will you weep for me when i'm gone?

You remembered Thanksgiving a few weeks ago. You hadn't been listening to him when he talked, because he was at the other end of the table. You'd been more focused on your cousins trying to snatch food from your plate. But every time he finished saying something, he would call your name and say, "You agree, don't you?" and you would furrow your brow and nod, though you had no idea what you were supposedly agreeing with or to.

There was a family photo you had taken last year, all of you clustered together around your grandmother's tartan couch. No one had noticed immediately, not when observing to just make sure that everyone's eyes were open and no one was sneezing or yawning, but your uncle had definitely been leering at you. Looking at you with a secret smile, his head tilted just so, rather than looking directly into the camera like everyone else.

Every time you got tagged in something on social media, he would be in the comments, leaving messages like, "My niece grew up to be such a gorgeous young lady!" or, "She's my favourite! What a darling girl!"

Maybe your uncle, a man who had been single ever since you could remember, was just one of those guys. He couldn't speak or interact with the fairer sex without giving off a particular vibe, even when it came to family. There was just something about him that missed the mark of charming completely, and landed somewhere further afield. He was family, so you would never outwardly say there was something wrong with him, but you couldn't exactly say that there was something right, either.

Your parents wanted to be the ones to host Christmas and New Year's this time around. It was a rotating responsibility, and this time it had fallen on your immediate family's shoulders. You were home from college for a few weeks, and with no siblings to share the burden with and an extra room at the house, Bucky was to be staying with you and helping out.

You'd had to be the one to pick him up at the airport, your parents still working right up until the holidays started. It was your beat up old Suburban, a car you'd had since you were seventeen, but he'd insisted on driving back because you'd "come all this way just for me!"

He'd hugged you at the airport, before you'd ushered him back to the parking lot. You hadn't intended on the gesture, but suddenly he'd been in your space, and your arms had been stuck limply at your sides. The hinge of his Tortoiseshell glasses had scraped the side of your temple as he'd brought his face close to yours. Though you'd gone rigid at the proximity, you'd noticed he smelled good, at least, something earthy and rugged, though looking at him, you didn't get the impression that he went on fishing trips or cut firewood as much as some of your other uncles did. At least, he didn't go on any of their yearly excursions.

You'd done your best to forget the awkwardness of the interaction once you'd made it to the car, but that memory had been almost immediately replaced by a more uncomfortable one, his hand finding your knee as he drove. It was weird—there was no other way to explain it. But he'd looked over and smiled during the first red light, murmuring, "I'm so glad to be spending the holidays with you, sweetie."

"You mean our whole family, right…?"

He didn't answer your quiet inquiry, but you knew he'd heard you because he'd still been wearing a faint half-smile on his face as he'd turned back to the road ahead.

Your uncle was staying in the room next to yours. Your mother had considered turning it into a crafting room, but she'd never gotten around to it. Your own room was still sort of childish, since no redecorating had taken place and probably wouldn't until you moved out for good. Your bed still had frilly, lace bed skirts. Your coverlet and pillows were a patchwork of florals, your curtains gauzy and light.

The bathroom across the hall was all yours, unless there were guests. You hated that fact. You were used to not having to share, and suddenly having to double check that the door was locked or that you weren't about to barge in was one of the cons of having a tight-knit family.

The morning after your uncle had arrived, you'd all had a hasty breakfast together, him, you, and your parents, before they sped off to work. He'd announced that he'd be taking a shower, but you hadn't heard the water in a while, no shudder of the pipes or whisper of the overhead fan. It must be unoccupied by now, right?

When you twisted the handle, to confirm your suspicion that the room was empty… or so you thought. Upon opening the door, your uncle was just standing there with a towel wrapped around his waist. His glasses sat on the sink's counter top, the lenses fogged with steam. The silver in his hair was muted by its dampness. You'd never noticed before, how blue his eyes were, obscured as they were by his glasses. And you'd certainly never known that he wasn't as lanky as you'd previously assumed. His bare, muscled abdomen was highlighted by the stray droplets of water trailing from his shoulders. "Oh, my god! I'm so sorry!" You said, backing out meekly and darting to your room, closing the door behind you and leaning heavily against it.

You felt embarrassed, plain and simple. You'd always been very careful to not walk in on anyone. It was mortifying on both sides. But he hadn't said a word at your apology. He hadn't even blinked an eye. He'd just smiled at you, that strange, private smile that seemed to have become one held in reserve for you and you alone.

You stayed in your room for the rest of the day, unnerved.

Your parents still had some last minute shopping to do. Your other relatives were supposed to be flying in, and since they were going to be out and about already, your parents would be picking them up as they arrived. You cursed the fact that you'd done all of your own shopping weeks ago.

That morning at the breakfast table, it had been mostly quiet aside from the scraping of forks and clink of glasses and cups. Your mother had been absorbed in her phone, your father reading through news articles on his tablet. Only you had heard your uncle say, "Looks like it's just you and me today, huh?"

You hadn't replied.

When your parents left in a flurry of mittens and coats and hats, you were unsure as to what you should do. You couldn't just up and leave, not really. That was rude, and you'd already done it yesterday. There was also nowhere for you to go. A storm would be rolling in at some point, and none of your friends lived close by. Lingering in the foyer with him was awkward, the both of you having been there to usher your parents out the door. He looked at you curiously. "What are your plans for the rest of the day?"

Begrudgingly, you mentioned that you still had gifts to wrap, and the offer of help wasn't one you could refuse without making it obvious that you wanted to be away from him. Every time he passed you the tape, his hand kept lingering on yours, your fingertips brushing. He kept getting in your space when it wasn't strictly necessary. At one point, you thought he'd done it to sniff your hair or something equally insane, but why would he do that? Sure, he was a little bit creepy, but he wasn't that kind of creepy… right?

You spent much of the time after that arranging things under the tree and cleaning, trying to make sure the house was up to your mother's standards. You knew she'd be too tired to straighten up when she returned later. Your thoughts were interrupted, a tea towel half folded in your hands, by your uncle's voice. "Hey, do you want some hot chocolate? It just started snowing. It'll be so festive!"

You were glad you weren't facing him—you couldn't stop the quirk of your brow and the incredulous expression you wore. He sounded so… excited. Childishly so, the statement having ended with a peculiar little guffaw. But, what was the harm in saying yes to something as simple as some cocoa?

It turned out that he didn't appear to make it very often. The powder was still grainy, lingering at the bottom of your cup and coating your tongue, but the whipped cream and marshmallows made up for it, you supposed. You'd both stood by the big window at the front of the house and watched the driveway slowly get covered with snowflakes as the street lights came on. It was perhaps the most normal occurrence you'd ever had with him.

Something about the warmth from your drink, the lights of the Christmas tree, and the soft build up of snow had your eyelids drooping, sleepiness taking hold. It was late afternoon, the sun gone and the world outside taking on hues of blue. A hand rubbed at your back, a comfort. "Do you want to go and take a nap? You look like you're going to drop at any minute, sweetie."

With a tired nod, you agreed, your feet dragging as you handed him your empty mug and moved down the hall to your room. You all but face planted into the pillow. You didn't even remember the seconds between wakefulness and rest.

You were in dreamland, you were certain.

The lights were dim in your room, the faintest of holiday glows. It was snowing outside, you briefly remembered. Everything seemed quiet and suspended, like you were living in your own little snowglobe. You felt incredibly warm, as if you'd sunk into a bath or buried yourself in furs.

You didn't remember taking your jeans off. You would have thought you'd be shivering without your flannel pajama pants on, the ones with polar bears all over them. Your comforter wasn't that thick—it was one of those all-year ones, and you usually had to grab a couple of spare blankets from the hall closet. But you were about a degree away from feeling like you were burning up. For the moment, you still settled in the territory of pleasantly warm, caught between just right and too hot. You honestly felt a little floaty. You settled deeper into the mattress.

Your brain felt like it was walking uphill in a storm, struggling to clear a path into rational thought. Maybe you shouldn't fight the sleepiness that still clung to you. Your consciousness shuffled around a moment longer, before something, some sort of recognition, clicked into place. You were warm, yes, but the heat was concentrated on your back. It felt like you were laying against a radiator.

Oh. There was a body behind yours. There were arms around your waist. You could feel breath on the back of your neck, soft moans in your ear. You frowned, puzzled. You didn't have a boyfriend that could have snuck in for a sweet snuggle. So who was in your bed?

Who was rutting up against you like that?

Why was it making you feel so lightheaded, all these sensations warring with your mind's want to sleep?

You were muddled, your mind a swirling current, each thought a silver fish darting out of your grasp. If you couldn't feel the softness of your sheets, your pillow, you might have thought you were at sea, the gentle rock of the bed much like the low, rolling waves of the water.

