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Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

That said… he wants your happiness over everything. “Whatever you want, amor. Just tell me where to show up.”

He insists on helping with everything. Seating charts? He’s got it. Menu tasting? He’s there. Even learns calligraphy for the invites (gets halfway decent at it too). You catch him muttering to himself while practicing swirls and “Mrs. Torres” in ten different fonts. It makes your chest ache with love.

You have planning nights where you both wear pajamas, drink wine, and go through Pinterest boards like it’s a mission debrief. Occasionally the two of you get distracted by kissing or arguing over dessert options.

He picks his suit early and keeps it a secret—but leaves a tiny token of you sewn inside the jacket lining. Just a reminder. You are with him.

Joaquín makes a list of all the things you’re not allowed to stress about. “Florist? I’ll handle it.” “DJ playlist? Already made one.” “Rude aunt you don’t want to invite? I’ll fake an intel mission.”

He asks Sam to be his best man. Sam pretends to grumble but is secretly proud as hell. Bucky somehow ends up planning the bachelor party, which is a chaotic masterpiece.

Speaking of…

Bachelorette/Bachelor Parties

I remember seeing a post about Joaquín being confused/annoyed that you aren’t invited to the bachelor party. Bucky and Sam (after years of bickering and fighting) are now an almost chaotic duo. But Bucky tries to keep the party somewhat chill, suggesting skydiving or mini golf.

Joaquín immediately says there’s a cute mini golf course you’ve been talking about, and Sam has to groan and explain, again, that you’re not supposed to be there. “It’s not a date night, Torres. It’s your bachelor party.” “But she’d love the pirate-themed hole…”

Bucky and Sam plan the bachelor party together. This is both comforting and terrifying. Sam wants it to be chill: good food, drinks, maybe karaoke. Bucky wants “controlled adrenaline.” The compromise is skydiving in tuxedo T-shirts followed by an all-you-can-eat taco bar.

Joaquín calls you three times during the party. Once to show you the sunset from 10,000 feet. Once to tell you what taco he dedicated to you. Once because he found a bird that looked like Redwing.

The Week Before the Wedding

Joaquín gets so soft. He checks off lists twice. He calls your caterer just to confirm. He keeps sneaking glances at you like he still can’t believe you’re real. “Next week you’ll be my wife. Like, officially. You sure about that?” “A little late to back out now.” “Good. I’d chase you down anyway.”

He gets sappy over the little things. You leave him a note in his shoe the day before the wedding. He finds it and immediately texts you: Are you trying to make me cry before I’ve even put the tux on??

Sam walks him through a “calm down” breathing technique when he panics the day before. “What if I forget my vows?” “You won’t.” “What if she forgets hers?” “She won’t.” “What if I cry?” “You will. That’s part of the charm.”

The Wedding Day

He doesn’t sleep the night before. Not because of nerves—but because he keeps thinking about your first date. The walk around the lake. The way you looked in the morning light. “How’d I get so lucky?” he mutters into his pillow at 3AM.

He’s the first one ready. Suit sharp, tie slightly off (Bucky fixes it), pacing near the venue entrance with the energy of someone who really needs to kiss his person, like now.

His hands shake when he sees you. Not because he’s nervous—but because you’re it. His everything. The way he looks at you makes Sam and Bucky go suspiciously quiet.

The ceremony is full of tiny things only you two understand. A quote from your favorite movie. That song you played during your first kitchen dance. His vows mention the mini golf course and you almost lose it laughing.

When the officiant says “you may now kiss—” You’re already pulling him in.

Reception vibes: First dance is sweet and slow and full of whispered I love you’s. The cake has tiny wing decals on the sides. Sam’s speech is surprisingly emotional and ends with “don’t mess it up or I will hunt you down.” Bucky’s speech is just: “He’s alright. You’re better. Mazel tov.”

Later That Night

He can’t stop smiling. Keeps calling you “mi esposa” like he’s testing out the sound. “My wife,” he whispers dramatically while brushing his teeth. “My wife.”

his tongue moves slow at first. worshipful. reverent. like he’s afraid to wake you. but you do, eventualy—stirring with a breathy sound as your hips shift and you mumble his name—and he just looks up at you, pupils blown wide, chin already soaked, and smiles.

“couldn’t sleep,” he whispers all while your arousal is sticking to his pink-flushed lips, kissing the inside of your thigh like he’s sorry for being greedy. “just wanted a taste.”

but that’s a lie. he’s insatiable.

you try to stop him after the second orgasm, try to push at his hair with weak fingers and tell him you’re too sensitive—but he doesn’t listen. just shakes his head and kisses your cunt like it’s the most important thing in the world, like you’re the most important thing in the world, mumbling sweet things against your skin like:

“let me, please let me. you’re just so warm—so pretty—‘m not done yet—'m hungry”

and you believe him. because he isn’t done. he eats like he’s starving.eats until your legs won’t stop shaking.

eats until your moans go quiet and your head lolls to the side, vision fuzzy, mind slipping in and out like you’re floating.

you go limp—lightheaded from the aftershocks—and that’s when he finally pulls back.

barely.

enough to look at you, flushed and boneless, and whisper with raw adoration:

“ i did 's good, baby. made you feel good, right?”

he’s still panting. still hard. still soaked.

but he doesn’t touch himself. not yet.

he just lays his cheek on your inner thigh, eyes glazed with love and lust and guilt and pride, and closes his eyes like he could fall asleep there.

bob is in pain. real, physical pain. 

his skin feels too tight for his body, heat flaring at the base of his spine with each brush of fabric on his skin. even his softest pyjamas feel like sandpaper. 

the whole time you’re gone—a whopping four days—bob vows to refrain from touching himself. it’s borderline torture, but he figures it’s only fair—if you didn’t get any relief, then he shouldn’t either. 

and while his heart is in it, his mind and body are far from being on board. 

bob spends his days hiding in his room. the team assume he’s just wallowing because you’re gone and he’s a lovesick puppy, but really he just can’t stop how hard he gets when he closes his eyes and sees flashes of how you’d begged him so sweetly the last time you’d been in his arms. 

usually it’s the other way around. you’re the one that leaves him pleading for more more more. it’s intoxicating—the thought that he wasn’t the only one affected by the days gone by without touching each other. that you needed him bad enough to cry. 

bob’s a worrier—always has been. but this time around he’s juggling his anxiety for your safety and the growing concern that he might actually explode if this goes on any longer. 

by the fourth day, bob is miles past horny. he counts his blessings prematurely, because really, he’s in the eye of the storm. he’s already got everything planned, ready to throw you over his shoulder and carry you to his room where he’ll finish what he started. 

the morning you’re due to return, bob wakes with a sense of calm. there’s a suspicious absence of the buzzing under his skin he’s grown accustomed to, and his clothes aren’t sticking to him with sweat. 

he feels good enough to venture into the kitchen, show his face and have a normal conversation like normal people do. he would have, too, but the second he steps into the room, he finds the tower abuzz with catering, interior decor, a live band—the whole nine yards. 

yelena just barely dodges someone carrying a heavy silver tray, making a face as she passes bob standing dumbfounded at the counter. 

it hits him then. the gala. 

the meeting with valentina comes rushing back, and he vaguely hears her voice pinging around in his head. his first official appearance, she’d said. 

bob had been so busy battling his carnal desires that he’d forgotten he technically has… a job. 

he flounders there, smack dab in the middle of the kitchen that’s filling up equipment and cutlery at an alarming rate. it starts to make his skin crawl, the sheer number of people coming in and out of what’s essentially his home. 

so he turns, snagging a banana on his way out. resigns himself to eating in his room, and maybe he’ll text the group chat later for lunch if he feels good. but then something else hits him halfway down the hall and it takes all of him to keep his knees from buckling. 

the gala starts this evening. you get back tonight. 

zero crossover. he’ll be at the fundraiser when you return. no time to get you alone, like he’d planned so meticulously. the image of you, still in your gear, crying out from under him as he pistons his cock into you withers and dies in his mind. he chokes back a dejected groan, leaning onto the gunmetal grey walls like he’s absorbing a hit.

it’s almost instinctual, the way bob immediately starts conjuring up excuses he could use to get out of attending the stupid gala, or even just to make a fashionably (severely) late appearance. whatever will give him enough time to give you the welcome home you deserve–the one he’s been waiting so patiently for. 

he wonders how he should broach the subject with valentina. a thought occurs fleetingly—his stomach rolls with a bit of shame as he debates whether he should play up the sentry persona—firm, sure and just this side of a god complex, or lean heavier into the pitiful, kicked-puppy front. 

inside, he feels the latter, but when he thinks of what’s on the line—the stakes at hand, he’s fumbling with his phone, pressed to his ear without a second thought. he clears his throat seconds before she picks up, already huffing about whether this could’ve been an email. 

bob enters what feels like a flow state, letting the words spill out as they come to mind. he thinks he’s putting on a solid performance—his voice only wavers once as he explains logically, why it would make sense for him to show up late. it speaks volumes to how badly he needs this–needs you, because he’s volunteering to have even more attention, more eyes on him just for an hour with you alone. 

valentina is silent while he says his piece, quiet while he points out that the sentry’s official debut to the public should be striking and making a strategically delayed appearance would do just that. his eyes roll at calling the upper echelon and slimy politicians—the ‘public’. he’s glad she can’t see him over the phone.

there’s a beat of silence, just a breath before the woman on the other end of the line clicks her tongue.

“you will arrive at the agreed upon time, robert. and don’t even think about being ‘strategically late’ or whatever you called it, or else your little girlfriend’s getting ‘strategically’ stuck on an off-grid recon task in alaska next.”

bob’s breath catches. a flash of anger cracks in his chest, and his ribs ache when it feels like there are hands prying his ribs from the inside, trying to claw their way out. he doesn’t need a mirror to know his eyes aren’t blue anymore.

“but i am loving this energy—exactly what we want to see tonight!” valentina ends the call, and bob has to take drawn-out, grounding breaths just to quell the pressure pushing at the edges of his mind. as if he didn’t have enough problems—now he has to contend with the sentry’s bruised ego too. 

bob spends the rest of the day in a mood. by evening, it’s everyone’s problem.

bucky manages to coax bob into john’s room about an hour before the event starts. bob is grumpy the whole time, grumbling about how he doesn’t think he needs a glam squad. 

bob sees alexe first, dress shirt undone and open down the front. the super soldier is perched on john’s desk, fiddling with his neon red speaker, filling the room with russian hip hop that rattles the furniture. bob winces as the pounding in his head syncs in time with the palpitating beat. 

their tuxes are laid out in sleek, black bags and john is meticulously shaving in the ensuite, greeting bob’s frown with a “sup, bob?”

“any of you know how to tie a bow tie?” bucky asks as he slicks his hair back with gel in the full length mirror. the room is silent with a resounding no. 

“figured.”

he meets bob’s eyes in the reflection just as he shrugs, plopping onto the bed with a deep sigh. his hair falls into his eyes, and he wonders if maybe he should ask bucky for that hair gel. 

“why’re you pouting, bob?” 

bob’s frame tenses more than he already is, and his face falls into a comically blank expression. “‘m not pouting,” bob mutters, eyes glued to the ceiling. his cheeks grow a little hot as he actively refrains from jutting out his lower lip.

john pokes his upper body out from the bathroom, half of his chin still covered in shaving cream as he smirks. “yeah, he’s brooding. that’s basically pouting for men.”  

“you guys suck.”

alexei slaps his knee, “pah! this is an easy fix.”

bucky blinks, fingers tugging at his tie. “fix for what?”

“bob needs his woman,” alexei declares, nodding at bob like bob will agree in front of everyone, that the reason he’s so irritable is because he hasn’t had sex in over a week. 

bob’s embarrassed, in fact, that alexei had been able to sniff it out so easily. “guys, can we please not talk about this?” 

“it is completely natural thing,” alexei’s voice booms, and walker nods exaggeratedly from where he’s standing. even bucky shrugs when bob looks to him desperately for him, because he agrees and also because he wants to see where alexei is going with this. 

“we are all adults, hm? there is no shame to admit it, bob. the touch of a lover—nothing like it!”

bob hopes everything he’s felt for the past four days will finally catch up and take him out, because this might just kill him.

his cheeks are blazing hot as the heels of his palms press into his eyes in exasperation. “that’s not–”

“so you’re saying bob almost bit my head off today for using her mug, all because he needs to get laid?” john cackles, eloquent as ever. the blond ducks back into the bathroom, still chuckling to himself when bob glares, jaw clenched tight.

“what’s the big deal, anyway? she’s back today, isn’t she?” bucky asks, hands on his hips as he stares down bob’s unkempt, frazzled appearance—his sweatshirt is inside-out.

bob trips over his words, running through various attempts to express why exactly he’s so high-strung. “yeah, but– it’s not just… i had a plan and everything and then–” 

when he realises he’s about to reveal to three super soldiers that he’s pissy because his plans to ruin you the second you got home fell through, his mouth snaps shut. he blinks rapidly, mind racing to find a plausible excuse.

“i just miss her… a lot.” bob settles lamely.

“well, you’ve made it this long. what’s another three, four hours?” bucky offers an understanding hum, reluctantly directing his attention to alexei after glancing at his watch. “now let me help you dumbasses with your ties.”

john walks out of the bathroom, clean-shaven, skin pink and eyes glimmering with what bob knows is the precursor to a jab that’ll make bob cringe.

and like the universe decides to grant him one favour, bob’s phone rings. all eyes land on the picture of your sleeping face lighting up his screen. 

there’s a split second where the three super soldiers exchange looks, as if to see who’s going to go first in teasing him. bob isn’t one to waste time, and he’s darting out into the hall before anyone can say anything. 

bob speedwalks to his room, answering on the third ring. “hi,” he breathes into the air, heart stuttering with the fact that he’s about to hear your voice, melodic and soft, filling him with warmth that he’s been chasing after by listening to your old voice notes. 

“hi, baby,” you croon, and if he closes his eyes, bob can pretend you’re right there, can smell your perfume curling around him. just the sound of those two words leaving your lips is enough to make him shudder, the full weight of everything he’s felt rushing back to him tenfold.

“m– i miss you,” bob’s voice cracks as he tries his damndest not to whimper over the phone. 

“oh, sweet boy, i miss you too. how’ve you been doing?” 

bob can picture the sympathetic pout on your lips, brows drawn together. you’d reach out and brush your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp. his stomach swoops, and his eyes have to fly open before his imagination carries him away. 

“it’s been… hard,” bob bites through his teeth, laughing a little at his own pun, even through the way he is actually starting to swell in his sweats. your giggle bubbles over the line, and bob’s lips quirk at the sound. 

“i’m sure,” you hum. bob hears shuffling on your end, muffled footsteps leading away from the overlapping voices in the background. your voice lowers into a hushed, curious lilt, “have you… have you touched yourself?” 

bob inhales sharply, a shiver rolling down his spine. he can feel the blood rushing south—goes a little light-headed as a result. he shakes his head in response, forgetting you can’t see him.

“no,” bob grunts, keeping his fist balled at his side as the other white-knuckles his phone, “have you?”

you’re quiet for a second. the rumbling of an engine echoes in place of your answer. bob feels his heart pounding in his chest, until the sound of your breath leaving in a deep exhale reaches him.

“no,” you murmur quietly. bob can picture it, your lip caught between your teeth.

“when are you back?” bob doesn’t even care how needy he sounds anymore. he thinks he gets a pass to whine as much as he wants, just this once. 

“soon. jet’s landing within the hour, but i’ll need some time to clean up before i get to the gala.”

bob groans out loud, scrubbing a hand over his face. this is genuine torture, how you’re so close but so far. you’ll be in the same building, some floors up, in the shower with your skin glistening and wet– 

“think you can hold on just a little longer for me?” your teasing voice breaks him out of his lustful stupor. bob doubts he can, suspecting that you think him a stronger man than he is. his cock already strains against its confines—all from hearing your voice again. just this sliver of you is enough to break down every single brick he’s put in place the past week, sealing away his near feral desire. 

and now you’re essentially asking him to behave until the very fancy, very sophisticated gala is over. 

“i… wait– how are you on the phone right now? aren’t you supposed to be on, like, airplane mode?” 

his cheeks warm when you laugh, full and bright, straight into his ear. “bob, i’m on a multi-million dollar jet built for battle. i think it can handle a phone call.”

bob chuckles sheepishly. with anyone else, maybe he would’ve been embarrassed, because he probably should've known that. but it’s you–what can he say if he gets a little stupid around his girlfriend?

“besides, even if i wasn’t, i’d still risk it for you,” you tell him softly. a faraway call of your name rings through the line, and he hears you sigh, “hey, i gotta go now. but i’ll be there, okay?”

“okay,” bob says on a deep exhale, steeling himself with your reassurance that this hell won’t last that much longer, “i love you.”

“I love you, too, baby.” the line clicks off and bob is left to the silence of his empty room with a big problem he has no means to fix.

