Fuck. “You’re a lifesaver,” his grin widens, the phrase just sticks under your skin because you know he does not mean it. It is just something he says. Something that works. He pushes off the wall then, stretching like this conversation has taken nothing out of him, like he has not just fucked up your entire evening, possibly your entire week. “See you around, yeah?” You nod again, nodding seems to be all you can do around him. He walks away without looking back, already pulling his phone out, already elsewhere. The space he had left behind feels too empty and too crowded at the same time.

You stand there, blaming fate, blaming everything. Irritation simmers, edged with something that feels uncomfortably like embarrassment. Not because he asked. Because you said yes. Why couldn’t you have said no? The walk back to your room passes in a blur of footpaths and familiar turns, replaying the way he said your name, the way he smiled like nothing in the world could touch him. The unfairness of it all presses heavy. Fourth years like him float through med school like it is a game. People like you count pages and hours and caffeine intake and still feel behind. When the door clicks shut behind you, you drop your bag on the chair harder than necessary, the record book landing on your desk with a dull thud that feels deeply satisfying. “Oh my God,” you mutter, then louder, “Oh my God.” Your friend looks up from her bed. She has known you long enough to recognize the particular tension in your shoulders, the way your hands shake when you are trying not to scream. “What happened?” You hold up the book like evidence. “Bucky Barnes happened.” Her face shifts instantly, recognition blooming into something between amusement and sympathy. “No. Absolutely not.” “Yes,” your voice rises despite yourself. “He just handed it to me. Like I’m his personal assistant. Like I don’t have my own shit to do.”

“Did you say no?” The silence answers for you. A dramatic groan leaves her mouth. “You cannot do this. Seniors will see you coming from a mile away.” “I didn’t mean to,” you snap, then immediately soften because she is not wrong and that makes it worse. “He just… called me. And he smiled. And then suddenly I had the book in my hands and it was done.” You pace now, words spilling out faster, frustration finally finding a mouth. “Monday. He wants it by Monday. Do you know how much I have to finish by Monday? I barely sleep as it is.” Her expression becomes gentler now. “Why you though? He has friends. Groupies. People who would do it without complaining.” “Apparently my handwriting is neat,” the bitterness in your tone is obvious. “Apparently he’s seen my stuff. Which is creepy, by the way.” “That man has no boundaries. Also he’s hot, so no one calls him on it.” You stop pacing to glare at her. “Do not.” “I’m just stating facts,” she puts her hands up. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s a fuckboy,” you correct, the word slipping out with venom, satisfying in its accuracy. “And I do not have time for this.” The innocent book still sits on your desk, infuriating you. Pages waiting to be filled with cases you did not attend, observations you did not make. Your jaw tightens. “I should just give it back,” you say, more to yourself than to her. “Tell him I can’t. Tell him I have my own work.” She watches you for a moment, then smiles in a way that is all understanding and zero judgment. “And will you?” The answer tastes bitter before it even forms. You sink onto your chair, stare at the book like it has personally wronged you.

“No. Because I’m weak and stupid and I said okay.”

“You’re just too nice.” A humourless laugh echoes. “That’s not a compliment in med school.” She gets up then to cross the room, and peers over your shoulder at the offending book. “Look. We’ll bitch about him while you write.” That helps. The bitching. “He smiled at me,” the confession slips out before you can stop it. “Like I was already going to say yes.” “Because he knows people do.”

“I hate that it worked.” She bumps your shoulder lightly. “Welcome to being human.” You pick up the pen, flip the book open, anger and resolve tangling together in your chest. If you are going to do this, you will do it right. Not for him. For yourself. Because that is what you do. Because walking away has never come easily.

Still, as the first page fills under your hand, one thought forms inside your head.

Bucky Barnes is going to owe you for this.

Finishing this stupid record book on time might actually be the most irritating miracle you have ever pulled off. Two nights of cramped handwriting and squinting at borrowed case sheets, all for a senior who probably has not worried about a deadline since orientation week. There is a strange mix of pride and annoyance together in your chest. Pride because the pages look perfect, neat lines and careful diagrams, everything organized the way your brain likes it. Annoyance because none of it is even yours. Your roommate watches from her bed while you pack the book into your bag. “You actually finished it,” her voice is impressed and a little horrified. “I had no choice,” you zip the bag with more force than necessary. “If I didn’t, he would find me in some corridor and smile at me again and I would say yes to something worse.” She laughs like she understands exactly what you mean. “Go give it to him and be free.” Free is a strong word, but you take it anyway. The walk across campus feels lighter without the weight of guilt hanging over you. You rehearse what you are going to say in your head, something polite and quick and efficient. Here is your record book, thank you, goodbye. Nothing more. Definitely no unnecessary conversation. You spot him near the canteen. Of course he is surrounded by people. Bucky always seems to exist in the middle of laughter, like he attracts it without trying. A couple of fourth years, one or two juniors, faces you vaguely recognize. He looks relaxed leaning back on the bench. Your steps slow on their own. It would be so easy to turn around, to come back later, to avoid this tiny social nightmare entirely. But the book is in your bag and Monday is too close and courage, apparently, is a muscle you are forcing yourself to use. He notices you before you can talk yourself out of it. “Hey,” he calls out, like you are an old friend and absolutely not a nervous junior.

Every pair of eyes turns in your direction at once. Wonderful. Exactly what you wanted.

Trying to ignore the sudden heat crawling up your neck, you walk closer. “Um, I finished it.”

You hold the book out to him the way a student offers homework to a teacher. Careful, a little formal, maybe even a little scared. His eyebrows lift when he flips through a few pages.

“Damn,” he does not bother to hide the surprise. “This is perfect.”

Praise should not matter this much from someone like him, but apparently your brain did not get that memo.

One of his friends leans forward, curiosity written all over his face. You remember his name after a second. Sam.

“So, this is the famous second year with the magic handwriting,” Sam says, looking at you like you are a rare species. “Hey, listen, any chance you want to do mine next? I will pay you in coffee and eternal gratitude.” Your mouth opens, ready to spit out a polite refusal you have been practicing since last week, but Bucky moves before you can speak. His arm slides around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer to his side. “Nah,” he says easily, “she’s mine.” The words echo in your ears long after he says them. She’s mine. You know it’s not serious. It’s just a joke tossed out between friends. Still, your entire body reacts like it is not a joke at all. Your heart jumps. Your face heats. You suddenly understand why half the campus melts over him. Sam raises both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, territorial much. I see how it is.” “Find your own hardworking junior,” Bucky grins, finally letting his arm drop from your shoulders. Though the ghost of the touch stays behind though. You stand there feeling ridiculous, trying to remember how to breathe normally, trying to figure out how to actually survive. “Thanks for doing this,” Bucky’s voice is softer now, like the rest of them are not even there. “Seriously, you saved me.” “It’s fine,” you manage, which is not true but sounds polite enough. “Just… don’t give me another one.”

“Cross my heart,” he promises, two fingers over his chest in mock solemnity. The group drifts back into their conversation and you prepare to make a quick escape, mission accomplished, when Bucky stands up and grabs his bag. “I’ll drop you off,” he says, like it is the most natural sentence in the world. Did you hear it right? Your brain stutters. “What, no, it’s okay, I can walk.” “I know you can walk,” he sounds amused. “But I’ve got my bike and you’ve done me a huge favor and I’m not letting you disappear like that.” People are watching again. You hate that people are watching. Refusing in front of everyone feels impossible, so you nod before you can overthink it. The bike is parked near the gate. It’s black, shiny and slightly intimidating. Okay, very intimidating. You have never actually sat on one before. He hands you the spare helmet without making it a big deal, and somehow that small kindness settles your nerves more than anything else. “Just hold on to me, yeah,” he says while you climb on behind him. Holding on to him sounds like a terrible idea for your already fragile composure, but the engine roars to life and instinct wins over dignity. Your hands settle lightly on his sides, trying to keep a respectful distance that disappears the second the bike moves. It feels strange and a little unreal, like you have stepped into someone else’s life for a moment. Bucky drives smoothly, confidently, like he does literally everything else. You tell yourself not to enjoy it. You enjoy it anyway.

When the familiar outline of your dorm comes into view, you’re surprised of the disappointment that blooms. The ride had ended too quickly. Sudden quiet wraps around the both of you as he cuts the engine. You climb off carefully, handing the helmet back, already rehearsing another quick thank you and goodbye. Bucky does not move to leave. He stays seated, one foot on the ground, looking at you with that same unreadable half smile. “So,” he stretches the word out, “what do you want?”

“What do I want… for what?” “For writing my record,” he clarifies. “Don’t say nothing because I know how much time that took.” The question catches you off guard. You had not even considered the possibility of getting anything in return. In your head, this whole thing was just an annoying duty, a favor extracted through seniority and social pressure. “I really don’t need anything… it’s fine.” He studies you for a moment, like he is trying to figure out if you are serious. Apparently the idea of someone not wanting something from him is a new concept.

“Okay… but I’m not accepting that answer.” “you don’t have to do anything,” you insist, as you feel awkward all over again. “I just did it because you asked.” “Exactly. Which is why I’m doing something because you helped me.” You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how close he is, how easily he holds your attention without even trying.

“Look… let me at least buy you dinner. As a thank you.” Dinner. Your brain immediately supplies a hundred reasons why that is a bad idea. He is a senior. He is Bucky Barnes. People talk. You do not do dinners with boys on bikes who call you theirs in front of their friends. You definitely don’t do dinners with Bucky Barnes. “You really don’t have to,” your voice is weaker this time. “I want to.” He says it like it’s simple, like it doesn’t carry any hidden traps. You try to find a polite way out and come up empty. “It’s just dinner,” he adds, reading your hesitation with annoying accuracy. “No weirdness, I promise.”

The easy confidence, the genuine gratitude and the tiny hopeful tilt to his expression, makes your resolve wobble. “Okay,” you hear yourself say, surprising both of you. “But only dinner.” His grin widens. “Only dinner. Scout’s honor.” You have no idea if he was ever even a scout, but the image makes you smile despite yourself. “Same time tomorrow,” he starts the bike again. “Be ready.” Before you can overthink or change your mind or list all the reasons this is probably a terrible decision, he gives you a small wave and rides off.

You stand there for long after he is gone, heart doing strange unpredictable things, trying to understand how a simple favor turned into this. Deep inside your chest, excitement and nervousness argue back and forth. Dinner with Bucky Barnes. Tomorrow.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Tiredness is sitting heavy in your shoulders, the kind that feels stitched into your bones after a long day of lectures and wards and pretending to understand things you only half understand. The sensible version of you knows exactly what tonight should look like. Pajamas. Leftover notes. An early night. Peace. Instead you are standing in front of your tiny mirror with a dress spread across the bed behind you, trying to decide if it looks normal enough to pass for casual and nice enough to pass for dinner. This is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. You keep telling yourself that while you brush your hair, while you check your phone for the tenth time even though you know there is nothing new there, while you dig through your drawer looking for the one pair of earrings that make you feel a little less invisible. Getting ready for dinner with Bucky Barnes feels like preparing for an exam you never signed up for. Your roommate is out, probably somewhere with her own life that does not involve spiralling over a senior who asked for a favour and then offered dinner in return. He probably didn’t even mean it like that. That thought pops up while you smooth the front of the dress over your stomach, trying to ignore how nervous your hands feel. He said it casually, like he says everything, like inviting someone to eat is the most normal thing in the world. He did not ask for your number. He did not give his number. People who plan real dinners usually do those things, right? They exchange details and make proper plans and act like adults instead of just throwing out a time and disappearing on a bike like you see on movies. What if he forgot?

What if he only said it because he needed to look cool and effortless like he always does? What if he says things like that to everyone and never follows through because he is Bucky Barnes and the world follows him around instead of the other way? The more you think about it, the more stupid you feel for taking it seriously. You imagine him right now somewhere across campus, laughing too loud with people who are not you, maybe already at a party, maybe already making other plans that have nothing to do with a shy second year who writes neat record books. A small ache starts low in your chest and you hate it instantly. Why did you even get ready? You stand in front of the mirror, turning slightly from side to side, trying to see yourself the way he might see you if he ever actually showed up. The dress is simple and soft and maybe a little nicer than what you normally wear to class, and suddenly it looks silly. Like you tried too hard for something that might not even happen. Oh God, the thought of sitting here all dressed up for no reason, waiting for a message that never comes. This is embarrassing.

You start to take the earrings off, fingers fumbling more than they should. It feels safer to assume nothing is happening. It feels safer to crawl back into your comfortable routine and pretend none of this ever existed. You reach behind you and tug at the zipper, already planning how quickly you can change and wash your face and bury yourself under a blanket. He did not even ask for your number. That sentence loops in your head like a stubborn song you cannot turn off. If he really wanted to take you out, he would have made sure he could contact you. That is basic logic. That is common sense. You pull the dress down over your shoulders, halfway committed to the idea of forgetting the whole thing. But then your phone lights up on the desk. The sound is small but it freezes you completely. For a second you just stare at it, heart suddenly beating in a way that feels unfair. Notifications come from lots of people. Groups and apps and random spam messages. It does not have to be him. There is no reason to assume it is him. Still, you walk over to the desk like you are being pulled by an invisible string. One new message.

Unknown number : I’m here. Come down.

That is all it says. Your face heats so fast it almost hurts. It’s him. He remembered. He actually remembered. The room suddenly feels too warm and too small making your earlier embarrassment shift shape into something lighter and terrifying in a completely different way. He is downstairs. Right now. Waiting for you. And you are standing here with your dress half off like an idiot. You scramble back into it with clumsy fingers, tugging the zipper up again, checking your reflection in a rush of nervous energy. The girl in the mirror looks flustered and a little wide eyed, and there is no time to fix that.

Of course he remembered. Why would he not remember. He literally told you to be ready at this time and you convinced yourself he was lying because apparently your brain enjoys drama. Maybe this is not such a bad idea after all.

You do not want to read too much into it. You really do not. But the feeling is there anyway, impossible for you to ignore. It is only dinner. Just a thank you dinner between a senior and a junior. Nothing dramatic. Absolutely nothing life changing. Still, you catch yourself smiling at your phone like it personally delivered good news. This is how it starts, isn’t it? Tiny things that mean nothing on their own slowly adding up into something heavier. A hand on your shoulder in front of his friends. A ride on his bike with the wind in your face. A message saying he is here when you were sure he would never come. Do not get carried away. Do not turn this into a story in your head. You barely know the guy. He barely knows you. Getting attached to the idea of someone is a dangerous hobby and you have exams and responsibilities and a life that already feels full without adding complicated feelings into the mix. What if this is all in your head? What if he is just being polite and you are turning it into something bigger because you are not used to attention from boys like him? What if tonight is normal and friendly and you walk back to your room later feeling silly for letting yourself hope for anything more? You don’t remember getting down. When you push open the hostel door and step outside, the evening air hits your face gently. For a second all you can hear is your own heartbeat being louder than it has any right to be. But that’s when you see him. Bucky is leaning against his bike exactly the way you imagined he would be, like he belongs there, like waiting for people outside dorms is just another ordinary part of his day. He looks up the moment you appear, and the second his eyes land on you, something in his expression changes. A playful whistle slips out before you can even take three steps toward him. “Okay, wow… yeah, hi. You look… really pretty.” Nobody ever just says things like that to you so casually. Nobody ever looks at you like that either, like you are something worth pausing for. You have no idea what to do with it. “I… um… thank you,” you manage, this is as flustered as you can get and it’s not even two minutes in. He smiles at the reaction instead of pretending not to notice it. “No, seriously. I’m glad you didn’t bail on me.” “I almost did,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “I mean… not because of you… God, no. Just because I thought maybe you forgot.” His eyebrows lift slightly. “Forgot?” “Yeah,” you are suddenly aware of how silly it sounds out loud. “You didn’t ask for my number and I didn’t have yours and I just… I don’t know, I figured maybe you say things like that to people all the time.”

He studies you for a moment.

“Hey… no. I don’t do that. If I say I’ll show up, I show up.”

He says it like he actually means it, and you hate how much relief that gives you.

“Good to know,” you mumble, suddenly very interested in the ground.

He reaches for the helmet hanging on the handlebar. “C’mere.”

Before you can process what is happening, you’re stepping closer, his hands are gently lifting the helmet over your head. He adjusts it carefully, fingers brushing your hair back so it sits properly, tugging the strap under your chin with an ease that makes your stomach flip.

“Hold still for a second,” he murmurs.

“I am holding still,” you answer, trying very hard not to focus on how close he is.

“Yeah but you’re holding still like you’re nervous.”

“I am nervous.”

He chuckles softly. “That’s kind of cute, you know.”

The buckle clicks into place and he gives the top of the helmet a small affectionate tap. “There. Perfect.”

You genuinely have to remind yourself to breathe.

Climbing onto the bike feels a little easier this time, but not by much. Your hands settle on his sides again and you wonder if he can feel how tense you are through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You good back there?”

“Uh-huh, yeah,” even though your heart is doing ridiculous things.

The ride to the restaurant passes in a blur of lights. It feels different tonight, less awkward and more intimate, like you are sharing a small secret with him that the rest of the world does not get to see.

When he finally pulls up in front of the place, he turns back slightly. “Hope you like Italian. If not, pretend you do for my ego.”

“I like Italian,” you answer quickly. “I mean… pasta is good. Pizza is good. Food in general is good.”

“That might be the most honest review I’ve ever heard,” he laughs.

Everything inside feels new and a little intimidating in the way unfamiliar restaurants always do. Bucky opens the door for you without making it feel like a grand gesture, just a simple natural thing, and you slip inside with a quiet thank you.

He pulls out the chair for you at the table.

Nobody has ever done that for you before.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you say, sitting down carefully.

“I like doing it.”

The menu becomes a safe distraction for a few minutes, something to focus on so you do not have to keep wondering what to do with your hands or your face or your nerves.

“Order whatever you want,” he tells you. “Don’t do that thing where you pick the cheapest thing to be polite.”

“I was not going to do that,” you lie.

“You absolutely were.”

“Okay maybe a little,” you admit, smiling despite yourself.

The waiter arrives and Bucky waits for you to speak first, like your choice matters more than his. You stumble through your order with a little too much hesitation, suddenly hyper aware of how ordinary your preferences sound out loud.

“That’s a solid choice,” he says once the waiter leaves.

“I don’t do adventurous very well,” you confess. “I like safe food.”

“Nothing wrong with safe. Safe is good sometimes.”

Conversation should feel awkward. It usually does for you. Sitting with new people always involves long pauses and overthinking and trying to figure out when to talk and when to stay quiet. But with him, words seem to find their way out more easily than expected.

“So,” he leans back in his chair, “tell me something about you that isn’t related to med school.”

Your brain blanks immediately. What’s there not related to notes, day-old scrubs and stethoscopes?

“That’s… a hard question.”

“Come on, there has to be something. Hobbies, embarrassing talents, secret dreams.”

“I can touch my nose with my tongue,” you blurt out, then immediately want to sink into the floor. Bucky stares at you for a second and then bursts out laughing, real and completely unfiltered. “That is not what I expected.” “You said embarrassing,” you defend yourself, your voice is small like that of a child, cheeks burning a little too much. “No, that’s perfect. I’m genuinely impressed.” The way he laughs makes it easier to relax. It makes you feel less like a nervous junior and more like an actual person sitting across from another actual person. He tells you stories while you wait for the food, small funny things about his friends and the chaos of fourth year. You learn that he drinks too much coffee and hates morning rounds and once fell asleep standing up during a lecture. None of it sounds like the larger than life version of him people whisper about. It just sounds human. “So you really did all that work just because I asked?” he asks at one point.

“Yeah… I complain a lot but I’m bad at saying no.” “I’m sorry about that, by the way.” “About what?” “Putting it on you like that. I should have asked properly instead of… whatever that was.”

The apology catches you off guard. You had not expected that from him at all. “It’s okay. I survived.” “Still… thank you. Really.” Food arrives and fills the table with warm comforting smells, and for a while the conversation slows into easy quiet. He asks if you like it and you nod with your mouth full, making him grin. He pays attention in a way that surprises you. Notices when your glass is empty. Notices when you hesitate over the dessert menu. Notices little things you are not used to anyone noticing. “You don’t talk much,” he says suddenly.

“I know.” “Is it because you’re shy or because you think everyone else is dumb?” A small laugh escapes you. “Definitely the first one.” “That’s a shame. I think you probably have smart things to say.” Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “You don’t even know me that well.” “I know enough… and id like to know more.” Somewhere between the main course and dessert, the nervous knot inside you loosens. You start answering more without overthinking every word. You ask him questions too, and he answers without making you feel like a kid for asking. This feels entirely new but safe. Things that usually don’t belong together for you. By the time the plates are empty and the bill arrives, you realize with a tiny jolt that you do not actually want the evening to end yet. “Ready?” he asks.

You’re not. “Yeah.”

“So,” he says as you reach the bike, “dinner was okay.” “Dinner was really nice,” you correct. “Thank God. Because I was low key worried you’d hate my choice and never talk to me again.” “I would have at least finished the food before ignoring you.”

“You definitely know how to humble a guy,” he laughs. You stand there just looking at him, helmet in your hands, trying to hold on to the feeling of the evening before it slips away into ordinary life again. He looks at you with that same easy smile he had when you first came downstairs, but now it feels different. “Thanks for coming out with me.” “Thanks for actually showing up,” you reply before you can stop yourself.

His grin widens. “Told you I would.” As you hand him the helmet so he can help you put it on again, a small undeniable truth settles into your chest. Maybe you are not as immune to Bucky Barnes as you thought you were.

That night he drops you off like nothing extraordinary has happened.

Until you reach the dorm steps, he stands there and makes sure you get inside safely the way he said he would. Just a small wave and a lazy smile.

“Sleep well, okay?” There’s nothing cinematic about it, but it feels like a movie anyway.

You were on your bed for a long time afterward, staring at the ceiling fan and replaying the whole evening in your head from beginning to end, trying to understand how something so normal could feel so important.

You tell yourself not to overthink it. You tell yourself it was only dinner. You tell yourself a lot of sensible things that did absolutely nothing to stop the tiny hopeful flutter still moving around inside your chest.

The first text came later that night.

Bucky: Hey. Did you make it in without tripping over anything?

You laugh out loud because it’s such a ridiculous thing to ask. It felt like he texted because he just had to text.

You: Yes, thank you very much. No accidents reported.

Bucky: Thank god. I was prepared to feel personally responsible.

That’s how it started. Small messages here and there that slowly turned into longer ones without either of you noticing.

Bucky: How was class today?

You: Boring. You?

Bucky: Don't even ask. Surgery rounds are trying to kill me.

He started to slip into your routine in little almost invisible ways. A text in the morning asking if you were awake. Another one in the evening asking if you ate. Sometimes just a random picture of something stupid he saw on campus with a line of commentary that made you smile harder than it should have.

One morning, when you mention that you had skipped breakfast, he shows up outside your lecture hall holding a small paper bag and a cup of coffee.

“You said you didn’t eat,” he hands it over before you could even react.

“I didn’t mean for you to… you know… bring me food.”

“Yeah but I just didn’t want you to starve yourself, so here we are.”

Inside the bag is a sandwich cut neatly in half and a chocolate bar tucked beside it. You do not know what to do except mumble a shy thank you while trying not to look too affected.

You’re not used to people paying attention to small things like that. You’re not used to someone remembering. But here he is, with food, like you’d actually starve if you don’t eat.

Days begin to feel a little brighter with him in them. He waits for you near the library sometimes, pretends it’s a coincidence. You pretend to believe him. He walks you back to your hostel after late study sessions even when it’s slightly out of his way.

“It’s dark, okay. Just let me be dramatic and protective.”

“That is the most ridiculous you’ve ever said.”

“I prefer heroic but sure, we can go with ridiculous.”

He always teases you easily, gently, never in a way that makes you feel small. It always feels like he was trying to pull you out of your shell inch by inch, like he enjoys watching you relax around him.

One afternoon though, he did something that made your entire week.

You had been whining to him about how second years never get to see anything interesting in the operating rooms, how you were always stuck observing minor procedures while the exciting cases went to seniors.

The next day he texted you out of nowhere.

Bucky: Wear clean scrubs and meet me near the main OT at two.

You spent the entire morning confused and curious and a little nervous, and when you show up at the time he asked, he’s already there waiting.

“I pulled some strings... c’mon.”

“Pulled strings for what?”

“For you to watch something actually cool for once.”

He gets you inside an operating room you have no business being in.

You stand against the cool tiled wall with your hands folded awkwardly in front of you, trying very hard to look like you belong.

Bucky leans slightly toward you, voice soft enough that only you can hear. “this is a suspected small bowel perforation.”

Throughout the surgery, he explains before you could even ask anything.

“First perforation ever?” Bucky glances at you with a small smile.

“First case ever.”

He doesn’t seem to miss the awe in your voice. “Not bad, huh?”

Not bad at all.

Afterward you could not stop thanking him.

“You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

That sentence becomes a pattern between the two of you. Small thoughtful things wrapped in the same simple logic. I wanted to. I want to.

He learns your coffee order without asking. You learn that he hated pineapple on pizza with an unreasonable passion. You start looking for his face first whenever you enter a room.

Slowly, without any formal decision, you become part of each other’s days.

Evenings often find the two of you sitting on the library steps pretending to study while mostly talking about everything else instead. You told him about your family and how nervous you were on your first day of med school. He told you about his ridiculous group of friends and how he still sometimes felt like he was faking his way through life.

“Everyone is faking it a little.”

“Even you?”

“Have you seen me?”

“Nah,” he chuckles. “You actually know what you’re doing.”

The faith he seems to have in you feels strange but warm and a little dangerous.

Sometimes you catch yourself thinking about him at odd hours, wondering what he might be doing, wondering if he is thinking about you too. The thought would embarrass you immediately afterward, but it never stops coming back.

You try to stay sensible about it. Really.

But he is Bucky Barnes. Charming and confident and surrounded by people all the time.

You are just you, always a little out of place in big social circles. There is no logical reason for him to keep choosing your company, yet he keeps doing it anyway.

One evening he calls instead of texting.

The sound of his voice in your ear makes you realize you had missed it more than you expected.

“Hey… are you busy right now?”