You didn't have the wherewithal to go stiff, your body still loose and relaxed. Something was off, but you couldn't summon the fear; it wouldn't, or couldn't come to you. "So perfect. Little angel. Always knew you were special. Just for me."

The words were groaned against your neck, and with the faintest hint of startled surprise, you realized who it was.

You tried to turn around, mumbling, "What are you—" but a hand snaked it's way up your body and clamped loosely over your mouth, stifling the question.

"Shhh. Shhh, angel. It's okay, it's just me. Don't worry. I was having such a good time with you earlier, I didn't want it to end. Let's just stay like this, okay?"

But what did 'stay like this' mean, exactly?

Oh.

It meant that you knew what had happened to your jeans. They'd been tugged off of you while you'd slept, and your panties were now hooked to the side. Your uncle was rubbing his cock against your folds and bumping against your clit every time he moved.

You knew that you should be fighting him off, using every ounce of strength you still had to get away. He was you uncle, for God's sake. The one that would send you birthday cards with fifty dollars in them. The one that always made your dad give you the phone when he called, so that he could say hello and ask how you were. But now he was making your toes curl involuntarily, and he was pressing kisses to your shoulder, and his hand was still over your mouth, the skin of his palm hot, a burning touch.

"It's good for you, yeah? Just want to spend time with you. Want us to have a nice day together. This is nice, right? Tell me you like it." He had been rambling, but now he moved his hand away from your mouth to wait for the words he wanted to hear.

You couldn't speak. You were too stunned and caught between the wrongness of it all, coupled with the bizarre rightness of the feeling.

"Hey." His voice was sharp all of a sudden. His hand moved to your throat, pressing hard, feeling you swallow. "Tell me you like it."

It was a demand. He sounded scary. But he also sounded desperate.

"Y-yeah. It's nice…" The words were slurred, but you felt him smile against your skin.

"I knew you were special. I knew we had a connection, you and me."

All you heard for a few long seconds was his laboured breathing, and then your own, the air rushing back to you in a dizzying rush as he stopped gripping your throat so tightly. "You'll give me a little more, won't you? You'll let me in. Come on, I've always been kind to you. Give me a little something back?"

What does that even mean, you thought. You were just trying to deny what you already knew. He was still squeezing your throat, a tiny bit, but you didn't think it was on purpose. It was a reflex—he was excited. He couldn't help it, you didn't think. He might just cum on the spot.

Your silence was frustrating. His other hand was tight on your hip. "Tell me. Say yes. I don't want to be angry with you. I don't want to tell your parents you've done something bad. Let me."

And so you found yourself nodding. His switch between pleading, almost sweet, and controlling, bitter, was too much for you to process. You panties were so wet that they felt sticky.

It was just the tip at first. You thought that he'd intended for it to stay that way. But it made you gasp, and the way you'd clenched had him groaning into the back of your neck. He mumbled something you thought translated to, "I can't help it," and before you knew it, he was all the way in.

You didn't even register it happening, your reaction delayed by a few slow seconds. You sucked in a sharp breath. Oh. How was it possible to feel so full? He was squeezing at your throat again and muttering into your hair.

You only got a small warning, a graze of teeth against your skin, before he was biting at the side of your neck. He wasn't even moving all that much, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to pin you down and go at you relentlessly, or to keep it shallow, just to focus on the way your body was responding. "I knew you liked me, honey. You always acted like you didn't, playing hard to get. But you liked me the whole time, didn't you? Bet you used to dream about this."

He was wrong. You definitely never had. Ever. But he sounded delighted, like it was some great revelation, his voice all breathy as he stroked his hand up and down your hip. He'd created a whole narrative in his head, mistaking your politeness for interest.

When you came, you were shocked.

Maybe you were more turned on than you'd ever felt in your life… But that was surely just biology, no? You were getting fucked; this was just your body responding. That was all. You were also half-loopy, still fighting for full consciousness. But he was nuzzling against your neck and sucking hickeys into your skin. "My little angel. There you go." He was cooing in your ear. He sounded so proud of you for understanding just how much you needed this. "You love me, don't you? If you love me, you'll let me cum inside. That's what people do when they love each other. Tell me you love me, sweet girl. I wanna hear you say it."

You were coming down from the high, still sluggish, still slow on the uptake. Too slow for his liking. He was getting a little mean, a little more desperate, with every second that passed. He was groping at your chest, pinning you closer to him. Grinding into you like an animal, and you began to register the sensitivity you felt. "Say it." He practically spat the words at you. "Say it!"

"I, um, oh—"

The second orgasm hit in a wave, and you felt distinctly that he was angry about this. It was his turn now. Not yours. Why were you being so greedy when he was trying to make love to you? He'd been so chivalrous. "Say it."

"I love you." You managed to gasp the words out.

You couldn't tell if you meant them or not. Family said that sort of thing automatically, didn't they? But he sighed as soon as he heard it, like it had triggered him to cum on command. He was suddenly filling you up even though you already felt too full for words.

He didn't leave your body even after he'd emptied himself out inside you. He stayed there. He was panting and scattering wet, messy kisses against your neck, your jaw, your shoulder. "I knew you loved me. I knew you did. I love you too, princess. My perfect girl. You can rest now, go to sleep. I'm gonna stay right here and keep you safe from any nightmares."

You couldn't decidedly say whether you wanted him to stay or not, but he kept talking. "Remember when you were little and I put stars up on the ceiling for you to keep the bad dreams away? You don't need those anymore. You have me."

Oh, no…

You'd just let a devil in through the gate, it seemed, signed on the dotted line to get out of a bind, not realizing you'd just sold your soul.

"No one else will understand our love, sweetpea, so we've gotta keep it between us, okay? You don't tell anyone. Our love is special. It's just for us."

The words sent a shiver down your spine. His voice was so soft and gentle, but his grip on you was utterly possessive. He was holding you so tightly that you felt claustrophobic. "Next time we make love, you're gonna face me so that I can see it in your eyes. Doesn't that sound nice?" He nipped at your earlobe. "It sure does." He answered his own question.

He didn't notice that you hadn't said a word. "And one day, you'll come and live with me. And we won't have to hide anymore."

Between Christmas and New Year's, your uncle was trying his best to be nonchalant after that day you'd shared together.

He'd had to lie through his teeth when your parents had come home and asked where you were. "She's just taking a nap. I'm sure she's fine," he'd said.

But all through that week, he couldn't stop looking at you in complete adoration. Every time you made eye contact, you were quick to look away, because God, what the hell had you done that day? You were disgusted with yourself.

And he was so… careful. His hand on the back of your chair, but only when no one was looking. His palm would slide up to the back of your neck, or he'd tug at the ends of your hair. He kept making you snacks and drinks, though now you felt wary and distrusting after what had definitely been a sleeping pill or two crushed into your hot chocolate. But he kept doing it in a way that would bring you closer to him. You'd have to go over to his side to take the glass, or bowl, or plate. He wouldn't just drop it on the side table for you. You'd have to come and take it from him.

You were beginning to learn that he liked the little bits of control. In fact, he ate it up like candy.

He'd left you alone otherwise. There had been no going into your room, no sitting too close.

Except for once, when you had been in the kitchen. Everyone from your parents and cousins, to aunts and uncles were in the living room. It had been a Christmas movie marathon. You'd been alone, getting the last couple bowls of popcorn ready, when you flinched, hearing his voice say, "She probably needs some help! Not enough hands!" along with a laugh, called over his shoulder to the rest of your relatives.

You didn't even have time to brace yourself before your hips were digging into the edge of the counter, because he'd boxed you in, hands on either side of you on the marble, breath hot on your neck. You could feel him against your ass. His teeth scraped against the shell of your ear. '"I like this game we're playing, where you pretend to be disgusted with me. I know you're just trying to hide how much you wish we could be together. We can't let them know, honey. They don't get it. They won't get it. Gotta be real careful with you. You're so precious."

You were frozen stiff. You didn't turn around, because you were scared to see the look in his eyes, probably half-wild. You heard movement in the hall. "Hey, hey," he crooned, a hand running over your ribs. "It's okay. No one's comin' in. Don't be nervous, it's just me."

But you were nervous. Why the hell wouldn't you be? He was too close to explain it away as innocence, should someone enter the room. Somebody called his name, then yours, and he pressed a kiss to the spot where your shoulder and neck met before stepping away, grabbing the popcorn bowls. "We got it, comin'!"

And then you were alone in the kitchen again, but his voice was still echoing in your ears.

You were on edge the entire night. That was good, he thought. He wanted you to feel anticipation. He wanted to wind you up. He wanted you overloaded with want. He wanted you needy, wanted you to cling to him next time, to cry and hold him close and tell him that you loved him, and to mean it.

Meanwhile, you had been unable to sleep, after everyone started to drop off for the evening. You were worried he'd come to your room, invite himself in.

He didn't.