•

there’s a rumbling in the air. distantly, bob thinks it’s going to rain. but one cursory glance out the floor to ceiling windows tells him the skies are clear.

it’s coming from inside of him.

bob barely makes it into the first hour of the fundraiser before he’s on his last legs. he can hardly ignore the thrumming in his chest, reverberating in his bones. heat prickles at the back of his neck and he’s starting to feel sweat bead at his hairline—not a good look for the occasion.

an even worse look would be the hard-on he has tucked awkwardly into his waistband. try as he might, that phone call was a catalyst and no amount of confusing his brain could distract from the way he throbbed insistently against his navel. 

in short, bob is very uncomfortable.

the gala is lavish in every way that is foreign to bob. it makes him antsy, all those beady, shark-like eyes trained on him as he steps into the penthouse with the team. the instructions were for bob—the sentry—to take the front, but he makes it as far as down the steps before yelena knowingly ushers him behind her and ava. 

they make the rounds, as required. everyone is all too happy to let mel and her intern do the talking. bob is all strained smiles and fidgeting fingers, faraway in his head, counting down the minutes. 

when valentina announces that they’re free to mingle until further notice, bob moves like smoke, ignoring the confused calls of his name from the team. he disappears into the throng, weaving through floor-length gowns and black tuxes in a beeline to the bathroom.

bob bursts through the door with a strained grunt. he locks it with a trembling hand, the other undoing the clasp of his dress pants and pulling his boxers down. the top of his underwear is starting to dampen. his cock springs free, the head flushed and drooling pre-cum. the cool air that meets his feverish skin walks the line of painful—makes him hiss through his teeth. 

it’s quick and efficient, the way he cleans himself up. he’s no stranger to it with how he’s been perpetually hard for a week. bob can barely keep himself quiet with each pass of the paper towels down the length of him, and it takes nearly everything he has to not grip himself in hand and put an end to this. he’s not above jerking one out in a bathroom.

but then your face ghosts across his mind. remembers how you’d admitted quietly that you’d been good too, holding everything back for him. 

paper towels land haphazardly in the trash bin, and he tucks himself back into his pants with a muffled groan. as he washes his hands, he dares a look in the mirror and blows out a breath at how wrecked he looks. cheeks red, pupils blown and irises iridescent. 

“stop,” bob whispers to his reflection, stern but a little weary, like he’s scolding a child who’s just about to throw a tantrum. his eyes flicker once more, bright and piercing, before they dim slowly—the sentry retreating with a warning.

the muscle in his jaw ticks, as he steels himself to go back out. he can do this, he thinks. he’s been through worse, it’s all in his head, it’s just physical—all things to take his mind somewhere different. he even tries screaming cucumber in his head, to no avail. 

bob lingers at the edges of the party, checking his phone just to give his hands something to do. he finds the text you’d sent, telling him you were back. another updating him that you’d just started getting ready, and two more asking his advice on which pair of heels to wear.

he feels a little bad for his late reply, but he sends his vote anyway. his mind works just a little too slow to realise you’re probably already here, slipping in quietly while he’d been hiding in the bathroom. 

and then his eyes land on you—more so the bare expanse of your back, but he’d recognize you anywhere. you’re only a few steps away, talking to an older couple with polite nods of your head, totally unaware that you have a man (your man) glued to the floor just a few feet away. 

he should move. stop staring from the shadows like a creep. but you’re in a golden dress, a not-so-subtle claim both to and from the golden guardian. the fabric hugs your figure, catching the light with every move, and you’re damn near glowing—a beacon that calls to him. 

the rumbling in his chest returns, and this time bob lets it slide—it’s justified.

you shift, turning just enough for bob to catch the high slit on the number, revealing the holster you still have strapped snug around your upper thigh. he thinks he whimpers out loud, this time. he’s glad for the music and the cover of darkness, but it’s enough to kick him into motion.

his steps are heavy, moving like a man on a mission. people move out of his path without question, and any other day maybe he’d have given that more thought, but he’s zeroed in on you. tunnel-visioned on the slope of your spine, the divots he’s mapped with his mouth. 

he makes it over to you just as you excuse yourself from the couple. the cordial smile on your face freezes when you feel a warm hand settle dangerously low on your back, blazing hot and firm. bob can see the split-second where you recognise his skin on yours, his cologne and the firm chest pressed behind you. 

you whirl to meet his eyes, rouge lips spreading into a giddy grin. his fingers, greedy, slip under the seam of your dress.

“bob,” you say breathily, eyes alight with relief and adoration with how you’re finally face-to-face with your boyfriend. with how you’ve turned towards him now, his eyes can roam appreciatively over your dress. they catch at the deep plunge, and the generous cleavage offered by the halter neckline. bob finds himself fighting a losing battle at not blatantly staring at your tits in front of all these people.

you have half the mind to tell him where your eyes are, but you’re just a little busy admiring how fucking bob looks like this. the deep brown waves that always hang in his eyes are slicked back tonight, curling loosely at the nape of his neck. there’s a light layer of stubble around his jaw, just enough to get away with it, but the shadow it adds makes you lick your lips. 

and the tux—god, the tux.

it fits like a glove. the jacket sleeves pull tight around his biceps, and you can see the strong lines of muscle where his dress pants hug his thighs. golden cufflinks glint under the warm lights as his hand comes up to scrape over his jaw. you could swoon.

bob hums your name, voice low and hungry. your skin burns with the intensity in his eyes. the air around you is charged, but no one around seems to notice. 

you’re holding your breath, waiting for anything—any reason to get your hands on him. 

but it turns out you don’t need one, because he’s leading you back the way he came with his arm wrapped around your waist. it’s a little bit of a territorial display, you tell him, but he reasons that anyone with eyes can see you in his colour and connect the dots. 

you don’t even make it to the bathroom. the second he gets you in a secluded enough corner, there’s no precursor. just a beat where you’re both locked on each other, pulled into orbit. your chests rise in sync, falling just as hard. 

he’s on you before you can get to him first. a big hand curls around the back of your neck, keeping you still as he licks at your bottom lip. your mouth open with no resistance, sucking his tongue in your mouth while his hand wastes no time in slipping under the slit in your dress. 

his fingers snag on the holster, the handle of the sheathed dagger, and he pulls back just enough to say, “you- you planning on using this?”

your eyes narrow, head tilting with a smile as you shoot back, “do you want me to?”

bob visibly shudders, but opts to just kiss you again, knowing you’re already planning five different ways to use that information. 

it’s messy and desperate, more swapping spit than real kissing. you cling onto his lapels when his calloused fingers tease the seam between your thigh and your ass. 

“bob, i can’t- need you now,” you sigh into his mouth, lips downturned with how badly you want it. 

bob nods against your lips, one more slide of his tongue on yours before he pulls back. “i know, baby. c’mon.”

he takes your hand in his, leading you the rest of the way to the bathroom he’d been in just minutes ago. thanks his lucky stars that it’s unlocked as he ushers you inside. 

you’re pressed up to the door as soon as the lock clicks. it’s loud, the only other sounds being your laboured breaths and the muffled bass of the music from the other side of the door. 

then bob is kissing you again, and the wet smacking of your lips sends a brush of heat to your core. makes you a little shy, with how bob is moaning into your mouth. 

his hands have a mind of their own as they ruck up the hem of your dress, parted at the slit. he nudges your thighs apart with his own, the fabric scratching at the soft skin of your inner thighs. 

bob cups your pussy over your thong, feels the heat radiating off of your center and groans loud into your hair. he rubs at you over the lace, thumb pressing firm into where he knows your clit is. 

you whimper into the air, hand flying to his shoulder when your hips buck against your will. “bob,” you cry, chasing his touch. you want to feel his fingers on you, in you. not how he is now, driving you crazy with his thumb over your covered nub. 

he nods, more to himself. his hand obediently slides under the band of your underwear, tracking a familiar path to where you’re soaked. 

“holy shit,” bob gasps, eyes wide, sliding his fingers through the slick he finds waiting for him, “you’re so fucking wet, honey.”

“fuck, i know,” you whimper, head tossed back as he coats his fingers in your arousal. “‘m ovulating.”

bob’s mind goes white. he feels like he’s looked straight at the sun, blinded with how fucking bad he wants you. the revelation sends him to heaven for a second, and when you moan his name, twitching beneath his touch, he knows he’s there to stay. 

“fuck,” bob grunts under his breath, sliding two fingers into you. feels your walls clamp down hard, the same time you gasp at the thickness of his digits inside you. 

“god, i fucking missed this,” is all he says before he goes a little quiet, so in his head and dead-set on finishing what he started that he forgets he’s basically in public. 

but that’s all well and good, because you’re way gone too. already babbling praise, unable to muffle the whines escaping your red lips while he strokes inside you. 

“oh, bob, feels so good,” you breathe into the crook of his neck as he curls his fingers, reaching deep into that spot that makes you gush. when your head falls back, knocking on the steel door, your eyes trail hungrily over his face, hardened with focus.

“you’re so handsome, bob. needed you so bad, need you to– to make me cum,” your fingers tug at the hair at the nape of his neck. he groans at the sharp pull, pumping his fingers into you harder. your eyes roll back, mouth falling open when his thumb swirls over your clit, sticky with your juices. 

“let me have it,” bob pleads, capturing your mouth with his. “c’mon, pretty girl, give it to me. please– let me feel it– that’s what you were waiting for, right?”

it’s so fucking dirty, but you’re cumming on his fingers, pressed up against a bathroom door. bob has to slap a hand over your mouth when you do, because you nearly scream at how tight everything seizes up. your first after a week, and it makes your knees buckle. 

he drags it out for you, marvels at the way you soak his hand while his other holds you upright, easy and tight on your hip. 

you pant against his lips, and he seems happy to share your breath as you come down, especially when you’re knocking his wet hand away to fumble with his zipper. 

it’s downright holy, the relief he feels when your fingers wrap around him. all is right in the world, back on its axis. 

you draw him out of his boxers, tucking the waistband under his heavy balls. his cock is an angry crimson, slick and sticky all down the sides with how much he’s been leaking ever since your call. 

“oh my god,” you murmur when his cock twitches in your grasp, spitting out pearly beads of pre-cum. your thumb slides over his tip, collecting what you can before you bring it to your lips, humming at the familiar taste. 

bob groans loud and needy, his abdomen clenching in uncontrollable bursts.

“poor baby,” your palm twists around his cockhead, “that looks like it hurts.”

“fuck- it does!” bob grits out, eyes squeezed shut as he focuses on not blowing his load all over your pretty dress. “you gotta stop doing that, ‘cause the only place i’m gonna cum is inside you.”

you release him with a smile, slipping out from under his arms caging you in. you hop onto the sink, wriggling out of your ruined underwear. 

and like the universe’s last attempt at leaving bob with blue balls, he remembers the speech you’re lined up for. it cuts through his needy haze like a knife, and he even tears up a little when he says, “shit, baby, we can’t. don’t you need to be on stage soon?”

only, it comes out weak and pathetic, and you both know he’s going to be inside you within the next minute.  

bob watches, salivating at the sight of you kicking your panties off your heel, and when you spread your thighs for him, offering yourself up, he needs no further invitation. 

“in fifteen minutes actually,” you sigh as bob steps between your legs, jacket tossed to the side. he leaves dangerous kisses down your throat. you won’t be able to cover anything up and he knows that. 

“don’t worry, sweet boy,” you smile, cheeky as you draw him in, “we can work with that.” 

bob’s hypnotised, one strong hand anchoring at your waist while the other lines himself up. he kisses you once before he pushes in, eyes trained intently on you, wanting to see every minuscule twitch of your reaction. 

he loves the face you make every time he makes that first slide home. your eyebrows furrow, raised in surprise as your lips fall open. he likes watching your lashes flutter as you try to keep your eyes open, inevitably rolling back when he sheathes himself fully. 

usually it would take more sweet nothings murmured into your ear and his fingers at your clit to fit all of him inside. but this time you’re so slick and ready that he manages to slip inside in one thrust. 

the sound you make is halfway between a squeal and a gasp. “bob-!” you sound genuinely shocked, like you’ve forgotten just how it feels to have him so full and thick inside of you. 

your nails claw at his shirt when he starts drawing his hips back in shallow thrusts. “god, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” bob’s voice cracks at the feeling of your slick walls sucking him back in. 

“you’re so perfect,” he whimpers with his forehead pressed to yours, “so fucking beautiful like this.” he can’t believe this is real. maybe he’s hallucinating, or he’s living through a really vivid daydream. 

you’re here, legs hooked around his hips, heels digging into his ass as he ruts into you. barely dragging his full length out before he’s slamming back in. 

he fucks you hard on the bathroom counter, your tits bouncing in that dress that steals his breath. he paws at the glittering fabric, pulling it aside to release your tits. lowers his chin and sucks a nipple into his mouth, all while his hands pull your hips down to meet his thrusts. 

the sticky sounds make you blush, if the way bob’s wet tongue swirling around your peaked nipple doesn’t do it first. a constant plap! plap! plap! where his balls slap against your ass. 

his cock pulses inside you, and you know he’s close when he starts drooling against your neck. 

“thought about this every day,” bob admits, slurred and breathless. “thought i was going crazy. dreamed about you every night, honey.”

you’re egging him on with your pretty moans, thighs clenching at his hips when his pace picks up, pistoning against the spot that makes you keen. 

“dreamed of you too, bob,” you whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear. you watch goosebumps disappear down his crisp white collar. “woke up soaking every morning, wished you were there to take care of me.”

bob moans wantonly against your neck, “fuck, i– yeah, baby, gonna take care ‘f you, okay? y’don’t have to worry about anything.”

you nod, feeling that telltale heat building in your tummy. his rambling makes your head go fuzzy, and you’re launched into the countdown for what you know is going to be a devastating orgasm. 

“i’ll fuck you properly when this is over. just cum for me now, yeah?”

so you do, because he said so. 

you go stock still, mouth caught on a silent scream when it hits. for a moment, you feel like you’re floating, like right before the big drop on a roller coaster. 

and then you plummet back into your body, trembling as your walls spasm. bob talks you through it, whimpering into your neck as his end approaches while yours drags on. 

“thaaat’s it, good girl. soak my cock just like that,” he hums, sucking the skin between your shoulder and your neck between his teeth when he cums, dragged over the edge from your release. 

it muffles the shout crawling up his throat, and he nearly chokes from how hard it hits him. he spurts thick, heavy ropes of cum inside you, moans all broken and ruined. 

you moan contentedly at the warm sensation of being filled up. the wait was worth it for this moment alone. 

you think he’s done, but he just keeps cumming. he’s crying, for real this time, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as the overstimulation takes over. but his balls are still drawn right and he whines like he’s not the one still pushing his twitching cock into your puffy hole. 

when he finally pulls out, you have to act quick so his cum doesn’t get on your dress. bob wipes most of what’s leaking out with a paper towel, kissing you soft and gentle the whole time. 

he retrieves your discarded panties, pulling them up your legs carefully. and then he pays where he’s starting to seep into the barely-there lace. 

“keep… keep me there, until we get home,” he says. it’s almost a question and it almost sounds shy, but one look at his blown pupils tells you it’s an instruction. his voice is so deep and wrecked that it makes your stomach flip, and you realise you’re starting to forget your lines for the speech valentina had drilled everyone into remembering.  

an insistent knock breaks you both out of it. 

yelena, on the other side of the door, calling for you to “get the fuck out, it’s go time.” 

bob wonders how exactly she’d known where to find you—he doesn’t know you told her resolutely, before you even left for the mission that you were going to fuck him in that bathroom, regardless of how he’d dragged you in there first. 

the door swings open to reveal yelena, standing there in her suit. eyes narrowed knowingly as her sharp eyes dart between your shiteating grin, the blotches along your shoulder and bob’s hair—once carefully slicked back, now tousled and wild. 

“So…” John groaned, slumping against a cracked brick wall. Blood trickled from a cut near his hairline, and ash streaked his jaw like war paint. He held up what was left of his shield — warped, twisted, folded . “What now? Because we just got annihilated.”

“No shit,” Ava muttered, spitting dust from her mouth and flicking a burned scrap of fabric from her sleeve. Her split lip had swollen, and she could feel bruises blooming across her ribs. “I say every man for themselves. Bob’s gone full horror movie. This was fun — goodbye.”

She turned into the lingering smoke, already half-vanished — until Yelena’s voice cut through like a knife.

“We can’t leave him.”

Ava stopped, shoulders stiff. “Leave who? That wasn’t Bob back there. That was... I don’t even know what that was.” She turned, folding her arms. “Definitely not the guy who saved us.”

“No,” Yelena said, voice tight. “But he’s still in there. Somewhere.”

“Unless one of you has a secret anti-god laser in your back pocket,” Ava snapped, “what exactly is your plan?”

“I don’t have one yet,” Yelena admitted, stepping forward anyway. “But we’re not leaving him. Not like this.”

Alexei groaned and collapsed dramatically onto a half-shattered bench, which cracked under his weight. “If we go back in there, I need... at least ten minutes. And a cortisone shot. Maybe a priest.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Let me stretch, drink some water, and then we finish him.”

“We’re not finishing him,” Yelena snapped, rounding on him. “We’re going to help him.”

“Oh sure,” Ava muttered. “We’ll just hug the powers out of him.”

“He ripped Bucky’s arm off like it was a doll’s toy,” Alexei added. “We go in like this, we die.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky muttered as he calmly snapped the vibranium prosthetic back into place with a click. “Happens more than you think.”

John held up his bent shield, his face still a mix of shock and mild heartbreak. “He folded it. I mean—folded it. Like paper. Do you know what kind of force it takes to bend this thing?”

Ava raised a brow. “So… not vibranium?”

“It’s vibranium-adjacent,” John muttered defensively.

Yelena didn’t even look at him. “Maybe if it was actual vibranium, it wouldn’t look like a gas station burrito.”

Alexei lit up. “I could go for a burrito. Or a taco. The ones with the cheese in the middle. Mmm. I want that now.”

John groaned. “Focus! We got curb-stomped by Bob! Bob! The shy nerdy one!"

“Yeah,” Ava said quietly, brushing ash from her arm. “He’s not shy or nerdy anymore.”

That shut them all up.

Bucky exhaled. They were beat to hell, and morale was tanking fast. But more than that, they were scared. And for good reason.

