𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐧

The sports medicine clinic at Briar somehow always smells the same no matter what time of year it is. Hockey gear, melting ice packs, and disinfectant.

And is technically supposed to close at six.

Technically.

In reality, it closes whenever the hockey team finally stops wandering in with mystery bruises, split knuckles, sore shoulders, or dramatic declarations that they’re "probably dying" before immediately asking for snacks five minutes later.

Which is why you’re still here. Somewhere along the line, what started as a second-year sports medicine placement had turned into unofficial emotional support for the entire Briar hockey team, half the roster had your number for “emergencies,” which unfortunately ranged anywhere from actual injuries to Garrett once texting you a photo of a bruise shaped vaguely like Abraham Lincoln at two in the morning.

The fluorescent lights hum quietly overhead while you reorganise rolls of athletic tape for the third time that evening, one AirPod in, paperwork half-finished beside you, when the clinic door swings open.

You don’t even look up immediately.

“You’re late,” you say automatically.

“Mrs Logaaaan,” Garrett sings back.

Tucker’s voice follows before you can respond. “Oh thank god, my favourite healthcare professional.”

“Can you legally prescribe me a girlfriend?” Dean winks at you, messing with his hair- spraying sweat onto the other players around him. 

That makes you glance up and grimace.

“You need deodorant first,” you reply flatly.

Your comment earns a loud chorus of offended reactions.

“You’re so mean to us.” One of them whines

“You guys make it incredibly easy.”

Hockey players file into the clinic grinning like idiots, damp hair from practice still sticking up in random directions, one drags himself dramatically toward one of the beds clutching his shoulder like he’s been mortally wounded.

“See? I told you guys that Logan’s her favourite. She hates the rest of us.”

“That’s not true,” you say automatically.

It kind of is, though.

You’d known all of them for years at this point - through playoffs and fractured fingers and Dean getting banned from intramural basketball for “excessive dramatics” - but Logan had somehow become something else entirely before you even realised it was happening.

“Logan’s my favourite because he knows how to fill out injury forms without drawing smiley faces.” You snort quietly and reach for a fresh pair of gloves. 

“That was one time,” Dean argues.

“It was four times. It doesn't get funnier the more you do it.”

The boys continue arguing over each other while you start sorting through who actually needs treatment and who’s just here for attention.

And from behind all of them, Logan steps into the room, looking unfairly good for someone who just spent two hours getting bodychecked into plexiglass.

His practice jersey is half untucked, curls damp at the edges from sweat, hockey bag hanging from one shoulder while he watches the entire scene unfold with the long-suffering expression of a man who absolutely could stop his teammates and simply chooses not to.

Your mouth twitches on instinct.

“Not a single one of you knows how to act in medical facilities.”

“We’re athletes,” one of them replies solemnly. “We’re fragile.”

“You’re twenty.”

“Exactly.”

His eyes find you. It’s subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice unless they were specifically looking for it, but you do. The way his expression shifts slightly the second he sees you, shoulders loosening a little like he’s finally somewhere he actually wants to be.

Unfortunately, the team notices too.

“There he goes,” Garrett says loudly to the room. “Looking at her like she personally invented happiness.”

“Actually disgusting,” another adds.

You shake your head under your breath, trying not to smile as you move toward the nearest bed.

“Alright, what happened?”

“Practice injury,” the player says dramatically.

“You got hit with a foam roller.”

“It was aggressive.”

From behind him, Logan laughs quietly.

The sound pulls your attention toward him automatically.

He’s already looking at you.

He always is, it started sometime last winter, subtle enough neither of you acknowledged it at first, until suddenly Logan had become this fixed point in your day without either of you meaning for him to.

And then, because apparently he enjoys making your job harder, he drops onto the stool closest to your station while the rest of the boys continue causing problems in the background.

You narrow your eyes slightly.

“You injured too?”

He shrugs once and glances at your clipboard.

“Are you busy?” he asks.

You look down at him. “No actually, this is all for fun.”

His mouth twitches.

Behind him, one of the guys points accusingly. “See that? Flirting.”

“We’re literally talking,” you say.

Which, admittedly, had become a problem sometime around November. Because Logan looked at you during conversations like every sentence mattered more than it probably did.

“That’s how it starts.”

Logan ignores them entirely.

“You look tired,” he says instead, quieter now.

You blink at him once, slightly thrown by the softness of it in the middle of all the noise, mostly because Logan only really sounded like that with you. Everyone else got easygoing sarcasm and dry one-liners. You got this version of him instead.

“Your team is exhausting.”

“That’s fair.”

“You included.”

“Less than the others.”

“Debatable.”

That finally gets a proper smile out of him, small but real, and it sits annoyingly well on his face.

You gesture toward the treatment beds with your pen. “Okay, which one of you is actually injured and which one of you just wants free medical attention?”

“My knee-”

“My wrist-”

“Emotionally, mostly-”

“Shocking,” you mutter, already beginning to inspect somebody’s wrist.

And through all of it, Logan stays where he is.

Closest to you.

Which, unfortunately, only makes the entire situation infinitely worse.. Because now he’s just sitting there. Watching you work.

You move from player to player while the clinic slowly dissolves into complete nonsense around you, someone stealing gloves from a supply drawer while another dramatically asks if bruising counts as a life-threatening condition.

“You’re literally holding an ice pack shaped like a cartoon penguin,” you deadpan, “meant for the kids who come for weekend lessons by the way.”

“It’s emotionally devastating.”

“You’ll survive.”

“That’s what they said about the Titanic.”

“Get out.”

Laughter breaks across the room in an undignified uproar.

Logan stays focussed on you with that same quiet gaze he always gets whenever you’re concentrating on something. One foot hooked loosely against the stool rung while he  absentmindedly spun the little keychain attached to the back pocket of your scrub bottoms. 

You glance back over your shoulder briefly.

He doesn’t even look guilty.

If anything, the corner of his mouth lifts slightly when he realises you noticed.

“You’re annoying,” you murmur quietly while digging through the drawer for bandages.

“Thought I was hot.”

You try to stay unimpressed, but your mouth still betrays you by twitching slightly while you go back to work, “You can be both.”

That earns the smallest laugh out of him.

Across the room, Garrett notices immediately, pausing mid-sentence and looking between the two of you suspiciously.

“Why are you looking at him like that?”

You don’t even blink.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to put him down.”

“Because he’s touching my keychain.”

“That’s weirdly domestic.”

“It’s literally a keychain.”

“Yeah,” Dean cuts in, grinning now. “A married couple keychain.”

Logan finally speaks again from beside you.

“Pretty sure married people have bigger problems.”

Dean chirps back, “Like taxes and children.”

Garrett points at Logan. “That man would thrive as a girl dad.”

Logan doesn’t even look embarrassed. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed at being interrupted.

You throw a roll of tape at them without looking.

The room erupts instantly.

“Okay,” you say over the noise, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. “Everybody either sit down properly or leave.”

Shockingly, they obey.

You finish checking a plethora of oddly shaped bruises and superficial cuts while the clinic finally settles into a moderate calm around you, the post-practice energy finally starting to wear off.

The entire time, Logan stays close. Close enough that every now and then your thigh brushes his knee when you walk past, close enough that he occasionally reaches out to tug lightly on the edge of your hoodie sleeve just to get your attention for absolutely no reason.

Especially when Dean starts dramatically fake-flirting with you while you’re checking his wrist, only for Logan to look up from where he’s sitting and say,

“Relax.” Which is unfortunately the exact tone he uses whenever he’s jealous but is trying to pretend he isn’t.

Dean sharply bursts out laughing.

“OH MY GOD THERE IT IS, you’re actually possessive!”

“I’m not possessive,” Logan lies.

“You looked ready to fight me.”

“You’re annoying me.”

“That’s even worse!”

You shake your head, trying to hide your smile while Logan leans against the counter behind him, completely unbothered by the fact that the entire room is basically accusing him of being in love.

Eventually, when the bulk of the man-toddlers have left the clinic and you’ve handed out enough ice packs to survive a small natural disaster. You finally make your way back over to Logan, picking up the 100th incident form to fill out for the stragglers left behind, 

“You sure you’re fine?” you ask eventually without looking directly at him.

“Mostly.”

That makes you glance up, you click your pen and drop it into your pocket,

“Mostly?”

He finally shifts slightly on the stool.

“My shoulder’s stiff.”

You stare at him.

“You waited until after I treated everyone else to tell me that?”

A shrug.

“You were busy.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

His mouth twitches again.

“You like me anyway.”

The worst part was that he said things like that with complete certainty now, like somewhere over the past few months he’d stopped questioning whether you’d stay.

One of the teammates gags dramatically somewhere behind him.

“There it is.”

“Shut up,” Logan says immediately.

You’re already moving toward the storage cabinet before the teasing can escalate further, only to realise halfway there that the tape drawer is nearly empty.

You stop.

Then sigh.

“Great.”

“What?” Logan asks.

“Your idiot teammates used the last of my shoulder tape.”

A couple guys cheer from across the room, “LET’S GO.”

Logan rolls his eyes at them, “That sounds like a team problem.”

“That sounds like your problem,” you huff.

He looks entirely unbothered.

“So,” you continue, ignoring them completely, “I need to go grab more from storage.”

Logan nods once.

“You can come back after your shower and I’ll tape it for you properly.”

He pauses.

“You want me to leave?”

“You smell like a locker room.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“And yet,” Garrett says from the hallway without even looking back, “she keeps letting you come over.”

Logan doesn’t miss a beat.

“That’s because she looooves me.”

“Disgusting,” Dean mutters.

You point toward the hallway.

“Go shower or change or whatever the hell you hockey people do after practice and come back in twenty minutes. I’ll restock from the storage room.”

One teammate gasps dramatically.

“She’s asking him to come back.”

“She asks all injured athletes to come back,” you say flatly.

“Yeah, but not like that.”

Logan looks up at you with the faintest grin tugging at his mouth, then he stands, tall enough that suddenly the tiny clinic space feels much smaller than it did thirty seconds ago.

He grabs his bag from the floor without taking his eyes off you properly.

“I’ll be back,” he says.

One of the players makes kissing noises immediately.

You throw a roll of bandage backing at them.

This time Logan laughs properly.

The rest of them filter out behind him in a mess of noise and complaints, leaving the clinic suddenly, almost suspiciously, quiet.

You thank the gods and take advantage of whatever time they've mercifully gifted you. Taking the minutes to do small tasks like restocking tape from the back storage room, reorganising supplies and finishing the paperwork you abandoned earlier.

By the time the clinic door opens again, barely fifteen minutes later, the noise of the team has completely faded into the distance.

You look up from where you’re reorganising a tray of supplies with immediate suspicion.

“You showered fast,” you say lightly.

Logan closes the door behind him with his elbow before answering, hair still damp around the edges like he’d towel-dried it in under thirty seconds and called it a day. He’s swapped into grey sweats and a dark Briar hoodie, duffel bag hanging lazily from one hand, and he looks far too pleased with himself for someone supposedly recovering from an injury.

“Yeah,” he says easily, walking toward you. “Wanted to see you.”

There was a time that line would’ve completely short-circuited your nervous system. Now it just settled warm somewhere beneath your ribs because Logan said things like that all the time.

You roll your eyes automatically even though warmth blooms under your skin anyway.

The corner of your mouth twitches before you can stop it.

“Wow,” you deadpan. “Romantic.”

“I know.”

“You’re laying it on thick today.”

He drops his bag by the wall with a heavy thud and sits himself up on the treatment bed while you grab the fresh tape you’d dragged out from storage, and hold it out toward him

“There,” you say. “Knock yourself out.”

Logan stares down at the tape for a second like you’ve personally betrayed him, then his mouth pulls into the most ridiculous pout you’ve ever seen on a grown man.

“…Baby.”

“What?” you ask.

“You’re just handing it to me?”

“You have hands.”

“But you do it better.”

The thing about Logan was that he got clingier when he was tired. Post-practice Logan in particular operated almost exclusively on physical contact and opportunistic whining.

You choke out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”

“But you do it better,” he complains, looking up at you from where he’s sitting. “You literally study this stuff. It’s like having a personal private healthcare system.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

You fold your arms, trying very hard not to smile while he keeps looking at you like a neglected house cat.

You stare at him for a second, then laugh softly under your breath despite yourself.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m injured.”

“You are literally sitting upright.”

“My shoulder hurts.”

“You survived practice.”

“Barely.”

He says it completely deadpan too, which somehow makes it worse.

You step closer eventually, taking the tape back out of his hand with a dramatic sigh.

“I cannot believe this works on me.”

“It does though.”

You roll your eyes, lean down, and kiss the pout right off his mouth.

It’s quick, barely more than a soft press of your lips against his, but it instantly wipes the smug suffering expression off his face.

“There,” you murmur against him. “Better?”

“Much.”

“you're so manipulative.”

“You love it.”

Unfortunately, he isn’t wrong.

Still shaking your head, you begin to pick at the tape, searching for a start, a grin breaks across his face.

“There she is.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.”

He leans back slightly while you move closer, between his parted knees, 

“Take your shirt off.”

Logan’s eyebrows lift with mock dignity,

“Wow.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying, very forward of you.”

You point the tape threateningly.

“I can and will mess this up on purpose.”

That finally earns a laugh out of him before he grabs the bottom of the shirt and peels it up slowly over his stomach and chest before pulling it fully off. The movement flexes the muscles across his shoulders and arms in a way that makes your hands pause for just a second too long before continuing.

The first time you’d seen Logan shirtless, you’d nearly walked face-first into a supply cart. Now you liked to think that you mostly handled it with dignity. 

But even though you have seen him shirtless before, plenty of times, your brain still stalls for a second. Of course he notices, a Cheshire smirk spreading across his face.

“Are you checking me out right now?”

You snap your eyes back up to his. “Relax.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’ve literally taken your shirt off in front of me like a hundred times.”

“Exactly,” he says, leaning back on one hand. “So why are you acting shy now?”

“I’m not acting shy.”

“You stopped moving.”

“I was thinking medically.”

That gets a laugh out of him, low and warm and entirely too satisfied.

“Sure you were.”

You shove lightly at his shoulder. “Sit properly before I ruin your tape on purpose.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He straightens up obediently, but the second you lean closer to inspect the swelling, his hands settle automatically on your hips, warm and familiar through the fabric of your leggings. Logan constantly touched you in ways so absentminded, they almost felt instinctive - a hand at your back, fingers catching your sleeve, knees knocking together under tables. 

You glance down at them while peeling the backing off the tape.

“That’s not very professional of you.”

Logan looks at you innocently. “Neither is ogling your patient.”

You snort despite yourself and press your palm flat against his chest to push him back slightly so you can work properly.

“Shut up unless you want me to tape your arm to your torso.”

“Bit kinky for a medical facility.”

“John.”

You press the tape down slightly harder against his shoulder, he laughs quietly through the wince, shoulders shaking beneath your hands before finally relaxing when you glare at him.

“Abuse of power.”

“Keep talking and I’ll make it asymmetrical.”

That finally shuts him up.

The room settles into something quieter after that, the air hums softly around the two of you, close and warm and familiar in a way that makes the rest of campus feel very far away. You focus on the tape, fingers smoothing it across the curve of his shoulder and down his arm while Logan watches you with that same soft, steady attention he always gets when he thinks you aren’t noticing.

“You concentrate really hard,” he murmurs eventually.

“I’m trying to stop you from destroying your rotator cuff.”

“Hot.”

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says lightly, thumbs brushing absentmindedly against your hips, “you keep me around.”

You finish the final strip and smooth your hand over it one last time, making sure it’s fully adhered before tossing the empty backing aside.

“There,” you murmur, “Done.”

The clinic suddenly feels too quiet without the team in it.

Just the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint smell of your strawberry chapstick, and Logan looking at you like he has absolutely nowhere else he’d rather be.

You don’t step away and his hands tighten slightly at your hips while you’re still leaning forward over him, palms braced against the crinkling paper beside him on the treatment bed. Suddenly you’re very aware of how close your faces are.

You can feel his breathe against your parted lips, warm and steady

“You’re staring again,” he says quietly.

“You’re shirtless in a medical facility.”

“You invited me.”