“Not really. Just pretending to study.”

“Perfect. Come downstairs for a bit.”

“Right now?”

In your two years of college life, there wasn’t a day where you’ve not dreamed of a moment like this. But there’s never been a day like this so far.

“Yeah right now. I’m outside.”

You go down in your pajamas and messy hair and he still looks at you like you were worth showing up for.

“I was out with friends, saw this juice you like,” he hands you a juice pouch like it’s no big deal.

He just got you something just because you liked it. You don’t remember the last time someone did that for you.

This shouldn’t make you feel special. But it does anyway.

These little moments pile up quietly. Late night conversations about nothing important. Shared snacks in the canteen. Him saving you from your seniors — who are his juniors by the way — during clinical postings. You helping him organize his notes even though he pretends to not need help.

One day he asks you to help him study for an upcoming exam. Pediatrics. You end up sitting together in an empty classroom for hours, your notebook spread between you while you explain topics he claimed to be terrible at.

“You’re really good at teaching,” he tells you. It’s a simple compliment. But when has there ever been anything simple about him?

“I’m just repeating what the book says.”

“No you’re not. You make it make sense.”

He looks at you with such easy admiration that you have to glance away to hide how much it affect you.

There are days when you wonder how this even happened. How a simple record book favor had turned into shared lunches and inside jokes and a growing comfort that feel suspiciously like happiness.

Your friends start noticing too.

“So are you two like… a thing?” your roommate asks one night while you were smiling at your phone again.

“No. We’re just friends.”

“Friends who text constantly and see each other every day.”

“That is literally what friends do.”

She gives you a look that says she absolutely does not believe you.

The truth is you don’t know what you are to him. He never defined it. Never said anything that crossed an obvious line. He was just there, steady, present and kind in ways that kept sneaking past your defenses.

You find yourself getting used to it. To him.

That scares you a little.

Because somewhere along the way you stopped thinking of him as just a nice distraction and started thinking of him as part of your life. You started noticing how your mood shifted depending on whether you had seen him that day. You started caring a little too much about how you looked when you knew he would be around.

You are not supposed to get attached. You know that. But knowing something and feeling something are two very different battles.

You spend a lot of time pretending that the little things don’t matter. That you are normal about him. That the way his name lights up on your phone does not rearrange something fragile inside your chest every single time.

It’s been easy mostly. Easier than it should be. You tell yourself it is just convenience, just proximity, just two people whose schedules keep overlapping like stubborn lines on a calendar. You are busy, he is busy, and somewhere in the middle of all that busyness you keep finding each other.

But tonight feels different in a way you can’t explain without sounding ridiculous even to yourself.

Maybe it is because he texted you at three in the afternoon asking if you wanted to grab something after your class, and you typed back a yes before you could think about it too hard. Maybe it is because you are sitting beside him now on the couch in his apartment with the television in the background like a polite third person trying not to interrupt.

Whatever it is, this is different.

You have been here before. Not like this, but close. Close enough that you know he keeps his spare blanket folded over the arm of the couch, close enough that you know he taps his fingers against his knee when he is trying to decide what to say next.

He is doing that now.

Tap tap tap.

“You look tired,” he’s always observant in that annoyingly careful way he has.

“I am tired.”

“Long day?”

“Long week. Long month. Long life, honestly.”

He laughs at that, pulling a smile out of you too.

“You wanna head home?”

The question catches you off guard because it is gentle and easy and leaves room for you to say yes without pressure. And for some reason that makes you want to say no.

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

Just okay. He stretches one arm across the back of the couch behind you. You think it might touch your shoulder. But it doesn’t, at least not yet.

The silence makes you aware of the small things, like like the way his knee is angled toward yours, like the way your foot is almost brushing his on the rug.

You start talking to fill it because you always do.

About a patient who made you laugh today. About the vending machine that ate your last twenty. About how you might actually be developing a caffeine dependency that deserves medical attention.

He listens to you like he always does, mouth twitching at the corners when you get animated.

Somewhere in the middle of your story you realize he is watching you a little too closely. The realization makes the words wobble in your throat.

“What?” you ask finally, because you’re self conscious and him watching you isn’t helping at all.

“Nothing.”

“No, you are doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you look at me like you know something I don't.”

His mouth curves. “I do know something you don’t.”

“And what’s that?” At this point, you’re wondering if you have clown makeup on because that’s how intense his look is.

“I know that we’re alone because Sam is out with his girlfriend.”

“That is incredibly unhelpful right now. And for the record, I know it too.” You roll your eyes, but you are smiling.

The movie he put on earlier plays forgotten in front of you. Some action thing you stopped following twenty minutes ago. You can hear it more than you can see it, explosions and dramatic music bleeding into the background of the room.

He shifts beside you, turning a little more toward you on the couch. The movement is small but it changes everything. Suddenly his leg is closer. Suddenly his shoulder is closer. Suddenly everything is closer.

He lifts his arm in an invitation, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Absolutely no words and yet you understand.

It shouldn’t feel like such a big decision to lean over a few inches. It shouldn’t make your heart start thudding. But it does.

You tell yourself not to be weird about it. You tell yourself this is nothing.

When you shift closer, his arm settles around your shoulders without ceremony. “Much better.”

You huff out a laugh and let your head rest back against the couch, trying very hard not to think about the way his thumb is brushing idly against your upper arm through your sleeve.

Minutes pass like that. Or maybe it is seconds. Time feels like a traitor you cannot trust.

You can feel the rise and fall of his chest beside you. You can smell the faint clean scent of him. You can hear the movie and the city outside.

All of it feels louder than usual.

“You cold?” he asks after a while.

“A little.”

He reaches for the spare blanket without letting go of you, drapes it over your legs with unnecessary care, tucking it around your knees. The gesture is so domestic it makes your throat tighten for reasons you refuse to unpack.

“Better?”

“Better.” Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.

His hand doesn’t leave your arm. If anything, it drifts lower, resting just above your elbow, fingers tracing lazy patterns that make it hard to breathe normally.

You should probably say something. Make a joke. Lighten the moment. But every sentence you think of feels like a landmine you’d be stepping on.

You just sit there and let it happen.

“You know,” he says eventually, “you are very easy to be around.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“Most people would disagree.”

“Most people are wrong.”

Your chest does that stupid flutter again. “You just… say that to everyone?”

He turns his head to look at you properly then, and the teasing drops out of his face.

“No.” Just one word.

You become aware, all at once, of how close your faces are. Of how if you turned your head a few inches your nose would brush his. Of how his mouth is right fucking there.

Your brain scrambles for something normal to say.

“It is getting late.”

“Yeah.” Neither of you move to do anything about it.

His eyes drop to your lips and then back up again so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Almost.

“I should probably go,” you say, even though your body makes no attempt to follow through.

“You could.”

“You are not making a very strong argument for it.”

“I am not trying to.”

Your pulse kicks up, so loud you doubt if he could hear it too, but then you remember it’s inside your body and he will be unaware of it unless his hand makes contact with that point of you.

“Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“What are we doing?”

He takes a breath slowly, like he is choosing his words carefully.

“Right now? Sitting on my couch.”

“You know what I mean.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I think we are figuring it out.”

It’s a fucking line. He’s probably bluffing. He probably says that to all his flings. That answer should annoy you. Somehow it doesn’t.

His hand slides a fraction lower, resting at your forearm now, thumb warm against your skin. You can feel the calluses on his fingers.

The distance between you feels thinner with every breath. You can see the faint flecks of color in his eyes, the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheeks.

He tilts his head a little, searching your face like he is waiting for permission he does not want to assume. “Tell me to stop.”

Your heart trips over itself. “Stop what?” your voice is barely a whisper.

“Whatever this is about to be.”

You should say it. You know you should. This is complicated and messy and you promised yourself you would be sensible.

But sensible feels very far away right now.

“I don’t… I don't want you to stop.”

The words come out like a breath, almost worrying you that you imagined saying them.

He hears you though. You can tell by the way his shoulders relax, by the way his hand finally moves from your arm to your jaw, cupping it gently like something precious.

Your body moves towards him before your brain can catch up.

It’s hard to think.

The first brush of his lips against yours is careful. Like he is still expecting you to change your mind. It is soft and warm and nothing like the dramatic movie kisses you have built up in your head.

It feels real.

You lean in without thinking, closing the tiny space between you, and he makes a sound that you feel more than hear.

The kiss deepens slowly, two people learning the shape of each other in real time. His fingers slide into your hair, and you find yourself gripping the front of his shirt like you need something to anchor you.

It is unplanned and honestly a little clumsy in the best way.

“Is this okay?” he asks against your mouth.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Bucky, please stop asking before I lose my nerve.”

A quiet laugh escapes him. He is kissing you again, a little more confident this time, a little less restrained.

Your brain goes pleasantly fuzzy. Every worry you walked in with dissolves into the simple fact of him and you and the warmth building between you.

His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you let yourself melt into him because pretending you do not want to feels impossible now.

You are very aware that this is a line. A big one. A bold neon line you are stepping over with both feet.

But right now you cannot find it in yourself to care.

The world narrows to the feeling of his mouth on yours, to the way he says your name like it means something important, to the way your heart pounds with a mixture of excitement and fear and something dangerously close to hope.

The kiss lingers like a question neither of you wants to answer just yet, his mouth moving against yours in a rhythm that feels both new and inevitable, pulling you deeper into a haze where everything else fades out.

You can taste the faint bitterness of coffee on his tongue, which he drank before you got here, and it mixes with the sweetness of the gum you'd chewed nervously on the way over, creating this odd, intimate flavor that's just yours and his right now.

His hand stays tangled in your hair, your fingers clutch at his shirt tighter, feeling the fabric bunch under your palms, the heat of his chest seeping through, and suddenly it's not enough.

You need more. You need to feel skin instead of cotton, need to know if his heart is racing as much as yours is.

Without breaking the kiss, you tug at the hem, pulling it up inch by inch, your knuckles grazing the smooth plane of his stomach. He gets the hint immediately, leaning back just enough to help you yank it over his head in one fluid motion that leaves his hair a little messy, falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look less put-together than the confident senior everyone sees.

"You sure about this?" he murmurs against your lips, you can feel that he's holding back but needs to check anyway, his breath warm on your cheek as his eyes search yours in the dim light.

There's no pressure in it, just genuine care mixed with that quiet intensity he always carries, the kind that makes you feel seen without feeling exposed.

And god, you are sure… surer than you've been about anything in weeks, even though your mind is a whirlwind of half-formed questions tumbling over each other: what if this changes everything, what if it's too fast, what if you mess it up somehow.

But none of that stops the yes from spilling out, because the way he's looking at you right now, like you're the only thing in his world, drowns out the doubts.

A small smile tugs at his mouth before he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding under your shirt to trace the curve of your back, fingers splaying wide against your skin, sending sparks everywhere they touch.

The contact makes your breath hitch, you arch into him. He takes that as his cue, lifting the fabric slowly, giving you every chance to pull away if you want.

You don't. Lifting your arms instead, you let him peel it off, the cool air of the room hitting your bare shoulders and making you shiver, though it is definitely not from the cold.

It's from the way his gaze drops, taking you in with awe that feels almost unfair, like he's memorizing every inch.

Left in your bra and the simple jeans you'd thrown on earlier, you feel heat creep up your neck, but he doesn't give you time to overthink it.

His mouth finds the spot just below your ear, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw that make your eyes flutter shut.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispers, and it's not said like a line. It's mumbled, almost to himself, like he couldn't help it, that makes your hands reach for him again, tracing the lines of his shoulders.

He's solid and warm, the kind of presence that fills the space without overwhelming it, and you wonder briefly how many times he's done this, how easy it seems for him, but the thought evaporates when his lips find yours once more, pulling you back into the moment.

Your fingers fumble with his belt, nerves making them clumsy, warranting his help, as he undoes it with a quiet chuckle that breaks the tension just enough to make you smile against his mouth.

"No rush," he says, his voice steady even as his hands work at the button of your jeans, popping it open with a gentleness that contrasts the heat building between you. "We got time."

Maybe. Yes.

Sam's out, there’s no one here except you two. But the muffled sounds of neighbors through the thin dorm walls remind you that this is real life, not some polished fantasy, making this somehow urgent.

As he slides your jeans down your hips, he helps you kick them off without any awkward tangles.

The cotton of your bra and panties feel suddenly too thin under his gaze. You would’ve have worn something sexier if you knew this would happen.

Sitting back on his heels to look at you properly, he pauses. His eyes have gone dark but soft, his hands resting lightly on your thighs.

"Still good?" His thumb rubs small circles on your skin, the simple touch sending a jolt straight through you, making it hard to think straight.

You want more, but you’re also scared of wanting more, excited and overwhelmed all at once. But your body knows, nodding before you can form words, "Yeah, don't stop.” Stopping now would feel like cutting off a breath you didn't know you needed.

With that, he scoops you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you bridal style. You let out a surprised gasp that turns into a laugh, your arms looping around his neck as he carries you the short distance to his bedroom.

The door's half-open already, and he nudges it wider with his foot, the room spilling into view: unmade bed with sheets twisted from whatever sleep he got last night, a desk piled with notes and a near empty water bottle, posters on the wall from bands you vaguely recognize.

It's lived-in, personal.

He lowers you onto the mattress, the springs creaking softly under your weight.

He follows you down, bracing himself above you on one elbow, his free hand trailing up your side as he kisses you again, slower now, like he's savoring it.

The bed dips under him, the pillow sinking a bit as your head rests back. You can feel the warmth of his body hovering just over yours, close enough to tease but not quite pressing down.

His fingers dance along your ribs, light, exploratory, absolutely maddening.

You need more, you need him to touch you properly. There’s the ache building low in your belly making you shift restlessly beneath him.

Without thinking, you reach for his hand, guiding it up to your chest, pressing it against your bra.

Surprised, he pulls back, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he looks down at you. "That eager, huh?" he teases, his voice laced with amusement.

"Tell me what you want.”

It’s absolutely impossible to word it, word what you want, as his thumb circles your nipple over the fabric. It's so close to what you need but not quite, making you whine softly in frustration.

"Just... touch me," you finally manage, the words coming out breathier than you intended,

He's already moving, his fingers deftly reaching behind you to unhook your bra with a single flick that speaks volumes about how many times he's done this before.

How many girls has he brought here, made feel like this? A spike of insecurity flickers, but it vanishes the second his mouth descends, warmth closing over one nipple while his hand cups the other, thumb circling in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.

Pleasure shoots through you, pulling a moan from your throat that surprises even you. It’s loud in the quiet room, echoing off the walls.

You're not usually like this, not vocal, always holding back out of some ingrained habit of keeping things contained, but here it spills out unfiltered.

He seems to notice it because frankly, it’s hard to miss. "That's it, lemme hear you… don't hold back if it feels good." His encouragement is gentle, making the next moan come easier, louder, as his tongue flicks and sucks, alternating sides until you're squirming beneath him, hands threading through his hair to hold him there.

Bucky takes his time, drawing it out, lips and teeth grazing just enough to tease the line between pleasure and ache, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, fingers digging in slightly as if to steady you, or maybe himself. You’re not sure.

The sane part of your brain slips away with every pass of his mouth.

With spit shine and swollen lips, he eventually pulls back, his eyes meeting yours with a heat that mirrors the fire building in you.

"You're so responsive.” He's marveling at it, at you, his hand trailing down from your breast to hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging gently.

"Lift up for me, baby," the word baby slips out casually and affectionate, like he's said it a hundred times, making you obey without hesitation.

The fabric is peeled down your legs, and tossed over onto the floor, forgotten.

Now fully exposed, the vulnerability hits you for a split second. You feel the cool air on bare skin, but more than that, you feel his gaze.

When you break eye contact, he shifts down the bed with a purposeful grace, settling between your thighs. His hands part them gently, thumbs stroking the sensitive inner skin.

Anticipation tightens your core, making it impossible not to squirm under his touch. "Relax," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, his breath hot against you, making you tremble. "I got you."

The gasp you let out is stifled by your bitten lips, as his own brushes over your core gently.

"No, let it out— wanna hear how good it feels." The encouragement works, pulling another moan from you as his tongue finally presses flat, licking a slow stripe that makes your hips buck involuntarily.

He holds them down with firm hands, keeping you in place as he works, alternating between long, languid strokes and focused circles around that spot that has your vision blurring.

The room narrows to just the wet sounds of his mouth, the way his hair tickles your thighs, and the occasional groan from him like he's enjoying it as much as you are.

The sheets are rumpled from your fists, now they reach for him again, fingers tangling in his hair as the pressure builds, coiling tighter with every flick and suck.

Moans spill freer and louder now, spurred by his murmured approvals like "that's perfect" and "just like that" between breaths.

He's thorough, attentive, reading every reaction and adjusting, drawing it out until you're teetering on the edge, body taut and trembling under his touch.

His tongue keeps that relentless rhythm, dipping and swirling in ways that make your toes curl against the sheets.

The pressure coils tighter and tighter in your belly, a hot insistent build that has you gasping his name in broken syllables, "B-Bucky, oh God.”

Your hips grind up toward his mouth without any real control, chasing that peak.

A sudden and overwhelming wave crashes over you, your whole body tensing and shuddering as pleasure ripples out in waves that leave you trembling. Your muscles quiver in the aftermath, breaths coming in short ragged bursts that echo in the quiet space.

He eases you through it with softer licks that draw out the aftershocks, making your legs twitch and your hands clutch at his hair a little harder before you finally go limp.

You sink back into the pillows with a sigh that feels like it's been pulled from deep in your chest. Pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then your hip, your stomach, he works his way up until his mouth finds yours again, tasting faintly of you in a way that's intimate and a bit dizzying.

"Hey," he murmurs against your lips, and you can feel the smile in it even with your eyes half-closed.

The trembling hasn't stopped entirely, little shivers running through you like echoes of the orgasm. Bucky notices that right away, brow furrowing, like he can't help but worry a little.

"hold on, let me get you some water," you hear him say, watching him through heavy lids as he twists the cap off of the bottle, sitting up a bit to hand it to you, his other hand steadying your back. "Drink this.”

The water hits your throat, the coolness of it washing something in you. He stays close while you drink, and when you hand the bottle back, he sets it aside before stretching out beside you on the bed.

His lips find your jaw first, trail up to your temple, brushing over your hairline in a way that feels almost too tender for what just happened, his breath warm against your skin as he presses another kiss there, then into your hair, like he's content to just lie here and hold you while your body settles.

The closeness wraps around you, his arm draped over your waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back that send lazy sparks along your spine.

As the trembling fades, you glance up at him, catching the way his eyes are half-lidded, watching you with that satisfied curve to his mouth.

There’s a confusion in you now. He's still half-dressed, jeans hugging his hips, and the unfairness of it hits you all at once, making you prop yourself up on one elbow, your hand trailing down his chest tentatively, fingers brushing the trail of hair leading lower.

"Wait, what about you?" because this feels lopsided, like he's given everything and taken nothing, and the thought lingers.

He shakes his head as his hand catches yours, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss on your knuckles. "We don't have to rush the rest… there's always tomorrow, or the day after, whenever you're ready.”

That doesn't sit right, the idea of stopping here, of letting him walk away from this without feeling the same unraveling you just did.

Before you can second-guess it, your mouth forms a pout, lips pressing together in that way you know looks a bit childish but can't help. "But... I need you," you say, the words slipping out bolder than expected, shocking yourself even more, "I need your cock."

Whoa, where did that come from? It's not like you, this blunt courage bubbling up uninvited, heat flushing your face immediately after.

His eyes darken, a slow smile spreading across his face like you've just said something he didn't expect but absolutely likes.

"Say that again?" He slides his hand up your arm to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as if to coax the words out.

A mix of embarrassment and frustration blooms, and you playfully swat at his chest with the flat of your hand, before your fingers drift lower again, fumbling with his belt buckle.

Avoiding his gaze, you tug at it clumsily. "You heard me."

His larger hand covers yours to undo the buckle with a quiet click, zipper rasping down as he lifts his hips to shove them off along with his boxers in one go, kicking them to the floor where they land in a heap.

He's hard and obviously so, cock springing free and curving up against his stomach, thick and flushed at the tip, veins standing out in a way that makes your mouth go a little dry.

He reaches over to the nightstand drawer, rummaging for a second before pulling out a condom packet, tearing it open with his teeth in that casual, practiced move that speaks to experience without flaunting it.

But before he can roll it on, your hand reaches out, "Wait—I've never, um, put one on before. Can I try?"

A surprised laugh bubbles up from his chest as he hands it over, eyebrows raised in amusement. "You wanna practice on me right now? Like I'm your training dummy or something?"

Lips jutting out again, "Teach me, Bucky… please?" drawing out the please.

He relents with a grin, guiding your hand to him, showing you without turning it into a lecture, "Pinch the tip here, yeah, like that."

His voice hitches when your fingers wrap around him, rolling the latex down slowly, carefully, the warmth of him pulsing under your touch making your breath catch.

Once it's on, he positions himself between your legs again, the weight of him settling over you comfortably, close enough that you feel enveloped, his forearms bracketing your head as he leans down to kiss you.

“You ready?" he murmurs against your mouth. You whisper a yes that's more breath than sound, your hands sliding up his back to pull him closer.

Inch by inch, he pushes in, stretching you in a way that's full and a little overwhelming at first, making you gasp into his shoulder, nails digging into his skin as your body adjusts.

The sensation builds from pressure to pleasure as he bottoms out, holding still for a moment to let you breathe.

"Fuck, you feel good.” The words are muffled against your neck.

The first thrust is steady and unhurried, making you wrap your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the flesh of his ass to urge him deeper.

The headboard taps the wall with each rock of his hips, he finds that angle that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, drawing moans from you that he swallows with kisses.

His own breaths come faster, mirroring yours. "That's it… fuck. Tell me — tell me if it’s too much—"

But it's not. It's perfect, the friction coiling that tension again until you're clinging to him, whispering "harder, please" in his ear.

Immediately he obliges, pace quickening until the room fills with the sounds of skin on skin, your shared gasps.

It builds faster this time, him inside you amplifying everything. You cum with his name on your lips, body clenching around him in waves that pull a deep groan from his throat.

His thrusts stutter as he follows right after, burying his face in your hair while he rides it out, hips pressing flush against yours one last time before he stills.

Somewhere between sleep and waking, you register the sensation of lips moving over your skin, the brush of his mouth along your shoulder, down the curve of your neck. That’s how you know it’s morning.

You stay still and let yourself exist in it.

His lips are softer now than they were in the dark. Curious in a way that feels less like hunger and more like quiet appreciation.

You are aware of your body before you are fully aware of the room. Aware of bare skin against bare skin. Aware of the way the sheets have slipped somewhere near your hips. Aware that you are not wearing anything at all.

There is a quiet exhale against your chest that makes you stir, eyelids fluttering open to a blur of morning light and dark hair bent over you.

“Morning,” he murmurs, sleep still clinging to his voice.

Your brain takes a second to catch up to the situation. To the fact that you are in his bed. That you fell asleep with your legs tangled with his.

You are naked.

He is naked.

You are in his bed.

Oh, also, this is Bucky Barnes.

There is no distance left to pretend this is casual.

“Hey.” His lips trail lower, until they take one nipple into its warmth, until it pebbles.

You open your eyes.

The ceiling above you looks different in daylight. More real. The warmth that had felt so comforting seconds ago now feels dangerously close to exposing something fragile inside you.

This is not something you do.

Not like this.

Not with a senior. Not with someone who walks into rooms and owns them without even trying. Not with someone like Bucky Barnes, who has a reputation that precedes him and a smile that has probably undone half the city.

And definitely not without talking about it first.

He lifts his head slightly when he feels the shift in you, eyes heavy but focused, mouth curving in a lazy smile that looks devastating this close.

“What’s that face for? Did I do something wrong already? Because that would be impressive.”

“No… no, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

You do not have an answer that feels safe enough to say out loud. Instead, you trace a line across his shoulder with your fingers just to have something to do, to anchor yourself in something physical.

Last night was not reckless.

It was soft. It was slow. It felt like something building rather than something exploding. There were moments where he had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room, and the memory of it makes your throat ache in a way you do not know how to handle.

But that was night.

Night is easy. Morning is not.

“I’ve just never…” you start, then stop because the sentence feels childish before you even finish it.

“Never what?” he asks gently.

You let out a breath and force yourself to look at him properly. “Never done this with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Yeah. You know. Someone… above me. Senior. Someone who has a whole… history.” The last word slips out before you can soften it.

There is a pause. Long enough for you to realize what you have implied.

He studies you for a second, expression unreadable in a way that makes your stomach drop. “A history,” he repeats.

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“It’s fine.” His voice stays even, but something in it shifts just a fraction. “I know what people say.”

You want to take it back immediately. Not because it is untrue, but because it feels unfair in this moment. Because the man in front of you is not the whispered stories or rumors. He is human and still half wrapped around you like he belongs there.

“I just mean,” you try again, “I don’t usually wake up like this. I don’t usually… not talk about things first.”

He searches your face like he is trying to see the shape of what you are really asking. “Are you asking what this is?”

There it is. The question you have been circling since you opened your eyes.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t want to assume.”

His thumb traces a slow line along your hip. “I didn’t think last night felt like an assumption.”

“It didn’t.”

“Did it feel like a mistake?”

The word mistake is a mistake. Because last night felt like the opposite of a mistake. “No,” you say immediately. “No. It didn’t.”

It really didn’t. It felt intentional. It felt chosen. It felt like something that had been building and finally tipped over.

So why does your chest feel tight?

Why does your brain keep whispering that this is exactly how one-night stands begin? Intense, unexpected, and sweet in the morning until reality sets in.

Before you can say anything else, a sharp vibration cuts through the quiet.

His phone.

The sound is coming from somewhere on the floor, probably from his jeans. He groans softly and leans over to grab it, the movement pulling away the warmth that had been pressed against you.

You lie there watching the shift in him as his eyes scan the screen. “Shit, I have to take this,” he says. “Give me two seconds.”

The faint voice from the other side asks him numerous questions about where the hell he is and tells him he will lose his attendance if he isn’t there in ten minutes.

“Fuck — I’m late.” The words are simple. Practical. Normal. But they land like something heavier.