He looked at them — bruised, dirty, half-limping, yet still bickering like middle schoolers on a broken field trip — and made a decision he was definitely going to regret.

“There’s a place we can crash. It’s not far. We lay low, regroup. Heal. Then we figure out what the hell to do.”

Yelena eyed him suspiciously. “Where?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and started walking.

The group hesitated, then followed — slow and shuffling.

A few blocks in, Ava broke the silence again, jabbing a thumb at John’s mangled shield. “So… can’t you, like, unfold it? You’ve got super strength, right?”

“I have super strength,” John snapped. “Not unfold-a-shield-bent-by-a-living-deity strength. It’s toast.”

Alexei squinted. “Is that, like… covered under warranty? Or do you have to mail it back?”

John gave him a deadpan look. “Do I look like I kept a receipt?”

“And you—” he pointed at Ava “—Ghost. Can you even do anything right now or are you just brooding professionally?”

Ava raised her brow. “I walked through a wall and saved your sorry ass five hours ago.”

“She literally did,” Yelena added, smirking.

“I-oh. Right. I forgot,” John said, flustered. “In my defense, I was the one who cut the power so she could walk through the wall.”

“How convenient,” Ava said flatly.

Their argument began escalating again — nonsense mixed with sarcasm, interrupted only by Alexei trying to convince someone to buy him tacos — until Bucky turned sharply on his heel.

“Enough.” His voice was low, tired, and just sharp enough to cut through the noise. “We’re almost there. If you keep yelling, she’s not going to open the door.”

They all stopped short.

“She?” they echoed, suspicious in unison.

“Yes. She. No more questions.” He resumed walking, jaw clenched.

Yelena sidled up next to him, grinning like a cat. “Is this a she-she, or a capital-She situation?”

“I’m not answering that.”

Alexei leaned toward John with a conspiratorial whisper. “Is she a friend-friend or a friendly friend?”

John nodded sagely. “I bet she’s way out of his league.”

“Maybe she's his girlfriend,” Yelena offered with a shrug.

“Highly doubtful,” Ava muttered.

“She’s not my—” Bucky stopped mid-sentence, face twitching. “Just... shut up. All of you. Or I will let Bob use you as a jump rope.”

They finally quieted.

The townhouse appeared as they turned the corner. It was small, tucked between a dry cleaner and an old record shop. String lights framed the little balcony, and a warm golden glow spilled from the upstairs window. Too calm. Too normal. It looked like the kind of place where people had tea and talked about their feelings — not where half-dead super-soldiers crawled in to sleep off a cosmic ass-kicking.

Bucky stopped in front of the door, hesitating. His jaw tightened as he raised his fist, his metal fist hovering before he knocked.

He hated this.

He hated that he’d brought them here — hated the pit growing in his stomach — hated that this was the only safe place he could think of. She hadn’t seen him in almost a year. Not since they separated. And now he was dragging a human dumpster fire of a team to her doorstep.

Behind him, the others bickered in hushed tones.

“Does she cook?” “I hope she has a comfy couch.” “If she has tea, I’ll marry her.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Just for a second.

He almost turned around — almost told them it was a bad idea and they should just sleep in a sewer.

But then he heard footsteps approaching the door.

Too late.

The door creaked open slowly, and there you were.

Your eyes landed on Bucky first — bruised, dirt-streaked, arm slightly disjointed, and he was holding his ribs with one hand.

“Bucky,” you breathed, barely above a whisper. Your gaze swept across him, and the flicker of worry that crossed your face was brief, but real.

Then it was gone.

“What do you want?” you asked. Not cold exactly, but not welcoming either. Just guarded.

Bucky looked down for a moment. His voice, when it came, was low. Worn. “I know I’m the last person you wanna see right now. But we need your help.”

“I don’t play superhero anymore,” you replied, arms folding as you leaned slightly against the doorframe.

“I know,” he said quickly, “I’m not asking you to suit up or anything. We just need a place to lay low. For a night. Maybe two. We got our asses handed to us like ten minutes ago.” He gestured to the group behind him, and your eyes drifted over the chaos on your porch.

“Please, doll,” he added, quieter now. “I wouldn’t have come if I had any other option.”

The silence stretched between you. He held your gaze, waiting — wounded pride barely masked beneath the plea.

Finally, you sighed, the tension in your shoulders softening. Without a word, you stepped aside and opened the door wider.

“Come in before the neighbors start watching.”

The team shuffled in, dragging in a trail of soot, broken egos, and exhaustion. Bucky paused as he stepped through, eyes flicking to the living room. It looked exactly like he remembered — warm, soft lighting, a shelf cluttered with books and candles. Homey. Safe.

Except the framed photos of you two were gone. Replaced by art. Abstract pieces. Beautiful, distant things.

Then something soft brushed against his leg.

He glanced down and froze.

A pristine white cat was weaving through his boots, its tail flicking with recognition. His expression shifted—stunned, tender.

“Hey, Alpine,” he murmured, crouching carefully. “Hi, pretty girl. I missed you.”

She meowed softly and launched into his arms, immediately purring as she burrowed into his chest. He cradled her like porcelain, one hand smoothing over her fur.

You watched from the kitchen threshold. You and Bucky had agreed Alpine would stay with you — your life was stable, his wasn’t. It had made sense. But it hadn’t been easy.

Behind Bucky, the team just… stared.

“Are you seeing this?” John whispered to Yelena.

Ava elbowed him without even looking. “Shut up.”

It was a surreal image: The Winter Soldier, dusty and battle-worn, cuddling a white fluffball like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You took in the rest of them. They were strangers, mostly. Strangers who looked like they'd crawled out of a battlefield and onto your rug.

The blonde woman leaned against the wall like it was the only thing keeping her standing. The woman in the sleek suit by the door looked cool and dangerous in equal measure. Then there was the massive man in red. He smiled and gave a little wave when your eyes met. And then there was the guy with the folded shield and the “punch-me” face.

Bucky nodded toward the group. “Uh, yeah. That’s Yelena, Ava, Alexei, and... that’s John.”

They all gave awkward waves. Alexei’s was the most enthusiastic.

You nodded politely. “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you.”

They all looked like they were one nudge away from collapsing.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” you offered.

“Water, please,” Yelena said quickly, her voice scratchy.

John raised his hand like a kid in class. “Same.”

Ava glanced at you, almost apologetic. “Do you have tea?”

“Sure. What kind?”

“Anything.”

You turned to Alexei.

“Do you have anything… stronger?” he asked, hopeful.

“How strong?”

“Very strong.”

You smirked. “Got it.” Then disappeared into the kitchen.

The moment you were out of sight, all heads turned to Bucky — still petting Alpine, who had zero plans to move.

“So…” Yelena drawled. “You and her?”

Bucky tensed like someone lit a fuse in his spine.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

John leaned closer to Ava. “There’s definitely history here. Did you see the way she looked at him?”

“She also looked like she wanted to slam the door,” Ava replied.

“She likes him,” Alexei declared confidently. “There is affection. And the cat approved. Cats never lie.”

Bucky glared at all of them. “If you value your limbs, you’ll stop talking.”

Yelena held up both hands, grinning. “Okay, okay. No shipping the grumpy soldier. Got it.”

A few moments later, you returned balancing a tray with glasses, a mug of tea, and a tumbler of something amber.

“Bucky, seriously?” you said, seeing them all still hovering like awkward ghosts. “You could’ve told them to sit down.”

He shrugged, still holding the cat like a teddy bear. “Didn’t want to break anything.”

You waved the team toward the couches. “Please. Make yourselves at home.”

John and Yelena nearly collapsed into opposite ends of the same couch. Ava leaned against a windowsill, blowing gently on her tea. Alexei sniffed his drink, took a sip, then sat upright.

“You, my dear, are an angel,” he declared reverently. “Is this whiskey?”

“Only the best for unexpected guests,” you replied dryly. “I was meal-prepping earlier,” you added, glancing over your shoulder. “I’ve got a big pot of soup if anyone’s hungry. Showers are down the hall. Towels are in the closet. Clean shirts in the basket.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Soup would be heavenly,” John mumbled, eyes already closing.

You gave a small smile and turned toward the kitchen again.

Bucky hesitated, gently placing Alpine down as she curled onto a throw pillow. Then he followed you, slow and quiet.

You were setting down a basket of warm dinner rolls on the table when you felt the shift in the room. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Still, you glanced over your shoulder. Bucky stood quietly near the doorway, half-shadowed by the dim kitchen light, his hands shoved in his pockets, posture stiff like he hadn’t quite decided if he should be there.

“Do you need anything?” you asked, keeping your voice steady. The soup was already simmering; your hands moved automatically to the ladle.

He offered a faint smile — the kind that didn't reach his eyes. “Thanks for letting us crash here.”

You nodded, focusing on the steam rising from the pot instead of the way your chest clenched. “You all looked like hell. Someone had to be decent.”

“Look, Y/N—”

“Bucky, don’t,” you said quickly, sharper than you meant to. You turned to face him fully, hands still holding the ladle. “You don’t have to say anything. I know why you're here. Nearest safe house. Not personal. It’s fine. Really.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening before giving a slow nod. “We’ll be out of your hair soon. Just need some rest.”

“That's fine.” You turned back to fill the bowls. “Alpine misses you.”

His voice was softer this time. “I miss her too.”

You didn't answer right away. But when the bowls were full and the bread was out, you called out toward the hallway.

“Lunch.”

A few thuds and grunts later, the rest of the group shuffled in like survivors of a disaster movie. Everyone looked slightly cleaner than when they arrived — but still bruised, bandaged, and about ten seconds from passing out.

Everyone except Bucky, who instinctively sat down in the seat next to yours.

Yelena took a spot across the table, her hands wrapped around her water. Ava perched at the end, still sipping her tea slowly. Alexei helped himself to three rolls before anyone else had time to blink.

John hovered awkwardly before finally taking a seat beside Alexei, clearly not wanting to be anywhere near Yelena again after their last round of bickering.

“And then—oh! Oh! Bob folded his shield like a freakin’ taco,” Alexei said mid-chew, nearly choking from laughter. “Just snapped it like paper!”

Yelena chuckled. Even Ava cracked a smirk.

John looked personally offended. “It’s not that funny.”

“And then—wait for it—he ripped off Bucky’s arm.” Alexei nearly doubled over at the memory.

Your spoon paused halfway to your mouth. You turned your head so fast toward Bucky, it made your hair sway.

Bucky rolled his eyes at Alexei, but when he caught your expression — real concern flickering beneath practiced calm — his demeanor softened.

“It’s fine,” he said gently, lifting the vibranium arm a little. “Reattached it without a problem.”

“Are you sure?” You were already reaching out, ignoring the way your hand trembled just slightly. You turned his arm gently, inspecting the seam where metal met flesh, eyes scanning for dents or stress damage. “Did you check everything out?”

“I’m okay,” he said, holding your gaze. You gave him a look that said you weren’t convinced. So he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He squeezed your hand. “I promise. I’m okay.”

His eyes looked at your hand, and something flickered behind them — something like a punch to the gut. It was bare. There was no ring on her finger.

Automatically, he reached up to his chest, fingers ghosting over where the chain should’ve been.

It wasn’t there.

His stomach dropped.

Bucky’s fingers frantically searched under his collar, pulling at his shirt, then dipping into his jacket pocket. Nothing.

No. No no no.

He never took it off. Ever.

His pulse spiked as he started checking every pocket.

“Bucky?” you asked, watching him unravel. “What’s wrong?”

“The chain,” he said hoarsely. “My chain. It’s gone.”

Panic etched across his face.

At the end of the table, Yelena blinked, frowning as she slipped a hand into her coat pocket. She felt the cool weight of something metallic there — something she had shoved away mid-battle and forgotten about.

When she pulled it out, her heart skipped.

It was a chain.

And dangling from it — a simple gold wedding band.

“Holy f—” she whispered, catching herself before the full curse slipped. “Holy shit.”

Everyone turned to look.

Bucky’s head snapped up.

She held the chain in her open palm like it was glowing. “This is yours.”

He surged forward before she could say another word and plucked it from her hand like it was oxygen. His breath shuddered as he slipped it back over his neck, the ring resting once again near his heart.

Relief washed over his features — raw and unfiltered.

Your eyes locked with his.

“You still have it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Your hand brushed your ring finger again, almost absentmindedly.

“I—I…” Bucky swallowed hard, words failing. His throat felt too tight.

Alexei broke the silence like a sledgehammer. “Wait—you’re married?! Congratulations!” he bellowed, raising his glass. “That’s adorable.”

Bucky flinched like he'd been shot.

The silence that followed was very loud.

He looked at you again — the weight of everything unspoken between you crashing back in all at once — then abruptly stood.

He didn’t say anything.

He just left the room, Alpine trailing after him as the others watched, stunned.

“Did I…” Alexei frowned. “Did I say something wrong? Is that not a wedding ring?”

Yelena sighed, rubbing her temple. “We’re gonna need way more soup.”

“Uh… we’re not married anymore,” you whispered, and the air in the room seemed to shift.

Everyone went quiet. You could feel the weight of their stares settle on you like a spotlight, but you didn’t look back. You just stood, heart pounding, and walked out of the room — your feet already knowing where to go.

Of course you knew where he was.

You and Bucky had lived in this house together for two years before everything fell apart. The bones of the place hadn’t changed — not the layout, not the memories buried in each room. And especially not the basement.

You made your way downstairs, the air cooler, quieter. The moment your foot hit the last step, he spoke.

“You kept everything the same,” Bucky said, his voice low but clear. He didn’t even need to turn around to know it was you.

You crossed the room and slowly sat next to him on the old couch, the one you both used to fall asleep on watching bad movies. The cushions were still slightly sunken on his side.

“Of course,” you replied, your voice gentle. “It was our home. It felt wrong moving your things…changing your designs.”

Silence filled the space between you. Not heavy — just full. The muffled sound of the team arguing upstairs drifted down: something about dishes, someone calling someone a jackass.

“They’re a good bunch,” you murmured. “Very entertaining, too.”

Bucky let out a quiet, tired laugh. “Yeah. I know.”

Your eyes drifted to the chain around his neck — barely visible, but there.

“You kept the ring,” you said softly, watching him tense just slightly.

He nodded slowly, the admission coming with a quiet sigh. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?”

He finally turned to face you, eyes tired but sincere. “It helps me. Grounds me. I didn’t have much left to fight for after Steve left. But then there was you. And that ring… it gave me comfort. Protection, in a weird way. It became my good luck charm. I couldn’t get rid of it after the divorce. I didn’t want to.”

You felt your chest tighten, but you gave him a small, sad smile. “So you’ve been wearing it around your neck this whole time?”

He nodded again, this time more slowly. “Every damn day,” he admitted, dragging a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t take it off. It’s stupid, I know. Makes me look like a fool.”

You shook your head and stood up, walking to the cabinet on the far wall. He watched you with guarded curiosity as you pulled out a small, velvet box and returned to the couch.

“You’re not a fool,” you said gently. You opened the box and held it out to him. “I couldn’t get rid of mine either. Every time I tried, it felt wrong, like throwing away something sacred."

His gaze dropped to the ring in your fingers, and his throat tightened. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours again.

“I really wanted our marriage to work,” he said, the words coming out like a confession.

“I know you did.”

“I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

“I know you are.” You reached for his hand and held it. It still felt the same — steady, calloused, familiar. “You needed to find yourself, Buck. I should’ve understood. Everything was changing so fast. Steve died. Sam had the shield. Walker was Captain America for a minute. And then… you got into politics. You’re actually a congressman now.”

He let out a breath that was half-scoff, half-laugh.

“I couldn’t keep up,” you continued. “And that was on me.”

“No. It was on me,” he said firmly. “I didn’t prioritize your feelings. I kept shutting you out — thinking I was protecting you. You were right to divorce me. I wasn’t a good husband.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — and shook your head.

“Bucky, no. You were an amazing husband. You just had things to work through. And I pushed myself aside instead of speaking up.”

You leaned in and wrapped your arms around him. The embrace felt effortless. Like no time had passed.

His arms went around you instantly, like they never forgot how.

“I’m also sorry,” you whispered.

Bucky’s laugh was soft and bitter. “What the hell happened to us?”

“I don’t really know,” you said, your voice muffled against his chest. “But I missed you.”

“I missed you more.” He pressed his face into your shoulder, inhaling like he needed the scent of you to survive. Alpine purred softly at your feet, curling between your legs.

And for a while, it was enough.

Peaceful. Quiet. Just the two of you and the cat you shared, back in a place that still remembered love.

And then—

CRASH.

You both jumped slightly at the loud clatter upstairs.

“Did you seriously just break their bowl?” John’s voice rang out, horrified.

“Well, if you think you can do better, then help me wash the dishes, Walker!” Ava snapped back.

You giggled, forehead still resting against Bucky’s shoulder. “We should go before they break more of our dishes.”

He smiled — a real one, one that reached his eyes. It lit up something in him when you said our. He tightened his hold. “A few more minutes. They’ll survive.”

You didn’t argue.

And without meaning to, both of you drifted off, curled into each other like no time had passed at all.

********

“This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up, Alexei. You’re being too loud.”

“We should wake him up, though. We haven’t even talked strategy.”

“We can’t. Look at them.”

“They look like a cute, happy family.”

“We should take a picture.”

The shutter sound was loud in the quiet room, with the flash blinding all of them.

Bucky blinked awake, eyes adjusting slowly. There was warmth on his lap — Alpine, purring softly. And in his arms, still tucked close, was you.

For a second, he didn’t move.

This was what peace felt like. This was home.

“You woke him up,” Yelena hissed. “Seriously, Dad, turn off the flash and the sound!”

Bucky looked at them — bleary-eyed and still half-asleep — and his expression dropped into something flat and dangerous.

“I’m going to give you ten seconds to leave,” he said calmly, voice low and sharp as a blade. “And if you don’t… Bob will be the least of your problems.”

The team scrambled out of the room like they’d seen a ghost.

He sighed, then looked back down at you — just as you stirred.

You blinked yourself awake slowly, eyes meeting his. He braced himself, just for a second, wondering if you’d pull away. Regret it. Pretend none of it happened.

But you didn’t.

You just smiled sleepily, and snuggled closer.

“Is everything okay?” you murmured, reaching over to pat Alpine, who purred louder.

“Everything’s just perfect,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

He's been carrying you bridal style for miles and has yet to break a sweat. Saying you’re uncomfortable would be putting it mildly – your busted knee is throbbing and your neck is aching from nonstop effort to resist resting your face against his chest. But you don’t dare complain – not when you know he’s likely still irritated with you for being a fuckin’ klutz and getting yourself injured.

You're on thin ice as it is. One more smart-ass remark and it wouldn’t surprise you if he sits you on a tree stump and leaves you to hobble back to the car on your one good leg.

“Besides,” he continues as he looks up to the sky. “We need to keep going. It’s going to start raining soon.”

“Rain?” You follow his gaze up to the sky. It’s mostly blocked by tree branches, but from what you can see, it’s perfectly sunny. “The weather report didn’t say anything about rain this morning.”

“Can't always trust the weather report,” he sighs, shaking his head. “I trust my senses. And I can smell that it's going to rain.”

You roll your eyes with exaggerated annoyance. “And what exactly, Mr. Military Man, does rain smell like?”

You’re just testing him. He makes it too fucking easy sometimes. Plus, you need some entertainment for the last portion of this walk. Why did he have to park so far away?

“It’s… you know, earthy. Musky,” he shrugs, jostling you in his arms again. “The smell is produced by a chemical reaction with plant oils and bacteria when there’s an increase in humidity and moisture. There’s a name for it. It’s called, uh...”

“Petrichor.” You finish his sentence, and then purse your lips to resist smirking as you look up at him in amusement.

He looks down at you, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Yeah. That’s it. Petrichor.”

You find yourself staring at him for a split-second too long. “Maybe you’re smarter than you look, Walker,” you jab, trying to ignore the fact that you’d been thinking about how blue his eyes are in this lighting.

As soon as he opens his mouth to retort, a low clap of thunder rolls in the distance. You hear the pitter-patter of rain colliding against the canopy of branches above you a second before you feel the drops hit your skin.

“Shit!” you exclaim, futilely wiping the water off of your face with your arm that isn’t wrapped around his neck.

“Told you,” Walker grunts as he begins to increase his pace to a jog.

Despite the trees surrounding you acting as an umbrella, you’re both sopping wet within minutes. The rain starts as a drizzle and quickly turns into a downpour, soaking through your tactical suit. After what feels like an eternity, the red Jeep that you’d driven comes into view from where he had parked on a roadside pull-off at the edge of the woods.

He seamlessly opens the passenger side door and maneuvers you into your seat before running to the driver's side and hopping in.

“Jesus Christ,” you huff, as if you’re the one who just carried another human being through miles of woods during a thunderstorm. Walker turns the key in the ignition, violently shaking his head to rid his hair of some of the water dripping from his blond locks. The drops fly all over the leather interior of the rental car, and hit you in the face.

“What are you? A dog?” you groan, retrieving your cell phone from the glove box to call Yelena with an update.

“It’s not like you aren’t already sopping wet,” he snaps. “Now buckle up.”

You roll your eyes, only halfway paying attention to him as you scroll through your recent calls to find Yelena’s name. Just as you’re about to call her, he curses under his breath and leans over, reaching across you to yank your seat belt over your chest and lap, clicking it into the buckle.

You narrow your eyes at him, momentarily surprised. “That was unnecessary. All you had to do was say please.”

“Please stop making my job more difficult. How about that?”

“Good boy. Now, will you please drive?”

He stares at you, jaw clenched, and shifts into drive.

The two of you exchange only necessary words for the duration of the drive. You fill Yelena in on your current predicament – fucked up knee, drenched clothes, and a thunderstorm that is bordering on dangerous to drive in. She suggests getting motel rooms for the night and waiting until morning to catch a flight back to New York instead of traveling in such inclement conditions. Exhausted and uncomfortable, even you and Walker aren’t stubborn enough to put up much of an argument.

You're in a small town in northern Georgia – the kind of town that no one has heard of except for the thousand or so people that live there. One bank, one drugstore, a couple mom and pop diners, and yep, you guessed it – a singular small inn with a vacancy sign glowing in neon letters.

Walker parks as close as he can to the entrance, and then opens the door for you as you limp inside before going back out into the rain to get both his and your bags.

“Hi,” you greet the small, elderly woman behind the front desk. She looks up from her computer screen, eyes wide and brows raised when she takes in your wet, disheveled state. “I need to get two rooms for the night, please.”

She gives you a polite smile and nod before she starts clicking around the computer screen. Walker walks through the door a second later, a duffel bag on each arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman apologizes, looking between the two of you. “We actually only have one room available right now.”

You dig your teeth into your bottom lip to resist the urge to curse out loud. Could one more thing go wrong today? What have you done to deserve such a string of bad luck?

There’s no other hotels within a ten mile radius, and this heavy rain isn’t safe to keep driving in. You’re wet, and tired, and your knee is screaming at you to lay the fuck down and ice it.

“Does the room have – is it – are there two beds?” You stutter out. Sharing a room with Walker isn’t ideal, but you figure you can cope if you have your own beds. He is uncharacteristically quiet beside you.

The woman, whose name tag reads Arlene, glances back down at the screen in front of her for a brief moment before looking back up at you with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, dear. It’s only one bed. But it is a king…” she trails off, eyeing Walker up and down. “So there should be plenty of room.”

You exhale, brainstorming a solution to this predicament. One of you could take the room, and the other could sleep in the Jeep, you suppose. The backseat is pretty roomy…

“We’ll take it,” Walker tells her when you start to open your mouth. You look at him with furrowed brows. “What? I’m not driving anymore tonight. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You don’t have the energy to protest. You pay for the room before you have the chance to overthink it.

It’s not like you haven’t shared rooms with your teammates before. Hell, you technically have shared a room with Walker before – Walker, and Yelena, and Ava. But never just Walker.

While you're relieved to have someplace dry and comfortable to sleep for the night, there’s a small part of you – a part deep in the pit of your stomach – that feels nervous. When it comes down to it, you trust John Walker with your life. But when faced with the realization that you're going to be sharing a bedroom with him, your thoughts flash back to being cradled against his chest for well over an hour.

You hate to admit it to yourself, but you didn’t exactly mind it. It felt secure. A little awkward at first, sure. But also safe.

And then there was the moment in the car when he took it upon himself to buckle your seatbelt. It should have pissed you off – he’s so damn bossy and impatient. It normally takes little to nothing for him to get under your skin.

Should have and normally being the key words.

You don’t know how to come to terms with the fact that it sent a rush of adrenaline through you. All you could think to do in that moment was deflect with sarcasm so that he wouldn’t pick up on the way you held your breath and your heart rate spiked at the small act of dominance.

You had every intention of catching a flight to New York and pushing those thoughts to the very back of your mind until you’re back home, where he will inevitably piss you off by leaving his dirty dishes in the sink or eating the last of your yogurts without asking you.

Instead, you’ll be spending the next twelve hours with him in a three hundred square foot room with only one bed while you attempt to not dwell on these sudden, unwelcome thoughts.

“I’m gonna go get some ice for your knee,” he announces as soon as you enter the room. He drops the duffel bags and his shield at the bottom of the bed as you begin to take off your combat boots. “There’s a diner right across the road. What do you want to eat?”

You shrug, slightly taken aback by the thoughtfulness. It dawns on you that the two of you haven’t eaten since before your flight this morning. “Oh, uh – just a burger and fries is fine. Or a salad. Or chicken sandwich. Thanks.”

He nods, not phased by your indecisiveness. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” you tell him as he starts to exit the room. “I’m just going to shower off really quick while you’re out.”

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, turning to look at you like you’ve grown a second head. “No, you're not.”

“What?” you snap. “What’s the problem?”

“You have a bum leg,” he retorts like it’s obvious. “You can barely walk. The last thing I need is you falling in the shower and cracking your head open while I’m not here. Just wait until I get back.”

So fucking bossy. But for some reason, it doesn’t annoy you as much as it typically would.

“Fine,” you huff. “Don’t get washed away by the storm. I’m starving and can't fend for myself right now, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, opening the door and rolling his eyes as he walks back into the motel hallway.

After the door clicks shut behind him, you take several deep, calming breaths. How dare you let yourself be flustered over Walker, of all people?

It’s a stretch to even call him your friend. Sure, the two of you technically live together. Go on morning runs together, and train together, and work together. Eat breakfast and dinner together most days, and spend a decent amount of free time together on your days off.

But you do all of those things with all of your teammates, too. None of them make you want to throttle their necks on a regular basis. So why is it that Walker has you so worked up?

All you know is that you need to get these wet clothes off of your body so that you can lay down without drenching the bed.

With your knee now swollen to the size of a softball, this proves to be a task that is easier said than done. You'd never admit it to him, but Walker is right – it’s probably smart that you don’t risk showering while he’s gone. You can’t put any pressure on your left leg and your balance is fucked.

Once you’re out of the wet tactical suit and changed into a pair of shorts and a crewneck sweatshirt, you finally plop down onto the bed and turn on the Roku television to find something to watch to pass the time. You prop an extra pillow beneath your knee to elevate it a bit, and silently wish that you had told Walker to stop by the Walgreens down the road to get you some ibuprofen.

You’re sure that he would if you’d just call or text him and ask, but you’ve already been quite an inconvenience today, and you don’t want to ask anything else of him right now. Maybe he has some in his duffel bag – though you highly doubt it, since super soldiers rarely have the need for over the counter pain relievers.

After losing track of time scrolling through movie titles on the TV, you select some generic looking action-comedy that you think is right up Walker’s alley. Checking the time on your phone, you realize that he’s been gone for quite a while. The diner is directly across the road from the motel, so you expected him to be back fairly quickly.

Maybe the diner is just busy? Sure, it's storming like crazy, but it is a Friday night and it’s one of the only restaurants in town.

Just when you open your and Walker’s message thread to send him a text and make sure he’s okay, you hear the beeping of a key card as it’s inserted and removed from the door lock. A second later, Walker enters the room with a few plastic bags, somehow even wetter than he was after your stroll through the forest just a little while ago.

You put your phone on the nightstand beside you, choosing to keep it to yourself that you were about to send him a message to check in on him.

Of course he’s okay. He’s a fucking super soldier. He can handle going across the road in a thunderstorm to get some food.

“Oh, hey,” he exclaims, looking at the movie playing on the TV. “I’ve been wanting to watch this.”

You can’t help but grin at the fact that you’d been right.

“Some schmuck forgot to log out of their Netflix account before they checked out.”

He passes one of the take-out bags to you. “One burger with fries and a side salad.”

You happily take the bag from him, your stomach growling at the smell of the greasy diner food.

“And,” he continues, reaching into a bag that you hadn’t noticed. “Some extra strength Tylenol.” He retrieves a small bottle from the bag and tosses it to you from where he stands at the foot of the bed.

“Oh,” you quip, catching the bottle. “Uh – thanks, Walker. I appreciate it.”

He gives an awkward shrug. “Can’t say I never did anything for you. Grabbed a few water bottles, too.”

You dig into your food in hopes that it will distract you from the way your stomach fluttered when you realized he had gone out of his way to get you the medicine – without you even asking.

It really isn’t a big deal. It’s a five dollar bottle of over the counter pills. But Walker doesn’t exactly go around anticipating the needs of others – especially not at the expense of his own convenience. Still, you know better than to read into it. You’re just tired and the events of today are clouding your judgment.

Clearly. That’s the only explanation for why you’re experiencing what can only be described as butterflies over John Walker.

Once you finish scarfing down your food, you cram the garbage back inside the take-out bag and force yourself into a standing position despite your body's protests. You desperately want to shower, even just to have a few minutes kind of alone with your thoughts.

Walker, still in the middle of eating his own burger at the small desk in front of the bed, turns his attention away from the movie and to you.

“I’m going to take a shower now,” you explain simply, grabbing your duffel bag before limping towards the bathroom on the other side of the small room. You pause at the door when you hear footsteps behind you, turning to face him.

“Are you wanting to join me? Or…?” You ask sarcastically.

“Jesus,” he huffs, taking a step back and throwing his hands up. His face flushes pink. “No. I'm just going to wait behind the door and make sure you get into the shower okay.”

You roll your eyes. “I promise I’m capable of getting in the shower.” You can tell by the hesitant look on his face that he isn’t convinced. “I’ll yell if I need anything. Okay? Sit down and finish your food.”

You step into the bathroom, shutting the door in his face as he tells you to be careful in an annoyed tone.

Holy hell. Has he always been such a mother hen?

No, there’s no way. You would have noticed it on any of the other dozen or so jobs that you’ve worked with him in the last few months. He’s being uncharacteristically protective and considerate, and despite the fact that there’s a small part of you that almost likes it, you don’t understand the sudden shift in behavior.

Once you’ve managed to get into the shower without any further injury, you stand beneath the scalding hot stream of water until your thoughts stop racing and your skin feels blistered.

••••••

By the time you finish your shower and post-shower routines, it’s just after eight o’clock. Walker retrieves some ice from the motel lobby and assembles a makeshift ice pack for your knee before going to take a shower himself.

You’re halfway paying attention to the fight sequence unfolding on the screen in front of you when he exits the bathroom in only a pair of black sweatpants. No shirt, hair dripping, and skin flushed pink from the heat of the shower.

Taken by surprise, your eyes freeze on him as he walks by you. Luckily, he doesn’t notice your gaze and you snap out of it before he turns to face you as he pulls a t-shirt from his bag and then yanks it over his head.

Six foot two and well over two hundred pounds of pure muscle – you’re not blind. He looks damn good, but you’re not about to let him know that you think so.

Fucker. There’s no way that was an accident. How does someone remember to take a pair of pants with them into the bathroom but somehow forget their shirt?

You bite your tongue, holding back the smart-ass comments that threaten to spill from your mouth. Something in your gut tells you that’s exactly how he’s hoping you’ll react, and you aren’t going to give him that satisfaction so easily.

“Are you ready to go to sleep? Or do you want to keep watching the movie?” You ask instead.

You’re ready to turn the lights off and pass the fuck out, but he'd been a good partner today, and only a fraction as annoying as he normally is, so you figure it won’t kill you to show a little consideration for his wants, too.

Maybe it's the tone of your voice or the look on your face, but he seems to pick up on the fact that you have no real desire to continue watching this movie.

“I’m beat.” He yawns dramatically, stretching for emphasis. “Carrying you for miles really wore me out.”

You grab the closest pillow to you and chuck it towards his head. “You know, I was going to offer to let you take the bed, but after that comment, I think I’ll stay right where I’m at.”

He catches it with ease and laughs as he tosses it to the ground, in between the bed and the motel door – directly beside you. He grabs a spare blanket that's folded at the bottom of the mattress and then sinks to his knees.

“I promise, I've had far worse sleeping conditions than this.”

You know he's just joking around, but something about the comment gets to you more than it should. All of the far worse places that he had to sleep during his time in the Army flash through your mind and make you feel a pang of guilt for hogging an entire king sized bed to yourself.

“What?” He asks, kneeling on the floor next to you. It hits you that you're just staring at him.

Before you can overthink it, the words are pouring from your mouth.

“Just get in the bed.”

“What?” He repeats, this time in bewilderment. He looks at you like he isn’t sure if he heard you correctly – or like you’re pulling a prank on him.

“You heard me,” you sigh, pressing the power button on the TV remote and turning it off. “This bed is huge. There's no sense in you sleeping on the cold, hard floor when you don't have to.”

His eyes flicker between you and the empty space on the bed beside you. “Are you sure? It's not that big of a deal. I can sleep on the flo—”

“John, get in the fucking bed.”

He closes his mouth, an indecipherable expression on his face. He hesitates for a second longer, and then stands up with the pillow that you'd thrown at him.

“Okay. Scoot over.”

“What?” you chuckle. “Why do I need to scoot over? Just take the other side.”

“Because I want to be closest to the door,” he says like it’s obvious. “In case someone tries to break in or something.”

You roll your eyes, reluctantly moving over to the empty space on the other side of the bed. You’re too tired to fight him on this one.

“How noble of you.”

He takes your place, slipping under the scratchy motel comforter and flipping the bedside table lamp off. The two of you are now encased in darkness – the only noise coming from a television playing in the neighboring room due to paper thin walls.

It’s silent for a moment, and you assume that you’re both going to drift to sleep without saying anything else, when he speaks into the darkness.

“You know, you called me John.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, though it’s too dark to see anything other than his silhouette. “Well, that is your name.”

“Yeah,” he replies after a loaded pause. “But you never call me John. You’ve only ever called me Walker.”

You purse your lips. He’s right – you don’t remember ever calling him by his first name in all the time that you’ve known him. Sometimes, it’s easy for you to forget that Walker isn’t actually his first name.

You exhale through your nose – something between a sigh and a laugh. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“No.” His voice rises an octave. The response comes quickly, like he didn’t think before speaking. “I didn’t… I didn’t mind it,” he murmurs, his voice returning to its normal cadence.