Your eyes flick down to his mouth first and you lean in to kiss him before he can say something smug about it.

The first kiss is soft, more amused than anything, except Logan enthusiastically kisses you back. It’s not so chaste anymore.

His hand slides from your hip up along your waist while your fingers instinctively catch against the back of his neck, and the second you kiss him deeper, he exhales softly against your mouth like it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

You can feel the warmth of his skin beneath your hands, nails digging into his shoulder.

His mouth stays slow at first, then the kiss deepens steadily until your breathing catches halfway through it, a small involuntary sound escaping you before you can stop it, and Logan takes the opportunity to tilt his head and kiss you deeper like he’s been waiting for permission.

One of his hands slides into your hair, the other stays firm at your waist.

The new angle arches you against him properly now, your chest pressed lightly to his as he kisses you harder this time, slower and warmer and very deliberately not innocent.

His mouth is still curved faintly like he’s enjoying the fact that you started this, but the smugness fades quickly when your fingers slide into the damp hair at the base of his head and tug lightly.

The sound he makes against your mouth is quiet, but enough to make heat rush straight through you.

“Oh, you liked that,” you murmur before kissing him again. Logan’s hand tightens instinctively at your waist like he’s annoyed you noticed, which only makes you want to tease him more.

“Don’t get cocky,” he says, voice lower now.

“You literally started pouting for attention five minutes ago.”

“And it worked.”

He kisses you again before you can answer, his fingers creep below the hem of your scrubs and his palm flattens up on your spine, against your bare skin. The other slides down from your hair to your neck, guiding you harder into his lips, mouth parting to swallow your shallow breaths.

The paper beneath him crinkles loudly when he shifts forward toward the edge of the bed, and you can’t help laughing softly into the kiss at how absurdly obvious the sound is.

“You’re so clingy,” you whisper.

“Mm,” he hums against your mouth. “You love it.”

You pull away from him, chest heaving as you make room for his hands to skate up your sides, your scrub top going with them, "Actually...", his hands pause against you. You grin, going to press hot kisses to his neck, "I love you."

He groans at that, blunt nails digging into your ribs, just below your bra- itching to take it off.

You’re about to help him peel off your layers, when the clinic door suddenly slams open hard enough to hit the stopper behind it.

“YO LOGAN-”

You jerk back just enough to look toward the doorway while complete silence takes over the room.

You and Logan freeze for approximately half a second while the entire hockey team stands in the doorway staring in collective disbelief.

One teammate points aggressively.

“I KNEW IT.”

Another gasps dramatically.

“MRS. LOGAN CONFIRMED IN REAL LIFE.”

You bury your face briefly in Logan’s shoulder, mortified and laughing at the same time, meanwhile, Logan looks ready to commit murder.

He reaches blindly for the tape roll beside him and chucks it directly at them.

“Get out, you perverts.”

The tape bounces uselessly off one guy’s chest and nobody leaves.

If anything, they move further inside.

“HE’S DEFENSIVE!” someone yells.

“BRO WE INTERRUPTED FOREPLAY.”

“You guys are so annoying,” you groan, face burning.

Logan just watches you laugh for a second, despite the fact his teammates are actively ruining his life in real time, something in his expression softens completely.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he mutters quietly.

You look back at him with teary eyes.

“You threw tape at them.”

“They interrupted me.”

“That sounded possessive. Maybe Dean was right?”

“It was, can't believe I'm proving him correct.”

"YES MRS. LOGAN" Dean cheers from within the pack.

That makes you laugh all over again.

Logan, meanwhile, tightens an arm around your waist and glares at them with absolutely zero shame. He doesn’t even bother to move away from you anymore, which is probably the most embarrassing part.

“Door,” he says flatly.

The boys finally retreat, still yelling over each other, and the second the door slams shut again, the clinic falls back into silence.

You look down at Logan. He looks up at you.

fainting had always been a little bit inconvenient.

not dramatic enough to be cinematic, not predictable enough to properly prepare for - just inconvenient in the kind of way that slowly embeds itself into every aspect of your life until you stop noticing how abnormal it actually is. It all started in high school, the first time it happened was arguably horrifying- 3rd period math class, and your crush had just offered you a pen and flashed you a crooked smile. Your heart raced, like a hummingbird wild and erratic and before you knew it, one minute you were bashfully giggling at his jokes about quadratic equations- the next you were face first in your notebook. The doctors told you Vasovagal Syncope, which in your opinion sounded like a hard metal rock band, but you took their blood pressure medicines from that day onwards. 

Over time, you learnt how to live with it. Sometimes it was manageable. Sometimes it was just dizziness and blurry vision making you sit down on the nearest surface before your body decided to humble you publicly. Sometimes it was waking up to panicked faces hovering over you while you tried to convince everyone around you that no, seriously, this happened all the time.

which, unfortunately, was true.

Allie and Hannah learned the quickest, being roommates would do that to you. The boys learned soon after. By junior year, there was practically a system in place for it - water bottles shoved into your hands, someone grabbing your bag before you hit the floor, Garrett texting Logan before you were even fully conscious again.

Logan, however, never quite adjusted to it the way everyone else did.

he tried to.

God, he tried.

but there was something uniquely horrifying about loving someone whose body could go slack in your arms without warning. Something deeply unsettling about the way you always laughed it off afterwards, brushing it aside with flushed cheeks and a quiet, "I'm okay,” while his heart was still somewhere near his throat.

because to you, fainting was normal.

to John Logan, it never would be.

But here are the two times he dealt with it..somewhat normally. And the one time he didn’t

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟏

The library at Briar had a very specific kind of silence.

Not actual silence - that would’ve been impossible considering half the student population seemed physically incapable of existing without aggressively whispering every thought that crossed their mind - but the sort of hushed atmosphere that made every dropped pen sound like a gunshot.

You were currently trying very hard not to contribute to that atmosphere by murdering John Logan with a highlighter.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Logan muttered from across the table, long legs nudging yours beneath it.

You didn’t look up from your notes, underlining a sentence in your physiology textbook hard enough to nearly tear the page. “Because,” You whispered sharply, “you’ve tapped your foot against mine for the last fifteen minutes.”

“That’s because my feet are freezing.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“It became my problem when you shoved your icy ass converse under my legs.”

A snort came from beside you. Hannah quickly disguised it as a cough when you glared at her over your laptop screen.

Across from her, Garrett looked deeply unbothered by the entire interaction, lazily flipping a page in his philosophy textbook while Hannah slowly collapsed into silent laughter against his shoulder.

“You two are disgusting,” Allie informed you quietly from the end of the table.

You blinked. “We’re literally studying.”

Logan hummed beside you, not even pretending to pay attention to the stats worksheet in front of him anymore, “Yeah baby, real filthy behaviour.”

Heat crawled up your neck instantly.

The word baby wasn’t exactly new. Logan had been throwing it around for months now, slipping it into conversations with such casual ease that you’d stopped reacting outwardly somewhere around week three, despite the fact every single time still felt like someone plugging your nervous system directly into a live wire.

“You’re staring again,” You muttered.

“I’m allowed to stare at my girlfriend.”

Allie gagged dramatically.

“Oh my god,” She whispered loudly, “he’s gotten even more annoying.”

“Impossible,” Hannah replied solemnly.

Garrett barely glanced up from his book. “Give it a week. They’ll become one organism.”

“We already basically are,” Logan said casually.

You finally looked up at him then.

That was the problem with Logan. The reason you’d fallen for him so spectacularly despite your better judgement.

He said things like that so easily. Like it was obvious.

obviously he’d started keeping protein bars in his backpack because you forgot to eat when you were stressed. obviously he waited outside your exam halls even when he had practice. obviously your legs ended up over his lap every time you sat together for longer than ten minutes.

Your chest tightened softly.

And because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating you whenever you got too emotionally comfortable, your vision blurred slightly at the exact same moment.

You frowned. That was… inconvenient timing.

The words on your laptop screen swam for half a second before sharpening again. Your heartbeat fluttered unpleasantly.

Not enough to panic over yet. You subtly shifted in your seat, rolling your neck and readjusting your posture- hoping to god that it would be enough, trying to ignore the familiar lightheadedness curling at the edges of your body.

“Hey.”

Logan’s voice dropped quieter instantly.

You looked over.

His brows had pulled together slightly, eyes scanning your face with terrifying precision.

“How long?” He asked softly.

Damn him.

Most people didn’t notice until you were actively halfway unconscious.

“I’m okay,” You whispered automatically.

A look crossed his face. Because he knew that tone. Knew what it meant when you said I’m okay in that specific careful voice. Your boyfriend leaned back slightly in his chair, completely ignoring the fact that Garrett was now openly watching the interaction over the top of his textbook.

“When was the last time you ate?”

You blinked once.

Logan sighed immediately. “Baby.”

“I had coffee?”

Allie dropped her pen onto the table. “Oh my god.”

“You can’t survive on caffeine and academic validation,” Hannah hissed.

“I literally can though.”

“No,” Logan said flatly, “you literally cannot. That’s the whole issue.”

Despite yourself, you laughed quietly.

Wrong decision.

The movement sent dizziness crashing through you harder this time, your stomach dipping sharply as black spots burst across your vision.

Logan was moving before you could even process it properly.

One second you were upright, the next his hand was wrapped around your wrist while the other steadied your shoulder.

“Hey,” He said immediately, voice calm enough that someone who didn’t know him wouldn’t notice the tension underneath it, “look at me.”

Your body felt frustratingly floaty all of a sudden.

“I’m fine,” You murmured weakly.

“Yeah, sweetheart, that sentence is losing credibility.”

Garrett was already standing.

“I’ll get water.”

Hannah reached for your bag without needing to ask while Allie shoved your laptop aside to make room.

The horrifying thing was how practised everyone looked doing it.

Like this had become routine.

Which, unfortunately, it kind of had.

“I hate all of you,” You mumbled as Logan carefully crouched in front of your chair.

“You love us deeply,” Allie corrected.

“Stockholm syndrome maybe.”

“You literally chose to date one of them,” Hannah pointed out.

“That weakens your argument significantly,” Garrett called over his shoulder.

Logan ignored all of them.

His thumb pressed lightly against your pulse point while he watched your face with that same concentrated expression he got before hockey games. Like he could somehow prevent your body from betraying you if he paid enough attention.

Your chest ached.

“Hey,” You whispered softly once your vision finally started stabilising again.

Logan looked up immediately.

You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing against the crease between his eyebrows. The tension sitting there.

“I’m okay.”

He closed his eyes for half a second. Then he turned his head slightly and pressed a quick kiss into the centre of your palm before standing back up.

The library collectively chose that exact moment to become aware of the fact that the hockey team’s second line centre was looking at you like you personally held his heart hostage.

“Oh my god,” Allie whispered dramatically.

Hannah looked emotional.

Garrett looked disgusted.

“Suddenly we’re all trapped in a Nicholas Sparks novel,” he muttered.

Logan didn’t even glance away from you.

“Shut up,” He said absentmindedly, still watching your face carefully, “she almost passed out.”

“I did not almost pass out.”

“That’s not medically valid.” Logan shot.

You flicked his forehead, “You’re not medically valid,” 

You stared at him for two seconds before bursting into startled laughter.

And just like that, some of the fear eased out of his shoulders.

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟐

The thing about the hockey house was that it never really felt like anyone was visiting it.

It felt like everyone was always a part of this little ecosystem, even if half of them technically still had their own places and the other half only owned two plates and a concerning number of energy drinks that nobody could fully account for.

Tonight was one of those nights where everything blurred into something almost domestic in a way you loved. Garrett and Hannah were folded into each other on the armchair in the corner, Hannah scrolling absently while Garrett spoke over her shoulder in low, easy comments about something on his screen that she kept pretending not to care about but clearly did. 

Dean and Allie were on the floor near the coffee table, Allie leaning against him in that casual way that somehow always ended with her stealing his hoodies and Dean acting like he was personally offended by affection while still adjusting her position when she shifted too much.

And then there was Tucker, occupying the remaining space like a problem nobody had successfully solved yet, talking at a volume that suggested he had forgotten walls existed.

You were on the couch.

Logan was on the couch too, your legs resting across his lap, your head resting on the back of the couch. His hand had found your ankle at some point during the evening and had simply stayed there, like it had decided that was where it belonged and saw no reason to reconsider.

“Have you eaten today?,” Logan murmured into your ear, not looking up from his phone.

You didn’t look away from the conversation Dean was having with Allie about whether cereal could be classified as a personality trait. “Hmm?”

“Did you eat today baby?” He dropped his phone into his lap and caressed your hair.

“I think so.”

A pause.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It does if you really think about it.”

Hannah glanced over from the armchair. “She’s lying.”

“I am not lying.”

Garrett didn’t look up. “You had toast and emotional distress.”

“I had toast and a very normal amount of stress.”

Logan’s thumb pressed lightly against your ankle once, absent and automatic, but his attention had shifted to you properly now. Not fully concerned yet, but already recalibrating the room around your answer the way he always did when he thought something might be off.

“Baby,” he said quietly, like it was a habit more than a warning.

You finally turned your head slightly toward him. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“You’re absolutely starting something.”

Across the room, Allie made a sound of exaggerated disgust without even looking up. “I can feel the health lecture forming.”

Dean nodded. “It’s in the air.”

Logan ignored them completely. “You said you had toast this morning.”

“I did.”

“And then what.”

You hesitated.

Which was apparently answered enough.

Hannah sighed. “Oh my god.”

“I had coffee,” you admitted finally, because there was no point pretending anymore.

Garrett closed his eyes briefly like he was praying for patience. “That’s not food.”

“It has beans in it.”

“That’s not how nutrition works,” Logan said, though his voice was still calm, still even, like he was trying very hard not to make it into a bigger thing than it already was.

You shifted your legs slightly on his lap, rolling your eyes. “You’re all obsessed with me.”

“Yes,” Allie said immediately.

“That’s not-”

“Yes,” Dean repeated, “we are.”

You opened your mouth to concede and hop to the kitchen, go grab whatever tucker had made and stored in the fridge, but the words didn’t come out as smoothly as they should have.

It wasn’t immediate. It never was, much to your annoyance. It was subtle in the way your body always was about these things, like it preferred to give you enough time to be pissed before it betrayed you properly.

A slight softening at the edges of your vision first, like the room had decided to lose definition without informing you. The low hum of conversation didn’t change, but it felt slightly further away, like you were listening to it through water.

You frowned. This was inconvenient.

You shifted your weight on the couch instinctively, trying to ground yourself without drawing attention to it, but Logan noticed anyway. Of course he did.

His hand tightened slightly around your ankle.

“You good?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded automatically. “Yea,” pushing off the sofa, hoping the movement would reboot your brain,”... yeah im fine.”

It came out too fast. Logan’s expression changed imperceptibly, the way it always did when he didn’t believe you but hadn’t yet decided whether to challenge it in front of everyone.

“Hey,” he said again, softer, his hand wrapped around your wrist- following you away from your seat.

You tried to laugh it off, but it didn’t quite land properly even in your own ears. “I’m finally listening to you guys, just going to grab something to eat.”

You pushed yourself to step away.

That was when it hit properly. Your body simply decided that it was no longer participating in the conversation. The room loosened, like the edges stopped agreeing with each other and in between the gaps your brain filled with black spots.

You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing the back of the couch as your knees went weak in a way that didn’t feel like anything at first, until it did.

“Hey-”

Logan’s voice cut through immediately, sharper now, closer than it had been a second ago, but it was already too late for clarity.

There was so much movement all at once.

Someone swearing.

A water bottle being cracked open.

The shuffling of sneakers and socks against the floor.

Coming back was always the worst part.

Because there was always a moment where you could hear everything before you could properly exist inside it again. Voices layered over each other, closer this time, less casual.

“I’ve got her,” Logan’s voice said, low and controlled in a way that didn’t quite match the tension underneath it.

“She’s out cold?” Dean asked, like he was trying not to panic but also deeply failing.

“She’s not- don’t say it like that,” Allie snapped immediately.

“Water,” Garrett said somewhere to the side, already moving.

And then your vision finally returned in pieces.

Ceiling first.

Then faces.

Then Logan.

He was closest.

Crouched in front of you, one hand steadying your shoulder, the other still holding your wrist like he hadn’t fully decided whether letting go was allowed yet. His expression wasn’t dramatic in the way people expected panic to be.

He was focussed on you, in a way that made your chest tighten before you even fully remembered why. You blinked slowly.

“Oh,” you muttered. “That was annoying.”

Relief flickered across Allie’s face instantly. “She’s alive.”

“Barely,” Dean said.

“I heard that,” you murmured.

Logan didn’t smile, “you scared me,” he said finally. You swallowed, trying to sit up, but his hand immediately steadied you again, firmer now.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically, accepting the water from garrett with a smile, you reach over to your bag and search for an energy bar. You hated the nutty torture snacks, but Logan insisted on you carrying them around for emergencies.

Everyone around you had relaxed, Hannah, Garrett and Tucker went to the kitchen, animatedly chatting about dinner whereas Allie and Dean went back to their places on the floor, already scrolling through her phone. 

Logan hadn’t moved, his fingers drumming against your knee. Your fingers moved without thinking, brushing lightly against his sleeve.

“I’m okay,” you said again, softer this time, like it might mean something more if you said it gently enough.

Logan exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking briefly shut like he was trying to steady something in himself. He shook his head, as if the movie had been unpaused and he had momentarily lost the plot. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟑

Logan got the message in the middle of something he would not later be able to reconstruct properly, not because it wasn’t important, but because everything that happened immediately after replaced it so completely that the original context never stood a chance of surviving in his memory.

His phone buzzed incessantly on his desk breaking his concentration from whatever his professor was droning about ,to the group chat notifications exploding on his phone screen. It was Hannah’s name first, then Garrett’s, then Allie’s, all stacked on top of each other in a way  that made him unlock his phone and scroll through hurriedly. 

you fainted. properly. you're awake now. come back.

He read it once without reacting in any visible way, which was what made it worse in hindsight, everything else that he had been doing was irrelevant, as though the idea of continuing it belonged to someone else entirely, and he was no longer that person.

By the time he got back to the house, his hoodie was half-zipped because he had started putting it on properly and then stopped halfway through, his cap still backwards and slightly uneven like he had forgotten it was there at all and his hair underneath it flattened in places that suggested his hand had been through it more times than he had noticed.

Logan shut off his ignition and ran up the stairs, two at a time until he was bursting through the front door- his bag hanging from one shoulder as he scanned the scene in front of him. Garrett stood near the kitchen counter with a glass of water he had clearly forgotten to drink from, Hannah sat on the couch angled slightly forward in a posture that suggested she had not yet decided whether she was allowed to relax, Allie hovered somewhere between the hallway and the living room in a way that made it clear she had been going back and forth between checking on you and giving you space, and Dean existed in that familiar state of pretending not to be paying attention while absolutely paying attention.

And you were on the couch. Your eyes were open but not fully anchored yet, blinking slowly in that delayed way that made it clear your body was still catching up to where you were. Your shoulders were slightly hunched forward as if you were trying to find the correct posture for being awake again and your hands were loosely folded in your lap before you noticed him properly.

The moment you did, everything in you shifted in a way that was immediate and familiar, like muscle memory rather than thought. You sat up, twisting over the couch to meet his eyes and smile with your hand outstretched- that was when the collective inhale happened, like even the house was waiting to see what he would do.

His eyes stayed on you without breaking, taking in the fact that you were sitting there, awake, conscious, present, and yet his brain still hadn’t stopped running like a hamster on a wheel, rotating again and again through all the scenarios he had plagued himself with on the drive over- a broken movie reel that fluttered between bad, worse and catastrophic.

You saw him, the way his eyes darted all over your face, how his hand was tightening and loosely against his bag strap. 

“Hey,” you said, your voice slightly rough, but it jumpstarted him to begin slowly approaching you, like a wounded animal. Your first instinct whenever he looked like that, as if you could smooth the edges of his expression back into something manageable by making yourself smaller within it, which was something you did without hesitation, like it was part of a pattern you had both already agreed to without ever discussing it.

He let you. 

Let you intertwine your fingers with him and pull him closer next to you. Let you kiss his hands, then knuckles and then the side of his wrist. He let you ground him before he could process anything.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, already aware of how the room was still holding itself slightly tense, and your voice tilted into something apologetic without fully meaning to, “I’m sorry guys, I must not have realised how stressed I was. I didn’t mean to scare anyone, I just didn’t eat properly and I got a bit dizzy and I didn’t realise it would turn into anything, it won’t happen again, I promise.”

Around you, the room began to release itself in pieces.

Garrett exhaled and shifted his weight like he had been waiting for permission to stop bracing, Hannah leaned back into the couch again as her shoulders loosened, Allie moved a step closer to you and immediately started talking in that half-joking, half-relieved tone about electrolytes and how she was “putting you on a schedule if this ever happens again,” and Dean, finally, contributed something about how he shouldn’t have asked about how your paper went, and he’ll let you run him over with his car to relieve stress next time, which was unhelpful but normal in a way that helped everyone else reset.

You leaned into Logan without thinking, still holding his hand, your body molding into his as you rubbed circles on his knuckles and pressed your hand into his thigh

You looked up at him, already softer, already slipping back into the version of the evening where everything was normal again. But what you couldn’t see was the way his emotions swirled thunderously in his mind, how he couldn’t begin to relax like everyone else did- in fact he was baffled they were so normal so quickly. He barely heard you ask about his class, or notice when you peppered soft kisses to his jaw and say that you missed him- how boring it was when he wasn’t there. As though the structure of his day mattered more than anything.

He tried to answer at first, his words bubbling to the tip of his tongue, but it didn’t take long for him to realise they wouldn’t come out in a smooth, caramelised way that would flow into the calm atmosphere of the room. He gently let go of your hand, in a decisive way that made you furrow your brows and scan his face.

“Logan?” you said, quieter now, not fully alarmed but already sensing the direction this was going.

He rubbed his hands together, throat working thickly as his adams apple bobbed. Everyone else had noticed the shift, conversations slowed. Dean stopped mid-sentence. Allie’s expression changed slightly as she looked between the two of you. Hannah went still in a way that suggested she was no longer sure whether to intervene or wait.

Logan turned to you, his hair falling in specks along his forehead, “I need a minute.” He got up and went upstairs, footsteps heavy along the ceiling of where you all stayed frozen until his bedroom door clicked closed; you blinked a few times, looking at your friends who met you with confused, concerned shrugs and shakes of their heads.

Your expression tightened and you pushed yourself up to follow him, ignoring whatever advice your friends were half-heartedly giving you. 

When the door creaked open under your hand, you found him sitting on the edge of his bed, hands braced on his knees and holding his head, as though he needed something solid to hold the weight of his thoughts. His cap lay discarded on the floor, shoulders slightly lifted in tension that he was not releasing, and when you entered the doorway he did not look immediately, as if he already knew what would happen if he looked at you too quickly.

When he did meet your eyes, it was not anger that you saw first, but something more difficult to place because it did not sit cleanly in any single emotion. It looked like a strain held in place for too long.

“You shouldn’t apologise like that,” he said, and you frowned slightly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you. Trapping whatever conversation you were about to have within these four walls.

“I wasn’t- I just didn’t want everyone worrying,” you said, still trying to smooth it over in the same way you had in the other room, still trying to keep it within something manageable. The bedframe creaked under you, as if warning you from crossing your legs and sinking into this situation.

But he shook his head once, not dismissive but overwhelmed, and when he spoke again his voice had shifted into something quieter but sharper at the edges, “You were apologising for being unconscious.”

That made you stop, properly stop, because it didn’t match the version of the moment you had been holding onto, and he saw that in your face immediately.

“I wasn’t here,” he said, and there was something in the way he said it that made it clear that time had not been abstract for him in the same way it was for you. “You were just gone, and I found out from my phone blowing up, messages that had sat there for god knows how long because…” He grit his teeth, “I just had to turn it on silent for class. And I get back to everyone telling me it was fine, that you’re fine, like that changes anything.”

You try to re-anchor him in proximity the same way you always did, your hand finding his again, your voice softening as you said, “You can’t always be there Logan, I don’t want you to always be on edge. I’m okay.”

But when he looked at you this time, there was something in his expression that did not settle with that reassurance.

“I know,” he said quietly, and it came out with more restraint than anything he had said earlier, like it was something he had been holding back for a long time and could no longer keep contained in the same shape. “I just don’t know how to stop thinking about what it looked like when you weren’t.”

You cup his cheek, turning him towards you, “I’m right here baby,” You kiss him, imprinting the taste of you onto his mouth, the feel of your lips together as a way to tell him that you’re still there with him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Logan held your wrists, his fingers shaking against your skin, “I..” his eyes were wide, pupils flicking between yours, “I never know when you aren’t going to be here.”

He tugged at your hands and you let him, nails digging into the bedsheet uselessly next to you. Your breath caught in your throat, face quaking and crumbling at the edges, eyelashes fluttering- beating away the bubbling tears forming on your lashline. 

“I think I’ll sleep at the dorm tonight,” you said eventually, and your voice was softer than it had been before, tired in a way that didn’t fully belong to the moment.

Logan looked up at that, but he didn’t stop you, just watched with a shattered look in his eyes, his lips pursed and pressed against his hands that were clasped together. You collected your things as seamlessly as possible, and given that you’d stayed over for the entire weekend, it was proving to be harder than you thought. But you huffed and puffed with each new article that got shoved into the shoulder bag until the room looked as if you’d never stepped foot in there. 

You’d already begun to calculate how many trips it would take to empty out the clothes from his dresser and toiletries from his bathroom. 

Logan still hadn’t said anything, his eyes widening by a fraction when he realised just how much you had erased from his space, but he stayed silent when your fingers hesitated against the door handle and didn’t dare to say anything when you turned back to him- eyes begging him to stop you, to cradle you in his arms and work it out. He ignored it all, looking through you and barely flinching when you shut the dare harder than necessary. 

You adjusted your bag strap over your shoulder with careful hands, stilling when you realised everyone was staring at you when you emerged from the stairwell, “I’m heading home guys..” 

Your throat tightened but you shook your head and forced a smile onto your face, it felt plasticy and fake when your eyebrows tightened together, nose burning with each deep breath you took. 

You added lightly, “I’ve got that test tomorrow anyway, and it’s probably better if I just- yeah. I’ll head back.”

Allie and Hannah both turned slightly, breaking out of the pitying trance when you grabbed your keys and headed for the door. 

Neither of them said anything at first, because there was a specific kind of silence that settles when two people are trying very hard to behave like nothing irreversible has happened only a floor above them.

“Okay,” Allie said finally, careful but not pushing, “Text us when you get in?”

You nodded quickly.

“Yeah, of course.”

Hannah’s eyes lingered on you a little longer, not interrogating, just observing, like she was storing away the way you were holding yourself more tightly than usual, the way Logan wasn’t following you to the door, barely letting you out of his hold with attacks of kisses and whispers in your ear. 

But neither of them asked.

Because to everyone else in the house, it still looked like something that could be explained away by stress and timing and too much noise and not enough food.

You said goodbye in a way that was deliberately light, stepping out with your usual version of composure stitched back together over something slightly less stable underneath it.

Back in the living room, the energy eventually returned in fragments, Logan had rejoined the group nearly an hour after the girls had left. 

Allie and Hannah left together not long after you, mumbled goodbyes were exchanged and worried whispers about Logan along with promises to update them over text had gotten them out the door back to you .

And once the door closed behind them, the house settled into a quieter version of itself.

Dean was the first to fully break the tension, dropping onto the couch with the kind of exaggerated movement that only made sense when someone was actively trying to remind a room how normal they were allowed to be. Tucker followed soon after, already halfway into a joke about how “Briar parties are medically unsafe environments” that no one really responded to but still helped reset the tone anyway.

Logan stayed silent for a moment too long in the kitchen doorway before eventually sitting down on the arm of the couch, not fully joining the group, just occupying space near it without integrating into it. The others kept talking for a while, but their volume softened slightly in the way it does when people unconsciously recognise that something heavier is still present in the room.

Eventually, Dean stretched and yawned in an overly theatrical way.

“Right,” he said, pushing himself up. “I’m calling it before I start thinking about my own mortality again.”

Tucker followed immediately, clapping Logan on the shoulder on his way past like nothing meaningful had just been discussed at all. “Don’t overthink it, man,” he added lightly, already heading upstairs. “She’s been doing that since high school apparently. She’s fine.”

Garrett didn’t follow them right away.

Logan just exhaled once, slow, like something had tightened in his chest at the phrasing.

Once the footsteps disappeared upstairs and the house settled properly, Garrett stayed behind in the spot next to Logan, leaning against the couch and pretended not to be boring holes into the side of his best friend's face. Logan was still on the couch arm, staring somewhere that wasn’t really the room.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

“I can’t imagine it,” Garrett broke the silence, voice quieter now, stripped of the earlier group energy, “loving someone and knowing that at any point they might just not respond.”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly at that, but he didn’t interrupt.

Garrett looked down at his hands briefly before continuing, “I know everyone’s saying she’s used to it and it’s normal for her or whatever, but… that’s not really the part that sticks, is it?”

That landed differently.

Logan looked down finally, his hands loosely clasped together, and when he spoke his voice came out lower than before, less controlled in the way it had been earlier.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, and there was no performance left in it now, no attempt to hold anything in place. “I love her so much it actually hurts, and I can’t… I can’t keep doing that thing where I pretend I’m okay when she’s-”

He stopped. Swallowed slightly and pressed his fingers to his eyes. Logan exhaled again, slower this time, like the words were physically difficult to keep forming.

“But I also can’t go on like this,” he finished, quieter.

That silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable in the way earlier ones had been. It was just heavy with the absence of an answer. Garrett nodded once, slowly, like he understood that there wasn’t a clean solution sitting anywhere in reach.

“I think,” Garrett said carefully after a moment, choosing each word like he was placing it somewhere fragile, “it might actually be harder to let her go than it is to keep reminding yourself she wakes up every time.”

Logan turned to Garrett, and nodded slowly- a row of tears fell from his chin and onto the soft cashmere beneath him, “I just don’t know how many times I can do it.”

You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.

​Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.

​You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.

​​Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."

​The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."

​"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.

​You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."

​You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.

Two — "Fuck you"

A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.

​The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.

​The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. ​"You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."

​Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"

​"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.

​Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"

​"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."

​Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.

​"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."

​"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."

​Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."

​"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.

​"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."

​"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."

​"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."

​"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."

​"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."

​"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."

​The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. ​He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.

"Fuck you," he whispered.

​The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. ​Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."

​But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.

​"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.

Three — "Fuck off"

​For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.

Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.

​There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door,  silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.

​Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.

​The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.

​Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.

A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.

​Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.

​A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.

​"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."

​The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.

​Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.

​"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.

​The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.

​The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces. 

Four — "What the fuck"

The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.

​A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.

​You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.

​He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.

​Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.

​You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."

​Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.

​"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.

​You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."

​The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.

You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

​He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.

​"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."

​"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"

​"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

​Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

​"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.

Five — "Well, fuck"

​The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.

​You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.

Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.

​Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.

​You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

​"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."

​Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."

​You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."

​You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.

A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.

​"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.

​"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.

Six — "Fuck"

Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.

​But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.

​Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.

​Logan stepped out.

You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.

​Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.

​Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.

​Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.

​It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.

​"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.

​With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.

​You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.

​"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."

​"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."

With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.

Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.

The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.

"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.

The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.

The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.

You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.

He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.

That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.

Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.

Seven — "Fuck it"

Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.

​The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.

Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.

​"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."

Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"

But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.

Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.

"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.

Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.

Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"

I think we're like fire and water | @mutantvampireearthquake

John Logan meet cute

Best Friends Sister | @bitchinbarzal

logan falls for garretts twin sister. garrett is not happy.

Find You | @/bitchinbarzal

you broke up but still call logan when you need help.

PUCK ME SIDEWAYS | @conradsmirrorball

John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis are special guest on Puck Me Sideways podcast after Y/n said in a lie detector machine that he was her crush.

The Deal With The Devil | @/conradsmirrorball

Y/n is tired of her friends keep assuming she has a crush on Garrett Graham, her best friend’s boyfriend. Her best solution? Make everyone believe she’s dating John Logan.

Idiots in love | @residentheartache

you are at party when you get cornered by a guy who can’t take a hint luckily Logan is there to save you

Death Wish | @g0ldendesiree

john logan may be in love with you, only problem? if your brother finds out then he’s a dead man walking.

Unclaimed Baggage | @/g0ldendesiree

what happens when you've got the right person in front of you, but your pasts haunt you to the point of holding back?

Mom and Dad | @/g0ldendesiree

what happens when the mom and dad of the group become, well, mom and dad?

NUMBER TWELVE | @edawgz

John logan was a firm believer that love at first sight was fake, then he saw you get checked into the boards at full strength. That was enough to convince him you were his soulmate.

My Brothers Best Friend | @saturx5

while watching your best friend and brother start to fall in love you try your hardest to hide that fact that you’re dating your brothers best friend

Jealousy | @writingsforfandoms-multi

reader gets jealous at a party

a rom com kind of love | @buckpunny1

You’re a hopeless romantic who loves romcoms. John Logan is determined, through a series of grand gestures, to prove to you that true love can be even better than the movies.

Forever | @/buckpunny1

Your exes have left you with a ton of trust issues. Lucky for you, John Logan is the most patient, perfect man for you.

Unparalleled | @/buckpunny1

Your relationship with John is freshly in bloom and you find yourself struggling with puck bunnies throwing themselves at him. Logan is right there, through it all, to prove your love is truly unparalleled.

Imagine | @sourcherryandsprinkles

Ruin the friendship | @alierecss

Falling for your brother’s best friend is already a terrible idea. Falling for John Logan, while Garrett Graham watches the two of you like a security threat, is even worse.

I said “I love you”. You say nothing back  | @/alierecss

the arrangement was simple: keep it casual, don’t catch feelings, don’t ask for more than what’s on the table. 338 days later, you’re starting to think simple was never really an option with john logan.

Night Skates, part 2 | @baby-alien11

as long as you want | @folkloure

the first time you stay with him until the morning.

good luck charm | @/folkloure

logan looks really fucking hot in a suit and it just makes you a little unhinged.

Late-Night Fuel | @andy-15-07

Bed on Fire | Masterlist | @natywrites

No one knew about John Logan’s crush on Hannah Wells except for Y/N L/N, because every time she was looking at him, he was looking at her.

unprofessional conduct | @puckingcuckbunny

The Briar hockey team treats the sports medicine clinic like their personal emergency room, Logan Tucker treats it like a second home. But the team can’t confirm nor deny your relationship… well until now

pretty little baby | @/puckingcuckbunny

It’s the end of finals week! that means that John Logan’s long time girlfriend can finally let loose at the first party post-exams, but letting loose, means a whole lot more for this man than he thought. OR you teasing Logan by calling him pretty alot.

clinical notes on loving him incorrectly | @/puckingcuckbunny

They were never casual enough to survive pretending they were

Mr. Dating Coach | @gwellsy

you pour your thoughts to logan saying you've never fallen in love and he says that you should open your heart to be able to find your person, yet when you do, he regrets giving you that advice

GRAHAM’S LITTLE SISTER | @darkkdamsel00

You return to Boston for spring break determined to keep your secret relationship with your brother’s best friend hidden, but one look from John Logan is enough to unravel every boundary you swore you’d keep.

happy thanksgiving, baby | @myfictionalcorner

logan never had a proper thanksgiving, and his girl is about to change that...

John Logan x Garrett!Reader, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 | @0miffytiffy0

ICE HEART | @beeewee

A frustrated figure skater who transferred from Illinois has only one goal: keeping her athletic scholarship this season, and she’ll do anything to change the way people on campus see her — especially if it means improving her image for pairs skating. Even if it costs her a fake relationship with the same person who spread the nickname that turned her into “Ice Heart.”

Seven steps, one word | @fezrus

from an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.

Twelve Hours | @briarafterdark

Three weeks ago at Hannah's Halloween party, John Logan almost kissed you in a hallway. You panicked. You laughed. You stepped back. Neither of you has talked about it since. Now you're trapped in the hockey house during the worst snowstorm of the year — just you, just him, just twelve hours and nowhere to go.

NO HOCKEY PLAYERS | @jacksabbotts

Check Engine Light // Masterlist | @wildflowerxwords

What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching. But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future. And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.

look at yourself | @ivysprophecy

“Yes, it’s me,” He responded as he walked into the living room, seeing you lying on the couch first and then spotting the empty wine bottles on the coffee table. “How drunk are you right now?”

“I promise I’m just a teeny tiny little bit,” You answered, pinching your thumb and forefinger together so that there was barely any space between them.

Steve laughed a little as he joined you on the couch, moving your legs for a second so that he could sit down, and then he placed them in his lap. “Where’s Robin?” 

“She went to the guest room to pass out like five minutes ago,” You told him, biting back your yawn and shifting so that you were lying on your back instead of your side. “You missed out on a very fun night. We decided to be classy and have wine like true adults, and we played a drinking game while watching Grease.”

“What was the game?”

“We had to drink every time they started singing.”

Steve shook his head and gave you an amused smile. “Your headache’s gonna be killer in the morning.”

“Hey, hey, hey, do not wish that upon me,” You told him, reaching out to poke his side. “I’m hoping to wake up tomorrow with only a minimal hangover.”

“That sounds like wishful thinking,” Steve said, and you flipped him off in response. “But I will give you aspirin and lots of water in the morning.”

“Thank you. You’re the best. I love you,” You responded, changing your attitude completely and giving him a smile that you hoped didn’t look as drunk as it felt. You were then remembering what he had been up to for the night and why he couldn’t hang out with you and Robin. “Hey, how was your date with Shelby?”

“Oh, yeah, um…” He trailed off for a second, and that brief pause should’ve told you what was coming next, but you didn’t see it. “We broke up.” 

“Oh,” You breathed out and tried to think of the right thing to say in this situation, but your mind was too fuzzy. “Okay, I’m so sorry, but I’m way too drunk to form coherent thoughts about this right now, so please just tell me how you want me to react in this situation.”

“If you could shed some tears on my behalf, that would be really nice,” Steve responded, and in your inebriated state, you couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “I’m kidding, you don’t have to pretend to be sad. I know you never liked her.”

“At first,” You corrected him. “At first I didn’t like her, but then she grew on me. Kinda like a fungus. Ooh, or a brain-eating amoeba.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“Well, that pretty much sums up her personality to a tee,” You blurted out before you realized what you were saying. You slapped a hand to your forehead. “Sorry, too soon?”

Steve shook his head. “She broke up with me, so you can do as much shit-talking as you want.”

Hearing that she was the one who ended things slightly surprised you. “Can I ask what happened, or do you wanna save that story for the morning?”

“No, we can talk about it now,” He answered. “It was about you.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Or I guess technically it was about both of us. Our friendship,” Steve explained a little more. “She thinks it’s weird that you live here.”

“Did you remind her that my house quite literally got destroyed in the earthquake, aka the aftermath of Vecna’s fucked up curse?”

“Yes, I said that, without mentioning Vecna of course, but she still thinks it’s weird,” Steve told you, which made you roll your eyes; it wasn’t like you stayed in his room and you two shared the same bed, you were in the guest room down the hall from his bedroom. “And she also thinks we’re just too close.”

You rolled your eyes again. “Obviously we’re close, we've been best friends since sixth grade.”

It was an odd set of circumstances that led to the beginning of that friendship— seven minutes in heaven at Robbie Matthews’ house. 

Steve spun the bottle, and it landed on you, and you tried to pretend that you weren’t disappointed. Steve was cute, but you had a crush on the host of the party, so this whole thing felt like a huge inconvenience to you. Meanwhile, Steve had a crush on Mackenzie Adams, who had been sitting right next to you in the circle, so he wasn’t excited about this trip to the stinky closet either. 

Before you two could even think about actually kissing, you blurted out that you liked Robbie, and Steve admitted that he was into Mackenzie, which made you inwardly sigh in relief and also gave you an idea— you and he could lie about making out in the closet to hopefully make your crushes jealous. You walked out after the seven minutes were up with smudged lip gloss and Steve with mussed-up hair, hoping that it looked believable enough. 

It worked wonders for Steve; he and Mackenzie became practically attached at the hip the rest of the night, but it didn’t work that well for you; Robbie only gave you quick glances that felt completely inconsequential, and you had the briefest conversation that felt the same.

The night ended around nine o’clock, with parents pretty much coming one after the other, and soon it was only you and Steve, and Robbie and his brother in their basement. You and Steve both had barely there parents— your mom had two jobs and was practically never home, and Steve’s dad was always gone on business trips, and his mom never hesitated to join him— so you walked home together. His house was the first stop, but he insisted on walking you to yours, and instead of you immediately walking through your front door once you were there, you two ended up sitting on your front porch steps and talking for a lot longer than either of you had expected to. 

And the rest was history. You two had been best friends ever since. 

“I think I probably just talked about you too much sometimes,” Steve said with a sigh. “But, it’s kinda hard not to when you’ve pretty much been the one constant in my life for the past ten years.” 

“Do you want me to call Shelby and tell her that we’re just friends, and promise her that I don’t want to have sex with you?” 

Steve let out a laugh, which had been the goal when you said your words. “No, but thanks for the offer.”

“Here, you need to play catch-up,” You told him as you reached out to grab the last bottle of wine that had been opened but was nowhere near finished and handed it over to him. “What movie do you want to watch?”

“Weren’t you just about to fall asleep?”

You shrugged. “I’ve suddenly gotten a second wind.”

You watched and smiled as he took a long sip from the wine bottle. He then set it back down on the coffee table, and you got up so that you could go pick through the movies on the shelf next to the TV and put in something new, but the second you were standing, you realized just how inebriated you were because you quickly lost your balance. 

“Please sit back down,” Steve said, already grabbing your arm to both steady you and lead you back to the couch. “I’ll go put a movie in.” 

You nodded instead of arguing his words. “I’ll let you subject me to Top Gun right now if that is what your heart desires.” 

“No, I’ll choose something that we both like,” He told you and then held up his The Breakfast Club tape.

You gave him two thumbs up. “Brilliant choice.” 

Steve put the movie in and then joined you back on the couch. Your legs were in his lap once again, and he continued taking sips from the wine bottle as the movie played. 

Your initial tiredness ebbed and flowed over the next hour until it faded away completely because of how much you loved watching this movie, especially with your best friend. 

Steve let you finish the tiny bit that was left in the bottle, and then you reached out to place it on the coffee table with the other empties. 

“Can I ask a probably stupid question?” Steve asked, and you quickly took notice of his voice and the slight slowness to his words. He was definitely tipsy, and that was one of your favorite kinds of Steve. 

“Ask away,” You answered with a nod and an amused smile already on your face. 

“Have you ever thought, like, maybe, if… We tried something between us?”

Your laugh was immediate. “What? No, of course not. We would be horrible together.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrowed. “Really? You think so?”

“Yeah, we’d definitely end up killing each other,” You told him. You two were similar and comfortable with each other in the ways that were the most important, but different in small, random ways that told you just how incompatible you two would be in a romantic sense. “We work fine as best friends, but anything more and I’m a hundred percent sure it would end terribly.”

“You really think that?” 

You propped yourself up on your elbows and gave him a look. “What I think is that you just got broken up with, but you wish you could be in a relationship, so you’re just trying to dig at the bottom of the barrel.”

“You’re not the bottom of the barrel,” Steve mumbled, but you heard him loud and clear. “But, seriously, you don’t ever think about it sometimes? How different things would’ve been if we weren’t crushing on different people the night we became friends?”

You decided against asking him the obvious question, which was how many times had he thought about this, because it was suddenly pretty clear that it was more than just tonight. A part of you didn’t want to know that answer. 

“We would’ve awkwardly ‘dated’ for a week and a half and then never spoken to each other again,” You responded instead. 

Steve let out a laugh. “So, like, what happened with me and Mackenzie?”

“Yes, and what happened with me and Robbie after I finally got the courage to talk to him for more than thirty seconds,” You reminded him. “We did the right thing by becoming friends instead.”

And even in your slightly drunken state, you knew just how true your words were. There was nothing you felt more certain about than Steve Harrington being your best friend. The thought of trying something more might have fleetingly crossed your mind every now and again, but it was always just that— a fleeting, random, impossible thought. You didn’t want things to change because you worried that it would inevitably mess things up between you two, and the overthinking part of your personality had long ago convinced you that that’s exactly what would happen.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed with your previous words. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“And plus,” You started, deciding to send all of this home with one final point. “I’m pretty sure if we kissed, it would literally feel like nothing.”

“You think?” He asked, and you didn’t hesitate to nod. 

One simple little kiss would let you both know exactly just how silly it would be if you ever tried something more between you two. The kiss would feel awkward and weird and completely inconsequential, and it would draw the line in the sand right where it needed to be. 

And honestly, that was something that you wanted to prove to yourself just as much as you wanted to prove it to Steve too.

You pulled your legs off his lap and shifted on the couch so that you were sitting right next to him. “I’m positive.” 

It was almost comical how you were immediately proven wrong. 

The second your hand found his cheek and your mouths met halfway, it felt as if a bomb went off in your chest. You immediately felt grounded, even as your heart began to race wildly, fluttering harshly and bouncing around the walls of your rib cage. 

It was just supposed to be a brief kiss, nothing more than a simple peck, but it quickly turned into something deeper. The thought of this ending after only a quick second suddenly seemed so stupid. Your body started moving on autopilot; your free hand fisted itself into Steve’s shirt, and you pulled him as close as he possibly could be to you. His hands grabbed your waist and squeezed to steady himself while also drawing out the softest sound from you, which he reveled in. 

The only coherent thought running through your head in that moment was, “Why haven’t we done this sooner?” And with just that one question rattling around in your brain, you knew that a huge can of worms was about to be opened. 

“What the hell?” The abrupt sound of Robin's voice made you pull away from one another. “How drunk am I right now? Since when do you guys make out with each other?”

“We weren’t making out,” You responded automatically, even though you two definitely had been. “We were just testing a theory.” You turned to Steve. “You felt nothing too, right?”

He hesitated in such a brief way that if you hadn’t known him for the past ten years, you wouldn’t have noticed. “Yeah, absolutely nothing. You were right.”

“Exactly,” You responded, taking his words at face value instead of calling him out on his minor hesitation. 

He gave you a quick nod. “Yup, exactly.” 

You and Steve never lied to each other— with how long you’d known one another, it was kind of impossible to— so you silently wondered how long you two would be able to keep this one up. With how fast you two broke eye contact with one another and moved to opposite ends of the couch to make room for Robin in the middle, you quickly figured that it wouldn’t take long for this lie to eat you both alive. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The chatter in the car became white noise to him as he got lost in his thoughts. Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, Dustin was able to get him out of his trance with another one of his ridiculous questions.

By the time they arrived at Family Video, Steve's mood was way better than when he woke up. Dustin was impatiently standing by the front door while Steve looked for his keys. And as soon as he got out of the car he heard someone's laugh not far from them.

His good mood lasted for about 10 seconds.

Because he knew who that laugh belonged to.

There was only one girl on the entire planet whose laugh he could recognize this easily.

He knew he would only cause himself more pain, and yet, he couldn't stop himself from turning around, because for Steve it was instinct to acknowledge you, even when he didn't want to.

"There you are", he thought to himself.

Then his brain recognized the person you were laughing with, the person that should've been him.

James.

Fucking James Graham.

Your boyfriend. The one you've been dating for the past month. The one you grace with your smile. The one Steve has to hear about when you call him. The one whose name feels like a stab to the heart.

The one whose place Steve desperately wants to take.

He would give his arms and legs if it meant he would be the one you gush about, the one who makes you blush, the one who takes you on dates and spares every minute he has to spend it with you.

Steve was possessive with his friends, especially now that Dustin was always talking about Eddie this, Eddie that, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. He wasn't angry at him, even though he might look like it. Steve felt a little neglected and his frustration came out in snark remarks aimed at his friend.

So no, Steve was not really a jealous person.

But Lord was he lying if he said he didn't want to take James's face and stitch it onto himself just so you would stare at him like that.

Maybe he was getting a little too graphic.

But he was sure as hell if he stared at you longer he would get in his car, go to the nearest cliff and drive off of it.

He didn't know how long he was standing there staring at you and James looking like a fucking creep, when Dustin grabbed the keys out of his hands with an impatient huff.

Steve allowed himself one last painful look, before following Dustin inside.

"You should've gotten your shit together sooner, you fucking moron."

----------------------------------------

Saying you were nervous would've been the understatement of the century.

You were currently in the bathroom, doing your hair and makeup, getting ready for your date tonight.

A date.

A date Steve set up for you with one of his old friends.

"What the fuck are you doing?", you kept thinking to yourself.

Ever since you accepted Steve's offer you've been living in a haze. A week passed you by in a blur and you woke up dreading tonight.

It's not like you were meeting with a stranger. You met James a couple of times during high school and despite having assholes for friends, he seemed actually nice.

No, there was this nagging voice in your head, the one some people would call Common Sense, that told you it was wrong. That this whole situation was wrong, that this isn't how it was supposed to go.

When Steve came over last week and you went from watching Grease to crying about never getting a date, you had thought he offered the set-up as a joke to comfort you.

And of course you said yes, because what else were you supposed to say to the boy with big brown eyes who treats you as his number one? "No, I can't go, because I'm catastrophically in love with you and I want YOU to date me amongst doing other things? "

Yeah, right.

Never in your wildest dreams would you have thought that he'd actually do it.

And now here you were, putting on your jacket with shaking fingers, hoping that James would cancel at the last minute.

But he didn't.

He showed up in time, opened doors for you and asked questions about you instead of talking about himself all night.

And you wanted to be angry at him. Maybe you were ridiculous for trying to find a fault or a mistake, just so you could end the date and go home.

But like Steve said, James was a gentleman. He looked like he really did enjoy talking to you, although he either didn't notice the fake tone in your voice, or he just didn't want to comment on it.

You wanted to be angry, you wanted something that would justify this feeling of wrongness in you, but you had to admit that James really was a good person. That you could see yourself dating someone like him.

But you didn't want someone like James. You wanted Steve.

You wanted Steve so badly that you agreed to this date in hopes that he would get jealous seeing you with someone that wasn't him and finally make a move. Yeah, you were such a goner for him you started to sound delirious.

So here you were, on a date with a guy you had no intention of dating, with a guy Steve set you up with, feeling like the shittiest person to exist for doing this to James.

Because he seemed to like you, even with how you were acting right now. And it wasn't fair to him, you knew that.

By the time he took you home, you had a fight with yourself on how to let him down gently.

"I-um, I know this might sound a little forward, but I wanted to ask you if we could-" James started, but you quickly cut him off before you could back out.

"I think we shouldn't be dating."

Silence fell on the car, and you could hear a needle drop. It made your skin crawl with nerves, but you continued.

"I know I should've said something sooner, and that this is not fair to you. I had to tell you now, because I don't want to lead you on, or-or make you think we want the same thing, when I don't." You told him and looked him in the eye. "You're a good guy James, just not for me. I'm really sorry."

James looked back at you silently, clearly both surprised and shocked by your sudden confession. He let out a long exhale, his fingers going through his hair, a sign of his confusion at the situation.

He sighed as he finally spoke up. "Well, shit." He leaned back in his seat. "I should've seen this coming."

"No, James, it's really not your fault-"

"Come on, you were zoning out all night, and you clearly looked like you didn't want to be there!" James sighed again and he rubbed his temple.

"I thought you had a bad day, I mean like, everyone has them, or you're probably just nervous or something!"

"I was nervous...just for a completely different reason." You said quietly and felt the familiar nerves flare up in you again as you waited for James's response. After a few seconds of silence he turned to you with a click of his tongue.

"It's someone else, isn't it?" You looked at him with furrowed brows, but when you didn't answer, he nodded his head as if he already knew the answer. "Of course." He mumbled more to himself than you. "It's always someone else."

"I'm sorry. I really am," you whispered to him and he let out a smile, a sad one, but a smile nonetheless. It made you relieved that maybe he wasn't as hurt as you thought he'd be.

"No, no, it's okay. It' neither of our faults. Can't control who we love, right?" He joked and you let yourself smile at that.

"Is he good?" He asked after a few seconds and it made your smile falter. "Is who good?"

"Come on, you know who! The one you were thinking about tonight," he said with a playful roll of his eyes. Despite his behaviour you still stared back at him with confusion.

"Are you sure you want to hear about the guy I was thinking about while we were on a date?" You asked him and he shrugged his shoulders with a faint smile.

"Well, despite acting like a gentleman I'm just like any other guy. I want to know who my competition is," he told you and you had to laugh at the fake cockyness in his voice.

After quickly considering your answer, you tell him about Steve. You don't mention his name, or anything that could make James recognize him, because that would be just mean.

Telling him you're in love with the very guy who set you two up on a date? Yeah, you're not going to ruin whatever friendship James and Steve has, despite the fact they rarely talk to each other anymore.

Your plan is ruined as soon as James opens his mouth.

"Wow. Steve Harrington does have it all. Rich parents, an empty house, great hair and a girl who's head over heels in love with him. Wow, just wow," he chuckles and you stare at him with a shocked expression, but he continues.

"I mean the guy used to be a ladies' man, he sure knows how to sweep you off your feet."

"He doesn't." You say and now it's his turn to look shocked. "That's, kind of the whole problem," you whisper.

It's silent for a few long minutes, and you're about to awkwardly thank James for dinner and get out of the car, when he turns to you with a mischievous smile.

"I might have a very stupid idea."

At first you were wary of his plan, because you were still not 100% sure he wasn't hurt over the date-fiasco, but James, bless his heart, reassured you multiple times that it's totally fine with him. Plus, his friends would stop trying to set him up for a while at least, so it's a win-win situation.

That's how you came to fake-date James Graham, high school graduate, current mechanic at the downtown auto shop. It's not like his name was the most popular in town, but when he stepped in somewhere some people recognized him. Probably an after-effect from his party goer time with Steve.

Also, he wasn't not good looking. He didn't have the perfect hair or the perfect body, but he was a handsome guy. Of course, he didn't make your heart flutter like Steve did, but you weren't blind, you knew he looked good.

A guy who can fix anything around your house, and also a gentleman? Yeah, you knew a few girls will be jealous of you.

But you didn't care about them, because you weren't actually dating. You held hands, hugged longer than friends do, maybe a kiss on the cheek every now and then. You and James had a long talk about what to do in certain situations to make it believable enough, without having to cross lines.

But no matter how many times James told you that Steve was about to crack, you were slowly losing hope.

One entire month of this facade and Steve was still making angry glances at James when he thought no one was looking, listened to your fake rambling about him and still didn't make a move.

Once he even drove you to your fucking date. You couldn't even keep your act up that night and James had to take you home so you could cry yourself to sleep.

Despite giving you a deep analysis of Steve's emotions, again, you were convinced that Steve was going to watch you date his friend, even if it slowly killed both of you.

---------------------------------------------

Steve felt like he was dropped on a battlefield with his sunglasses as his only armor.

There was a heaviness in his chest, his heart a ticking bomb that was ready to explode at the slightest trigger.

And the trigger was you.

He never thought you could ever become someone he was dreading to see, someone he tried to avoid, whose sole thought tightened his stomach, making him feel nauseous.

Coming to this "high school reunion" party at Tommy's place was turning out to be a very bad idea.

The red solo cup turned into his only weapon. Always ready to be filled, but never staying empty. Drink after drink, cigarette after cigarette, Steve slowly but surely reached rock bottom. Stumbling around, laughing with people he had just met, knocking things over.

And when Robin finally found him outside, she could see what everyone else overlooked.

This wasn't Steve Harrington. This was King Steve, who could drink inhuman amounts of alcohol and smoked two packs a day.

Right now he was the very person he was afraid of returning to, the person he left in the past.

"Uh, Steve?"

He froze at the sound of Robin's voice. He surprised himself by registering it over the sound of the music and the crowd.

"Steve? You okay? Why are you out here?" Robin asked him, concern evident in her eyes.

Maybe it was the drinks he forgot to count, or the cigarettes he smoked on top of them, nevertheless he had something to blame his behaviour on.

When Robin asked again if he was okay, Steve just gulped down his drink and stomped on his cigarette, before lighting another one.

"Everythin's fine, party's great, people are great, music could be a bit betterr," Steve's words were slurred, but he didn't correct himself, he just kept on rambling.

"But yeah, everythin's fine. Everythin' is fucking great, I'm havin' the time of my life, drinking and ssmoking. You know, I stoped smokin' around her, cause she hates the smell, but she's not here, so I can do what I want! And right now I. Need. Another. Drink!"

Steve said and began stumbling his way inside the house, only for Robin to step in front of him. She looked at him with a very worried face, grabbing the cigarette out of his mouth.

Steve looked down at Robin's hand holding it, then his eyes slowly looked up to her face with a kind of gaze that could only be described as empty.

A few strands of his hair fell into his face, and his eyes looked void of any emotion, the familiar warmthness gone from them. His eyes were rimmed with tears, blurring his vision and Steve felt his composure crumble the longer Robin looked at him with those sad eyes.

The numerous drinks he had opened the gate to the thoughts he was harboring for the past month, and every single one of them revolved around you.

Every feeling, every emotion, every thought had one thing in common and that was you.

"How many drinks you had, dingus?" Robin asked him gently, but Steve didn't answer, because he was suddenly focused on something else behind Robin's back.

When she turned she immediately saw why he was acting this way. There you were, laughing and dancing with James inside the house.

Robin turned back to Steve with a pitiful look, noticing his shoulders curling inwards and he was maybe seconds away from dropping to the ground. His eyes slowly glanced at Robin and then back to you, and his lips began to wobble.

He looked down at the red solo cup in his hand, wondering how much alcohol would it take for his body to become flammable. Robin noticed the faraway look on his face and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Okay, listen dingus, you can't keep doing this to yourself. Either move on, or make a move. You can't pine after her all your life," Robin told him matter-of-factly, like she always does.

Steve let out a shaky chuckle. "I alreadydo," he mumbled.

Robin just shook her head with a sigh. "Okay, I really didn't want to do this, but someone has to say it. Get your shit together Steve!" Robin shook him by the shoulders and Steve looked at her with furrowed brows. The movement didn't help with his blurry vision.

"What?" He asked, narrowing his eyes.

"You heard me! Grow a pear and talk to her you moron! You're in love with your best friend and you had the brilliant idea to set her up with your friend?! What the hell did you expect?! That she'll say no? When she deliberately told you she never goes on a date?! You chicken out all the time, so be a man and tell her you love her!!" Robin yelled at him and Steve had to take a step back.

"Whyyy are you yelling? Jesus, Rob, I'm drunk not deaf," Steve mumbled, but made no move to do what she said.

"Yeah, and that's exactly why you should talk to her right now! While you still have something to blame your shit behaviour on!" She told him and Steve shook his head.

"Rob, I love you, but I'd rather kill myself than see her with another guy."

"And whose fault is that, huh?" Robin asked incrediously, and Steve smiled sadly at her, some of his tears escaping and rolling down his face.

"I know I'm an idiot." Steve sniffled. " And I just...miss her. I miss her so much Robin, you don't know. I'm happy she's with a good guy, 'cause James is a good guy, so she should be happy with him. But I know she would be so much happier with me," Steve's voice cracked and Robin had to hold back her own tears.

"T's my fault, everythin's my fault," he whispered. "I missed my chance, and now she's with someone else and I feel like... dying?" He asked the last word more than saying it.

"But like, you know, not in a depressing "I'm sad I want to die" way, more like kinda, like, when I see them together I want to gauge my eyes out, or-or bash my head into concrete," Steve sniffled again, then let out a chuckle as he swayed on his feet.

"And now, the loser I am, I am crying to you about her, because I miss her, I miss her so much, and-Fuck, I already said that, but I love her, and now there's this other guy, who probably loves her too, and I'm just-I just-"

Steve felt himself collapse onto Robin as she hugged him, letting him cry into her shoulder.

"Seeing her with someone that isn't me is pain Robin, it's painful. I love her and it hurts," Steve sobbed and Robin hugged him tighter.

"Is this a bad time to say 'Welcome to the club'?" She asked and after a pause Steve let out a watery chuckle. Robin sighed in relief that she didn't make her already miserable friend even more miserable.

Steve pulled away to wipe his face with his sweater's sleeve and Robin gave him a pat on his shoulder. "You're basically the last one to find out."

"You guys knew?" He asked, somewhat sobering up. Robin looked back at him with an 'Are you serious?' look. "It's completely obvious, you look at her like there's no one else around. Which, sounds very romantic and everything, but like, it's irritating when you can't hear the customer standing in front of you because you're daydreaming about her again."

"Oh." Steve mumbled, and after a long pause shook his head. "I do that?"

"Yes. Very frequently."

"Fuuuuuck," he sighed as he closed his eyes for a second.

For a long minute neither of them said anything. Steve stared at the cup in his hand, visibly in deep thought, and Robin was ready to ask him if he was okay again, when Steve spoke up.

"So...I should, I should talk to her, right now?" He sounded unsure, which was not a common thing Steve did.

"Are you asking or saying that?" Robin asked back and she saw Steve take a deep breath and straighten himself, or at least tried given his drunken state.

"I should talk to her," he mumbled, then looked up at Robin and nodded, gaining more confidence. "I should talk to her. No, I will talk to her. Right now." He nodded again as he handed his cup to Robin and rushed inside.

She had to stiffle her laugh as Steve stumbled on his own feet and tried to make it look like it was the sliding door.

---------------------------------------------

You felt him before you saw him.

You turned your head just barely enough to see Steve looking around the crowd of people, clearly looking for you.

James handed you a cup of something but you couldn't move. It was as if every nerve and muscle in your body was anticipating something, waiting.

You took a sip from your drink, then another, and without thinking you drank the entire thing. You handed the cup back to James who looked at you with hidden worry, but didn't question you.

You turned your head back to see if Steve was still there, and as soon as you did all the air left your lungs.

Steve was staring right back at you.

Your eyes were locked on his, and you couldn't have looked away even if you tried to. His hair looked messy from running his hands through it too much, a clear sign of his frustration.

The brown eyes you loved so much were replaced by a darker look, the bright color almost nonexistent. You took in the way he seemed slightly out of breath, how stiffly he was standing.

Then he took a step closer. Another step. As he got closer you noticed the brief moment his eyes glanced at something behind you, before finding you again. You tilted your head just enough to realize James was still standing close to you, but now he had a smug smile on his face.

You poke his arm and he flashed you that same smile with a look that clearly meant to say "I told you he was about to crack."

You turned back and you were met with Steve, who was standing right in front of you now. You felt your heart literally beat against your chest as he took a step closer, and the noise around you got muffled. You saw his lips moving but your ears couldn't register what he was saying.

As if he could sense what you were feeling, like he had done countless times before, he nodded towards the sliding door where he just came from. Your head nodded before your brain even had time to grasp what he was asking. Steve sent a look towards James, a look you couldn't describe, before walking towards the door.

Once outside, you noticed just how loud everything was inside, and felt your hearing come back to you.

Steve stepped in front of you, his gaze not leaving yours. He opened his mouth to speak but immediately closed it, as if changing his mind. He let out an irritated sigh, looking down at the ground before lifting his head back up.

"This sounded better drunk," he mumbled to himself, and took a deep breath.

"I've been dreading this conversation for the past month." Steve looked at you. "I-I had this talk with my mirror, my closet, my car, my keys and my-, with practically every inanimate object I could find to prepare myself fro this and I still don't feel ready. It's not like that kept me from much though, so umm-" he sighed, running his hand through his hair.

"Do you love him?"

Everything in you froze at his question. You held your breath as if he knocked it out with a simple question.

"W-what?" You whispered.

"Do. You. Love. Him?" Steve asked again, but this time he looked...Scared? Hurt? Was that hurt in his eyes? You kept staring back at him in shock, and you both knew it wasn't because you didn't hear him. You both knew who he was talking about.

"No."

That one, simple word slapped Steve back into the present and he let out a long and shaky sigh as if something was visibly lifted off of him.

"I don't love James," you continued, your breathing barely under control. "But Steve, what's going o-"

"Dump him." He interrupted you and you were breathless again. Not exactly because of what he said, but how he said it. The raw emotions in his eyes, his bright brown eyes, made it unable to look anywhere that wasn't him.

"Break up with him, leave him, do something please, because I can't take this anymore." He shook his head his voice trembling from his emotions.

You felt your eyes burn seeing Steve, your best friend, the boy you were irrevocably in love with, in this much visible pain. Your heart was screaming for an entirely different reason now.

"Can't take what anymore? You-, I-I don't understand, what are you saying Steve?" You asked him on the verge of tears.

Steve took a step closer to you and you could see just how desperate he looked. His chest was heaving, clearly just as out of breath as you felt. His lips trembled as he opened his mouth to speak.

"I can't watch you date James any longer, because I might just light myself on fire. And I don't mean that literally, but that's what it feels like when I see you two together, because it just reminds me of the-,my biggest loss in my whole life, because it feels like I have lost you," he swallowed before quickly continuing. "A-and I know how desperate I'm sounding right now, but frankly, I don't give a damn, because I have lost one entire month of my life that I could've spent with you!"

"And whose fault is that?!" You asked back but immediately regretted it. Your eyes went wide at your own words and you watched Steve's face fall.

"I-I'm sorry, Steve I didn't mean that-"

"You think I don't know that?" He asked and it made you shut up. "I know I screwed up, okay? I ditched you if I could, I made things awkward for you and-, damn it I'm the one who arranged the fucking date for you, what the hell did I expect?!" Steve exclaimed at his own actions.

"We both screw up, okay? You think I would give you hints while "dating" someone else if I didn't want you to ask me out?" You air quoted dating and watched Steve's face slowly go from confusion to realization.

"What? What do you mean by "dating"?" He air quoted back to you, sobering up.

"It was fake!" You exclaimed, all the pent up emotions bubbling to the surface. "We were pretending to date each other so you would get jealous! All the times I talked about him and showed him off at your work, I was hoping you would have enough of it!"

Your breathing became ragged as you tried to slow down your racing heart, but Steve didn't give you a chance to collect yourself from your outburst, because in one second he was holding your face in his hands.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please tell me I have a chance to make this right. I'll-I'll beg if I have to, but just tell me I still have a chance to be with you," he paused, "If you love me just half as much as I love you. I won't screw it up, I promise you."

You didn't notice when you began crying, just that Steve wiped your cheeks with his hands despite on the verge of crying himself. You opened your mouth to say something back to him, not caring how much your voice trembled.

"I-I don't even know-, I-It's, fuck-why is it this hard to say I love you when I actually have to say it?" You complain and feel Steve's hands began to shake on your face and it makes you look up at him.

"Steve? Oh-" You let out a surprised gasp before his lips crash onto yours.

There's nothing slow in the way he kisses you, no, he pours every ounce of his repressed jealousy and desperation into the way he moves his lips. You might sound crazy, but you swear you can taste his hopefulness.

It's not like you're holding back either.

You grip the shirt at his chest with such force you would worry you might actually tear it, if you cared about that at the moment. No, at the moment you were busy with trying to make him taste your own emotions. The kiss becomes frantic, and suddenly the two of you are trying to eat each other up.

Steve pulls apart just enough to mumble onto your lips. "I love you." He kisses you again, then moves to your jaw. "I love you," he kisses your neck, "I love you so goddamn much." He nibbles at the spot between your ear and neck, letting out a quiet groan at your gasp.

"I love you Steve," you whisper onto his skin as you kiss his jaw. "I've been in love with you since you put on that ridiculous Scoops outfit." You kiss him again and he pulls apart briefly to look at you.

"That long? You've been in love with me for almost two years?" Steve asks you with wide eyes, voice disbelieving and you just nod. "We could've been together for two years?" He asked with a teary chuckle and you smiled back at him.

He leaned his forehead against yours and let out a long exhale, before quickly snapping his head up. "Wait did you answer? Do you give me a cha-"

This time it was you who interrupted him, kissing him the same way he did mere moments ago. It seemed Steve didn't have to be told twice to kiss you, because he instantly followed your rhythm, even deepening the kiss.

"Guess you sobered up Steve, huh?"

The voice made both of you pull away and turn towards the sounds. Robin and James were standing a few feet from you, with a smug smile on their faces.

"You guys look like you've seen a ghost," James added casually. You and Steve stood stiff next to each other, trying to look normal and comically failing at it.

"Come on, don't act like you weren't down each others throats! We're glad you finally got your act together."

"Robin?" Steve asked with a tight voice.

"Yes, dingus?"

"Go back. Or go home. I don't care. Leave us alone."

"Ooooh, the lovebirds want some alone time?" James asked on a lady-like voice and it was your turn to glare at him.

"James?"

"Yes, hun?"

"I'm dumping you."

"Given that you were basically dry humping Steve, I gathered that."

"Okay, if you don't leave than we will." Steve said and looked at you for permission before taking your hand and pulling you away.

You glanced back and saw Robin and James wave and laugh at the two of you. You turned back to Steve and squeezed his hand once, still not completely believing what happened.

Steve loves you. Steve kissed you. Steve is in love with you.

It wasn't until you were sitting in the passenger seat of Steve's car that you didn't know where Steve was taking you.

"Where are we going Steve?" You asked as he started the car.

"Mine. Or yours. Whatever you want," he said and looked at you for further instructions.

"Well, if you ask me, I wouldn't mind continuing what we were doing before," you told him with a small smile and Steve smiled back at you. "Yeah, you want that?"

"Yes, I want to do that. Very much so, but...no funny business, Harrington," you whispered, leaning closer to him and he mirrors your actions.

"We could watch paint dry for all I care, if it means I get to hold you all night," he whispers and you feel your heart skip a beat at the sincerety in his voice.

"Making up for lost time already?" You ask him playfully and he pecks your lips before shifting the car into gear.

"Never too soon to start earning my boyfriend status, right?"

The road is dark, the only thing shining is the headlights of the car. It's quiet between you for a minute before you turn in your seat to face Steve.

"Hey, Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"Hey, Y/N?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

In the noise, you - ♡

How well do Y/n Y/l/n & Drew Starkey know each other? - ♡

Sundress season - ♠

‘Big news for the unemployed’ | Hot ones versus - ♡

OBX cast reveals uncomfortable truths in the hot seat - ♡

In her light - ♡

I loved you here - ♡

The match point was you - ♡

Y/n Y/l/n and Drew Starkey play Truth or Drink - ♡

No regrets - ♠

Y/n Y/l/n and Drew Starkey take Buzzfeed's Rizz quiz - ♡

Whipped before breakfast - ♡

500 days of forever - ♡

Through the seasons - ♡

Only one I'd steal - ♡

A sunday kind of love - ♡

Clock it! - ♡

Made to measure - ♡

Cat's out the bag - ♡

Feeding starving celebrities - ♡

Off balance - ♡

The pizza interview - ♡

Poguelandia - ♡

Y/n Y/l/n and Drew Starkey answer the web’s most searched questions - ♡

Read the room - ♡

Professional matchmaker - ♡

It's a wrap! - ♡

Oh! and by the way... - ♡

By 30 + Say you do - ♠ ♡

Two can play that game - ♡

The cast of OBX plays a game of Superlatives - ♡

Before midnight - ♡ NEW!!

FEATURING RAFE CAMERON:

Infrunami - ♡

Beneath the surface - ♡

America's sweethearts - ♡

Good talk! - ♠

JOE KEERY

Y/n Y/l/n & Joe Keery | Unscripted at the Golden Globes - ♡

Ask me anything | with Joe Keery & Y/n Y/l/n - ♡

Chicken shop date - ♡

Quotidien - ♡

It's just press, right? - ♡

The lice hat theory - ♡

My MJ - ♡

Stranger Things’ Y/n Y/l/n and Joe Keery take a friendship test - ♡ NEW!!

STEVE HARRINGTON

On borrowed time - ♠

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I am.”

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s optimism,” he teases.

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

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

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

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

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

You look at him. “Again?”

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

“Sounds familiar,” you murmur.

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

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

Except this time, you’re part of it.

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

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

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

You glance at him. “Why didn’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart stutters. “I know, Buck.”

But that’s the lie you both settle for.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not. He hasn’t been for weeks.

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

That’s when he thinks of you.

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

He should’ve kissed you.

God, he should’ve kissed you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky’s breath catches. “I’m not—”

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky shrugs. “As I’ll ever be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Terrible?” he offers with a wry grin.

“Different,” you whisper. “Older.”

His gaze softens. “So do you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile. “Good. I missed this.”

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

“Among other things.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

He hides it well. He always did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swallows. “Yeah. Me too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky exhales through his nose. “Never better.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky grins. “Yeah, maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if it kills him.

---

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

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

The dining table, usually cluttered with fabric swatches and half-burned candles, is covered now with plates and notebooks. You’ve spent the whole day rearranging, making sure everything looks right. There’s a neat little spread of sandwiches, cookies, and tea laid out, and your engagement ring glints whenever you reach for a cup.

Bucky’s the last to arrive. He hesitates on the landing before knocking, half tempted to turn back. But then he hears your voice through the door—that light, hurried tone he’s heard a thousand times—and he knocks once before he can talk himself out of it.

You open the door with a smudge of flour on your wrist. The smell of something warm and buttery drifts out from the kitchen. “Buck!” you say, smiling. “You made it.”

He grins back, awkward and genuine all at once. “Wouldn’t miss it, doll.”

You let him in, taking his coat and hanging it carefully beside Andrew’s. The apartment feels cozy—too small for four people, maybe, but bright and alive with the hum of conversation. Steve’s sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, papers spread over his knees. Andrew’s standing by the table, sleeves rolled up, carefully arranging sandwiches on a platter. “Glad you could join us,” Andrew says pleasantly, looking up. “We were just about to talk food.”

“Dangerous subject,” Bucky says, pulling out a chair. “You sure you want my opinion?”

“Only if it’s good,” Andrew jokes.

You laugh, and the tension eases for a moment. They spend the first twenty minutes talking about seating charts and table settings, Steve occasionally chiming in with comments that make you laugh and roll your eyes. Bucky mostly listens, offering a word here or there when you ask him to weigh in.

He watches the way you move, the way your fingers hover over the list as you read it aloud, how you press your lips together when you’re thinking. Every detail feels sharper than it should, like his mind’s cataloging every part of you to hold onto later.

Then Andrew says, “Oh—speaking of food, I talked to my mother today about the luncheon menu.”

You glance up, smiling. “Oh? What did she say?”

“She’d love to prepare some of the dishes herself. Thought it’d be a nice personal touch,” Andrew explains, flipping through his notes. “You know, her cucumber sandwiches, that salad she makes with the dill dressing—your favorite.”

Bucky’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t say a word, but something in his chest goes still. Your expression flickers—not enough for Andrew to notice, but Bucky sees it. A tiny hesitation. A half-second of polite confusion. Then your smile smooths back into place. “Right,” you say gently. “That’s lovely.”

Andrew beams. “I told her you’d be thrilled. She’ll start prepping this week.”

Steve nods approvingly. “Sounds fancy. I’ve never had cucumber sandwiches before.”

“Oh, they’re very refreshing,” Andrew says cheerfully. “Perfect with tea.”

“Sure they are,” Bucky mutters under his breath, his tone too quiet for anyone but you to catch.

You shoot him a look, small but sharp, as if to say don’t. He gives a slight shrug, leaning back in his chair. The rest of the conversation moves on—table linens, music, who will walk you down the aisle—but the air feels different. Bucky can’t stop hearing Andrew’s voice echoing that one word, favorite.

He remembers the real story. The diner, years ago. You’d ordered a sandwich with cucumbers and took one bite before making the most disgusted face he’d ever seen. He’d teased you for it, and you’d shoved your plate at him, muttering something about “texture” and “godawful smell.” He’d laughed until you threw a napkin at his head.

It was such a small thing—ordinary and stupid—but somehow, it feels enormous now. Because Andrew doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the girl who once snuck a stray cat into her parents’ kitchen, who carried three pairs of gloves every winter because you always lost one. He doesn’t know that you used to hum Gershwin when you cooked or that you hated thunderstorms but loved the smell of rain after.

He doesn’t know you. And Bucky realizes, with a quiet ache that steals the breath from his lungs, that he’s the only one left who does.

After dinner, Steve leaves first, promising to help you haul boxes to the venue next weekend. Andrew lingers a few minutes longer, kissing your cheek before heading home. You see him off at the door, murmuring soft goodnights, and when you turn back, Bucky’s still sitting at the table, arms folded, eyes fixed on the empty plate in front of him. “Thanks for helping tonight,” you say, voice careful. “I know it’s not the most exciting thing in the world.”

He looks up slowly, a faint, wry smile on his lips. “Exciting’s overrated.”

You roll your eyes affectionately and start gathering the dishes. He stands to help, wordlessly taking a stack from your hands. The quiet between you feels different now—heavier, but not uncomfortable. Familiar, almost. You wash, he dries. It’s easy, practiced, like slipping back into an old song you both know by heart. When the last plate’s done, you lean against the counter, exhaling. “Andrew’s mother’s really going all out. It’s sweet of her.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says lightly, though something sharp threads through his tone. “Sweet.”

You glance over at him. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothin’.”

“Bucky,” you press, arms folding. “Don’t do that. What?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Just funny, s’all. You always hated cucumbers.”

You blink. “What?”

“Cucumbers,” he says again, half-smiling. “You used to pick ’em off your sandwiches and dump ’em on my plate. Said they tasted like cold soap.”

You stare at him for a second, caught off guard. The memory is so vivid it startles you—the diner, the cheap plates, his teasing grin. “I… guess I did.”

“Guess you forgot,” he says quietly. You open your mouth to answer, but the words stick. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, too quiet. His eyes are on you, steady and sad, like he’s seeing something you’re only just starting to remember. He clears his throat, looks away, and grabs his coat. “Anyway, I should go. Long day tomorrow.”

You nod slowly. “Right. Of course.”

At the door, he pauses. “Goodnight, doll.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

When the door closes, you stand there for a long time, your back to it, the faint smell of soap and tea still clinging to the air. You don’t know why the stupid detail bothers you so much—why it leaves your chest tight and your eyes stinging. But you can’t shake it.

Because he’s right. You do hate cucumbers. And you can’t quite remember when you started pretending otherwise.

---

It starts as something small, almost imperceptible—a ripple under the surface of a life you’ve been trying to convince yourself is whole. After the night of the cucumber remark, everything feels… tilted. The moment itself had been nothing, really. A few harmless words in a quiet kitchen. But they’d cracked something open that you’d spent months keeping tightly sealed.

Now, the smallest things catch at you. Andrew’s laughter, too practiced. His kisses, always polite and brief. The way he talks about the future in tidy, well-planned sentences—his job, the house you’ll have, the way “Mrs. Reid” rolls so easily off his tongue.

You smile when he says it. You always smile. But inside, there’s this quiet voice that keeps asking, when did you stop belonging to yourself?

You start noticing how often you nod when you don’t agree. How many times you laugh even when something doesn’t strike you as funny. How you smooth over the rough edges of who you are to fit the life that’s being built around you.

It isn’t bad, you tell yourself. Andrew is a good man. Gentle, thoughtful. He works hard, treats you well, makes sure you never walk home alone. He listens when you talk—or at least, he listens enough to respond in all the right ways.

But sometimes, when he looks at you across a dinner table or from the driver’s seat of his neat little car, you get the sense that he’s seeing a version of you that isn’t real. A woman built from good manners and careful words. A woman who never picks fights, never rolls her eyes, never swears when she drops something heavy.

And every time, you think of Bucky. Of the way he’d grin when you cursed, teasing you just to see if he could make you do it again. Of how he never flinched when you disagreed with him, never made you feel smaller for it. Of how, somehow, he could read your silences better than most people could read your words.

You try not to think of it, but the thought follows you like a shadow.

You see Bucky again a week later, almost by accident. You’re on your way back from the tailor with your arms full of packages—bolts of fabric, invitations, a box of new gloves. The wind’s sharp and biting, tearing at your hat, and you’re juggling everything when a voice behind you says, “you always did try to carry the world by yourself.”

You turn, startled—and there he is. Bucky stands a few feet away, collar turned up against the cold, hair mussed by the wind. He looks better than he did last week, or maybe it’s just that he’s smiling, a little shyly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.

“Buck,” you breathe, shifting the packages. “What are you—”

“Was passin’ by,” he says easily, stepping closer. “Figured you could use a hand.” You start to protest, but one of the boxes slips, and he catches it before it hits the ground. He looks at you with that same half-smirk he’s always had—the one that makes your heart stutter for reasons you don’t want to name. “Still stubborn as ever,” he murmurs.

“Still nosy,” you shoot back automatically, though the words come out softer than you intend.

He grins, just a little, and takes the rest of the boxes from you before you can argue. “C’mon, doll. I’ll walk you home.”

The walk is quiet at first. The city hums around you—the whistle of a streetcar, the chatter from shop doors, the faint smell of roasted nuts from a vendor down the block. The two of you move in step like you used to, your gloved hand brushing against his sleeve every so often.

It feels almost normal. Almost easy. He asks about the wedding, and you tell him bits and pieces—the dress, the flowers, the venue—but even to your own ears, it sounds rehearsed, like you’re reading from someone else’s script. When you trail off, Bucky glances at you sideways. “You happy?”

The question lands like a pebble in a pond—small, but the ripples keep spreading. You blink, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”

He shrugs, eyes on the pavement. “Just seems like a thing a guy oughta ask his friend before she gets married.”

You laugh, but it doesn’t sound right. “Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?” He doesn’t answer, just nods slightly. The silence stretches between you until you add, “Andrew’s good to me. You’ve seen that.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’ve seen it.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach twist. The rest of the walk is quieter. You talk about safe things—the weather, Steve’s latest SSR gossip, a new bakery opening down the street. When you reach your building, you pause at the steps, clutching your packages tighter than necessary. “Thanks for helping,” you say.

“Anytime,” he replies.

You linger a moment longer, the wind tugging at your coat. “You should come by Sunday. We’re having dinner with Steve. Just the three of us, like old times.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, finally, “alright. Sunday.”

You smile, relieved. “Good.” When you go inside, you can feel his gaze following you up the stairs. You don’t look back.

Sunday comes, and with it, a quiet warmth you didn’t know you’d been missing. The three of you sit around your little kitchen table, laughing about nothing—the way Steve still can’t cook, the way Bucky still eats like a man starved. For a few hours, it’s as if the years between you’ve been peeled away.

You pour coffee while Bucky leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, telling a story about one of the guys from the docks. His voice is rich and low, easy with laughter. You’ve missed that sound more than you realized.

When the story ends, Steve gets up to wash dishes, leaving you and Bucky alone for a moment. You watch him quietly. The curve of his jaw. The scar by his temple. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. You shouldn’t look at him like that, but you do anyway.

He catches your gaze and holds it. Something flickers between you—familiar, dangerous. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but Steve comes back, clattering dishes, and the spell breaks. Later, after the dishes are done and the laughter’s faded, Bucky lingers at the door. You walk him down to the stoop, saying goodnight like always. The street’s quiet, washed silver by the lamplight. “You really are happy?” he asks again, voice almost lost to the wind.

You hesitate. “I’m supposed to be.”

He studies you for a long moment, then nods, as if that’s answer enough. “Take care of yourself, doll.”

He starts to turn away, but you reach out, catching his sleeve. The fabric is rough and warm under your fingers. “Bucky.” He looks back, and for a heartbeat, everything stops—the air, the sounds, even your own pulse. You want to say something. To tell him that you don’t know how to do this—how to want two different lives, how to stop pretending. But the words won’t come. So you just let go. “Goodnight.”

He hesitates, then tips his head slightly. “Goodnight.”

When he walks away, you stay there for a long time, the cold biting through your coat, your heart pounding like it’s trying to tell you something you already know. And somewhere down the street, Bucky doesn’t look back—because he’s afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to keep walking.

---

The afternoon is one of those deceptive early-winter days—bright sun, brittle cold, wind that nips at your cheeks but never quite steals the warmth from the light. The four of you—you, Andrew, his mother, and Steve—have spent the better part of the day at the reception hall, finalizing decorations and seating arrangements. Bucky had tagged along under the excuse of “lifting heavy things,” but truthfully, he just couldn’t stay away.

The hall itself is beautiful in that sterile, echoing way—pale walls, high ceilings, windows that catch every bit of sunlight and spill it onto the polished floors. There are samples of floral arrangements along one wall, stacks of folded linens, a small buffet table with coffee and pastries that have long gone cold.

You’ve been moving nonstop for an hour—bending, rearranging, lifting centerpieces, trying to visualize how it’ll all come together. You’re tired, your hands ache, and the hem of your skirt keeps catching on your heels.

Bucky watches from the side, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed. Steve’s beside him, dutifully holding a roll of seating charts while Andrew and his mother discuss silverware with the event planner. “Careful, sweetheart,” Andrew calls as you lean over to move a stack of chairs. “You don’t have to do that yourself.”

You smile, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “I’m fine. Just making sure the space works.” It’s right about then that your purse slips off the chair where you’d set it—and the entire contents scatter dramatically across the floor. Lipstick, coins, a small notebook, a handful of folded receipts. You let out a startled sound, bend to grab it—and promptly hit your knee on the edge of the table. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that the word slips out before you can stop it. “Goddammit.”

The sound echoes, far too loud in the open space. For a second, the entire room freezes. Andrew’s head snaps up from where he’s been talking with his mother. She blinks, the faintest twitch of disapproval crossing her expression—not much, just the tightening around her mouth, a small flicker of polite discomfort that might have gone unnoticed if Bucky hadn’t been watching her.

Steve looks like he’s about to laugh, then catches himself. Bucky turns away, biting down on the grin that’s already threatening to break loose.

You flush hot, half from embarrassment, half from frustration. “I—sorry. Table jumped out at me.”

Andrew recovers quickly, his voice smooth, reassuring. “It’s alright, darling. Maybe watch where you’re stepping next time.”

You nod, forcing a small laugh, and crouch to gather your things. You can feel your face burning. Bucky moves forward before you can stop him, crouching beside you. “Here,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it. His gloved hand brushes yours briefly as he hands you your lipstick. “You kiss your fiancé with that mouth?”

You shoot him a look, half scandalized, half amused despite yourself. “Don’t start.”

He smirks. “Couldn’t help it. Been too long since I heard you swear.”

“Should I be flattered that you missed it?”

He shrugs, sliding a coin toward you with one finger. “Maybe I just missed you.”

The words hang in the air a moment too long. You swallow, eyes flicking to his, but before you can respond, Andrew’s voice cuts across the room, “everything alright?”

You stand quickly, clutching your things to your chest. “Yes. All fine.” Bucky rises slower, expression carefully neutral, though you catch the flicker of amusement still dancing in his eyes.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of polite conversation and half-hearted planning. Andrew’s mother offers notes on napkin folds, Steve provides the occasional grunt of agreement, and you smile so much your cheeks hurt.

But you feel Bucky’s gaze every time you speak. Every time you laugh too softly or fidget with your gloves. When you finally leave the venue, the daylight’s already fading into that soft gold that makes everything look warmer than it is. Steve walks ahead with Andrew and his mother, deep in conversation, while you and Bucky lag behind, the cold air frosting your breath. He glances sideways at you. “You okay?”

You exhale a laugh. “Just humiliated myself in front of my future mother-in-law. Totally fine.”

“She’s gonna live,” he says with a grin. “Hell, I think it was worth it just to see her face.”

You groan. “She looked like I’d cursed out a priest.”

“She kinda did,” he teases. “Never thought I’d say this, but I missed hearin’ you swear.”

You glance at him, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe. But you used to call me worse than that.”

You roll your eyes. “When you deserved it.”

He laughs, genuine this time—the sound so warm and familiar it hits something deep inside you. “You got a mouth on you when you’re mad, sweetheart. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I was sixteen,” you protest, shoving your hands in your coat pockets. “Everyone had a mouth at sixteen.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, looking ahead. “But you had fire.” That quiet tone—low, almost reverent—steals the humor right out of the air. You look up at him, but he’s not smiling anymore. His eyes are distant, thoughtful. You walk the rest of the way in silence. Not uncomfortable, just… heavy. The kind of silence that carries too many words neither of you can afford to say.

When you reach the corner where you’ll part ways, you stop. “You’re walking the wrong direction again.”

He smirks faintly. “Never said I was goin’ anywhere in particular.”

You hesitate. “You didn’t have to come today, you know. I know it’s not exactly your kind of thing.”

“I didn’t mind,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you lie automatically.

He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head slightly. “You’re allowed to be more than ‘fine,’ you know.” You open your mouth, but no answer comes. He gives you a small, tired smile. “See you soon, doll.” You watch him walk away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his figure fading into the crowd until he’s gone.

That night, Andrew calls—his voice smooth, polite, talking about dinner with his parents and the guest list. You listen, answering when you need to, but your mind drifts elsewhere. You think of the way Bucky had knelt beside you without hesitation. The quiet teasing. The memory of your younger selves flashing between you for one breathless second. You think of how Andrew had said, “watch where you’re stepping,” and how it had sounded less like concern and more like correction.

You hang up the phone with a headache and a hollow ache in your chest. When you turn off the light, you whisper into the dark—a soft, frustrated word that you’d never say out loud. Bucky would have laughed. And for the first time in a long while, you do too—quietly, bitterly, but real.

---

The night of the dance comes almost by accident—one of those things Steve insists on, claiming it’ll “do everyone good to get out.” He’s been helping with a fundraiser for returning veterans, something organized at a converted ballroom downtown. There’ll be live music, dancing, food, and a chance, he says, to feel normal again.

You’d refused at first. Between fittings, dinner invitations, and endless lists from your mother and Andrew’s family, your days already feel like borrowed time. But Steve is relentless—and Bucky, of course, is going. So you give in.

The evening is cold enough that your breath ghosts in the air as you step from the cab. The building glows warm through tall windows, laughter spilling onto the street in bursts as couples sweep in through the doors. Music drifts faintly out—brass and strings, something upbeat and elegant.

You smooth your gloves, nerves prickling under your skin. Andrew couldn’t come; a late dinner with a client, he said, promising to make it up to you over the weekend. He’d kissed your cheek on the way out the door, already thinking about something else.

Now, standing under the soft halo of the marquee lights, you almost turn back—until you hear a familiar voice. “Hey, doll.” Bucky’s leaning against the doorframe, coat open, tie slightly undone. He’s smiling—that lazy, easy grin that used to make your stomach do strange things when you were younger.

You exhale. “You look—”

“Don’t say it,” he warns playfully. “I already know.”

You grin despite yourself. “You were going to say it anyway.”

“Maybe,” he admits, pushing off the wall. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

It’s simple, unembellished, and it lands harder than it should. You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “Thank you.”

He offers his arm with a flourish. “Shall we?” You take it before you can think better of it. The hall inside is alive—bright lights glinting off polished floors, the air full of warmth and perfume and brass. A small band plays near the stage, their instruments gleaming under the glow. Couples swirl across the floor, the sound of laughter weaving with the rhythm of the music.

Steve finds you both near the entrance, already grinning, already holding two glasses of champagne. “You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say, smiling.

Bucky raises a brow at the glasses. “Since when do you drink the fancy stuff?”

Steve shrugs. “Figured I’d start celebrating before anyone gets sentimental.”

“You’re the sentimental one,” Bucky teases. “You cried when you saw that puppy in the paper last week.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You two haven’t changed a bit.”

For the first hour, everything feels easy. You sit together at a table near the floor, watching dancers spin, the band switching between swing and slower numbers. Steve gets dragged onto the dance floor by a brunette in a red dress, who you’re pretty sure is Peggy, leaving you and Bucky to nurse drinks and trade quiet jokes.

But as the night wears on, something shifts. The music slows. The lights dim slightly, turning everything gold and soft. Couples begin to drift together, the chatter thinning into quiet laughter. You’re fiddling with your glass when Bucky stands. “Come on.”

You blink up at him. “What?”

He nods toward the floor. “Dance with me.”

“Bucky, I don’t think—”

He extends his hand, palm up, eyes steady. “It’s just a dance.”

Your heart stutters, but you take it. His hand is warm around yours, solid. The other settles lightly at your waist as he guides you into the rhythm. It’s slow, easy—the kind of song that sways more than moves, leaving space for breath between every step.

You haven’t danced together since before the war. Back then, it had been all laughter and clumsy steps—your heels on his boots, his grin bright enough to fill the room. This feels different. Older. Heavier. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as you try to keep your eyes anywhere else. “So,” he says quietly, his voice just audible over the band. “Big day’s coming soon.”

You nod. “Two months.”

“You nervous?”

You laugh softly, though it sounds a little hollow. “Should I be?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking down to yours. “Guess that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re happy.”

You swallow. “You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”

“Maybe,” he says, smiling faintly. “But you still haven’t given me an answer.”

You look away, focusing on a couple nearby, the woman’s patterned dress catching the light as she spins. “It’s not that simple, Bucky.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

The music slows further, the last few bars stretching out. His thumb traces an idle circle at your waist—so small you almost think you imagined it. You glance up at him. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I’ve spent half my life lookin’ out for you, and the other half trying not to.”

Your breath catches. “Bucky—”

He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can say more. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna ruin your night.” The song ends, but neither of you move right away. You’re still caught in the slow sway of it, the warmth of his hand, the nearness of him. Finally, he steps back, the loss of his touch like stepping into cold air. “Thanks for the dance, doll.”

You nod, voice soft. “Anytime.”

He smiles—that quiet, sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—and turns away before you can say more. You stand there, trying to steady your breathing, watching him move toward the bar. The crowd shifts around you, but everything feels strangely far away—the music, the laughter, the shimmering gold of the lights.

When Steve returns, flushed and grinning, you force yourself to smile. You make small talk, you drink another glass of champagne, you laugh in all the right places.

But every time you glance across the room, Bucky’s already looking at you. And when the band starts another song—something slow and aching—you can feel the pulse of it in your bones, the echo of his hand still at your waist. You know, with sudden terrible clarity, that the world you’ve built is about to crack.

The cold hits like a slap when you step outside the ballroom, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the swell of brass and laughter. The sky is a heavy gray-black, the kind of night that promises snow. Streetlights cast soft circles on the pavement, and the air smells faintly of salt and smoke.

You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders and exhale, trying to steady yourself. Inside, the party is still going strong—laughter, footsteps, clinking glasses. You can still hear the echo of the band through the doors. The sound feels far away, like it belongs to someone else’s life.

You hadn’t meant to come out here. You just needed air. Space to breathe. You’re halfway down the steps when the door swings open behind you. “Figured I’d find you out here.” You turn. Bucky stands in the doorway, coat over one arm, his expression unreadable. His hair’s a little messy from the heat inside, his tie loose. He looks nothing like the man who’d smiled and danced with you an hour ago. He looks like someone who’s come to do something he can’t take back.

“Hey,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. “Needed a minute.”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping down beside you. “Me too.”

The silence stretches, filled with the low hum of the city and the distant sound of a passing car. You look out toward the street. “It’s getting late. I should—”

“Don’t go yet.” It comes out sharper than he means, and he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sorry. Just—just wait a minute.”

You hesitate, then nod. He steps in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. The lamplight catches the faint scar at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw. You can see the muscle in his throat move when he swallows. “You can’t marry him,” he says quietly.

The words hit like a physical thing—not shouted, not dramatic, just certain. You stare at him, the wind tugging at your shawl. “What?”

He exhales hard, almost laughing, not because it’s funny, but because he’s run out of ways to hold it in. “You heard me.”

“Bucky—”

“Don’t.” His voice cracks slightly, the word raw. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. You’ve been pretending long enough.”

You step back, shaking your head. “You don’t get to say that.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“You don’t,” you repeat, louder this time, the tremor in your voice betraying you. “You had years, Bucky. Years to say something, and you didn’t. You went off to war, and you didn’t write, you didn’t—”

“I thought I was dead!” he shouts, then lowers his voice quickly, the sound cracking in the cold air. “I thought I was dead, and when I wasn’t, I didn’t know how to come back. You think I wanted to ruin what we had?”

“You already have,” you whisper.

He laughs—quiet and bitter. “Yeah. Guess I did.” You turn away, hugging your arms around yourself, staring out at the blur of passing headlights. Your breath clouds the air, your chest tight. He steps closer, voice low again. “I’m not tryin’ to hurt you, doll. I just—” He stops, searching for the words. “Every time I see you with him, it feels like I’m watching somebody else live your life. And I can’t keep doin’ it.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do.”

He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his hand drop. “You think I don’t see it? The way you look when you’re with him—polite, careful. Like you’re walkin’ on glass. You used to laugh with your whole body, you know that? You’d throw your head back and snort like it was the funniest thing you ever heard. You don’t laugh like that anymore.”

You blink, and your vision goes blurry. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.”

You shake your head, half laughing, half crying. “God, you think you can just come back and tell me I’m unhappy? You think you can just say that and everything changes?”

He takes a step forward, closing the space between you. His voice drops, rough and steady. “No. I think I can tell you the truth. I love you, and I have since before I even knew what that meant.” The words hang there, suspended in the cold air, heavy enough to change the shape of the night. You stare at him, heart pounding, your mouth open but no words coming out. He laughs again, softer now, broken. “I know. I know I’m too late. But I’d rather ruin what’s left than spend another day pretendin’ I don’t still feel this way.”

You whisper, “Bucky, stop.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. Not this time.”

“Don’t do this to me.”

“I’m not doin’ anything to you,” he says quietly. “I’m tryin’ to be honest. For once.”

You step closer without realizing it, until you’re only a breath apart. The air between you feels electric, sharp, full of everything you’ve both been avoiding. “You don’t get to tell me you love me now,” you say, voice shaking. “Not after all this time.”

He swallows. “I know.”

You look up at him—his eyes, his face, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious and painful all at once. “Then why are you saying it?”

“Because I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You should pull away. You don’t. The touch is so light it barely registers, but it’s enough to make your heart lurch. You realize you’ve been waiting for it—for years, maybe.

And then he kisses you.

It isn’t careful. It isn’t perfect. It’s desperate, aching, years of silence collapsing into one impossible moment. His hand finds your face, yours fists in the front of his coat. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and regret.

For a second, you let yourself fall into it—the familiarity, the warmth, the terrible rightness of it. Then reality slams back. You break away, breathless, trembling. “Don’t,” you whisper. “Please.”

He takes a step back immediately, hands raised like surrender. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, voice thin. “No, you’re not.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. “You’re right. I’m not.”

You stand there in the cold, neither of you moving, the echo of the kiss still pulsing in the space between you. Finally, you turn. “I have to go.”

He doesn’t stop you this time. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You walk away, your heels striking the pavement, each step harder than the last. You don’t look back, because if you do, you’ll break. Behind you, Bucky stays where he is, the wind tugging at his coat, the sound of the music from inside drifting faintly through the doors. He runs a hand over his mouth, as if he can still taste you, and lets out a shaky breath that turns white in the cold air.

When Steve finds him later, still standing outside under the lamplight, he doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to. “Guess she went home,” Steve says quietly.

Bucky nods, staring down at the street. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

Bucky laughs once, soft and bitter. “Not even close.”

Steve doesn’t say anything after that. Just claps a hand to his shoulder, solid and wordless, before leading him toward home.

That night, you sit on your bed in the dark, your shawl still around your shoulders, your hair still styled from the dance. The mirror across from you reflects a version of yourself you don’t recognize—flushed cheeks, tear-stained eyes, a ring on your finger that feels heavier than gold.

You press your fingers to your lips and close your eyes. The ghost of him is still there—the warmth of his hand, the tremor in his voice when he said your name. You tell yourself it was a mistake. That it won’t happen again. That it doesn’t change anything. But deep down, in the place where you’ve hidden everything that still feels alive, you already know it does. Because no matter what happens next—no matter how much you tell yourself otherwise—that kiss didn’t feel like the end of something.

It felt like the start.

---

The morning after the dance dawns gray and breathless, the kind of quiet that feels like the city itself is holding still. You wake long before your alarm, eyes open to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The bedsheets are cold beside you—Andrew had stayed at his parents’ house last night after the dinner he mentioned, something about convenience, early meetings. You’d told him it was fine. You’d meant it.

But now, the silence in the apartment feels unbearable.

Your shawl is draped over the chair where you tossed it last night. One glove sits on the floor, half under the bed. Your lipstick is still smudged faintly around the corners of your mouth. You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror for a long time—your eyes red-rimmed, your hair a little messed up from sleep.

You look like a woman who hasn’t slept. You look like a woman who’s done something unforgivable. You press your palms flat on the table, forcing a breath through your lungs. You should feel guilty. You do feel guilty—but not in the way you expected. The shame sits alongside something else, something more dangerous. You feel awake.

You make it through breakfast without tasting a thing. The paper sits unread beside your plate, the coffee untouched. Every tick of the clock seems louder than the last. You keep hearing his voice, low and rough.

You can’t marry him. You used to laugh with your whole body. I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.

You try to drown it out with reason. Andrew is good. Steady. The kind of man your parents dreamed you’d marry. He’s kind to you, even if his kindness sometimes feels more like careful politeness than love. You’ll have a warm home, safety, a life without turbulence.

Bucky is none of those things.

He’s reckless, restless, full of jagged edges and ghosts that won’t leave him. His hands still tremble when he doesn’t sleep. He disappears for hours to “walk,” though you suspect he’s not walking so much as running from his own mind.

But when he’d kissed you—God, when he’d kissed you—there had been no distance, no pretending. Just truth. Raw, terrible, beautiful truth. And now you can’t un-feel it.

You find yourself outside his building before you realize you’ve even left home. The cold gnaws at your fingers; your breath fogs the air. You’re in your best coat, a hat tugged low, gloves clasped tight as if they’re the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door. Every part of you is screaming not to go inside—but your feet move anyway. The hallway smells faintly of tobacco and cheap soap. The floorboards creak underfoot. You reach his door, heart hammering, and knock before you can talk yourself out of it.

It takes a moment. Then footsteps. Then the latch.

When the door opens, he looks… wrecked. Bucky’s hair is rumpled, his shirt half-buttoned, his eyes red-rimmed like yours. He blinks when he sees you, caught between surprise and something softer—something like disbelief. “Doll.”

“Can I come in?”

He steps aside wordlessly. The apartment is small—one room with a narrow kitchen, a half-drawn curtain separating the bed from the rest. There’s a record player on a crate, a mug on the windowsill gone cold. Everything smells faintly of metal polish and smoke.

You take off your gloves, set them down on the table, and stand there, unsure what to do with your hands. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s afraid if he blinks you’ll disappear. “I shouldn’t be here,” you say first.

He nods once. “Probably not.”

Neither of you move. The silence stretches. Finally, you force the words out, “what happened last night can’t—”

“—be undone,” he finishes for you. His voice is steady, quiet. “I know.”

You swallow. “Andrew—”

“Doesn’t love you the way you deserve,” he says, too quickly.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t make him the villain. He’s good to me.”

“I know he is,” Bucky says softly. “But he doesn’t see you.”

You turn away, pacing to the window. “You keep saying that. That he doesn’t see me. What does that even mean?”

He moves closer, not touching you yet. “It means he doesn’t know the way your hands shake when you’re excited. Or how you hum when you cook. Or how you hate cucumbers but love the smell of mint. He doesn’t know how you look when you’re mad and trying not to cry. He doesn’t know you fall asleep reading, or that you talk in your sleep sometimes.” You close your eyes. “He doesn’t know you,” Bucky finishes, voice low. “Not the way I do.”

“That’s not fair,” you whisper. “People change, Bucky. I’m not who I was before the war. Neither are you.”

“Maybe not,” he says, and now he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back. “But you’re still you. The real you. And I’m still the fool who fell for you before either of us knew what love was.”

You turn around, ready to tell him to stop—but he’s looking at you with that same quiet honesty that’s always undone you. No pleading. No bravado. Just truth. Something in you breaks. “You think this is easy for me?” you snap, tears stinging your eyes. “You think I haven’t spent every night trying to make myself believe that I can do this—that I can marry him, smile, build a life that’s good, even if it’s not…” You trail off, breathing hard.

“Not what?” he asks softly.

“Not you.” The words hang there like a confession torn from your chest.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes darkening. “Say that again.”

You shake your head, tears slipping free. “Don’t make me.”

He takes a step closer. “Say it.”

You look up at him, voice trembling. “It’s not you.”

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just studies your face—every tear, every tremor. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, “then don’t marry him.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Bucky—”

“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, firmer now. “Don’t spend the rest of your life pretending this never happened. Pretending you don’t feel it too.”

Your throat closes. “You’re asking me to destroy everything.”

“I’m asking you to be honest,” he says. “For once. Just with yourself.”

The silence that follows feels like standing on a precipice. You can hear the tick of a clock somewhere, the distant sound of a car outside. Finally, you whisper, “if I walk away from him, there’s no going back.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “But maybe that’s the point.”

You meet his eyes, and for the first time in months—maybe years—you feel something that isn’t fear. You feel clarity. You leave his apartment an hour later, the sun beginning to rise pale and pink over the rooftops. The streets are still quiet, the city half-asleep. You walk the whole way home.

By the time you reach your door, your fingers are numb, your heart raw. You set your ring on the table—gold glinting in the soft morning light—and sit beside it, staring until the sun burns through the window. When the phone rings, you don’t answer. Not yet. You don’t know what you’ll say to Andrew, not really. You just know it has to be true. And for the first time in a long, long while, that feels like enough.

That afternoon, Bucky finds Steve at the diner, coat unbuttoned, eyes still tired but different now—lighter somehow. Steve raises a brow when he slides into the booth. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “I didn’t.”

“She come by?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”

Steve studies him for a moment. “You tell her?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Bucky looks out the window, where sunlight spills across the street, turning everything gold. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “But for the first time since I came home… it feels like maybe things might be right again.”

Steve smiles faintly. “That’s something.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, fingers curling around his coffee mug. “It is.”

Outside, the city hums to life again—the promise of something new on the horizon. And somewhere across town, you sit by the window, your ringless hand resting over your heart, breathing in the quiet morning air. You don’t know what comes next.

But you know who you want to face it with.

---

It happens on a Sunday. The kind of pale, overcast morning that seems to hum with quiet finality—the sort of day that feels like the closing of a chapter, even before anything has ended. Your hands tremble only once when you lace your gloves. Then again when you look in the mirror and see the faint indentation where your ring used to sit. It’s strange how something so small could leave a mark so deep.

Andrew had called three times since last night. You’d answered none of them. You’d written him a letter—neat, careful handwriting, the kind of letter that doesn’t waste words. You apologized, you explained just enough, you didn’t say Bucky’s name. You thanked him for being kind. For being safe. For giving you a life you could have loved, if your heart hadn’t been somewhere else.

When you finished, you folded it, sealed it, and set it gently in his mailbox before you lost your nerve. Then you walked. The city feels softer than usual—washed clean from an early morning drizzle, streets gleaming faintly under the muted sun. People bustle past you in coats and scarves, voices muffled, the world continuing as if nothing monumental has shifted. But for you, everything has.

Bucky doesn’t hear the knock at first. He’s just come back from the docks, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the mist. There’s a record playing—something scratchy and old, the kind of jazz you used to hum when you worked beside him at the old diner near Flatbush.

He’s been trying not to think about you; he’s failing. So when the knock comes, soft but steady, he almost doesn’t answer. Some part of him is terrified to open that door, afraid that seeing you—or not seeing you—will finally undo him for good.

But he does. And there you are. Your coat’s damp at the hem, your cheeks stinging from the cold. There’s no ring on your hand, and your eyes—God, your eyes—look clearer than he’s ever seen them. “Hey,” you say, voice small but sure.

He blinks, then steps aside automatically. “You came.”

You nod, stepping inside. “I did.” The air in the room feels charged, the same way it did that morning in his apartment. But this time, there’s no hesitation between you. No guilt. Just a quiet certainty settling in your bones. “I ended it,” you say.

Bucky freezes. “You what?”

You meet his gaze. “With Andrew.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, struggling to find breath. “You sure?”

You nod once. “I told him the truth.”

For a moment, neither of you move. Then Bucky lets out a slow, unsteady breath and takes a step forward—one, then another, until you’re standing close enough to feel the warmth of him through your coat. “What did you tell him?” he asks softly.

“That I couldn’t marry someone I didn’t love,” you whisper.

He searches your face, voice barely a murmur. “And who do you love?”

You don’t look away this time. “You.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s full. Alive. Like the first inhale after years of holding your breath.

And then he’s kissing you.

It isn’t desperate this time. It’s steady. Sure. The kind of kiss that feels like coming home after too long away. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the tear that slips free. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he murmurs against your lips, “hey, hey. Don’t.”

You laugh, half-sobbing, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

You nod, smiling through the tears. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He exhales shakily, relief breaking over him like sunlight. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

“Maybe I do,” you tease gently, your hand resting over his heart. He covers it with his own, fingers threading through yours. His pulse beats strong under your palm. You stay like that for a long time—standing in the quiet of his apartment, the city noise drifting faintly through the window. It feels fragile, this peace, but also real. Earned.

Eventually, he guides you to the small kitchen table, sets a kettle on the stove, and makes tea—the way he used to when you were kids, strong and too sweet. You sit across from him, elbows on the scarred wood, steam curling between you. He watches you for a moment, eyes soft. “You sure you’re okay?”

You smile. “You’ve asked me that three times.”

“Can’t help it.”

“I know.”

You reach across the table, covering his hand with yours. “I think I’ll be okay, Buck. For the first time in a long while.”

He nods slowly, thumb tracing circles against your wrist. “You know this won’t be easy.”

“I know,” you say. “But at least it’ll be real.”

He looks at you then—really looks—and you see the weight lift from him. The guilt, the fear, the quiet ache that’s been hiding behind his smile since the war. “Real sounds good,” he murmurs.

The weeks that follow aren’t simple. There are whispers, of course. Muted condolences from neighbors who think you’ve been jilted. Polite confusion from Andrew’s family. Your mother’s disappointment—quiet, tight-lipped, the kind that cuts deeper than yelling.

But there’s also laughter again. You and Bucky and Steve falling back into a rhythm that feels like the world before it went to hell—coffee at the diner, evenings spent walking home through the city, warmth slowly replacing what had been hollow.

Sometimes, it’s quiet—hands brushing on park benches, shared cigarettes in the cold, Bucky’s coat around your shoulders. Sometimes, it’s loud—dancing in his room to bad jazz, arguing about who cheats at cards, Steve rolling his eyes fondly from the doorway. And every now and then, when you least expect it, he’ll reach for your hand—just a touch, light and unassuming—and it’ll still take your breath away.

It’s early spring when you wake in his bed for the first time with sunlight spilling through the window, his arm slung across your waist. The city hums faintly outside—car horns, laughter, the world moving on.

You turn your head, watching him sleep. He looks younger like this. Peaceful, almost. You reach up, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. His eyes open slowly, blue and soft, and he smiles—that same crooked grin that’s undone you a hundred times over. “Mornin’, doll.”

You grin back. “Morning.”

He leans in and kisses you, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything except the promise that you’re both still here. When he pulls back, he murmurs, “you know, I still think about that night at the Expo sometimes.”

You laugh, low. “When you vanished to find Steve?”

“Yeah,” he says, smile widening. “Should’ve kissed you then.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “You made up for it.”

He hums, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Not done makin’ up for it.”

You smile against his skin. “Good.”

Outside, the city keeps moving—trains and laughter and sunlight spilling over everything. The world isn’t perfect. It never will be. But for the first time, it feels like yours again. And when Bucky pulls you close, his voice low against your ear, you know with absolute certainty that you did the right thing.

extra notes: this fic has been done for months, probably since tloas came out in october. i still think months later it's one of my favorites so i hope y'all liked it as much as i do <3

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005