“Late?” you echo, absolutely dreading that you’re stalling him.

“Yeah. I was supposed to be in half an hour ago.” He runs a hand through his hair, already mentally moving into the day ahead. “I didn’t set an alarm.”

Last night definitely didn’t feel like a time where alarms existed.

But mornings come, and they wait for no one.

As he swings his legs off the bed, the sudden absence of him beside you feels enormous. You pull the sheet up instinctively, even though he has already seen every inch of you.

He is moving quickly now, scanning the room for clothes, checking his phone again. “I can drop you off on the way,” he says, distracted but not unkind. “I don’t want you getting a cab this early.”

“It’s fine, I can manage.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He pulls on his jeans, glances back at you. “I’m not just leaving you.”

The reassurance should help. Instead, it tangles with the fear already building in your chest.

As you sit up, the sheet slips down to your waist. The room feels colder without the cocoon of the night around it. You watch him move around the room with practiced ease, like mornings here are routine.

It probably is routine for him.

You hope to God that only covers the ‘waking late’ part and not the ‘because of a one-night stand’ part.

You hate that your brain goes there, but it does. It does because there was no conversation.

It was just skin and warmth and whispered names in the dark.

“Hey,” he says, softer now, noticing the way you have gone quiet. “You okay?”

You nod because that is easier than explaining the way your stomach feels like it is sinking through the mattress.

“Yeah. Just waking up.”

He walks back over, bends slightly so you are eye level. There is something searching in his expression again, something that almost looks like he wants to say more.

“Last night…” he starts, then gives up as his phone buzzes again in his hand.

You take that as a cue to get ready and get the hell out of here.

You tell yourself that is normal. That adults have jobs and responsibilities. That this is not some dramatic movie where the world pauses because two people slept together.

But the fear creeps in anyway. What if it meant more to you than it did to him? What if the softness was just part of who he is?

What if you have stepped into something you cannot handle?

You slide out of bed, gathering your clothes from where they lie scattered. Each piece feels like evidence of something fragile and undefined.

He is already by the door by the time you finish dressing.

You search his face for something. A sign. A clue. A hint that he is about to say, stay. Or this is not nothing. Or we need to talk.

He does not.

He just checks the time again and sighs. “We should go.”

And just like that, you are left with more questions than answers.

It is ridiculous how much power one casual text can have over your entire nervous system.

The pharmacology class becomes ten times harder to sit in when you know it’s Bucky that’s texting you. You wait a full thirty seconds before checking because you refuse to look eager, even if no one can see you.

When you finally glance down, it is exactly what you expected.

Bucky: survived the morning. you alive over there?

That is it. No mention of last night. No shift in tone that would confirm or deny anything that happened between the sheets and the soft early light.

You stare at the screen, rereading the words as if they might rearrange themselves into something more revealing if you look hard enough.

Survived the morning could mean anything. It could mean he is thinking about you. It could mean he is not. It could mean the night was a pleasant distraction before reality resumed its normal rhythm.

Honestly, it was stupid of you to expect that he’d say something over text. At least he doesn’t ghost.

At least he texted.

You tell yourself that if it had meant nothing to him, he would not have bothered. He would have let the day swallow it. He would have gone back to being Bucky Barnes, charming and untouchable, moving from one thing to the next without looking back.

But he texted.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard. Every possible reply feels wrong.

Too warm and you look clingy. Too cool and you risk sounding detached. Too flirty and you might seem like you are assuming something. Too flat and you might seem like you regret it.

Why is this so hard?

Finally, you decide on something light.

You: barely. Caffeine is the reason I’m alive.

You stare at it. Delete it. Type it again with a different emoji. Delete the emoji because that feels like too much. Send it before you can edit it a third time.

The three dots appear almost immediately.

Bucky: that’s concerning. eat something.

Your chest tightens at the simplicity of it. It’s the same tone he uses when he shows up with food because you mentioned skipping breakfast.

You want to read more into it than is there.

You force yourself not to.

You: yes dad.

You cringe as soon as you send it. Now why did you say that? Why are you like this?

His reply comes a few seconds later.

Bucky: don’t start.

You can almost hear the amused warning in his voice. Heat creeps up your neck even though NSAIDs are being discussed right now.

The conversation fades into small exchanges after that. Nothing deep. Nothing that addresses the thing sitting heavily between you like an unspoken question. He tells you medicine rounds ran long. You tell him a patient tried to bribe you with chocolate. He tells you to accept the chocolate next time. You tell him that is unethical. He tells you you are no fun.

It feels almost normal.

Almost.

But beneath every word is a current you cannot ignore.

By the time your class ends and the sky outside has turned that deep dusky blue that makes everything feel a little more fragile, you have replayed every message at least ten times in your head. You have analyzed the speed of his replies, the punctuation, the absence of certain words.

He did not call you baby.

He did not say he missed you.

He did not bring it up.

You tell yourself that maybe he is giving you space. That maybe he is trying not to rush you. That maybe this is what maturity looks like.

But another voice whispers that maybe it did not mean the same thing to him.

That maybe you were one of many mornings.

You hate that thought immediately. It feels unfair. He was soft. He was careful. He had asked you if you were sure. He had not treated you like something disposable.

And yet.

You have heard stories. You have seen the way girls look at him. The way they orbit him like he carries his own gravity.

What if you had stepped into something that was always going to feel bigger to you than it did to him?

By the time you reach the campus courtyard that evening, your chest feels tight with thoughts you cannot shut off.

You had not planned on seeing him, but you know he usually lingers here. A part of you hopes he will not be there so you do not have to figure out how to act. Another part of you hopes he is because not seeing him would feel worse.

He is there.

Of course.

He stands in the middle of a loose circle of friends, laughter carrying easily across the space. Sam is beside him, animated as always, gesturing wildly as he talks about something you cannot hear. A couple of others hover nearby, one of them leaning against Bucky’s shoulder in a way that looks effortless and familiar.

The sight of it makes something twist low in your stomach.

He looks the same as he always does. Relaxed. Confident. At home in his own skin. There is no visible shift that marks him as someone who woke up with you wrapped around him this morning.

Why would there be…

You slow your steps without meaning to. You consider turning around. Disappearing before he notices you. Pretending you are busy.

But then his eyes lift and land on you.

The change is subtle but unmistakable. His body angles slightly in your direction even before he excuses himself. He says something to Sam that makes Sam glance over at you with a knowing grin that immediately makes your face heat.

Bucky makes his way toward you. “Hey.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes without letting the storm inside you show. “Hey.”

“How was your day?”

The question is simple. Ordinary. You search his face for anything that hints at last night, but there is nothing but genuine curiosity.

“It was fine,” you reply, and then immediately hate how flat that sounds. You clear your throat and try again. “Busy. But fine. Yours?”

“Rounds were brutal,” he admits with a small shake of his head. “Chief decided I haven’t stood for 24 hours today.”

His comment makes you laugh despite yourself. “That seems illegal.”

“I’m considering filing a complaint.”

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary. There is a softness there that makes your pulse stumble, but it is fleeting. You cannot tell if you imagined it.

“You look tired.” He tilts his head slightly like he’s trying to figure something out. “Did you eat?”

The familiarity of the question makes your chest ache. “Yes,” you lie, because admitting you forgot feels too intimate somehow.

His eyes narrow just a fraction like he does not entirely believe you, but he lets it go.

There is a pause, not awkward but not entirely comfortable either. You are hyperaware of the group behind him, of the way laughter erupts suddenly, of the fact that this is his world and you are standing on the edge of it.

“I’ve got a game tonight,” he says after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s gonna run late.”

“Oh,” you say, and hope it does not sound like disappointment. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” He studies your face again, like he is trying to read something you are not saying. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

The question is casual on the surface, but something about the way he says it makes your heart trip.

“Yeah… tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He smiles, that familiar crooked thing that used to make your stomach flip in a lighter way. Now it makes it drop.

He hesitates for half a second, like he might say more. Like he might bridge the gap you are too afraid to cross. Instead, he steps back slightly, already half turning toward his friends.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he adds, almost teasing.

You want to laugh. Instead, you nod.

“Go win your game.”

“Always do.”

He walks back to the group, slipping seamlessly into the rhythm of their conversation. Someone claps him on the back. Someone else throws an arm around his shoulders. He laughs at something Steve says, head tipping back slightly, unbothered.

You stand there like a statue.

Nothing about that interaction confirms your worst fears.

Nothing about it reassures them either.

He did not avoid you. He did not treat you like a stranger. He asked about your day. He said he would see you tomorrow.

And yet the space where a conversation should have been feels cavernous.

You tell yourself you are overthinking. That this is what normal looks like. That not every connection needs a dramatic declaration to validate it.

But as you turn away and start walking, the questions follow you anyway.

Did you move too fast?

Did you blur something that was supposed to stay light?

Are you already more attached than you meant to be?

The next time you see Bucky, he’s waiting for you outside your class. He is just there, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on you, and the way his face shifts when he spots you makes something hopeful spark before you can smother it.

For a split second, everything inside you softens.

He waited. He is physically here.

“Hey.”

You try to keep your expression neutral, like you did not spend half the lecture imagining this exact moment. “Hey. How long have you been standing here?”

“Long enough to hear the professor inside mispronounce drugs. I was tempted to go correct him.”

A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It feels good. Too good.

“That would’ve gone well.”

“I know. I’m very charming.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Debatable.”

“Ouch.”

You feel easy talking to him like this. Like nothing else is on your mind. But your heart does tighten occasionally, ruining everything.

“Walk with me?” he asks, nodding toward the parking lot.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not enough for him to notice, but long enough for you to feel the weight of the decision. You nod anyway.

When your shoulder brushes his, you are hyperaware of it. He does not comment. He just matches your pace.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment, glancing sideways at you. “You’ve been… somewhere else all day.”

“I’ve been in class.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

You force a small shrug. “I’m fine.”

He studies you like he does not entirely believe that, but he does not push further.

When you reach his place, he unlocks the door and steps aside to let you in first. That tiny gesture, that small courtesy, feels more intimate than it should.

The apartment looks the same but also not the same. The familiarity of it hits you harder today. You have been here before, but today it feels different because you woke up in his bed yesterday and left with no answers.

He closes the door behind you and tosses his keys onto the counter.

“Sam’s out,” he says casually, shrugging out of his jacket. “Date night again. I think he’s trying to set a record.”

You nod, even though your stomach flips at the information.

Sam is out. Which means you are alone.

The implication settles between you almost instantly.

“Oh,” you aim for neutral and land somewhere uncertain.

He steps closer without making it dramatic. He always does that, moves into your space like it is the most natural thing in the world. His hand finds your waist, fingers warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“I missed you.” The words send a rush of heat through you that you hate for how quickly it responds.

“It’s been one day.”

“Still.”

Before you can think about it, he leans.

The kiss is familiar already, like your mouths have memorized each other. His hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, and your body reacts on instinct, melting into him before your brain catches up.

You let yourself sink into it. Into the warmth and the steady pressure of him. Into the way his hand trails lower to your hip. Into the sound he makes when you kiss him back harder.

But then your brain wakes up again.

Sam is out. You are alone.

He waited for you after class.

Is this because he wanted you, or because he wanted this?

The grip on his shirt loosens slightly, but he picks up on it somehow.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your mouth, not pulling away entirely. “Where’d you just go?”

Nowhere safe.

You step back just enough to create space. “I’m just… tired.” You hate how weak of a lie it is.

You can clearly see him battling confusion. “Tired?”

“Yeah. I didn’t sleep much.”

That part is true. You did not sleep much because your brain just would not shut up.

His hands remain on your waist, not letting go. Almost not wanting to.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he says, searching your face. “I’m not dragging you in here for that.”

The defensiveness in you flares up immediately even though he has not accused you of anything.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I know. I just—” he exhales slowly. “You feel different right now.”

Because you are spiraling.

Because you cannot tell if you are standing at the beginning of something real or in the middle of something casual that you are already too invested in.

Because you keep imagining him bringing other girls here with the same ease.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, which sounds less convincing each time.

He studies you in that steady way that makes it hard to hide. “Talk to me.”

The words are gentle. That almost makes it worse.

What are you supposed to say?

That you are scared you moved too fast. That you are scared he does not see this the way you do. That you are already picturing him getting bored in a week and drifting away like this was just another phase.

You cannot say any of that without sounding dramatic or fucking stupid.

The only sane option feels like distance.

You shift away from him just enough to create it, even though every part of you wants to stay where you are. “I think I’m coming down with something,” you say, reaching for the first excuse that sounds remotely believable. “I’ve felt weird all day.”

The concern on his face is immediate. It wipes away the warmth from a second ago and replaces it with something sharper, focused. “What kind of weird?”

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Just… off. Headache. Maybe.” The lie comes very easily.

He closes the small gap you tried to make, instinct overriding whatever confusion he’s feeling. His hand lifts toward your forehead before you can think of a reason to stop him. His palm settles there, clinical in a way that almost makes you flinch.

“You don’t feel warm,” he says.

Of course you don’t. You’d know if you were febrile. You both would.

“I don’t know.” You pull back a fraction. “I just—” The rest tangles in your throat. “I think I should go.”

He studies you like you’re a case that isn’t lining up with the symptoms. Brows pulling together, jaw tightening slightly as he runs through possibilities that don’t fit.

“You just got here.”

You can feel him trying to reconcile it. Sudden onset vague malaise. Absolutely no convincing clinical picture.

You know he knows.

“I didn’t want to say anything earlier,” you add quickly, filling the silence before he can dissect it. “Didn’t want to make it a thing.”

His gaze doesn’t soften. But there’s less confusion now. More searching.

“You were fine five minutes ago.”

You hate how true that sounds.

“I wasn’t… I just didn’t think about it.”

That part isn’t even a lie. You hadn’t been thinking. Not about consequences. Not about tomorrow. Not about anything but him.

“Don’t be like that,” he says. “If something’s wrong, tell me.”

Something is wrong. It is inside your own head and you do not know how to untangle it without making a mess.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you insist, even though your chest feels tight. “I just need to rest.”

There is a flicker of something in his eyes now. Hurt. Frustration. Maybe both.

“Did I do something?” You hate that you made him think that.

“No,” you answer quickly. “No, you didn’t.”

But you cannot elaborate because the truth is messy and unformed and terrifying.

Reaching for your bag, “I’m gonna go,” you say, keeping your tone as steady as you can manage.

He stands there for a second like he is debating whether to argue. Then he exhales and grabs his keys from the counter.

“I’ll drop you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. I want to.”

I want to.

The firmness in his voice makes it clear he is not letting you leave alone, and a small part of you is grateful for that even as the rest of you feels like you are sabotaging something you cannot define.

You walk toward the door with him a step behind, the tension between you thick and unspoken.

This is not how you imagined today going.

He had waited for you after class. He had kissed you like he meant it. He had said he missed you.

Yet you are the one walking away.

As he opens the door and gestures for you to step out first, the weight of it settles deeper in your chest.

You are building a wall in real time, brick by careful brick, and you are not even sure what you are protecting yourself from.

Behind you, he locks the door and follows, close enough that you can feel his presence but not touching.

The silence is heavier than any argument that could have happened.

Your phone buzzes halfway through the afternoon. You consider ignoring it just to prove to yourself that you can. That you are not waiting around for him, that your entire mood does not hinge on whatever words appear on your screen next.

You still look immediately.

Bucky: heyy

Bucky: i wanna see you. if you’re feeling up for it. will be near your block after your last class. maybe wait by the entrance? no pressure.

He did not say come over. He did not ask if you are free. He said he wants to see you.

Your brain — traitor that it is — immediately begins its spiral. Maybe he just feels bad about yesterday. Maybe he thinks you were actually sick. Maybe he is trying to smooth something over. Maybe he is bored.

Fuck.

Maybe he just wants you.

You force yourself to be normal.

You: yeah. i’ll be there.

He reacts with a simple thumbs up.

By the time your last class ends, your nerves feel stretched thin. You tell yourself this is stupid. You are not walking into a confession. You are not walking into a breakup. You are walking outside your own building to meet someone who asked to see you.

Still, your palms feel slightly damp.

The doors swing open and voices spill across the courtyard in overlapping bursts of laughter and conversation. You scan automatically for him, heart already climbing into your throat.

It takes less than five seconds to find him.

Not alone.

A small group surrounds him, the kind of cluster that forms around someone people gravitate toward without even meaning to.

Steve stands on his left, animated as always, gesturing with both hands while he talks. Sam leans back against the wall with that amused, observant look he wears when he is about to make a comment no one asked for.

And then there is a flash of red.

She is standing close to him. Close enough that her shoulder nearly brushes his chest.

Natasha.

You have seen her before, of course. It would be impossible not to. Red hair that catches light like it knows it is being watched, sharp eyes that miss nothing, posture that suggests she does not need to raise her voice to command attention.

Right now, her fingers are at his collar. Adjusting.

She smooths the fabric down, straightens it slightly, then taps his chest like she is approving her own work.

There is familiarity in it that feels intimate even from a distance.

Your stomach drops so fast it almost feels physical.

That is not a friendly distance. That is not casual. That is close enough to touch without thinking about it.

Your brain does not wait for logic. It does not ask questions. It fills in blanks you never agreed to.

She fixes his clothes because she has done it before.

She stands that close because she is allowed to.

You are just another girl who showed up for a week.

You take an unconscious step back, already calculating the fastest way to turn around without being obvious. You could say you forgot something. You could pretend you never saw his text, even though you’ve replied to it. You could avoid the humiliation of walking over there like you belong.

Before you can pivot fully, his head lifts and eyes find you immediately.

There is no hesitation in the recognition. The moment he sees you, his expression shifts in a way that feels unmistakable. Something bright flickers there. Relief, maybe. Something softer than the grin he wears with the rest of them.

“There you are.”

Your body freezes mid-retreat.

He steps away from the group without thinking twice, closing the space between you in a few long strides. You have no choice but to stay where you are unless you want to make it obvious you were about to flee.

“Thought you were gonna ditch me.”

“I was literally just walking out.”

“Sure.” There’s just that faint teasing curve of his mouth.

Over his shoulder, you can feel the group’s attention shift.

“Come here.” He reaches for your hand. There’s no time for you to overthink or even think for that matter.

The contact is warm and familiar and it sends a rush of conflicting emotions through you. You let him guide you toward them even though every insecure thought in your head is screaming that you do not belong in this circle.

He says your name easily. Naturally. Not as an afterthought.

Shit, he’s introducing you to them.

But it’s just your name. There’s no label that follows.

Of course there is nothing to add. What would he even say?

This is the girl I slept with.

This is the girl I’m seeing.

This is the girl I don’t know what to call yet.

You force a polite smile as he gestures around.

“You know Sam,” he continues. “That’s Steve. And this menace is Nat.”

Nat’s gaze shifts to you fully now. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply, hoping your voice does not betray the way your stomach is still tangled.

Sam offers you an easy grin. “So this is who he ditched us for the other night.”

Heat floods your face instantly.

Bucky shoots him a look. “Shut up.”

“What? I’m just saying.” Sam shrugs.

Steve, ever diplomatic, steps in smoothly. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally.

The word echoes in your head.

Finally suggests there has been discussion. Anticipation. Awareness.

You glance at Bucky instinctively, searching his expression for any hint that he is uncomfortable, embarrassed, anything.

He does not look embarrassed.

If anything, he looks almost… pleased.

His hand rests lightly at your lower back now. The gesture is subtle but grounding, and it only confuses you further.

If Nat meant something more, would he touch you like this in front of her?

If you meant something more, would he have said it out loud?

Conversation resumes around you, overlapping. You answer when spoken to. You nod. You laugh at the right moments. But your thoughts keep circling back to the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar, smoothing, straightening, touching.

He does not pull away from you once. If anything, he shifts closer as the minutes pass, angling his body slightly so you are not on the edge of the circle but tucked nearer to him.

Sometime later, he leans down slightly toward your ear. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes linger on your face for half a second, like he is trying to read what you are not saying.

“Walk with me?”

You nod before you can second guess it.

His hand slides more firmly around your waist this time as he guides you away from the group.

You can feel Nat’s gaze on your back as you leave, or maybe that is just your imagination refusing to calm down.

The motorcycle waits a few steps away, gleaming faintly in the lowering light. He stops beside it but does not let go of you immediately.

“What’s going on in that head?” His voice is softer now that you are alone.

“Nothing.” Nothing feels like the only safe answer.

He huffs out a quiet breath. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Okay.” You can tell he’s still not convinced.

The closeness of him is distracting. His hand is still at your waist, resting just above your pelvis. You can feel the warmth of it through the fabric and it makes your thoughts even more tangled.

“Where are we going?” You want to change the subject.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is when they involve you.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Wow. I feel attacked.”

“Just tell me.”

He hesitates for dramatic effect, then leans in slightly, voice dropping. “Where else?”

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

“Bucky.”

“My place,” he finishes, like it is obvious.

Of course it is.

The words hit differently now, layered with everything your mind has been chewing on for the past twenty-four hours.

My place.

Is that all this is?

Your heart thuds against your ribs, too loud, too fast. You tell yourself you are being unfair. You tell yourself he invited you to meet his friends. He introduced you. He did not hide you. He did not flinch.

And yet the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar refuses to fade.

“Okay.” You hope he cannot hear the storm building behind the single word.

His hand squeezes your waist lightly before he finally lets go to grab his helmet, and the absence of his touch feels colder than it should.

Bucky’s place feels too quiet for the amount of noise in your head. He drops his keys into the bowl by the counter and turns toward you. There is no visible tension in him, no sign that he feels the way you’ve been feeling.

“You’ve been kinda weird lately… you mad?”

The softness in his voice makes it worse. It would be easier if he were careless.

He reaches for you when you don’t answer, hands sliding to your waist with an easy familiarity. Sitting back onto the couch, he pulls you with him, guiding you until you are straddling his lap, knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his thighs.

It happens naturally, like your bodies already know the choreography.

His mouth finds yours before you can think too hard about it. The kiss is warm. You can feel your breathing get uneven as his fingers resume their path on your body.

His lips trail from yours to your jaw, then lower, pressing unhurried kisses along your neck. Heat spreads beneath your skin where he lingers.

Your hands rest on his shoulders, and for a moment you almost let yourself fall into it.

Almost.

Because the image of Nat leaning in, adjusting his collar with that quiet confidence, flashes again. At the worst possible moment. Because you do not know what you are to him.

“Bucky…”

He hums against your skin. “Mhmm?”

“What is this?”

His mouth stills. “What is what?”

“This,” you repeat, gesturing helplessly between your bodies while still sitting in his lap. “Us coming here. Sam conveniently being out. You kissing me like nothing’s complicated.”

His confusion deepens, and he looks genuinely lost. “I’m kissing you because I want to.”

“That doesn’t answer anything.”

“It kind of does.”

A sharp exhale leaves you in frustration. “No, it doesn’t, Bucky.”

With his hands steady at your waist now, he shifts in his place. “Okay. Then tell me what you’re asking.”

“Am I just… part of something casual to you?” The words finally come, absolutely rushed. “Because that’s what it feels like sometimes.”

His expression changes in a way you cannot immediately name. You know it’s not anger. Probably something closer to disbelief.

“Casual?” he repeats carefully.

“I saw her,” you blurt it out. “Nat. Fixing your collar like she’s done it a hundred times. And Steve said finally, like I’m the last to know something. And you didn’t say anything when you introduced me, you just said my name. Like that’s all there is.”

“There is more.”

“Then what is it? Because from where I’m sitting it feels like I’m the only one trying to figure it out.”

The irony isn’t lost on you, and you don’t give him space or time to respond.

“I don’t do this… I don’t sleep with someone and then just pretend it’s fine without knowing what it means. I don’t wake up next to someone and spend the whole day wondering if I just made myself convenient.”

His hands tighten slightly at your hips at the mention of convenience.

“And before you say I’m overthinking… I know your thing. Everyone knows. You don’t exactly have a reputation for… consistency.”

“That’s a polite way to put it.” He exhales, trying to look as unbothered as possible.

“I’m serious,” you insist. “I don’t wanna be another girl you had fun with until something better came along. I don’t want to be someone in your rotation. I don’t want to feel stupid for catching feelings when you’re just—” you stop at that because the next words just wouldn’t come.

“Just what?”

“Just being you.”

He doesn’t respond. You hate that he doesn’t respond. That’s when you realise you’re still straddling him, still close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, still close enough to feel the unmistakable press of his length against you. Even in the middle of this.

How can someone be turned on in such a situation, you genuinely do not know.

“And don’t laugh,” you add, because his mouth twitches. “If you laugh I will actually leave.”

“I’m not laughing at you… I’m just trying to figure out how you managed to build an entire alternate reality without asking me a single question.”

“I’m asking now.”

“Yeah. After deciding all the answers.”

“Because you never said anything.”

Bucky studies your face, eyes searching in a way that makes your pulse pound. “You want me to say it?”

“Say what?”

“That I haven’t always been great at this.” He nods slowly, almost to himself. “Fine. I haven’t. I’ve dated around. I’ve kept things light. I liked that it was easy. There weren’t any expectations. People knew the deal.”

The honesty stings more than you expect.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“But that’s not what this is.”

The firmness in his voice makes you want to hide yourself, but still you look at him. “Then what is it?”

He looks back at you like he’s choosing his words carefully. Or you think that’s what he’s doing. “Do you remember the first time we talked?”

“Of course I do.”

“I was an ass. I handed you my record book like it was nothing.”

“You were,” you mutter.

A faint smile touches his mouth. “Yeah. I was used to people just… going along with whatever I asked. And then you looked at me like I had personally offended your entire bloodline.”

Despite everything, a reluctant breath of laughter leaves you.

“I — I noticed you before that… I’d heard your answers in rounds. Seen your handwriting in the logbooks. You don’t try to stand out, but you do anyway. I kept waiting for a reason to talk to you that didn’t sound stupid.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

“The record book was the only excuse I had,” he admits. “And then you said yes even though you clearly didn’t want to, and I felt like a jerk the entire walk back to my room.”

That catches you off guard. “You did not.”

“I did.” His gaze does not waver. “Because I knew you weren’t like the others. You weren’t trying to impress me. You weren’t flirting. You were annoyed. And I still kept thinking about you… I’ve liked you since then. Not in a casual way. Definitely not in a ‘let’s see what happens’ way.”