“Oh,” you whisper.

The silence that follows feels heavy. You’re both completely still. A loud clap of thunder booms, shaking the building and breaking whatever tension was lingering between you. You exhale a shaky breath, ignoring the way your heart is beating in your chest.

“Goodnight, John.”

••••••

When you open your eyes, the room is dark except for white flashes of lightning that creep through the cracks of the motel room’s curtains.

You feel groggy and disorientated, so you know that you couldn’t have been asleep for very long. With the way that the storm is raging outside, you quickly piece together that it was a loud clap of thunder or the violent screeching of wind that must have startled you awake.

Goosebumps decorate the exposed skin of your legs and you shiver, wrapping the cheap, thin comforter tighter around your frame.

There's movement from your left and you’re reminded that you aren’t alone in this bed.

“Storm knocked the power out,” he mutters, his voice raspy with sleep.

“It’s fucking freezing in here,” you groan. Your teeth chatter involuntarily.

He snorts. “It’s not that cold.”

“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “Not everyone has super soldier serum turning them into a human space heater.”

You can practically feel the warmth radiating off of his body despite the good foot or so of space in between you. In your half-awake state, you fight the urge to move closer to the only heat source in the room.

“Well, if I’m a human space heater…” He trails off. The bed creaks as he readjusts his position, turning on his side to face you. “I could, uh.. I could help warm you up. Just until the power comes back on,” he adds quickly.

The offer takes you by surprise. If you weren’t so cold, you’d probably burst into laughter. But you’re shivering too much to find anything funny right now. Why the hell did you only pack shorts to sleep in?

Oh, yeah. Because it's spring time, and you’re in Georgia. It shouldn’t be this cold right now. But thanks to the heavy rain and the motel’s lack of proper insulation, it feels like the middle of a New York winter night.

“Really?” you ask lamely. You feel dumb for even considering the offer.

“I mean…” You feel him shrug. “Yeah, why not? You’re cold, I’m warm. You did me a favor by letting me sleep in the bed, so…”

Cuddling with Walker. If your teammates found out, they’d never let either of you hear the end of it. You can hear Alexei’s teasing now.

“Or you can just be cold. I’m fine either way,” he adds when you’re quiet for a moment too long. He starts to turn in the opposite direction when you grab him by the shoulder.

“No, wait,” you mutter, embarrassment creeping over you at the realization of what you’re about to do. “Okay.”

He settles back down, this time laying with his back against the mattress. He extends his arm closest to you, a silent offer for you to tuck yourself between it and his side. Before you can overthink it any further, you close the distance between your bodies and press yourself against him.

Your head rests against his chest, and you throw your arm over his stomach. He wraps his arms around you without any hesitation, and you have to remind yourself to breathe. When you do, you let out a noise that can best be described as a sigh of contentment.

He’s even warmer than you'd imagined. You instantly stop caring about how weird this is and focus on the relief that his body heat provides.

“Jesus, you’re shaking like a leaf,” he murmurs. He runs a large hand up and down the side of your arm, warming you further with the friction.

You snort. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t lying about being cold just to snuggle you.”

“Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

You pinch him just below his ribcage in response to his teasing. His chest vibrates with silent laughter, but he doesn’t say anything else.

You're both fast asleep within minutes. The power comes back on at some point during the night, but you’re still entangled with each other when the sun pours through the curtains come morning time.

••••••

Neither of you mention your night in the small Georgia inn after checking out the next morning.

Not on the drive to the airport, or the flight back to New York, or at any point since returning home almost a month ago.

For the most part, things go back to normal between the two of you. You continue to work together, and train together, and banter persists as it usually does when your other teammates are present.

But more and more often you’re noticing that as soon as you find yourselves alone for more than a few minutes, John suddenly has every excuse to be elsewhere.

It’s not as if you used to spend all of your free time together – but the fact that he suddenly wants to take the stairs up to the twentieth floor of the Watchtower instead of taking the elevator with you is a little odd.

It doesn’t bother you at first. You think it’s weird, but why should you let it get to you? You weren’t exactly the best of friends to begin with.

Then, there starts to be moments that you find your thoughts drifting to him when they shouldn’t. When you get caught in the rain and you think back to how he looked with raindrops dripping from his hair and beard, and when you wake in the middle of the night and it’s a little too chilly and you remember how it felt to be pressed against him in the freezing motel room.

You’ll lie awake at night, wondering if he’s in his bed, directly across the hallway, thinking about the same thing as you.

It's fucking stupid.

Like right now – you’re all at a lavish gala, thrown in celebration of Sam Wilson’s Avengers and The New Avengers(z) coming together to form one big, happy super team.

There’s a full service bar, unlimited hors d’oeuvres, and good music – you should be having a good time.

Instead, you’re staring across the room at the back of a dumb blond super soldier’s head while a reporter attempts to ask you questions about who designed the dress you’re wearing.

“I’m so sorry,” you interrupt her. “I just remembered I have to… go to the bathroom. Will you please excuse me?”

You don’t wait for her to answer before you begin walking across the dance floor without a concrete idea as to what you’re going to say or do when you reach him.

“Hey,” you greet him casually. He turns to you at the sound of your voice, a look of mild surprise on his face. There’s a sudden, undeniable fluttering of butterflies in your stomach. He looks too handsome with his suit and tousled hair.

“Did you try the goat cheese and salami stuffed dates?”

Why that’s the question you decide to start off with, you don’t know.

“Uh – no,” he shakes his head, confusion taking over his features. “No, I guess I must have missed those.”

“That's too bad. They’re fucking delicious.”

He cocks a brow at you. “That’s good to know.”

Well, there goes your ice breaker.

It’s the longest conversation the two of you have had by yourselves in weeks, but there’s a level of awkward tension that you just don’t know how to shake – and it obviously isn’t going to go away on its own.

You toss the rest of your drink back before biting the bullet. “Can we, uh – do you mind if we go somewhere a little more quiet so that we can talk?”

As soon as you get the last word out, Valentina walks up and grabs you by the arm.

“There you are,” she says through gritted teeth. There’s a smile plastered across her face, but her voice gives away her irritation – at what, you never really know or care. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

You sigh, unable to hide your irritation at her timing. “What is it, Val?”

She fake laughs, waving to someone off in the distance. “John, would you be a dear and get me another drink while her and I have a short chat? Thanks so much.”

John's annoyance is palpable. He glares at Valentina with daggers, clenching his jaw as he storms off in the direction of the bar.

As soon as he’s out of ear shot, she turns to you. “I need a favor.”

You resist rolling your eyes in case there’s any cameras pointed in your direction at the moment. “I’m here, aren’t I? Is that not enough of a favor?”

She ignores your quip, pointing to where Sam, Joaquín Torres, and Bucky are mingling with a few random attendees.

“I need you to dance with him.”

“Dance? With Bucky? Why?” You sputter the words out, not expecting that to be her request.

“Not Bucky,” she shushes you, plucking your empty martini glass out of your hand. “The young, cute one in the middle.”

“Joaquín?” You exclaim. “I barely know him.”

You can count on one hand the number of conversations you’ve had with Joaquín. You have no problem with him – he's good at his job, a team player, and he’s enjoyable enough to be around. But the last thing on your mind right now is dancing with a man you hardly know.

“That’s the entire point of this whole thing.” She gestures dramatically to all of the people around you. “Bringing the two teams together. It’ll show people how well everyone is getting along. Ava has already agreed to have a dance with Sam.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble beneath your breath.

“I’ll give you an extra week of paid vacation days,” she offers before you can argue any further.

You know she isn’t going to let up. Valentina is nothing if not persistent. Truthfully, you just want her to leave you alone so that you can get on with your night – the extra paid time off is just a bonus.

“One dance and one dance only.”

You walk away from her before she can give you any half-assed words of gratitude.

On your way over to where Joaquín is talking to Bucky and the others, you glance around the crowded room for John. You don’t see him anywhere, and you can’t help but feel the slightest inkling of disappointment.

What would you say to him even if you did happen to run into him right now, anyway? Valentina is making me dance with Joaquín and I really hate dancing but for some reason I don’t think I’d mind it nearly as much if I was dancing with you?

Yeah, right. You’d probably just make awkward small talk about the fucking appetizers again.

You do your best to pretend that there's nothing else on your mind for the few minutes that you talk to Sam, Bucky, and Joaquín, but you can’t stop yourself from glancing around the room every other minute.

“Are you ready to give all of the reporters something super exciting to take pictures of?” You ask Joaquín as he guides you to the middle of the dance floor.

There’s a few other couples slow dancing to the live, classical piano music that fills the venue, so you shouldn’t stick out too much, but of course reporters start flocking around with their cameras when they see a member of the New Avengers(z) and the new Falcon slow dancing.

“Don’t be nervous,” he tells you as he takes one of your hands in his, placing the other on the small of your back. You lift your arm to his neck and begin following his slow, rhythmic steps to the music. “Sam and Ava are going to dance any minute now, and then all eyes will be on Captain America and the infamous Ghost.”

“Me? Nervous?” you scoff playfully. “I’m not nervous.”

“Could have fooled me,” he shrugs. “You looked like you might puke when Valentina first asked you.”

He guides you into a gentle spin, clearly far more experienced with all of this than you. When he does, you catch a brief glimpse on John. He’s standing several yards away with his hands in his pockets and a stoic expression on his face – looking right at you and Joaquín.

You nearly trip over your own foot, but Joaquín catches you and quickly gets you back on rhythm.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I hope you don't take it personally, because it's nothing against you. At all. Dancing just isn't my forte, and I've kind of… had a lot on my mind.”

He looks behind you for a moment before meeting your eyes with a curious smirk. “Would that happen to have something to do with why Walker is looking at me like he wants to bash my head in with his shield?”

“What?” you exclaim, nearly stumbling again. You have to resist the urge to look over your shoulder where John is standing. “Don’t be crazy. He… wouldn't do something like that again.”

Joaquín throws his head back in laughter. “I don’t know about that. I think he just might over you.”

You roll your eyes. “I think you just might be exaggerating.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. At that exact moment, Sam and Ava begin dancing just a few feet away from you and Joaquín. All of the reporters suddenly lose interest in the two of you.

“Or maybe not. Only way for you to find out is to chase him down and ask him, I guess.”

“Chase him down?” you repeat, looking over your shoulder to see John walking directly towards an exit.

Shit.

“Go on,” Joaquín encourages. “I think it’s safe to say we have given Val the photo op that she was hoping for.”

You give his hand a grateful squeeze before letting go. “Thanks, Joaquín.”

You really fucking wish you weren’t wearing heels right now. As fast as you can without twisting an ankle, you make your way across the dance floor, heading straight towards the hallway that you saw John enter just a few seconds prior.

There's a voice in the back of your mind screaming that you don't even know what you’re going to say when you manage to catch up to him, but that doesn’t stop you from putting one foot in front of the other until his large frame comes into view.

“John!” You call. He stops right away, though he hesitates for a moment before turning to face you. His face is relatively expressionless, but there's tension in his jaw.

“You okay..?” You ask. “Where are you going?”

“I’m fine,” he snaps. “I just need some fresh air. Is that okay?” He starts to walk away again, but you reach out and grab him by the hand.

“Is it okay if I come with you? I could use some fresh air, too.”

He pulls his hand out of your grasp – not violently, not harshly, but yet it still stings.

“You sure about that? I would hate to keep you from Torres for too long.” There’s a hint of venom in both his stare and tone. He starts to walk away again, and it takes you a moment to react.

Maybe Joaquín was right, after all.

His strides are long and quick. By the time you start walking after him, he’s already turning the corner of the hallway and out of your sight.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you mutter. You pause long enough to yank off the obnoxious stiletto heels that had been killing your feet since you’d taken your first steps in them tonight. With your shoes in hand, you all but sprint down the hallway after him.

The second that you turn the corner of the hallway, it feels as if you have collided with a brick wall.

A brick wall that smells like sandalwood and cedar.

“Jesus!” John exclaims, barely even stumbling when the front of your body slams into his back. “What the hell are you—”

“I like you,” you interrupt him. His mouth snaps shut, and his eyes go wide. The martini that you you’d finished earlier threatens to come back up, but you swallow and force yourself to continue.

“I like you, John,” you repeat, softer. “I was only dancing with Joaquín because Valentina told me to. I know things have been… weird, ever since Georgia. You can go back to avoiding me like the plague, if that’s what you want. I just needed you to hear—”

The next thing you know, his large, calloused hands are cradling your face and his lips are on yours.

It takes you a second to realize what is happening, but when you do, you're kissing him back like there’s no chance of an unsuspecting stranger walking down this hallway at any moment. You drop your shoes to the floor so that your hands are free to trail up his chest. You grip fistfuls of the satin material of his suit in your hands and pull him closer to you.

Without ever taking his lips off of yours, he backs you against the wall of the corridor. His tongue dances along your bottom lip and you open up for him, your brain turning to static white noise as he slips inside your mouth.

He tilts your head, deepening the kiss. He’s all you feel, smell, and taste – the two of you may as well be the only two people in this entire building right now. It's too easy to forget that you’re at a very public gala, and that any person with a camera could snap a picture of him pinning you against the wall and kissing you senseless.

You let out an involuntarily whimper into his mouth, and he pulls away as if it physically pains him to do so.

“The only reason I’ve been avoiding you like the plague,” he quotes your words, using the pad of his thumb to trace the swell of your bottom lip. “Is because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about doing that for the last month. Ever since you fell asleep with your head on my chest. Ever since I carried you through those woods…”

He trails off, leaning down to bring his lips to yours once more.

This kiss is slower – delicate and intentional in a way that the first one was not. As if he's trying to commit it all to memory. His hands rest on your hips, and yours in the short tufts of his hair.

“This is all I have wanted to do.”

“So…” you start with a nervous laugh. You smooth the fabric of his suit that you had bunched in your fists back to its original state. “You like me too, then..?”

He laughs, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry, did I not make that obvious?”

“Nah. I think I need to hear you say it,” you hum.

He sighs, and then places another gentle, soft peck to your lips that ends sooner than you’d like. “I like you. You drive me crazy, but I like you so much that it hurts.”

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

up at 5:30 sharp, regardless of whether there was morning training or not—he'd do it on his own if he had to—a quick shower, the same breakfast every morning, and brushing his teeth and shaving to top it all off. he made quick work of it all, back when that was required of him.

now, he wakes up at 7:30—sometimes even 8:00 on a slow, lazy day, since he's allowed to have those now—with you tucked into his side. he lets himself have more variety with his breakfast options, lets his showers become something more than simply a mechanical cleaning.

he has a beard, too, and that's different. it was something that just happened after his discharge. he got sucked out of that routine for months, trapped in a cycle of reading through every inflammatory article about him, getting talked down from anxiety driven spirals by olivia, and miraculously finding a way out of bed and into his uniform to work for valentina of all people.

but after the thunderbolts, after you, it stuck. it's him now, or at least that's what you say. he likes the way you care about it, how adamant you are that it's good he has a preference for it—getting rid of all that "military bullshit," as you put it.

he doesn't tell you he mostly maintains it because you seem to like it. he keeps that to himself when you buy him some new product—maybe it's a fancy shaving cream, or a beard oil—but it matters to him all the same. because you're the one getting it for him.

so now, he adds beard care onto his new and improved routine.

when he's not strung along on a mission, that is.

after a week of being in some dusty old hydra base, doing a frankly miserable amount of recon, and uncovering nothing that gives the team any actual leads, john is more than ready to go home to you. and his beard is getting out of hand.

the new growth is stubble down his neck and scratchy against his chinstrap. it's irritating, grating in a way he's itching to fix. it's starting to climb up his cheeks, too, and that's what drives him up the wall the most. he can't run an exasperated hand down his own face without stubble scratching at his palms like some incessant reminder of his long forsaken routine whose loss he mourns every waking minute he has to spend on this mission and away from you.

or maybe he's just being dramatic.

once they finally land back in the watchtower, john makes a beeline for your shared room. he's covered in mission-related grime, and the thought of a warm, relaxing shower is more than enough to put a hop in his step. that, and it's one more step in the right direction to seeing you again.

hot water is beating down on him in no time, easing the aches buried deep in the muscles of his back. the mission sloughs off him in weighty chunks and swirls down the drain. he's so caught up in scrubbing everything away—all the dirt, the aches, the exhaustion—that he nearly misses you knocking on the door in that old “shave and a haircut” pattern.

you never come in without knocking first, especially after a mission. he gets twitchy and irritable after bad ones and needs the time to decompress, something you'd unfortunately learned the hard way a month or two ago. he hadn't meant to snap at you, but-

"hey, john?" your voice rings through the door clear. "can i grab something real quick?"

"sure, honey," he fires back, and he hears the telltale sound of the rustling of products as you search for something in the cabinet.

"did the mission go okay?" he hears a little "a-ha!" a moment after, and the cabinets shut softly.

"it went fine, nothing crazy."

"shave after the shower, then?" you ask, but he's sure you already know the answer. john is a creature of habit first and foremost.

"you want to do it?"

and that's how you find yourself perched on the bathroom sink in front of him, clippers in hand and an eyebrow raised. he stands in front of you wearing a well-worn west point shirt, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your knee.

"you ready?" you always ask, and he always is.

john rolls his eyes anyway. "you say that like this is some kind of mission."

"it is! a mission to make my wonderful boyfriend even prettier." you wield the clippers like they're a weapon and waste no time getting to cutting through his overgrown beard. your hands are unimaginably soft against his chin. fingers gently direct him as you trim.

once you're satisfied, you pick up the shaving cream and work it into a lather. it's one of the new ones you bought for him a little while ago. it came wrapped neatly in a little care package you put together for him. since then, it sits in the top drawer of the sink, alongside the rest of his favorites.

"ready for the scary part?"

"honey, i fight supervillains every other week."

"scary for me, john," you say with a cheeky smile, "what if i ruin all this?"

"you won't. i trust you." his eyes are intent upon yours, solid as stone.

it makes you suck in a sharp breath.

and then the razor is against his skin, gliding smooth on his cheek. john relishes in the feather-light touch of your fingertips guiding his face. it's a wonder your hands are so steady. his never are when he shaves—and he's been doing it for much longer than you have.

there's something that blooms quiet in his chest when you direct his head upward so you can clean up his jaw and neck. you're impossibly delicate, cradling him with little more than a few fingers as you drag the razor against his pulse point. it's overwhelming, the urge to kiss you. it's like his chest is too tight, and he can't quite get enough air in his lungs. but you pay it no mind, simply focused on the task at hand.

if anyone else were doing this, he'd have surely flinched back by now. that thought swims sluggishly through his mind—that no one else would be this safe—until he feels a sudden sting at the corner of his jaw.

"shit, sorry," you say hurriedly, voice low as if to keep from disturbing the careful peace in the room. your hands work quickly at dabbing away the blood from the nick with a tissue.

"it's fine," he replies, "i've seen worse."

"at least that was the end of it, right?" you're still focused on his jaw, tongue poking out between your lips as you patch him up to the best of your ability—not that there's much to patch up. it's hardly even a scratch, but still, you press a soothing kiss to his jaw.

he hums, missing the warmth of your touch even as you pull away. you give him a pat on the shoulder as a signal for him to step back, and he does it without a further thought.

“none of the fancy stuff this time?”

"i thought you said it was silly," you tease, prodding a gentle finger into his shoulder as you pack away the shaving kit, but you leave out the beard oil anyways.

he waits for you to finish up, itching to wrap his arms around you. he's missed you more than he's willing to admit out loud. it's different somehow when he can just hold you, when he doesn't have to say a thing and you know. you always know, somehow.

and your hands are back on his face, fingers scratching through his beard. he hears himself let out a long breath—almost a sigh—and you grin up at him. you take your time, like you always do, with the oil. it's soothing and slow, and he's almost sure that he could fall asleep standing upright like this.

"there," you mutter, and turn to pack away the oil along with everything else.

his hands wrap themselves around your waist as he watches over your shoulder. "thank you."

"anytime." you turn to face him, arms over his shoulders. your eyes flit across his face for a moment, satisfied with your work. he is too. "bed?"

"please," john's voice is all rasp and gravel. he follows after you like a lost puppy and nearly collapses into the bed. you, of course, are pulled close the minute you lay down next to him.

bad missions leave john on edge, but slow ones? the ones that drag on with no end in sight? they leave him clingy and exhausted to his core. they leave him missing you above all else.

It was violent. Loud. And, unfortunately for you, not private.

Footsteps approached behind you, followed by a dry, unimpressed voice. “If this is your version of The Exorcist, you forgot the head spin. Come on, at least commit to the bit.”

You groaned. “Yelena, for the love of—”

She stepped inside without hesitation, casually grabbing a hair tie from her wrist and gathering your hair like this was a weekly occurrence. “Let me guess. Either Alexei made you try his ‘secret stamina shake’ again, or…” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re pregnant.”

Your blood ran cold.

“Wait,” she said, pausing mid-sentence. Her expression changed, slowly morphing into that wide-eyed look she got when she spotted a new target. “Wait. Wait.”

“Don’t—”

“YOU’RE PREGNANT.”

“Shhh!” You jumped up and flushed the toilet like it would somehow erase the moment. “Keep it down!”

Yelena’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You are! Oh my god. I knew it. That explains the pickles and peanut butter at two in the morning. Also, the weird crying over that dog food commercial last week.”

“I was hormonal! That golden retriever had abandonment issues!”

“I’m not judging,” she said, clearly enjoying this too much. “I’m just honoured to be the first to know. Or like, second, I guess?”

You bit your lip. “…He doesn’t know yet, does he?”

She froze. “Wait. You haven’t told Bucky yet?”

You winced. “Not yet. I wanted to surprise him. Big surprise. Sweet. Emotional. Crying, maybe him, not me. I’ve cried enough.”

Yelena blinked twice. Then her hand flew to her chest in dramatic horror. “Oh my God. I am in charge of a secret. I’m responsible for withholding information from Barnes. Do you know what this means?”

“That I trust you?”

“That I’m going to be the best fucking godmother in the world.”

You finally breathed again, until she added, “Though… I am tempted to tell the others."

“Yelena.”

“Relax,” she said with a shrug. “Your secret’s safe. For now. But if you die, I get to raise the kid like a tiny assassin. Deal?”

“…Yelena.”

“Deal?”

“…Fine.”

She grinned, already scheming.

You had taken every precaution.

No more sparring. No caffeine. Your prenatal vitamins were hidden behind a bag of trail mix no one ever touched. You kept your hoodie on at all times, avoided combat drills, smiled through nausea, and faked normalcy like your life depended on it.

But Ava wasn’t the type to be fooled by quiet exits and thicker sweatshirts.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to. She just watched. The way a blade waits in the dark, calculating without moving. You could feel it—her eyes on you during training, her steps falling in line behind yours a little more often than before.

One morning, you reached for your weighted vest only to find it mysteriously lighter. Five pounds missing. No explanation. She said nothing.

Then one night in the rec room, you were curled up on the couch half-watching some movie you’d already forgotten the plot of, when a packet of ginger chews landed softly in your lap. You looked up, startled.

Ava didn’t turn. She was sitting in the armchair across the room, casually typing something on her tablet like she hadn’t just sniped you with snacks.

“You gagged in the elevator this morning,” she said, still not looking at you. “Second time this week.”

You blinked, fingers tightening around the ginger chews. “I—maybe I’m just coming down with something.”

She didn’t answer. Just gave the softest hum. Like she was humoring you. You waited for her to press, to demand answers, to ask what Bucky somehow hadn’t noticed yet.

But she didn’t.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” you asked after a beat, quieter now.

“I don’t care,” she said, voice flat, eyes on her screen. “Unless you get yourself killed. Then it becomes my problem.”

You exhaled through your nose, smiling despite yourself. “So this is you being… concerned?”

“This is me avoiding paperwork.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing. Ava didn’t do affection, not in the traditional sense. She did proximity. Action. Silence that somehow felt like reassurance. She didn’t say much, but she never missed anything.

“Don’t carry anything heavy,” she added after a moment, her tone just as even, like she was reading off a grocery list.

Over the next week, you noticed the little things.

A decaf coffee cup on your desk, slid across the surface wordlessly while she passed by. Her cutting her own training short to spot you during stretches, silent and watchful, and you were never more grateful.

Once, you opened your locker and found a small bottle of prenatal vitamins tucked neatly beside your usual supplements. The label had been peeled off. There was no note. But you knew exactly where they came from.

Bucky, meanwhile, remained adorably clueless.

He still kissed your cheek every morning, still asked if you wanted spicy noodles, the ramen kind for dinner, still rubbed your back when you sighed too hard without even realising why you were sighing.

“You’ve seemed kinda tired lately,” he said one night, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You okay?”

And just like that, Bucky let it go.

The next morning, there was a new water bottle waiting on your desk. One of those fancy ones with the hours marked on the side like hydration was a full-time job. You didn’t need to guess who left it there.

Ava just knew. And that was enough.

It was bound to happen.

You were doing your best. Truly. Between Yelena’s feral excitement and Ava’s silent protection, you were managing.

Bucky was still clueless (somehow), not that you were complaining, and the rest of the team had stayed suspiciously uninvolved.

But then came Alexei.

Loud, dramatic, built like a brick wall and absolutely no understanding of what the word subtle meant.

You didn’t mean for him to find out. In fact, you weren’t even in the room when it happened.

It started in the kitchen.

You’d left your tea steeping on the counter—ginger with a splash of lemon, the only thing that didn’t make you want to retch—and stepped out to grab your hoodie from the lounge.

Two minutes. Maybe less.

And that’s when disaster struck.

Alexei strolled in, whistling some vaguely patriotic tune, spotted the mug, and immediately sniffed it like a bloodhound. You weren’t even there to defend yourself.

“Hm,” he muttered to himself. “This tea… I know this tea. My babushka (russian for grandmother) used to make this for woman in village. When they were… what’s word? With child.”

From across the kitchen island, Yelena looked up from her cereal with mild panic in her eyes.

“Do not do this,” she warned, spoon halfway to her mouth.

Alexei didn’t listen.

Instead, he sniffed the tea again, leaned back with both hands on his hips like some kind of Soviet sommelier, and declared, “It is pregnancy tea! Very good for nausea. Calms stomach. Boosts circulation. Ancient remedy.”

Yelena slowly set her spoon down. “Alexei—”

“WAIT.” His eyes widened. “IS SHE WITH CHILD?!”

You walked in just in time to see him throw both hands into the air and look around like he expected confetti to fall from the ceiling. “IS THERE A BABY? ARE WE HAVING BABY?!”

Yelena let her head thunk against the table. “You absolute moron.”

Alexei turned to her with wild-eyed enthusiasm. “YOU KNOW?!”

“Of course I knew, you donkey. Bucky doesn't, yet."

He gasped like someone had stabbed him—but dramatically, like an actor in a very bad stage play. “You betray me! I am her family. I am her protector. I am baby future grandfather!”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Yelena muttered.

And then he saw you.

Alexei’s expression softened, somehow, impossibly, turning from full-volume chaos to absolute, genuine awe. He crossed the room in two heavy strides, grabbed your hands in his like you were made of glass, and stared at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world.

“You,” he said, lowering his voice like it physically hurt him to be gentle, “are miracle.”

“Okay—”

“No, listen. You are tiny, like small baby rabbit, but you carry powerful legacy. You carry strength. Heart. Warrior blood."

Alexei cupped your face—not quite gently, but at least without crushing your skull—and nodded to himself like he was solving a world crisis. “I will protect this child with everything I have. I will teach them discipline. Honour. How to disarm man in six seconds. Also fishing.”

“Alexei—”

“Shhh.” He tapped your forehead. “Little Starfish, you are busy now. You grow hero. I will build cradle. I have plans already. And foam. And tools. Maybe missile too.”

You stared at him.

“…Please don’t put missiles near the baby.”

“Decorative.”

Yelena snorted.

Alexei turned back to her. “We need banner. And possibly anthem. Something that plays when child enters room.”

You sighed into your palm. “No one is making an anthem for the baby.”

He placed a hand over his chest. “We see.”

You didn’t mean to drag John into it. Not directly, anyway.

But desperate times called for desperate measures.

You were curled up on the compound couch one afternoon, hoodie pulled over your knees, watching a rerun of Shark Tank and trying your absolute best not to commit murder out of pure hormonal rage when the craving hit, hard, out of nowhere.

You held out for a few minutes—tried breathing, counting backwards, chewing on the inside of your cheek. But by minute five, your resolve crumbled. You pulled out your phone and fired off a text.

you up? can you get me mango gummies. and pickles and vanilla yogurt. not greek. please.

There was a pause. Then:

Walker: you want me to bring you pickles and yogurt?

You: together. in the same container. i'm gonna dip them.

Another pause. Longer.

Walker: that's weird, but I’m on my way.

True to his word, John showed up twenty minutes later, slightly out of breath like he had sprinted through a Costco. He had two grocery bags in hand and a look on his face that said he had seen war—but nothing quite like this.

“Okay,” he said, dropping the bags like they might detonate, “I got four kinds of yogurt because I didn’t know what you meant, three kinds of pickles because apparently there are options, and the mango gummies."

You blinked, mildly overwhelmed. “You're a hero."

He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching as you cracked open the yogurt, dunked a pickle, and took a bite like it was the most normal thing in the world. You let out a blissed-out sigh.

John stared, horrified. “You’re really eating that?"

“Yup.”

“Like... voluntarily?”

“It’s good.”

He sat down beside you slowly, arms crossed like a disappointed gym teacher. “I don’t think that’s how taste buds work.”

You shrugged, popping another pickle. “Maybe not for you.”

There was a long silence. Then John tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. “Okay,” he muttered. “You cried during that dog adoption video last week.”

“So did you,” you pointed out.

“Yeah, but you sobbed. Like, full on ugly cry. For twenty minutes. Over a golden retriever named Meatball.”

“He was alone in the shelter for six years.”

“And then there’s the naps. The weird tea. The fact that Ava’s been hovering. And now you’re eating that.” He gestured vaguely at your snack combo, then narrowed his eyes.

“Wait. You sparred with me the other day and said my voice gave you a headache.”

You didn’t even look up. “Sometimes it does.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh my God. You’re pregnant.”

You froze, mid-bite.

He gasped and stood up so fast the couch groaned. “You’re pregnant, and I gave you a concussion last month!”

“I was already pregnant,” you said flatly. “You just didn’t know it.”

“Oh my God.” He started pacing, one hand on his head. “I told you to lift heavier weights. I told you to jump off that ledge. You had two plates of nachos for breakfast last week and I mocked you.”

“John—”

“I called you a sleepy turtle.”

“John,"

He turned, wild-eyed. “Am I complicit?”

You blinked. “In the pregnancy?”

He looked genuinely uncertain. You let out a long breath. “No, John. You are not.”

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then he nodded once and walked to the kitchen like a man on a mission. A minute later, he returned with a glass of orange juice and handed it to you like it was a peace offering from a defeated warrior.

After that, he slumped onto the couch beside you with a dramatic sigh, arms flopping out over the cushions.

“I’m gonna be such a bad uncle,” he muttered.

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

“I brought four kinds of yogurt.”

You smiled. “You’ll be great.”

Bob found out by accident.

You were in the mess hall, quietly sipping ginger tea and trying not to vomit over the smell of John’s overly seasoned reheated chili, when Bob slid into the seat across from you with a smile and a soft, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you managed.

He blinked at the tea. Then at the saltines. Then at the way you were ever-so-subtly glaring at the chili across the room like it had personally wronged you.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said too fast. “Fine. Just a headache.”

Bob’s brows pinched together. He looked concerned. Thoughtful. And then, as if connecting puzzle pieces like the others had in real time, tilted his head. “Wait. Is this… like a headache-headache or a pregnant and trying not to barf from chili fumes headache?”

You froze.

His eyes widened. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Are you—?”

You sighed, smiling sheepishly. “You weren’t supposed to find out yet.”

He immediately looked horrified. “I wasn’t supposed to find out—oh my god—was this a secret? I didn’t mean to—I just—I saw the tea and the crackers and you’re glowing a little and—"

“Bob,” you laughed, “it’s okay.”

He relaxed slightly, cheeks flushed. “Does Bucky know?”

“Not yet.”

Bob pressed his lips together. Then nodded. “I won’t say a word.”

You smiled. “Thanks, Bob.”

He hesitated. Then softly, genuinely, “Congratulations (y/n), you’re gonna be an amazing mum."

And with that, he stood, walked off quietly, and—ten minutes later—came back and wordlessly slid you a chocolate milkshake with a note taped to the cup that read:

“For when the smell finally clears. – Bob”

You stared after him as he walked off, hands in his jacket pockets, head slightly bowed like he hadn’t just completely melted your heart.

Bucky wasn’t supposed to be back yet.

You had counted on at least two more hours, just enough time to hide the half-built, borderline indestructible crib Alexei had wheeled in, distract John before he could bust out his laminated “Uncle Training Schedule,” and maybe, if the stars aligned, finally scrub the yogurt stain off your hoodie.

But the mission ended early. Debrief went faster than expected. And now your husband stood in the doorway of your shared bedroom, still in half his tactical gear, brow furrowed as he took in the scene before him.

There was a crib on the floor, if you could even call it that. John was crouched beside it, cross-legged, a wrench between his knees. Alexei was hammering something loudly and completely unnecessarily.

You were mid-movement, frozen between hiding a pink baby blanket under the bed and whisper-screaming at Alexei to shut up.

Bucky blinked, stepping forward just slightly. “Why is there… furniture in our room?”

“It’s not furniture. It’s a cradle.” Ava replied, almost flatly.

There was a beat. Bucky’s frown deepened. “Why is there a cradle in our room?”

Alexei perked up immediately, beaming, holding up what might’ve once been a baby mobile, now covered in polished throwing stars. “Because you, my friend are going to be papa!”

Silence.

The kind of silence that settled in your bones. Bucky’s eyes scanned the room slowly, the cradle, the weapons-grade mobile, the glittery “CONGRATULATIONS?” banner that Yelena had duct-taped across the headboard. And then, finally, his gaze landed on you.

He looked confused. Careful. Like he couldn’t quite trust what he was seeing.

His voice came soft, hesitant. “You’re… what?”

Your heart was hammering. You took a breath and straightened slowly, hands behind your back, nerves thrumming through your fingertips. “I was going to tell you,” you said gently. “I had a plan. There were cupcakes. A playlist.”

Bucky blinked, still reeling.

John, who had been trying very hard to fade into the wallpaper, raised a hand slightly and said, “Yelena ruined the cupcakes.”

You turned your head slowly. “John.”

“She punched one!” he said quickly.

“It had a baby face on it." Bob quipped.

Yelena’s voice floated in from the hallway. “It was smiling at me wrong!”

Bucky blinked, trying, and failing, to process any of it. His eyes drifted back to you, still full of questions, still locked somewhere between shock and awe.

And then you reached for his hands. Everything softened.

You stepped toward him slowly, reaching for his hands. He let you take them without hesitation, but still stared down at them like they didn’t quite belong to him yet.

“I didn’t want to drop this on you before a mission,” you said softly. “I wanted to wait until it felt like our moment. Something small and quiet. Just us.”

Another beat of silence. And then something shifted.

His shoulders dropped. His hands tightened around yours.

Then he looked up, and everything changed.

You watched it all happen in real time. The realisation, the wonder and the warmth. His features softened, lips parting as his eyes filled with something impossibly tender. Awe bloomed like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“You’re really having my baby,” he whispered, like the words alone could undo him.

Your throat tightened. “I’m really having your baby.”

He moved before you could say another word. One hand came up to cradle your cheek, the other curling around the small of your back as he kissed you—softly at first, then deeper, slower. Like he wanted to memorise the moment through touch, like he was anchoring himself in you.

When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy. His forehead pressed against yours, breath trembling.

“I didn’t know I could love you more than I already did,” he murmured. “But you proved me wrong.”

You smiled through the tears. “That’s my job.”

His hands slipped to your waist, pulling you against him fully. One palm eased down to rest over your stomach, warm and steady, and stayed there.

You could feel it in the way his thumb moved—small, gentle strokes over the fabric. Like he was already in love with the tiny life growing there.

A shaky laugh escaped him, part joy, part disbelief. “We’re gonna be parents.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “We are.”

He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your cheek. He couldn’t stop touching you, holding you, grounding himself in every tiny, real part of this.

You let yourself lean into it, into him, feeling more whole than you ever had in your life.

"God, I love you". Bucky said softly.

“Even after I’ve eaten yogurt-dipped pickles?” you teased gently, chin tilted up.

He pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow. “That was you?”

“Still recovering from that." John mumbled.

Alexei cleared his throat dramatically. “I play anthem now?”

Yelena appeared in the doorway, cupcake in one hand, "Come on guys, let them have their moment.”

Bucky glanced around the room, eyes still soft but amused. “Wait. You all knew?”

Every head nodded.

He let out a slow, incredulous laugh and looked down at you again, full of something so warm it made your knees wobble.

“Well, damn,” he whispered. “Guess I’m the last to know.”

You smiled, eyes shimmering. “Yeah, but you’re the first to feel our baby kick.”

And right then, perfect, almost surreal, you felt it.

A flutter beneath his hand. A tiny, impossible shift.

His breath caught. His gaze snapped to yours. “Was that—?”

You nodded, tears spilling. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” he whispered, dropping to his knees in front of you, hand still over your stomach, lips brushing gently against the space just below your navel. “Hi, sweetheart. It’s me. I’m your dad.”

You laughed through your tears, fingers threading through his hair as your team stood quietly in the background, letting the room finally fall into peace.

And in that moment, with his hand on your belly, your heart in his hands, and the promise of forever in the air, Bucky looked up at you like you were his whole future.

Because you were.

“You know damn well what this look is for,” you mutter. 

He raises his brows, waiting for you to snap. 

It doesn’t take long. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” you hiss, just in case Joaquín is within earshot. “Two weeks ago you just happen to be in town, we catch up for a drink, and I drunkenly confess that I think your little protege is hot. Then all of a sudden, there’s a mysterious mission that requires both of us?” 

He chuckles quietly, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’d call that a coincidence,” he says. “Oh, and I think your exact words were a walking wet dream with a stupidly perfect smile.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Whatever you’re playing at, stop it. I’m here now, so I’m going to help us get out of this mess—but that’s it.” 

“Would you calm down?” he sighs, leaning back against the wall—awkwardly, thanks to the shield on his back. “The kid has a thing for you too, so I just thought—” 

“What?” 

He rolls his eyes. “He’s like... obsessed with you. As soon as he found out I was catching up with you the other week, he wouldn’t shut up about it. Kept saying how he used to track your missions when you were working off-book with Hawkeye and Widow.” 

You raise your brows, crossing your arms. “Oh, cool. So he’s a stalker obsessed with a version of me from years ago? When I was training every day and hadn’t just been dragged out of retirement.” 

Sam gives you a flat look. “Would you stop calling it retirement? It was an elective hiatus—at most—and you’re still in your physical prime.” 

“Yeah,” you scoff. “Tell that to my knees.” 

Sam smirks. “I’m sure Joaquín won’t mind if you can’t get on your knees. Laying down would be just as—” 

You cross the room in one step and punch him in the shoulder. “Dude! Seriously?” 

He chuckles. “Okay, look, I wasn’t lying about the mission. I really do need your help on this. And so what if maybe you find a little love along the way? You’re both into each other and I know you both very well. You’d be great together. Plus, you’re both equally irritating, so really, this is an entirely selfless act. Why would I want to double your annoyingness?” 

You sigh and lean back, propping one arm on the post at the end of the stair banister. “It just doesn’t work like that, Sam. Not for people like us. We don’t date—it’s not realistic.” 

He rolls his eyes again and pushes off the wall. “Whatever you say, Echo. But I can see the way you’re looking at him. So if you want me out of the house, just say so. I’ll go for a walk or something.” 

Then he winks and turns into the small living room, making the cheap furniture look ridiculously tiny compared to his broad, geared-up physique. 

After a hot minute of seriously considering whether or not you could get away with ditching this mission entirely, you sigh and follow Sam—stripping off your gear as you go. 

You unzip your jacket and shrug it off, tossing it over the back of the couch as you pass through the living room. There’s a narrow archway leading into the kitchen, where Sam is already cracking open the fridge like he owns the place. You stop at the island counter and reach up to slide your weapons harness off your shoulders. It drops into your hands with a familiar weight before you set it on the bench. 

Next, you unclip your belt and bend down to unfasten the straps of your thigh holsters, tugging them free one at a time. You reach lower, dragging a short dagger from your boot and adding it to the pile. Then your gloves—peeled off and tossed carelessly onto the heap of weapons—before grabbing the hem of your long-sleeved tactical shirt and yanking it over your head. 

You’re down to your compression shirt—tight, unforgiving, and clinging to your body like a second skin—as you lean one hip against the counter and finally let out a breath. 

“Damn,” a voice says behind you—Joaquín. 

He’s standing just shy of the archway, making it look comically small with the bulk of his gear. His cheeks are flushed, dark curls damp with sweat, and his lips curved into a soft, crooked smirk. 

You want to say something snarky—ask if he sees something he likes, maybe point out a non-existent drop of drool on his chin. But you can’t. Because you’re giving him the exact same look—all heat, all want, no shame. 

Joaquín isn’t just gorgeous, he’s fucking badass too. You nearly lost your cool when he wrapped you in his arms during the earlier ambush, just before rocketing into the sky. You weren’t scared—just absurdly, wildly horny for the hot guy with mechanical wings flying you to safety. 

“Alright, you two,” Sam says, dropping a half-empty bottle of orange juice on the counter. “Save the saucy looks for later. First, we need to get in touch with the Secretary of Defence—see if we can start an investigation into whoever attacked us. Then we’ll figure out how long we’re stuck here.” 

Joaquín eyes the juice suspiciously. “How do you know that’s not expired?” 

Sam lifts it up. “Oh, it’s very expired.” Then takes a swig anyway, grimacing as he swallows. 

“Gross,” you mutter, turning toward the sink. 

You twist on the tap and squirt a half-crusted blob of soap from the sad little pump bottle on the windowsill, scrubbing the dirt and dried blood—thankfully not yours—off your hands. 

“Alright,” Joaquín says, “how do we contact the Secretary?” 

- 

Two weeks. It’s been two whole weeks of living in this godforsaken townhouse in bum-fuck suburbia, with barely any information on the assholes who forced you into hiding. 

All you do know is that they were after you. 

Yep. Someone’s been holding a serious grudge, just waiting for you to crawl out of retirement to make a move. So Sam made the call—told you to lay low at the safehouse, use an alias in case any nosy neighbours came sniffing around, and to simply wait while he tries to dig up more information on whoever sent the thugs. 

And the worst part? He assigned Joaquín as your full-time protection detail. 

Which means not only are you stuck in this crusty old house, but you’re stuck with one very attractive, very tempting man who apparently has no idea just how goddamn gorgeous he is. 

“You finished with this?” Joaquín asks, brows raised as he slowly reaches for the plate in front of you. 

You’re standing at the kitchen island, bent forward with your elbows on the bench and your chin resting in your palms. Across from you, Joaquín is washing dishes. Shirtless. Wearing nothing but a loose pair of grey sweats, skin still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, and looking like every fantasy you’ve ever had come to life. 

“Hello?” he says, waving a soapy hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?” 

You blink and force your eyes away from the absurd perfection of his body, dragging them up to his equally unfair face. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, cheeks warming. “Yeah, I’m done.” 

He flashes that boyish grin, picks up the plate, and turns back to the sink—letting you go right back to ogling him in peace. 

Your eyes drift over the muscles in his back, watching them roll and flex as he scrubs. You’re nearly tempted to dirty another dish just to keep the view going. Because this? This right here—domestic Joaquín, shirtless and glistening—is enough to keep your imagination busy for a very long time. 

Not that you’ve had much opportunity to indulge those fantasies, because Joaquín is here all the damn time. He only leaves when Sam calls him out—usually for groceries, clean clothes, or a quick intel drop. 

You’re almost never in the house alone. 

Which means your fantasies have been... limited. Mostly to rushed moments in the shower or late at night, when you’re pretty sure—hoping—that he’s asleep. 

“You know,” he says, breaking you out of your dazed—and admittedly filthy—thoughts, “if someone told me a few weeks ago that I’d be stuck in a safehouse with the Red Echo, I probably would’ve fainted.” 

You frown curiously, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Really?” 

He nods. “Really.” 

When he turns around, your breath catches. Yeah, okay, you saw his abs like five minutes ago, but that doesn’t make them any less ridiculously sexy. 

“Why’s that?” you ask, determined not to let him fluster you any more than he already has. 

His cheeks flush, eyes dropping to the dish towel he’s drying his hands with. “I was, like... obsessed with you. I’m sure Sam mentioned it. Used to track your missions with agents Barton and Romanoff. Thought you were the coolest assassin ever.” 

You let out a soft laugh, straightening up and leaning a hip against the counter. “Do I live up to the legend, then?” 

His eyes widen as he nods. “Oh, yeah. You’re badass.” 

You feel your cheeks heat even more, quickly dropping your gaze to hide the stupid smile trying to sneak its way onto your face—just because he called you badass. 

Despite living together for two weeks, you’ve mostly avoided getting too personal. Most of your time has been spent in companionable silence, watching TV or reading. When Sam’s over, you all talk and joke, but when you’re alone, you let the tension do the talking. Exchanging nothing more than heated glances and softly spoken words. 

You’re not entirely sure why you’ve kept your distance—maybe because you know this is temporary, and you don’t want to get too attached. But it’s getting harder by the day. Joaquín is charming. And so painfully attractive that playing it cool is starting to feel impossible. 

“It wasn’t that badass,” you say, folding your arms. “Working with Clint and Nat, I mean.” 

He frowns, unconvinced. “I find that hard to believe.” 

“No, really,” you insist. “It was brutal, mostly. I got beaten up, like, a lot. I wasn’t raised an assassin like they were—I had to learn. So if I wasn’t getting my ass handed to me in combat, it was one of them kicking my butt during training.” 

He chuckles. “Really? Who was worse?” 

You bite your lip to keep from smiling—his grin is stupidly infectious—and tilt your head in thought. 

“Hm,” you hum. “I know I should say Nat, but... it was probably Clint.” 

Joaquín raises a brow. “How?” 

“Oh, he was like a drill sergeant. Had me learning everything, all at once. My hands were bleeding from archery, my limbs were bruised from hand-to-hand, and my head was always throbbing from getting slammed into mats. And he didn’t let up. Told me the enemy wouldn’t, so why should he— unless I was genuinely wrecked. Nat was a little more forgiving. I think her childhood made her more empathetic when it came to training. She didn’t want to push me too far. Clint, though? He needed me to be tough. It was a good dynamic—very good cop, bad cop.” 

“Wow,” Joaquín murmurs, eyes a little dazed as he just stares at you. 

You pause, brow furrowing. “What?” 

He shrugs, tearing his gaze away as he turns to hang the dish towel over the oven handle. 

“Nothing, just...” He looks up at you again, all warm eyes and stupidly perfect cheekbones—like he doesn’t realise how dangerous he is. “You’re really cool.” 

“You’re pretty cool too, Falcon,” you say, letting a small smirk curl your lips. “With or without the wings—I know you’re a badass too.” 

He meets your stare with dark eyes full of challenge. “I am pretty badass. Could probably give you a run for your money.” 

The mood shifts, the light teasing between you pulled tighter—tension creeping in, hot and deliberate. 

You arch a brow. “You think?” 

He nods, arms crossing over his bare chest in a way that makes your thighs clench. “I do.” 

“Bold, Torres,” you murmur, narrowing your eyes. “Care to prove it?” 

He steps around the kitchen island—two strides and he’s in your space. “Name a time and place, cariño.” 

“Right now,” you say, holding his heated stare. “Backyard.” 

That panty-melting smile flashes across his face as he leans in. “You’re on.” Then his voice drops—lower, rougher, almost lethal. “Be lying if I said I haven’t been dying to get my hands on you.” 

Your heart lurches, then takes off, sending a hot rush of blood straight to your head. 

“Professionally, of course,” he adds quickly, and you might’ve believed the cool confidence if it weren’t for the blush creeping up to the tips of his ears. 

“Of course,” you echo, your voice soft—breathless. 

The air between you thickens, crackling with heat as your eyes lock—tension simmering, slow and dangerous. 

Then his phone chimes, and you both flinch. 

He moves to check it while you step back, letting out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. 

“Just Sam checking in,” he mutters, glancing up. “Should I tell him I’m about to kick your ass, or...?” 

You roll your eyes. “Try it first. Before claiming victory.” 

Then you turn and head into the small living room, taking a right at the front landing and making your way down the hall toward the back door. 

The backyard isn’t much—patchy grass, some cracked pavers, and a chain-link fence that barely shields you from nosy neighbours. But right now, with Joaquín standing across from you, shirtless and barefoot in the glow of the setting sun, it might as well be an arena. 

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asks, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, all cocky grin and coiled muscle. 

You roll your neck and stretch out your arms. “Oh, I’m ready.” 

He waits a beat before making the first move—a quick step in, testing you with a light jab. You dodge easily, grabbing his wrist and twisting, using his momentum to spin him around. He grunts, surprised, but recovers fast, sweeping a leg toward yours. 

You jump, laughing as you land and press your body into his from behind, locking an arm around his throat in a loose hold. “That all you got, Torres?” 

He chuckles, low and warm. “Just getting started.” 

He bucks back hard, breaking your hold, and in the scuffle, you both stumble—him catching your waist, you grabbing his shoulder—and suddenly, you're tangled, chest to chest, breathing hard. 

“Careful,” he murmurs, his breath hot on your skin, “you might enjoy this a little too much.” 

“Speak for yourself,” you shoot back, but your voice is ragged, traitorous. 

He smirks and tries to pin you, but you twist at the last second, hooking your leg around his and taking him down—landing right on top of him. 

Straddling him. 

You both freeze. 

Your thighs press against his hips, your palms on his bare chest, heat sparking where your skin meets. His hands hover near your waist, not quite touching, but God, you can feel the tension in his fingers, the flex of restraint. 

“Not bad,” he says, voice low and uneven. 

You smirk, grinding your hips just slightly—for dominance, of course. “Say it.” 

He looks up at you like he’s starving. “You’re dangerous.” 

“And?” 

His hands finally settle on your hips. Firm. Possessive. 

“And you’re really, really hot when you’re trying to beat the shit out of me.” 

Your next breath shudders out of you. 

And then the back door creaks open. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Sam asks, arms crossed as he stands on the porch. 

You jump off Joaquín like you’ve been burned, nervously brushing non-existent dust from your knees. 

“Nope,” you say, way too fast. “Just sparring.” 

Sam raises a brow. “Sure. Sparring. What’s that move called? Cowgirl?” 

Joaquín, still on his back in the grass, just grins up at you. “Maybe we could try reverse later.” 

You narrow your eyes, pursing your lips to keep from grinning. “Without an audience, preferably.” 

“Promise?” he asks, his gaze shameless. 

You can’t stop the quiet laugh that slips out as you shake your head, leaning forward to offer him a hand. Joaquín takes it, and you help him off the ground before turning back to Sam. 

“So, Cap,” you say. “What’s up?” 

“Just checking in,” he replies, eyes flicking suspiciously between the two of you. “I texted Joaquín to let him know I was dropping by.” 

Joaquín scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah... not gonna lie, I didn’t fully read the text.” 

Sam raises his brows. “Distracted?” 

His tone is playful, but you catch the underlying suggestion—it’s a test. Joaquín is still on duty. He’s your protection detail, and he’s supposed to be focused. 

“It was my fault,” you jump in. “I bet him he couldn’t take me in hand-to-hand.” 

Sam snorts. “Please. All you’d have to do is flash him a smile and he’d be on his knees.” 

Joaquín’s jaw drops, his cheeks going a deep, furious red. 

You turn to him, grinning. “Is that true?” 

He stares at you with wide brown eyes. “I—I mean, well—no, but—” 

“Save it, man,” Sam laughs. “You’re just digging yourself deeper.” 

Despite the nerves fluttering in your chest, you keep your cool. You pat Joaquín’s bare chest—your palm lingering just long enough to feel the heat of his skin—before turning back to Sam and walking toward the porch. 

It takes Joaquín a full minute to remember how to move, but eventually he follows. You all make your way inside and settle into the cramped little living space, listening closely as Sam delivers a brief—and rather disappointing—update. 

They still don’t know much about who ordered the hit on you, but they’re not giving up. New leads might turn up in New York, and they’re even considering reaching out to the Winter Soldier and his new team. 

“So what does that mean for us?” you ask, gesturing vaguely between you and Joaquín. “We’re surviving just fine, but I’d really like to get back to my life. And I’m sure Joaquín would—” 

“Actually,” Joaquín cuts in, flashing that crooked grin that threatens to short-circuit your brain, “I think I’m having more fun here.” 

He even throws in a wink for good measure. 

You feel your cheeks warm, but Sam keeps talking, mercifully ignoring the exchange. 

“I know it’s not ideal,” he says, “but it’s the safest place for you right now. And I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you. I was the one who dragged you back to work, so I’m going to be the one to find these guys and stop them.” 

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, sinking back into the couch. “Alright, fine. But if we’re stuck here indefinitely, I’ve got a list of demands.” 

Sam nods. “Anything. Just say the word.” 

The next afternoon, Sam returns with everything you asked for. He brings a large duffel packed with the exact clothes you requested, a trunk full of groceries—including all the pantry staples that the house has been lacking—and the box from under your bed containing... personal items. 

“I had a Secret Service agent swing by your apartment,” Sam says, setting the box on the coffee table. “No one opened it, but something definitely started... buzzing on the way over.” 

Your eyes go wide as you snatch the box off the table. “What the fuck, Sam?” 

He chuckles. “Hey, you’re the one who needed it.” 

“Yes,” you snap, cheeks burning. “Because it’s got personal shit like tampons and pads—which I’m going to need if we’re stuck here for another two weeks.” 

Joaquín’s laugh carries from the kitchen, where he’s putting away the groceries. “What else is in the box?” 

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, eyes narrowed and lips twitching. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

“Cool it, you two,” Sam says. “You might be stuck with each other for a while. Don’t make it weird.” 

- 

The next week is nothing if not weird. And tense. And so full of heat and frustration, you’re surprised the walls haven’t caught fire. 

Because after that little spar in the backyard, something shifted—snapped, like a rubber band pulled too tight. Now, you and Joaquín just can’t seem to stay out of each other’s way, no matter how hard you try. 

He’s everywhere. In the kitchen when you’re trying to make coffee—shirtless and smug, all lean muscle and unintentional teasing. He’s always leaning in too close, brushing your waist with his fingertips, pressing his body against yours to reach for something he absolutely does not need that badly. 

And the couch. That small fucking couch that leaves no real space between the two of you. His leg against yours. His arm slung casually behind your shoulders. The whole tiny room suddenly suffocating with his heat, his scent, the sheer proximity of him turning your brain to static. 

Then there’s the time you turned the corner just as he was grabbing his towel out of the dryer—both of you freezing as you came face to face with damp skin, low-slung fabric, and absolutely zero shame in his smirk. 

In that moment, you decided—two could play at this game. 

So, you stopped wearing pants. Not all the time—just before bed. Sometimes it’s little booty shorts, or cute boyleg underwear. But mostly, it’s just an oversized tee and nothing else. 

And the way his eyes track your bare legs like he’s a man starved? Yeah. You’ve noticed. 

But then there was the morning you’d opted for a bath instead of a shower—to deal with the ever-building frustration twisting low in your belly. You were already settled in the steaming tub, surrounded by bubbles, one of your favourite toys waiting on the vanity… when he fucking walked in. 

You both froze. Eyes wide. Lips parted. His gaze drifted to the magenta-pink silicone on the counter. And then he grinned—slow, wicked, and impossible to look away from—before dragging his eyes back to yours. 

You shouted at him to get the hell out. Which he did. Eventually. Without even pretending not to sneak one last glance at the toy. 

That was the final straw. 

You need boundaries. Rules. Anything to help you survive this unbearable, unrelenting tension crackling between you. Before one of you snaps and professionalism goes flying out the window. 

“I think we need to set some ground rules,” you say, planting both hands on the kitchen island. 

Joaquín turns away from whatever he’s stirring on the stove, brow raised and an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “Rules?” 

You nod. “Yes. Boundaries. Something—anything—if we’re going to survive this.” 

He chuckles under his breath. “Alright. What kind of boundaries?” 

“First,” you say, narrowing your eyes at his bare chest, “you need to start wearing shirts.” 

His brows lift, brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Really?” 

You nod again, firm. 

“Okay,” he says, “then you have to wear pants.” 

“Fine,” you mutter. 

“Fine,” he echoes, turning back to the pot on the stove. 

“And you need to knock,” you add. “I don’t care what room it is, or if you just saw me walk away. Knock.” 

He laughs, shoulders shaking as he stirs. “Noted. Must knock.” 

“Good.” 

You hesitate, debating how to phrase the next rule without admitting just how badly you want it. 

“And no—” you clear your throat, “no touching.” 

That gets his attention. He turns back around, smirk softer now, more curious than cocky. “No touching?” 

“Exactly. If you need to get past me, just say ‘excuse me.’ And we can get Sam to bring over a bean bag or something. That couch is way too fucking small.” 

He watches you closely, tongue dragging slowly across his bottom lip before he catches it between his teeth. The sight alone steals your breath—but then he moves. He steps away from the stove and toward you, all heat and intention, bringing with him that warm cinnamon scent that scrambles your thoughts and short-circuits every nerve ending in your body. 

“You really don’t want me to touch you?” he asks, voice low. 

“There’s…” you swallow, “there’s no need for you to touch me, so…” 

He tilts his head. “Nothing you need that might require a little contact?” 

You freeze, like your brain just blue-screened—unsure whether to slap him, kiss him, or straight-up combust. 

“No,” you manage, though your voice is breathy. Traitorous. 

“Okay,” he says easily. “I won’t touch you.” Then he leans in, voice low and smooth. “Not until you’re begging me to.” 

Your breath hitches, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?” 

He straightens, grin cocky. “You heard me.” 

“You think I’m going to be begging you to touch me?” 

He nods once. “Oh, yeah.” 

You scoff. “No chance, Torres. If anything, you’re the one who’s going to crack first.” 

“That so?” he says, arching a brow. “Sounds like a challenge.” 

You take a step back, crossing your arms. “You’re on.” 

His gaze tracks your face like he’s memorising it, heat pulsing between you. One wrong move and this whole damn place could go up in flames. 

“Any other rules?” he asks. 

“Not yet,” you reply, letting your eyes drop to his chest. “Now put on a shirt.” 

He arches a brow, gaze dropping as he steps back just enough to get a better look. “Then you better put on some pants.” 

“Fine,” you huff, turning on your heel and storming out of the kitchen. 

Behind you, he lets out a low whistle, voice pitched just loud enough for you to hear. “You are fine.” 

And the worst part? It still makes you blush. That smug little comment sparks something inside of you, heat curling low in your belly—warm, aching, and impossible to ignore. 

You’re pretty sure you’ve just made the dumbest bet of your life. 

After pulling on a pair of sweats and giving yourself a whispered—but stern—pep talk in the bathroom mirror, you head back downstairs. Joaquín’s got a shirt on now and is ladling something hot and delicious-smelling into a bowl. 

“Smells good,” you say, stopping on the other side of the island counter. 

He wipes the edge of the bowl with a dish towel before sliding it toward you. “It is good.” 

Then he hands you a spoon before fixing his own bowl and standing across from you at the bench, just as you’re gently blowing on your first spoonful. 

“Sopa de fideo,” he says. “Mexican noodle soup.” 

You take a cautious taste—and nearly moan, just barely stopping the sound from crawling up your throat. But Joaquín isn’t stupid, he sees the way your eyes glaze over and your shoulders ease in quiet bliss. 

“Told you it was good,” he says, wearing that infuriatingly smug look. 

Your cheeks warm under his gaze—those big brown eyes locked on you as he lifts his spoon to his mouth. It shouldn’t be erotic. And yet, the way his lips close around the spoon before dragging it out again sends heat straight between your legs. 

You swallow hard and prepare your next spoonful, letting it cool while praying he can’t read you as easily as you suspect he can. 

“So, you cook and you fight. What’s your angle?” 

He cocks an eyebrow as he swallows. “My angle?” 

“You’re almost too good to be true,” you say, fighting the urge to melt at that stupidly gorgeous smirk. “So why are you single?” 

He shrugs, casual as anything. “Just waiting for the right girl.” 

Your brows lift. “Oh, really?” 

He nods and takes another spoonful like it’s no big deal. 

“What’s she like, then?” you ask, trying to match his calm confidence. 

He grins—mischievous and warm, with a spark behind his eyes that makes your chest tighten. 

“Oh, she’s awesome,” he says. “Total badass. Ex-assassin. Worked with the Avengers. Can definitely kick my ass—it’s super hot.” 

You roll your eyes and shovel more noodles into your mouth before your smile gets out of hand. 

“She’s stupid pretty too,” he adds. “But obviously doesn’t know it.” 

Your face heats to an impossible degree, and you drop your gaze to your bowl, pretending to study the swirling noodles. 

“And she’s smart,” he goes on, completely unperturbed. “Witty as hell. The verbal warfare? Honestly, it’s better than foreplay.” 

You almost choke, barely managing to swallow without incident. When you look up, he’s just standing there, all cheeky and red-faced like he didn’t just soak your underwear with three lines of dialogue. 

“Wow,” you mutter. “She sounds pretty great. Sure you’re up for the challenge, though?” 

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the counter. “I know her weakness.” 

You lean forward too, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Kryptonite?” 

He shakes his head slowly, eyes darkening. “Me.” 

It’s just one word, but it slides in sharp and smooth—curling under your skin and lighting you up from the inside. 

You want to reply—say something snarky, or at least tell him he’s full of shit—but you can’t. Your voice is stuck somewhere in your chest, tangled up with the fire burning hot and bright for the man grinning at you. And goddamn, he might just be right. 

You finish your dinner in mostly comfortable silence, too flustered to manage much more than the occasional hum of agreement while Joaquín talks. His smile never fades, and that infuriating sparkle doesn’t leave his eye—not for a second. He knows he’s got you breathless, rattled, right where he wants you. And if you’ve got any hope of winning this bet, you’re going to need to flip the script. 

“I’ll wash up,” you say, already rounding the island toward the sink. 

He steps aside, placing his empty bowl into your outstretched hand with a note of hesitation. 

“You sure?” 

“You cooked,” you say with a nod. “I’ll clean.” 

He moves a few more steps around the bench, trading places with where you’d eaten your dinner. 

You turn to the sink and start the tap, sliding the plug into place before adding a generous squirt of dish soap to the growing pool of hot water. Then you move to the stove, wiping it down with a sudsy cloth and scrubbing at a few stubborn spots where the sauce had dried. 

Once the sink is full, you plunge your hands into the bubbly water and start with the cutlery. You keep your head down and your eyes on the task, refusing to give in to the weight of Joaquín’s stare burning into your back. 

“So,” he says after a beat, voice laced with something devious, “you clean and you fight. Why are you single?” 

You roll your eyes, grateful he can’t see the stupid smile tugging at your lips. 

“That’s kind of a long story,” you reply. 

He chuckles. “Baby, we’re stuck here indefinitely. No story could be that long.” 

Your heart stutters at the pet name. It’s tossed out casually, with no serious intent—but it still leaves you feeling way too warm. 

“I guess not,” you say with a breathy laugh. “I’m single because I choose to be—after a series of poor decisions. And I became single after my last boyfriend because... well, apparently my taste in men needs work.” 

“How bad are we talking?” he asks. 

You shift a handful of soapy cutlery into the empty side of the sink and rinse them under the cold tap. 

“Short version? He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent turned HYDRA,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “The long version involves a lot of weird behaviour, some questionable kinks, too many fights to count, and probably one of the most violent breakups in history.” 

Joaquín raises his brows. “You kicked his ass, right?” 

“Oh, yeah,” you reply, turning back to the sink. 

“Good,” he says simply. 

You reach back into the water, feeling around for any remaining cutlery when— 

“Fuck,” you hiss, yanking your hand out of the sink. 

Blood smears across your knuckles and trickles down your wrist in a messy streak of crimson and bubbles. 

“What happened?” Joaquín is beside you in an instant, his eyes wide, hands hovering like he wants to help but isn’t sure where to start. 

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I’m fine. It’s not that deep—it just looks worse with the water—” 

“Pause the bet,” he says firmly, cutting you off as he steps in and gently wraps his hand around your wrist. 

“Joaquín,” you sigh, “I’m okay. I’ve had worse.” 

He doesn’t look up. His eyes stay fixed on your hand, brow furrowed. “I don’t care. I’m helping you.” 

He leaves your side for only a second to grab the first aid kit from the cupboard above the stove. Then, without a word, he takes your uninjured hand and leads you to the lounge. 

“Sit,” he says, voice low. 

You do as you're told, sinking into the cushions as your heart thunders in your chest. He sits beside you—close. Too close. His thigh presses against yours, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. And his scent—ugh—like fresh-cut cedar and rain-damp leaves. But there’s heat beneath it, too. Something rougher. Like sweat, smoke, and the kind of trouble that finds you even when you hide. 

“You alright?” he asks, opening the kit on the coffee table. 

You straighten, quickly realising that you'd been slowly leaning into him. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “I’m good. Sorry.” 

He chuckles softly, then takes your injured hand again—holding it in his lap like it’s the most important thing in the world. He works quietly, carefully, seemingly unaware of the tension crackling between you as his fingers graze yours with the utmost care. 

It’s almost hypnotic, the way he moves—cleaning the blood, dabbing antiseptic, wrapping your knuckles with gauze. But even when he’s finished, he doesn’t pull away. His touch lingers, his thumb stroking softly over the delicate bone in your wrist. 

His eyes flick to yours, then drop to your mouth—lingering there as he leans in. 

“You know,” he murmurs, “if it weren’t for this bet…” 

His hot breath brushes your lips, and your heart starts to beat so hard you wonder if you’ll survive it. 

"You’d what?" you ask, trying to sound steady—but your voice betrays you. 

“I’d kiss you,” he whispers. 

Your breath catches. Your chest aches. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—so loud you can’t hear a single thought. 

You want to let him. You want to close the space between you and let him do every wicked thing he’s thinking. But you can’t. You won’t. You need to win. 

Instead, you smile—slow and dangerous. 

“Bet’s back on, Torres,” you say, standing as you slide your hand from his. 

You head back to the kitchen, steady and deliberate, refusing to let him see just how much he’s gotten to you. 

Behind you, he exhales a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters. 

You don’t look back, but your grin is smug—and you just know his is cocky. He’s loving the chase just as much as you’re loving the game. 

Back at the sink, you crouch down to rummage through the cupboard for the pair of rubber gloves you know you saw earlier. Once you find them, you slide them on with a snap and return to washing up, ignoring Joaquín’s protests. 

Eventually, he gives up with a dramatic sigh and grabs a dish towel, falling into step beside you to dry and put things away. The air between you simmers with silence—thick and heavy, like steam clinging to your skin. You exchange the occasional quiet ‘excuse me’, the barest brush of hands, and a few glances that linger a second too long. But mostly, it’s just tension. Hot and unbearable. 

The kitchen is too small. The space between counters is too narrow. And Joaquín is far too fucking attractive to focus on anything else. That soft smile. Those gentle, dark eyes. The sharp cut of his jaw, dusted with just a hint of stubble. And his curls—God, those curls. They make your fingers twitch with the urge to sink in and pull. 

As soon as you finish wiping down the sink and peeling off your gloves, you open your mouth to say you’re heading to bed—but Joaquín beats you to it. 

“I think I’m gonna call it a night,” he says, already edging out of the kitchen. “I know it’s early, but I’m... spent.” 

You nod, heartbeat still a little too fast. “Yeah. Me too.” 

“I’ll be quick in the bathroom,” he adds, flashing a soft smile. “Good night.” 

“Night, Torres.” 

And then he’s gone. 

You wait a few minutes before following, keeping yourself busy by wiping down the benches—again—and tidying the lounge room. Once you hear the soft click of his bedroom door shutting, you quietly pad upstairs and slip into the bathroom. 

You’ve each got a drawer in the vanity now, and you’ve promised not to look in the other’s... though the curiosity is killing you. Not that you really care about toothbrushes and dental picks—because of course he uses them. Have you seen those teeth? No, what you’re more interested in is whether there are any... toys. Or condoms. 

Because really, why would he need condoms at a safehouse? 

To fuck you, maybe? 

God, you hope so. 

Barely clinging to your restraint, you brush your teeth, wash your face, and tiptoe into your room. 

The house is almost too quiet tonight. And oppressively warm. You’re not sure if it’s the creeping summer heat—or just the tension between you and Joaquín—but either way, you need to let off some steam. 

There’s only one thin wall between your room and his, which isn’t ideal for what you’re about to do—but you’re pretty sure you’ll go insane if you don’t. So you suck in a deep breath and quietly slide the box from under your bed, picking out your quietest—you hope—vibrator before climbing up onto the mattress. 

Every shift of the sheets and every sharp inhale feels too loud in the dark room. You try to stay still, to keep calm, but your body won’t listen. It’s too wound up. Too eager. 

You shimmy out of your underwear and toss them toward the foot of the bed, letting your knees fall open as you move the toy to the apex of your thighs. You’re just about to press the little button when— 

A groan. 

Soft. Clipped short. But it definitely happened. 

“Holy shit,” you whisper, scrambling onto your knees. 

You know Joaquín’s room mirrors yours—bedhead pressed against the same wall—so you inch up and press your ear to it, holding your breath. Listening. 

There’s the quiet rustle of sheets. