He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.

“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now. 

You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”

“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”

“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back. 

He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual. 

The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could. 

It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong. 

“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.” 

The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours. 

The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him. 

His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face. 

That had been one year ago. 

After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account. 

So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)

Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought. 

Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine. 

When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.

Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend. 

Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero. 

He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.

Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night. 

A promise was a promise. 

Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.

“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.

He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that. 

He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully. 

“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?” 

He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable. 

“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”

You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer. 

“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.” 

The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.

“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused. 

“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes. 

“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”

“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.” 

“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”

“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully. 

You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him. 

“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement. 

The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions. 

Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday. 

Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.

Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room. 

Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins. 

And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out. 

“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…” 

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”

“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”

“Message already sent.”  

He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am. 

He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you? 

Oh fuck. 

You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–

“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.

The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now. 

He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and– 

“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him. 

You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful. 

“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?” 

You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.” 

The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch. 

He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.

You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams. 

This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago. 

It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it. 

“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?” 

“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment. 

“EV?” 

The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light. 

“Online.”

“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.” 

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye. 

Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe. 

This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him. 

But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head. 

There was only you. 

Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor. 

Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment. 

The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again. 

That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes. 

He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly. 

This was wrong. So wrong. 

His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.

He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you. 

What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.” 

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was. 

The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.

He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead. 

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–

“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.” 

“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier. 

It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything. 

“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants. 

That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer. 

“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”

He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.  

Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.

You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual. 

“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment. 

His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.

Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse? 

“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.” 

He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the blue stains in them from your journaling session before bed. 

“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.  

You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat. 

The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin. 

“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.

White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth. 

“No.”

His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up. 

“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.” 

His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that. 

The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable. 

His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions. 

Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.

His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric. 

Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.

He hated it.

He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain. 

“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side. 

“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”

“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”

“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely. 

“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?” 

“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”

“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”

“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles. 

The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second. 

One second enough. 

“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”

The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”

He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be. 

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.

He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.

You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs. 

His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly. 

You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals. 

He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence. 

Too hard. 

Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure. 

It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out. 

“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.” 

He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it. 

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’

Fucking hell. 

“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”

You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him. 

His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with. 

“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide. 

“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?” 

You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed. 

His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation. 

Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.

It wanted more.

His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you. 

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly. 

“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm. 

“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”

“Breathe,” you reminded.

His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Just take her, man, she’s right there–

Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life. 

“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”

See? She wants it. She needs it so bad. 

He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.

Fuck it.

In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core. 

His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses. 

“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”

You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw. 

“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”

You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you. 

“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”

His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand. 

“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” He whispered.

You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air. 

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you. 

“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air. 

You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away. 

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”

Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours. 

“Can–can I–?”

You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs. 

Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert. 

His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life. 

“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”

He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound. 

“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”

His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right. 

“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”

Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers. 

“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“Not stopping, baby.” 

He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts. 

“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”

“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–

“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”

The plea undid you.

You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there. 

It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him. 

You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you. 

Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up. 

He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him. 

You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact. 

The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you. 

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger. 

You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first. 

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.  

Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand. 

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately. 

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”

You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.

He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him. 

When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver. 

He could feel it coming. The change. 

You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away. 

His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal. 

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.

That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out. 

“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.” 

He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”

A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–

“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused. 

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”

That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face. 

Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now. 

Good. 

He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room. 

His bed.

He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”

You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth. 

Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets. 

“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you? 

Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him. 

He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it. 

“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”

Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk. 

“Peter…” 

“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”

Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so. 

God. He was never going back. 

“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.” 

He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again. 

“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”

“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”

“Need what?”

“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”

He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up. 

“Yeah?” 

Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him. 

He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine. 

But something made him stop. 

“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”

The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through. 

“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”

You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again. 

He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands. 

The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”

“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow. 

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”

He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect. 

Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper. 

He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back. 

“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”

He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again. 

What? What is–

The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back. 

“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“

“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”

The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again. 

“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again. 

“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”

His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.

“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”

“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…” 

He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up. 

You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you. 

“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”

The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you. 

When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin. 

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths. 

You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–

“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.” 

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened. 

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”

“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath. 

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking. 

“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.” 

“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead. 

“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”

He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet. 

“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”

There it was. He said it. No turning back now. 

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you. 

“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”

“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation. 

You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again. 

Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did. 

There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth. 

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

No spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

and the gloves.

god, the fucking gloves.

thick, dark leather, creased and broken in just enough to be soft at the fingertips. you can hear them flex when he moves, that faint little squeak of leather against leather, and it makes your stomach drop, makes your thighs twitch. he notices. of course he does.

“yeah? you like that, sweetheart?”

voice thick, low. the kind of voice meant for orders, for punishment, for curling your name around a threat. but there’s this edge of amusement under it now, sharp and knowing. because you’re already wet. already arching into his touch, chasing the press of those gloved fingers against your skin.

he doesn’t start slow.

john walker doesn’t do slow.

the tips of those leather-clad fingers dip between your thighs, thick and unforgiving, and you hear the slick sound of it when he parts you. he’s grinning now, eyes dark, the lower half of his face already flushed, but the rest of him still buttoned up and sharp, immaculate in that fucking suit.

“messy already? always crying about how wet you are.”

he sinks two fingers inside you like it’s nothing. no warning, no teasing. just thick, gloved digits filling you, pressing deep, the leather dragging against your walls in a way that makes your back arch off the bed. it’s filthy — the sound of it, the way your slick clings to the leather, glistening in the dim light.

he curls them, rough, purposeful, and you swear you see stars.

“fuck, you squeeze so tight, sweetheart — like you were made for this.”

and he means it. the way his eyes stay locked on the place where his hand disappears between your legs, the wet squelch every time he thrusts those thick fingers into you, slow and deep and mean. the suit stays on. he stays over you — the perfect image of control, while you unravel under him.

and when you start to shake, your breath catching, that desperate little high-pitched whimper slipping out, his grin widens.

he leans down, his gloved hand still working you open, his breath hot against your ear.

“gonna cum on my fingers, baby? gonna ruin my suit, messy slut.”

you don’t even have time to nod before he speeds up, those leather-clad fingers fucking into you with this brutal, relentless pace, the wet, slick sound of it filling the room.

and when you finally do — when your whole body tenses and you cry out, clenching down so hard it hurts — he groans, low and hungry, watching every second of it.

“goddamn.”

he pulls his fingers out slow, watching the way your slick strings between them, the leather glinting wet in the light. and without missing a beat, he lifts them to his lips, sucks the mess from them with a filthy, satisfied groan.

“sweetest fuckin’ thing i’ve ever tasted.”

-

Every now and then, when Mara falls asleep in her car seat, or when you’re folding her tiny clothes, or when you’re alone in your apartment after she’s gone to bed, you find yourself pausing. Just… pausing. To breathe. To ache. To remember.

Sometimes, without meaning to, you check mission reports. Just to see if his name appears. Just to confirm he’s safe. Alive. Functional. And the oddest twist of the knife?

He’s better now. The news mentions him positively. There are photos of him at community events. Mentions of therapy. Stories of him co-parenting with Olivia in steady, stable rhythms. He looks calmer. Healthier. Like someone rebuilding. Someone healing. Someone who learned how to be better after losing everything that mattered.

And every time you see his name, your breath catches, not in longing exactly, and not in bitterness, but something tangled between the two. Something that says: I’m happy for you. I’m hurt you couldn’t be happy with me. We could’ve been this. We could’ve had more. You could’ve known her.

Mara climbs into your lap then, little fingers tugging your shirt, and everything inside you softens. You kiss the top of her head.

You whisper, “I chose the right life. Even if I had to learn it the hard way.”

But at night, when the world is quiet and she’s curled against you, breathing softly… you still wonder what it will do to your heart, when he finally sees her, really sees her, because you know it’s silly to think it’ll never happen, and recognizes himself in her eyes.

-

Winter has a way of softening the world, muffling its edges, whitening its harshness, making even the city feel gentle for a moment. It was the first snowfall of the season, light flakes drifting from a sky the color of pewter. The downtown winter market was alive with heat lamps, twinkle lights, the smell of cinnamon and roasting chestnuts.

Mara was bundled in a puffy lilac coat, two tiny fluffy pom-poms bouncing from the hood, her curls tucked beneath a knit hat Joaquin had crocheted himself (badly, unevenly, and with great pride). She was stomping through the snow-dusted pavement with the single-minded purpose of a toddler on a mission.

“Mama! Mama look!” She pointed at a stand selling balloons shaped like reindeer. “Red one! Red one! Pleeease!”

You smiled, tired, warm, helpless to resist. “Hot chocolate first, okay? Then balloon.”

She considered this. “’Kay. Choc’ate first. Bawooooon second.” She held up two gloved fingers to emphasize the order.

You laughed. “Deal.”

You stepped into the line for the cocoa stand, adjusting Mara on your hip as she leaned her cheek against your shoulder. The heat lamps overhead glowed soft gold, and your breath fogged in the cold air. Mara hummed some tune she’d learned from Sam, off-key and perfect.

You didn’t notice him right away. Not at first. Not when he walked past the edge of the crowd. Not when he slowed. Not when he turned. But you heard him before you saw him.

You heard that voice, the familiar rasp, deepened, softened, steadied by two years you didn’t get to witness. “…[Name]?”

Your entire body stilled. It felt like the air froze, like every sound around you muffled under the weight of your pulse.

You turned. And there he was.

John F. Walker.

Older. Broad-shouldered in a winter coat. Hair a little longer. Jaw dusted with stubble. Eyes softer, still blue, still intense, but softened with something earned the hard way: peace, or the beginnings of it.

He really did look healthier, you thought traitorously. Calmer. Realigned.

But when he saw you, the breath left him. And when he saw the child in your arms, the world dropped out from under him. His entire body stopped mid-step. His face drained of color. His eyes locked on Mara with a force that nearly buckled your knees.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply looked. At her curls. At her square jaw. At her button nose that mirrored yours. And then at her eyes. Her bright, unmistakable blue eyes. The exact shade of his.

It hit him like a blow.

You saw it. The revelation. The realization. The devastation. The wonder. The grief. The love he never realized he’d been missing.

His voice cracked when he finally managed, “She… she has my…”

“I know,” you murmured.

He swallowed hard. His throat bobbed once, twice. He dragged his gaze up to your face. “She’s…” His voice broke again. He cleared his throat, tried again, quieter. “She’s… what? Two? Two and a half?”

Your heart thudded painfully. You could lie, but you couldn’t. Not now. Not with her little head resting trustingly on your shoulder.

“She turned two in August,” you said softly.

He closed his eyes like the wind had been knocked out of him. “Jesus,” he whispered. Not angry. Not loud. Just destroyed.

Mara tugged your coat suddenly, peering over your shoulder at him. “Mama? Who’s big guy?”

John froze. Absolutely froze. His breath caught so visibly you felt it from six feet away. His hand curled into a fist at his side, not in anger, but to hide the tremor running through it. Big guy. His daughter’s voice. His daughter’s face. His daughter’s existence.

You shifted Mara to your hip and gave her a gentle smile. “Just someone Mama used to know, baby.”

He flinched. Actually flinched. The hurt in his eyes shone like fresh glass. “Can we…” he swallowed hard, “Can we talk? Please?”

You hesitated. Because shock was cold and sharp and terrifying. Because your heart was beating too fast. Because he had once broken you clean through. But Mara wriggled down and ran toward a bench covered in light snow.

“Snow chair!” she yelled.

You exhaled shakily. “Fine.”

He nodded, grateful, unsteady.

You moved toward the bench, sitting on its edge while Mara climbed up beside you and began scraping snow into her mittens with deep concentration. John stopped a few feet away, careful not to crowd you. He looked at Mara like she was sunlight. Like she was a miracle he wasn’t allowed to touch. Like his world had shifted on its axis and he was just now learning to breathe the new air. 

Finally, voice hoarse, he said, “You were pregnant when we split.” It wasn’t a question.

“No,” you whispered. “I didn’t know yet. I found out a week later.”

He brought a hand to his mouth, staring at the ground. “God.”

You stared ahead. “I was hurt. I was confused. I thought you didn’t want me. That you didn’t want… anything.”

He flinched again. “I was in a bad place. The worst place. I pushed you away because I thought I was protecting you.”

“I know that now,” you said quietly. “But back then? You said you didn’t want it anymore. And then I found out I was pregnant and I…” You swallowed the memory. “I didn’t know how to tell you without breaking myself open.”

He nodded slowly, breathing hard through his nose. “I was a mess. I won’t pretend otherwise. But you should have told me.”

“I know.”

“She’s my daughter,” he whispered, voice cracking.

“I know.”

He blinked hard, tears gathering but not falling. Therapy had taught him restraint, not numbness. “Does she…” He struggled. “Does she know anything about me?”

Your throat tightened. “She knows she has uncles who love her. She knows she’s loved. That’s all.”

He nodded once, sharp, like it hurt but made sense. “I’m not angry,” he said after a long moment. “I mean…I’m hurt. God, I’m hurting. But I’m not… angry.” He wiped his face with the heel of his hand. “I just want…” His voice faltered. “Can I meet her? Properly? Not as a stranger who scares her. As… as her father.”

You stared at him. At the man he had become. He was not the man who broke you. Not anymore. He was older. Steadier. Quieter. Sadder. Better.

And yet… this was not simple. Not clean. Not something you could agree to in five minutes beside a bench. “I need time,” you whispered. “I need to talk to Sam. And Joaquin. And…just think.”

He nodded immediately. “Of course. Of course. Take all the time you need.”

You breathed out slowly. “I’ll text you.”

He blinked. “You still have my number?”

“No,” you said. “I deleted it.”

A soft, pained laugh escaped him. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

You pulled out your phone. He pulled out his. You traded numbers like strangers at a bus stop, like the past two years hadn’t built a life inside your home and inside your heart. When you stood to leave, Mara reached for your hand.

John’s chest caved inward at the sight. As you walked away, he called softly, “Hey.”

You turned.

He looked at Mara, then at you. Eyes shining. Voice rough. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For her. For raising her. For keeping her safe.”

You swallowed hard. “Mara,” you called. “Say bye-bye.”

Mara waved a mittened hand toward him, shouting, “Bye big guy!”

John pressed a fist to his mouth. His eyes squeezed shut. He didn’t break. But he bent. And you felt it in every place you had ever loved him.

-

It starts simply. Quietly. A cautious choice on your part, neutral ground, clear exits, nothing enclosed or overwhelming. A park in mid-spring, early enough in the morning that the playground is mostly empty. Dew still clings to the slides. The swings sway slightly in the cool breeze. Budding leaves catch the pale sunlight.

You tighten your hold on Mara’s hand as you walk up the path. She hops beside you with quick, birdlike energy, her boots thumping the wooden bridge that leads to the play area. She’s talking about sparrows this week, sparrows and pigeons and the “big blue jay that yelled at me yesterday.” Everything these days is about birds, and you do your best to nod along even though your stomach is a nervous knot and your pulse won’t settle.

You see him before he sees you this time.

John stands near the bench across from the swings. He’s dressed simply, hoodie, dark jeans, hands clasped loosely in front of him. His posture is straight but not stiff, like he’s deliberately tamping down every instinct to square his shoulders or take up space. His expression is neutral in the way someone looks when they’re rehearsing calm.

When he finally turns and catches sight of you, he visibly stops himself from reacting too strongly. He inhales once through his nose, slow and steady, then releases the breath just as slowly. You recognize the grounding technique; you’ve done them yourself. He even rubs his thumb once over the side of his palm, a small, practiced motion, like he’s reminding himself not to panic.

He offers you a small, steady nod. You return it. Then he looks down at Mara. His entire expression changes. Softens. Opens.

Without hesitation, he lowers himself onto one knee, settling into the mulch like it doesn’t bother him. Kneeling makes him much smaller, less imposing, more approachable. You realize immediately that he did it for her. So he wouldn’t tower over her. So he’d seem safe.

Mara stops a few feet away from him. Her curls bounce as she tilts her head, big eyes flicking between you and the large man kneeling patiently in the dirt.

“Hi, sweetheart,” John says, his voice low and careful. “I’m John.”

Mara clings to your leg, staring at him with wide-eyed curiosity. She’s shy around unfamiliar faces, especially big ones, and John is…well, John. Broad shouldered. Tall even when kneeling. But he doesn’t push. He doesn’t reach out. He simply waits, hands loosely braced on his knee, gaze gentle.

You crouch down beside her. “It’s okay,” you whisper, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “He’s… a friend.” You almost choke on the word. But you say it anyway.

John’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly at that, not angry, not offended, just a quick shadow of emotion, but he gives the smallest nod, accepting it.

Mara takes half a step forward. Then another. Slow, deliberate, cautious. Like she’s approaching a large, gentle animal she isn’t sure will let her pet it. Then her foot catches on the edge of her own shoe, and she pitches forward with a startled gasp.

John’s body tenses. His hands twitch upward instinctively, but he doesn’t grab her. He waits, checking your face, waiting for you to give permission. That alone almost breaks you in half.

You nod once. He reacts instantly, steadying her with one large hand around her small elbow. His touch is careful, barely there, supporting without gripping.

Mara blinks up at him. And then, for reasons you’ll never understand, she steps closer and leans lightly into his side. Not for comfort, not for reassurance, just… trust. A quiet, instinctive kind of trust she’s only ever given to people she feels safe around.

John goes absolutely still. His breath catches, faint but audible. His eyes shine with something raw and immediate, like someone has taken a fist to the center of his chest. He lifts a hand slowly, so slowly you almost don’t notice, and lets it hover just above her back, scared to touch her without permission.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispers. The words break out of him like something he’s been holding back for years.

Your throat tightens.

Something inside him is opening, cracking, reshaping itself right in front of you. You recognize the look on his face, because you wore it the moment someone placed Mara in your arms for the first time.

That stunned, trembling, overwhelming realization: This is mine. I belong to her. She belongs to me.

And standing a few steps away, watching the two of them together for the first time in the cool, quiet morning, you feel something inside your chest ache so deeply it almost buckles your knees.

-

A few visits later, the two of you end up sitting across from each other at a weathered wooden picnic table in the middle of the park. The sun is warm but the shade is cool, and condensation drips in slow trails down the sides of your iced coffee cups. Mara is a few yards away with a bucket of chalk, drawing lopsided circles on the pavement while humming loudly to herself.

John sits with his forearms braced on the table, fingers around his cup, turning it without drinking. He looks relaxed at first glance, broad shoulders loose, face calm, but when you really look at him, you can see the tension wound tight beneath the surface. His jaw works every few seconds. His fingers twitch. He keeps glancing at Mara like he can’t believe she’s real.

You’re the one who breaks the silence. “What… what do you want her to call you?”

His head snaps up slightly, like he hadn’t expected the question. His gaze drops back to the table almost immediately. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, thumb stroking along the sweating plastic. “That depends on what you’re comfortable with.”

You shake your head. “John, this isn’t about me.”

He lifts his eyes. There’s something raw in them, something unsure. “It is,” he says gently. “At least a little.”

You swallow. The truth feels heavy in your throat. “She’s your daughter. That’s not ever going to change.”

He stills completely. No twitch. No shifting. No fidgeting. Just stillness. His shoulders tremble faintly, a tiny, barely noticeable ripple of emotion running through him. He doesn’t look away, but his eyes flicker like he’s trying to hold back too much at once.

“I don’t expect her to call me anything yet,” he says softly. “I don’t want to confuse her. Or push her into something she’s not ready for.”

You nod because that’s fair. And considerate. And so different from the John you knew years ago that it nearly knocks the breath out of you. You both sip your iced coffees, letting the quiet settle around you. It’s not tense. It’s heavy in a different way, full of things neither of you knows how to say yet.

-

It happens on an ordinary weekday afternoon, the sort of day that feels unremarkable until something inside it changes everything.

You’re at John’s place for a short visit, nothing formal, just an hour carved into the early evening so he can spend time with Mara while Eli is at his mom’s house. The living room is warm and bright, sunlight spilling across the rug where she’s sprawled out with her markers and two open coloring books. The air smells faintly of the vanilla candle John lit when you arrived, something soft and comforting that immediately made your shoulders relax.

Mara is lying on her belly, feet kicked up behind her, coloring with the kind of reckless enthusiasm that should frankly terrify any carpet owner. She hums a little tune under her breath, a sound you recognize from the cartoon she’s obsessed with, and half the marker ends up on her hands, her sleeves, and the floor.

You sit on the couch, your legs tucked under you, watching her. From across the room, John is going through a small stack of picture books on the coffee table, deciding which ones he wants to read to her before the visit ends. He’s pretending to focus on the books, but you’ve caught him glancing at Mara more times than you can count.

She’s halfway through a scribbled rainbow when she suddenly gasps like she’s discovered a new planet. 

“Mama! Look!” She pops up too fast, little legs wobbling, and runs toward you at full speed. She holds the paper so high above her head that she nearly whacks you in the nose with it. You laugh and gently guide the drawing downward before accepting it.

“Oh, wow,” you say, genuinely impressed by the chaos of color. “You made a rainbow!”

Mara beams at the praise, bouncing on her toes. Then she freezes, still smiling, still excited, but something flickers across her face, a thought, a connection.

Her head swivels toward John. She looks at him. You’d given her the talk a few visits ago about who he was and how she could call him whatever she wanted to. She’d yet to call him anything other than John John or Big Guy. But, there it is, that bright, unfiltered smile that could power an entire city. The one she only gives to people she feels safe with.

She thrusts the drawing toward him with both hands. “Daddy, look!” The word lands like a physical force.

John stops breathing. His mouth opens but nothing comes out. His eyes widen first, then soften, then fill so quickly it’s like emotion has overtaken him faster than his body can keep up. His chest rises in one sharp, stumbling inhale. He brings a fist instinctively to his mouth, pressing it there like he needs to hold everything inside, every feeling, every tear, every sound, so it doesn’t slip out and overwhelm the room.

“Daddy,” Mara repeats, impatient, waving her drawing slightly.

John swallows hard. The movement is visible even from where you sit. He looks like someone trying not to drown. He lowers himself slowly, so slowly it looks like it physically hurts him not to just grab her and pull her into his arms. He settles onto his knees, meeting her at her height. His hands shake once before he steadies them on his thighs.

When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper. “Can I… see it, sweetheart?”

And Mara, delighted, takes three steps forward and, instead of offering the drawing, she throws herself at him. Her arms go around his neck. Her cheek smooshes into his shoulder. She hugs him with her whole little body.

John goes absolutely still. For a second, he is frozen in the enormity of the moment. Then his arms rise, slow, reverent, careful, and he wraps them around her tiny frame like she is something sacred. Something fragile. Something he’s terrified he might break if he holds too tight.

His eyes close. His forehead drops to her curls. A soft, choked breath escapes him.

You can feel your own heart thundering. You fold your arms around yourself, because suddenly your chest feels too open, too vulnerable, too unprotected. It hurts, the sight of him holding her, the sound of her happy little sigh, the realization that this is what she missed for two years, what he missed, what you denied him because you were so broken you could barely breathe.

Your eyes burn so sharply you have to look away for a moment, staring at the windowsill, the books, anything that isn’t the two of them. When you look back, John’s face is buried in his daughter’s curls. His shoulders are trembling. His hands cradle her like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He’s breathing like a man who has just run miles, or like a man who has finally reached the place he has been chasing for years.

And in that living room, in the soft afternoon light, you understand: This moment was always going to break you open. 

But it was never going to break you alone.

-

It happens about a week after the living room moment, after Mara ran into John’s arms, called him “Daddy,” and rewrote the shape of your little family with one innocent word. Everything has been different since then. Softer around the edges. More intentional. John seems calmer now, more confident in his place in Mara’s life. She asks for him often.

And today, John asks for something bigger. “Eli and Olivia want to meet her,” he had said over the phone. His voice was hesitant but hopeful. “Only if you’re comfortable.”

You had taken a breath. Thought about it. And agreed.

The playground is neutral ground, open, familiar, low-pressure. You arrive early, holding Mara’s hand as she toddles over the mulch, her curls stuffed under a knit hat and her boots squeaking with every step.

You spot Eli before he sees you. He’s five and a half now, taller, sturdier, full of that little-kid confidence where everything is exciting. He looks more like his father now than he did when he was Mara’s age. And he’s still beautiful. His front tooth is missing, leaving a gap that only makes his grin wider.

The second he notices you, he lights up. He races across the playground in flashing superhero sneakers, skidding to a stop so abruptly he nearly topples over.

“Hi!” he blurts, already breathless. “I’m Eli!”

Before you can respond, the questions start pouring out like an unbroken stream.

“Dad said this is my sister. Is she really my sister? Can I show her the climbing thing? She’s kinda small. Does she like dinosaurs? Like the ones you and me used to play with? You also used to read me books, right? I think I remember that. You did the voices. You were really good at the voices.”

Your heart stutters. He remembers you. Not in sharp details, he was too young for that, but in feelings. Warmth. Playfulness. Comfort.

You clear your throat. “Yeah, I… yeah. Hi, Eli.”

Mara presses herself against your leg, peeking around your coat like a cautious kitten. Her small hand clings to your jeans. She studies him with big eyes, unsure of the whirlwind that has just arrived in front of her.

John jogs up behind Eli, a little winded, a hand landing gently on his son’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy, slow down. Give her a minute. She’s shy.”

Eli stops. Thinks about this. Then nods very seriously, like he’s just been given his first mission briefing. “Oh. Okay. I can do that.” He looks down at Mara again, softer this time. “I get shy sometimes too.”

He doesn’t reach for her. Doesn’t crowd her. He simply crouches down, lowering himself to her height. And the gesture hits you, how familiar it is. How much like John it looks. That same instinct to make himself small, safer, easier to approach.

“Hi, Mara,” Eli says gently. “I’m Eli. Do you… wanna play with me?”

Mara lifts her face, studying him the way toddlers do, openly, curiously, without filter. Her gaze moves from his sneakers to his sweatshirt (a cartoon dinosaur wearing sunglasses), to his missing tooth. She steps forward and places her little hand in his. Just like that.

Eli beams so brightly he could replace the sun. “Okay! Come on! I’ll show you the best slide!”

They take off in an instant, two little bodies moving with the same unsteady enthusiasm, Mara half-running to keep up, Eli slowing down just enough for her to catch him. For the next hour, the world shrinks to their laughter. They build a crooked fort from jackets and a picnic blanket. Eli invents rules on the spot, half of them contradictory, all of them delivered with complete authority. Mara repeats the rules back to him, sometimes getting the words wrong, which makes him giggle.

They share animal crackers. They argue about whether the slide is too hot (“No it’s not!” “Yes it is!”). Eli teaches her how to climb the low rock wall, his hands hovering protectively near her waist like he’s seen his parents do a hundred times for him.

You sit on a bench beside John. Neither of you speaks for a while. John watches them with an expression that doesn’t belong to the man he used to be, stricken and softened all at once. His shoulders are relaxed. His jaw unclenched. He looks… lighter than you’ve ever seen him. Happier.

“That’s… that’s my kids,” he says under his breath, like he’s afraid saying it too loud will break the moment.

You swallow past a knot in your throat. “They’re good together.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, voice thick. “They really are.”

When the playdate winds down, the four of you walk toward the parking lot. A sleek SUV pulls in, and Olivia steps out. She’s as you remember: tall, graceful, warm skin glowing in the late afternoon light, calm eyes that miss nothing. She gives you a small, polite smile. It’s cautious but not cold.

“Hi,” she says, her tone warm but measured. “I’m Olivia.”

“Hi,” you reply. You match her energy instinctively.

Eli bolts into her open arms, talking so quickly she can barely keep up. “Mara’s my sister! She’s real small but super strong! She climbed the rocks! And we made a fort but Daddy kept sitting on the blanket and messing it up.”

Olivia laughs softly, smoothing his curls back as she listens. Then she looks up at John with an expression dipped in quiet affection and years of understanding.

“He’s been trying,” she says to you, gently, sincerely. “He’s really been working on himself.”

Your chest tightens. You nod. “Yeah. I know.”

She steps forward and reaches out, taking your hand briefly. It’s a quick touch, warm, steady, surprising. “Good luck,” she says under her breath.

It shouldn’t hit you the way it does. But it does. Your eyes sting suddenly, and you have to blink a few times to steady yourself. “Thank you,” you manage.

Olivia leads Eli to the car. Before he climbs in, he turns around and waves so hard his whole body wiggles. “Bye-bye baby sister!”

Mara waves with both hands, nearly losing balance, shouting that she is not a baby. 

John exhales next to you, slow, deep, and full of something fragile. And as the car pulls away, something inside you shifts. A door you thought you’d locked two years ago nudges open again. Not wide, not recklessly, but undeniably.

A future you never let yourself imagine no longer feels impossible. And the family beside you, messy, complicated, born of heartbreak but built on effort, suddenly feels real. Solid.

Maybe even yours.

-

It’s strange how naturally the rhythm forms. It doesn’t happen with intention or planning; it just… happens. Before long, the two of you are moving through the same small rituals every week, as if you’ve been doing this for years instead of months.

Drop-offs at his place turn into quick conversations. He always steps out of the doorway to take Mara’s coat from your hands, brushing your fingers by accident (or maybe not by accident, but you don’t let yourself linger on that). Pickups lead to him showing you her newest artwork, his voice soft with pride as he holds up a messy page of marker swirls she insists is a “big dinosaur.”

You find yourselves standing too close on his porch without meaning to. Discussing bedtime routines on nights she had trouble settling. Leaning against his kitchen counter while he packs her snacks for the next day, both of you reaching for her tiny boots at the same time and pulling back with a shared breath of awkward laughter.

Those moments feel dangerous. More dangerous than any mission you’ve ever been on. Because danger, at least in the field, has rules. Procedures. Protocols. But this, these small domestic collisions, don’t obey any rules you know.

Sometimes his hand touches your shoulder without him thinking about it. Warm. Steady. Familiar in ways that shouldn’t make your breath catch after everything that happened. Sometimes you laugh at the same moment, about something small Mara said, and you look at each other a little too long. A little too knowingly. The way you used to.

Your conversations linger too. On good days, on easy days, they stretch out in the quiet of his kitchen while Mara builds a tower of blocks in the living room.

“Thinking preschool in the fall,” he mentions one evening as he rinses out her sippy cup.

You hum thoughtfully. “Somewhere structured. She does better when she knows what’s coming.”

He nods. “Yeah. You’re right.” No defensiveness. No guilt-fueled irritation. Just straightforward agreement. Partnership.

Once, when he sees you rubbing your temples, he brews you tea without asking, setting the mug in front of you like it’s second nature. Another night, while he helps Mara into her pajamas, you tidy up the living room automatically, folding blankets, stacking picture books. The rhythm is almost domestic. Almost intimate. Too familiar.

You argue sometimes. It’s impossible not to. You disagree about sugar limits, about nap schedules, about the right way to handle her toddler meltdowns. But the arguments are different now. Softer. Shorter. No sharp edges meant to wound. You apologize when you need to. He listens. He adjusts. You adjust. It’s almost startling, how mature it feels, how adult.

Sometimes it’s shockingly easy between you. Effortless. That ease scares you more than the fights ever did. Because in the quiet moments, when he lifts Mara into his arms and she tugs at the collar of his shirt while babbling stories to him; when he reads to her in a dozen silly character voices until she giggles so hard she snorts; when he looks up and meets your eyes with a soft, steady expression that says thank you for letting me be here, your heart remembers.

It remembers everything you had with him. Everything you lost. Everything you still want.

And the wanting terrifies you. You’re terrified of opening that door again, scared of what will break inside you if things fall apart a second time. But you’re just as scared of how right this feels, of how natural it is for the three of you to exist like this, as if you never should have been separated in the first place.

It’s slow, the shift. Subtle. Like a new season rolling in inch by inch until one morning you realize the air has changed and you never noticed exactly when it happened. Co-parenting becomes routine. Routine becomes familiar. Familiar becomes warm.

And warmth, between you and John Walker, has always been dangerous.

You both know it. Neither of you stop it. You skirt the edges. Pretend it’s nothing. Pretend your pulse doesn’t pick up when he moves too close, or when his voice drops low and gentle as he talks to Mara. But it does.

God, it does.

-

It starts with a simple message while you’re away on a mission. John is keeping Mara and Princess, the dog, at his place while you’re gone. It’s not his first overnight alone with Mara, but it is his first with both kids and a dog.

JOHN: Did Mara tell you she’s part dragon now? She keeps trying to breathe fire at the dog.

You laugh silently in bed, pillow clutched under your cheek.

YOU: She’s two. You encouraged her somehow. JOHN: I said it was “cool.” I didn’t expect her to go full Game of Thrones. YOU: You should’ve known better. That’s on you.

There’s a pause.

JOHN: She told me she wants to grow up big and strong like you.

Your breath hitches. You stare at the screen too long before typing:

YOU: She adores you, you know.

Another pause. Your phone buzzes.

JOHN: I adore her too. …And her mom.

You freeze. Your heart pulses painfully. You type and delete four different jokes before settling on a safe one.

YOU: Careful, Walker. Sounds like flirting. JOHN: If I were flirting, you’d know.

You don’t sleep for a long time after that.

-

There’s something obscene about how domestic it becomes. Sunday brunch hand-offs: Mara running between your legs in tiny sneakers, Eli proudly showing her his Lego creations, John standing at the stove flipping pancakes like some sort of suburban fever dream.

You stand beside him, sipping coffee. He glances at you over the rim of his mug.

There’s a softness there that wasn’t there the first time you loved him. A steadiness. An ease. A warmth you feel in your chest for hours afterward.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says quietly, and he doesn’t look away.

You’re the one who breaks the moment, clearing your throat, brushing imaginary crumbs from the counter, pretending you didn’t feel your heart lean toward him like a magnet.

-

It starts because both Olivia and John are unavailable at the same time for once. She’s stuck late at work, he’s finishing a mission debrief hours past schedule. You’d offered, without thinking too hard about it, to watch Eli at John’s place. It was practical. Easy. Familiar. And Mara was thrilled; she adores Eli almost as much as Eli adores having a little sister to show off to.

Now the three of you are settled in John’s living room. A kids’ movie plays quietly on the TV, casting soft, colorful light across the room. Mara is curled up against Eli, half draped over his lap, drooling slightly on his shirt. Eli doesn’t seem to notice. His eyelids droop, opening only when something loud happens on screen.

You sit at the far end of the couch, legs tucked under you, exhaustion creeping into your bones in a way that feels warm and heavy. It’s been a long day. A long week. A long… everything.

John finally gets home midway through the movie, showered and changed into soft clothes, hair still damp. When he sees the kids asleep in the pile of blankets, he relaxes instantly, his shoulders dropping. He thanks you, quietly, sincerely, and then settles on the floor in front of the couch, leaning back against the cushions near your knee.

You both pretend it’s because he doesn’t want to disturb the kids. That it’s convenient. That it’s normal.

It isn’t. It feels like something else entirely.

For a while you watch the movie, stealing glances at him when you think he isn’t looking. He stares at the kids with a softness he never had before, something warm and protective and steady. It stirs something deep in you that you’ve been trying hard not to acknowledge.

Your head aches. Your body feels too heavy. You lean back against the couch cushions just for a moment, eyes drifting shut. Just a moment.

When you blink awake again, everything is different. The movie is over.  The room is quiet. The lights are dimmed. And you’re not just lying against the couch anymore. You’re leaning against John.

Your cheek is resting on his shoulder, your arm loosely draped across his chest, the blanket you don’t remember being covered with tucked securely around you both. His hand is on your forearm, warm and steady, like it settled there without him realizing.

You jerk slightly in surprise, and he tenses under you, not pulling away but freezing, unsure.

You lift your head slowly. His face is only inches from yours, illuminated faintly by the TV’s screensaver glow. His expression is soft, unguarded in a way you haven’t seen in years. It’s the look he used to give you early in the mornings, half-awake and full of feeling.

His hand rises toward your face, hesitating midair as if he’d been brushing hair away from your cheek when you started to stir.

Your voice comes out rough. “Did I… fall asleep?”

His hand lowers a little, but not all the way. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You did.”

You swallow, acutely aware of how close you still are. “You, um… covered me?”

He nods, eyes flicking briefly to your lips before he forces them back to your eyes. “You looked cold.”

The room feels too warm suddenly.

You want to thank him. You want to lean into him again. You want to stay here, wrapped in his arms, in the safety of the life you used to have and the life you’re slowly rebuilding.

You want so many things your heart isn’t ready to admit.

You look down at your hands, then back at him. “You could’ve woken me.”

His smile is small, crooked at the edge. There’s something sad in it. Something honest. “Didn’t want to,” he says softly. The words hit you harder than they should.

You sit up too quickly, disentangling yourself from the warmth of him. The sudden distance feels cold. “I should get the kids to bed,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

He nods, clearing his throat, shifting back onto the coffee table like he needs to physically create space between you before he does something reckless.

The moment cracks, thin, brittle, breaking apart before you can decide whether you wanted to hold onto it. You gather Mara into your arms. John gently lifts Eli, the boy’s head dropping to his shoulder with complete trust.

Neither of you speak as you carry the kids down the hallway. But you feel the echo of that moment the whole way. And he does too.

You don’t have to look back to know it.

-

Mara has been teetering on the edge of a meltdown all afternoon, like a storm cloud you can see but can’t outrun. By the time you’re in John’s living room, it finally breaks.

She wants her “green stompy guy.” Not the blue one. Not the purple one. Not the identical-but-slightly-different teal one John bought as a backup weeks ago. The green one.

She drops to the floor and wails, full toddler devastation, the kind that vibrates from the bottom of her tiny soul.

You crouch beside her, trying to soothe, trying to breathe, trying not to let your own frayed nerves snap. But today has been long. Work was chaos. The drive here was tense. You’re exhausted, and your patience is stretched thin enough to see light through it.

“Mara,” you say gently, though your voice wobbles, “we’ll find the green one, okay? You have to let me look.”

But she screams louder, kicking her feet, tiny fists balled up. The noise burrows straight into your ribs. You close your eyes for half a second, just to get your bearings, but instead something tightens in your chest. Your throat burns. You’re suddenly too aware of how little sleep you’ve had, how hard you’ve been trying, how much you’ve been holding together these past few months.

You feel it, the edge of tears. The urge to snap. The thin, dangerous line of overwhelm. Before you can say something you’ll regret, a warm hand settles very lightly on your back.

“Hey,” John murmurs, voice low and steady. “Take a second.”

You open your eyes and realize he’s kneeling beside you now. Close. Closer than he needs to be. His presence is grounding in a way that almost undoes you. His hand rubs a slow circle between your shoulder blades, firm and gentle.

“I’ve got her,” he says softly. “You breathe. I’ll handle this.” There’s no judgment in his tone. No criticism. Just calm. Support. The steadiness of a man who spent years learning how to pull himself back from cliffs like this.

You swallow hard and nod, stepping back, letting him take over. Mara reaches for the floor, still sobbing, but John picks her up with practiced ease, holding her facing outward, away from him, so she can still see the “stompy guy” mission unfolding but doesn’t feel trapped.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he soothes. “Daddy’s got you. We’re gonna find him, okay? I promise.” She hiccups miserably. John bounces her gently on his hip. “Where’d you last see green stompy guy?” he asks in a conspiratorial whisper. “Because I know he likes to hide under things. He thinks he’s sneaky.”

Mara’s cries stutter. “Sneaky,” she repeats, sniffling.

“There we go,” he murmurs, kissing the top of her head. “C’mon. Let’s find him.”

He looks over at you then, checking in, making sure you’re okay, not just her. His expression softens when he sees the lingering strain in your face.

“You’re doing great,” he says quietly. “I know it’s hard. You’re not alone.”

You don’t know why that sentence hits so deeply. Maybe because you’ve spent two years convincing yourself you were alone. Maybe because hearing it from him again feels too much like the life you lost.

You clear your throat and nod again, unable to speak.

Together, the two of you start searching the living room. Mara watches from John’s arms as if you’re on a high-stakes rescue mission. It’s you who spots the green dinosaur first, half tucked under the couch, its tail sticking out.

You drop to your knees at the same moment John does, both of you reaching under the couch to grab it. Your hands collide. Not gently. Not by accident.

His fingers brush against yours, then slide along the side of your hand as you both instinctively adjust your grip. The contact is warm, too warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that makes your breath catch.

You don’t pull away. He doesn’t either.

Your eyes lift at the same time.

You’re close. Too close. His face inches from yours. His knees brushing yours. Mara’s sniffles fading into the background as the air between you tightens. He looks at you like he did years ago, before everything broke, eyes dark, hopeful, aching. He sucks in a quiet breath, his lips parting just enough to hint at a thought he doesn’t say.

You’re aware of everything. The warmth of his hand against yours, the solid line of his thigh beside your knee, the faint tremble of his exhale, the way his gaze drops to your mouth for a split second before returning to your eyes.

Your heart thuds painfully hard. You feel it everywhere. In your ribs, your throat, your fingertips pressed against his.

For a suspended moment, neither of you moves. You could close that tiny distance, lean in, press your forehead to his, feel him the way you used to.

He could kiss you. He wants to. You can see it in the way his breath hitches, the way his lips soften, the way his whole body shifts almost imperceptibly toward you.

Then he jerks back. Too fast. Too sharp. Like the moment scared him as much as it scared you. He stands up abruptly, nearly knocking into the coffee table. “I, uh…coffee?” he blurts, voice cracking slightly. “I should… I’ll make coffee. Or lunch.”

You blink up at him, pulse still thrumming. “Sure. Right. Coffee sounds good.”

He nods too many times and turns quickly toward the kitchen.

You both clasp your hands behind your backs at the same moment, trying to hide how unsteady they feel, how electric the contact was.

He reaches the doorway and pauses. Not looking back, just standing there, breathing. And then he does it. He flexes his hand. Slowly. Purposefully.

As if reliving the feeling of your skin against his. As if he didn’t want the contact to end. As if his fingers still remember you.

Your stomach flips.

He clears his throat, forcing himself forward. “Coffee,” he repeats, like it’s a safe word.

You swallow. “Coffee.”

You both pretend you didn’t almost kiss on the living room floor, next to a green plush dinosaur. But the moment hangs there, heavy and impossible to ignore. And nothing feels the same afterward.

-

It’s late when John drops Eli off at your apartment. Mara’s already asleep in her room, her nightlight glowing softly under the crack in the door. Eli shuffles in sleepily, rubbing his eyes and leaning into your side when you help him out of his coat. You guide him to the couch with a blanket, promising he can stay until his mom picks him up in the morning.

When you turn back toward the front door, John is standing there. Not leaving. Not stepping inside.

Just… lingering. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders tight. That familiar hesitation hovering between you, quiet, tense, unspoken. It’s become a pattern these past few months, the way neither of you walks away right away, the way you hover in each other’s gravity without naming it.

You lean against the doorframe. “You okay?”

He nods. Or tries to. His gaze drops to the floor. “I’m still in therapy,” he says finally, voice low.

The admission takes you by surprise. He’s mentioned therapy before, but never like this, never without prompting, never so plainly.

“I’m glad,” you say quietly.

He shifts his weight, then nods again. “It’s… helped. More than I expected.” You don’t push. You just wait. He takes a slow breath, steadying himself like he’s about to lift something heavy. “I was angry back then,” he says. “At the world. At myself. I felt like everything I’d worked for, everything I thought I was…it all fell apart at once.”

You stay quiet. He keeps going. His voice roughens at the edges.

“I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t know how to talk about it. I thought…God, I thought pushing you away was the only way to keep you safe. From me. From who I was turning into.” He shakes his head, eyes pinched shut. “I told myself you were better off without me. And all I did was hurt you. And Eli. And myself.”

The room is still. The kind of still that sits right between pain and relief.

You swallow. “John…”

But he isn’t finished. “I never stopped caring about you,” he says softly. “Not for a second. Not even when I acted like I didn’t. I didn’t expect you to forgive me. I’m not asking you to. I just… needed you to know I’m trying. Really trying. I want to be someone Mara can be proud of. And someone you never have to shield her from.”

Your throat tightens. Not with anger. Not anymore. With something gentler. Sadder. Truer. You step out of the doorway, moving a little closer.

“I wasn’t perfect either,” you say. “I shut down. I got scared. I kept things from you because I didn’t think you wanted me anymore. I didn’t think you wanted a family with me. And I should’ve told you about Mara. I should’ve given you that choice.”

He looks up sharply then, eyes bright, jaw tight. “I hurt you,” he says. “I made you believe you couldn’t trust me. That’s on me. Not you.”

You shake your head. “We were both drowning. Just in different directions.”

A long silence settles between you. Not uncomfortable. Not hostile. Just… honest.

He exhales slowly, shoulders lowering like he’s letting go of something he’s held onto for too long. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For all of it. For the way I ended things. For making you feel alone. For missing everything.”

“And I’m sorry too,” you say. “For shutting you out. For being scared of you instead of talking to you. For not telling you about Mara. For not letting you show up sooner.”

You both stand there for a long moment, close enough to touch but careful not to. You watch each other in that quiet, shifting way that happens when two people finally say the things they should’ve said years ago.

It’s not clean. It’s not a magic fix. But it’s real. A small start.

His expression softens in a way you haven’t seen since before everything broke. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

You nod, feeling something inside you loosen. “Thank you too.”

He steps back a little, rubbing his palm against his thigh, grounding himself. “I’m not perfect,” he says, voice steady. “But I’m better. I can be better. For her. For Eli.” His eyes meet yours. “For you. If you ever… needed that.”

Your heart stumbles. You inhale too sharply. The air thickens.

His gaze flickers to your mouth, then away, then back, just a tiny pull. The kind of moment that used to end in a kiss without either of you thinking about it.

But now? Now things are more fragile. More complicated.

You take a small step back, not far, just enough to breathe. “We’ll figure it out,” you say. “Slowly.”

He nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Slowly.”

You walk him to the door. He pauses there, one hand on the frame, the other hanging uselessly at his side like he has to stop himself from reaching for you.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“Goodnight, John.”

He holds your gaze for another second. Two. His eyes warm. Quiet. Full. Then he leaves.

You close the door behind him, press your back against it, and let out the breath you’d been holding. Something new is in motion now. Something carefully rebuilt. Something fragile and hopeful and terrifying. Forgiveness. Not complete. Not simple. But real.

And it feels like the ground shifting beneath your feet.

-

The radiator clicks twice, groans, and gives up completely around nine at night. You don’t realize it’s dead until Mara toddles over from her toy corner rubbing her arms, cheeks pink from cold.

“Mama, brrrr,” she says, the word broken into two syllables, buh-rurrr, her lower lip trembling in that dramatic toddler way that’s half real, half performance.

You’re wearing two sweaters yourself, trying not to panic as you place your hand near the heater. Nothing. No warmth. No hum. Just cold metal.

“Great,” you mutter under your breath. “Perfect.”

Your landlord still hasn’t returned your calls about the rattle the unit made earlier. The temperature in the apartment is dropping fast, and the weather app on your phone keeps blinking red warnings about the incoming snowstorm. It’s the kind that shuts down roads and buries cars. The worst possible night to lose heat.

You layer Mara in a thermal shirt, a sweater, then another sweater. Socks under thicker socks. A blanket over her shoulders. She still shivers, small and miserable.

“Mama, cold,” she whines.

“I know, baby,” you say, pulling her into your lap. “I know.”

You debate your options. Sam would help, without question, but he’s probably asleep after getting back from a mission a few hours ago, and your call goes straight to voicemail. Joaquin’s shift at the compound is long tonight, and he doesn’t answer either. You don’t blame them. It’s late. It’s cold. And this is your mess.

Your stomach twists as the last option settles heavily in your mind. 

John.

He’s the one person you don’t want to call because it feels too vulnerable. Too intimate. Because for the last three months, since that night in your doorway, the night you talked honestly, forgave each other, opened a door neither of you has dared step fully through, everything between you has been simmering. Warm. Unspoken.

Calling him now feels like leaning into something you’ve been trying to resist.

But Mara is cold, and he’s her father.

You scroll to his name. Take a breath. Press call. He answers on the second ring.

“Hey,” he says, voice thick like he’d been half-asleep. “Everything okay?”

You try to sound calm. You fail. “The heat’s out.”

He’s fully awake now, you can hear the shift in his breathing. “Out completely?”

“Yeah. And Mara’s freezing. I’ve layered her up but…”

“Stop.” His voice goes firm. “Don’t panic. Pack a bag. Both of you.”

“John…”

“I’m coming to get you,” he says, already moving around in the background, drawers opening, keys jangling. “You shouldn’t drive in this weather. I’m ten minutes away.”

You close your eyes, tension breaking like a wave. “Thank you.”

“No need,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you.”

The line goes silent, and you stare at the phone for a second before forcing yourself into motion. You dress Mara in her boots and puffy coat, she protests sleepily, confused why she’s being moved at bedtime, but you soothe her with a soft voice and a promise of warmth.

When John’s truck pulls up outside, snow is already swirling, thick enough to blur the streetlights. He hops out before you can even open the building door, meeting you halfway with his arms outstretched.

“Give her here,” he murmurs, lifting Mara against his chest so she doesn’t have to step in the slush. She buries her face into his neck, small fingers gripping his collar. He holds her like she’s the most precious thing in the world.

He turns to you next. “Got everything?”

You nod, though your breath fogs in the cold and your fingers are stiff from the air. He takes the overnight bag from your shoulder without asking, carrying both it and your daughter like it’s nothing. Princess prances behind him, ears bouncing with each step.

Inside the truck, the heat blasts warm air almost immediately. John buckles Mara in, checking twice that the straps aren’t twisted, brushing her hair off her face before he closes the door.

You watch him, heart tightening. He’s steady. He’s attentive. He’s softened in all the places he used to be rough and sharpened in all the places he used to be lost. And suddenly your apartment’s failing heater feels like the least dangerous thing in your life.

The drive to his house is short, though snow has begun piling quickly on the windshield. When he pulls into the driveway, the house looks warm, light glowing through the front windows. He gets out again before you can protest, lifting Mara into his arms once more.

Inside, warmth crashes over you like a wave. He has the heat turned up. A soft lamp glows in the hallway. He even has a small stack of blankets on the entry bench, like he anticipated the cold you’d be bringing in.

Mara’s room is ready, bed pulled back. Her favorite stuffed toy is waiting on the pillow. He must’ve bought a duplicate just in case. Eli’s room is next door. His room is down the hall. Everything smells like laundry detergent and pine, like home.

You’ve been here countless times in the past year… but tonight, standing in the doorway with melting snow in your hair and your daughter asleep in her father’s arms, it feels different.

Like something solid. Something lived-in. Something built with intention.

John looks at you over Mara’s shoulder, eyes soft but serious. “You two can stay as long as you need,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”

You nod, unable to speak. Because something inside you shifts at the sight of him holding her in the warm glow of his home, something you can’t deny anymore.

This is safe. This is real. This is inevitable. And you don’t know whether that terrifies you or saves you.

-

Once Mara is asleep, out cold, face smushed against the pillow, one tiny fist gripping the ear of her stuffed bunny, you tiptoe out of her room and pull the door halfway shut. Princess whines at you until you open the door to let her trot inside and curl up at the foot of your daughters bed, huffing happily as she makes herself at home.

The house is warm and quiet, the kind of quiet that settles over everything when snow piles high outside. A soft lamp glows in the hallway. You hear John in the kitchen, rinsing out Mara’s sippy cup and setting it upside down in the drying rack.

For a moment, you stand there in the doorway just watching him. The familiar shape of his shoulders. The way he moves is steady, deliberate. It does something to you that you’re not ready to name.

He dries his hands on a towel and turns toward you. “She out?”

“Completely.”

His mouth lifts in a small smile, but it fades when he glances toward the bedrooms down the hall. “Okay. So… sleeping arrangements.”

You hold up a hand immediately. “John. I’m not taking your bed.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “You’re a guest.”

“I’m the reason we’re here,” you counter. “My place is the one with no heat.”

“And you’re still taking the bed.”

“Walker,” you warn, crossing your own arms.

He steps closer, just a little. “You’re exhausted. You’re freezing. You’re taking the bed.”

“I’m fine on the couch.”

“You are not sleeping on a damn couch.”

“I’ve slept on worse.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

You huff a laugh, but he’s already gearing up for another round. “Look,” you say, trying to keep it light, “you’ve got the super serum. You can sleep on a slab of ice and be fine. I get that. But I honestly should have stayed at my place and not imposed like this to begin with.”

He lets out a short, exasperated breath. “Yeah, well, my mama would skin me alive if she found out I put my kid’s mom on the couch while I took the bed. Or left her back in her freezer of an apartment.”

The way he says my kid’s mom lands in your chest, warm and heavy. You swallow. “John,” you murmur, “I don’t want to take your bed.”

“You’re not taking it from me,” he says softly. “I’m giving it to you.”

And suddenly the room feels smaller. Warmer. Dangerous. You clear your throat. “We’re not going to win this, are we?”

He shakes his head. “Probably not.”

Silence hangs for a moment too long. Neither of you move. Finally, you sigh. “Fine. Compromise.”

He looks suspicious. “I’m listening.”

“We both stay out here.”

“In the living room?”

You nod. “Couch and… chair, or something. Neutral territory.”

His expression softens, understanding the real reason behind your compromise, the line you’re still both too scared to cross. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Okay. Yeah, we can do that.”

He grabs a big, soft blanket from the closet, one you’ve seen Mara curled up in a dozen times, and tosses it onto the couch. Then he heads to the kitchen and returns with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

“You good with this?” he asks, already pouring.

You sit on the couch and tuck your legs under you. “Yeah. A drink sounds good.”

He settles beside you, not too close, not far either, his thigh brushing the cushion next to yours. The house is quiet except for the hum of the heater and the occasional soft whistle of wind pushing snow against the window.

A movie plays low on the TV, more background noise than anything either of you care about. You sip whiskey. He sips his, though you know it won’t hit him the way it hits you. The blanket ends up draped over both your legs. You don’t remember how exactly. The room feels warmer. Softer. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

It feels too much like the old days. The way you used to sit together after long missions: talking, teasing, letting the world fall away. The easy closeness. The quiet. The comfort.

You feel his arm resting along the back of the couch. Not touching you, but close enough that if you shifted even an inch, your shoulder would brush his.

He watches the TV, but he’s not really watching. His eyes flick toward you every few minutes, checking in, maybe. Or maybe just looking. You do the same.

Outside, snow taps against the windows like soft fingers. Inside, something heavy and unspoken settles between you, warm and undeniable.

The whiskey is warm in your chest. Not enough to fog your mind, just enough to ease it open, like a window cracked in summer. He swirls the last of his whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly, then glances at you sideways. The lamplight catches the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble there, the way his throat works when he swallows.

“So,” he says, voice low, a little rough around the edges, “did you… I don’t know… date? In the last couple years?”

You arch a brow, lips curving despite the delicate weight of the question. “You want the whole rundown?”

“I want whatever you’ll tell me.” His voice is quiet. Honest. His eyes don’t leave yours, steady and searching, like he’s bracing for the answer but needs it all the same.

You take a sip before answering, the burn of the whiskey grounding you. “One guy.”

His jaw ticks, just once, a flicker of something possessive he tries to hide. “One?”

“Relax,” you mutter, amused despite how fragile this feels, how every word seems to carry the weight of years. “It was a few dates. He was sweet. Nice. Knew how to use a calendar. Brought me flowers once.”

John snorts, but there’s no humor in it, just a sharp edge. “Yeah, he sounds thrilling.”

You smile into your glass, the rim cool against your lips. “It fizzled.”

“Why?” His voice is softer now, but there’s a tension in it, like he’s holding his breath.

You meet his gaze, unflinching. “He found out I was a mom.”

John goes still. His fingers tighten around his glass, knuckles whitening for a moment. Then, soft, protective, almost a growl, he declares, “Idiot.”

“You asked.”

“I regret it,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face, the motion rough, like he’s trying to scrub away the image of someone else with you.

You laugh, but it’s thin, edged with something painful. Something hollow. “What about you? Did you date?”

“Date?” He lets out a breath, short and sharp. “No. I didn’t date.”

“Hookups?”

His ears turn faintly pink, and he shifts, the couch creaking under his weight. “A few.”

You blink, surprised, a sting of something sharp twisting in your chest. “Really?”

He gives you a look, half-defensive, half-sheepish. “I’m divorced, not dead.”

You laugh, but it’s brittle, the sound catching in your throat. “Anyone important?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “No.” His eyes lock on yours, unwavering. “No one touched what we had.” The words hit you like a slow, warm wave, stealing your breath. You look down at your glass before your heartbeat betrays you, before he hears it thudding against your ribs.

You clear your throat, the sound too loud in the quiet. “Okay. My turn.”

He shifts, angling toward you, his knee brushing yours under the blanket. The contact is fleeting but electric, a spark that lingers. “Ask me anything.”

“What are you doing these days? When you’re not… saving the world with the New Avengers? And not with me and Mara?”

He smiles, softening, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “PT in the mornings. Therapy twice a week. Missions sometimes. Dad days with Eli. I help coach his little league team.”

Your heart squeezes, a warm, aching thing. “You coach?”

“Yeah.” His face brightens, eyes crinkling at the corners, the way they used to when he talked about something that mattered. “He’s gotten better. Faster. Still crowds the plate too much, but… he’s trying.”

You feel the warmth rise in your chest, spreading like the whiskey. “He loves you.”

He looks down, smiling into his hands, fingers laced together like he’s holding something precious. “Yeah. I’m lucky.”

You hesitate, then ask, voice softer, “Are you happy?” The question hangs between you like a held breath, heavy and fragile.

John takes a while to answer. When he does, it’s quiet. Honest. “I’m… getting there.” Then he lifts his eyes to you, and they’re softer, deeper, pulling you in. “This stuff? Co-parenting? Being with the kids? Talking to you? This helps.” For a moment, you can’t speak. Your throat is tight, your chest too full.

He fills the silence gently, his voice a low rumble. “Your turn.”

You laugh, shaky. “What do you want to know?”

He lifts his glass, thinking, his thumb tracing the rim. “Like I said. Anything you’ll tell me.”

You take a breath, steadying yourself. “Okay. Ask.”

He looks at you for a long time, long enough that your pulse stumbles, that the air between you thickens, charged with everything unsaid. Then, voice low, careful, he says, “What was it like?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What was what like?”

“Being pregnant.” His eyes soften, raw and unguarded. “Without me.”

You inhale, slow and shaky. His tone isn’t demanding. It isn’t accusatory. It’s careful, like he’s holding something fragile and knows it could shatter. He really wants to know. He needs to know. You pull back, just a fraction, the warmth of the moment cooling as the weight of the past settles in. “It was… a lot,” you say, voice quieter now, measured. “Hard. Lonely. But not always. There were moments I loved it, too.”

He doesn’t interrupt, just watches you, his hand stilling on the couch back.

You keep going, the words steady but distant, like you’re recounting someone else’s story. “Sam came to my first appointment. Joaquin came to another. Bucky dropped off groceries like a grumpy, judgmental fairy godmother. I wasn’t alone. But I was really lonely.”

John’s jaw works, emotion flickering across his face. Grief, guilt, longing. His fingers twitch, like he wants to reach for you but knows he can’t. Not yet.

You swallow, the memory heavy. “I almost called you.” He closes his eyes, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “So many times,” you whisper, your voice steady but soft. “But every time I tried, I remembered how things ended. How angry you were. How angry I was. I didn’t want to hear that you didn’t want us.”

His eyes snap open, raw and pained. “I never didn’t want you. I was just… broken.”

“I know that now,” you say, your tone gentle but firm, pulling the moment back from the edge. “Back then, I didn’t.” You shift, curling your legs up for warmth, breaking the contact of your shin against his thigh. The distance feels deliberate now, a boundary you both need. You clear your throat. “Ask me something else. Something that won’t make us spiral.”

He huffs a soft laugh, the tension easing just enough to breathe. “Alright. But only if you ask me something too.”

“Deal.”

He thinks for a moment, his gaze flicking to the snow outside, then back to you. “Is this… weird for you?”

You meet his eyes, considering. “Is what weird?”

“This,” he says, nodding between you, his voice low. “Being here. Talking like this. Sitting like this.”

You glance down at the blanket, at the space between you. Close, but not quite touching anymore. “It’s not weird,” you say honestly. “It feels… safe.”

Something in him loosens, his shoulders dropping a fraction. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice warm again, pulling you back in. “Me too.”

You take a small breath, the air between you warming once more. “My turn.”

He lifts his chin in invitation, his eyes catching the lamplight, soft and steady.

“Are you scared of wanting this again?”

He freezes, the question hitting him like a slow, inevitable wave. Then, quiet, full of truth, he says, “Yeah. Terrified.”

You nod, your own fear mirrored in his eyes. “Me too.”

The admittance settles warm and heavy between you, the snow outside a quiet hush, the room smaller, warmer, alive with possibility.

John clears his throat, his voice rougher now. “Okay. My turn.”

You smile faintly, your pulse quickening again. “Go ahead.”

He hesitates, his eyes searching yours, like this next question might tip the balance. Then, voice low and steady, he asks, “If I had known about Mara…” His gaze doesn’t waver. “If I’d stayed with you after that fight… would we still be together?”

Your heart hits the brakes. You pick up your whiskey glass, your hand trembling just enough to notice. You take a slow sip, the burn grounding you, and set it down. You hold his gaze without flinching.

“Yes,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the weight of it. “If you had stayed… If I had stayed… we would still be together. I never would have left you.”

The response hits him like a physical blow. His breath leaves him in a slow, unsteady rush. His eyes close, and for a moment he looks like he’s hurting and healing at the same time, his broad shoulders trembling under the weight of what could have been.

When he opens them again, they’re darker. Warmer. Devastated. His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, hovering over the blanket where your legs rest. Then it settles on your ankle, his thumb brushing a slow, reverent line over your skin, muscle memory guiding him. The touch is warm, electric, pulling you back into the heat of the moment. His fingers slide higher, tracing the curve of your calf, each movement careful but hungry, like he’s memorizing you all over again. 

You swallow. Hard. “John…” you whisper.

He leans in, not fully, not carelessly, but with intention. With want. With something sharp and trembling behind his eyes. His voice is low, rough at the edges. “Then let’s pretend.”

Your heartbeat stutters. “Pretend?”

He cups the side of your calf with his hand, fingers warm, calloused. “Pretend I knew about Mara,” he murmurs. “Pretend we never split. Pretend we’re still…” His breath shudders. “Together.” The word hangs there between you, hot and fragile, like it might burn straight through the air. You feel the danger in it. The possibility. The cost.

The couch seems to tilt under you. His thumb sweeps up the side of your leg again, stopping just beneath the hem of your sleep shorts, and he looks up at you with a vulnerability you’ve never seen on his face, not even in the worst days, not in the breaking days.

He is asking. Not taking. Not assuming. Asking. Your chest tightens, ribs stretching unbearably around your heart.

“John…” you whisper again. He hears the hesitation. Sees the conflict. The child sleeping down the hall. The history between you. The future you’ve been too scared to think about.

So he leans in closer, closer than he has in two years, and his voice drops to a whisper so soft and sincere it nearly crushes you. “Just pretend, baby.”

Your breath trembles out of you. Your hand has already moved without permission, fingers light on the back of his neck. He goes still at the touch, like every nerve in his body has been struck.

“Only if you want to,” he adds quickly, forehead almost touching yours. “If you don’t, I’ll stop. I promise.” His eyes search yours, blue-gray and wide and entirely honest.

You hold his gaze for a long moment. Long enough to feel the fear. Long enough to feel the longing. Long enough to feel the truth rise inside you like a tide you can’t fight.

“I want to,” you whisper. Something breaks in his expression, softly, quietly, beautifully. He shifts, sliding your legs further across his lap until one arm tucks beneath your knees, the other bracing himself on the couch. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t drag you. He doesn’t take.

He waits for you to move with him. You do. You guide yourself backward, lying down slowly across the couch cushions. Your heart kicks hard when he follows, careful, steady, until he’s hovering above you on his forearms, caging you in without trapping you. His body radiates heat. His breath fans across your cheek.

“Jesus…” he murmurs, voice breaking on the word. “I forgot how beautiful you look like this.”

Your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. He notices and his hand moves again, slow and reverent, gliding up the outside of your thigh. The sensation is enough to set off sparks in places you had buried for survival. He stops just beneath your hip. Pauses. Lets you feel the weight of his hand. Lets you choose.

You inhale shakily. He lowers his forehead to yours, noses brushing. The closeness steals your breath. “Still good?” he asks, voice low and steady.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Say it,” he whispers.

“I’m good,” you breathe.

His shoulders roll with the exhale he’s been holding. And then he lowers himself just a little more, chest brushing yours. His lips hover over your cheekbone, then drift along your jaw like he’s tracing a map he still remembers by heart.

You tilt your head, your fingers sliding into his hair. He sucks in a breath through his nose like he’s drowning in the sensation. Everywhere he touches feels like the place you’ve been missing.

Your voice cracks. “John…”

He stops instantly, lifting his head just enough to see your eyes. “Too much?”

“No,” you whisper. “Not too much. Just…” You swallow again. “I don’t want this to hurt in the morning.”

He flinches, just a fraction, but enough for you to feel it in his body above you.

He cups your cheek with one large, warm hand, thumb stroking gently. “It won’t,” he says. “I swear it. It’s pretend, okay? Just pretend. No expectations. No promises. Just…” He shakes his head slightly, searching for the right word. “Just us. Like we were.”

Your chest aches, pain and relief and longing all tangled up. “Okay,” you whisper.

His breath leaves him in one shuddering exhale. And then, slowly, carefully, his hand slides down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, settling at your hip. His thumb strokes your skin through the fabric of your shorts, and the sensation goes straight through you.

You can’t help it, your eyes flick to his mouth. His lips part. Just a fraction. Just enough to show he noticed. You don’t kiss him. But you lean in a little. And he leans in a little. And the air between you heats, thickens, tightens into something that feels like gravity.

Your voice is barely audible. “John…”

His mouth drags lightly along the corner of your jaw, nearly a kiss, absolutely not one. He breathes you in. Then he murmurs, voice low and gravel-soft against your skin, “Can I ask you another question, sunshine?”

The nickname hits you like impact. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, tugging him closer without meaning to. You tilt your head a fraction in silent permission.

“Yes,” you breathe.

John hums, the sound warm and rough in your ear. He doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, not kissing, just hovering, and the heat of him makes your whole body tense in delicious anticipation. His breath ghosts along your skin, sending a shiver all the way down your spine.

His voice drops into a low, sinful growl that hits you straight in the belly. “If we were still together, right now…” He presses his knee between your thighs, teasing, but rough enough to make you gasp. “Would your legs be wrapped around me, or just on either side of me like this?”

You moan softly at the friction of his thigh pressing between your legs. “They’d be… spread. Further.” You whisper thickly.

John lets out a low, rough noise, half groan, half growl, at your answer. His hands flex where they’re gripping the couch beside you, his entire body tensing like he’s barely keeping control. Slowly, testing to see if you’ll stop him, he shifts his thigh again, pressing harder, letting you rock against it, his lips hovering over yours.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice ragged. “Like this?” His hands move to the underside of your thigh, spreading your legs further, bending one up toward your chest to press more fully against you. You can feel the hard ridge of him through his sweats, thick and insistent, dragging against your soaked core.

You whimper softly at the friction, heat pooling in your gut. “Yeah,” you pant, “just like that.”

John exhales roughly at the whimper you make, his self-control fraying at the edges. He rocks his hips into yours, letting you feel him more fully. He keeps his lips close, close enough that if he moved even an inch, he’d be kissing you.

“Good,” he murmurs, “because I don’t think I can stop myself from touching you right now.”

“God, you’re–” you groan as he rocks his erection against your sweats.

“Hard?” he cuts in, voice strained. “For you. Always for you.”

“You mean you… still…”

“We’re pretending, remember?” he hushes you, rocking his hips into yours with deliberate pressure. “We’ve been together for the last three years, sunshine. Raising our baby.”

“Our baby,” you pant, rocking your hips, grinding against him. You’re close already, and it makes you feel a little pathetic. “Yes. Yes we have.”

John growls with satisfaction at the way you’re responding to him, to his touch, to his voice, the feel of his body pressing against yours. “Our baby.” He agrees, his voice rough as he continues to rock against you, grinding against your soaked heat through the layers of your clothes. “You want to know another thing we could be doing?”

“Making another one?” you moan softly, delirious with how close you are to coming undone from just grinding against him on the couch.

John lets out a sharp, almost broken sound at your answer, something between a groan and a growl as his hand squeezes your thigh, his body still grinding you into the cushions, your thighs trembling as you approach your release.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “Exactly that.”

“Oh,” you moan as you feel yourself teeter on the edge. “Oh, John.”

John exhales harshly at the sound of your desperate whine. He remembers that voice, the little one you make before you finish. “Tell me,” he growls in your ear, “you want me to touch you more?”

“Yes,” you cry, hands threading in his hair as you continue to grind back into him. “Yes I do.”

He moans as your hands thread in his hair and tug, his breath stuttering only slightly. His lips find yours immediately, rough and hungry as he kisses you like he’s been dying to for years. He doesn’t hold back, his teeth grazing your lips, tongue sliding against yours, swallowing the cry you let out as you come undone.

The orgasm rips through you, sharp and blinding, your hips bucking against his thigh as you clench around nothing, soaked through your shorts. He keeps rocking you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling, gasping into his mouth.

But he doesn’t stop. He pulls back just enough to yank your shorts and panties down in one rough motion, tossing them aside. His sweats follow, shoved down just enough to free his cock, thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. He drags the head through your slick folds, coating himself, groaning at how wet you are.

“Still pretending,” he rasps, lining himself up. “Still us. Still mine.”

You nod frantically, legs spreading wider, heels digging into the couch. “Yours.”

He pushes in with one slow, relentless thrust, stretching you open, filling you so completely your back arches off the cushions. The burn is perfect, the fullness overwhelming. He bottoms out with a guttural groan, forehead dropping to yours.

“Fuck, you feel…” He cuts himself off with a shaky breath, pulling back slow, so slow, then sliding home again, deep and sloppy, the drag of him inside you making you both gasp. “So fucking good. Always so good for me, baby.”

You cry out, soft and broken, nails dragging down the cotton of his shirt, bunching the fabric in your fists. He growls low in his throat, hips rolling in a messy, unhurried rhythm, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you again 

But it’s too much, too soon. One thrust. Two. The heat of you, the slick clutch of your body, the sound of your moan, he’s gone. His hips jerk forward, burying himself to the hilt, and then he’s pulling out with a strangled groan, hand flying to the base of his cock as he comes hard, thick ropes of it spilling across your belly in hot, messy pulses.

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry,” he pants, voice wrecked, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he shudders through the aftershocks. “Been too long. Couldn’t… fuck, I couldn’t hold it.”

You laugh, breathless and dazed, fingers threading through his damp hair. “It’s okay,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his temple. “It’s okay.”

He lifts his head, eyes glassy with apology and awe, thumb smearing the mess across your skin like he’s painting you. “I’m not done,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Not even close.”

He kisses you then, slow, deep, sloppy, tongue sliding against yours, swallowing your soft moan. His hand cups your cheek, the other sliding down to cradle your hip, thumb stroking the curve of your waist. You taste salt and whiskey and him, and it’s perfect.

Minutes pass. Just kissing. Just breathing. Just the soft drag of his lips over yours, your jaw, your throat. He’s still half-hard against your thigh, and you can feel him twitching, thickening again with every press of your mouth.

“Super stamina,” you tease against his lips, breathless.

He huffs a laugh, nipping your bottom lip. “Super something.” He shifts, sliding a hand between your legs, fingers gliding through your slick folds, circling your clit with gentle pressure. You gasp, hips bucking, and he groans into your neck.

“Still so wet for me,” he murmurs, voice reverent. “Still mine.”

You nod, legs falling open wider. “Always.”

He lines himself up again, slower this time, eyes locked on yours as he pushes in, inch by inch, letting you feel every thick drag of him. You both moan, the sound muffled against each other’s lips.

This time, he lasts. He fucks you in long, deep strokes, slow enough to feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, fast enough to make the couch groan beneath you. Wet sounds fill the quiet room, obscene and perfect. His hand tightens in your hair, fingers twisting gently at the roots, tugging your head back just enough to bare the column of your throat. He presses open-mouthed kisses there, then a slow, deliberate bite, teeth sinking in just shy of pain, marking you with tenderness. You keen, clenching around him, and he shudders, hips stuttering.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, voice wrecked and tender all at once. “Gonna put another baby in you. You want that, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you sob, legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him deeper. “Yes, John, please.”

He tugs your hair again, a little sharper this time, tilting your head so he can bite the soft spot beneath your ear, then lick the sting away. “Gonna keep you full,” he whispers against your lips, biting your lower lip gently, then soothing it with his tongue. “Gonna fuck you full you every night until you’re round with my kid again. You’re mine. This pussy’s mine.”

You come with a soft, shattered cry, walls fluttering around him, milking him in slow, pulsing waves. He groans into your mouth, hips losing rhythm, thrusts turning sloppy and desperate.

“Oh, fuck. You’re so good to me,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, breath hitching. “I’m not gonna last. I can’t…Christ, you feel perfect.”

You cup his face, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, tears in your eyes from the intensity, from the love. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”

He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “No one else ever did this to me,” he confesses, voice cracking. “Not once. I’d be with someone and close my eyes and it was still you. Your face. Your voice. Your body. You’re the only thing that ever got me hard. Still are. Always will be.”

Your heart breaks open. You kiss him, slow, deep, sloppy, tears mixing with saliva, noses bumping. “John,” you breathe into his mouth. “Come inside me. I want it. I want you.”

He whimpers and buries his face in your neck, hand fisting tighter in your hair, pulling until your scalp tingles. He bites down on your shoulder, teeth sinking in just enough to leave a mark, then licks the spot reverently. His hips snap forward in three messy, desperate thrusts, deep and sloppy, before he stills, pulsing inside you, flooding you with heat. You feel every spurt, every throb, and it drags your orgasm out longer, your body trembling beneath him.

He doesn’t pull out. He stays buried deep, chest heaving, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, your mouth in soft, reverent, sloppy kisses. His hand releases your hair slowly, fingers combing through the strands, cradling the back of your neck instead, holding you close.

“Still pretending?” he whispers, voice raw, trembling.

You shake your head, tears slipping free. “No.”

He kisses you again, slow, open-mouthed, tasting salt and whiskey and everything you’ve both been holding back for years.

“Good,” he murmurs against your lips, voice thick with love. “Because I’m not letting you go again.”

He stays inside you for a long moment, breathing hard against your neck, your legs still loosely hooked around his waist. When he finally pulls out, the loss of him makes you both shiver. He presses a soft kiss to your lips, then another to your temple.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Let me take care of you.”

He scoops you up like you weigh nothing, blanket abandoned on the couch, and carries you down the hallway. The bathroom light is low, warm, and he sets you gently on the counter, the marble cool against your bare thighs. He wets a soft washcloth under the tap, steam curling in the air, and kneels between your legs. His touch is reverent as he cleans you, slow, careful strokes across your belly, between your thighs, wiping away the evidence of him with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

You watch him, eyes heavy, and he glances up, catching your gaze. “You okay?” he asks, voice soft.

You nod, throat tight. “More than okay.”

He smiles, small and real, and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before helping you down. He finds one of his old T-shirts in the hamper, soft, worn, smelling like him, and slips it over your head. 

His bedroom is dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside the window, filtering through the snow. He pulls back the covers, the comforter a deeply familiar shade, your eye color, you realize with a start. You crawl in, the sheets cool against your skin, and he follows, sliding in behind you. He pulls you close, your back to his chest, his arm heavy and warm across your waist.

You’re out almost immediately, face pressed to his collarbone, the steady thump of his heart under your cheek.

John doesn’t sleep. He watches you, the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks, the soft part of your lips. Up close, he sees Mara in the slope of your nose, the curve of your mouth. And he sees you in Mara. The way she scrunches her nose when she laughs, the way she reaches for him with both hands. His heart clenches, a sweet, sharp ache.

He wants this.

He wants you.

This house, he bought it before the breakup, before everything shattered. He’d walked through the empty rooms with you in mind, picturing Eli’s toys scattered across the living room, your books on the shelves, your laugh echoing in the kitchen. He’d decorated it the way he thought you’d like. The comforter he’d picked because it matched your eyes. After you left, he couldn’t stand to be here. The silence was too loud. He stayed at the compound, in sterile rooms that didn’t smell like home.

When he started healing, therapy, time, the slow crawl back to himself, he moved in. Brought Eli. Turned the guest room into Mara’s without hesitation once he learned about her. And this bedroom…he’d always hoped it would be one he shared with you one day.

He presses his lips to your forehead, breathing you in.

He falls asleep like that, lips against your skin, hoping, praying, that tomorrow brought another chance.

-

The world is muffled when you wake. There’s a strange stillness in the air, the kind you only get after heavy snow, sound swallowed, light softened. For a moment you think you’re still dreaming, because everything feels too warm. Too safe.

Then you register the weight around your waist. John’s arm is draped across you, heavy and solid, his hand resting just under your ribs. Your back is pressed to his chest, your legs tangled with his. His breath fans across the back of your neck in slow, even waves. The soft cotton of his T-shirt hangs loose over your body, smelling like him, clean soap, something woodsy, something distinctly John.

For a heartbeat, you don’t move. You just let yourself lie there and feel it. This. The thing you used to have. The thing you swore you’d never have again. The thing you still wanted more than you ever admitted out loud.

Your fingers curl into the pillow. You could stay here. You could close your eyes and go back under and pretend this is just… life. Your life. The one that never broke. But reality creeps in fast.

Mara. Down the hall, sleeping in a room with her favorite stuffed bunny on the pillow. Eli. The family you’ve built, painfully and carefully, this past year. The fragile peace you and John have worked so hard to earn.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. Your heart starts to beat too fast. Because last night wasn’t just history. It wasn’t just muscle memory. It was a line crossed. A decision made. And whatever comes next has to be deliberate.

Behind you, John shifts. You tense automatically. His arm tightens fractionally, like his body is reluctant to let you go even before his brain catches up. Then you feel him wake all at once. His breath changes. His chest expands in a deeper inhale. His hand flexes against your ribs.

“Morning,” he says quietly, voice rough with sleep.

You don’t trust your voice yet, so you just hum in response. He doesn’t move his arm. For a moment, neither of you says anything. You stare at the frost-fogged window and the faint glow of snow-reflected daylight leaking around the curtain edges. The house is silent, no small footsteps yet, no cartoons, no clatter. Just you and him and the echo of everything that happened last night.

Finally, you force yourself to turn over in his arms. He lets you, arm sliding away enough for you to roll onto your back. He props himself up on one elbow beside you, hair sleep-tousled, eyes puffy, expression open and unbearably careful.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey,” you answer.

He studies your face like he’s looking for something. Regret, anger, panic. You see it in the set of his shoulders, the tightness in his mouth. He’s braced for impact.

You take a breath. “We should talk.”

He nods immediately. “Yeah. We should.”

You push yourself up to sit against the headboard, pulling the comforter higher around your legs. He mirrors you, sitting beside you with his back to the headboard, leaving just enough space between you that you’re not touching, but close enough that you could be with the slightest shift.

For a moment, neither of you knows where to start.

“Do you regret it?” you ask, because you’d rather rip the bandage off than dance around it.

His head snaps toward you. “No.” It’s immediate. Firm. No hesitation. He softens a second later, realizing how intense that sounded. “No,” he repeats, quieter. “I don’t regret it.”

You exhale slowly, staring down at your hands. “I don’t either,” you admit. “But I’m… scared.”

“Me too,” he says quietly.

You look up at him. He’s watching you with that same careful steadiness, like he knows one wrong word could send everything crashing.

“I don’t want this to be a mistake,” you say. “I don’t want us to blow up what we’ve built with Mara. Or Eli. Or us as co-parents. We finally figured out how to be good together in that way and,” you gesture between you, “this changes things.”

“It does,” he agrees. “It should.”

You swallow. “Can we… keep doing this?” you ask. “Co-parenting. Living in each other’s lives. If things between us go bad again?”

He lets out a slow breath. “I’m not gonna lie to you and say it’d be easy. It wouldn’t. But I’m not the man I was when I blew everything up. I’ve done the work. I know how I spiral. I know what my triggers are. I know what to do when I start going there.”

You listen, watching the way his hands rest on his knees, grounded, not clenched.

“In therapy,” he continues, “I had to sit with a lot of ugly stuff. The way I handled losing the shield. The way I handled my anger. The way I handled you.” His jaw flexes, once. “I don’t want to be that man again. I’m not going to be him again.”

You nod slowly, letting it sink in.

“And I’m not looking for a one-night rewind,” he says, voice steady. “I meant what I said last night. I want you. For real. Not pretend. Not as some… fantasy version of us that never broke. I want this you. The one who raised Mara. The one who learned to do all of it without me. The one who still let me back in anyway.”

Your throat tightens.

“I want a real second chance,” he says. “Not just as her dad. As yours, too. I want to be your partner. The way I should’ve been the first time.” He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t crowd you. He just lets the words hang there, heavy and honest.

“And if you tell me no,” he adds quietly, “I’ll live with that. I’ll show up for Mara. For Eli. For you, as much as you’ll let me. I won’t punish you for needing boundaries. I won’t disappear to make a point. I don’t… do that anymore.”

The simplicity of it knocks the air out of you more than any plea would have. You sit with it for a long moment. Looking at him. At the lines around his eyes that weren’t there years ago. At the steady way he breathes. At the way he’s not rushing you.

“What if I say yes?” you ask. Your voice is very small. Very careful. “What does that look like to you?”

He considers the question, not answering on impulse. “It looks slow,” he says eventually. “It looks like talking. Checking in. Not pretending things didn’t happen, but not letting them run the show. It looks like Mara always knowing she’s safe, no matter what. Like Eli knowing he doesn’t have to be scared of things changing again.”

He reaches up, rubs a thumb over his eyebrow, a nervous habit you recognize.

“It looks like date nights,” he adds, a little shy. “Real ones. Babysitters and everything. It looks like me asking before I touch you. It looks like you telling me when you’re scared, not when you’re already halfway out the door. It looks like us being a team. On purpose this time.”

You feel your eyes sting.

He notices, but doesn’t make a big deal of it. “You don’t have to answer right now,” he says. “We can… sit with it. We’ve got time.”

You let out a humorless breath. “We’re snowed in with one bed and our wild kid. Not sure time is our problem.” A small, surprised laugh slips out of him. It loosens something in your chest. “You really want this?” you ask, needing to hear it one more time. “Not just because it feels good right now. Not just because you’re lonely. Not because you feel guilty.”

He holds your gaze, unflinching. “Yeah,” he says. “I really want this. I want you.”

The quiet that follows isn’t light, but it isn’t crushing either. It feels… full. Open. You inhale, slow and steady, and really listen to yourself.

Do you want this? Do you want him? Not the idea of him. Not the ghost of what you lost. Him. As he is now. A man who broke and rebuilt. A father who loves your daughter in a way that makes your heart ache. A partner who is offering you not perfection, but effort. Consistency. Choice.

Your answer rises clear and simple, despite the fear wrapped around it. “Okay,” you say softly.

His brows draw together. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, stronger this time. “We try. For real this time. Slow. Smart. Together.”

His shoulders sag in visible relief. For the first time since you woke up, he lets himself smile, small, but bright. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “But if you ever pull that self-destruct shit again, I’m telling Sam, Joaquin, and Bucky, and they can fight you in the yard.”

He huffs a laugh, eyes shining. “Fair.”

You reach over, finally closing the small gap between you, and lay your hand over his. He turns his palm up, lacing his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You squeeze his hand, gathering courage. “I’m serious. If we do this… I need some things in place. Not conditions. Just… safeguards.”

“Tell me,” he says, squeezing your hand back, gaze serious but warm as a hearth.

You inhale. “Couples therapy. Or co-parenting counseling. Something with structure. With a moderator. Someone who’ll call us out before we repeat old patterns.”

His reaction is immediate and gentle,a soft exhale, his shoulders loosening. “Good,” he murmurs. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

You blink. “You were?”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I-I actually talked to my therapist about it. Months ago. About whether it was even… appropriate to hope someday you might come in. She said it would be healthy to ask for help together if we ever tried again.”

Your breath catches. You weren’t prepared for that. For the idea that he’s been quietly preparing for this, not expecting it, not assuming it, but holding space for the possibility of building something better.

You swallow. “Okay. Good. I also want to take it slow.”

He nods again. “Of course.”

“I mean publicly,” you clarify. “For Mara. For Eli. I don’t want them confused or feeling like the ground is shifting under them.”

His eyes soften in that way you’ve come to recognize, the way that says I hear you, I respect you, I’ll follow your lead. “They’ll know we’re together when it’s steady,” he says. “Not before.”

You exhale, grateful. “And I need us to check in regularly, like you said,” you say. “Not shove issues down until they explode. Not let fear or guilt or anger build in the dark.”

He sits with that for a long moment, then reaches out, palm up between you. Not insistently. Not assuming. Just offering. “I’ll check in as much as you want,” he says. “As often as you need. I’m not asking you to forget what I did. I’m asking you to let me prove I’m not that man anymore.”

Those words hit you low in the chest, steady, grounded. “Okay,” you breathe, before pressing a quick, chaste kiss to his lips.

His thumb strokes once along the back of your hand, warm and sure. “Okay,” he echoes.

And that’s it. Not the end. But the beginning of something real.

-

By the afternoon, the smell of sweat and rubber had given way to the harsher scents of the simulation arena, concrete dust, prop gunpowder, the faint acrid bite of artificial smoke. The overhead lights had been dimmed, replaced by flickering holo-projectors throwing up images of half-collapsed buildings and debris-strewn streets.

Sam and Bucky stood near the control booth, arms crossed in almost identical expressions of exasperated authority as they watched their combined teams gear up.

“Mixed units,” Sam said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’re not playing my team versus his. We’re all on the same side in times of global crisis, so act like it.”

Bucky added, “If I see any of you using ‘friendly fire’ as an excuse to punch each other, I’m cutting your training hours and sending you to paperwork duty.”

You snorted as you checked your weapon. “He’s talking to you,” you murmured to Walker at your side.

He adjusted his tactical vest like it weighed nothing. “He’s always talking to me.”

The simulation briefing was simple: hostile targets scattered across a mock urban environment, some civilians to protect, some “explosives” to neutralize. The AI would adapt based on your responses, ramping difficulty up or down accordingly. You’d done this scenario before. It was a good test of team cohesion.

It was not, however, usually done with John Walker glued to your flank.

From the moment the simulation started, he fell into step beside you like you’d been training together for months. You swept your sector, eyes tracking doorways, rooftops, broken windows. He read your movement without needing translation, shifting to cover the blind spots you didn’t have time to call out.

“Two on the left balcony,” you said, barely above a murmur.

“Got ’em,” he replied, already sighting down his weapon.

You moved forward; he moved with you. When you ducked under a low-hanging pipe, his hand lifted to tap the top of your pack, guiding you clear. When you paused at an intersection to listen, he went still beside you, presence solid and reassuring rather than crowding.

It felt… easy. Familiar in a way that should’ve been impossible this early. 

A simulated civilian stumbled out from behind a wrecked car, crying. You covered her, guiding her toward the extraction marker, only for the AI to trigger a secondary wave of hostiles from the opposite alley.

“Six incoming, three o’clock,” you called.

“On it,” Walker said, moving past you, his body becoming a shield between you and the new threat. The world narrowed to targets and movement and the steady rhythm of your breathing syncing with his. You called shots; he took them. He barked quick directions; you followed without thinking, trusting his read of the field as much as your own.

Then the AI decided to get creative. The concussive charge activated behind a pile of broken concrete, just a flicker of blue-white light barely visible through the simulated dust.

You saw it first. You didn’t think. You just moved.

“John!” you snapped, lunging toward him. You hit him with your full momentum, hands flat against his chest.

He reacted in the same breath, instincts snapping to life. His hands dropped to your waist, fingers biting in as he spun, twisting you away from the flashpoint. The world lurched, your feet leaving the ground for a second as he carried you with him.

The blast went off behind him with a deep, booming thud that rattled the scaffolding overhead. The shockwave hit his back, debris peppering his shoulders, a spray of simulated dust and foam burst across the space you’d occupied a moment before.

He took all of it.

His arms locked around you, body braced, head ducked over yours. Your cheek pressed against his chest, feeling the jolt of impact reverberate through him.

For a second, there was nothing but the sound of his breathing, harsh and controlled by your ear, and the steady, powerful beat of his heart under your palm where it had ended up splayed against his sternum.

“You okay?” he asked immediately, voice rougher than usual, hands already scanning you. He slipped one palm down your spine, checked your sides, the other hovering near your ribs as if expecting to find a break.

You blinked up at him, throat dry, stunned by the instinctive protectiveness. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t let go. Not right away. Instead, his eyes searched your face, darting from your pupils to your mouth and back, checking for signs of shock or pain. Something raw flickered in that blue, fear, relief, maybe something older and heavier that had nothing to do with the simulation.

“Good,” he murmured finally, the word exhaled more than spoken. It sounded like a release, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it. Then, as if remembering himself, he forced his arms to loosen, hands dropping away. He stepped back, clearing his throat, shoulders squaring like he was putting everything back behind its usual neat locks.

“On your six,” he said briskly, turning to cover the next angle like the moment hadn’t happened.

But you felt it in your bones, a crack in the professional façade neither of you could quite seal back up.

-

The med bay always felt colder after a simulation, too bright, too clean, like the rest of the facility’s noise had been scrubbed away and left only the sound of your own thoughts.

You sat on the end of a cot, forearm braced across your thigh as you wound athletic tape around your wrist. The skin there was red and tender from a bad landing; nothing serious, but enough that the med tech had shoved a roll of tape into your hand and told you to “reinforce it next time.”

Across the narrow aisle, John Walker sat on another cot, an ice pack pressed to his left shoulder. The Henley he’d worn under his gear clung to his back and chest, darkened in patches with sweat. His hair was damp at the temples, a few strands curling where they’d escaped whatever product he’d used to tame them.

He wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was fixed somewhere on the floor, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping in his cheek from where you sat.

The silence stretched, filled only by the soft hum of equipment and the distant murmur of voices in the hallway.

“You always throw yourself in front of explosives?” you asked finally, peeling the tape and smoothing it down with more force than strictly necessary.

He snorted, a short sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You always push people twice your size around?”

“Yes,” you answered simply, no hesitation.

That startled him enough to glance over. You caught the flicker of surprise before he let the corners of his mouth twitch up. The laugh that followed was small but genuine, no bravado in it, just a warm, low sound that made your chest tighten for no good reason.

You watched him for a moment. The way his fingers flexed around the ice pack, knuckles whitening slightly. The way his shoulders hunched, not from pain but from some invisible weight he was carrying. The heaviness in his eyes that didn’t match the way he moved on the field, precise, unstoppable, controlled.

He looked like a man who never put anything down, even when it was crushing him.

“You’ve got…” You lifted your hand and waved it vaguely at him. “…divorced-dad energy.”

The ice pack slipped right out of his grip and hit the floor with a wet thump. He stared at you. “Wow,” he said. “Just…wow.”

“Not an insult,” you added quickly, eyes dancing.

“Pretty sure it is,” he muttered, bending to retrieve the ice pack. A cold drop fell onto his pant leg; he brushed it off with more focus than necessary.

“It’s not,” you insisted. “It’s… lived-in. Grounded. A little tragic, but functional.”

“Tragic,” he echoed, deadpan.

You narrowed your eyes, putting the pieces together. “You’re recently divorced.”

His entire body went still.

You’d meant it lightly, a bit of teasing to break the tension. But the way he reacted, the subtle flinch, the way his throat worked around a swallow, the micro-tightening at the corners of his mouth, made something click. This wasn’t just a checkbox on a form. It was a wound.

He was trying so damn hard to hold it together.

You softened, letting some of the edge drop out of your voice. “Didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes dropping to the floor again. “No, you’re good,” he said after a moment. “Just… yeah. It’s recent.”

You nodded, letting the silence breathe between you. It wasn’t awkward. It just was. Honest, heavy, not something either of you tried to fill with cheap comments.

“Kids need proof grown-ups survive heartbreak,” you said finally, fingers absently smoothing the edge of your tape.

He looked up at you, then, letting his gaze rake over you slowly. Like the words had reached a place inside him other platitudes hadn’t.

“You’re still here, aren’t you?” you added gently. Not a challenge. A statement. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes were a little shinier than before, like you’d pressed on a bruise he’d been hiding.

“You… don’t seem bothered,” he said quietly. “Most people hear ‘divorced,’ ‘single dad,’ and suddenly I come with too many complications. Damage. Baggage.” He tried to make it sound like a joke. It didn’t quite land.

You shrugged, mouth quirking. “Everyone’s complicated. At least you come with a kid, not a desire for world domination or hatred of puppies.”

That pulled it out of him, a real laugh, full and startled, shaking loose something in his chest. It lit his whole face, made him look younger for a heartbeat.

“God,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, eyes dropping as if embarrassed by how much that helped. “You’ve got a way with words.”

“You have no idea,” you said breezily, though there was a flutter just under your breastbone that betrayed you to yourself.

He met your gaze again and held it. The moment stretched between you, thin and taut, like a wire strung between two buildings. The kind of silence that hummed with possibility, with the awareness that if either of you named what was happening, everything might change.

“Good to know Wilson’s team isn’t all rookies and show-offs,” he said eventually, voice a little softer than before.

“Good to know Barnes’ squad isn’t all human battering rams,” you shot back. But your voice lacked its earlier bite. His did too. Something had shifted. A door cracked open that neither of you quite dared to step through.

Not yet.

Bucky appeared in the doorway like he’d sensed a disturbance in the Force. His gaze swept over you, then Walker, then the space between you.

“Why does this room feel like a Hallmark special?” he asked dryly. “Wrap it up. We’re debriefing in ten.”

Walker cleared his throat and pushed off the cot, the spell breaking. He adjusted the ice pack on his shoulder, the movement almost awkward for a man who usually moved like he owned every inch of space.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked, the question casual on the surface, weighted underneath.

You nodded, taping the last piece around your wrist. “Try not to get blown up again.”

He huffed out that almost-laugh, then gave you one more lingering look, briefer than you wanted, longer than it should’ve been, before turning and heading out the door.

You watched him go, the broad line of his back disappearing into the hallway. Your wrist was only half-taped. Your heart was beating too fast for someone sitting still on a cot in a sterile room.

You told yourself it was just adrenaline from the sim.

You knew it wasn’t.

You were thrumming with something you refused to name.

-

It wasn’t supposed to be a date. That was the lie you clung to, the denial that made it easier to walk beside John Walker down the dim hallway outside the mission control room, your bag slung over your shoulder, his steps matching yours like gravity itself had aligned your pace.

It had been months since that first chaotic joint training. Months of sniping comments that turned into banter. Banter that turned into cooperation. Cooperation that turned into… something quieter. Softer. Something neither of you ever directly named.

You’d learned a lot in those months, how John drank his coffee (too dark and way too hot), how he stretched before missions (religiously), how he sometimes went still when conversations drifted toward family. You knew he was a single father. You knew the divorce was recent. You knew Eli existed. You knew the name “Olivia” still made him go quiet for a second, nostalgic, protective, but never bitter.

But you had never met Eli. You’d never even seen his picture. Maybe John was protecting his privacy, or maybe he thought showing you would make this…whatever this was, too real.

Tonight changed that.

The debrief ran late, so late the cafeteria lights were off, chairs stacked upside-down on tables. Sam and Bucky bickered their way out of the room like an old married couple, leaving the two of you alone with the hum of old fluorescent lights.

You were gathering stray folders when you felt him watching. Not staring, just watching. Measuring if he’d lose his nerve.

“You eaten yet?” he asked finally. It was casual in tone, but not in energy. He stood too stiff, hands shoved in the pockets of his tactical pants, thumb tapping against his thigh like he needed to burn nervous energy.

You raised a brow, amused. “Planning to kidnap me, Walker? Should I alert Wilson?”

A twitch broke the tension of his jaw. Not quite a smile. Not quite not. “No kidnapping,” he said. “Just a diner down the road I think you’d hate. Burgers aren’t great.” His eyes flicked to yours, hopeful. “Fries are addictive though.”

You slung your bag higher on your shoulder. “I don’t know. You seem like the plain grilled chicken type. Lettuce on the side. Judging the rest of us slop eating peasants.”

That got a real laugh, low, warm, startled. “Trust me,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve survived Alexei’s cooking. I can appreciate a good plate of slop.”

The diner was exactly the kind of place that deserved its 24/7 neon sign. Chrome edges dulled by decades, a jukebox in the corner that still took quarters, laminated menus with little cracks near the folds, the surfaces of it permanently sticky with syrup. You took the window booth. Walker slid into the opposite side, his broad frame crowding the small space, one knee brushing yours under the table before he jerked back like he’d touched a live wire.

He cleared his throat, pretended it didn’t happen.

A waitress with curly hair and pink gum snapped her notepad open. “What can I get you lovebirds?”

John choked on air.You didn’t miss the way his ears flushed pink. “We’re–” he started.

“Very hungry,” you interrupted smoothly. “Two fries. Two burgers. Milkshake for me.”

John stared like he’d just been grabbed mid-freefall. The waitress winked and wandered off. 

It should’ve been awkward after that, but something about the diner softened him. Maybe the retro lights. Maybe the background chatter. Maybe the knowledge that here, in this booth with laminated menus and sticky table edges, he wasn’t U.S. Agent or the Failed Captain What’s-His-Face or a soldier trying too hard to be steady.

He was just… John.

He fidgeted with a sugar packet for a full minute before blurting, “So, uh… I have a kid.”

You blinked. “I know, John.”

“You do?”

“You talk about him in little pieces,” you said gently. “Not the details. But enough. Last month we sort of talked about that, too, remember?”

John froze, sugar packet crushed between his fingers. “Right. Yeah.” He swallowed. “Elijah. I call him Eli.”

You nodded. “Eli.”

He looked down at the table, thumb dragging along the edge. You knew that hesitation, fear of judgment. Fear of being too much. Fear of the wrong reaction. “He’s with his mom tonight,” John said after a moment. “Olivia. We’ve known each other since high school.”

There was no bitterness. No defensiveness. Just something soft, worn at the edges. You’d always respected that, how he talked about Eli’s mother with care, even after the divorce. “He’s almost three,” John added, voice gentling. “Smart. Too smart sometimes. Got her smile.” His own curved, small and fond. “Got my stubborn.”

You tilted your head. “Do you have a picture?”

His whole body stilled. “You… you want to see him?” There it was, raw hope pulling tight across his features. Like he’d expected you to change the subject. Like he’d braced himself for polite disinterest.

“Of course I do,” you said simply.

He swallowed. Hard. Then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone with careful, almost reverent hands. He unlocked it, swiped past a few screens, hesitated once, like showing you this was cracking open a door he couldn’t close, and then slid the phone across the table.

And there he was. A little boy with warm brown skin, chubby cheeks, and curls so perfect they bounced even in a still photo. Big brown eyes, one dimple deepening on his left cheek. Wearing dinosaur pajamas. Grinning so wide his whole face lit up.

Your breath caught. “Oh,” you whispered. And you felt something soft and fierce unfurl in your chest. “He’s beautiful.”

John’s reaction wasn’t dramatic. But it was profound. His shoulders dropped, just enough to show he’d been holding them tight for months. His breath hitched, almost silent. His eyes flicked to your face, not hunting for approval, but for authenticity.

“You really think so?” he asked, voice barely there.

You laughed, unable to help yourself. “John, come on. He looks like a tiny version of you. He’s got your whole facial structure. It’s alarming how endearing it is.”

A stunned laugh broke from him, louder than before, the sound warming the small booth like sunlight breaking through blinds. He reached forward to take the phone back, slow, careful, and your fingertips brushed. Just a featherlight graze. Skin to skin. But it felt like more.

His hand was warm, calloused, solid. You could feel the strength in his fingers even in that tiny accidental touch. He didn’t snatch his hand away. Not immediately. Neither did you.

John exhaled, barely audible. The kind of exhale a man made when something eased in him. Something deep, something quiet. The kind of exhale a man made when a weight he didn’t talk about finally shifted off his shoulders.

“You’re…” he started, then stopped, as if reconsidering the vulnerability. “Thanks. For… not making it weird.”

You smiled softly. “How could it be weird? Eli’s part of you.”

He stared at you for a long second, no mask, no armor, no deflection. Just a man sitting across from someone he wasn’t expecting to understand him.

Then the waitress returned with fries piled high in baskets, breaking the spell. John leaned forward, grasping a fry, trying to act normal. But every now and then, he looked at you the same way he looked at that photo of his son: Like something inside him had recognized something inside you. Like he’d been waiting to breathe this easy again.

And maybe, just maybe, this was a date.

-

John worried the whole time. You could feel it in the way he kept adjusting the strap of his watch as you walked up the steps to his apartment. In the way he hovered his hand near your lower back, close enough to guide, never close enough to be presumptuous. In the way he kept exhaling like he was preparing for bad news.

“You don’t… have to stay long,” he said suddenly as he unlocked the door. “If he’s fussy. Or tired. Or shy. I don’t want you to feel stuck.”

You touched his arm lightly. “John. Breathe.”

He blinked at you, then actually inhaled, like your voice was a reminder he’d been holding his breath for years.

The door swung open. Warm light spilled into a cozy living room, soft gray couch, fleece blankets draped across the arm, a basket of toys overflowing near the TV. A little pair of toddler sneakers sat abandoned by the door. Crayon scribbles and finger paintings were pinned to the fridge in uneven rows, the kind only a parent would put up with reverence.

It smelled like toddler shampoo and laundry detergent and something faintly sweet, vanilla crackers, maybe. Home.

“Eli?” John called gently, closing the door behind you. “Buddy, I’m home.”

A rustle from the hallway. Then, small footsteps. Eli appeared around the corner wearing a mismatched pajama set, dinosaurs on top, stars on bottom. His curls were mussed from nap time, cheeks a little rosy, eyes huge and warm and cautious.

He was beautiful. Radiant. A mix of his parents in that magical way children often are, Olivia’s soft curls, John’s stubborn chin, his own unique spark in every line of his face. You felt something in your chest soften immediately.

John crouched down, smile warm and gentle. “Hey, Big Guy. Remember how Daddy said a friend was coming over?”

Eli peered at you from behind John’s leg, thumb hovering uncertainly near his mouth. You didn’t move toward him. Didn’t crouch immediately. Didn’t overwhelm.

You simply lowered yourself slowly to kneel on the rug a few feet away and offered him a small wave. “Hi, Eli,” you said, your voice as soft as your smile. “I’m [Name]. Your dad talks about you all the time.”

John’s face snapped toward you, eyes widening as if he couldn’t believe you’d said that. But it was true. He talked about Eli every chance he got.

Eli’s eyes flicked to his dad, checking for confirmation.

John cleared his throat. “I, uh. I do.”

Eli pressed a tiny hand to his father’s shoulder, leaning into him for reassurance, curls falling forward. You waited. Not performing. Not coaxing. Just existing in his space with patience. After a moment, Eli ventured one small step forward. His gaze darted to your shoes, then your hands, then finally your eyes.

You knew enough about children to let him lead. So you stayed still. He studied you for almost a full minute, little brows drawing together in concentration. Then, like a verdict reached, he toddled the rest of the way over.

He didn’t stop at arm’s length. He walked right into your lap. Just… folded himself against you like you were a pillow he’d been using for years. Your breath caught, heart doing something painful and bright. You instinctively slid an arm around his back to keep him steady. 

He plopped a plastic dinosaur into your free hand. “Rawr,” he demanded.

You gasped dramatically. “Rawr back!”

He giggled, a bubbling, ringing sound that punched straight through your ribs. Behind you, John went absolutely silent. When you looked up, he was standing half-in, half-out of the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame like his legs didn’t trust themselves. His hand rested over his chest, thumb tracing slow circles unconsciously, calming himself.

His expression…It wrecked you. Awe. Gratitude. A thread of disbelief. And beneath it all, something so heartbreakingly hopeful that you had to look away before it swallowed you whole.

John Walker was not a subtle man. But this? This softness he tried so hard to hide? Was almost tender.

Eli shifted in your lap, tapping his dinosaur against your hand until you made the proper dramatic shrieks of distress. He leaned back into your chest, warm and trusting, tiny fingers grabbing a lock of your shirt to hold onto.

“Daddy,” Eli announced suddenly, pointing at you, “she funny!”

John laughed. A real, stunned, helpless laugh. “Yeah, bud,” he said, voice thick. “She is.”

You played with Eli for nearly an hour. Cars, dinosaurs, blocks. Eli narrated everything with the fearless enthusiasm of a toddler who decided you were safe.

John watched most of it from nearby. Sometimes sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, just watching the two of you with a dazed smile. Sometimes pretending to tidy up toys while sneaking glances at you over his shoulder. Sometimes leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, arms folded, eyes soft and unreadable.

You didn’t need super-soldier senses to feel the weight of his gaze. It wasn’t lust or possession or anything dangerous. It was something quieter, deeper. Longing wrapped in reverence.

Eventually Eli started rubbing his eyes, and John scooped him up with practiced ease, pressing a kiss to the top of his curls. “You tired, bud?” he asked softly.

Eli mumbled something unintelligible and tucked his face into John’s neck.

You stood, smoothing your hair back. “Want help getting him down?”

John hesitated, just a breath, before nodding. “Yeah. If… you want.”

In the small, dim nursery, you helped him put Eli into his tiny bed, fleece blanket, stuffed lion, night-light glowing soft gold on the wall. John hummed something under his breath, voice low and soothing. You leaned against the doorway, watching father and son, something warm swelling painfully behind your ribs.

When Eli finally drifted off, clutching his lion, you followed John back to the living room.

He let out a slow breath, rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… didn’t expect that.”

“What? Him liking me?” you teased lightly.

“No. I mean, yes, but…” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t expect you to be so good with him.”

You stepped closer, hands slipping gently into your pockets. “John. He’s a great kid. It’s easy to be good with him.”

His eyes softened further, almost unbearably. “He is.”

You walked to the kitchen, grabbing the toddler cup Eli had abandoned earlier. You rinsed it in the sink, humming under your breath as you washed it. The water ran warm over your hands. The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, catching the steam.

When you turned, John was standing a few feet away, leaning against the counter, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Watching you. Not in a hungry way. Not in a territorial way. In a this is what home could look like way.

He inhaled, slow and shaky, like trying to memorize the moment. Then, quietly, as if he didn’t want to disturb the air around you, he said,  “This… is what it’s supposed to feel like.”

You met his eyes. Something inside you shifted. Something inside him broke open. Neither of you said anything else as you crossed the distance between the two of you and folded yourself into his arms, letting him rest his cheek on your temple, pressing soft kisses there that burrowed all the way into your heart. 

-

It didn’t happen all at once. It happened slowly, quietly, in the spaces between missions, in the corners of briefings, in the familiar warmth of seeing each other in places where you weren’t supposed to be looking for each other.

It happened in the subtle ways your two teams began to blend, and how John Walker gravitated toward you like gravity didn’t quite work the same anywhere else you stood.

Sam Wilson figures it out first. He was not known as a subtle man. He walked into the gym one morning, saw you pinned beneath John on a sparring mat, his thick thigh pressed between your legs, and stopped dead in the doorway like he’d walked in on two raccoons stealing bread.

“Hey,” His eyes narrowed. “Why does this feel flirty?”

You and John jolted apart like teenagers caught under bleachers. “It’s not flirty,” you insisted, even though your face was warm.

“It’s training,” John added, sounding suspiciously breathless.

Sam crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. Training. Right. Because I always shove my thigh between Buck’s when I get him pinned beneath me on a training mat.” 

John choked. You kicked Sam out of the gym.

He left laughing.

-

Bucky was the next to grant his blessing. Sort of. He didn’t comment at first, even though you were sure Sam ran straight to him after the gym that day. He just watched.

He saw the way John’s temper smoothed around you, the way he held himself differently when you stood beside him, shoulders less rigid, jaw less clenched. He saw, too, the way you softened around John, how you read his moods in advance like you’d memorized every contour of him.

One evening after a mission briefing, Bucky appeared beside you as you organized med kits. “So,” he said, tone so flat it could’ve been a tabletop, “you love him.”

You dropped a roll of gauze. “Bucky,” you warn.

“No, it’s fine.” He shrugged. “He probably loves you too. God knows he looks like he’s trying not to sing love songs every time you walk into a room.”

You turned crimson. “It’s not like that. Not officially.”

“Should be.” He tightened a strap on his gear. “Man’s a good dad. And you’re good for him. Better than he knows how to say.” He paused, then side-eyed you. “Just don’t break him.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good.” Bucky nodded once. “Because if you hurt him, I’m telling his kid. And Belova and Reynolds.”

You laughed so suddenly you hiccuped. “Terrifying.”

“Children are terrifying,” he agreed. But his faint smile told you everything you needed: Bucky approved.

-

Joaquin Torres made it his personal mission to be the most annoying person possible about it by teasing you relentlessly.

“You’re glowing mija,” he said one morning as you tied your boots. “Absolutely suspicious. Dare I say icriminating, even.”

You glared. “It’s moisturizer.”

“I do not need to know about you and Walker’s sex life,” he sang in response.

You threw a glove at his head. He dodged, cackling.

“Careful,” he warned. “Your boyfriend might get jealous.”

“You are the worlds biggest brat, Torres. Go away before I decide to shove a foot up your ass.” You glare at your good friend. He shoots you a dazzling smile, making finger guns in your direction. 

“True. But so are you. It’s why I like you.”

You flipped him off lovingly.

-

Your first kiss happened after a joint op in upstate New York. A long day, a colder night, with adrenaline thrumming through your veins. You were all huddled in the debrief tent, waiting for transport, when the heater cut out.

The temperature dropped fast. Everyone shouted. You shivered violently, more from exhaustion than cold, and John’s eyes snapped to you instantly. He shrugged out of his jacket without thinking and draped it over your shoulders.

You tried to protest. “Walker, your jacket…”

He shook his head, voice soft. “Take it. Super serum makes me run hot.”

You want to keep fighting, but the cold is winning, so you pull it around you. It’s warm and smells like cedar and wind and the faintest hint of his cologne. It smelled like safety. Like home.

He was watching you closely, the way he always did when he was trying not to feel something too deeply. His hands hovered and then dropped, as if touching you again might undo him.

“I’m fine,” you murmured.

His voice came out rougher than intended. “I know. I just…” His jaw worked, the words stuck behind his teeth. “I worry.”

Something in you cracked open. “You don’t have to,” you whispered. A lie. A kindness, really.

He stepped closer, his body heat teasing at the edges of your senses. His breath was visible in the cold air, warm puffs between you. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

Silence wrapped around you both, soft, thick, charged.

Your fingers curled around the lapel of his jacket draped over your shoulders. “John,” you breathed. And something in him finally broke.

He lifted a hand slowly, giving you every second to pull back, and touched your cheek with the gentlest brush of his thumb. His eyes searched yours, trembling with a question he didn’t dare speak.

You answered it by leaning in. The kiss was soft at first. Careful. Reverent. Then deeper, sweeter, like something long-held finally let free. His hands framed your face, yours slid into his hair, pulling him closer. His breath stuttered against your mouth, a quiet sound that told you he’d been wanting this for far longer than he’d ever admit.

When you finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, his voice was a low whisper, “I… really care about you.”

You smiled. “Yeah. I know.”

John laughed, shaky, relieved, disbelieving, and kissed you again, shorter this time, like he couldn’t help it. When the heater sputtered back on and the tent filled with noise, you and John stepped apart slowly, reluctantly, but with a new truth glowing warm between you.

You were his.

And he was yours.

-

You didn’t announce anything. You didn’t need to. Everyone already knew, anyway.

You found yourselves gravitating toward each other naturally. John bringing you a coffee in the morning, you checking the bruises on his ribs after missions, him resting his hand on the small of your back in crowded hallways, you leaning into his shoulder during briefings.

It was subtle affection woven into routine. The kind of relationship that didn’t explode into being, it built itself, brick by brick, in quiet moments. When he picked you up for dates, Eli’s toys were always still in the backseat. When you stayed over, he always left the lamp on dim so you wouldn’t trip on a scattered pile of action figures. When the teams trained together, he always stood just slightly between you and danger.

He loved like he fought. Fiercely, instinctively, all-in. But with you… he learned how to be gentle, too. He’d curl his fingers into your jacket sleeves when the wind was cold. Kiss your forehead before missions. Leave little notes on your gear (“Don’t forget lunch”) because he worried you skipped meals when stressed.

You spent nights on his couch, Eli asleep in his room, a movie playing softly while you and John whispered about everything and nothing.

You held his son. He held your heart. And neither of you said I love you, but it hung in every touch, every look, every whispered “be careful” before assignments.

It was real. It was deep.

It was the happiest either of you had ever been.

-

But even the strongest foundations can crack. And beneath all the warmth, all the laughter, all the perfect compatibility…there were shadows forming.

John’s job chipped away at him. His guilt. His restlessness. His need to prove, to the world, to himself, that he was still worthy. And every time he took a risk on a mission, every time he brushed off a wound, every time he returned home with eyes too tired to meet yours… a tiny crack formed.

You pushed them away for as long as you could. So did he. Because you were in love. Because you made him feel safe. Because he made you feel chosen.

But the cracks were there.

And they were only growing.

-

It happened on a night that should’ve been perfect. A rare evening off for both of you. No late debriefs. No emergency consult calls. Eli was with his mom for the weekend, and for once John didn’t have to juggle two worlds on too little sleep.

He picked you up with takeout from your favorite place, insisting on carrying the bag even though you tried to swipe it from him at least twice.

“It’s heavy,” you teased.

He snorted. “You realize I can bench-press Bucky, right?”

“Bucky lets you because he likes the attention.”

John laughed in that soft, low way he only did around you, and you leaned into his shoulder as you walked down the hall to your apartment, the warmth of his body sinking into yours like gravity.

Dinner was easy. Comfortable. Your legs tangled with his on the couch. Stolen fries. His hand brushing against your thigh in a way that was almost possessive, almost shy. A movie playing in the background that neither of you really watched.

You ended up stretched across his chest, his arm heavy around your back, the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

“This is nice,” he murmured, fingertips tracing slow circles on your spine.

“Hmm,” you hummed, already half-asleep. “Could get used to this.”

You felt more than heard his quiet exhale, a warm breath against your hairline. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. “Me too.”

You drifted off like that, safe and warm in the shelter of him. It was several hours later, long after the movie ended, long after the lamp dimmed itself automatically, that you woke to something wrong.

John was shaking. Not a gentle tremor. Full-body tension. Muscles rigid. Breath coming in short, harsh bursts. You shifted on his chest, lifting your head. His eyes were open but unfocused, pupils blown wide, sweat shining at his hairline. He wasn’t seeing your apartment.

He wasn’t seeing now.

“John,” you whispered, voice soft but urgent. “John, hey. Look at me.”

He didn’t. His gaze flicked past you, wild, lost. His chest rose and fell in sharp, ragged breaths. You could feel the tremors running through him, every muscle locked like he expected to be attacked any second.

Your stomach tightened. You’d seen panic attacks before. You’d seen trauma responses. But you had never seen him like this. Utterly unguarded, stripped raw by whatever memory had dragged him under.

You reached for his face, featherlight. “John, sweetheart, look at me.”

He sucked in a breath, the sound torn from somewhere deep. “I’m fine,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “I’m…I’m fine. I’m okay.”

He wasn’t.

“John,” you said again, firmer now. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

His throat bobbed. “Lamar,” he kept quietly repeating. His fingers curled into fists in the fabric of your blanket like he was trying to anchor himself to something, anything.

“It’s not real,” you murmured. “Whatever it is, you’re not there. You’re with me.”

His gaze finally snapped to yours. Not steady. Not calm. Desperate. He looked like a soldier caught between worlds. Like a man terrified he’d scare you away if he let you see him like this.

Your chest tightened at the sight. “Breathe with me,” you whispered. You pressed your forehead to his, cupping his jaw gently, not restraining, just holding. Grounding. You breathed in slow and deep, exaggerating the movement so he could follow.

He tried. God, he tried. His first attempt was a shuddering mess of an inhale. The next wasn’t much better. His hand shot up, grabbing your waist, not in panic, not in fear, but like he needed something solid to hold onto.

Your fingers threaded into his hair. “I’m right here.”

His breath hitched again. “I didn’t…” He swallowed. “I didn’t want you to ever see me like this.”

“Like what?” you asked softly.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Weak.”

Your heart cracked in half. “John,” you breathed, “none of this is weakness.”

He shook his head, jaw trembling. “I should be past this. I should…I should be better. Stronger. I shouldn’t…” He choked on a breath. “I shouldn’t fall apart. Not in front of you.”

You slid fully into his lap, straddling him gently without thinking about the intimacy of it, just needing him to feel the full weight of your presence. “Look at me,” you whispered.

His eyes opened. Blue and broken.

“Do you see me running?” you asked. “Do you see me scared?”

He stared at you like the answer mattered more than anything. “No,” he whispered. “You’re not scared at all.”

“Exactly.” Your thumbs brushed his cheekbones. “I’m here because I care. Because I want to be. You don’t have to hide the hard parts from me.”

He let out a long, shaking breath and leaned into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

You guided him through grounding, touch, sound, breath, presence. Together. Slowly, agonizingly, the tension began to ease from his body. Not fully, not completely, but enough that his breathing steadied, his eyes focused, his hands went from clenching your waist to holding it gently.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, voice breaking.

You closed your eyes, emotion burning behind them. “Good thing I never asked you to,” you said, fingers sliding into his hair.

He shuddered, a soft, broken sound muffled against your neck.

You held him and didn’t let go. Not even when he loosened his grip and leaned his head against your chest, letting you stroke the tension from his hair. Eventually, his breathing evened out completely, his weight settling against you instead of fighting itself.

“Stay?” he murmured, barely audible.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

You curled around him on the couch, his arms wrapped around your waist, your fingers combing slowly through his hair. He fell asleep like that, heavy, warm, vulnerable against you. And as you held him through the night, you realized you loved him. Deeply. Quietly. Fiercely.

And maybe that terrified you more than anything.

-

The first thing John had felt the next morning was warmth. Not the feverish kind that came with nightmares, but the steady, enveloping kind that seeped into his bones and made him want to stay exactly where he was. 

Your body was curled against his on the couch, one of your legs thrown over his thigh, your head tucked beneath his chin. The blanket had slipped down to your waist sometime in the night; his arm was still locked around you, palm splayed over the small of your back like he’d been afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

He didn’t move. Not yet. He just breathed you in, your hair, your skin, the faint trace of last night’s takeout still lingering on the air, and felt something inside his chest unclench for the first time in months. Maybe years.

You’d seen him. All of him. The parts he kept locked behind bravado and muscle and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. And you hadn’t flinched. You’d held him like he was something worth holding.

His throat tightened. He pressed his lips to the top of your head, soft, reverent. Then lower, to the warm slope where your neck met your shoulder. Another kiss. Another. Slow, deliberate, like he was mapping you with his mouth. You stirred, a sleepy sound rumbling in your throat, and he smiled against your skin.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he whispered, voice rough with sleep and something else. Gratitude, maybe. Awe.

You hummed, shifting closer, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re warm,” you mumbled, eyes still closed. “Don’t move.”

He didn’t. He kissed the hinge of your jaw instead, lingering there, breathing you in. Then the corner of your mouth. Your cheek. The tip of your nose. Each press of his lips was careful, like he was afraid you’d break, or like he was the one breaking, and you were the only thing holding the pieces together.

You opened your eyes finally, blinking up at him in the soft gray light filtering through the blinds. Your hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over the stubble there. “Hey,” you said softly. “You okay?”

He nodded, but his eyes were glassy. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect to wake up like this.”

“Like what?”

“Happy,” he said, the word cracking in the middle. He kissed you then, slow and deep, pouring everything he couldn’t say into it. His hand slid up your spine, under your shirt, palm warm against your bare skin. You arched into him, a quiet sound escaping your throat, and he pulled back just enough to look at you.

“I want you,” he said, voice low, steady. “If you want–”

You kissed him before he could finish. Harder this time. Needier. Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth, shifting so you were fully beneath him on the couch. The blanket fell away completely. His weight settled over you, solid and grounding, and you wrapped your legs around his hips like you’d been waiting for this for months.

Maybe you had.

He kissed down your neck again, slower now, savoring. Your shirt rode up under his hands, and he pushed it higher, lips brushing over your collarbone, the curve of your breast. You gasped when he mouthed over your nipple through the thin fabric of your bra, and he pulled back just long enough to tug your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind the couch.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, eyes raking over you like he was memorizing every inch. His hands were everywhere. Your waist, your ribs, the soft skin of your stomach. Worshipful. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You reached for him, fingers fumbling with the hem of his shirt. He helped you, shrugging it off, and then your hands were on his chest, tracing the scars, the muscle, the smattering of hair, the faint bruises from recent training ops. He shivered under your touch, breath hitching when you leaned up to kiss the hollow of his throat.

“John,” you whispered, and it undid him. He kissed you again, desperate now, hands sliding down to the waistband of your leggings, taking your panties with them. You lifted your hips to help him, and he peeled them off slowly, kissing every inch of skin he exposed. Your thighs. The sensitive spot behind your knee. The curve of your hip. When he finally settled between your legs again, you were both breathing hard, completely naked, foreheads pressed together.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he said, voice trembling with restraint.

“Don’t you dare,” you breathed, and pulled him down into another kiss.

He laughed, shaky and relieved, and reached for your thigh, holding it wide and open. His palm was hot against the back of your knee, fingers curling gently but firmly, spreading you for him. He slowly pulled his hips back, the slick drag of his cock sliding through your folds, coating himself in the wet heat that had been building between you for what felt like hours. The blunt head nudged your clit, then slipped lower, teasing your entrance, and you gasped, hips jerking involuntarily.

“You’re so wet,” John said, voice a rush, a slight tremble in it, like he couldn’t quite believe it. His eyes flicked down to where you were joined, watching the way your body glistened for him, then back up to your face, pupils blown wide. “Jesus, sweetheart… look at you.”

“I-I’m sorry?” Your voice came out shy, a little embarrassed, cheeks flushing hot. You’d been with men before, but none had been quite as thick as John, and even with those other men, no matter how much foreplay they did, they never got you quite as soaked as you were now. It was almost obscene, the way your arousal dripped down your thighs, the way your body opened for him like it had been waiting its whole life. You shifted, trying to close your legs a fraction, but his grip held you open, gentle but unyielding.

“Don’t apologize,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss you, slow and deep, swallowing your little whimper. “Never apologize for this. You’re perfect.”

He lined himself up again, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and entered you slowly, eyes locked on yours, watching for any sign of discomfort. There was none. Just heat, and fullness, and the overwhelming rightness of it. Your body welcomed him like it had been made for this, stretching around him with a slick, eager ease that made you both groan. He sank in inch by inch, the drag exquisite, your walls fluttering around him as he filled you completely.

“Okay?” he asked, voice strained.

You nodded, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Move.”

He bottomed out with a low, guttural sound, his hips flush against yours, and stilled, giving you a another moment to adjust. But you didn’t need it. You were already clenching around him, hips rolling up to meet his, a soft, needy sound escaping your throat. “John,” you whispered, fingers digging into his shoulders, “please…”

He did. Slow, deep thrusts that had you arching off the couch, gasping his name. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining, and he pinned it gently beside your head. The other slid between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with perfect pressure, and you cried out, hips bucking up to meet his.

He groaned, forehead dropping to yours, and began to move. Slow, deep thrusts that dragged along every sensitive spot inside you, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each roll of his hips. Your body responded eagerly, slick gushing around him with every withdrawal, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet morning air. You were so open for him, so ready, your thighs trembling in his grip as he held you spread, watching himself disappear into you again and again.

“God, you feel…” He couldn’t finish, voice breaking on a thrust that had you arching off the couch, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. Your body was on fire, every nerve alight, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. You didn’t know why it felt so intense, why your hips kept chasing his, why your walls kept fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper, hold him there.

He shifted, angling his hips just right, and the head of his cock brushed something inside you that made your vision white out. You sobbed his name, nails raking down his back, and he growled, pace stuttering as he felt you tighten around him. “There,” you gasped, “right there, don’t stop!”

He didn’t. He thrust harder, deeper, the couch creaking beneath you, his hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with his thumb. The dual sensation was too much, too perfect, and you came with a broken cry, walls clenching rhythmically around him, milking him as your body shuddered through the waves of pleasure.

He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a hoarse groan, hips jerking as he spilled inside you. You felt it, the hot pulse of him, the way your body greedily accepted every drop, your cervix dipping lower to meet him, your womb fluttering with a need you didn’t understand. 

He collapsed over you, breathing hard, arms wrapping around your back to hold you close. You clung to him, legs still wrapped around his hips, keeping him inside you as the aftershocks rippled through you both. His lips found your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, murmuring soft, reverent words you couldn’t quite catch over the pounding of your heart.

“I love you,” he whispered, so quietly you almost missed it. “I’ve loved you for months. I just… didn’t know how to say it.”

You kissed his temple, fingers threading through his hair. “I love you too.”

He made a soft, broken sound and held you tighter, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go. You didn’t. You stayed there, tangled together on the couch, the morning light creeping in around the edges of the blinds, and let the quiet settle over you both.

-

It didn’t happen the next day. Or the next week. Trouble didn’t arrive with thunder or alarms, it seeped in quietly, like water finding the smallest opening in a wall and settling there, patient and destructive.

In truth, it began right after the morning you gave yourselves to each other completely, your bodies and your hearts, your whispered I love yous pressed into skin and breath and trembling hands. The morning where John had held your face afterward and kissed you slow, reverent, like he finally understood what it felt like to want something he was allowed to keep.

You’d spent hours after tangled in his arms, his breath warm on the back of your neck, his hold protective without meaning to be. You had felt whole. Solid. Anchored. Like something inside you had found the place it was always meant to land.

He’d felt it too. You saw it in the softness of his eyes, in the way he’d traced a thumb across your lower lip that afternoon, murmuring, “I meant it, you know. Every damn word.”

And he had meant it. 

But love didn’t fix a man who had spent years breaking quietly under the weight of guilt and expectation. If anything, loving you cracked him further open, made him more vulnerable, more afraid of losing something good. Afraid of ruining it. Afraid of ruining you.

You didn’t see that part. Not then. You only saw the shift. Small at first. Barely noticeable. A hairline fracture.

You didn’t know how quickly it would spread.

-

The first missed date night came with a text sent in the late afternoon weeks later: Mission ran long. I’m okay. Promise. Rain check?

You told yourself it was fine. Missions ran long all the time. You curled up on your couch that night with a blanket and a book, but there was a strange ache low in your stomach, emotional, not physical. You dismissed it as nerves, as the tenderness that came with loving someone who scared you with how much he meant.

-

The second missed night hurt more. You’d cooked for him. His favorite, even. You'd worn the soft shirt he always lingered on with his eyes, the one he once told you made you look more beautiful, more his, than anything else in the world. You didn’t tell him that was the night you’d whispered I love you into his chest, listening to his heartbeat stutter against your cheek.

He didn’t show. No text. No call. Just silence. Slow, creeping, suffocating silence. You waited until the food went cold, then colder again when you reheated it. The sun dipped below the horizon. The room dimmed. You told yourself he was okay. You told yourself there was a reason.

When your phone finally buzzed, it was nearly midnight: Sorry. Debrief went late. Head’s all over the place tonight.

You held the phone too tightly. Your throat burned. You knew, knew, he wasn’t the type to say he loved you and then vanish. To fuck you and leave. You knew he wasn’t shallow or careless or cruel. And yet that tiny voice inside you whispered anyway, growing louder with every beat of your heart…

Maybe you scared him. Maybe you were too much. Maybe you weren’t good enough. Maybe he regrets having sex. Maybe he regrets loving you at all.

You hated that voice. You hated that it felt plausible. And you hated the sudden sharp sting in your chest that refused to ease.

Another crack, thin but deep.

-

When the new scar appeared on his side the following week, you felt something inside you snap in quiet alarm.

You saw it immediately, the way he winced when he sat down, the way he shrugged off your concern with a too-fast smile, the way the bandage under his shirt was already stained with dried blood.

You knelt in front of him, fingers gentle as you lifted the hem of his shirt. “John… this is deep.”

For the first time in days, he met your eyes fully. And for a moment, just a breath, you saw everything he had been holding back: the fear, the shame, the exhaustion layered in his bones. The man underneath the armor, frayed and hurting.

Then he forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s fine.”

“Doesn’t look fine.”

“I said I’m…” His voice snapped, harsh and sharp enough to make you flinch. He closed his eyes instantly, shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just…” He inhaled shakily. “I’m okay,” he repeated, softer, gentler, like he wished saying it out loud could make it true.

You didn’t push. You should have. He should have talked. But you both pretended the rising tide could be held back with silence.

Another crack, this one echoing through you.

-

Your own body started whispering too. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… off. A heaviness in your limbs that no amount of sleep could fix. Breasts tender in a way you hadn’t felt before. Appetite swinging wildly, one day nothing sounded good, the next day you found yourself eating more than usual without realizing it.

Your cycle, always irregular, still hadn’t come. But irregular had always been your normal. Birth control had always worked. Pregnancy wasn’t even a thought. So you chalked the exhaustion up to stress. The nausea up to nerves. The soreness to hormones shifting at inconvenient times.

The emotional volatility, snapping quicker, crying easier, you blamed squarely on John pulling away. And you did not see the real reason behind it. Something tiny. Something fragile. Something quietly rooting itself into your body while you were losing your footing in your life.

-

The tenth missed night was different. It wasn’t a text, it was a voicemail. His voice was strained, frayed at the edges. “Hey, uh…I don’t know. I’m just… I need some air. I’m not…I’m not okay tonight. Don’t wait up.”

You sat on your couch, phone on your chest, staring at the ceiling while your heart splintered. He had never left a message like that. Not for you. Not since letting you into the softest, most guarded parts of him. You wanted to be angry. You wanted to storm to his place and demand the truth out of him. But your body felt too heavy, your limbs rooted, your emotions a tangled storm you couldn’t sort through.

You curled in on yourself on the couch, one hand resting absently over your abdomen, flat and soft and unknowingly harboring the smallest flutter of life, and you wondered when everything had begun to shift.

Why you felt like you were losing him. Why you felt like you were losing yourself.

Another crack… this one jagged, sharp.

-

The argument came days later. It started with a dish left in the sink, a promise he’d forgotten, another night where he came home long after he said he would. He looked haunted, shadows carved into the hollows of his cheeks, sleeplessness clouding his eyes.

You tried to keep your voice steady. “Hey. I just… I miss you.”

He froze. Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just a subtle tightening, as if your words struck a place inside him he couldn’t touch without pain. Something in his expression shifted. Fear, guilt, anguish, all flickering too fast to catch.

“Talk to me,” you whispered. “Please. Tell me what’s going on.”

He shook his head, jaw tight. “I’m fine.”

“John, you’re not. You’re…”

“I said I’m fine,” he shouted before catching himself, closing his eyes like he wished he could pull the word back.

You felt tears prick, your throat closing. Not from the shout, but from the distance. The walls. The way he was slipping through your fingers like sand.

He saw the hurt, remorse softening his features instantly. “I didn’t mean… It’s not you. I’m just… everything’s complicated right now.”

“So let me in,” you begged. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

“You’re already in too deep,” he muttered, barely more than a breath. But you heard it. It sliced you open.

“What does that mean?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer

Your stomach twisted painfully, not knowing it was hormones too, not knowing the dizziness in your head was more than heartbreak, not knowing your body was trying to tell you something louder than your fear.

“Did I do something wrong?” you asked, voice breaking.

His face crumpled. For a half-second, he looked shattered. Then he slammed the emotion behind a wall and straightened, coldness settling where warmth had once been. “No,” he snapped. Too quick. Too harsh. “You didn’t.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re disappearing?”

His jaw clenched. “Maybe you’re reading too much into things.”

“John…”

“Drop it.” Soft.  Desperate.  A plea disguised as dismissal.

You dropped it. Your heart didn’t. And for the first time, the truth sank into you like ice: He wasn’t just pulling away.

He was preparing to push you out.

-

The weeks that followed were slow, painful erosion. He grew quieter. You grew more anxious. He came home with more bruises. You grew more nauseous, especially in the mornings.

He slept less. You slept too much. He avoided intimacy, not because he didn’t want you, but because he didn’t trust himself not to break something he cherished. You interpreted it as rejection.

Hormones twisted every insecurity into a tidal wave. You cried twice in the bathroom that week, shoulders shaking, hands pressed to your face, telling yourself it was exhaustion, not realizing it was something deeper, something your body was already working overtime to protect.

You didn’t tell him. He didn’t tell you about the nightmares waking him every night. And together, without meaning to, you drifted, two planets slowly losing their orbit. The cracks were no longer hairline. They were structural. And all they needed was one wrong day, one harsh word, one moment of weakness, for everything to break wide open. Faster than either of you could stop it.

-

It didn’t happen because of one fight. It happened because of all of them. Because of every swallowed apology, every missed night, every bruise he refused to explain, every time you reached out only for your hand to meet emptiness. Because of every whispered fear you choked back, convinced you were imagining it, convinced he couldn’t possibly love you the way he said he did if he was drifting this far away this fast.

It happened because he was collapsing and wouldn’t let you brace him. It happened because you were unraveling and didn’t know how to ask him to catch you. It happened because the cracks had already formed, and the weight of two people trying so hard to be strong finally made them split.

It happened on a Tuesday. Not a dramatic night. Not a mission gone wrong. Just a Tuesday with dull sky and cold rain that tapped lightly against the kitchen windows of his apartment. Just a Tuesday when you showed up at his place without texting first.

You let yourself in, the spare key heavy in your hand, a privilege he gave you when things were good, when “Come in whenever you want” meant something soft and full of promise.

The apartment was dark, except for a small lamp in the corner casting a lonely pool of light. John sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it held the answers to questions he’d never learned how to ask.

He didn’t look up right away. He must have heard you come in, he always did because of his super soldier senses, but he stayed still, shoulders bowed under something you couldn’t name.

“Hey,” you said quietly, closing the door behind you. He didn’t answer. Your heart pulled tight. “Long day?”

Another long moment of silence. Then, with a voice that sounded scraped raw, he finally spoke. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

The words hit you like cold water. You blinked. “John? What? Why?”

He finally lifted his head, and the sight of him made your breath hitch: red-rimmed eyes; a bruise blooming along his jaw; exhaustion etched into the lines of his face; something hopeless simmering beneath the surface.

You stepped toward him on instinct. “John… talk to me. Please. Whatever it is, we can…”

“We can’t,” he said sharply, standing so fast the blanket beside him fell to the floor. You stopped in your tracks. He raked a hand through his hair, pacing like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts. “I can’t do this anymore.”

A quiet thud echoed through your chest, like something inside you cracked and splintered. “Do what?” you whispered.

“This,” he said, gesturing between the two of you. “Us. You trying to fix me. Me falling apart anyway.”

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m trying to be with you.”

“That’s the same damn thing.”

You flinched, swallowing hard. “Why are you talking like this?”

“Because it’s true.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head, stepping closer. “This isn’t you. You’re tired. You’re stressed. You’re…”

He laughed, hollow and humorless. “You don’t know what I am.”

“You won’t tell me!” The crack in your voice startled even you. “I keep trying to be here for you, but you keep shutting me out. What am I supposed to do, John? Pretend I don’t see you breaking?”

His jaw clenched, eyes flashing with something pained and defensive. “I don’t need a savior.”

“I’m not trying to save you,” you whispered. “I love you.”

He went still. Completely still. As if the words hurt him worse than anything else could. “Don’t,” he said, voice low and sharp. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m not taking it back.”

“You should,” he snapped.

You recoiled like you’d been slapped. He saw it. He saw every second of your hurt. And for a flicker of a moment, his face cracked, regret, devastation, longing all fighting to surface. But then he shut it down, shoved it into whatever corner of himself he’d been burying everything else.

“You deserve better,” he said quietly. “Better than me. Better than this.”

“Stop deciding that for me.”

“You deserve someone who’s not one mistake away from ruining everything.”

“That’s not you,” you insisted. “You’re not–”

“Yes, I am!” he shouted, the sound ripping out of him. “I lose control. I get reckless. I take hits I shouldn’t. I wake up every night thinking about the shit I can’t undo. Every day I wonder if I’m screwing up Eli’s life. And then you,” He stopped abruptly, chest heaving. His hand shook as he pointed toward you. “You make me feel like I could be good again,” he said, voice breaking. “And that scares the shit out of me. Because if I lose you? If I mess this up? There won’t be anything left of me worth saving.”

Your breath trembled. “So your solution is to end it before you can lose me?”

“Yes.” It was so simple. So brutal.

Your knees went weak. “So that’s it?” you whispered. “You’d rather hurt me now than risk me loving you later?”

He closed his eyes like he couldn’t bear to see your face. “I’d rather you hate me than watch me drag you down with me.”

You stepped forward, tears streaking silently down your cheeks. “John, I don’t hate you. I love you. I’m here because I love you.”

“Well, I don’t want it anymore,” he said. He didn’t shout this time. He didn’t snarl it. He said it quietly. Deliberately. Like he knew exactly where to plunge the knife.

And that made it hurt worse than any scream. You felt everything inside you go still, numb, weightless, like your body had disconnected from your mind. “You don’t mean that,” you whispered.

He didn’t look away. “I do.” It wasn’t true. Not even a little. But he made it sound final. He made it sound real. And for the first time in months, you had nothing left to cling to, not his touch, not his words, not his promises, not his love. Everything slipped through your fingers.

You inhaled shakily, nodding as if that could hold you together. “Okay,” you whispered. “If that’s what you want.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you. Didn’t take it back.  Just stood there and let the two of you crumble.

You walked to the door in silence, hands shaking, vision blurring with tears you refused to let fall until you were gone. You turned the knob. Paused. And without looking back, you said the only truth you had left. 

“I hope one day you realize you didn’t have to lose me to save me.”

Then you walked out. The door clicked shut behind you, the softest sound in the world, but it echoed through him like a gunshot. He sank to his knees in the empty apartment, breath shuddering out of him, hands trembling. He didn’t chase you. He made sure it hurt so you wouldn’t come back.

You cried the entire way home, silent, devastated tears that soaked your sleeves. Your stomach twisted painfully, hormones amplifying everything tenfold. You chalked it up to emotion, to heartbreak, to the collapse of the future you’d been so sure of.

You didn’t know the nausea that followed wasn’t just from crying. You didn’t know the ache low in your abdomen wasn’t just grief. You didn’t know something inside you was already holding on. Already dividing. Already becoming. Already growing.

His. Yours.

Everything you didn’t know how to tell him. Everything he didn’t know he’d lost. Everything that would bring him back to you two years later.

-

You didn’t notice the first week. Or the second. 

Grief has a way of muting everything else, numbing the edges of your senses, making the world feel underwater, making your own body feel like something distant and irrelevant. You moved through your days like someone half-asleep, half-awake. Work, missions, showers, meals… everything felt mechanical. Everything felt wrong. You thought it was heartbreak. And some of it was. But some of it wasn’t.

It was the morning you nearly fainted in the shower that finally made you pause.

The water was hot and steaming around you, pounding against your shoulders, and suddenly the tile swayed under your feet, your vision swimming in heat and white fog. You grabbed the shower wall, bracing yourself, breath stuttering, the edges of your ears ringing.

You leaned your forehead against the cool tile, chest rising and falling too fast. And you told yourself:

Stress. I’m just tired.  I’ve barely slept since we broke up. I’m not eating enough. I’m just sad. I’m just sad. You repeated it like prayer. Like a mantra. Like a lifeline.

It didn’t help.

You felt sick when you stepped out of the shower, like something beneath your ribs was shifting. Something unfamiliar. Something… wrong. The feeling didn’t fade when you got dressed. Didn’t fade when you made coffee and couldn’t stand the smell. Didn’t fade when you sat on the couch and tried to steady yourself. It became impossible to ignore sometime that afternoon when you opened your fridge and the sight of a carton of eggs made your stomach lurch so violently you had to sit down.

You were sweating. Dizzy. Breathing too fast. Your hand drifted, unconsciously, to your abdomen. Flat. Soft. Warm beneath your palm. Nothing unusual. Nothing visible. But inside… something felt different. Something felt off. Something felt like a door you hadn’t meant to open was suddenly swinging wide.

You closed the fridge. Sat heavily on the cool kitchen floor. Pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes. And then, with a kind of raw, shaking realization that felt like the earth tilting beneath you, you whispered, “No. No, no, no, no…”

You told yourself it was impossible. You were on birth control. You’d always been irregular. You’d been bleeding on and off from stress the last few months, hadn’t you? You’d been nauseous before, tired before.

It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.

Still shaking, you stood, walked to your bathroom cabinet, and tore through it until your fingers closed around an old, half-forgotten pregnancy test shoved behind painkillers and half-used lotion bottles.

Your heart hammered. Your breath hitched. Your fingers trembled so violently you almost dropped it twice. You set the test on the counter. A small, stupid, plastic thing that held your entire future inside it. You told yourself again, it won’t be positive. It can’t be positive. It’s impossible. It’s impossible.

But your hands moved anyway. You took the test. And then the seconds began. Long. Slow. Endless. You sat on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around them, forehead bowed like someone praying to survive their own life.

You watched the window. You watched the test. You watched your future tilt and spin and shrink to a single point. When the second line bloomed into place, faint but unmistakable, your breath stopped.

It didn’t stutter.  It didn’t break. It stopped. Completely.

You stared at it, numbness crawling up your limbs like frost, something in your chest going quiet and hollow. One line. Then two. A ghostly pink. But there. There. There.

You blinked once. Twice. A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat, neither sob nor gasp, something caught between. You reached for the counter to steady yourself, your fingertips brushing the edge of the sink, your knees folding under you until you sat again on the cold tile.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head slowly, pleading with the universe. “No, no, no, not now… not like this…”

Your tears came silently. Slow, desolate things that rolled down your cheeks and dropped onto your bare knees, leaving tiny dark circles on your skin.

You curled forward, elbows on your thighs, hands cradling your face. You cried for the shock. You cried for the timing. You cried because you were alone in your bathroom, staring at a positive pregnancy test while the man who made this child had told you, with his own voice, with his own mouth, that he didn’t want this anymore, didn’t want you, didn’t want the future you had imagined.

You cried because you loved him. And because he was gone. And because some fragile piece of him was now lodged beneath your heart, growing quietly, without his knowledge.

You didn’t know how long you stayed on that floor  minutes, hours, weeks. Time didn’t move normally anymore. It felt suspended, like you were trapped inside a snow globe someone had shaken too hard.

Eventually, your crying softened. Your breathing steadied. Your hand drifted again to your abdomen, slow this time, tentative. Like you were afraid of your own touch. You pressed your palm there. Warm. Still. Alive. A baby.

John’s baby.

Your baby.

You closed your eyes and whispered, barely audible, “I’m going to keep you.” As soon as the words left your mouth, the decision settled in your bones. Solid. Irrevocable. Anchoring. You hadn’t even realized you’d made it. But there it was.

You would keep this baby. With or without him. With or without support. With or without the future you used to picture when John kissed you slow, whispered he loved you, pressed you into his chest like he was afraid the world might steal you away.

You wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, breath unsteady. “Okay,” you whispered to the tiny, silent life beneath your skin. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

And the truth, the brutal, heartbreaking truth, was that you did not tell him. You didn’t call him. Didn’t text him. Didn’t go knocking on his door with the test trembling in your hand. You stayed silent. Because you weren’t sure whether telling him would hurt him or hurt you more. Because the breakup was still a fresh wound, bleeding beneath every breath. 

Because he had made it so painfully clear he didn’t want to drag you down with him. Because you weren’t sure if this news would feel like salvation or a shackle around his throat. Because the thought of seeing the look on his face, the confusion, the fear, the guilt, was too much to bear. Because you were terrified he would choose not to choose you.

And most heartbreakingly, most humanly, most painfully, because some part of you believed he didn’t deserve to know. Some part of you believed he had forfeited the right when he pushed you out. And some part of you believed, deep down, that protecting this tiny new life meant protecting yourself too.

So you folded the test into a small plastic bag, tucked it into a box in your closet, and wiped your face again. You stood on shaky legs. You washed your hands. You stared at yourself in the mirror, eyes red, cheeks wet, expression hollow. And then you forced yourself to breathe. One breath. Then another. Then another.

You whispered to your reflection, steadying your voice, “We’re going to be okay.” You didn’t believe it yet. Not fully. But your hand drifted again to your abdomen, lingering there. And something inside you, something tiny, something new, felt like hope.

-

You still didn’t tell him. Not the next day. Not at all. Not with the breakup making everything too sharp, too raw, too humiliating to touch. The pregnancy test remained hidden in the back of your closet, tucked under a folded sweater you rarely wore. You told yourself you’d deal with it when things didn’t feel so fragile.

You didn’t realize nothing about this would ever stop feeling fragile. 

In the days following the discovery, you moved like someone who had been hollowed out and stitched back together with quiet, trembling hands. Every step felt deliberate. Every breath careful. The world didn’t know what had changed inside you, but the world felt wrong anyway. Too loud. Too bright. Too fast.

Your stomach churned unpredictably, not violently but consistently—like an undercurrent of nausea that ebbed and flowed through the day. Exhaustion settled deep in your bones, a heaviness that even adrenaline couldn’t shake. The coffee you once relied on made your throat tighten. Certain smells in the compound kitchen made you gag. You hid it well. 

Or… you tried to.

-

Sam saw you one morning standing outside the training gym, leaning a hand against the wall as if steadying yourself. Sweat beaded along your temple even though you hadn’t been exercising. Your breaths were short, careful. You blinked with the slow, deliberate intention of someone keeping herself upright through sheer will.

“You good?” Sam asked, brows knitting as he approached.

“Fine,” you murmured, pushing off the wall. “Didn’t sleep great.”

He gave you the look, the one that cut straight through bullshit. “You’re pale,” he said. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m not.”

“You say that like it means something.”

You rolled your eyes, but the gesture lacked its usual spark. “Sam, please. I just need some air.”

Sam’s gaze softened, not pitying, but concerned in the way only someone with a big, inconvenient heart could manage. “Is it Walker?” he asked quietly.

The mention of his name was a blow to the chest. You kept your expression neutral by force. “We’re not doing that,” you whispered.

Sam’s jaw flexed. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t have to tell me what happened,” he said gently. “But you’re not fine. And whatever this is… you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Your throat ached with the weight of everything you couldn’t say. Not yet. Not to him. Not to anyone. So you just nodded once, brushed past him, and escaped before the tears could rise. Sam watched you walk away with an expression you didn’t see, an expression that said he knew something was wrong, even if he didn’t know what.

-

It was Joaquin who caught you first in the act of being human. You were bent over a trash can in the communal kitchen, covering your mouth, gagging on absolutely nothing except the smell of reheated salmon someone had microwaved with criminal negligence.

Joaquin stopped mid-step, holding a mug of tea. “…You alive? Hung over? Eat some bad sa–” he started, half-concerned, half-ready to make fun of you.

You waved a trembling hand in his direction. “Don’t say salmon.”

He blinked. “Okay. I won’t say sa–”

“Joaquin.” You warn.

“Right. Got it. Not saying it.”

You straightened slowly, eyes watery, stomach still rolling. 

“You sick?” he asked. You hesitated a moment too long. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re sick.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just…tired.”

“Tired doesn’t make you dry heave at the smell of fi–”

“Joaquin. Torres.”

He grinned, but it faded quickly when he saw the actual distress in your face. “Hey,” he said softly. “You good? Really good?”

You forced a breath through your nose. “Yeah. Just… stressed.”

He didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push. Joaquin was annoying, but he was respectful in the ways that mattered. He slid his mug toward you. “Ginger tea. Helps with…” he paused, choosing a safe word “nausea.”

You blinked at him. “How did you…?”

“My sister was pregnant last year. I learned things.”

Your heart gave a hard, panicked thump. Pregnant. The word hung heavy between you even though neither of you said it. You took the tea. And for the first time, you wondered how long you could keep this secret.

-

Bucky Barnes was the next to notice. He noticed because he noticed everything. You were in the armory with him, restocking magazines and organizing weapons after a mission. You reached for a heavy crate and felt something sharp tug low in your abdomen. Not pain—just a warning. A tightening. You flinched, immediately pulling your hand back.

Bucky’s head snapped toward you. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you said too quickly.

He frowned. “You’ve been moving different.”

“Different how?”

“Careful.”

You froze.

“Like you’re protecting something,” Bucky added.

Your heart stopped. He stared at you with that unerring, unnerving gaze, like winter itself could dissect you. And for one fleeting second, you wondered if he knew. Truly knew.

You forced a tight smile. “Just sore.”

He didn’t buy it for a second, but he didn’t corner you. He simply nodded once, slowly, suspicion lingering in his eyes. “If you need something,” he said, voice low, “you should ask.”

That almost undid you.

-

The weeks dragged on. Your nausea worsened. Your fatigue deepened. Your emotions swung harder and faster than you could control.

You stopped volunteering for joint missions. Stopped attending certain briefings. Stopped hanging out in the common areas where the New Avengers might drift in, where you might see John by accident.

You couldn’t risk that. Not when every time you thought his name, your throat tightened. Not when every time your hand drifted to your abdomen, you felt guilt and grief twist together inside you. Not when the thought of him finding out made your heart ache in ways you didn’t have the strength to endure.

Sam noticed your retreat first. Joaquin noticed your nausea. Bucky noticed your caution. Your team noticed your sudden absences. But no one knew. Not really.  Not until the morning in the med bay.

-

You had gone in for a routine physical, exhaustion had made your reflexes sloppy in training, and Sam insisted you get checked. You reluctantly went, telling yourself you’d lie your way through the exam, tell them it was just stress. Except the nurse noted your blood pressure. Your iron levels. Your vitamins. All dipped.

Then she asked, politely but firmly, “When was your last menstrual cycle?”

You froze. Your silence was answer enough. Five minutes later, Sam walked in, chart in hand, expression unreadable. The room felt suddenly too small.

“Hey,” he said softly, closing the curtain behind him. “I talked to the nurse.”

You stared at the floor. He exhaled slowly. “You’re pregnant.” The words dropped like stones into water.

You choked on a breath. Sam’s face softened, grief and tenderness flickering beneath the surface. He crossed the space and knelt in front of you, his hands on your knees, grounding you gently.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.

Your voice broke. “I didn’t know how.”

Sam’s eyes shone with something raw. “Is it…?”

“John’s,” you whispered.

Sam closed his eyes. Not in judgment. In heartbreak. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, pulling you into his arms. And you let him. Because for the first time since the test, you couldn’t pretend you were okay. He held you through your shaking breaths, whispering, “You’re not alone. You’re not doing this alone. Not anymore. Okay?”

You nodded into his shoulder, tears soaking through his shirt. 

Buck and Joaquin find out soon after. Sam told them, not the whole story, but enough. Bucky didn’t say much, but he placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed, gentle, steady, protective. It felt like a vow. 

Joaquin cried. You did too. He hugged you so tightly you wheezed, then immediately panicked, going, “Oh my god, is that allowed? Did I squeeze the baby? Did I kill the baby? Sam! Did I–”

“Joaquin,” you sobbed-laughed into your hands. “The baby’s fine.”

He made you sit. Made you drink ginger tea. Made you tell him everything you could manage between tears. 

“Does Walker know?” Joaquin whispered.

When your face crumpled, both men understood the answer.

-

The secrets start to feel like a wall. You stopped going to places where he might be. Stopped walking past the sparring rooms where his voice might echo. Stopped eating in the common room, afraid he would walk in and see you, see how your exhaustion was showing, see the curve of your belly that would eventually betray you.

You went quiet. Withdrawn. Smaller.

Sam kept your secret. Joaquin shielded you from questions.  Bucky softened whatever edges he could for you. But every night, you lay in bed with a hand on your abdomen and whispered apologies to the tiny life inside you.

“I’m sorry your father doesn’t know.” “I’m sorry I’m doing this wrong.” “I’m sorry you only have me.”

Your tears tasted like grief and hope intertwined.

part 2

You had to admit, grudgingly, that the woman knew how to stage a spectacle. If you didn’t hate her guts, you might’ve given her props for putting on such a swanky event. 

A waiter passed with a tray of champagne, and you accepted a flute like you belonged. The gown helped. Floor-length, slinky enough to earn second glances, heels sharp enough to qualify as weaponry. This was your job: blend in, dazzle, be the distraction if you had to.

“Status check?” Joaquín’s voice buzzed in your ear, familiar and excited.

“Currently blending seamlessly with the rich and powerful,” you murmured into your comm, lips barely moving. You gave the waiter a gracious nod as he drifted past. “Also, I may need hazard pay. Someone’s great-grandfather just winked at me.”

“You’re welcome,” Joaquín shot back. “I hacked your invite list slot next to the fun donors.”

“Fun is not the word I’d use. Predatory, maybe.” You sipped the expensive champagne and did a casual-looking sweep of the room.

“You sound stiff. Nervous?” Joaquín was a lot like a brother to you, and that included the annoying teasing.

“That’s the dress, I don’t get nervous,” you reminded him.

His chuckle softened into the more serious tone he reserved for work. “Keep your eyes open. Valentina’s pulling in half her contacts tonight, so he should be around here somewhere. If we’re lucky, you’ll find him before dessert.”

“And if we’re unlucky?” you asked lightly.

“Then you’ll do what you always do. Smile, improvise, and somehow walk out without a scratch.”

You smirked into your glass because Joaquín wasn’t wrong. The truth was, you’d always had your footing, even in rooms like this where the air smelled like money and ulterior motives. Confidence wasn’t just your armour, it was a second skin.

You were halfway through debating whether or not to start talking to people to blend in better when you saw him. At first glance, you assumed he was just another rich donor with a security clearance fetish. Then he turned, and you nearly choked on your champagne.

When did John Walker get hot? And no, you were not saying that lightly.

Last time you’d seen him, he’d been clean-shaven, hair regulation-short, jaw set like someone had carved it out of stone. A man so polished he squeaked. The kind of man you didn’t look at twice unless you wanted a lecture about “duty” or “protocol.”

Now? The universe must have gotten horny-drunk and rolled out a cosmic rebrand that was designed just to get to you.

The beard should’ve been illegal. Not full lumberjack, but just enough to rough up that all-American jawline. The hair was slightly longer, like he’d missed a couple of regulation trims, and you didn’t mind one bit. And the suit—dear God, the suit—hugged his broad frame in a way you were jealous of.

You would’ve remembered if John Walker looked like that last time you saw him. You prided yourself on your memory. Names, faces, floor plans, door codes. But this required a triple-take.

You told yourself it was just the spy in you, cataloguing details for later. But the catalogue was starting to feel suspiciously like a sexy fantasy, imagining big hands gripping your hips, a broad chest pressing you into a wall, that jawline scraping along the inside of your thighs. 

Professional? Absolutely not. But your brain wasn’t exactly taking the professional route tonight. And because the universe loved irony, that was the exact moment his eyes found you.

John hadn’t been scanning the room for anyone in particular. He was too busy looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. But then his eyes caught yours, and then came the double-take. His gaze flicked down the line of your gown, back up to your face, and then down once more before dragging away. It was what you called the guilty man’s swivel.

That made you smirk. If John Walker was trying not to look aroused, he needed a lot more practice.

He’d separated himself from the crowd and stood by the bar, a lone figure nursing a glass of caramel-coloured alcohol. Bourbon, if you had to guess. He seemed like the type. His beard had a reddish tint, and the line of his shoulders said he was only half at ease. Not slouched but not rigid, caught somewhere between soldier and man.

You crossed the floor with the kind of casual elegance that only came from years of practice. John didn’t notice until you were leaning against the polished wood beside him, close enough to smell the bite of bourbon mingling with his aftershave. Woodsy, expensive, but not quite hiding the undertone of nerves.

“You know,” you said, letting your voice drip with mischief, “that’s a dangerous look you’re working with. Guess I should’ve expected you’d look good out of uniform.”

John’s head turned at once, sharp but wary. Those eyes, bluer up close than you remembered, narrowed just a fraction. “Excuse me?”

You tilted your champagne glass toward his jawline, letting your gaze linger a touch too long. “I didn’t mind the squeaky clean soldier look, but this is definitely better. Less Captain America, more Captain Unzip-My-Dress.”

In your comms, you heard Joaquín suppress a laugh. “Are you flirting with John Walker?! I literally can’t with you…”

John’s mouth twitched, defensive but betrayed by the smallest curve of a smile. “It’s just a beard.”

“Sure it is.” You sipped, letting the bubbles kiss your lip before speaking again. “And I’m just a girl in a dress. Doesn’t mean people aren’t staring.”

The tips of his ears went pink. John’s throat shifted when he swallowed, and you were annoyingly aware of how broad his chest was under that suit. How easy it would be to undo his tie, drag it down that chest, watch his composure shred thread by thread…

He huffed, looking down at his glass. You’d rattled him, and you liked it. 

“D’you always offer strangers opinions on their facial hair?” he asked.

“Only if it takes up all my attention,” you said sweetly. 

You let a moment of silence stretch between you. John Walker hadn’t had women flirt with him in the last couple of years, and you liked watching him squirm. The sounds of the gala filled the quiet; clinking glasses, someone’s too-loud laughter carrying across the floor. 

Your instincts ticked through the signs automatically. The way his fingers gripped his glass too tight, like he needed something to keep him anchored. The subtle flex in his jaw each time you spoke, muscle working under skin. The nervous shift of his neck as a flush crept up the skin there. 

Then there was the flicker of heat when his eyes couldn’t help but find you again. Like his body had already decided before his brain could catch up. You knew that look. You’d seen it in alleyways, in hotel rooms, in the sharp intake of breath just before someone kissed you like they’d been starving for days.

John wasn’t the only one. The sight of him this close—the warmth rolling off him, the steady thrum of restrained energy under that suit and tie—had your stomach warm in a way you hadn’t expected. 

Your brain was already sketching out scenarios. John pinning you against the bar, his hips pressing into yours, his hand tangled in your hair. Not the mission, you reminded yourself, but oh, what a very welcome detour.

“You’re staring,” John muttered finally.

“Am I?” you mused, tapping a finger against the bar. “Maybe I’m just deciding whether you’re the same John Walker I remember.”

That got his attention. His head lifted, brow furrowed. “Do I know you?”

“We met once upon a time,” you said vaguely, swirling the bubbles in your glass. “You had a different haircut, more of that good old-fashioned military restraint. You were busy chasing anarchists, so I doubt I made an impression.”

John blinked, confusion softening into something a little sheepish. “Sorry. I met a lot of people back when I—” He hesitated, grimacing. Back when I was Captain America. 

“Convenient excuse,” you teased. “Don’t worry. I don’t hold it against you.”

That earned you a huffed laugh, reluctant but real. His defences bent just enough for a grin to slip through. “Are you always like this?”

“Yes,” you said simply, lowering your voice just a notch. “When I meet someone interesting.”

John finally looked at you. His gaze slid languidly down the line of your gown, lingered at the shape of your hips, then snapped back to your face like he’d been caught doing something unbecoming. 

Red tinged his cheeks. It made you think of another scenario where he might be flushed. You saw a preview of him looking down at you in bed, breath rough, hand braced on the headboard. The heat pooled low in your stomach, not at all unwelcome.

John Walker wasn’t supposed to be this gorgeous, but here you were. Leaning in close enough to hear the breath catch in his chest when you brushed your fingers against his wrist, and imagining what his breath would sound like between kisses.

You let him stew in the intensity of his own intrigue for a beat, then raised your glass. “To new beginnings.”

John blinked at you, a little dazed. After a beat, he raised his bourbon to meet you in a tentative toast. “To new beginnings,” he echoed.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

He still looked faintly rattled from your toast, like the bourbon had gone straight to his bloodstream. You knew the serum didn’t let him get drunk, so it had to be your effect on him. His fingers tapped once against the rim, then stilled like he’d ordered himself not to fidget.

“So,” John said, clearing his throat. His voice was deeper than it needed to be, like he was forcing it steady. “You said we’ve met. When was that, exactly?”

You hummed, feigning thought. “Oh, a few years ago in New York City. I think it was during that business with the Flag Smashers.” You let your finger trace the rim of your glass, slow and suggestive. 

His brows drew together, suspicion threading the blue of his gaze. Then, his eyes lingered on your hand’s tantalising movement a second too long. “That was—” John hesitated, jaw flexing tight. “That was a rough time.”

“I wasn’t too close to the action.” You gave him a smile that didn’t explain anything. No need for him to remember you standing shoulder to shoulder with Sam and Bucky. Best to keep that little detail tucked away.

He seemed to accept the half-answer, though his mouth pulled taut. “Sorry if I don’t remember. I was a little tied up at the time.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” you murmured, letting your knee brush his as you adjusted your stance. You didn’t step away. Neither did he. “I guess I just have one of those forgettable faces.”

His gaze skimmed you now. Your throat, the curve of your mouth, the neckline of your dress. John shifted, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. “And what do you do now? What brings you here tonight?”

“Supporting the cause.” You motioned toward the stage, where Valentina was droning on. “It’s always fun to see who’s trying to save the world in a tux.”

“That’s vague,” John said, narrowing his eyes.

“Occupational hazard,” you replied sweetly. You let your fingertips graze the back of his hand on the bar as you set your glass down. 

His hand twitched but didn’t move. It was just as big as you’d hoped. Your brain was already spiralling: his hand gripping your hip, tugging you flush against him, those broad shoulders pressing you down against polished wood, his voice rasping, stay still as he…

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to drag yourself back.

“God, you’re shameless,” Joaquín complained in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from laughing outright.

John, mercifully, thought your grin was for him. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” you lied smoothly. “Just thinking how odd it is that nobody else has scooped you up yet.”

He looked down, giving a faux smile. “Not really the most popular guy in the room, am I?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” You leaned in, close enough that your perfume wrapped around him. His eyes shut as he inhaled sharply, like he couldn’t help himself. “You look like you could throw me over your shoulder and run half a mile without breaking a sweat. It’s disarmingly sexy.”

The tips of John’s ears went scarlet again. His eyes snapped to yours, then away again, like he couldn’t decide if you were joking. You weren’t. In fact, you were very busy imagining exactly how it would feel if he did throw you over his shoulder.

“You can’t seriously be fantasising about this guy right now,” Joaquín hissed, his voice tinny through the comm.

“Shh,” you murmured as you took a sip of champagne. 

“You’re trouble,” John muttered, almost like he meant it as a warning.

“Oh?” You brushed your hand against his forearm, delighted to feel him tense under the touch. His skin was hot through the fabric, the muscle rigid, straining. 

John’s lips parted, then shut again, as if he had to physically bite back a response. Military training, public disgrace. The man was hardwired to keep himself contained. No doubt Valentina kept a tight ship.

But his body was already telling you everything you needed to know. His grip on the bourbon glass was tight enough to whiten his knuckles, and his knee was still pressed into yours.

Your brain obligingly supplied a picture of those same knuckles pressing into your hips, holding you down. His breath was hot against your neck as he muttered something filthy he’d deny the next morning. Where all of this was coming from, you weren’t sure. But you were determined to see if you could make any of it come true.

John exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was steadying himself. His gaze flicked to your mouth, then away. Then back again. He was losing the battle. God, what would he look like when that restraint finally snapped? Or when he stopped caring about who was watching?

You leaned in, your lips nearly brushing his ear. “Careful, John Walker. I think you might actually like trouble.”

His breath caught, audible this time.

The gala hum was louder now, the clink of champagne flutes and laughter ricocheting off crystal chandeliers. The string quartet had transitioned into something sultry enough to be mistaken for a slow jazz number. Music and mingling pressed around you, but all you felt was John’s eyes when he finally set down his glass.

“Do you dance?” he asked suddenly, like he’d had to wrench the words out of himself.

Your brows arched. “Depends. Is that an invitation?”

The faintest twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Could be.”

Joaquín groaned in your ear. “Oh no. Don’t you dare—”

“Hiding in plain sight, fly boy,” you murmured under your breath, already slipping your hand into John’s when he offered it. 

His palm was warm, callused, and immediately fired off images you had no business entertaining in the middle of a charity event. John led you through the crowd with unconscious ease, parting people like a tide. His hand shifted to your lower back, and he instinctively angled his shoulder between you when a sudden flash came from the photographers by the entrance. Protective and dangerously attractive.

On the dance floor, John hesitated a half-beat. You pressed closer, guiding his hands into place. One settled against your waist, hot through the fabric of your dress. The other clasped yours, his grip careful but firm.

“Relax,” you teased, catching his eye. “It’s just moving in time to the music. I promise it’s not a combat exercise.”

John’s jaw worked, but then he actually moved. Hesitant at first, then surprisingly smooth, his steps solid and sure. His body knew what to do even if his brain thought otherwise.

“See?” you murmured. “Not so bad.”

“Not sure I’d call this my natural habitat,” he muttered, a hint of rough amusement threading through.

“You’re doing just fine.” You let your thumb graze his palm. “Better than fine, really. I’d almost think you’ve been hiding this side of yourself.”

John’s gaze shifted to yours, blue eyes sharp, like he wasn’t sure whether to be suspicious or flattered. “What side’s that?”

“The one that knows how to take the lead,” you said, letting the word curl into something more suggestive.

You indulged the way John’s hand flexed against your waist, resisting the urge to pull you closer. His body was solid, pressed to yours, broad chest rising and falling against your shoulder. And your mind went straight off the rails: that same chest pushing you down into silk sheets, his weight anchoring you, that careful grip on your waist turning into something rougher, possessive—

You swallowed, forcing a smile to cover it. “Careful, John. Keep moving like that and people might think you’re enjoying yourself.”

His lips twitched again. John didn’t quite smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased. “Maybe I am,” he admitted quietly.

You covered the lurch of your heart with a grin, bumping your hip against his as the tempo shifted. “See? Now you’re catching on. Next thing I know you’ll be dipping me.”

His hand at your waist tightened, just slightly, like he was considering it. John Walker was unravelling, and you were more than happy to help pull the thread. 

“You’re trouble,” he said again, but this time there wasn’t much heat in it. It sounded more like wonder.

You tilted your chin up, meeting his gaze fully. “I’d certainly like to be in trouble with you.”

The music smoothed into a graceful number that begged for something slow and close. John’s hand had steadied at your waist, his palm broad and warm, firm enough to make your stomach flutter. His eyes flicked down to yours, then away, as though every glance was dangerous.

Finally, his voice rumbled low, almost drowned by the swell of the quartet. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

John’s jaw flexed. “Flirting with me.”

Your smile curved slyly. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“You know it is.” His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you imperceptibly closer. John’s voice was rough, steady, but edged with something raw. “I know what people think of me. I’ve read the articles; the jokes about the B-vengers, the mistakes I’ve made. So why would you come anywhere near me?”

For a beat, your heart caught at the vulnerability in his tone. 

“John,” you purred, leaning close enough that your lips nearly brushed the shell of his ear. “If I cared what other people thought, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be in your arms. And I certainly wouldn’t be imagining all the ways this night could end if you stop worrying about everyone else and just…” You let the pause stretch, edging your mouth towards his jaw. “Take what you want.”

“Jesus Christ,” John groaned quietly.

Filled with disgust, Joaquín echoed, “Jesus Christ.” 

One second, you were swaying in rhythm. The next, John’s hand slid firmly down to your hip, his other clasping yours tighter. He spun you with surprising grace, then caught you cleanly in his arms, dipping you back in a long, practised motion that stole your breath. The room flipped, but all you felt was his arms, steady and strong, holding you. 

His face hovered inches above yours, his breath mingling with yours. You licked your lips before you could stop yourself, and his eyes darted down to the motion.

“Careful,” John muttered, voice strained as he helped you upright.

“I wish you’d be less careful,” you shot back shamelessly, your lips just a breath away from his.

The heat in John’s gaze darkened, his jaw tight, his mouth hovering a fraction from yours. Every muscle in him screamed restraint, but the raw hunger was right there, barely caged.

You arched slightly into his hold, reckless, taunting. “If you keep looking at me like that, I might think you’re about to kiss me.”

“Maybe I am,” John rasped.

The world narrowed to his mouth, his breath, the dizzying heat curling low in your belly. His nose brushed yours, so achingly close, and your pulse hammered in your throat as if it might leap out of your skin to meet him.

Joaquín’s voice was a strangled whisper in your ear. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. I swear to god, I’ll turn my comms off.”

But you barely heard Joaquín. Because John had pulled you in, his body flush with yours, and his lips were hovering a heartbeat away from setting you on fire. For one perfect moment, you almost forgot there was a mission at all.

“Come on, John,” you teased, your lips slightly grazing John’s as you spoke. Your eyes were lethal despite your honeyed tone. “Just let go. How bad could it be?”

Something flickered in his gaze, hesitation mixing with the kind of heat that sent tingles down your spine. His jaw flexed, like he was fighting himself. “I don’t exactly do this kind of thing often.”

You weren’t feeling patient tonight. “I need you so badly,” you added softly, almost whining. John’s brows shot up, and you followed it with the knife twist. “Please? When did you get so hot?”

That did it. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” John rasped, voice low, rough. 

“Oh, I think I do,” you countered, shamelessly. “And I think you want it too.”

John caught your forearm, his palm hot where it wrapped around your skin, and tugged you off the dance floor. His grip was firm but not unkind; insistent and possessive. Your heart kicked up a notch, excitement thrumming through your veins as he cut a path through the crowd. 

Your heels clicked over marble as you let him pull you along, and you couldn’t help the breathless laugh that bubbled out. “John Walker, man on a mission. I like this side of you.”

He didn’t answer, just threw a look over his shoulder that had your knees loose. His eyes burned, wild and wanting, and you wanted to be caught in that fire. The crowd blurred around you. John didn’t stop until he found a secluded corner past a marble column, dimly lit, the thrum of music muffled by distance. 

And then he turned.

Your back hit the wall, cool stone against your bare shoulders, a jolt that made your breath catch. John’s body caged you in, heat rolling off him in waves. One hand pressed to the wall by your head, the other sliding firm against your waist, pinning you there without a word. You barely had time to gasp before his mouth crashed onto yours.

He was sharp and hungry, teeth grazing, lips parting like he’d been starving for this all night. You felt the drag of stubble against your skin, rough and perfect, and the way his chest pressed flush to yours, solid muscle caging you in. His kiss tasted of bourbon, smoky and hot.

You made a soft, involuntary sound into his mouth, half-plea, half-victory.

The sound you made seemed to snap something in him. Suddenly, John was everywhere—his mouth devouring yours, his body pressing you harder into the wall like he wanted to stamp you into the stone. His hand left your waist to grip your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp as he hiked your leg up against his hip.

You broke from his lips for half a second, breathless. “John—”

“Don’t say my name like that,” he growled, voice wrecked, before dragging his mouth down your throat. His teeth grazed your pulse point, and you swore you felt him smirk when you arched.

“Oh, I’ll say it however the hell I want.” You tangled your fingers in his hair and yanked, sharp enough to make him groan into your skin. The sound vibrated against your collarbone, low and filthy.

John kissed you again, messier this time, tongue pushing past your lips like he had to taste every part of you. He kissed like a man who’d gone without for too long, all need and no finesse, but you didn’t care. You bit his lower lip, tugged until he groaned, and then swallowed the sound like it belonged to you.

“You’ve been teasing me all night,” he rasped against your mouth, voice dark and uneven. “Do you know what you do to me?”

You laughed softly, wickedly, rolling your hips against the hard line straining his tuxedo. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

His grip tightened, a shudder ripping through him, and you swore you felt him whine into your kiss. That was delicious. You did it again—grinding, slow and deliberate—while your hand slid down his chest, feeling muscle twitch under your palm.

John broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Maybe,” you teased, ghosting your lips over his, not quite kissing. “Or maybe I’ll make you beg.”

The way his eyes darkened was lethal. He kissed you again, harder, teeth clashing, and this time his hands roamed—spanning your ribs, your waist, the curve of your ass like he needed to memorise every inch. You couldn’t keep quiet; every little gasp and moan muffled into his mouth.

For a moment, you thought about Joaquín still in your ear, listening to every filthy noise you made, and almost laughed. Until John’s thumb stroked the inside of your thigh and the thought scattered into static.

“You taste like heaven,” John muttered into your mouth, his words more breath than sound.

“And you,” you panted back, clawing at his shoulders, “taste like exactly what I want.”

The kiss turned molten again, all lips and tongue and teeth, your head spinning with heat and hunger. He wasn’t careful anymore. Neither were you. His control had finally cracked, and you weren’t about to let him rebuild it. You tugged at his hair until John groaned, pressed closer until he whined again, shameless.

Your fingers curled into John’s tie, tugging the silk free, hungry for more of him. The knot slipped loose, his chest rising unevenly against yours as you worked at the first button of his shirt. His breath hitched, lips dragging across your jaw, stubble scraping your skin.

Then, the world jolted. A metal hand shoved between you and John, wrenching him back. The force knocked your shoulder hard against the marble. You gasped, blinking up to find Bucky Barnes towering over you, eyes storm-dark, grabbing your forearm.

John reacted instantly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he barked, fury rolling off him. “Let her go.” His grip closed around Bucky’s wrist, trying to yank him back.

Bucky ignored him completely. His gaze cut straight to you, unyielding.

“Really?” you snapped, pulling your arm back yourself. “That’s how you say hello after months? By dragging me away like I’m some asset?”

John’s head whipped between you, confusion etched across his face. “Wait. You two—”

“Yeah, we know each other,” you bit out, eyes still locked on Bucky. “I practically grew up with Sam. We’ve been working together for years—I thought Bucky and I were friends.” For the first time, Bucky’s expression faltered. “Is this seriously what it takes for you to talk to me?”

Bucky said your name gently, and John blanched. He only just realised you’d never introduced yourself to him. Of course, he recognised your name. You were a spy, the kind who’d toppled governments before working with the old Avengers. He’d met you briefly in New York City when you saved his life. 

He couldn’t believe he didn’t recognise you.

“You could’ve just called, Bucky,” you went on angrily. “Or at least picked up the damn phone when I called. But no, you disappear, you ignore me. You have this petty, stupid back-and-forth with Sam—and what, you think that makes everything okay? You think ditching us is easier than facing the people who give a damn about you?”

John glanced between you both, stunned, still breathing hard.

Bucky’s mouth tightened. “This isn’t the place—”

“Oh, screw that.” Your voice cracked sharply across the marble. “You’re gonna listen, because I’m done with your bullshit! Sam went through hell to pick up that shield, and you know how much it meant to him to restart the Avengers. Steve and Sam broke every law in the damn country for you, Bucky! We stood by you when the world branded you a monster, and now you’re running errands for Valentina de-god-damn-Fontaine?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue. 

Your chest heaved, heart pounding, words cutting sharper with every breath. “After everything, you’re just a part of a government-sanctioned team calling themselves the New Avengers? You’re supposed to be Sam’s family! How could you still fight him on this after everything?”

Silence. Music drifted faintly from the ballroom beyond, muffled laughter and champagne chatter, oblivious to the storm in the corner.

John just stood there, frozen. His shirt hung half-unbuttoned, tie dangling loose, hair mussed from your hands. The flush on his face hadn’t cooled, only now it was from embarrassment rather than desire. His eyes darted from you to Bucky, only just realising the scale of the fight he’d wandered into.

Oh. Of course.

It clicked with brutal clarity. The way you’d teased him, the way you’d kept things vague, the way you hadn’t let him pin you down with a straight answer. You hadn’t been flirting with him because you wanted him. He’d just been a prop, a convenient cover. Something to lean on while you made your real play at Bucky.

“Right. Well,” John muttered, voice sharp with bitterness, “guess that explains it. I’ll just—” He gestured vaguely toward the party, a sardonic half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Get out of your way now that I’ve served my purpose.”

You turned on him so fast it almost made him jump. “Oh, no you don’t. You stay right there, handsome. I’m not even close to being done with you.”

John blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again without sound. The words didn’t compute. Hope sparked in the blue of his eyes.

Bucky grimaced. “Seriously?”

You swung a glare his way. “You don’t get to judge.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, but you softened before he could shoot back. You sighed, your shoulders loosening as you stepped in and wrapped your arms around him. His body went rigid with surprise. 

“I know this isn’t what you planned,” you murmured. “And I know it’s not easy. I just want my family back together again.” You pulled back enough to meet Bucky’s eyes. “We can make room on our team for the New Avengers. I just don’t want you guys fighting anymore. Please, Buck. Just call if you need me, okay? Joaquín had to pull some serious espionage to get me on the list tonight, and you know that’s supposed to be my job.”

Something in Bucky’s gaze eased off. He let out a breath and then hugged you back. His chin dipped against your hair. “I’ll do better,” he said gruffly. “For what it’s worth, I want to fix things too.”

When Bucky pulled back, catching sight of John, his expression twisted like he’d bitten into something sour. “But, yeah. Ew. This is like my little sister hooking up with my weird friend.” He jabbed a thumb toward John without looking. “I have to go before I throw up.”

And with that, he slipped into the crowd, vanishing the way only Bucky Barnes could.

You turned back to John. He was still standing there, shirt undone, tie crooked, hair sticking up from your fingers. “So all of this,” he motioned between the two of you, “That wasn’t about him?”

“No,” you said firmly, stepping closer. “That was about you being ridiculously hot. And unless I misread things, I’m guessing the feeling’s mutual.”

The corner of John’s mouth curved, a real smile finally breaking through. “Yeah, the feeling’s definitely mutual.”

Your hands smoothed down the front of his shirt, slow and deliberate, grazing each button as if you hadn’t been halfway through undoing them minutes ago. The fabric stretched over a muscle that had no business being that solid. You felt him swallow beneath your touch, his Adam’s apple bobbing like he was fighting to keep his balance.

“So,” John rasped, his voice pitched lower than before, like he’d had to drag it up from somewhere deep. “You’re a spy?”

You hummed, not looking up at him as your fingers slid to his undone tie. You tugged it loose the rest of the way, folded it without hurry, and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. The gesture was domestic and filthy at the same time, and John’s eyes tracked every second of it.

“Guilty,” you murmured, brushing invisible lint from his lapel as if you hadn’t just been pinned against stone, kissing him breathless.

John shifted, clearly trying to redirect the heat crawling up his neck. “What are you then? Red Room? S.H.I.E.L.D.?” His voice cracked just faintly on the last word, like it took a lot of effort to focus.

You gave him a look, raised brows, sharp and offended. “S.H.I.E.L.D. was a government agency,” your tone dripped with disdain. “I like to fly under the radar more than that. My training was a little… off the books.”

The way you said it—low, conspiratorial, a ghost of a smile tugging your lips—made John’s pupils blow wide. He exhaled sharply, and you caught the flicker of want and envy across his face. John Walker was everything official, stamped, and sanctioned. You were everything he wasn’t: unbound, unsupervised, untouchable.

It was driving him crazy.

His jaw flexed. His hand covered yours where it lingered against his chest, and the contact felt like a spark. He was trying so hard to stay upright, to keep his head.

You softened, just a little, sensing the turmoil grinding beneath that square jaw. “For the record,” you said, smoothing the line of his collar. “I never planned this.” You tilted your head, letting your fingers graze lightly down his sternum until John drew in a sharp breath. “Joaquín and I just wanted to snap Bucky out of it. Find a way to compromise before this all gets messy.”

“I respect what the New Avengers are trying to do. But Valentina?” You shook your head. “It’s not her mantle to hand out. And whether any of you like it or not, we’d be a stronger team together.”

No one had ever said something like that to him without a smirk, without a qualifier, without making it about Steve Rogers. You weren’t mocking, you weren’t hedging. You were laying it bare. Your conviction was the sexiest thing he’d ever witnessed.

John let out a low laugh, breathless, disbelieving. “You really know how to mess with a guy, don’t you?”

“Only the ones worth messing with.”

Your brain, of course, already sprinted ahead. His hand over yours meant his hand on your thigh, pressing you open. His mouth on yours again meant his mouth lower, slower, anywhere you’d let him. It was obscene, the things you pictured with his heart beating under your palm.

“John Walker,” you whispered, letting the syllables curl like smoke. “You look like you’re about to crumble.”

He laughed again, almost a groan. “ And whose fault is that?”

“Mine.” You smiled, sultry and satisfied. “And I’m not sorry.”

“So, mission accomplished?” he asked, almost teasing.

“I don’t start things I can’t finish,” you replied. Your hands tugged at his lapels again. It was as if you couldn’t decide whether to fix him up or strip him further down. “And now that it’s over, I’d really like to get out of this dress.”

That snapped his focus. His gaze dragged down your body with zero apology, taking you in with the same hunger he’d been fighting all night. John’s eyes burned, lingering on the sensual neckline of your dress, on the sweep of your bare shoulder, the way it highlighted every curve. You saw his throat bob.

“That’s a shame,” he said, voice husky and reverent. “I really like it.”

You leaned in, brushing your mouth just shy of his. “I think you’ll like helping me out of it even more.”

For a second, he didn’t move. He looked like he was deciding if he was hallucinating the entire exchange. Then John Walker, all six-foot-one of muscle and chaos, caught your wrist and pulled you with him. This time, it wasn’t into a secluded corner, but toward the closest exit.

note: i never do tag lists but i appreciate all the people who commented on and reblogged my post so i wanted to tag you all in case you still wanted to read it!! here goes

-

You don’t hear him come in.

The bar is loud, too loud for the number of people in it, and your head is foggy, resting heavily against the faux wood table. Jimmy’s back from the jukebox and halfway through telling a story about some disastrous stakeout in Gotham when your whole body suddenly relaxes like your bones know before your eyes do. Like your nerves recognize him before your brain can catch up.

“Hey,” his voice is so close and so gentle.

You blink blearily up, and there he is.

Clark Kent.

Framed in the neon-red glow of the exit sign. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. Hair tousled from the wind or the flight, who knows, and his glasses slightly fogged from the shift in temperature.

You forget how to speak.

Jimmy grins wide, tipping his beer toward him. “Look who showed up, Captain Hero himself.”

Clark’s eyes are only on you.

You’re still slumped in the booth, half-curled over your arms, your cheek red from the tabletop, lips parted in a sleepy pout. He crouches beside you without hesitation, eyes scanning you for anything that looks even remotely like distress.

You blink and smile wide.

“Clark,” you mumble, the sound laced with something soft and sweet and undeniably pleased.

His breath leaves him like it’s a relief just to hear you say his name. “Hi,” he says softly. “You called me.”

You wrinkle your nose, frowning. “I did?”

“Yeah. You asked me to come get you.” He huffs a laugh but his eyes are all fondness, crinkled at the corners.

“Oh,” you say, grinning. “That was nice of me.”

“Very thoughtful,” He nods seriously.

“Did you bring fries?” You ask, batting your lashes at him. “Jimmy asked you to bring fries.”

“I’ll owe you. And Jimmy,” he laughs softly.

“Okay,” You hum, satisfied.

You sway a little as you sit up, and Clark immediately rises to catch you—an arm slipping around your shoulders, another bracing under your elbow. He smells like cold air and something clean, like fresh laundry and warm sunlight. You lean into it instinctively, hands fisting in the front of his shirt.

“Whoa,” you murmur. “You’re so big.”

His cheeks flush. Jimmy nearly chokes on his beer.

“Okay. We’re heading out.” Clark clears his throat, adjusting his grip like he’s trying very hard not to pick you up bridal-style in front of your mutual friend.

“You sure you got her?” Jimmy asks, already halfway to taking a photo.

Clark nods. “I’ve got her.”

You nuzzle into his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world, already half-asleep, your breath fogging the buttons of his shirt.

“Night, Jimbo,” you slur.

Jimmy salutes. “Godspeed, Kent. And hey, she talks in her sleep. Be warned.”

Clark just shakes his head, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips as he guides you out the door. His arm stays wrapped around you the whole way to the car.

-

The car is warm. Too warm, probably, but Clark didn’t have the heart to turn the heat down after you curled into the passenger seat with a little shiver and a mumbled “Cold…” through sleepy lips. Now it’s comfortably hazy, windows fogged, the radio playing something soft and slow under the hum of the engine.

He glances over.

You’re nestled in the seat, turned toward him, your knees pulled up and your cheek squished into the collar of your coat like it’s trying to hide how pouty your lips are. Your eyes are half-lidded, lashes fluttering every few seconds as you fight to stay awake.

You reach blindly for him.

Clark startles a little when your fingers find his arm. They trace blindly up to his bicep, then squeeze, softly at first, then more deliberately.

“You’re so muscly,” you slur, eyes still closed.

Clark chokes on air. “I-uh. Thank you?”

You hum. “How do your sleeves even stay on?”

He looks wildly down at his button-up. “I… they just… do?”

You open one eye and peer at him. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.” (He is.)

“You are. Your ears got red.”

He swallow as he tries to focus on the road. He fails horribly.

You nudge closer, one hand now trailing down his forearm, slow and lazy, like you’re tracing the pattern of veins there. “Why’re you always so warm, Clark Kent?”

“I, uh, good circulation?”

“Liar,” you mumble. “You run, like, a hundred degrees. You’re like a human fireplace. I bet you sleep warm.”

Clark tries to breathe. “Sometimes.”

“You’d be good to snuggle,” you whisper.

He nearly swerves.

You don’t seem to notice. Your hand is sliding up his bicep again, slow and aimless and intimate, like you’re memorizing the shape of him by touch alone. Your lips are parted. Your eyes are fluttering. You’re drunk, but content, wrapped up in the moment, trusting him completely.

And Clark? Clark is suffering. He clears his throat, loosens his grip on the wheel, and flexes his hand like he needs to do something with the energy buzzing under his skin.

“Almost home,” he murmurs, because it’s all he can think to say.

Your nose scrunches. You mutter, “Don’t wanna go home.”

His heart cracks. “You’re coming with me,” he says gently. “We’ll get you into comfy clothes. You can crash there.”

You perk up. Just a little. “Your place?”

“Mhm.”

“Do I get one of your shirts?”

Clark’s voice goes a little breathless as he says, “If you want.”

“You’re the best, Kent,” you smile like a satisfied cat. He huffs a laugh, shoulders finally relaxing as the car pulls onto his street. But then, just as he’s parking, you say, “You should let me kiss you sometime.”

He turns to you slowly, pulse pounding in his ears. You’re already falling asleep against the window, lashes fluttering, mouth curved into the softest little grin.

And Clark? Clark rests his forehead against the steering wheel for a second before gently saying, “Let’s get you inside.”

-

The ride up to his apartment is a blur. You’re too tired to care about the elevator, too warm to flinch at the hallway light. All you know is that Clark is solid beside you, his arm around your waist. Your cheek is pressed into his chest, the quiet, steady thump of his heartbeat against your ear keeping the world from spinning too fast.

He unlocks his front door without effort. You stumble inside with a soft little sound, the hem of your coat catching on the door frame. Clark steadies you instantly, hand on your back, gently.

“Let’s get you out of that,” he says quietly, sliding your coat from your shoulders.

You let him.

Your arms go up. He laughs under his breath. “That’s not how coats work.”

“Figure it out, Kent,” you mumble, grinning. “You’re the smart one.”

He huffs another laugh, low and quiet and so sweet, and when he finally wrestles the thing off of you and gets you to the couch, you collapse onto it like it’s your rightful throne.

“You said shirt,” you announce, curling your fingers into the throw blanket. “I get one of your shirts.”

Clark scratches the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah. Be right back.”

You peek at him through your lashes as he walks toward his bedroom, hair messy, shoulders broad, hands still nervously adjusting his cuffs like he’s flustered by you, of all people.

You grin.

When he comes back, he’s holding a soft gray tee. Faded. Worn. Probably his favorite. It smells like him.

He kneels beside you. “You wanna change in the bathroom or…?”

You’re already reaching for the shirt. “You can stay.”

His ears go red. “I…what?”

You blink at him. “You’re not gonna look, are you?”

He immediately covers his eyes. “No! No, of course not. I mean, I wouldn’t. I’ll just…” He turns completely around, both hands clamped over his face like you’ve flashed sunlight at him. “Just let me know when you’re done.”

You giggle.

You change slow. Clumsily. Nearly get tangled in your own top before you manage to wrestle it off and tug his shirt over your head. It’s massive on you, soft and slouchy and warm, the hem skimming the tops of your thighs. When you’re done, you reach out and tug on his belt loop.

“Okay,” you say, tugging a little firmer when he doesn’t immediately turn to face you.

Clark finally turns. When sees you, he stops breathing. “Oh,” he says. Then again, softer. “Oh.”

You blink up at him. “Do I look cute?”

He swallows hard. “You, uh, yeah. You look, uh. Really. Cute.” He sits beside you, careful and stiff, hands planted on his knees like he’s afraid of touching you and never stopping.

You lean on his arm. “I want snuggles.”

“You what?” His breath catches.

“Snuggles, Kent,” You blink up at him. “You promised I could crash here. And I’m not crashing alone.”

He’s speechless. Absolutely frozen.

You crawl into his lap anyway. It’s clumsy, your legs folded across his thighs, your arms winding around his middle, cheek pressing to his chest, but the moment your weight settles on him, he melts. All his tension evaporates. His arms come up slowly, hesitantly, wrapping around you like you’re made of glass.

You sigh and nuzzle closer. “See? Told you you’d be good to snuggle.”

Clark closes his eyes and truly tries not to die. His heart is racing, absolutely sprinting, under your ear. He smells like fresh cotton and something warm and quiet and completely him, and when he exhales again, it’s almost like he’s trying to say something.

But he doesn’t. He just holds you like he’s afraid this is a dream.

-

The lights are off. The TV’s on, but it’s volume is low. Some late-night infomercial looping quietly in the background. The only real sound in the apartment is your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside his window.

You’re still in his lap. Still in his shirt. Still curled around him like you were made for it. Your legs tucked up, your fingers fisted in the hem of his sleeve like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.

Clark hasn’t moved in ten minutes.

You sigh against his throat, voice soft and slurred. “You smell good.”

“Thanks,” he huffs a laugh, low and shaky.

“Like laundry and warm things.”

“I do try to stay clean,” he jokes softly.

You lift your head just enough to look at him. “You’re blushing again.” You poke his cheek. “It’s cute. Makes me wanna kiss you.”

Clark short-circuits. His whole body goes still. His hands tighten ever-so-slightly around your waist, “You. Uhm.”

You don’t notice. You just lay your head back down, tucking it beneath his jaw like it belongs there. “You always take care of me.”

“You’re easy to take care of,” Clark finally says, blushing softly.

You smile, “Only you would say that.”

Things go silent for a minute, as your throat starts working again, the words spilling out like raindrops on a window.

“I’m in love with you, you know,” the words are quiet. Casual. Like you’re saying pass the blanket or nice weather today. Not like you just tore his entire reality apart.

Clark goes completely still against you.

“Have been,” you murmur, fingers toying with the fabric of his shirt. “Since before I realized what that meant. Probably since you showed up late to that staff meeting with powdered sugar on your tie and your glasses a little crooked.”

Clark swallows so hard it’s audible.

“You’re so… good. All the way through. And you don’t even know it. You don’t even try. You’re just kind because you are. I don’t think you could really be mean if you tried which is sooooo cute. And you’re stupidly hot, which isn’t fair, and you’ve got those arms and those eyes and your voice does this thing when you get nervous where it pitches up and it makes my heart just squeeze.”

He exhales, almost laughing, completely wrecked.

You shift against him, lifting your head again to look at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Clark clears his throat as he asks, “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to cry.”

He smiles, soft and stunned. “Because I might be.”

You blink, head tilting. “You okay?”

“You just told me you’re in love with me. I’m more than okay.” He murmurs, quiet and breathless.

“Good,” you hum. Then you lean forward and press the softest kiss to his jaw. Just a warm brush of lips and sleepy breath. “Don’t forget,” you whisper. “In the morning.”

And then? You pass out. Right there in his arms, face buried in his neck, lips still parted from where they’d kissed him.

Clark sits there a long time holding you, heart thundering.

And then, to himself, he promises, “I won’t.”

-

You wake up to the smell of coffee. That’s the first thing.

The second is the fact that you’re warm. Too warm. And very much not in your own bed. You groan softly, squinting at the soft sunlight pouring through unfamiliar curtains, blinking until the shape of the apartment comes into focus.

Wooden floors. Bookshelves. Framed newspaper front pages. A beat-up couch with-

Oh.

You sit up.

Your body protests, your head throbs, your joints ache, and your tongue feels like it’s made of cotton, but none of it compares to the growing, sinking realization spreading in your stomach.

You’re in Clark’s bed. Wearing his shirt. Your legs are bare. Your underwear is still on. Thank god. But the shirt is long and soft and smells like him. And when you lift it to your nose to confirm, the memories start coming back.

Not all at once. Just flashes.

The bar. Jimmy. Something about sexy library ghosts. The phone call. The car ride—his bicep. God, did you grope his bicep? And then the couch. His lap. His face. That stupid, beautiful face looking at you like you’d hung the moon.

And your voice, your drunk, sleepy, traitorous voice, whispering I’m in love with you.

You bury your face in your hands.

“Oh my god.”

Out in the kitchen, you hear clinking. Then a soft whistle. Some upbeat little tune that means he’s in a good mood.

You want to crawl under the bed and die.

There’s a knock at the doorframe, soft and hesitant.

“Hey. Morning.”

You freeze before slowly lowering your hands. Clark is leaning against the doorway, two mugs in his hands. He looks warm. Sleep-ruffled. Hair flopped over his forehead. Glasses slightly crooked. Shirt rolled to the elbows, forearms flexing as he holds out a mug toward you.

“I made you the good stuff,” he says. “Figured you’d need it.”

You stare at him. “You’re being… normal.”

He blinks. “I…should I not be?”

You take the mug slowly. It’s warm in your hands. Smells divine. “Clark, look, about what I said…”

“I know what you said,” he says, voice suddenly softer as he cuts you off.

“You remember?” Your throat tightens around the words as you speak them.

He nods. “Every word.”

Your stomach lurches. You pull your knees to your chest, mug cradled tight against them, trying not to die on the spot. “I was drunk. I mean, I didn’t mean to say all that. I wasn’t gonna, like…ambush you with it.”

Clark walks in, calmly, like you’re not actively combusting and thirty seconds from a full nuclear disaster. He sits on the edge of the bed.

“You didn’t ambush me.”

“I basically pounced on you.”

“I didn’t mind.”

You contemplate running. Clark must see it on your face, because before you can move, he speaks again.

“You said you were in love with me.” He smiles wide and a little goofy, reaching to gently brush your hair from your face.

“I was drunk.”

“Okay. So let me ask you again now that you’re sober,” he says while nodding.

“Clark, I have morning breath and I look a mess and-,” Your breath catches and your ears start to ring.

He leans in, elbows on his knees, eyes soft behind his glasses. “Are you in love with me?”

You stare at him and say nothing for a long moment, mouth opening and then closing again. “I can’t believe you’re making me confirm this while I’m hungover and wearing your shirt. Maybe you do have a mean streak in you.”

“You look good in it,” He teases, dimples popping.

“Yes,” you mumble, accepting that there’s not much of a way to get out of this, not when you already said, not when he’s looking at you like that. “I’m in love with you. Shut up,” you groan, hiding your face again. You feel the bed shift as he moves closer.

“That’s… that’s good,” his voice is low and steady beside your ear. You glance up and he kisses you, slow and sweet and just once.

And then again.

And again.