You looked like hell in the morning. He was playing mind games with you, you knew that. But you couldn't say anything because someone else was always there. The blessing and the curse of family, you supposed. What would you even say, anyway? That he was wrong? Crazy? Well, he was crazy, that was for sure. You'd never given any indication that you felt anything for him in that particular way. He was family. But he was crazy enough to think that you were just being coy, not honest.

You couldn't even shower without wincing every time you heard noise in the hallway. You were scared he'd open the door, scared he'd come through the curtain and you'd have to face him, just like he said. And you'd be fully aware, no sleeping pills in sight. You turned the water on hotter, used the pain of the heat to ignore the ache in your belly. It was your fear, the bitter tang of it, not anything else, surely... Right? Bringing up the memory of that night was traumatic. Not... not a Polaroid of a moment that made you feel damp. Water was the only wetness you should have been feeling. That was all, right?

When the New Year's party came around, you thought that maybe he was all talk. That he'd used up all his nerve by drugging you, and then the pseudo threat in the kitchen. In fact, the whole night he seemed borderline disinterested. He only passed by you once, a hand on the small of your back as he squeezed between you and the wall, but the touch was more perfunctory than lecherous. He was intent on getting to the table with the drinks and platters all laid out. Half of your family was gathered around the TV, watching the New Year's show, waiting for the ball drop. The others were in the basement, karaoke and games galore down there. And you felt like you could finally breathe.

Well, that was your first mistake.

Bucky was quietly fuming because he knew he couldn't kiss you at midnight. He couldn't even try to get away with it, because your family was not one that did overt affection. He couldn't pretend to explain it away. But he'd noticed that your guard had dropped. Maybe you would even leave your desk chair where it was supposed to be, tucked in front of your computer, instead of up under the doorknob.

Yes, he knew about that little trick. He arranged his features into a pleasant smile as he talked with your cousins, acting like he was interested in their little stories. But his eyes would always find your frame, your quiet anxiety slowly leaving you as the night wore on. And that only meant that he'd be able to get what he wanted, soon. He just couldn't bear to hold himself back for much longer.

Midnight was announced with silver streamers and gold confetti popped from little crackers. The younger kids had all cheered, high on sugar and excitement, while everyone over the age of eighteen celebrated with a chorus of, "Cheers!" and "Happy New Year!", with smiles and hugs shared.

Some of your relatives made the tired walk to their cars, parked in the driveway and out on the street, while others made their way down to the basement, where cots and sleeping bags had been set up. You streaked off to your room quickly and quietly, scrubbing your makeup away with a wipe and changing into your pajamas. You weren't ready to go to sleep, not yet, but you were ready to relax, alone, for a while. Maybe you'd catch up on social media until you fell asleep holding your phone. It sounded like a fine idea.

Your bedside lamp and the glow of stars stuck to your ceiling were the only illumination, other than your phone's screen. You busied yourself with liking friends' pictures and wishing a good year to anyone you could remember to contact. You were half propped up on your pillows, enjoying the solitude, listening to the faint voices of your extended family as the living room continued to empty.

You forgot about the lingering threat, the one that was supposed to be sleeping in the room next to yours.

You were reminded when the radiance of the hallway light momentarily blinded you, an outline standing in your now open doorway. All at once, you sat up, your phone falling away when you should have gripped it more tightly, threatened to record him if he didn't go away. You uncle closed the door behind him with the softest of clicks. Your eyes adjusted; he was already unbuttoning his green plaid shirt, and the pattern looked more garish to you than it had surrounded by the rest of your family. "You look so cute, waiting here for me. I knew you wanted me to come in. I could tell by the look you gave me before you left."

What look? You hadn't given him any sort of wanting gaze, not sultry tilt of your head, of that you were sure. You hadn't even glanced in his direction, too afraid to chance it, to catch him already staring at you. "I—I didn't—"

The plaid slid from his shoulders, and then he yanked the white t-shirt that had been underneath off, too, his glasses a soft clatter on your nightstand.

"Stop," you found your voice, though your body still cowered, paralyzed with fear, "Please—please stop. You don't have to do this."

You wondered if he had any mercy in him, or if there had ever been any at all. Maybe he'd been born without it. "Baby, I want to learn what you like the best. Why would I stop?" The words were a gentle hush, wild grass ruffled by a strong breeze.

Panic rattled through you, threatening to shake your bones. You scrambled upright as he got closer, your palms pushing down flat against the mattress, your shoulders knocking into the headboard. The feeling was a heavy weight in your gut, an anvil, crushingly heavy. But there was something else—you noticed it, the barest whisper in the back of your head. His eyes tracked the movement of your tongue swiping across your lips. Panic, your heartbeat as fast as a rabbit's, yes. But the other thing… was it? It couldn't be… anticipation?

It was gone almost as quickly as you'd realized it, like a winking star in the night sky. You pressed yourself against the headboard as if you could melt into it, through to the wall, and safety beyond. The mattress dipped under Bucky's knees as he crawled over you, bracketing your legs. It was a tactic to pin you, and it was successful. As your eyes darted left and right, seeking an escape route, they flashed once down his form, like someone else had taken control of your sight. Taut muscle, tanned skin. His belt buckle was shaped like a star. Would it leave a mark on your thigh? Would it be forgotten under your bed, collected when the sun rose over a fresh, new year?

His hands slid over your shoulders, resting for a minute. They felt heavy, heavier than they should. It felt like he was going to push and push until your head was underwater, until you'd drown, bubbles escaping your mouth in place of screams. One of his hands moved up, cradling the side of your neck. The heat was blistering. "You did so good for me the last time, darling girl. I know you're gonna be that way again, aren't you?"

Blue, blue, there was the blue, the twin lakes you'd drown in, caught between their tides, whirlpools of cobalt. Blue engulfed your vision, his eyes looking into yours. Determination was set in stone—you could see it in his jaw, the shape of his brow. He blinked once, like he was sending the right answer through the air and into you. Be good. It will be okay. It'll be over before you know it! But still, the animal instinct in you told you to buck, to wriggle away, anywhere that you could go on the floral island that was your bed. But there were no life rafts, not here. No sticks to form a message, S.O.S., across the beach of your blankets.

Bucky let out a displeased huff as you weakly kicked at him, but he remained relaxed, perfectly poised. "Now, I'm not gonna tie you up, honey. That's not what happy couples do. Just be a good girl for me, yeah? So that I don't have to."

You imagined it for a moment. Your wrists, chafed red and raw, the sting from the brown leather of his belt. He'd probably kiss the marks, stare into your eyes as he did it. It made you feel sick, the wetness that gathered between your thighs. Wrong, wrong, so wrong. Happy couples. What you knew of happy couples were courting, romance. Flowers at the door, dinner by candlelight. Grand gestures, for the sake of showing the world that you were in love, and that love was beautiful, and that it should be celebrated. It was not an imposter under your covers at night, vermin with no exterminator to call. But if you needed to play act, to get this over with, so be it. Your body was already doing its part, a subtle hum in your blood. If you pretended he was a normal man, a stranger you'd met at a bar, it would be okay. You gritted your teeth as you admitted to yourself that he'd seemed to have known what he was doing, the last time.

You nodded diplomatically, as if you were only agreeing to do the dishes, to do the laundry, something so mundane, so simple. Not this, not offering your body up, not letting him in, a second time.

It started with a kiss, satisfaction on your uncle's face, the smoothing of his brow, the quirk of his lips, mission accomplished. You willed yourself to play make believe, to conjure up the idea of another person before you, another man's hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head just so, drinking breath from your mouth, and blood too, when you bit on his lip hard enough to draw it. It was your one act of defiance, all you could manage. It only served to please him. You heard the growl, a claiming of territory, could taste it on your tongue. You couldn't—wouldn't—allow yourself to get lost in the feeling. Your hands, still firm on the mattress, itched to move, but you kept them still as statues. You didn't want to know what his chest felt like under your palms. You didn't want to know if your nails would leave scratches, pink lines to mark your place.

It was a slow slide, not an avalanche. You didn't know between which breath and the next, when your head had reunited with your pillow, your back against the sheets. Did you look like you were laying on a field of daisies, bluebells, and violets? Was your hair fanned out around you, an angel's halo? Your stomach was all aflutter, a toss up between curdled milk and a molten river.

You were doing your best to relax, given the circumstance. Tense muscles might make it hurt. A path was drawn, one you imagined to be tattooed in black ink. Jaw to ear to throat. Collarbones to the neckline of your camisole, the lace trim pulled down. Your breasts were a rest stop. He stayed there awhile, and again you fought, your mind at war with your body. This was wrong.

This is wrong! You screamed, but it only came out as a sigh, stirring the wisps of his hair. The travel resumed, your camisole gone. You were now a barren, naked expanse of ground to cover. Sternum, straight south, navel. He veered right, a scrape of teeth against your hipbone. You said a silent goodbye to your shorts, flimsy cotton with bunnies printed on them.

Then—startling clarity, you'd come up for air, when he reached his final destination. "Stop, stop. Please. Please stop…"

Did you say it out loud? You thought so, but the shudder you felt at the base of your spine at the first lick of his tongue, undeterred and unhurried, made you think that you hadn't. No hesitation, not from him. Your eyes burned with unshed tears. Did you cry because you were scared, or did you cry because of the sensation? The hum of contentment against your clit, the brush of fingers against your folds. The first intrusion, the second.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Unlawful, corrupt, felonious.

"Delicious, sweet, mine."

A shockwave tore through you, and you gasped like a fish on land. He travelled back the way he came; hipbone, navel, sternum. Collarbone, throat, ear, jaw.

Bucky looked at you then, saw your lashes, the tears that seemed to glitter on them in the soft amber glow. Such a gorgeous swell of emotion, his eyes seemed to say, choosing to believe they conveyed your fidelity.

You'd asked him to stop, begged, even. But your baser instincts willed your muscles to go slack, to twine your limbs around his, to give in with a satisfied purr, after the clink and hiss of the belt buckle, his jeans, his boxers. Then your brain would shriek, the sound jarring, echoing around your skull, the mantra of "stop, stop, stop!" singing through your blood.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered in your ear.

You felt like a balloon, filled with air. Like you couldn't get any fuller, or else you would pop. Your arms had moved of their own accord—you didn't remember when your wrists had locked around the back of his neck, nor did you know when your nails had started to bite into his skin. Bucky seemed to like it, though. He stayed gentle with you, but gentle didn't mean shallow. It didn't mean quick, or thoughtless. Vast, infinite, unfathomable, were more fitting.

It turned out, you had not been at your capacity. Your detonation begot his, a collide of natural disasters. Devastation, you thought, painted white from the inside out. Damnation.

But the soft touches on your face, lips to your forehead, fingers stroking your hair back, didn't suit that description. Dedication. Devotion. That was what they felt like, as you fell into the bottomless dark.

"Dearly beloved…"

He would be leaving tomorrow. You would be safe in your home, though you didn't think you'd ever feel safe in your skin again. How could you? You stumbled out of bed groggily. There had been no drugs in your system this time, but your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, weariness the taste of ash. The bed was cold—he'd left sometime after you'd passed out. Left you there alone, naked, but at least he'd covered you up with your blankets afterward, had tucked you in, even. Listen to you, making an excuse for him, for finding the good in a bad situation. Your shoulders were hunched as you dressed back into your pajamas. You held your shorts for a moment, before putting them on. You felt the soft fabric between your fingers. You had half a mind to burn them, to see them blacken and disintegrate.

The pajamas didn't feel like enough, so you found your fluffy, pink bathrobe and swaddled yourself in it, tying its belt tightly at your waist, fluffing up its collar to hide your neck. You didn't know if he'd been careful about marks, or not. You couldn't bring yourself to make a pit stop to the bathroom, not yet. You didn't want to look into your own eyes. You didn't want to remember the explosion of stars in your head, after the second wave had taken you under, or over, or through. You remembered anyway. The memory tingled like you'd electrocuted yourself. You examined your hands. You remembered digging your nails into his nape. Your knees bumped together as you thought of them locked around his waist.

To the dining room, then. You could handle him for one more day, even if time was as slow as molasses. It would still pass.

Only, of course, you were the last one up. You trudged out into daylight, stark and gray through the windows. There were your parents, crowded around one end of the table, and there was your uncle, sitting there too. Bright smiles were exchanged at the sight of your unruly bedhead. "There you are," your mother said. At the sight of you, she stood and bustled to the kitchen to fix you a plate.

You sank into the empty seat beside hers, and across the table, Bucky demurely sipped from his coffee mug. As if he hadn't been inside your room, inside you mere hours ago. It seemed that it was much later than you'd thought; your extended family seemed to have all gone. How had you managed to sleep through the ruckus?

When your mother came back, a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in her grasp, your father said, "I think it's a great idea, by the way."

He said this to Bucky, not to you, as you woodenly shovelled food into your mouth. The conversation at the table turned to a buzzing drone, until you zeroed back in, who knows how long later. "She'll love that, won't you, Pumpkin?"

Pumpkin was your father's nickname for you. Your eyes slowly cast from the plate, the ring of roses printed on its edge, and up to your father. Your expression must have portrayed puzzlement, because your mother patted your shoulder good-naturedly. "Your uncle was saying that you'll be staying with him after your exams are over. You're going to help him fix up his house?"

She said it like this was a reminder about a topic that you'd already been aware of. All you could think was, no. But you couldn't summon the adrenaline, the fear, the horror at the idea. You had gone numb. So that was how he'd do it. He'd trap you up there all summer. And why would you say no? Your parents knew you had no plans after April—you'd thought maybe you'd get a job at the ice cream parlor, save up some money, but that hadn't been set in stone. It appeared that your future had been planned for you.

Your mouth opened, but before you could even think of an appropriate protest, you caught the hard, sharp gleam in your uncle's eyes. It was there and gone in a flash, like a trick of the light against his glasses, before he grinned at your father, your mother. "The old place need's a woman's decorative touch. I know I can trust our girl to do right by me."

He said 'our' but you heard 'my' anyway. You knew that was what he'd meant. And he knew that you knew, if the touch of his shoe against your foot, under the table, was any indication. A warning, a reminder, a promise, a threat, all rolled into one.

You thought back to the barbecue, last year. It had been at your aunt's house, and while the rest of your extended family had been bathed in sunlight, dotted around the lawn in folding chairs or laid out on the grass, your uncle had been hidden in the shade of the covered patio, a polite smile on his face as he sipped at his beer. It had struck you as odd, at the time, because one of the things you knew best about him was that he was an outdoorsman. Your dad and his many brothers, your uncles, including Bucky, had grown up camping and fishing. He might not have done much of that stuff anymore, but you were sure that that day's weather should have seen Bucky standing by the grill, turning over the burgers, or perched by the pool.

The realization felt like a bucket of icy water poured over your head. The only other person hiding out on the porch that day had been… you. Too engrossed in a summer romance you'd picked up from the library, only willing to go as far as the patio furniture and not one step more into the loud, lively family affair. He'd been there with you in mind. He hadn't done anything then, just stayed close. He'd asked if your book was any good, if reading was a new favourite hobby of yours. It had been a set of questions proposed in his usual, awkward manner, head ducking as he ran a hand over his hair, then glancing up with a shyness that would have been more at home on a teenager's smitten face.

You remembered this exchange as you watched your father pull out of the driveway, Bucky beside him in the passenger seat. He was gone, for now. But it was with a sinking certainty, for you, that he'd been a much more thorough planner than you'd thought, and you were sure that these months apart would only make the game that much more fun, for him.

Manipulation was a subtle game, as delicate as a silkworm's thread. Bucky was very, very good at it, he thought. Or he should have been. He had just been too overcome with lust over Christmas, something he chastised himself for. He was supposed to use that trip to lay the groundwork, to convince you to come to him this summer, of your own volition. But seeing you that day at the airport, feeling the warmth of your embrace, your soft body in his arms, the smell of your shampoo… He'd forgotten himself. He'd slipped.

Never mind, plans could change. And he'd managed it, anyway. His old house was in a rural area, a build from the 70s, in dire need of renovation. Of course, he could do much of it himself. But it was the perfect excuse to have you around. You were a helpful young lady, of course. You would probably have all sorts of ideas. After all, it would be your home someday, too.

He stood in the kitchen, the cracked linoleum peeling and yellow under his feet. Would you want tile, or wood? He could picture your silhouette, the shape of you, in front of the sink. You'd like the picture window, overlooking the backyard, the way it dipped off into the forest. He'd get you state-of-the-art everything, if you wanted. You'd pick it all out. He didn't think the walls would be green, anymore. Maybe you'd choose blue.

He'd rip up the old carpet in the living room. Refit the fireplace, so that it matched the mantelpiece. Install bookshelves on either side. You liked books.

The only thing he wouldn't compromise on would be the bedroom. Oh, you could decorate it however you liked, of course. But there would be no California king sized bed. Cozy nights together could only be achieved in something smaller. Closeness to you was a gift, and it was one he would cling to with everything he had. Someday soon, you would be falling asleep in his arms. He just didn't know how long that would take.

Spring began to mature into summer in a blink of an eye. You'd already felt that winter had slipped from your grasp, the snow melting into blossoms right when they were supposed to, though it had felt too fast, to you. And try as you might, you'd been fruitless in your attempts to find a way out of going to Uncle Bucky's house. You had willed your last exam to stretch and bend time like taffy, but you still found yourself blinking into the sunlight of your school's parking lot, other students talking about internships and backpacking trips instead of agonizing about the hottest months, the most hellish ones.

How fitting, to experience the devil's flame, the heat licking up your back in the shape of a tongue.

All too soon, your car was loaded up with a duffel bag and two suitcases. Your ticket and passport were safe in your mother's manicured hands, and you sat in the back, feeling like a kid again, as your parents drove you to the airport. They were all smiles, believing their baby girl to be having a gorgeous summer in a rural area, to see greenery and smell flowers and fresh air. To see wildlife and blue skies and rolling fields. They didn't know that those things would all take on shades of gray, for you.

The flight took no time at all, and as the plane descended, so did your mood. You hadn't thought it could get any lower, but you had discovered a rock bottom underneath the false floor in your head. The crowds of other travellers passed by you in a blur, a smudge of backpacks and crying babies, a smattering of languages and squeaky wheels. Your name in a scratchy scrawl, written across white card stock, jumped out at you from the crush of loved ones waiting to welcome their family members home.

There he was, no shame at all. A smile on his face, the calling card in one hand, a lopsided bundle of wildflowers in the other. You planned to roll your suitcases right past him, to force him to walk with you, or to lose you entirely, but your feet had stopped short, a few feet away. His eyes lit up, sapphire blue, pinning you in place.

Your uncle seemed more relaxed than you'd ever seen him, shoulders straight, posture loose. He tucked the card stock under his arm, and pulled you into him. You stumbled forward, brought into a hug that squeezed the air from your lungs. How was he so strong, only hugging you with one of his arms? His forearm, at that? It made you realize how gentle he really had been with you. How much worse it could have gone. "I'm so glad that you're finally here, sweetpea. We're going to have an amazing summer together, you and I."

It was murmured against your hair, and you could have sworn a horde of ants had crawled down your spine, making you itch. You no longer knew if it was a promise that held a double meaning, though you could guess.

You were mildly surprised by his car, a tan coloured Chevy, and an old one at that. Its interior was all brown leather, worn but clean. You wondered if he's restored it himself, but you didn't care to ask. You didn't want to humanize him. He'd taken your bags, spilled them into the backseat and the trunk, and switched on a cassette tape. You didn't hear the music, not really, too focused on the bluest sky you'd ever seen, through the windshield. The airport had been a tiny one, and there was nothing for miles around. You believed you'd be in the car with no one but him, for at least an hour. Probably more. You wanted to watch the speedometer, to see if he drove extra slow, to draw the moment out. Instead, you closed your eyes and feigned sleep, and prayed that he'd leave you be.

You did fall asleep, for a little while. The smoothness of the road giving way to gravel had roused you from your rest, and all at once it came crashing back to you, where you were. Blue sky, still, though the sun looked like a ripe orange, beginning its descent. Trees in varying shades of green. The gravel belonged to a long, winding driveway, amidst tall grass. They flung themselves against the sides of the car, ping! ping! ping!, greeting you as you drew closer to the house.

It was bigger than you'd thought—you'd assumed it was to be a bungalow. It was one story, but it was longer, a great big rectangle made of faded, sickly sage panelling. The shutters looked like they had been white once. The flowerbeds weren't overgrown, at least. It looked like your uncle had started on that, already. But as for the rest…?

The screen door, when you got to it, squealed like a piglet. The foyer, a box of a room, was dingy, but at least it was clean. Disrepair more than neglect, truth be told. You knew that your uncle was a bit of a neat freak. His glasses were always spotless, shoes polished, shirts neatly tucked into trousers. His footwear, you noticed, was lined up neatly against one of the walls. Bile rose in your throat as your own joined them.

You thought you would retch, when he opened one of the doors down the hall with flourish. It couldn't be, but… it was.

It looked like your room, at home. Ruffled bed skirt. Coverlet of quilted floral. You cast your eyes up, and… there. Glow in the dark stars. Nothing was a perfect match, but it was scarily close. The desk chair was painted white wood, and you were sure if you looked closer, you would see flowers across its back. From the corner of your eye, you noticed that Bucky almost looked bashful. "I wanted you to feel at home here," he said, shyly. "How did I do?"

He wanted your approval?

His earnestness made your stomach hurt. "It's certainly close," was all you could muster, but it seemed to do the trick, for a beaming smile was shot your way.

"I'll give you some time to unpack, and then we can have some dinner, alright?"

Unpack. Right. Because you were staying here for the foreseeable future. Was this how a spirit felt, watching as their corpse was lowered into the ground, covered by earth, sealed in a wooden tomb? You were choking on worms, feeling them crawl down your throat. If Bucky saw the glassy sheen over your eyes, he didn't comment.

The door closed with the quietest of clicks, and your sobs were muffled into the neckline of your sweatshirt.

Your first few nights made you feel like you were laying on a bed of nails. Every shift of the house settling made you wonder if tonight would be the night that he came into your room. You couldn't understand, when the sun broke over the hills in the morning, why he'd let you be.

In fact, since you'd gotten here, Bucky had been perfectly cordial. The first day had been his worst. But after that…? Maybe… Maybe it had all been a terrible mistake. Maybe something was wrong with him, and he needed help. Maybe that had been a break in a pattern, what he'd done to you. Sometimes you still felt the ghost of his breath on your mouth. But awake, standing in the same room as you, he stayed a respectful distance away. If he did touch you, it was to pat you on the back, or to help you down from the ladder, as you switched out light bulbs.

You were distracted, maybe, waiting and watching for signs, not allowing yourself to get lost in re-imagining his house. All that you had done so far was choose the light fixtures. He hadn't argued against a single choice that you'd made, so far. Had approved, complimented, smiled. Stood next to you, head tilted to the side, eyes closed, like he was trying to see what you did, the potential that could be fostered and grown. You could almost believe that everything was normal.

There was one blip in the system, so far, but it had been you more than him. You'd been standing at the sink. The sun had gone down, and the trees of the forest down the hill had looked taller, darker. Shadowy. You could envision all sorts of creatures of the night that could dwell in there. You hadn't noticed Bucky sidling over to you, your hands submerged in soapy water, fingers loose around a spoon.

When he ducked in your direction, you'd flinched and turned your head. Your brain told you that he'd been attempting something, though you didn't know what. But his gaze didn’t cloud over or darken when you recoiled. He just apologetically slid an empty glass into the water, skimming your hand, and then grabbed a dishtowel. "I'll dry," he said, and you wondered if you had been making him out as worse than he was.

"I'll go to the hardware store tomorrow and pick up some paint swatches, unless you want to come with me? That's probably a better idea—you'll know exactly what you want, I'm sure. Better than I will."

You didn't hear yourself mumble a faint agreement, but you must have, for your lips moved, and his eyes twinkled behind their frames.

Privately, Bucky smiled. He had infinite patience, unlike the first time. You were on his turf, a lost little lamb separated from the herd, after all.

Town was miles away, but the weather was nice, and so, then, was the drive there. Bucky had rolled the windows down and you'd gulped in the air, saw the fuzz of dandelions dancing in the breeze. Four-way stops were aplenty, here. There was a slightly bigger city, beyond, but most things that Bucky left home for were here, in a centralized zone with no more than ten streets.

The workers at the store, in their red polo shirts, knew him by name. They greeted him with smiles, and he did the same, pressing a light hand to your shoulder blades to steer you to the wall of swatches.

A riot of colour stared back at you. You stared blankly, before turning to him. "What colour schemes do you like?" Your voice sounded robotic, even to you.

"Oh, I'm easy, sweet girl. Whatever you like, we'll get." His hands rested in his back pockets.

"Really? What if I want to paint the whole house pink?" You hadn't meant to make a joke, but it had come out anyway, and he laughed.

Your heart did a cartwheel, unexpectedly. You'd never heard him sound so comfortable before. It was unlike the laughs you had heard from him in the past, surrounded by the rest of your family. It was unlike anything you'd heard at all. Rich, deep, smooth, like a first sip of coffee in the morning. It made the corners of his eyes crinkle, behind his glasses. You wondered if he laughed a lot, here in the town he called home. If happiness was the cause of the barest beginnings of crow's feet.

"Well, I'm sure we'll have the prettiest pink house for miles around," was his response.

You faltered, then. We'll instead of I'll, like you had a stake in this house, too. Like you'd stay to see the finished product. Like you'd stand in the renovated kitchen and toast to your success. You realized then, that you'd leaned towards him. You could feel his body heat through your shirt. You put deliberate space between you, then, picked up the closest handful of swatches, and pretended to ruminate over the different shades. You hoped that your shaking hands weren't obvious.

The days bled together.

The heat should have been sweltering, but Bucky kept you cool with a steady supply of water, chock full of ice, condensation dripping from the glass. It seemed like as soon as you'd finished one, he'd be standing next to you with another, holding it up to your mouth so that you wouldn't get lilac paint on anything but the shutters. He'd brush hair from your face, the touch casual, intimate, like he'd done it a hundred times before. Part of you wanted to shrink back, but the softness of his fingertips was pleasant. You almost wanted to tilt into it.

It was nice, for a time. Touches like that, you learned that you could handle. They were not a grope or a squeeze, a summoning to hold you closer. His hand would fall away and you'd track his movement, watch him swipe the back of it over his forehead. You heard yourself clicking your tongue. "Don't—you'll cover yourself in paint."

Your hands did not seem to be your own, as you lifted the white cloth you'd kept safe in your pocket, and dabbed at his face to wipe away the sweat. They seemed to be a stranger's, but they were your nails and your fingers and your knuckles. The sun couldn't overshadow the brightness of his teeth, the way they formed a perfect, satisfied smile.

The flowerbeds had you knee deep in dirt, as you pulled at stray weeds, keeping the chrysanthemums and dahlias free and clear. And your uncle would be right there with you, scratching your initials into the soil, then smoothing them over with a spade, like he was etching it into the very ground, letting it sink into the earth, an unfounded truth. It was boyish. You pretended not to see, and your feelings muddled, two street cats slinking into their respective corners after tangling together. Your steadfast trepidation was starting to crumble.

He plucked one of the flowers free and turned to you. It was slightly withered, not as strong as its siblings. He looked like a dork, a sparkle in his eyes as he tucked the stem into the front pocket of your overalls and fixed your sun hat. "A daisy for my daisy."

You held up a thistle. "This is all I can offer you."

Your voice was decidedly deadpan, and his laugh could be heard across the hills. "Whatever you give, I'll take, honey."

Slowly, new clothes began to appear in your wardrobe. One dress became two, became three, four… With each step of renovation completed, it seemed another was placed with care, tucked behind your other clothes. They were pretty, with skirts that would fan out if you spun. You didn't try them on. You didn't acknowledge them, either, but you searched Bucky's face every time you stepped out of your room in jeans and a t-shirt, instead of a dress, to look for anger, to look for spite. It was never there. Only a brightening of his features, like when you walked in, the lights had turned on.

Bucky had not kept many things from his childhood. You knew this, because there hadn't been much to go through when sorting through his belongings to 'donate, keep, sell, trash'. The bins you'd picked up with him at the store were only half-full. You felt like you'd brought more with you from home than he had in the whole house. You did find yourself cross-legged on the floor, however, on the area rug he'd put down over the spots where he'd ripped up the carpet.

The photo album was big, leather bound. James Barnes was etched into its cover. When you flipped through it, there were a few photos from childhood, a couple wherein you spotted your own father. Then there were a series of blank pages. Thinking that to be it, you resolved to close it and tuck it away, back in its place. The glossy plastic revealed one last photo, to your surprise.

Bucky, around your age. He was looking away from the camera, with what you believed to be a Walkman in one of his hands. Headphones covered his ears. He had a mustache. He didn't have one now. What struck you, though, was the way your heart had kicked into high gear. Handsome, if a little awkward, had popped into your brain. You traced his outline, the navy blue of his shirt. He was still handsome now, you thought, before banishing the idea. But if he'd looked this attractive back then, why had he never gotten married?

You wondered how old he had been when he had needed to start wearing glasses. The number of years it took before he had started to go gray at the temples, uneven streaks of it through the dark brown. You wondered, if you took him to a department store and got him new clothes, a haircut, and different glasses, how much younger he would look. Would he be angry, if you asked that of him? Would you finally see that switch, that part of him that you knew was lurking below the surface, a sleeping bear, waiting to be awakened?

You closed the album, and put it back in the cabinet.

The picture found a new home at the bottom of your sock drawer.

Bucky was not angry with you, when you'd casually asked about his attire. He'd looked down at his shirt, another plaid one, buttoned to the top, and chuckled. "I guess I am a few years behind. Are you going to give me a makeover?"

You acquiesced, because there was no way out of it now. You'd rolled the dice; it was time to play the game. "On one condition," he said, holding up a finger. "You can do whatever you want, but you have to wear one of the dresses I got you."

It seemed an easy enough trade. You picked the one that looked the least like a housewife's uniform, something that wasn't so form fitting, before leaving the half-finished house with him in tow.

It turned out to be easier than you thought. You stuck to neutral colours—no more plaid for him—and started weighing yourself down with shirts, jackets, jeans. You were eyeballing the sizes, but you knew that under all of that green checker, there was a chiselled body. You were reminded of this fact again when Bucky stepped out from one of the dressing room in blue jeans and a black t-shirt. The sleeves hugged his biceps. He seemed painfully self-conscious, eyes darting between you, the floor, and the long mirror stuck to the wall. "Do I look okay?"

It was a fight to keep your jaw hinged closed. You stepped forward and carefully took his glasses from his face, stood on your toes to mess up his hair. He should really stop with the gel, you thought. He looked better when it was wilder. He looked younger, too. "Put this on." You passed him a jacket, made of sturdy leather.

The effect was instantaneous. You half-expected women to come out of the woodwork, the second it settled over his shoulders. You stood side by side in the mirror. You noticed, belatedly, too busy staring at him, that you were both smiling.

A lady stopped on her walk past you, a baby in the shopping cart. She smiled, too. "How cute. Are you letting your girlfriend play dress-up?" She asked, like it was an inside joke.

Bucky slipped his arm around your waist, and to your shock, you let him. "Just a little bit. Anything to make her happy, right?"

The stranger and Bucky exchanged a laugh. Your face was still frozen in a rare state of happiness. A split second of contact had felt like a steel bar, holding you down, but it melted away into something else. Something like… security. Safety.

When the woman moved along, Bucky unfurled from you. He looked you right in the eye. And you said nothing except: "These glasses are outdated. We're getting you new ones. Maybe contacts, too."

You hated thunderstorms. The rain lashed down. It felt like the foundations of the house were going to come loose, that you and it were going to wash away down the hill. It was so dark, you could hardly see the silver needles falling from the sky, but you could hear them. The roof was tin, about the only thing that wasn't going to be replaced during this renovation, and it was a consistent rumble above your head.

Bucky should have been back already. He'd gone to the bigger city, the one further away, to look for a specific style of doorknobs that you'd had your heart set on. You huddled on the floor, a shiny hardwood that you'd picked out. The fire was lit, turning everything shades of orange and yellow and red. The new TV still hadn't been connected yet. There was no comforting lilt of a sitcom to soothe your nerves, and you didn't feel like perusing his music collection in his absence.

Thump, thump. You barely heard the sounds over the noise of the rain. They still made you jump, skittish. You hoped it was your uncle. It seemed an alien notion, to long for his company. But despite your complicated thoughts about him, you'd do anything for the feeling of safety. Company was better than loneliness.

When you undid the latch, pulling the heavy wooden door in, and pushing the screen door out, he stood before you, slicked with rain, despite the coat. His hands were full of bags of takeout, along with what you were sure were the doorknobs. He smiled at you, like he wasn't soaked to the bone. "I'm sorry I took so long, lovebug. Thought it would be nice to take a break from cooking tonight, hm? Help me bring these in?"

You noticed the other bag at his feet, and when you lifted it, you heard the clank of soda cans rattling around. Obedient to a fault, you obeyed his request, only alone while he shucked off his coat and boots. The low coffee table was to be your destination. Chinese food was laid out across the scratched surface, no worry about water rings from the Coke, because it was still a refurbishing project. Before you could pluck up a spring roll, however, Bucky leaned closer to you, brought a hand to your cheek. Was it a burn, or a balm? You were beginning to confuse the two. "You doin' okay? I remembered on my way home that you don't like storms."

"I'm fine. It's not so bad when I'm not alone." When you're with me.

"That's good. But hey, if you get scared when you're trying to sleep later, just come and get me, alright? I'll look after you."

Like you did over Christmas? The question in your head almost took on a longing quality. You shoved a roll into your mouth, trying to ignore the burn in your blood, the zing of electricity you felt in your skin. "Okay."

You thought of the way that animals showed their fear. How a horse's eyes would roll about their skull, showing the whites, the huff of nervous breaths from their soft snouts, the uneasy swish of their tails. Was that how you looked, trapped here? Or were you more similar to a fox, its dainty foot caught in a trap, shredding through skin, muscle, bone, terror seeping from its russet fur?

The nearest neighbour was a ten minute drive away. The nearest store, double that. Walking would take a while, and you had a feeling that you wouldn't be left alone long enough to make the trek. Your only chance at that would have been the night of the storm. And besides, Bucky could always spot you on his return. You shuddered to imagine him steering the Chevy onto the shoulder, the tires spraying up gravel. The way he'd be so eerily calm, you thought. His rage had only showed in intimacy, in your bed. He'd roll down the window, and say, "Get in," the passenger door cracked open when he'd lean across to push at the handle. And you would, because he had a car, a great, heaving machine with which to mow you down, and you only had your hands and your mind, and those were not nearly sharp enough to get you out of danger. So you'd get in that car. And you wouldn't know how bad the punishment would be, or when it would come. If it would. You had a feeling he would deliver justice on his own terms, not yours.

But your bigger fear was not about him. It was about you. Because what scared you more than that, than any of those runaway thoughts, was the bottom line: you found yourself not wanting to search for freedom. It scared you that you did not feel more scared of this realization. Fear of lack of fear. Why hadn't you escaped with his car keys on the first night? Put your foot on the gas and sped down the twist of the road, back to that airport? Gotten on the first flight to anywhere?

Instead, you picked up the feather duster again, ran the plumes through your hand. You tickled the mahogany mantelpiece with it, too spotless to really accrue dust, and touched your fingers to the edge of the gilded gold frame above it. The frame was empty, no pretty picture in its depths. It looked new, the glint of the floor lamp making it shine. That same lamp would turn the silver in his hair to strands of the gold, a perfect match. It had been engraved carefully, with swirls that reminded you of the sea. You could fit the curve of your fingernail into its grooves. You wondered how much it had cost him, if it would be too heavy for you to lift and steal, something to pawn if you crept out in the dead of night. Would the dew show the shape of your footprints?

You looked at its empty center. In a blink, you imagined a picture there. Horrifying, that your mind had conjured up the idea of one with both of you together. A family portrait, in more ways than one. The thought was a maggot, eating at your brain. And you were nurturing it, not expelling it. You were allowing it to burrow.

You heard the creak of the screen door. It made you jump, your shoulders hinging up near your ears, chin tucking down to your chest. The clunk, scrape! of the woodblock he used as a door stopper. Then a hum, a familiar tune. You remembered it, from the record he had played the first night you'd been here. The one he'd made you dance with him to, your hand clasped in his, your head against his shoulder. If anyone had seen your silhouettes through the threadbare curtains in the window, they would have thought you were a married couple, keeping your romance alive. But all you could focus on, at the time, were the lyrics of the song, crooned in a woman's voice, and then the echo of Bucky's, a whisper in your hair, a breath against your skin. You heard it now, "and we'll be together, forever and ever," as he came to stand in the archway. You spun towards him, the skirts of your dress whirling along with you. "Help me with the groceries, sweet girl? I'll give you a treat if you do. I picked it special for you."

He was wearing the new clothes you'd picked for him. Jeans, t-shirt, leather. His hair wasn't gelled back, his old glasses replaced with contacts. He looked like somebody's boyfriend.

Sweet girl. You'd come to like that name. No one else was called that, just you. Like pulling the stopper on a drain, your thoughts dispelled, and you moved to help, letting him tell you what he'd picked up. The raspberries went into the new fridge. The cabinets had been refinished, and everything fit tidily inside.

The treat turned out to be a caramel apple, one he unwrapped carefully and handed to you. "How is it?" He asked, on the first bite.

"It's sweet."

"Not as sweet as you."

You no longer liked your bedroom. Well, you'd never loved it. Nor the one back at your parents' house. It had been designed by your mother, and this one was a near-perfect copy. But it wasn't you. Bucky's bedroom, however, was almost finished. The walls had been painted a colour that was a bit more blue than gray. The bed was made of oak. The dresser, too. The rug was soft underfoot, because you'd thought about the bite of cold hardwood on a winter's morning, and decided that something should dull the ice. There were perhaps too many throw blankets, but Bucky hadn't minded. The lighting was gentle, warm, and you had insisted that he needed a tall plant in one of the empty corners, to "give life to the room".

But you studied your own, ruffles and pink and yellow. White wood and floral everything. It wasn't you, and it never had been. The only thing you'd ever picked for yourself had been… the stars.

When Bucky was out in town, you laid across his bed, arms stretched wide, as you looked at his starless ceiling. One of the blankets was faux fur, dotted like a fawn's coat. His pillows were so fluffed, you were surprised that they hadn't burst. Calm, this room said. Safe. Maybe you had designed it with yourself in mind.

You didn't doze, but you did get lost somewhere in your head, because you didn't hear the front door, only the slight creak of the floor by the room's entrance. From your periphery, you could tell he was watching you. "What are you doing in here?" It was posed playfully—he didn't actually have a problem with it.

"I wish this was my room."

Silence, for a minute. Then a couple of footsteps. He was still far away. "Do you?"

"I think I made it for me. Sorry." It wasn't a real apology, flat on your tongue. It was more an admission than anything else.

"You can have it. Anything I have is yours." The words were followed by the dip of the mattress, Bucky sitting on its edge. You would have to stretch your arm, your fingers, to brush the curve of his knee.

Silly thing was, you believed it. He would give you this room. He hadn't done anything, not really. What had happened over the winter had happened months ago, and miles away. It couldn't be explained. Honestly, you could have been treated worse. If you thought hard enough, you could think of guys that you knew who had been far less kind than he had been. If anything, once you had relinquished any shred of power you may have held, he'd treated you like gold. "Will you sit with me?"

He already was. He said as much, a hand resting on the fawn blanket. You flopped your arm over the bed, limp as a noodle. "Sit with me?" You asked again, and this time your wish was granted, because it hadn't really been sit. It had been forget the world, lay down beside me. And he did.

His shoulder brushed yours, after your folded your hands over your ribs. Now you both stared at the empty ceiling. "Would you like stars in here?" He whispered.

"I don't think I need them. Not when I have you."

Tentative and delicate, it felt like a first date, or a dance at the prom. The sheets were pale gray, a shade darker than a dove's wing. They felt cold. The A/C was on high. If you hadn't been outside cleaning the windows today, you would have never believed that it was the height of summer. One side of the sheets flipped down, then the other. A mirror image, you on the left, and Bucky on the right, climbing into the bed, pulling the blankets up. All the throw blankets were on your side. Your side. His contacts were gone, replaced by his new frames. Black, stylish. He propped himself against the headboard and picked up the book on his nightstand. The lamps were twin suns, dialed down to their gentlest setting.

A list ran through your head—the physical one had been left in the living room. Tiles for the bathroom. A new sink and counter top. What about a vanity? Towels. Shower curtain, unless you installed a glass door. His closet needed more shelving. You wanted to showcase his vinyl collection in the living room, the cassettes too. So many things to do, still…

"You're thinking very loudly, over there."

Bucky's voice interrupted you, working hard in your ideas factory. "I left the list on the coffee table."

He was already sliding his bookmark into place. "Do you want me to get it for you?"

"No, it's okay. We're already here. It can wait for tomorrow." You snuggled deeper under the covers, pulling them high, up to your chin. You fumbled one hand out from under them to tap blindly at the nightstand, before you grabbed and pulled at your lamp's chain. Darkness swallowed your side of the room.

We're already here. How quickly you had gotten used to we, and our. Our home, our living room, our bed…

You heard Bucky slide his book across his own nightstand, the rattle of his own lamp's chain. Complete blackness. No stars in sight. You rolled onto your side; he did the same. Your pinkie brushed his. You thought was an accident, until it happened again. Shy, a question.

Less shy, your answer, inching closer.

The closing statement, a hand slipping through the dark to land at your waist, to pull you into orbit. Earth and sun, a steady stratosphere.

Lips on the crown of your head.

And finally, sleep.

The stars were taken down. The bed frame, desk, chair, given to a family in town that needed them. Your room, or rather, your old room, was to be whatever you wanted. A library, a music room, a guest room, with your own vision in mind… the world was your oyster.

The barrier had toppled over. It wasn't with some great sweeping storm, a hurricane ripping it away by its nuts and bolts. It wasn't some bloody, knock-down fight. It was a biodegradable decomposition, instead. You were waking up in Bucky's arms every morning. Sometimes he would kiss you, and you would let him, your lips molding to his, your fingers running through his hair. He'd whisper things into your skin. They sounded like oaths, to you.

You were never alone. Trips to town were made together. Sometimes, hand-in-hand. You'd wash dishes, he'd dry. He'd twirl you around the living room while a record played. The house wasn't finished quite yet, but it didn't matter.

Sometimes you heard a buzz in your head, like a fly. A quiet, weak warning. But what about… You shouldn't… This is…

But you'd bat it away, and it would fade.

This house was cozy, lived in, and yours. You tasted the air when it started to change, when the breeze would carry a chill. College was calling, and so were your parents. But you'd begun to think… What if you did your schooling online, this year? What if you found one closer?

What if you stayed?

Explanations were ready on your tongue: the house wasn't finished yet, it was more than Bucky could manage. You liked the area, you weren't ready to leave. The change of scenery was refreshing, and no one else in your family lived on this side of the country. He was by himself here. He needed you.

Your fingertips tapped on the kitchen table. It was round, dark wood. The vase at its center was full of dahlias, the ones from the flowerbed by the front door. Your laptop lay closed in front of you. Your lip was caught between your teeth, a nervous hum in your body.

"Lonnie said he could get us a quote at a discounted rate for the plumbing in the bathroom," you heard from down the hall. He was back.

You didn't answer, your back to the open arch. You only turned when Bucky padded into the room, stopping short. "What's the matter?"

Did you looked worried? You didn't know. You must have. "It's about… It's about school."

He stood straight, like an arrow. It made him look taller. You saw his throat move when he swallowed, like you'd handed him a bitter pill.

"I want to defer for a year."

"I—you—what?"

"The bathroom reno is gonna take longer than we planned—"

"You're gonna—"

"—If I want to get that marble tile, it's not going to be finished until October—"

"—put off school—"

"—And then we really should talk about the basement—"

"Angel."

You stopped your explanation. Looked up into azure flames. "I want to stay."

"You want to stay." Bucky echoed the sentiment.

"I want to stay. Is that okay?" Now you looked down, at your hands. Your fingers twisted in your lap. What if he… didn't want you to?

An obscure worry slammed into you like a train. Had every single interaction been read completely wrong? You no longer knew which way was up, or which way was down. Everything was water. Above your head, below your feet, no matter which direction you swam.

"You want to stay. With me?"

You nodded, foolish tears pricking your eyes. Had you made a mistake? Fingers on your chin—you didn't know when he'd gotten closer. Crying was embarrassing. You sniffed, not meeting his eyes, even as he tilted your face up. His thumb wiped stray salt water away. "My darling girl. This is your home. Of course you're staying."

You saw it then, when you looked at him: certainty. Like there had been no other answer. Like you'd both swiped a knife over your palms and scattered blood over this land, signed it as yours together, and so it would stay that way, and you would stay too. Stay with him. You'd be with him. You'd be together… forever and ever.

The kiss was sweet—you tasted like raspberries. It dissolved into laughter, breathless and nonsensical.

Staying.

Staying.

You were staying.

But not in this room, not at this table. As soon as you stood, Bucky lifted you, strong hands under your thighs. They locked around his hips like you'd done it before, muscle memory you didn't know you had. Unsteady kisses and unsteady breaths were the road map to his bedroom—your bedroom.

The blankets were soft under your body. The sunlight cast you in gold. "Bucky," said like a prayer.

"I'm here," said like a vow. "I'm with you," said like a promise. "You're mine," pressed into your skin with a sinner's mouth.

Your dress had buttons down the front, a tie at the waist. It was as easy to unwrap you as it would be a gift. It rippled off the bed like a cascade of water, a pool of blue over the rug. Blue everywhere. Blue on the floor, on the walls, in his eyes. Blue, blue, blue.

But you felt all shades of red, burning hot from head to toe. A kiss like a bruise, and then a caress. A bite at your neck, followed by the slide of Bucky's tongue. "My sweet girl, mine. Knew it all along. Knew you loved me." He pulled away from you, hovered above you. "Say it. Say you love me?"

Another time and place, worlds away, those words demanded from you as you fought for consciousness. Snow had been falling, then. Now, it was all sunbeams and the twittering of birds. "I love you."

"Say it again."

"I love you."

The most blinding smile you'd ever seen, followed by a pledge. "I love you, too, my darling girl."

Now it was your turn to unwrap your gift. Off came the shirt. You didn't know where it went—it could have grown wings and flew, for all you cared. The same belt with the star buckle. The metal was warm in your hands. Warmed by the friction of your bodies. A successful tug had it sliding from the belt loops with a sigh. Button, zip, pull.

Bare, both of you, and you remembered fear, but it had faded like a photograph left to the elements. Try as you might, you couldn't summon it, now. All you felt was want. All you wanted was completion, belonging. Your thighs were slick, and it was painfully obvious. About as obvious as Bucky's own want. Suddenly the fire was gone, replaced by a timid, mousy reach of your hand, closing around him.

The sharp intake of breath made you pause. Had you done it wrong? But when you focused on Bucky's face, his eyes had fallen shut, his jaw slack. You moved experimentally, then paused, waiting for…

"Good girl. You're makin' me so happy. Just like that."

You got the rhythm down, the twist of your wrist, your hand. The words poured over you like summer rain. But you kept looking at Bucky's face, kept listening to the sounds that kept falling from his mouth like music notes. Whatever had happened in the winter was not the same as what was happening now. You wanted to hear more.

Just when you thought you would see his great undoing, his hand closed over yours, and you stilled. "I don't want to… not yet. Not now."

Bucky put your hand in his, and brought it up to his mouth. He kissed your knuckles, his eyes on yours. "It'll be different this time. You know what you want now, huh?"

A submissive nod, your hair loose about your face. A kiss to your palm, next. "Just took you some time. That's okay, I'm patient. I knew this day would come eventually."

He liked to talk during this carnal act, you remembered. But it would be different now. He was right; you had only needed to come around to his way of thinking. He laid you back, and your head hit the pillow. Your legs jolted after he spread them, running his fingers across your folds like he was playing an instrument. You'd be making some sort of noise, soon. His fingers were replaced by the head of his cock. It made you quiver, the electric current that seemed to shock you as he coated himself in your wetness. "Better than last time. You want me."

"Please."

"All you gotta do is ask nice, baby. I'll give you the world." A serene smile, a brush against your clit.

"Please, I want you," your voice sounded thin, "please."

He was all the way in before the last word had entered the air, and you were hip to hip, chest to chest, your shriek swallowed by his mouth. He laced your fingers together. "Good? Or do you need time?"

You could only respond by squeezing his hand, a low whimper caught in your throat. He answered aloud for you. "Good. Fuck, I've been waiting for months to feel you again."

One roll of his hips, then stillness. "Knew from the first time that you were for me."

Roll, pause. "Knew you were special."

Roll, pause. "You're my girl. So special."

Slow as a wave at sunset, and as deep as the ocean. Bucky kept you in the tide, far from the sand. This was your real first time together, you decided. The others didn't count. He'd had problems with control, and that was fixed, now. You were the only girl in the world, the only one that mattered. He only stopped murmuring praise to kiss you, and your free hand tugged at his hair with each particularly deep stroke, one that made your heels dig into the plush of the bed. You could feel the fur of the fawn blanket tickling the soles of your feet.

Everything had narrowed to him. What was he to you? There was a definition that the rest of the world knew, but you forgot what it was. All you knew was yours and mine.

"We're gonna go together, sweet girl. Wanna feel you with me. Got it?"

"Yes." The word was broken in half.

His hand untangled from yours to smooth your hair back from your face. "Good girl," he cooed, "let go for me."

Like a one-two punch, milliseconds apart, your body spasmed around his. A groan by your ear, teeth on your lobe, and a burning spill. Liquid metal, red hot, poured into a mold. You were floating away on a cloud. Your stomach lurched, but you didn't feel sick. You felt full of butterflies, full of him, full of possibility.

You were staying.

You were staying, and so you wouldn't have to try to capture this feeling, to bottle it up, because you'd get to experience it again, in your bed, in your home. The rest of your thoughts were whisked away a kiss that was so wet, you weren't sure if one or both of you were drooling.

Then Bucky laid beside you, and you stared at the ceiling again, your skin sticky, arm pressed against his.

"You've never needed the stars. You've always been the brightest one."

The fear you'd felt, or thought you felt, when you'd wake up at night, the worry that you'd turn over, towards the door, and see a shadow in its arch, had banked like embers in a cold fireplace. Your terrors had become less. You didn't know when it had happened, when it had crossed to another feeling. What was it? It felt like it was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn't place it. Was it… safety? Now a darkened doorway meant you weren't alone. When had that become a comfort?

It meant that someone had arrived, that somebody had walked down the wood panelled hall, turned the brass knob. That they'd mimicked you, followed your path. And that they—he—would keep following it, taking the same proverbial fork in the road. He'd round the bed. He'd climb under the covers, dove gray. He'd find you there, in the black night, as if you'd been lit from the inside out, a flame in a glass jar. Once, that had felt like the blade of a guillotine balanced across your neck, the hands of death grasping at your wrists, your ankles.

Now, you tucked yourself into the warm touch, grasped for it like an alcoholic would with a bottle. Now, those arms meant shelter. That heartbeat was a song on a station tuned to you, and you alone. You would feel hands in your hair, lips at your jaw, your shoulder, your temple, and you'd be whisked to the land of dreams. Fear didn't exist there. Maybe it never had.

You scanned the copse of trees beyond the window. The wind blew, and you could see the rustle of the leaves, could imagine the whistle of the cool air. Fall was coming. Those leaves would be turning yellow, soon. Confusion, a fleeting panic, like a startled deer running through the forest, galloped across your brain. The dishes were put away, and you moved into the living room, all warm browns and handcrafted furniture. And then… an almost pleasant numbness, a radio's static gone silent. You fixed the picture above the mantelpiece, and you smiled.

Why had you ever been so afraid?