“I kissed you because I wanted you. I slept with you because I thought we both wanted it. And it was never convenient. It was anything but convenient… because every time you look at me like you’re trying to decide whether I’m worth the trouble, it drives me insane.”

Heat rises to your face.

“Nat fixing my collar means nothing,” he adds as an afterthought. “She’s been doing that since first year. Also she’s dating some girl. And Steve said ‘finally’ because he’s tired of listening to me talk about you and not doing anything about it.”

“You talk about me?” The question feels fragile, but absolutely unnecessary and useless from what you’ve been hearing so far.

“Constantly,” he says without hesitation. “To the point where Sam told me to either ask you out properly or shut up… apparently it’s hard being my roommate.”

Your mind struggles to reconcile that with the version of him you built in self defense.

“I have been a guy who keeps things surface level,” he goes on, not flinching from it. “I liked not having to care too much. But with you it hasn’t been surface level. At all. I just… didn’t know how to shift gears without scaring you… so no,” he says, more quietly now. “You’re not part of a rotation. There isn’t one. Not anymore.”

The words make you feel absolutely stupid and make you smile at the same time.

“And if you think I brought you around my friends because you’re temporary… then you really don’t know me as well as I hoped you did.”

Now guilt seeps in because you just built this whole picture in your head that couldn’t be the farthest from reality.

You start to slide off his lap, embarrassment flooding in, but his hands hold you there gently.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs.

“I just— I made a fool of myself.”

The corner of his mouth tilts in a smile. “Yeah… a little.”

“Bucky!”

“I’m not making fun of you.” His grip on your waist tightens, reassuring you. “I like that you cared enough about this to spiral a little.”

Your eyes sting again, but for a different reason.

He shifts subtly beneath you, and the movement reminds you once more of the hard length pressing against you.

“Also,” he adds, voice dropping, “for someone who thinks this is casual, you’ve been sitting on my lap for ten minutes while I’m very obviously not neutral about you.”

Your mouth opens in a soft ‘O’ at the attention he just called to himself.

His grin spreads slowly now. “You get so worked up… and it’s distracting.”

“Distracting how?”

His thumbs trace idle patterns at your waist. “You’re so hot when you’re mad. I’ve been trying to focus on what you’re saying and all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss you again.”

The sincerity in his voice cuts through the last of your doubt.

“I like you,” there’s a finality in his voice. “I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like every other guy who says it and doesn’t mean it. So I just… didn’t say it… But I’m saying it now. Clearly. I want no room for interpretation. I want this. With you. Not because it’s convenient. Because it’s you.”

The story you built in your head never included this version of him at all, but that’s okay, you get to have first hand experience.

my masterlist !

extras. that was wayyyy longer than i intended. If this flops, I’ll never set foot on tumblr again 😭 been waiting like a month to post this shit lol

Opening your front door to the man you’d spied knocking on it from the kitchen window, you almost shut it again.

The stranger towers above you, his frame taking up the entire doorway, but your focus is drawn down to where his hands - covered in dirt and blood, press above his left hip.

“Ma’am,” He greets in a gruff tone. “I hate to bother you, but I find myself in need of some assistance…” The man nods to his injury, as if it had gone unnoticed by you.

It takes a moment for you to respond and when you do it’s with a jerky bob of your head as you step out of the doorway.

One blood stained hand raises to tip his hat at you as he enters.

Your eyes follow him as he wanders into the kitchen to his left, a slight sway in his steps.

How long has he been bleeding out?

Shutting the front door, you finally find your voice. “What do you need?”

Grunting as he lowers himself into a chair at your small, rectangular table, he answers “Rag, needle, thread, and alcohol - whiskey preferably.”

Removing his hat, he places it on the tabletop.

Okay, he’s done this before.

Focusing on the task he’s provided, you move around the kitchen and sitting room across from it, gathering each item.

The stranger is in luck. Your father had loved whiskey and there’s still plenty of bottles stashed away.

When you come to stand in front of him with everything in hand, you find that he’s lifted his shirt, providing an unobstructed view of his injury.

There’s so much…

“Bullet just grazed me.” The man observes quietly, to himself. “Still made one hell of a mess though.” He grumbles, finally lifting his head.

Blood. There’s so much blood and the skin has -

A deep, rough laugh pulls you from your spiralling, making you swallow thickly.

“It’s alright, darlin’.” There’s a lighter edge to his tone. “Just put the stuff on the table, I’ve got it.”

You do as he directs but remain where you are.

The man opens the bottle of whiskey first and takes three healthy swigs before pouring the liquid over his wound, hissing.

Quickly averting your gaze with a wince, you focus on his face instead.

What skin you can see is dirty, like his clothes. It’s clearly been some time since he last bathed or even tidied his appearance. His hair is long and tangled. You think it’s naturally a dark brown but it’s hard to be certain. A thick, wild beard hides most of his mouth and half his face, while a sharp nose -

Oh god.

You’ve seen the wanted posters hanging around town. Heard the stories that accompanied them.

Bucky Barnes.

The famed outlaw, responsible for some of the decade’s most daring robberies and revered as the fastest gunslinger in the west, is sitting in your kitchen. Tending a gunshot wound.

For the briefest moment you wonder who it was that shot him and what their fate had been.

Then you realise that’s something you really don’t want to know.

“Ma always said I could never be a tailor.” The man - Bucky mutters, eyeing his truthfully pitiful stitching. “But it’ll do.”

Placing the blood soaked rag on the table, along with the needle and leftover thread, Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he swallows another mouthful of whiskey.

You feel the shift in the air as he sets the bottle back down.

Somehow he knows.

“I’m not lookin’ for any trouble, ma’am.”

“Says the man famous for trouble.” You can’t help but retort.

You’re seriously going to smart mouth him?

To your shock Bucky merely grins, his teeth surprisingly white and clean. “That’s fair, but a pretty girl’s house isn’t exactly where I make my trouble.” Morphing his grin into a smirk, he amends “Unless I’m asked.”

Your skin heats at the insinuation.

“I won’t be asking.” You state firmly.

“Then you’ve got nothin’ to fear.” Bucky assures, his mouth returning to its serious line underneath his beard.

He regards you carefully and it’s only then that you notice his eyes are the most electrifying blue.

“I best be on my way.”

The sudden declaration should fill you with relief, but as you watch Bucky rise from the chair with an unsteady step, you hear yourself saying “You can stay.”

Something tells you the last time he bathed was also the last time he had a decent meal or rest. He wouldn’t be finding any of those things nearby, especially in his condition.

It’s a miracle he even found you.

The downward tilt of Bucky’s eyebrows is the only indication of his confusion as he looks up from the hat in his hands. “Are you -”

“Just for the night and no funny business.”

Bucky’s eyes study you again and you swear no one has ever looked at you with such intensity.

Then he blinks, focusing on the front door over your shoulder. “I left my guns with my horse. You can keep ‘em with you if it’ll make you feel better.” Meeting your gaze once more, his deep voice rumbles “But I promise you won’t need ‘em.”

How much was an outlaw’s promise worth?

Eyeing him in the same observing manner, you begin to understand what Bucky had been searching for.

Slowly shaking your head, you tell him “It’s alright.”

You had your father’s shotgun should it come to that and you were familiar with the weapon.

“I’ll show you the bathroom.” You declare, striding out of the kitchen. “If you’re gonna stay, you’re gonna be clean.”

Behind you, Bucky responds with a - dare you say, amused “Yes ma’am.”

Your eyes fall shut as you lean back against your front door, sucking in a deep breath of the crisp afternoon air.

There’s an outlaw in my bathroom.

Re-opening your eyes at that insane truth, you realise you’re not alone.

Bucky’s horse watches you curiously from where she stands in front of the porch steps, her gorgeous white coat shining in the setting sunlight.

Descending the steps cautiously, you extend a hand to the mare, letting her sniff you. When she makes a soft nicker and nudges at your hand, you move it to stroke her neck.

Her calm temperament surprises you, as she gladly allows you to lead her over to the barn not far from the house.

You settle her in a stall opposite your own horse, Chester. A gelding you aptly named after his chestnut complexion.

When you relieve her of Bucky’s saddle, you spot two guns amongst his belongings, just like he said you would. You leave them there in the barn.

Back in the kitchen, you clear everything except the quarter filled whiskey bottle from the table.

He might as well finish it off.

Wiping down the wooden tabletop to erase any trace of blood, you lift the bottle to clean under it and get a large whiff of the alcohol, making you pause.

It’s been years since you smelt the once common scent and it has memories flickering behind your eyes as you realise you’ve missed it.

Shaking your head, you put the bottle back down.

An hour passes, Bucky yet to emerge from the bathroom.

You stir dinner distractedly, staring out the window in front of you that overlooks the barn and the great nothingness beyond it as the sky darkens.

“Smells good.”

Christ.

Heart thumping sturdily at the small fright, you let the wooden spoon rest against the side of the pot and turn to face Bucky.

Oh.

It’s no wonder he took so long. Bucky had found good use in a pair of scissors and your father’s razor.

His wild, untamed beard has been reduced to stubble, highlighting a handsome jawline. Bucky’s hair - which is a dark brown and currently damp, curls under his ears instead of brushing against his shoulders.

Definitely trouble.

However, dressed in your father’s old clothes, it’s hard to find him as intimidating. 

Your father had been a stocky man, so you knew the clothes wouldn’t be a perfect fit.

The pants are a bit baggy and come up short, ending above the ankles of his bare feet, while the shirt tucked into them is an even looser fit. Bucky has rolled up the long sleeves to keep them out of his way, revealing just how thick and muscular his arms are.

“I can wash your clothes if you like.” You offer, realising you’ve been staring.

“No need, darlin’,” Bucky responds smoothly “Washed them with me and hung ‘em over the porch.”

You hadn’t even heard the front door open or close.

“Kid, that wanderin’ mind a’yours is gonna get you in trouble one day.”

Nodding, you gesture to the table. “Well take a seat, dinner’s ready.”

Dishing out two bowls of stew, you place one in front of him, along with a basket of bread rolls.

“Can’t remember the last time I had a home cooked meal.” Bucky divulges, taking the spoon you offer him.

Sitting in the chair opposite him, you say “There’s plenty more if you want it.”

The two of you eat in silence, Bucky at a much faster pace. You’re only finishing your first serving when he begins his third.

Guess it has been a while since he last ate.

Or maybe this is just his usual appetite. 

“Is it just you here?” Bucky asks after polishing off another bread roll, ending the quiet stretch.

In any other circumstance you’d think twice before giving an honest answer, but it’s pointless to lie to him now.

“Yes, it used to be my father and I, but he died two years ago.”

The pain his loss caused wasn’t something you could describe.

Your mother passed away when you were only four, taken by illness. If it weren’t for the photographs your father had, you wouldn’t even be able to conjure up an image of her.

After she died it was just you and him.

When his health began failing him some years ago, you both knew it was only a matter of time. You had just hoped for more.

Adjusting to life without your father had been challenging, but you were fortunate. You’d been left with a home - having no one else to come claim it, and the money that came from loaning out the land to cattle ranchers. It kept you fed, warm, and content.

Bucky lifts his eyes to look at you. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

You nod, your throat tight with emotion.

Pushing up from the table, you take your empty bowl to the sink as Bucky continues eating.

The subject of your father’s passing stopped affecting you heavily some time ago, but it seems the turmoil of today’s events has brought your pain back to the surface.

“I’ll get your bed ready.” You announce, leaving the kitchen.

He’ll stay in the spare room - your father’s old room. It’s bigger than yours, but you could never find the will to claim it as your own. You were happy in your childhood room.

Grabbing sheets from the bedroom’s wardrobe, you get to work.

The room is sparse, containing only the bed with a small table either side of it, a wardrobe, and a chair. On one bedside table sits two photographs of your mother.

You’re slipping a cover over the pillow when Bucky’s figure appears in the doorway.

“Have enough to eat?”

You doubt there’s any leftovers.

“More than, your cookin’s somethin’ else.” He declares.

A smile escapes before you can stop it.

You’ve always loved cooking and it’s been years since you’ve had someone to feed or receive compliments from.

Dropping the pillow, you look over at Bucky and find his gaze fixated on the freshly made bed.

“I’ll leave you be.” You state, moving towards the door.

Still staring at the bed, Bucky steps further into the room and out of your way.

Glancing at him one last time, you utter out a quiet “Goodnight Bucky.”

You’re startled by how quickly his dark blue eyes jump to you.

Then you realise it’s the first time you’ve spoken his name.

“What’s your name, darlin’?”

A pause.

Softly, you tell him your name.

Bucky’s deep voice repeats it, adding “Thank you, for everything.”

His tone is lighter again, like it had been earlier after he laughed, allowing you to hear the emotion in it - sincerity, in this instance.

You’re not sure why it pleases you so much.

⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

When you wake you’re not as well rested as you’d like.

You spent most of the night tossing and turning, all too aware of the outlaw just two doors down.

Forcing your heavy eyelids apart, you sluggishly get out of bed, taking your time getting dressed and fixing your hair.

Emerging from your bedroom, you peer down the hall to your right. The bathroom resides next to your room, the spare room next to it. Both rooms have their doors wide open, unoccupied.

Taking a few steps down the hall until you reach the opening on your left that leads into the sitting room, you walk in and find Bucky to your right, in the kitchen... making breakfast?

“Mornin’,” Bucky greets as you approach. Cracking two eggs into a pan, he answers your unspoken question. “Figured I at least owed ya breakfast.”

You weren’t going to argue with that.

Taking a seat at the table, you ask “How did you sleep?”

Peering at you over his shoulder, Bucky replies “Like a rock.”

“And your wound?”

“Healin’ just fine.”

Bucky’s still wearing the clothes you gave him, but judging by the heat you can already feel in the air, you know his own will be dried before you even finish breakfast.

You walk back towards the house with Bucky on your right and his horse - Alpine, as he’d introduced, on his other side.

He doesn’t mount the mare until you’ve reached the steps that lead up to your front porch. When he does, you’re stunned by the ease and swiftness his large body executes the manoeuvre with.

“Thanks again, darlin’.” Bucky nods, touching the brim of his weathered black hat. “For your cookin’ especially.”

Back in his own clothing with a gun belt secured around his hips, Bucky looks every bit like the outlaw he is.

For the second time since you’ve met, your mouth takes on a mind of its own. “Well, if you ever find yourself this way again maybe I’ll cook you something else.”

The edges of his lips turn up in a smirk at your offer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

With a light press of his leg into Alpine’s side, the white beauty starts walking forward. You watch as she builds her momentum until she’s galloping, her and her rider becoming nothing more than a dot on the horizon.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 7 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

Truthfully, you never expected to see Bucky Barnes again.

The memory of his visit had been stored away at the back of your mind and some days you wondered if it ever even happened - if it had simply been a daydream you’d gotten too lost in.

However, the knocking you hear on your front door one afternoon weeks later is very much real. As real as the man you spy standing on your porch through the window above your kitchen sink.

As you pull the door open, Bucky smiles in a way that can only be described as mischievous.

“Hi darlin’.”

You’re relieved to find not one speck of blood on him, just dirt.

Bucky’s maintained his shorter hairstyle but his beard has thickened, though not to the wild state it’d been in when you first met. 

You realise your memory had failed to capture the precise blue of his eyes, as well as the depth of his voice.

Quirking an eyebrow - but giving a small smile nonetheless, your only response is “Bathroom.”

Chuckling, Bucky tips his hat at you, stepping out of his muddy boots before entering the house. You assume the bag in his hand contains clothes since he doesn’t ask for any as he disappears into the hallway.

Walking out onto the porch, you meet Alpine at the bottom of the steps and stroke her neck in greeting, leading her over to the barn.

Bucky’s left his guns behind once again. You place his saddle and belongings on one of the workbenches before settling Alpine in the same stall she’d occupied last time.

After stopping by Chester’s stall to dote on the horse, you head back to the house and start making dinner.

It’s not too long after when you hear heavy footsteps cross through the sitting room, followed by the front door opening.

Glancing to your left, to the window above the sink that looks out onto the porch, you watch as Bucky hangs his wet clothes over the railing.

He disappears from view and you hear the front door shut before his voice fills the room “How ya been, darlin’?”

Shrugging, you answer with a simple “Good.”

You’re caught off guard when Bucky appears on your right, the smell of the soap he just used invading your senses.

Standing side by side, it’s impossible to ignore his imposing height.

The top of your head barely reaches his broad shoulders and you feel like you have to look up and up to see his face.

You lower your gaze as your heartbeat accelerates, unnerved by Bucky’s sudden closeness. However, it slows as you watch him inhale the contents of the pot simmering on the stove in front of you.

“‘M starvin’.” He quietly groans.

Smiling, you roll your eyes and tell him “It’ll be done soon.” Pointing to a cupboard at the end of the kitchen you add “There’s whiskey in there if you want some.”

When Bucky doesn’t move or say anything in response you look up at him again, startled to find him staring intently at you.

“You a saint or somethin’, darlin’?”

He speaks gruffly, but you hear a trace of humour in his tone.

Scoffing, your gaze drops back down as you take a step towards him, so you can stand in front of the counter. Bucky takes a step backwards to accommodate you.

“What’s saintlike about offering someone whiskey? And to an outlaw no less.”

As the last part slips from your mouth, you tense.

“You’re always talkin’ first and thinkin’ later, kid.”

Bucky merely hums in response, turning to lean his back against the counter as his arms fold. The action pulls his shirt tight across his chest.

Not that you’re paying attention to that sort of thing.

“Isn’t that what saints do? Help lost souls?” He drawls.

“You’re lost?” You retort sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at him.

That earns a chuckle from him as he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m always right where I wanna be.”

Bucky’s midnight blue gaze hasn’t left you once, while yours constantly shifts away, like it does now. “And that’s here instead of somewhere nice?”

“Nice costs money.”

Your eyes dart up to his for no less than a second before flitting away.

This time you’re smart enough to not say the first thing that comes to mind.

Concentrating instead on the corn in your hands, you jump when you feel the rough pad of Bucky’s index finger under your chin, nudging your head up until you meet his gaze.

“Don’t start holdin’ your tongue now, darlin’.” Bucky states in a low timbre, dropping his hand.

Your heart is racing again, but you’re not sure if it’s from fear or... something else.

Swallowing thickly, you manage to voice “I thought you’d have plenty of money.”

“Sometimes I do.”

“Sometimes?”

Really can’t help myself, can I?

The left side of Bucky’s mouth twitches. “It’s not always about the money,” He answers vaguely.

You frown, “Then what’s it about?”

At last, Bucky smirks. “Curious thing, ain’t ya?”

The comment flusters you.

“Why do you wanna know?” Bucky deflects, leaning in until his face is only inches from yours. “Thinkin’ about joinin’ the life, darlin’?”

“No, thank you.” The bite of your words is lost in your breathless tone, the result of his close proximity.

Bucky just huffs out a laugh, his breath tickling your face. Then he’s gone, strolling across the kitchen for the whiskey you offered hours ago - or so it feels, and that’s the end of that.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷

Waking with a deep inhale, your eyes blink repeatedly against the bright sunlight your curtains do little to block.

You stretch with a satisfied hum, having found sleep much easier than the last time Bucky stayed the night.

It’s well into the morning so you dress quickly, curious to see if Bucky’s still here, maybe even making breakfast again, or if he’s already taken off.

When you venture down the hall into the sitting room, you find the answer to your question lounging in an armchair, one of your favourite books in his big hands.

“Not an early riser, are you, darlin’?” Bucky drawls conversationally, not looking up from the page he’s reading.

You frown, crossing your arms. “It’s morning, isn’t it?”

He’s right though, you’re not one to rise with the sun - never have been. The few times you have are few and far between, the most recent being on his last visit.

Regardless, it’s not that observation that has you feeling defensive.

“Ten o’clock is hardly mornin’, you’ve missed half the day.” There’s nothing in his tone to suggest it, but you know he’s teasing.

It goes straight over your head however, as you’re too focused on what’s in his hands.

“Enjoying the book?” You snark at him.

Bucky smirks.

Oh yeah, he’s definitely winding me up on purpose.

“Tell me, are all your books so -” Bucky breaks off in a chuckle as you pluck the worn book out of his hands and press it to your chest. “So... romantic?”

You grasp the book a little tighter, having half a mind to hit him over the head with it for the gleam in his eyes.

An urge you think he senses.

“I like their humour.” Is your only answer.

Bucky hums lazily, clearly finding your answer lacking as he raises out of the chair.

The visual reminder of his towering height briefly shortens your breath.

Gazing down at you, Bucky lightly brushes against your side as he heads towards the kitchen. “I’ll go warm up breakfast.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 5 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

You’re not sure what shocks you more when you open the front door. The fact that Bucky is clean, or the fact that he’s holding flowers.

Flowers.

It’s definitely the flowers.

You recognise the handiwork too. Clara, an elderly woman who was as kind as they come, grew all sorts of flowers and sold them from a stall in town.

They’re a little wilted from the long ride here, but still vibrant and pretty.

Resting a shoulder against the doorframe, inadvertently bringing him closer, Bucky’s deep voice teases “What’s the matter, darlin’? No man ever bring you flowers before?”

Dragging your gaze up from the bouquet and narrowing it, you jab “I’m just wondering if they’re stolen.”

Bucky only chuckles at your bite, like you expect him to.

You’re not sure what to make of that realisation - that you expect things from him.

Holding the flowers out to you, he states “They’re paid for, darlin’, I promise.”

There he goes again, making another promise.

Kept his last one, didn’t he?

Your facade doesn’t last long either way, the corners of your mouth turning upwards as you accept the bouquet, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s in the process.

Raising the flowers to your nose - and ignoring the tingling in your fingertips, you breathe in their scent, the stems of lavender standing out the most.

Before you can thank him, Bucky’s bending forward and ducking his head until his dark blue eyes are level with yours. “Was the money technically mine...”

Your mouth drops open as he trails off, implication hanging clear in the air.

Bucky gives a genuine laugh at your reaction, the warm sound almost eliciting one from you as he pushes away from the door.

You watch him saunter down the porch steps to take Alpine to the barn, completely and utterly bewildered by this outlaw.

He looked dangerous with his imposing height, broad shoulders, and wide chest that peeked out from the unbuttoned top of his long sleeved shirts. The same shirts that his muscled arms bulged beneath.

Not to mention his roguish features - the dark hair, thick beard, and piercing blue eyes.

He sounded dangerous, his voice deep and coarse in a way you’d never heard before, every word he spoke seeming to rumble out of him.

He just didn’t act dangerous.

Outlaws weren’t giving, they didn’t tease, or smile, or laugh, and they certainly didn’t let some girl smart mouth them.

However, you weren’t a complete fool.

You knew there was another, more prominent side of him that you were yet to truly witness. You saw glimpses of it sometimes - of the outlaw.

A man who was used to being respected or feared, or both. A man who had the strength and skill to take whatever he wanted, when he wanted, and without asking.

Then Bucky would blink or turn away, and that momentary glimpse you were afforded passed.

It shouldn’t drive you mad, it shouldn’t make you want to see that side of him, yet... it did.

If you thought about it too long - the image of him being rough and commanding like his lifestyle demanded, well...

You jump when Bucky’s hand waves in front of your face.

Looking up from the spot on the porch you’d been staring at but not actually seeing as you lost yourself in your thoughts, you meet Bucky’s blue eyes below his furrowed brow.

“You really get lost in there, don’t ya darlin’?”

Thoughts still scattered, you absentmindedly respond “I don’t mean to.”

Bucky just hums.

Shaking your head to finally clear it, you walk back into the house, listening as Bucky shuts the front door behind him.

Grabbing the old, empty vase that lives on the wooden tea table in your sitting room, you bring it to the kitchen sink and fill it with water, arranging the flowers within it.

You can feel Bucky’s gaze following you as he takes his usual seat at the dining table, but it doesn’t unsettle you.

Returning the vase to its rightful spot, you admire the flowers once more with a soft smile before treading back to the kitchen.

When you pass Bucky you let out a small, confused sound as you come to a sudden stop.

Spinning to face him, you feel the skirt of your pale green prairie dress tighten around your legs, and you discover the reason when you spot Bucky’s hand holding onto the bottom of your dress.

“What are you -” You start, flabbergasted until you actually focus on the section Bucky has grabbed.

“What happened?” He asks, not even having to look up from where he sits to meet your gaze.

The fabric is ripped, splitting the skirt upwards about four inches. There’s a scratch to match it along the back of your right leg, which you assume Bucky must have seen.

You can’t read any emotion on his face, but you sense that he’s not pleased.

Strange.

“I was trying to fix the curtain rod in your - the spare room, but the wooden crate I was using broke and I fell.”

Fell seems like an exaggeration.

There wasn’t much distance between you and the ground, but you had landed awkwardly, the wood catching on your dress and scratching your leg - thankfully not deep enough to draw blood.

Currently, you’re more concerned about how you almost referred to the spare room as Bucky’s.

When did it become his room?

Bucky frowns at you but doesn’t speak, causing you to frown back.

A moment passes before he finally releases your dress and stands. Still silent, Bucky turns and strides towards the hallway.

By the time you catch up he’s already in the spare room, assessing the window.

You’d been replacing the curtains when the curtain rod bracket came off the wall on one side. It just needed to be screwed back in but the bracket was out of your reach.

The screwdriver sits on the windowsill, where you left it while you tossed the broken crate outside with some unfriendly words as your leg throbbed.

Grabbing the tool, Bucky reaches up to screw the bracket back in, the height not even a stretch for him.

Picking the curtain rod off the bed, you sit down in the same spot and bunch the curtains in your lap, keeping them off the floor as you watch Bucky quickly complete the task.

Turning around, he takes the curtain rod from you and hangs it up.

“What else?”

You stare at him for a second before pointing to the wardrobe behind you. “The right door’s a little loose.”

Diligently, he rounds the bed to the wardrobe and opens the right door, tightening the screws in the top hinge.

“I thought it was you the first time I saw it.” Bucky says abruptly, nodding to the bedside table closest to him where two photographs sit.

Both are of your mother.

In one she’s holding you as a child - you’re no more than two years old, on her lap with a smile. In the other she’s by herself and younger, about the age you are now.

“I once told my dad that I wished I could remember what she looked like, he told me to look in the mirror.”

He hadn’t been exaggerating. The resemblance between you and her was as clear as a cloudless day. It was something that had always made you wonder - how hard was it for him to look at you and constantly be reminded of her?

You might not have been old enough to remember it, but the love your father had for your mother shone brightly, never once fading over the years that followed her death.

“He said that was the only thing we had in common,” Grinning, you drop your voice to a faux whisper as you repeat your father’s loving words “She was a horrid cook and complete trouble maker.”

Bucky grins at that, giving a slight shake of his head as he swings the mended wardrobe door shut. “I dunno darlin’, I think you’re plenty of trouble.”

After dinner is eaten and the dishes are cleaned, you always move into the sitting room for a short period while Bucky heads straight to bed.

Tonight however, he’s joined you.

Each sitting in an armchair across from one another, he nurses a glass of whiskey while you stitch the ripped fabric of your dress back together.

You use the light provided by the oil lamp and candles on the tea table between you both, placed around your vase.

As you glance at the flowers, you realise you never actually thanked Bucky for them.

Drawing your gaze higher, you’re not alarmed when your eyes meet his.

He’s always watching you.

“Thank you for the flowers.”

Bucky was right of course, no man has ever given you flowers before.

“My pleasure, darlin’.” His deep voice purrs.

You’re not sure why you suddenly feel so warm.

“And for fixing those things for me.”

It’s not like you don’t do anything for him in return, but you still want him to know you appreciate the help.

“I’ll fix anythin’ you need,” Bucky states a little rougher “Just don’t go hurtin’ yourself again.”

I didn’t do it on purpose, you almost huff out.

Bucky must anticipate the retort or something similar to it, because he stands, finishing the rest of his whiskey in one mouthful.

He takes his glass to the kitchen sink before returning, clearly on his way to bed.

“See you in the morning.” You say as he passes you.

“You mean afternoon?” Bucky calls back, his tone lighter.

This time you do huff, letting out a quiet “Shut up.”

His chuckle echoing down the hall lets you know you were heard.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 4 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

The fourth time you open your front door to Bucky Barnes is... different from the others.

Nothing’s wrong per se, but it’s not right either.

Bucky’s the dirtiest you’ve ever seen him. In fact, you’re struggling to find a visible patch of skin on him.

His large hands rest on the top of the doorframe and his dark blue eyes bore into you the moment the door opens.

“Darlin’.” The word is spoken bluntly and you instantly know he’s not in the mood to talk.

You have a short-lived thought of turning him away.

Instead, you step to the right, silently inviting him inside.

For the first time since you’ve met, Bucky feels dangerous.

Especially when you eye the guns still on his hips.

If this had been the Bucky who knocked on your door while bleeding out, you’re certain you never would have let him stay the night - let alone return.

Bucky trudges off to the bathroom, your eyes trailing after him.

When you hear the bathroom door shut you release a short breath, looking outside to find another irregularity.

Your feet carry you out onto the porch and down the three steps without a thought, drawn to where Alpine patiently waits.

She greets you cheerfully, nuzzling into your hands and covering them with dirt. She’s filthy.

Every other visit her white coat has gleamed, leaving you no doubt that Bucky cared for her deeply. Yet, like her owner, it’s hard to find a clean spot on her.

Alpine makes a noise and seems to nod towards the barn, as if to tell you that she needs food, water, rest, a bath.

The irritation you felt at Bucky’s stiff demeanour is replaced with concern.

You were in town only yesterday and hadn’t heard of any new incidents involving Bucky.

Not that you were keeping an ear out.

“What happened, huh?” You ask Alpine, leading her to the barn.

She simply sighs in response.

You’ve just started drying Alpine when you hear heavy footsteps enter the barn.

Her white coat shines once more, the familiar sight easing you, unlike the man approaching.

Bucky’s body radiates warmth as he comes to stand behind you, the scent of soap filling the air.

Daring to glance at him over your shoulder, you find him clean but worn out, if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by.

Wordlessly, you let him take over the task.

You prepare Alpine’s stall, stocking it with fresh food and water while Bucky dries her. He’s quietly murmuring to the horse, but you can’t hear his words over the sound of Alpine chewing hay.

When Bucky’s finished he leads Alpine into the stall, closing and locking the gate behind her.

It’s almost humorous. Alpine and Bucky are spotless but now you’re not. Your dress is soaked and covered in mud.

The walk back to the house is taken in silence.

“I’ll start dinner after I tidy up.” You tell Bucky once you’re inside.

He gives no response.

After your bath you change into a simple white dress, the fabric light and less likely to make you sweat until you switch into your nightgown later on.

Stepping into the kitchen, you find Bucky reclining back in his usual seat, a bottle of whiskey opened on the table in front of him and almost finished.

You decide to make one of your specialties for dinner, hoping it will... well, you’re not really sure what you’re hoping it will do.

As you flit about the kitchen you feel Bucky’s eyes on you, tracking your movements as you keep your back to him more often than not, until there’s nothing left to do but let dinner simmer on the stove.

Turning around, you lean against the countertop and meet Bucky’s stare.

He doesn’t shift his gaze and neither do you.

“What happened?” You ask quietly.

You don’t expect an answer and Bucky’s continued silence tells you there won’t be one.

Probably for the best.

Instead, Bucky lifts the whiskey bottle and swallows another mouthful, emptying it.

Pushing off the counter, you tread over to him.

“You should have some water.” You state, reaching for the bottle.

Before your hand can wrap around it, it’s captured by one of Bucky’s.

He doesn’t look at you as he flips it over, focusing instead on your palm as he runs his thumb over the lines of your smoother skin.

You watch in a dazed state, letting him do as he pleases.

Gradually, Bucky inches your hand towards him, closer and closer until he’s pressing his forehead into your open palm.

The action stuns you, and for a moment you don’t know what to do.

So, you go with what feels right.

Pushing your fingers back and forth timidly, you weave them between the strands of his damp hair.

The droop of Bucky’s shoulders boosts your confidence enough to take a step forward and lift your right hand, joining it with your left.

His head remains bowed, face hidden from you.

Taking another step forward to stand more comfortably, you release a small noise of surprise when Bucky’s hands grasp your hips and tug you even closer, allowing his forehead to rest against your stomach instead.

Your heart stutters in your throat and your hands falter.

With a shaky breath, you resume stroking Bucky’s hair, just as his strong arms wrap around your waist, holding you tight against him.

Being held in such a way makes you feel...

No, don’t you dare think that.

Growing bolder, your fingertips start drawing shapes on the nape of his neck while you play with the ends of his hair. The longer you do this, the more relaxed Bucky becomes.

Eventually however, the sound of dinner bubbling concerningly cuts through the peace.

You look over worriedly, not wanting the meal to ruin.

Bucky seems to realise, his arms tightening around you before dropping completely. Without looking at him, you dart over to the stove and turn it off.

Dinner is eaten in silence.

“‘M going to bed.” Bucky states once he’s finished.

His first sentence since arriving.

“Okay,” You reply softly.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷

You don’t expect to find Bucky making breakfast.

Walking into the kitchen, you had been prepared to discover that Bucky had left long before you woke. You’re glad he hasn’t.

He doesn’t appear as worn down either, and the brief upwards tug of his mouth when he turns to see you is more than enough to have you smiling back.

While Bucky’s still clearly dealing with whatever, his mood has at least improved.

Predictably, it’s quiet throughout the meal.

You wait at the bottom of the porch steps while Bucky retrieves Alpine from the barn, admiring the flat plains that appear to stretch on forever all around you.

The sound of Alpine’s hooves reaches your ears and you watch as Bucky leads the white beauty to you, stopping her by your side.

“You gonna be okay?”

You’re not sure why you ask, but you do.

Bucky looks at you over his shoulder, his hands on the saddle he was about to mount.

He studies you, his eyes dark under his hat, before doing something that muddles your brain.

In a blink-and-you’d-miss-it moment, Bucky drops his hands and turns from Alpine, covering the distance between you in a short step before pressing his mouth to your forehead, his beard scratching at your skin.

“Just fine, darlin’.” His deep voice rumbles as he pulls away.

Looking at you one more time, Bucky spins back to Alpine and mounts her in one fluid movement. Then they’re gone.

You can still feel the touch of his lips as you watch their figures fade.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 2 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

Town was a good hour’s ride from your home, and it was for that reason you only ever made the journey once a week, every Thursday.

Your main stop was the general store where you bought food and other necessities. The store’s owner - Billy, would talk to you from his spot behind the counter, giving you a weekly rundown of town affairs.

Most of the time it was just mundane gossip you didn’t really care for, but not today.

According to Billy, there was a new gang causing havoc around the plains, trying to make a name for themselves.

“They’ve been robbin’ properties all over, startin’ fires and roughin’ up any fella in their way, the poor lasses -”

Billy never finished that sentence, but his averted gaze told you how it ended.

“Dunno why I’m worrin’ ya with this girl, God himself couldn’t find ya all the way out there.”

The declaration wasn’t that farfetched. Unless someone knew where you lived they needed to be lost to find it.

However, if someone was intentionally on the prowl...

You check over your father’s shotgun the minute you return home.

Some days it’s hard to forget that you’re a woman living on her own, with no help nearby. Tonight that fact looms over you like a dark cloud.

In fact, it keeps you wide awake, sitting at the dining table with the shotgun in reach until the sun rises again.

You’re sluggish the whole day, tired and on edge.

When afternoon rolls around you’ve cleaned the entire house in an attempt to distract yourself and for the most part, it’s worked.

That is until you hear the unmistakable sound of horse hooves in the distance.

Fear strikes your heart in a way you’ve never experienced and you instantly wish to never experience it again.

Racing to the window above the kitchen sink with the shotgun in hand, you almost cry in relief at what you see.

A white horse and her dark rider.

Sucking in deep breaths, you close your eyes and focus on the fast thump of your heartbeat until it returns to a calmer rhythm.

You’re putting the shotgun back in its place underneath your bed when you hear his heavy footsteps on the porch, followed by three loud knocks.

There’s no denying the way you immediately feel... safe.

“Bucky,” You greet a little breathlessly as you open the front door.

“Hi darlin’.” He grins, eyes softening just slightly.

It’s hard to picture the sombre man you invited inside only two weeks ago.

“Back so soon?” You attempt to tease, though you feel it falls flat in your drained state.

You wonder if Bucky can tell.

Ducking his head and pinning you under his stare that’s regained its usual intensity, he responds “You don’t mind, do ya?”

No, never.

Smiling, you answer “Luckily for you, I’m in a gracious mood.”

The tease lands better this time.

Humming, Bucky agrees, “Lucky me.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷

After dinner it wasn’t Bucky who retired to bed first, but you.

The moment your head hit the pillow you were out cold.

Maybe it should concern you how easily you let your guard down just because Bucky was close by, but you don’t ruminate on it long enough to let it.

It’s late morning, maybe even afternoon when you eventually wake, the heat in your room making that much obvious.

Bucky doesn’t say a word once you walk out into the sitting room where he waits, reading one of your books again. However, the smirk he occupies as he gets up and goes into the kitchen says it all.

While you eat the breakfast - lunch, Bucky has made, you feel fear start to leach back in.

You don’t want him to leave you.

Unable to voice your plea, you take your time eating, dragging out the inevitable until you’re standing and taking your plate to the sink.

When you don’t hear the familiar sounds of Bucky collecting his things, you peek over your shoulder and find he’s still seated at the dining table.

Your gaze meets his.

Bucky answers the question in your eyes. “I’m supposed to meet my - some friends east of here in a couple of days.” You don’t miss his slip of tongue. “If I wouldn’t be overstayin’ -”

“No.” You interject much too quickly. “No, you wouldn’t be.”

He nods and stands up from the table, gesturing to the front of the house. “Your porch needs fixin’.”

While you kept the inside of the house to a spotless standard, the exterior was starting to show its age. The porch in particular, the boards old and beginning to rot.

“I know, I’ve got new wood to replace it with.”

You had it delivered out a couple of weeks ago. You just hadn’t gotten around to actually starting the task yet.

The sun beams down on you both as you walk side by side to the barn, past the horse stalls where you give Chester’s outstretched neck a fond pat, to the back where the tools and wood are stored.

Bucky hauls a bundle of wooden planks over his shoulder while you carry a crate full of tools behind him.

That’s all he lets you do, refusing your help when you go to walk back with him to collect the rest of the planks.

Standing on the bottom porch step, you watch him go back and forth from the barn until he’s brought out the last plank, creating a large pile.

“I can help.” You insist, feeling guilty about having him do all the work, even though he was the one who offered.

Bucky just shakes his head with a huff.

“Darlin’, go inside and relax.” He instructs, bending down to pick up a hammer from the crate. “Or,” He adds, straightening and strolling over to you, forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “Sit out here and give me somethin’ pretty to look at.”

Your stomach drops as heat floods your face.

Managing a weak scoff, you avert your eyes and spin around, quickly retreating into the house.

Bucky’s hearty laugh follows you inside.

Taking Bucky up on his first suggestion, you spend your day in the sitting room, reading.

When late afternoon creeps around and Bucky’s been outside for roughly three hours, you mark the page you’re on and get up to make him a snack.

Using the door at your end of the hallway that leads outside to where you do your laundry, you balance a sandwich and glass of lemonade on a tray as you stroll down the side of the house.

The sight that greets you when you round the corner almost has the tray slipping out of your hands.

Bucky’s shirtless.

His tanned skin glistens with sweat, the muscles in his back and arms prominent as he saws a wooden plank in half.

The longer you stare the more scars you begin to see, most small, others not, marking his body in a pattern unique to him.

You want to ask for the story behind each and every one.

Blinking out of your stupor, you step closer to where Bucky stands in front of the porch steps, cutting through the few remaining planks.

Swallowing thickly, you call out his name.

Bucky’s head lifts, looking over his shoulder at you before the rest of his body turns.

For a second time, you fight to keep the tray steady in your hands.

You’ve only seen peeks of the hair that covers his chest, but now it’s on full display and you can’t help but sweep your gaze down, over his firm stomach, to another patch of hair that leads to -

“Made you something to eat.” You declare, lifting the tray.

It only shakes a little.

Striding over to you, Bucky grins “Thank you, darlin’.”

His large, rough hands brush over yours as he takes the tray and warmth pools in your stomach.

“You’ve done a lot.” You observe, desperate to look at anything except him.

All of the old boards have been ripped up and Bucky’s already laid down new ones on the entire left side of the porch, as well as on the steps, where he now takes a seat.

“Should be done by sundown.”

It’s... nice, you realise. So utterly nice to have a man around to help you - to help look after you.

Though not just any man.

Bucky.

You’ll admit that. To yourself at least.

The sound of Bucky’s glass hitting the tray draws your attention. It shouldn’t surprise you that he’s already finished.

“You keep eating that fast and your stomach will end you before anyone else gets the chance.” You comment with a raised eyebrow as you wander over to him.

Bucky smirks as he stands, handing you the tray. “Darlin’, if your food is what takes me out, I’ll die a happy man.”

Just as the sun starts to dip behind the horizon, your front door opens.

You glance up from where you’re curled into one of the armchairs, a book resting in your lap.

Bucky’s dark blue eyes roam over you for a prolonged moment before he husks out “Come take a look, darlin’.”

He disappears back outside as you stand and make your way over.

Opening the front door wide, you take in the restored porch with a growing smile and step out onto it.

“Wow,” You gush “It looks amazing Bucky, thank you.”

You turn to where he stands at the bottom of the porch steps and meet his gaze briefly before he breaks it, pointing to the old wooden planks piled a few yards away.

“That wood’s no good for your fireplace, so I’ll burn it tonight,” Bucky explains, crouching down to pick up the tools he’d used. “It’ll just be an eyesore otherwise.”

Leaning against the porch rail, next to where his shirt, hat, and gun belt rest, you watch quietly as he goes about returning the tools to their crate.

It hadn’t escaped your notice that Bucky had been wearing his gun belt when he came in yesterday, like he had on his last visit.

You hadn’t thought much about it at the time and you don’t now, too fascinated by him.

There’s a sense of delight in watching him while his attention is directed elsewhere, as it’s so often the other way around.

Only, while you found him intriguing to no end, you couldn’t fathom him sharing the same sentiment about you.

“Shouldn’t look at me like that, darlin’.”

Bucky’s abrupt words startle you as he turns and captures your stare.

It shouldn’t still surprise you how observant he is, even when you think he’s not paying attention.

Especially when you think he’s not paying attention.

How was I looking at him?

Shifting your eyes, you act as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what kind of name is Bucky?”

His chuckle lulls you into reconnecting your gaze.

“It’s a nickname.”

Studying him as he slowly wanders closer, you press “What’s your real name then?”

Bucky comes to a stop in front of you and for once you’re the one that has to look down - if only just.

He runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, pushing it back from his face as he considers you.

“James Buchannan Barnes.”

The confession is gentle, meaningful.

“James,” You repeat softly, giving a small smile. “Now that’s a name.”

Vivid blue eyes - dark and electric, gaze upon you with something you can’t name as you suddenly feel the brush of knuckles against your right cheek.

“Say it again,” He murmurs.

Your breathing grows deep as a shiver cascades down your body, Bucky’s touch so... beguiling.

When your mouth parts to speak, his thumb catches on your bottom lip and it’s a miracle you remain upright, clutching at the railing.

Before you can utter his name a second time, you hear it.

It’s faint, but it still manages to pull your attention.

There’s horses in the distance, kicking up a large dust cloud behind them as they race towards you, the sound of their hooves echoing across the flat landscape.

You can’t tell how many there are yet.

The rough sound of your name pulls your focus back to Bucky, who is already marching up the porch steps. He breezes past you, reaching for his shirt and gun belt.

“Get inside and stay there.” He orders sharply.

Just like that, the side of himself he’d been sharing with you vanishes, replaced by -

“Now.” Bucky grits out, his eyes shifting to you.

That finally sends you scurrying inside, leaving him as he buttons up his shirt.

Darting into the kitchen, you draw the curtain across the window that looks onto the porch.

Bending over the sink, you pinch the bottom of the curtain between your thumb and forefinger, lifting it until you can just peek out.

Redressed, Bucky takes a seat on one of the two porch chairs and settles his black hat on his head, tilting it down until his features are obscured.

Leaning back in the chair, he almost looks like he’s about to fall asleep.

You pick up on a faint noise and soon realise that Bucky’s whistling.

Now, of all times?

Somewhere between a minute and an eternity passes before the horses - four of them, come galloping up to the house with their male riders.

Bucky keeps whistling.

The horses are pulled to a stop beside each other, forming a line in front of the porch. The rider to the far right urges his horse forward a step.

He eyes Bucky before glancing over at his comrades. Reaching behind himself, he slowly pulls out a shotgun and lays it across his lap.

“Oi!”

Bucky’s whistling fades out, the sudden silence perturbing as he straightens in the chair, hat still tilted.

“Can I help you?” Bucky drawls.

His reaction has clearly thrown the group into confusion as they all look to one another before three of them focus on the man who yelled - their leader, you assume.

“You’re not too bright, are ya fella?”

The insult makes you wince.

Bucky laughs.

It’s a sound you should find familiar for all the times you’ve managed to raise one out of him, but there’s nothing about it you recognise - it’s dark and without humour.

Maybe it should scare you, but it doesn’t.

The men stupidly chuckle with him, the one on the far left announcing “We’re here to rob you, fool!”

Laughter rings out louder from them, the group seeming to relax in this odd situation they’ve found themselves in.

“Yeah,” Another one echoes “Everythin’ ya got.”

Obviously not wanting to be left out, the only one yet to speak adds “That includes any women.”

Bucky’s laughter abruptly ceases and the leader notices immediately, unlike his three cackling morons.

“Ya gonna give us trouble, fella?” He asks warily, the others falling silent at the sound of his voice.

There’s a pause before Bucky answers.

“Depends.”

“On what?” A moron sneers, clearly unimpressed.

“On whether or not you leave right now.” Bucky states, voice low and menacing. “‘Cos you make one move towards this house and the last thing any of you will see is the bullet I place between your eyes.”

He directs their attention to the guns on either side of his hips.

The leader hovers his hand above the shotgun on his lap.

Another moron releases a scoff, “They’re not even drawn.”

“No,” Bucky agrees, his tone clearly indicating his dwindling patience. “But I’ve been told I got pretty fast hands.”

Knocking his hat back from his face, Bucky’s hands drop to his guns.

“Bucky Barnes.” A moron gapes, looking like he just wet himself.

The atmosphere completely shifts amongst the group, their leader’s eyes widening as his hand moves away from his shotgun and into the air.

“Mister Barnes, we ain’t mean no disrespect, sir.” He quickly appeases.

Heads bounce up and down as the others hurriedly agree, staring at Bucky with blatant fear.

You can’t stop the smile that pulls at your lips.

“Well boys, I’m not too bright,” He unsheathes one gun and points it in their direction. “So remind me what it was I just told y’all to do.”

Instead of actually doing it, one of the morons stutters out “Uh, well, you told us to leave, sir.”

There’s a hush, Bucky’s frustration palpable, and a part of you believes he’s actually going to shoot them. In fact, you’re about to turn away from the window to avoid the sight.

Before you can however, Bucky speaks again, his voice harsh. “So?”

Finally, they gain an ounce of sense and urge their horses to move.

“Thank you, sir.” The leader gasps gratefully, turning his horse around.

He’s smart enough to know he’s escaped a bullet, but not smart enough to realise his words only irk Bucky further.

It doesn’t matter now. He and his morons are already racing away like the devil himself is behind them.

Maybe he is.

Bucky doesn’t move from the chair, he simply reholsters his gun and stares after the group as they retreat into the darkening horizon.

You’re lighting candles on the sitting room table when the front door opens.

Straightening up, you assess Bucky as he steps inside and removes his hat, revealing a furrowed brow. He looks deep in concentration, like his thoughts are racing at a mile a minute.

“So,” You begin, stealing his attention “That was...”

It’s in that moment, when trying to find a word that encapsulated what just occurred, that you actually process the event.

Watching Bucky handle the situation, making the four men appear stupid and harmless, had made you forget that they weren’t.

You wouldn’t have found those men harmless if it had been just you here to face them.

It should have been just you.

And if it had? How much protection would the shotgun have offered? Would you have been able to -

“Hey,” Bucky’s deep voice cuts through the terror clawing up your throat - the terror that must be reflected on your face. “You’re okay, darlin’.”

Only because of you.

You vaguely hear Bucky striding over.

“If you weren’t here -”

“I was.” Bucky cuts in, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Clasping your face in his rough hands, he tilts your head back until your wide, panicked eyes meet his. “I was here and that’s all that matters, there’s no good in thinkin’ about what-ifs.”

The declaration is spoken gruffly, but the stroke of his thumbs over your cheeks is tender.

“You’re safe,” Bucky continues, his voice growing lighter - gentler, like it sometimes does with you. “You’re safe with me.”

It’s so easy to trust those words.

It’s late at night, the moon high in the sky, when you find yourself standing out on the porch.

You can’t sleep.

Too much transpired today. Too many emotions were brought to the surface, and with them came revelations you’d been trying so hard to ignore.

Ignoring them now seemed impossible.

You’ve never held romantic feelings for anyone. You knew long ago that your future would be a lonely one and you had made your peace with it.

Then he came along.

Rather than falling into your usual place of contentment in the loneliness that ensued each time he left, you found yourself counting the days between his visits, eagerly awaiting his knock on your front door.

Then came the feelings.

At what point did your heart choose to swell and thunder in your chest at the mere sight of him? At what point did you find yourself missing his watchful gaze when it wasn’t on you? At what point did you decide to trust him with your life?

In your relatively short time together, Bucky had somehow managed to carve out a space for himself within you, and you didn’t know how to get him out.

You don’t know if you wanted to get him out.

“Everythin’ alright, darlin’?”

For a second you think you’ve imagined Bucky’s voice during your ruminating, but his presence beside you is real.

“Yeah,” You answer softly. “Was just looking at the stars.”

It was one of the reasons you came out here.

Humming, Bucky leans against the railing to your right, peering up. “There’s no better sight to fall asleep to.”

You remember him once mentioning that most of his nights were spent on the ground, without shelter, in the vast, never-ending desert.

“I’m sure,” You reply. “But I think I’d miss my bed every once in a while.”

Bucky lets out a faint chuckle.

There’s a comfortable silence as you both admire the stars twinkling above, but soon a prickling at the back of your neck has your head turning to find Bucky watching you unabashedly.

“You drive me crazy like this.” He murmurs, almost to himself. “You drive me crazy all the time,” He amends “But especially like this.”

Like what?

You don’t have to find the courage to ask.

“Standin’ in your nightgown, smellin’ like lavender,” Bucky admits freely, repeating “Drives me crazy.”

Your body comes to life at his confession.

Goosebumps erupt over your skin, your heart pounding faster as a warmth settles low in your stomach.

“James...”

“I haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since we met. Every day, you’re my first and last thought. Always wonderin’ what you’re doin’, if you’re safe, if you’re thinkin’ ‘bout me.” He shifts closer, ducking his head until you’re eye level. “Wonderin’ what your mouth tastes like, how you would feel under my hands, what kind of sounds you’d make for me.”

Your breathing is shallow and heavy as he leans in closer still.

“Gonna let me find out, darlin’?” Bucky whispers against your lips.

Breathless and desperate, it almost sounds like you’re begging when you say, “Yes.”

Desperate to be touched - loved, by him.

A thought you’ll come back to another day.

Bucky’s mouth finds yours gently, his lips softer than you’d imagined as they press against your own. You’re tentative in your inexperience, but it’s not long before you’re kissing Bucky back with an eagerness he happily returns.

His tongue glides along your bottom lip, encouraging your mouth to open, and when it does he consumes you.

Needing to anchor yourself, you wind your arms around Bucky’s neck while his hands clutch at your hips.

When you break apart for a necessary gulp of air, those hands slip behind you to grip your backside, making you gasp as he lifts you up.

Clasping your legs around Bucky’s waist, you cling to him as he carries you back into the house.

His beard scratches against the smooth skin of your own cheek as you nuzzle against him before pressing shy, light kisses to the exposed skin of his neck. The soft sigh Bucky releases enchants you.

Then you’re feeling the floor of your bedroom under your feet as he carefully sets you down.

Bucky lowers to his knees in front of you, his eyes never leaving yours as his hands close around the hem of your white nightgown, his knuckles brushing against your calves.

The only lighting is the candle you left burning on your bedside table and the moon beaming through your thin curtains, but it’s enough to see the desire in his eyes - which is surely mirrored in your own.

You nod at his unspoken question.

In one swift motion Bucky stands, slipping your nightgown up and off.

Your legs press together instinctively and your hands twitch with the urge to cover yourself again as you’re hit with the vulnerability of being completely bared to Bucky.

“No darlin’,” He husks out roughly, grasping your wrists and holding your arms still while his heated gaze peruses your body. “Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

The fervour Bucky speaks with has you weak.

Pulling you to him, Bucky’s clothes rub against your skin which for some reason makes you tremble even more as his mouth claims yours in a passionate kiss.

Guiding you backwards until your legs hit your bed, Bucky breaks the kiss to lay you down. Still clothed, he crawls over you, his lips seeking out your neck this time.

You gasp when you feel his calloused hands on your lower stomach, before they’re steadily drawn up your body to cup your pebbled breasts.

For the first time, you moan.

Bucky’s head jerks up from your neck, his expression ravenous as he massages your breasts, his thumbs flicking over your nipples as you feel the wetness pooling between your legs.

He lowers to kiss your mouth, this one slow and intimate as his sinful touch continues, his right hand straying away from your chest to trail down and down and...

Gasping against his lips, your body shudders as you feel Bucky’s fingers push through the curls covering your sex, just millimetres from -

You reach for his wrist.

Bucky stops instantly, his hand stilling as he pulls back from your lips to meet your gaze.

There’s no way he doesn’t already know, yet you still find yourself needing to say “I... I’ve never...”

“I know, darlin’,” Bucky soothes. “I’m gonna go nice and slow. Make you feel so good, I promise.”

You release his wrist.

Bucky’s left hand kneads one of your breasts while his right continues its journey down to where no man has ever touched you before.

The whole time, you watch one another.

You inhale sharply when his fingers graze along your folds, feeling the wetness and warmth coming from your core.

It pulls a deep grunt from Bucky, who dips down for a searing kiss.

“Gonna treat you s’good, sweet girl.” He whispers as he pulls away, moving down your body.

Call me that again.

You’re torn from your thoughts when Bucky’s mouth wraps around your left nipple, sucking and nipping. All while his right hand caresses your sex.

He switches his attention between each breast until you’re a wriggling, panting mess. Then, with a smirk, he moves even further down, planting kisses over your stomach as he goes.

Kneeling between your spread legs, Bucky wraps his large hands around your ankles before skimming them up to seize your thighs. He rests them on his broad shoulders, his warm breath fanning across your core.

Confused, you’re frowning down at him when he does the unexpected. Staring at you, Bucky lowers his head and licks along your slit.

Your hips buck up but don’t go far in his hold, your stomach tightening as you let out a strangled noise at the new sensation.

Bucky makes a sound of satisfaction as he glides his tongue over your core, his hands clutching your inner thighs tightly, ensuring they remain open.

This...

You’ve talked about sex in hushed whispers with some women in town but they never, ever mentioned anything like this.

When Bucky’s mouth closes around your sensitive bud, your hands shoot down and grip at his hair as you let out a moan so coarse you hardly recognise your own voice.

“That’s it,” Bucky praises, licking your clit. “Keep makin’ those noises for me, sweet girl.”

One of his fingers dances at your entrance, collecting your wetness before tentatively pushing in. How long Bucky spends working you over, you have no idea, but eventually he’s plunging three of his thick digits in and out of you.

Your head swirls with the flood of sensations. The flick of his tongue, suck of his mouth, burn of his beard, and stroke of his fingers. It’s so much -

“I’ve got you, darlin’, you’re okay, come for me.”

With one final suck on your clit, your body tenses and shatters.

You cry out in pleasure, tugging on the strands of Bucky’s hair as he keeps licking, basking in your undoing.

It’s not until your sounds turn into something small and pitiful at the overstimulation that he stands from the bed, his beard shining with you in the moonlight as he finally undresses.

You eye him hungrily in your dazed state, watching as his shirt flutters to the floor, followed by his trousers. Your stuttered breath fills the otherwise quiet room.

He’s...

Subconsciously, your legs press together again.

Bucky tsk’s, his hands sliding under your knees and pulling them apart. “Sweet girl, what did I tell you?”

Settling between your legs once more, he hovers above you.

You can only hold his burning gaze for a moment before your eyes drift downwards.

His cock is hard, leaking, and big. You don’t think they’re supposed to be that big. Your hand would probably only just be able to fit around it, so how was it supposed to fit in you?

“Like whatcha see, darlin’?” You hear the smirk in his gravelly tone.

Flustered, you mumble out a breathless “It’s big.”

Bucky groans deeply, like he’s in pain, and swoops down to kiss you, dominating your mouth.

“Don’t worry, sweet girl,” He whispers against your lips. “It’ll fit in your little pussy.”

Shivering at his wicked tongue, your eyes dart back to it.

“Can I touch it?”

Bucky grunts, watching you from underneath his lashes. “S’all yours, darlin’.”

Timidly, you reach down between your bodies and circle your hand around the base of his cock.

You were wrong. There’s a small gap where your thumb and middle finger don’t - can’t meet.

It’s hot and heavy in your palm as you give it a curious stroke, up then down. You repeat the action, but this time you trail your thumb along a vein you had felt on the underside of his cock.

Bucky’s forehead drops to yours, his breathing laboured.

An upward flick of your eyes shows you that Bucky’s have closed, his jaw clenched tight.

The sight sends a shiver through you and with a burst of confidence you tighten your grip around his cock and stroke him again, thumbing at his leaking head when you reach the top.

Hissing, one of Bucky’s hands shoots down to grab your wrist.

You look up and see more pupil than iris in his gaze.

Pulling your hand from his cock, Bucky rasps “Won’t last if you keep doin’ that, darlin’.”

The statement thrills you.

Bucky positions your thighs so they’re resting over the top of his own, spreading you out beneath him.

Gripping himself in one hand, Bucky’s eyes study you closely as he nudges at your entrance before slowly pressing in. The initial stretch burns, causing you to chew at your lower lip.

Stopping, Bucky dips down to capture your mouth while his other hand seeks out your clit. He gently rubs the bud, the action both relaxing and distracting as he continues to push in bit by bit until you’ve successfully taken him all.

“You tell me when, darlin’.” Bucky pants above you, unmoving.

A few minutes pass, and when you feel like you’ve adjusted as much as you can, you say “Okay, just...”

“I’ll go slow, sweet girl.” Bucky promises again, reading your mind.

True to his word, Bucky gradually pulls his hard length out of you before pushing it back in at the same pace. Your teeth snag your bottom lip once more as he moves in and out of you, the feeling just shy of painful.

Bucky never looks away from your face, catching every emotion that flickers across it. You’re warm and tight - so tight, around his cock and it has him on the brink of madness.

However, it’s only your pleasure he cares about and when your face remains pinched on his fourth pull out of you, his eyebrows crease in concern.

As he pushes in on his fifth stroke, Bucky starts “Darlin’, do you -”

You moan loud and short, the sound a mixture of bliss and surprise as the pain suddenly gives way to pleasure.

Bucky grunts above you, the look on your face seeming to make him even harder as he puts a little more power behind his next thrust, making you moan again.

“There you go, sweet girl,” He husks. “That feel good, darlin’?”

“Yes.” Your hands wind in his hair, bringing his face down to yours for a desperate kiss as Bucky maintains his slow thrusts.

Something’s clawing at your stomach, wanton and feral.

Your right hand untangles from Bucky’s hair to slide down his muscled back, brushing over the bumps of scars as you go.

Breaking apart, you pant against his lips, “Faster.” You don’t know how you know that’s what you need, but you do. “Harder, please.” You implore in a lustful tone.

You haven’t been oblivious to the wild look in his dark blue eyes, to the barely restrained control he exhibits.

Those words, your tone, they unravel Bucky’s discipline for a moment, and in an almost uncontrollable action his hips slam up into yours as he grits out “Fuck, darlin’.”

The powerful thrust claws a breathy whine of shock out of you.

“Gonna kill me, aren’t ya, sweet girl?” Bucky murmurs thickly, reining his control back slightly as he does what you asked and pushes into you at a faster pace, his thrusts harder.

Your head tips back into the bed beneath you as you moan, the nails of your right hand digging into their hold on Bucky’s back while your left clutches his hair tighter.

“Look at me.” Bucky commands in a tone so low it rumbles through you.

You tilt your head down to meet his heady gaze.

“James,” You whimper, the pressure building within you.

“Fuck.” He thrusts a bit deeper, grinds down a bit harder, making you mewl. “I know, I know darlin’, gonna come for me again, aren’t ya?”

He gives another hard thrust, the force of it pushing you up the bed.

It feels so good.

“Say my name,” Bucky groans, rubbing at your clit. “Say my name when I make you come, sweet girl.”

A pleasure so intense it has your eyes rolling back washes through you, making your entire body tense and relax repeatedly as you moan, whine, and pant for James.

The sight of you coming so undone for him - because of him, sends Bucky hurtling.

Pulling out of your pulsing heat, his right hand squeezes around his painfully hard cock and tugs it roughly, consumed by lust. On the third harsh stroke he spills over your stomach with a wrecked moan of your name.

Your heaving breaths mix together as Bucky’s forehead meets yours.

Inching forward, Bucky presses a short, soft kiss to your lips.

“You okay, darlin’?” He whispers.

A drowsy, satisfied nod is all you can manage.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷

You’re surrounded by warmth when you blink awake and it takes you a moment to realise the source isn’t the sunlight streaming into your room, but Bucky’s body underneath yours.

If heaven was a feeling, this had to be close.

“Mornin’ darlin’.”

Tilting your head up from where it rests on Bucky’s bare chest, you meet his sparkling gaze and feel your face heat.

In a motion too fast for your freshly awoken brain to comprehend, Bucky cusps your hips and rolls you onto your back, hovering above you.

Nudging your nose with his own, he captures your mouth in a tender kiss.

“How are you feelin’?” He asks, pulling back to look at you.

Memories of last night flicker through your mind as you answer honestly. “I’m a little sore, but good.”

Humming, Bucky runs his left hand up and down your side. “Just good?”

You duck away from his impish stare, making him laugh.

“Still shy after last night?” He questions with a smile, not actually seeking a response.

Instead, he leans down and kisses you again.

This one is more hungry, his tongue swiping along the seam of your mouth, requesting access you happily grant.

You feel the air in the room thicken as Bucky’s left hand continues to roam and knead while both of yours stroke through his lush hair.

Despite the soreness between your legs, you feel the desire starting to pool there.

Breaking apart, you both breathe heavily as Bucky professes “Already need you again, my sweet girl.”

Peppering soft kisses all over your face before trailing down to your neck where he rubs his beard against your skin, Bucky whispers “But I gotta let you recover first if I wanna be able to ruin you all over again, isn’t that right, darlin’?”

You shudder at his words as he places one last kiss below your ear and stands.

Stepping into his trousers, his midnight blue eyes swim with desire as they peruse your naked body.

Licking his lips, Bucky husks “I’ll get breakfast started.”

“When will you go see your friends?” You ask Bucky as he takes your plate and his to the kitchen sink.

“Whatcha mean, darlin’?”

“You said you were waiting to meet with them.” You remind him, recalling the conversation you shared yesterday.

Yesterday?

It felt like a lifetime ago now.

His silence makes you frown at his back. “You’re... not meeting them?” You surmise hesitantly.

Why would he lie about that?

“If you just needed somewhere to stay a while...” All he had to do was ask.

Turning around to lean against the countertop, Bucky’s arms bulge as they cross over his still bare chest.

Despite the current discussion, the sight makes your stomach flip.

Bucky regards you for a moment before confessing “I heard there was a new gang causin’ problems ‘round these parts.”

That’s all he says, leaving you to fill in the blanks.

Your heartbeat quickens at the possible implication of his words.

“So...” You prompt softly, daring to hope.

Pushing off the counter, Bucky approaches you, his gaze holding yours as he rests a hand on the table beside you and bends until your eyes are level.

“So... I needed to make sure my sweet girl was safe.” He admits, lifting his other hand, “That she stayed that way.” Brushing his knuckles over your cheek, he concludes with “I’ve got nowhere else to be, darlin’.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 6 DAYS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

For six days you’ve existed in your own little world, you and James.

You knew it wouldn’t last, but that doesn’t stop the disappointment you feel when life comes crashing back in.

Waking up alone for the first time since you surrendered yourself to Bucky, you don’t think too much of it as you slip on your nightgown.

Venturing out into the hallway, you freeze at the sound of conversation.

Alarm tickles at the back of your neck before you force it away.

Bucky would never put you in danger. Of that, you’re certain.

“You sure? The law’s been gettin’ closer than I like.” An unfamiliar male voice states.

“We’ve been plannin’ this for too damn long to back out now.” Is Bucky’s reply.

Sucking in a breath, you know you really shouldn’t be listening to this.

Continuing into the sitting room, you step louder than you normally would, alerting them of your presence.

Two men sit in your kitchen, their hulking figures making the small table between them appear child-sized. Their heads turn and two sets of blue eyes - one light, the other dark - land on you as you loiter awkwardly.

Glancing as long as you dare at the stranger, you note his dark blond hair that brushes against his dirty collar and wild beard which reminds you of Bucky’s the first time he knocked on your door.

You know you’ve seen his wanted posters, but his name eludes you.

“Darlin’,” Bucky crooks a finger at you, urging you over to him. “This is Steve, we’ve been friends since we were kids.”

You could recall the name at the bottom of those posters now.

Steve Rogers.

“Hello,” You greet shyly, offering your name as Bucky’s hands reach for your hips and pull you onto his lap.

Not meaning to interrupt, you look up at Bucky and hope your face says as much. He simply squeezes your hips, silently telling you it’s okay.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Steve declares with a secretive smile. “I’m sorry for barging in.”

“It’s okay.”

“Are you?” Bucky grumbles at the same time, making Steve chuckle.

This one laughs too.

“I’ll give you two a moment.” Steve appeases, standing up and settling a worn, brown hat on his head.

You realise he’s only wearing socks and find it oddly thoughtful that he took his boots off before coming in.

“We’ll have to get properly acquainted some other time.” Steve remarks. Judging by the way Bucky’s grip tightens, he’s only saying it to be a menace, “Maybe you can cook me somethin’ too.”

“Fuck off.” Bucky growls, but Steve’s already slipping out the front door with a grin.

Grumbling, Bucky lifts you off his lap and onto the table, fusing his mouth to yours.

Once he’s successfully created empty space where your brain once was, Bucky pulls back and orders “Don’t you dare cook him or any other man anything, ever.”

“James.” You sigh, smiling.

“You won’t like what happens if you do, darlin’.” He promises in a darker tone.

The thrill that shoots up your spine suggests that maybe you would.

Regardless, you playfully huff “If you insist.”

“I do.” Bucky grunts, kissing you again.

When you break apart, the mood turns solemn.

“You have to go?” You ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah sweet girl, I gotta go.”

Forcing a smile, you whisper “Okay,” as if you have any say in the matter.

Rubbing his nose against yours, Bucky reassures “I’ll be back darlin’, like always.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 3 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

Sighing, you eye the dishes you still have to dry. You would’ve finished the mundane task by now if you didn’t happen to move at the pace of a snail while daydreaming.

You had spent most of the day in the barn, completing chores. It wasn’t until the sun had almost set that you wandered back into the house and began making dinner.

Once these dishes were away you planned on taking a long bath.

Stacking the last plate, you pick up one of the candles on the dining table and blow out the rest, blanketing the house in darkness.

Using the light source in your hand, you check over all the windows and lock the front door before trudging down to your bedroom.

Stepping into the pitch black room you can’t help but miss the moon and the light it naturally provides as you place the candle on your bedside table, illuminating the small area.

Clutching the bottom of your pale yellow dress, you lift it up and off, leaving you in nothing but a thin chemise when you hear the unmistakable sound of a match striking.

Gasping, you whirl around with your heart hammering in your chest.

“Don’t stop on my account, darlin’.” Bucky drawls, seated in the chair at the opposite corner of your room.

Waving out the match he just used to light a candle on the dressing table beside him, his dark eyes watch you like a hawk. “Go on.”

A shiver races down your spine.

This isn’t your usual Bucky.

In an almost nervous manner you reach for the straps of your chemise, hesitating for just a second before pushing them off your shoulders.

You hear Bucky’s deep inhale as the fabric pools at your feet.

“Come here.”

Your feet are quick to obey the order.

Candlelight flickers over his face, allowing you to take in his appearance. He looks much the same as when he left, just a little dirty, but you can’t complain since you are too.

As soon as you’re within reach, Bucky pulls you down onto his lap, your legs settling on either side of him as your naked breasts press into his shirt.

His calloused hands grip your backside roughly, drawing another gasp from you.

Grazing your lips with his own, Bucky whispers “I’ve missed you.”

You’re not given a chance to return the sentiment as his mouth captures yours.

The kiss is ravenous. All you can do is hang on to him, your hands clutching at the material over his thick biceps as you let Bucky take everything he wants, everything he needs from you.

Both of you are panting for air when he eventually drags himself away, his right hand gliding up your back to cradle the base of your neck and urge your head backwards.

Running his nose under your jaw, all the way down to your collarbone, Bucky groans in satisfaction against your skin. “Smell s’good.”

It was merely coincidence that you had been using your lavender oil more often since his comment on the porch.

He bites at the place where your neck and shoulder meet - as if in claim, before licking over the spot, making you moan.

Bucky nips and licks along your collarbone, dipping lower until he can tug one of your nipples between his teeth.

You don’t even realise you’ve started rocking against his hard length until both his hands seize your hips, halting your movements.

Raising his head, Bucky coos “That desperate for me, darlin’? Where’d my sweet, shy girl go?”

Why those words make you whine at him you have no idea, but Bucky loves it.

Smirking, he slowly rocks you up and down on his covered length and hums “Maybe my girl’s not so good, huh?”

You moan as he moves you faster, pressing you down to rub harder against his straining cock. Clinging at his shirt, your head drops to his shoulder.

“That’s alright darlin’, ‘cos I plan on doin’ very bad things with you.” Bucky murmurs in your ear, beard scratching at your sensitive skin.

His words, added with the press of his thumb on your clit, undoes you.

Growling, Bucky stands while you’re still whimpering in pleasure and carries you to the bed, manoeuvring your submissive form until you’re on your knees, face down.

He’s never had you like this before.

The sound of Bucky removing his belt has your thighs trembling.

“Can’t wait any longer.” He grunts, shoving his trousers to the floor before caging your hips. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this perfect pussy every day, dyin’ to feel it wrapped ‘round me again.”

That’s all the warning you get before Bucky pushes in, the intrusion tearing a shout from you, followed by a drawn out moan.

You feel so full. You didn’t realise how much you’d missed this.

How badly you’ve been craving it.

“That’s it.” He purrs, your walls clenching around him. “Fuck.”

Pulling out until just the tip remains, Bucky surges back in.

Keening, you claw at the blanket beneath you.

“You are a good girl, aren’t ya, darlin’?” Bucky thrusts into you hard enough to send your whole body pitching forward. Bending down, he husks in your ear, “‘Cos you’re takin’ everythin’ I give ya.”

The way he’s talking is hurtling you towards the edge again.

You don’t respond - you can’t, but Bucky’s not looking for a reply.

Straightening, he begins pounding into you relentlessly. You swear the bed is going to give out with how it creaks as the frame bangs into the wall, competing with the noises coming from you.

When Bucky’s large, rough hand slides under your body to play with your clit, you almost scream.

Chuckling out a groan, he states “You’re squeezin’ the life outta me, sweet girl.”

Bucky’s fingers are as unforgiving as his cock as they rub tight circles on your bud, bringing you to that point.

“Come.” He growls, leaning over you to wrap his large body around yours as his fingers bully your clit. “Now.”

You’re helpless to his demand.

“James!” You cry, falling limp as your release slams into you.

Moaning deeply, Bucky pulls out of your spasming core and flips you onto your back. Tugging his cock, he spills onto your stomach, cursing your name.

Collapsing forward, Bucky catches himself on his left elbow, hovering above you.

You’re breathless, eyes fluttering as he lowers to kiss your lips.

It starts out tender but soon morphs into something lustful as you feel Bucky hardening against your stomach once more. Your resulting whimper breaks the kiss.

“Keep those eyes open, sweet girl,” He whispers. “I’m not done with you yet.”

⊷⊷⊷⊷ THE NEXT DAY ⊷⊷⊷⊷

You wake wrapped in Bucky’s arms, a smile instantly blooming across your face. Lifting your head from his shoulder, your smile only widens when you notice that his eyes are closed.

Bucky always woke before you, yet here he is, fast asleep.

He looks so peaceful.

For a while you simply watch him, listening to his steady breathing as his chest rises and falls underneath your right palm.

Eventually you can’t resist the urge to brush his brown hair away from his face, which prompts your fingertips to dance across his beard, down the slope of his nose, and over his mouth.

Your forefinger traces along his bottom lip before it’s suddenly snagged between his teeth, making you gasp, then laugh.

Bucky’s eyes blink open and lock onto you as he releases your finger.

“Hi,” You beam.

“Mornin’ darlin’.” The rougher tone of his voice upon waking is a sound you’ll never tire of. “What you doin’ up so early?”

Huffing at his teasing words, you slide over him and sit up, straddling his firm stomach.

“It’s not that early,” You glare playfully.

Cupping your hips, Bucky smirks “I just know how much my girl likes her sleep.”

My girl.

Lowering until your nose bumps his, you respond “I like spending time with you more.”

Bucky gives a weak groan, his hands gliding up to cradle your face and pull you down further, until your mouths connect.

It’s a slow kiss, every stroke of his tongue deliberate as he savours the taste of you.

He doesn’t let you go far when you break for air, his nose prodding yours when he whispers “I have to go.”

Your eyes widen in protest, “You just got back.”

Rolling the two of you over so he’s hovering above you instead, Bucky rolls his temple against yours, his forearms digging into the bed on either side of your head.

“There’s a... job I have to do,” He explains vaguely. “But once it’s done, I’ll be comin’ back here for a good while.”

You mull over his words for a moment before quietly reaffirming “You will?”

“Promise.”

Bucky angles his face lower to press feather-light kisses over your cheeks and down your neck, where he then scrapes his beard, well aware of how much it tickles your sensitive skin.

Only when there’s tears pooling in your eyes and you’re stuttering out between giggles for him to stop does he finally relent, lifting his head.

The grin on his lips is much too boyish to belong to the man who spoke such sordid things to you last night.

You suddenly become vividly aware of everything in that moment.

The dust swirling in the morning sunlight filtering through your curtains, the texture of the sheets against your bare skin, the echo of your heart beat.

It’s the moment you realise -

I love him.

“How ‘bout I make us some breakfast?” Bucky suggests.

It’s right then, with those midnight blue eyes shining down at you, that you almost tell him.

Thankfully, common sense rears its head, snatching the words from your tongue before they can tumble out and ruin everything.

You know he cares for you - possibly adores you in a way, but you’re certain men like Bucky Barnes don’t do love.

So instead you say, “That sounds great.”

You’ll take whatever he’s willing to give you before he leaves, because you know his absence is going to be even more palpable this time around, and you’ll wait as long as you must until he returns to give you more.

⊷⊷⊷⊷ 2 WEEKS LATER ⊷⊷⊷⊷

Securing Chester’s reins around a post outside the general store, you give his neck a loving scratch as he heartily drinks from the nearby water trough.

Moving around him to retrieve some money from the satchel on your saddle, the thumping sound of running feet grabs your attention.

You look over your shoulder to see four young boys racing past, beelining for the centre of town.

“Hurry up or we’ll miss it!” One of the boys shouts back at his lagging friends.

Frowning, you glance around and realise that most people are heading in the same direction.

Closing your satchel with the money still inside, you stride up onto the general store’s porch, intent on asking Billy what all the fuss is about.

A piece of paper nailed to the store’s front door informs you he’s not inside, the messily written ‘be back after’ only fuelling your curiosity.

Humming in thought, you move off the porch and fall in step with the other folks making their way to the town centre.

It’s an underwhelming reveal.

Your eyes roll when you round the corner and find that the gallows have been erected.

A hanging, of course.

What else drew eager onlookers?

Certainly not one to enjoy such a gruesome sight, you pivot and start back the way you came. You’ll just wait for Billy on the store’s porch.

You take four steps before stopping.

The whole town seems to be gathering - if not more. Only someone with a name important enough to know would attract so much attention.

Fear turns your blood cold.

It can’t be him.

You’re thinking foolishly, you know that.

In what world did law enforcement ever actually catch someone like Bucky Barnes?

The notion was comical.

However, your need for reassurance has you spinning back around and treading closer.

You weave your way between the large, still-growing crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of the criminal yet to be led up onto the high platform for hanging.

After a few minutes you’ve only managed to make it halfway through the throng of spectators, the sharp elbows of uncaring men hindering your progress.

Rising up on your toes, you peer around the figures in front of you, focusing on the left corner of the gallows where you know the stairs that lead up to the platform begin.

The next few seconds seem to happen in slow motion.

All the bodies in front of you somehow move at precisely the right time, in the right way, to provide you with a perfect, unhindered line of vision to the brown haired man waiting at the bottom of the steps.

Oh god.

The reveal of his face almost brings you to your knees.

James.

His hands are tied behind his back and two deputies flank him, ready to escort him up.

It’s not until your line of sight is broken that the world around you speeds back up, hurtling you into motion.

Like a woman desperate - because you are, you barge through the remaining crowd, ignoring protests and brushing off shoves, until you’ve reached the very front.

Flitting around the unsuspecting deputy stationed to keep the mob at bay, you bolt for Bucky, sliding to a standstill in front of him, the tips of your boots touching his.

“Darlin’,” Bucky speaks like the wind’s just been knocked out of him, his blue eyes wide.

“James, what are you - they’re -”

You can’t speak. You can’t breathe.

Bucky Barnes didn’t get caught, and he certainly didn’t die.

“You promised.” You gasp out, eyes itching with tears “You -”

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Bucky whispers, his gaze mournful.

His new, precious term of endearment only pains you more.

“Don’t say -”

Regaining their wits, the deputies around you spring into action, one of them seizing your arms from behind and hauling you away.

“Hey!”

“Don’t touch her!” Bucky spits vehemently, rearing forward only to be yanked backwards by the deputies either side of him.

Throwing your right heel back as hard as you can, you catch the deputy in his shin, causing his hold to weaken as he lets out a shout.

Lunging at Bucky, you cling to the front of his shirt.

“Please James,” You beseech, like he has any say in this. “I love you, please.”

You should’ve told him. You should’ve told him that morning.

“Listen to me, baby.” Bucky implores, his deep voice gentle for you.

Just for you.

“I want you to know how much I love you, that you’ve given a meanin’ to my life that I had no right to expect, that no one can ever take from me.”

“James.” You choke out, throat tight with the tears that stream down your face.

He loves me.

The beautiful declaration should fill you with euphoria, not anguish.

“You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me.” Bucky declares, lips curling in a smile as his dark blue eyes soak you in.

When the deputy grabs you this time, there’s no chance of breaking his painful hold even if you had the strength to try - which you don’t.

Your body is limp, weak, and fractured as you’re dragged away from the man you love. The only man you’ll ever love.

“It’s alright, darlin’,” Bucky insists over his shoulder as he’s pushed up the stairs, his gaze unwavering. “You’ll be okay, I promise.”

You’re thrown into the crowd - which parts from you in disgust, all while watching Bucky ascend to the high platform, feeling anything but okay.

They stand him beside the noose and your legs tremble as you begin walking backwards through the horde of bystanders, unconsciously trying to escape what’s about to transpire.

“Bucky Barnes...” A big, well dressed man addresses him before reading out his sentence.

A hand shoots up to cover your mouth, the reality truly sinking in.

They’re going to kill him.

Only watching you - always watching you, Bucky’s mouth opens.

You can’t hear what he says, but you make out the words.

“Close your eyes.”

The pain suddenly burns, your shoulders shaking with the force of your tears.

Gasping in a deep, shuddering breath, you look at him one last time.

Hasn’t death taken enough from me?

Forcing yourself to honour his final request, you close your eyes.

You’re barely aware of anything other than the affliction raging inside you, so you don’t even know how you hear it over the jeering crowd, but you do.

A low whistle.

It shouldn’t mean anything to you, but something tells you to open your eyes.

Blinking through your tears, you twist your head to the right, where the sound had been loudest, and zero in on a man who towers over most others.

A white bandana covers the lower half of his face, but he’s staring at you, his bright blue eyes visible as he winks.

Steve?

Veering his gaze from you to Bucky, he whistles again, this time a note that’s sharp and piercing.

Instead he stood there, pretending to scan the crowd while being very aware of the way your hand rested against his arm. The warmth of it soaked through the sleeve of his jacket, and he was trying extremely hard not to focus on how nice that felt.

You leaned slightly closer to him and lowered your voice. “Is it just me,” you said, “or is coming to your ex’s wedding actually everyone’s worst nightmare?”

Steve glanced down at you.

He let out a soft breath through his nose. “It is definitely not just you.”

He shifted slightly beside you, looking around the venue like someone trying to memorize escape routes so when this whole thing blows up in his face, he could easily leave with you.

“First of all,” he continued, “I don’t even know these people.”

You followed his gaze and immediately recognized several familiar faces scattered across the lawn. Your shoulders relaxed just slightly, though the nervous energy was still buzzing through you.

“Well,” you said, nodding toward a group near the drink table, “Okay, see the guy near the fountain?”

Steve squinted slightly. “The one holding the drink?”

“Yeah, that’s Daniel. He once tried to start a fight with a waiter because the restaurant ran out of onion rings.”

Steve nodded slowly, absorbing this information like it was part of an important briefing.

“And the woman next to him,” you continued, “that’s Melissa. She cries at every wedding. Even the ones where she doesn’t know the couple.”

“Good,” Steve said seriously. “I was worried I’d be the emotional one tonight.”

You huffed a quiet laugh.

You nodded. “It was. And the woman next to her in the blue dress? That’s her sister. She brings her own salad dressing to restaurants.”

Steve turned to look at you, deeply impressed and slightly horrified. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish. She brought it once on a double date with me and my ex,” you sighed. “And the couple near the table with the flowers? They broke up three separate times during the same Thanksgiving dinner one year.”

Steve let out a quiet whistle. “Wow. I think that should win a record for something.”

You kept scanning the crowd as you spoke, pointing things out here and there while Steve listened beside you. Or at least he tried to listen. For the first few seconds he followed along normally, nodding, but gradually his attention began drifting in a direction that had nothing to do with the guests.

Because you were talking.

And you could talk about paint drying and Steve, like right now, would find it very hard to focus on anything else.

He glanced down at you again.

Your hand was still resting on his arm, fingers absentmindedly playing with the cuff of his sleeve like you had forgotten it was even there. Your brows were slightly drawn together as you tried to remember another name, and every now and then you would huff out a small breath when something ridiculous from the past came to mind.

The light caught the pendant resting against your collarbone, the one he had helped you fasten earlier, and for a second he had to drag his attention away before he started staring too obviously.

His brain helpfully reminded him that this was a fake date.

His heart, unfortunately, had missed that memo several years ago.

He tilted his head slightly and spoke again, his voice carrying a dry edge of sarcasm. “So tell me again,” he said lightly, his gaze still fixed on you while you looked out toward the crowd, “why didn’t you two get married?”

You blinked slightly at the question, your eyes shifting back toward him. Your fingers stopped fiddling with his cuff for a second before you shrugged lightly, because the answer wasn’t as complicated as it had once felt.

“He wasn’t ready for marriage,” you said.

Steve stared at you for half a second.

Then he let out a low whistle through his teeth, his face twisting into a sympathetic grimace as the full irony of the situation settled in.

“Ooh,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “The irony really sucks, doesn’t it?”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, though it came with a small shake of your head that suggested you had already spent a long time making peace with the situation.

“Tell me about it,” you muttered.

You inhaled slowly and straightened your shoulders, your expression becoming determined. “Anyway,” you said, waving a small hand toward the entrance. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Steve nodded immediately, stepping slightly aside and sweeping one hand toward the arch with an exaggerated politeness that almost made you smile again. “After you.”

You started to move forward.

Your hand slipped from his arm as you stepped ahead, but after only a couple steps you suddenly stopped.

Steve nearly walked straight into you before catching himself.

You turned back toward him slowly, your eyes drifting over his face for a moment like you were studying him. Your gaze moved from the careful way he’d styled his hair, to the suit that somehow made him look both nervous and handsome at the same time, before finally lifting back up to meet his eyes.

Steve felt his stomach flip a little under that look.

You tilted your head slightly, your expression thoughtful. “Just promise me something,” you said.

Steve blinked in mild confusion. “What?”

You held his gaze for a second longer before speaking again, “Don’t fall in love with me.”

The words hit him like someone had quietly dropped a brick inside his chest.

For one brief second Steve’s brain went completely blank.

Because the first thought that rushed through his mind, deeply unhelpful, was too late.

It arrived so fast he almost laughed out loud.

He had been in love with you long before you had ever even considered asking him to be your fake date to your ex’s wedding.

Unfortunately, that information was not exactly helpful in this moment.

He forced himself to stay calm, his face settling into an expression that he hoped looked relaxed and normal and not like the emotional crisis currently happening behind his eyes.

He held your gaze steadily, even though his heart had started beating faster for reasons he absolutely could not explain out loud.

“Trust me,” he said, with an easy confidence that was only about seventy percent acting, “that won’t be a problem.”

You studied him for another moment, searching his face like you were making sure he meant it.

Then your shoulders relaxed slightly.

A quiet sigh left you as a small, grateful smile spread across your face. Your hand squeezed his arm, the gesture harmless and completely unaware of the effect it had on him.

“Thanks again for helping me out,” you said.

Steve felt that squeeze straight through his entire nervous system.

He smiled back at you anyway, easy and warm and a little helpless in a way he couldn’t quite hide.

“Anything for you.”

And if his voice held a little too much sincerity when he said it, you didn’t seem to notice.

You shook your head once like you were physically brushing away the nerves that had started buzzing under your skin, then took a breath and stepped forward through the open doors before you could change your mind.

For the first hour, things went better than you had expected.

You drifted from group to group through the room. Every now and then someone would recognize you and wave you over, and each time you’d pause, reaching back to tug Steve along with you before turning toward whoever had called your name.

“Hi! It’s been forever,” you’d say brightly, your hand briefly brushing Steve’s sleeve as you introduced him. “This is Steve.”

And every single time, Steve would stand beside you in the same polite, slightly awkward way that made something warm bloom quietly in your chest.

He stood with his hands clasped loosely in front of him, shoulders a little too straight, offering a smile that was both charming and nervous as he nodded at everyone you introduced him to.

It was kind of adorable.

You noticed the way he leaned just a little closer whenever someone spoke to you, the way his attention stayed completely on the conversation like he was determined to get this right. Once or twice, when someone asked a question about how the two of you met, Steve glanced at you quickly first like he was checking the script before answering, and every time your eyes met his you had to hide a smile.

Because he was trying.

He was trying so hard.

And it was working.

You caught yourself watching him more than once when he wasn’t looking, quietly amused by how seriously he was taking his role as your fake boyfriend. His ears had gone faintly pink twenty minutes in and they hadn’t really recovered since.

Eventually, after one last conversation with someone who insisted on telling you a long story about their new dog, you two were finally left alone.

You exhaled softly, turning toward Steve with a tired but genuine smile.

For a moment he didn’t realize you were looking at him.

He had been watching you again.

His gaze had drifted while you were talking, settling on your face with that same focus he kept losing himself in all night, the curve of your smile, the way your eyes lit up when you laughed. There was something almost dazed about it, like he had forgotten for a second that he was supposed to be acting normal.

“Hey,” you said, amusement slipping into your voice.

Steve blinked and snapped back into the moment.

“Yeah?” he said quickly, straightening like someone had just caught him doing something embarrassing.

You tilted your head at him, your smile growing.

“You’re doing really well,” you told him, fond in a way that made Steve’s brain immediately stop functioning. “Very convincing boyfriend material.”

The words landed like a small explosion somewhere behind Steve’s ribs.

His ears went fully red this time.

“Oh,” he said, letting out a short laugh that sounded a little too breathless to be casual. “Well, you know. I try.”

You hummed thoughtfully, crossing your arms as you gave him an exaggerated once-over like you were seriously evaluating him.

“Yes,” you said slowly, nodding. “The polite smile. The occasional nodding like you understand the gossip even though you absolutely don’t.”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey,” he protested. “I understand some of it.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“Do you?”

“Well,” he started, clearly stalling, “I understand that apparently Janet cheated on Mark with someone named Greg who might actually be Mark’s cousin but no one is fully sure.”

You stared at him for a second before bursting out laughing.

Steve’s chest did a stupid, warm flip at the sound.

“There you go,” you said, pointing at him with an impressed little grin. “You’re learning.”

He shrugged, trying to play it cool even though your praise was absolutely destroying him.

“Good teacher,” he said.

Your smile softened just a little at that.

Steve noticed.

At this point he noticed everything.

He noticed all of it and it was becoming a serious problem.

Because every time you smiled at him like that, something inside his chest pulled tighter. Like a quiet little reminder of the promise you had made him give earlier.

Don’t fall in love with me.

Yeah.

Great stuff.

He was doing a fantastic job with that.

You were about to say something else when your gaze drifted past his shoulder.

Your expression changed immediately as the amusement disappeared. “Oh no,” you whispered under your breath.

Steve frowned, instantly alert.

“What?” he asked, turning slightly to follow your line of sight. “Who is it?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead you grabbed his arm suddenly, fingers tightening around his sleeve as you leaned a little closer like you were about to step behind him for cover.

“Oh my god,” you muttered.

Steve blinked.

“Should I be scared right now?” he asked cautiously.

You swallowed and then looked back at him with wide eyes.

“That,” you said quietly, nodding toward the approaching couple across the room, “is my ex’s parents.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh.”

He turned his head just enough to see them. A well-dressed older couple was walking toward you through the crowd.

Steve slowly turned back to you.

You took a quick breath, smoothing your dress down with both hands before lifting your chin. “Okay,” you said.

Steve waited.

You glanced at the approaching couple again and then back at him, a tiny grimace pulling at your mouth.

“Wish me luck,” you murmured, your fingers tightening just slightly on his arm before you forced yourself to relax them.

Steve tilted his head, looking genuinely confused as he followed your gaze again for a second before returning his attention to you. He lowered his voice slightly, leaning closer.

“Why are you nervous?” he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. “They’re not your parents.”

You let out a groan, shaking your head slightly as if that comparison alone was enough to make the situation worse.

“You’re right,” you said dryly. “That would’ve been worse. My dad hates you.”

Steve froze.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked, his head snapping toward you with a deeply offended expression that was almost impressive in its speed. “Why?”

You waved a dismissive hand in the air like it was a completely unimportant detail, already turning your focus back toward the approaching couple. “It’s not a big deal.”

Steve looked extremely unconvinced, his eyebrows pulling together. “Not a big deal?” he repeated, his voice pitching slightly higher in disbelief. “Why does your dad hate me?”

You shrugged, still watching the couple walk closer.

“I don’t know,” you said breezily. “Something about hair products and stuff.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could further show his deeply taken offense and fuss over his hair, the couple had already reached you.

Your posture straightened instantly.

The grimace vanished and in its place appeared the most polite, charming smile Steve had seen all evening.

“Anna, John,” you said, your voice lifting just enough to sound pleasantly surprised. “It’s great to see you two.”

The older woman’s face brightened immediately.

“Oh sweetheart,” she said fondly, stepping forward and wrapping you in a light hug that you returned. “We’re so happy you came.”

John followed with a warm pat on your shoulder as you stepped back.

You smiled again, even though Steve could feel the slight tension in your arm where your hand still rested against his sleeve.

“Of course,” you said, your tone cheerful. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Then, remembering the person standing beside you, you turned slightly and gestured toward Steve with a small, confident smile.

“Oh,” you added quickly, turning slightly toward him and placing a hand on his arm. “Right. This is Steve. My boyfriend.”

Steve immediately straightened.

The word boyfriend did something strange to his brain every single time you said it out loud.

Still, he recovered quickly, offering them a smile as he stepped forward and extended his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said.

The man studied him for a moment as he shook his hand, his eyes narrowing slightly in recognition and suddenly his face lit up.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said with surprise. “I know you.”

Both you and Steve froze for a second.

“You do?”

“You’re Danny’s boy,” the man continued confidently, nodding.

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise as you turned toward Steve.

Steve, meanwhile, seemed just as startled, though he recovered quickly enough to nod respectfully. “Yes, sir,” he replied.

John’s face softened into a pleased smile as he gave Steve’s shoulder a firm pat. “Your father is a good man,” he said approvingly.

Steve’s mouth twitched.

For the briefest second, his face did something incredibly specific—a tiny grimace flickered across his features with the beginning of an eye roll before he managed to smooth it over into a polite smile again.

“Yes, sir,” Steve repeated smoothly.

You smiled brightly at the two, but inside your head you were already making a very clear mental note.

Teach Steve how to hide his facial expressions better.

Because if he was going to survive the rest of this wedding as your fake boyfriend, that particular skill was going to be absolutely necessary.

You slipped your arm a little more comfortably through his, leaning into him just slightly in a way that looked casual but also conveniently kept him from saying anything too honest.

Steve felt the movement instantly.

His entire brain went a little soft around the edges.

The small gesture was clearly part of the act, but Steve’s brain was doing a very bad job remembering that. He tried to focus on the conversation instead.

Which was difficult.

Because you smelled nice.

And because your arm was still hooked through his.

And because every time you leaned slightly closer to him while talking, his brain briefly stopped processing anything else in the room.

Meanwhile, your ex’s parents seemed completely satisfied.

Anna smiled warmly between the two of you.

“Well,” she said fondly, looking between you and Steve, “we’re very glad you brought someone.”

You nodded politely.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice easy again. “Me too.”

Steve, still trying very hard to behave like a normal human being and not someone who had been emotionally compromised by a fake relationship, smiled politely beside you.

Inside, however, his brain had only managed to produce one extremely unhelpful thought.

Her arm is holding mine.

And unfortunately for him, that seemed to matter a lot more than it should have.

From the outside he probably looked fine. He was standing beside you with his shoulders squared and his hands politely folded in front of him the way he’d been doing all evening, nodding along as Anna spoke and occasionally answering John with a respectful, “Yes, sir,” or a quick polite smile.

If someone had walked by they might have thought he was calm. Maybe even confident.

Inside his head, however, things were. . . significantly less confident.

Because about thirty seconds ago you had looked up at him while Anna was talking, barely for a second, and your eyes had crinkled at the corners with the tiniest smile, the kind that looked like you were sharing a private joke with him even though you hadn’t said a word.

And now Steve was pretty sure his heart was beating wrong.

It thudded against his ribs so hard he was convinced someone standing nearby might hear it. His ears felt hot, his palms were damp, and there was this faint dizzy feeling in the back of his head like maybe maybe he was about to pass out in the middle of a conversation about how lovely the event was.

Which would be humiliating.

Steve swallowed and shifted his weight slightly, forcing himself to focus on John, who was currently explaining something about a work trip, but Steve’s brain refused to cooperate.

Get it together, he scolded himself firmly.

Seriously.

This was ridiculous.

You were just standing next to him. You’d been standing next to him all night. There was nothing new about that. Nothing unusual. Nothing that should be causing his internal organs to malfunction like he’d just run ten miles.

Pull it together, dingus.

He also realized his inside scolding voice was just Robin telling him to shut up and pull it together all the time. He sighed as his eyes flicked down to you again before he could stop himself.

You were listening politely to Anna, nodding along and smiling. Steve immediately looked away again like he’d been caught doing something illegal.

Jesus Christ.

He dragged a hand down the back of his neck and silently started scolding himself again.

You had specifically asked him to behave tonight.

He could still hear your voice from earlier in the evening, back when you’d been fussing with your dress in the mirror and he’d been standing behind you trying not to look like a lovesick idiot after you'd fixed his tie.

Your tone had been pleading as you glanced at him through the mirror and said something like, “Steve, please just act normal tonight, okay? I’m serious.”

And then Robin’s voice had immediately popped into his head right after that memory. “You’re whipped, dingus. Like embarrassingly whipped.”

Steve had denied that very loudly at the time.

But now he was starting to think she might have had a point.

Each time your hand brushed his sleeve, his brain short-circuited a little more.

This is a medical condition, Steve decided firmly.

There was no other explanation.

People’s hearts were not supposed to start racing every time someone looked at them. That wasn’t normal human behavior. There had to be some kind of scientific reason for it. Some weird biological thing where certain facial expressions triggered cardiac distress.

Yeah.

That had to be it.

Because otherwise the alternative explanation was that you were somehow responsible for the fact that he suddenly felt like he might faint.

And that would be. . . concerning.

Steve forced himself to focus on the conversation again, nodding politely while John spoke, but his brain had already wandered somewhere else entirely.

Backwards.

Way backwards.

Because the truth was, if he was being honest with himself, this whole problem hadn’t actually started recently.

It had started a long time ago.

Steve didn’t realize he was staring at the floor until Anna laughed softly at something you said, snapping him back to the present. He quickly looked up again, plastering on another polite smile, but his mind was already replaying the memory that had surfaced whether he liked it or not.

Billy.

The day Billy showed up at the Byers’ house looking for Max.

Steve could still remember the dull pounding in his head from the beating Billy had just given him. Everything had been hazy and tilted sideways, his ears ringing and his vision swimming as he tried to stay upright.

He’d been half-conscious at best.

Definitely dizzy. Probably about ten seconds away from passing out completely.

And then you’d stepped forward.

Steve remembered the moment weirdly clearly, even through the fog that had been clouding his brain at the time. Billy had been saying something nasty and before Steve could even process what was happening you had marched straight up to him.

And punched him.

Right in the face.

Steve had actually thought he was hallucinating for a second.

Because there was absolutely no way you had just decked Billy Hargrove like it was nothing.

Except you had.

Billy had stumbled back, stunned, and you had been standing there with your fists clenched like you were ready to do it again if he even thought about touching Max.

Steve remembered staring at you from where he was slumped against the wall, half-loopy from pain and blood loss and whatever mild concussion he probably had at the time.

And even through all of that dizziness he had one very clear thought.

Oh.

Not oh no.

Not that’s bad.

Just oh.

Because something about the way you’d stood there had done something weird to his brain. Something that, apparently, had never quite gone away.

Back in the present, Steve shifted slightly beside you, forcing himself to breathe normally.

Okay, he thought firmly.

That was fine.

That was totally fine.

Lots of people admired their friends for punching terrible guys in the face.

Totally normal reaction.

Totally healthy.

Steve nodded absentmindedly as John continued speaking, but then you glanced up at him again.

And smiled.

Steve’s brain immediately short-circuited again.

His heart did that stupid fast thing in his chest, his ears went warm, and he had to look away before anyone noticed the absolutely ridiculous expression that was probably spreading across his face.

Steve made a quiet mental note right then and there that he really, really needed to learn how to hide his expressions better.

Because apparently his face was doing things without his permission lately.

The kind of things that would absolutely get him roasted alive by Robin if she ever saw them. The kind of things that probably made it painfully obvious that his brain had stopped working every time you so much as glanced at him.

Seriously. He had to get that under control.

If he was going to keep standing next to you at events like this, pretending to be a competent, normal human being, then he absolutely could not keep looking like someone had unplugged his brain every time you smiled at him. It was embarrassing. Deeply embarrassing. And if he had any self-preservation instincts left, he would start practicing a neutral expression in the mirror or something.

He was so busy internally lecturing himself that he didn’t actually notice the exact moment John and Anna said goodbye.

One moment they were there.

The next moment they weren’t.

Steve blinked slightly, his brain catching up a few seconds late as he realized the conversation had ended and the two of you were standing alone again.

When had that happened?

He hadn’t heard them say goodbye. Hadn’t noticed the hug you’d given Anna or the handshake with John. His mind had been somewhere between panic and daydream the entire time.

Which probably wasn’t a great sign.

Steve turned his head just in time to see you sag a little beside him, the bright polite smile you’d been wearing for the last several minutes finally slipping off your face like it had been physically exhausting to hold there.

You exhaled slowly, rubbing the side of your neck as your shoulders relaxed for the first time since the couple had walked up.

“That,” you said with exhaustion, your voice dropping into something far more genuine now that the audience was gone, “was exhausting. I don’t think I’ve fake-smiled that much since my eighteenth birthday.”

Steve stared at you for a second before his brain finally kicked back into gear.

“Uh huh,” he said automatically.

You didn’t seem to notice how useless that response was.

You were already talking again, your hands moving slightly as you leaned a bit closer to him, clearly riding the moment of finally being able to complain without worrying about who might overhear.

“And did you see the way John kept looking at me like he was trying to figure out if I’d ruined his son’s life or something?” you continued. “Like, sir, relax. Your son did that all on his own.”

Steve nodded.

“Uh huh.”

“And Anna asking about me like she didn’t spend three years pretending I didn’t exist whenever I came over,” you added, scrunching your nose slightly in lingering irritation. “God, that woman has the memory of a goldfish when it comes to things she doesn’t like.”

“Uh huh,” Steve said again.

Your head tilted slightly as you looked up at him, your eyes narrowing with mild suspicion.

Steve, who had not contributed a single meaningful word to this conversation, blinked at you.

You squinted a little harder.

“Oh no,” you said slowly, realization dawning across your face as your shoulders dropped in guilt. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

Steve’s brain stalled.

You winced immediately, already apologizing before he could even process the accusation.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you said quickly, one hand coming up to rub the back of your neck again. “I’m just ranting at you about my ex’s parents like a crazy person. I promise this whole thing will be over soon.”

Steve opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“I uh, yeah,” he said stupidly, the words coming out tangled as his brain tried to juggle embarrassment, panic, and the weird pounding still happening in his chest. “I think I just, uh, I think I need to go to the washroom.”

“Oh,” you said, nodding quickly. “Okay, sure.”

Steve nodded back, a little too fast, already stepping away before his brain could overthink it.

“Yeah. Just one second.”

He gave you what he hoped was a normal smile before turning and walking toward the hallway, his pace slightly faster than usual as he escaped the crowd.

The moment the bathroom door closed behind him, Steve let out a long breath.

He stepped up to the sink, gripping the edge of it with both hands as he leaned forward slightly, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

“You need to get a grip,” he muttered to himself.

His reflection looked unimpressed.

Steve sighed and dragged both hands down his face before looking up again.

“Seriously,” he continued under his breath, leaning slightly closer to the mirror like he was giving himself a serious pep talk. “You’re acting like a complete idiot tonight. Just act normal. It’s not that hard.”

He pointed at himself sternly.

“You are a normal guy,” he added. “You have talked to girls before. You have dated girls before. This is not a life-threatening—”

The bathroom door opened behind him.

Steve immediately stopped talking.

He straightened quickly, clearing his throat as he stepped back from the sink, trying to look like he had absolutely not just been whispering motivational speeches to himself.

The guy who walked in paused when he saw him.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

Steve blinked. He looked at the guy again, searching his memory for any sign of recognition, but came up completely blank.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said politely after a moment, gesturing slightly in confusion. “Do I know you?”

The man chuckled softly under his breath as he adjusted his jacket and leaned toward the mirror to check his hair.

“I’m Josh,” he said. “The ex.”

Steve froze.

“Oh,” He said quickly, straightening a little more as he nodded awkwardly. “Sorry, I—uh—congrats on the wedding, man.”

Josh smiled faintly at his reflection, smoothing his hair back. “Yeah,” he said with an easy shrug. “It’s great.”

Steve shifted awkwardly beside him, suddenly very aware of how strange this conversation was.

After a moment he cleared his throat.

“How did you recognize me?” he asked.

Josh glanced at him in the mirror, one eyebrow lifting slightly like the answer should have been obvious.

“Y/N had a photo with you and the others in her room,” he said.

Steve’s stomach did a weird little flip.

He managed to keep his face neutral, though it took effort.

“Oh,” he said lightly, nodding once like that was completely normal information to receive. “Right.”

Josh leaned back slightly against the counter, folding his arms as he studied Steve with mild curiosity.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’m actually kind of surprised she came with you.”

Steve frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Josh shrugged.

“I always thought if she brought anyone to something like this it’d be Munson,” he said with a small amused huff. “Those two were basically attached at the hip.”

Steve blinked. He had absolutely no idea how to respond to that.

Josh waved a hand dismissively. “I’m kidding,” he added with a smirk. “Kind of.”

Then his eyes flicked back to Steve again.

“So,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Are you two dating?”

Steve straightened instinctively. “Yes,” he said firmly. “For some time now.”

Josh hummed, nodding as if that confirmed something in his head. “Good,” he said after a moment. “Good. I’m happy for her.”

His mouth twitched slightly as he added, almost as an afterthought, “And for you a little more.”

Steve frowned. “Why is that?”

Josh stared at him for a second then laughed.

“Wait,” he said, leaning forward slightly as he looked Steve over. “Are you serious?”

Steve’s confusion deepened.

“You’re really dating her?” Josh continued, sounding genuinely surprised now. “I thought you were just using her.”

Steve blinked. “Excuse me?”

Josh rolled his eyes like Steve was being deliberately naive.

“Oh come on,” he said casually. “You know what I mean.”

Steve did not, in fact, know what he meant.

Josh continued, completely unfazed. “Y/N’s not the type of girl you marry,” he said bluntly, inspecting his reflection again. “She’s the kind of girl you date so you can finally marry the one.”

Steve's brain struggled for a moment to process the sentence.

“Uh. . . how did I say this once?” Josh mused aloud. “Yeah. She’s a practice run.”

The words landed like a punch and Steve’s stomach twisted sharply.

“Don’t act so surprised,” he said with a dismissive laugh. “Didn’t you only ask her out for that?”

Steve felt something cold settle in his chest. “No.”

Josh tilted his head slightly.

“Huh,” he said. “Weird.”

He shrugged again.

“I heard from the guy she dated before me that he got married right after they broke up,” he added. “So I figured—why not try it myself?”

Steve stared at him but he was not angry yet.

Just. . . confused.

Deeply, genuinely confused.

Because he couldn’t understand how someone could say something like that so casually. Like it was funny and didn’t mean anything.

Josh pushed away from the counter then, clapping Steve once on the shoulder as he passed him.

“Anyway,” he said, already heading toward the door. “Hope you invite me to the wedding.”

He paused at the doorway, glancing back with a crooked grin.

“Not with her, of course.”

Somehow, and for reasons that were almost certainly not your fault, your day-off mimosa had turned into three cosmopolitans (if you could call vodka with a whisper of whatever pink mix you had in your pantry a cosmo) and two shots of whiskey. You think they were roughly shot-sized. Close enough, at least.

You tipped the bottle back again, amber liquor sloshing into your mouth, and you grimaced as you swallowed. It wasn't yours. It was Dylan's—gag—, but you weren't about to let perfectly good liquor go to waste. Not when you could put it to use, blunting the sharp edges of your broken heart.

Six months, including a whole holiday season, you'd sunk into that capricious fucker, and he'd dumped you via text en route to the Valentine's Day dinner you'd planned.

You took another swig of whiskey, glaring at the offending device on your coffee table. Full of nothing but fuck boys and fuck heads and fucking limp-dick bitch boys—and him.

The bottle hit the table with a clatter as you set it down. Nope nope noooope. You weren't supposed to think about him, especially not after a few drinks. You'd built a firewall between that year, those memories, and yourself.

Do not pass go. Do not think about B—

You snatched up the bottle again, poured the lukewarm dregs of it into your mouth. Letting the liquor burn away the forbidden thoughts. Fuck, you needed an omelette and a nap.

And therapy, probably.

Omelette first.

You pushed to your feet and the room twisted, your body floaty and a little numb as you picked across your apartment to the kitchen. Reached for the pan, missed, decided on popcorn instead. Grabbed the bottle of strawberry vodka still in your freezer from Galentine's while the kernels popped. Checked the oven clock, 10:44 a.m., and you pretended you hadn't seen it.

Popcorn bowl in hand, you landed safely on the couch once again. The strawberry vodka went down too easily, viscous and syrupy on your tongue.

A memory slipped free, lubricated by the liquor. A date night at his apartment in Upper Manhattan. Billie Holiday playing on the record player in the corner. He cooked for you, despite still relearning how, and spun you around the kitchen like the lead in those black-and-white films he made you watch. For dessert, you'd had strawberries, whipped cream, and his mouth between your legs on the kitchen counter.

The liquor turned bitter on your tongue, but you still drank it.

You didn't remember picking up your phone, but the LED screen was bright in the dark hole of your apartment, thumb scrolling through your contact list.

Shawn? No.

Jake? Married now.

Harry? Hell no.

Dylan? Too soon.

Bucky? Your thumb hovered over his contact. His picture was still the selfie he'd taken of the two of you snuggled up in your bed, your hair half-covering his face, but his grin was palpable as he gazed down at you. It still sent your heartbeat galloping away every time you saw it, but you couldn't bring yourself to change it.

You'd met not long after the Blip, when the world was trying to reorient itself after half the population suddenly returned. You and Bucky had created a safe-haven of sorts, a solid place to land while you both healed.

It had been almost three years since he'd broken things off without warning. All but ghosting you not long after the night with the strawberries. Just days after that photo was taken.

It was never official, you reminded yourself. Just a situationship. A months-long situationship in which you felt more for him than anyone else you'd ever been with combined—but a situationship nonetheless.

The liquor had hold of you now, thick and pounding through your bloodstream, phone screen pulsing, then splitting as your eyes began to cross. Double vision, like the relationship you thought you'd had with him, and the reality of it.

Your thumb was moving before your brain could catch up, and his voice suddenly filled your apartment. Gruff and impersonal, but it still made your heart flutter.

“You’ve reached Bucky Barnes. If it's important, leave a message. If not…don't.”

Beeeeeeep.

—

Bucky’s fist connected with the punching bag, the thwack echoing loudly through the empty gym. He’d lost track of time in the concrete, windowless space, and that's exactly how he liked it. Buoyed by the quiet, the shelter from reality.

Therapy this morning had gone poorly. His therapist wanted to talk about his relationships, his emotional connections that went beyond obligation, and Bucky hadn't been able to provide a satisfactory answer, apparently. Mostly because he refused to talk about you.

Thwack. The energy from the hit reverberated up his metal arm, buzzing across his shoulders and down his spine.

He never let himself think about you, never let himself wonder if he'd made the right decision, never let himself imagine what things would be like if he had stayed. If he had been honest with you.

Thwack.

It didn't matter, anyway. He was certain you'd moved on, had seen the photos of that weasel on your social media pages. And he genuinely hoped you were happy with him, even if you were lightyears out of his league.

Thwack.

That's all Bucky ever wanted—for you to be happy and safe.

It's the reason why he did what he did, even though it felt like taking a lamb out into the yard and shooting it at the time.

Thwack, thwack, thwack—SNAP.

The chain holding the bag snapped, sending the bag flying across the space and slamming into a rack of dumbbells with a deafening crash.

Bucky shook out his fist. That was probably enough exercise for today.

He took a few gulps of water from the bottle and gathered his things. Pulled out his phone to check the time.

1 missed call from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

1 new voice message from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

He froze, staring down at his phone screen. You hadn't called him since the week after the breakup, when you'd left him a message to tell him you'd left some of his things outside his apartment. Nearly three years ago.

His thumb hovered over the message. It could be nothing, he told himself. Or, you might be in trouble.

“Fuck it," he muttered to himself, and hit play.

“Heeey, Bucky, it’s—hyuk—meee.” God, you sounded drunk. “I, umm, just wanted to see how you were d-doing. Maybe we could—hyuk—hooks up, er, no—hang out sometime?” you trailed off, faux-cheeriness slipping away. He could practically hear the sadness in your voice, and it made his chest ache. “Actually, f-forget I said anything—I’m just, fuck, ignore me. Sorry, I—I hope you're doing good, B.”

The call ended with an abrupt click.

Oh, you poor thing.

Wasted and crying at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday. So very unlike you, which meant something must have gone very wrong.

He showered quickly, racing the voices in his head telling him this was a mistake, and set off in the direction of your apartment before he could talk himself out of it.

You answered the door after about a dozen increasingly frantic knocks. He'd been pulling his phone out to call you when he heard the dead bolt slide into the wood.

It took you a second to adjust to the bright light of the hallway, lashes fluttering over red-rimmed eyes. You were still dressed in your pajamas, a tiny tank top, and shorts with delicate scalloped edges. Even in this state, you were more beautiful than the rose-colored lens of his memory.

With some effort, he glued his eyes to your face as you finally processed who was standing in front of you.

“Your hair is longer," you said finally, the words a little gooey, syllables sticking to the roof of your mouth.

God, he'd missed you so much. “It is," he replied, and you said nothing, doe-eyed and blinking. "Not a fan?” he pressed, running his fingers through it to smooth it back, still damp from his hurried shower.

He could practically see the gears turning in your head. You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. “Bucky, what’re you doin’ here?"

“You called," he shrugged. Trying to play it cool, like his insides weren't a tangled mess of worry.

You looked exhausted, bleary-eyed, and unsteady on your feet. He wanted to scoop you up and carry you to your bed right then and there. He maybe would have if he thought you wouldn't kick and bite like a feral cat. No one was safe when you were a little bit drunk.

“Sounded like you could use some company," he continued.

“Didn't think that you'd pick up. I’m f-fine," you lied, picking at the chipping paint on the door.

“Can I come in anyway?"

You contemplated this, gaze sweeping over him, and he resisted the urge to puff up his chest.

“Don't you have like, hero shit to do?"

“Nah, it's quiet today," he lied. The Thunderbolts were actually scattered across the city right that moment, gathering intel. But they could handle it. Right now, the only person he was concerned about saving was you, even if it was just from a nasty hangover.

He saw the moment you relented flicker across your eyes, and you turned your back on him, disappearing into the cave of your apartment. He followed closely behind, closing and locking the door behind him.

It was unusually dark in there, the only light coming from the edges of the curtains and the glowing TV. You were watching some 90’s sitcom he vaguely recognized, and returned to your nest on the couch, drawing the blanket around your body.

The apartment was mostly how he remembered it, with some new art and a larger bookcase. It was definitely messier, though, with empty cups and bowls on the coffee table, dishes piled up in the sink, and a small mountain of laundry in your reading chair by the window.

“You're judging me," you accused, that drunken lilt tripping over the g’s.

“I am not." And he wasn’t, though he could tell you were a little embarrassed, even when thoroughly intoxicated. "I'm the last person to be dispensing judgment.”

“Please, your place was always immaculate." You rolled your eyes and reached for a bottle of something pink on the coffee table.

“Yeah, because I knew you were going to be there." He snatched it out of your hand before you could neck it.

“Hey—excuse you," you bit, trying to grab at it.

He held it high, suppressing a smile while he read the label. “Frisky Vodka?" he raised an eyebrow. “Salacious Strawberry—" he took a few steps towards the kitchen as you jumped to your feet, lunging at him, clumsy and slow from the alcohol.

“Bucky! Stop it—"

“—serve alongside a summer salad, vanilla cake, or at the beach with a handsome lifeguard—”

“Can you not—"

“140 proof!" he gasped, pausing by the sink. “Doll, this will strip paint."

“I swear to fuck—" You threw yourself at him, grabby hands batting at his chest and shoulders. You always were a spirited little thing.

He adored you so much it made his ribs ache.

Bucky tsked. “Language." He tipped the bottle over and poured it into the sink.

“Who the hell do you think you are barging in here—"

“You let me in," he countered, washing the liquor down the sink. The smell alone made his teeth ache. "You called me, sweetheart. You knew how this was going to go. I’m not one of the little party boys in your phone.”

You sucked your teeth, glaring daggers at him. You knew he was right. If you wanted a random hook-up or meaningless attention, you would have called any of the other drooling dogs on your phone. The thought alone made his stomach twist, his vision fill with blood. But instead, you'd called him.

There was a reason, whether or not you'd even admitted it to yourself.

“So, are you going to let me take care of you, or are you going to keep being a brat?"

“I hate you.”

“You can hate me while walking. Go take a shower, and I'll make you something real to eat.” Yes, he'd noticed the half-eaten bowl of popcorn. You’d need a lot more than that to soak up the strawberry-flavored lighter fluid you were drinking.

“You can't tell me what to do in my own apartment!"

“I believe I just did." He started collecting things to make brunch, surprising even himself with how well he remembered the layout of your kitchen.

Your eyes narrowed, arms crossed over your stomach. “You're different."

He paused his rummaging through your alarmingly empty refrigerator. “Good different?" he asked, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I haven't decided."

“Well, I always do my best thinkin’ in the shower. So get to it." He retrieved the carton of eggs at the very back, and by the time he straightened up, you'd stalked down the hallway. A door slammed shut a moment later.

Twenty minutes later, he plated a cheesy omelette and some tater tots—they were basically hashbrowns, right? Along with a few orange slices and the largest bottle he could find, filled with ice water. He’d also taken the liberty of starting a load of dishes and cleaning out the old food from your fridge.

He'd been about to run the trash when you came padding down the hall, dressed in a new set of pajamas, your hair tied up in a towel. The smell of your body wash caught him across the chin like a sucker punch, and he had to grip the edge of the counter so he didn't fall to the ground and start panting.

He was here to take care of you, nothing else.

You looked decidedly less hostile as you sat on one of the stools, even offering him a timid, melty smile when you took in the cleaner kitchen and steaming food. “Thanks, B," you mumbled while you tried to stab a tater tot. You missed, trying twice more before giving up and grabbing it with your fingers, popping it into your mouth.

Bucky didn't trust himself to speak around the heart-sized lump in his throat, so he nodded and nudged the water towards you.

“I promise I'm not an alcoholic," you said, and he snorted a laugh. “It's just been…" You trailed off, pushing eggs around your plate.

Bucky leaned on his elbows across from you, getting down to your eye level. “You don't have to explain anythin’ to me. Not ever," he said, and you nodded, swallowing hard. “Eat up."

But before he could turn back to the dishes, you spoke up again, all in a slurring rush. “He ghosted me on Valentine's Day. Used the reservation I made to take another girl. I should have known he just wanted to fuck me, he was always so weird and flakey and god—it was so fucking stupid. I just never thought he'd do something that shitty, y’know?"

Bucky contemplated this, untangling your scrambled words. “You dumped him?"

You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

“You want me to kill him?"

The corner of your mouth tilted up a tiny bit.

“I've got the clearance. I can make it look like an accident—”

“No, no," you giggled, shaking your head. "No murder.”

“That's what the clearance is for. It's not technically murder," he corrected, unable to stop himself from smiling back at you.

“No assassinations, then." You pronounced the word with about a dozen extra s’s, and he felt like he might keel over if his heart didn't return to a normal rhythm soon.

“Fine, no assassinations," he said. "I’m sorry he treated you like that. You aren't stupid, and it wasn't your fault. You don't deserve to be left hanging.”

Your smile faltered, gaze dropping back down to your plate. “And yet, it keeps happening,“ you muttered.

He realized his mistake, then. “Doll—"

“I know, Bucky, I know," you cut him off, waving your fork in the air. “You’ve got more important shit to do, like saving the world from purple aliens and, like, Russians or something. It's fine. We don't have to talk about it."

It felt like you stabbed the fork between his ribs, twisting the tines through the fragile skin of his lungs.

“Just—just forget it. It's fine. Thank you for breakfast.” You pushed the plate away, jumped to your feet too fast. Your balance failed, legs moving too slowly to catch you, but luckily, Bucky was quicker, and he caught you around the middle before you cracked your head on the counter.

“Easy now, I gotcha’." He shifted you back onto your feet, grip tight around your body to ensure you didn't fall again. You were trembling and hot to the touch, hands clammy against his arms. Your hair towel had fallen off, cold strands tumbling over your shoulders. You seemed very pale all of a sudden. " Let me get you into bed, yeah? C’mere, honey—”

“No—" you tried to protest, but he was already scooping you beneath your knees, lifting you carefully into a bridal hold. Trying his very best not to jostle or move you too quickly.

“You look like death warmed over, doll. Pipe down and let me help you." He started moving towards your bedroom, the path so familiar he could chart it with his eyes closed.

You swatted weakly at his chest, but didn't protest, head lolling against his shoulder. You were so limp in his arms, so trusting, and he was deeply grateful you'd had the foresight to call him, and not one of those other dipshits who might have taken advantage of you. It healed something in him to know how much you trusted him, even after everything he'd done. Maybe he really wasn't the monster he saw in the mirror.

“Just wanted to fuck you," you mumbled into the hollow of his throat, lips brushing his skin.

He barely stifled a laugh at your bluntness. “Did you?" he asked, stepping over a pile of clothes and into your bedroom. “That's why you called, huh?"

You nodded. “But you're being mean." Your voice was barely above a whisper, fading as you drifted closer to sleep.

“I know, doll," he hummed, unable to resist placing a kiss on the furrow between your brows. You wouldn't remember it anyway; he was being selfish. “And you can curse me out all you like tomorrow."

“Bet your ass I will…”

“Oh, I'm counting on it." But his words hung empty in the air. By the time he got to your bedside, you were fast asleep, tiny snores tickling the hair around his throat. Careful not to wake you, he tucked you beneath the covers, arranged your hair so it wouldn't soak your pillowcase.

He retrieved a wastebasket, your water, and a few Advil, setting them all within arm's reach on your nightstand. Then he plugged in your phone, turned on all your little ambient lamps around your room to make it cozy, and put your comfort show back on, volume all the way down.

Satisfied that you were settled and safe, he debated whether he should stay. What if you woke up and needed him? What if you really were ill?

He decided to stay just a little longer, to finish cleaning up the kitchen and take the trash. That's the last thing anyone wants to do when they're hungover.

But when that was done, he decided to tidy up the living room, just a little bit. Throw away the old flowers and dust the shelves, straighten your desk, and put any stray items where they belong.

But then he might as well fold the pile of laundry. It was taking over your favorite chair after all, and you'd probably want to sit there later. So he folded your laundry, pretending not see the more delicate items in the pile that made his blood pressure rise, or the old t-shirt he'd been missing, the fabric significantly more worn than the last time he saw it.

And then the chair was bare, so he put a blanket over it and a favorite stuffed animal. Sure, it just so happened to be a bear he'd won you on Coney Island, but that wasn't the point.

And if you were going to enjoy your reading chair, you'd need a few snacks. Plus, your fridge was mostly condiments and beverages, so you needed groceries, too. He ordered some on Instacart, only needing mild assistance from Yelena, and waited around for the delivery to put them away.

By then, it was nearly six o’clock, so he might as well prep you some dinner.

It occurred to him that he was being a little bit insane, maybe a lot a bit, but he missed you so much, and just wanted to make sure you were okay. He had to know if you were okay.

And being back in your apartment, surrounded by your favorite colors and little trinkets and hobbies, it felt like coming home. A home he hadn't been to in a long, long time. It was like double vision, seeing the place he'd once loved, knowing it didn't really belong to him anymore.

With every hour that passed, the gravity of his mistake grew heavier, harder to ignore. He should never have let you go, should never have thought you'd be better off without him. That was your choice to make, not his, and all he'd done was hurt you both by making it instead.

He’d been a coward, and now he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to make it right. Not when you were clearly still hurting, still angry with him.

But, he thought with rare optimism while he dumped the pasta into the boiling water, maybe this could be a first step.

—

You woke up to a familiar laugh track and a kick-drum pounding behind your eyelids. Spotting the water on the table, you guzzled it, along with the painkillers sitting beside it—wait, you didn't remember setting that glass there, or the pills, or the wastebasket. And you definitely didn't turn on all of your ambient lights, or... was your hair wet?

Okay, you did remember taking a shower, and eating the best omelette you'd had since—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Bucky had made the omelette for you. Bucky had been here, in your mess of an apartment. Made you take a shower, eat, and dumped out your booze.

Then, the smell of frying garlic reached your nose, and your stomach gave a fierce growl.

Someone was cooking in your apartment.

Moving slowly to not irritate your head any further, you pulled on a hoodie and exited the dark safety of your bedroom.

You couldn't believe what awaited you.

Apartment? Spotless. Laundry? Folded. Lights? Dimmed. Candles? Lit. Bucky? Dressed in a too-tight t-shirt, chopping zucchini at your kitchen island.

“Thought the garlic might summon you," he said, his voice a low baritone alongside the thunkthunkthunk of the knife that soothed the ache between your eyes. "Hungry?”

“Did you…” You looked around, struggling to comprehend what you were seeing. Bucky had cleaned your entire apartment while you slept and was making you dinner, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn't stomp on your heart and blow you off three years ago with no explanation. “Why did you do all of this?”

He finished chopping and scraped the vegetables into the pan. “You called me," he said, as if that explained anything.

“Yeah, for a hook up, not—" you gestured around the apartment, "—not for you to babysit me.”

“Don't act like a baby then." He turned back around, setting the cutting board on the counter. Those blue eyes were like fucking arrows, piercing straight through the soft parts of you.

“I am not—" you caught yourself. "You didn't have to do this.”

“Obviously." He braced his hands on the counter, his metal arm whirring faintly at the pressure. Fuck, how had he gotten even more buff than before? And you felt personally attacked by his newly long hair. You'd pestered him to grow it back out for months.

“So why did you?"

“How about a ‘thank you’?" He was deflecting.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Too hungover to filter yourself anymore. “Are you ever going to be honest with me?"

The question shattered like glass on the floor between you.

His jaw flexed, gaze lowering to the counter.

You waited for his response, the vegetables undoubtedly burning behind him. Your head was still pounding, stomach gone sour, and your tongue felt like it had a sock wrapped around it.

“Just go, Bucky. You've done enough. “ You turned on your heel to hide in the dark of your room, when he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry."

“What?" You turned back towards him.

“I’m sorry," he repeated, lifting his head to look at you. The hurt in his gaze was unmistakable. A bone-deep pain you'd only witnessed when he talked about losing the one person that meant everything to him. "It was a mistake, I made a mistake, and I—” his metal hand combed through his hair, scrubbed over his face. “I just wanted to help you, to do something for you. I know it doesn't change or erase what I did, but—fuck, I’ve missed you so much, and even just being in your home, around you was so...” he fell silent, letting his confession hang in the air between you.

Maybe you were still a little drunk—okay, definitely still a little drunk—but that look in his eyes was all the confession you ever needed. And deep down, you knew that you called him because you needed someone to take care of you, someone to love you, and Bucky was the only person you trusted to do so without taking more than they gave.

You hadn't called for a hook-up; you called because you missed him. Because you needed him. And he'd come because he missed you, too. He stayed because he needed you too.

With hurried steps, you crossed the apartment. Your arms found their way around his waist, tucking your head under his chin. Immediately, his arms encircled you, holding you tightly against his chest, his nose buried into your hair. The connection between you thrummed to life, sparks jumping every place your skin brushed his. The years fell away like autumn leaves, leaving just the two of you, and the love you both had tried so hard to bury.

“Thank you, B," you murmured.

“Anytime, doll," he hummed, the words resonating in the drum of his chest.

The two of you stayed quiet for a few minutes, unwilling to relinquish the fragile moment, but an acrid smell started to make your nostrils itch.

“Your veggies are burning.”

“Fuck ‘em," he said. “You just want the pasta anyway."

You giggled, nuzzling even closer, the smell of his skin turning your thoughts to static. “Yeah, I do."

His metal hand skimmed up your spine, sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. The coolness of his touch made you shiver, and he started gently pressing into the knots in your neck, loosening the tension that was like a vice around your skull.

“How's your head?" He asked.

You let your head fall into his palm, unraveling under his touch as your pain melted away. A moan slipped out when he dug into an especially tender spot, and you felt his breath hitch.

“Poor thing," he cooed. “You really did a number on yourself, didn't you?"

“I was stupid," you muttered, petulant.

His fingers tightened in your hair, craning your head back. “You were reckless, not stupid. Stupid would have been calling one of those other losers on your phone."

“Wouldn't have all those losers in my phone if you—”

“I know, I know,“ he pouted, loosening his hold. “Don't have to rub my nose in it."

“James Buchanan Barnes, are you jealous?" You teased, tugging at his pursed lower lip with your thumb.

He nipped at your fingers, his flesh hand wrapping your wrist to immobilize you.

“Maybe I'll call one of them right now, since you seem more interested in being my personal butler than hooking up—"

He pressed his mouth to your captive wrist, a hot, hungry kiss that shot up your arm and through your body, making your toes curl in your slippers. “Hooking up doesn't even begin to cover what I want to do to you," he gruffed, trailing his lips down your forearm while his metal hand fell to your lower back, pressing your body closer to his.

“So what are you waiting for?" you asked, a little breathless.

His lips moved to your throat, feather-soft against your hammering pulse, up towards the shell of your ear. “First, you're going to eat and hydrate. Then we're going to watch a movie, something mushy and romantic, and you're going to fall asleep in my lap,” his voice was slow and sinful, stoking the fire in your belly to an inferno.

You clung to him, head bobbing. Yes, yes, yes.

But he wasn't finished. “And when you wake up in the morning, bright-eyed and clear-headed, I'll seek my penance between those perfect thighs.” He leaned back to look into your eyes. “Sound good?"

You nodded, jaw a little slack. It was like he tipped your head over and all your thoughts came pouring out of your ears. “S-sounds great."

He pecked your lips, which was practically a crime against humanity after winding you up so much. “Now, go sit your butt on the couch. I got frozen pizzas as a backup."

You perked up at that, pout falling away. “Did you get my—"

“Your favorite? Of course I did. Go on and pick your movie." He turned you loose with a pat on the butt, and you scampered off to the living room.

“Hey, B, did you get any wine?—"

“No."

“Fiiiiiiiine.”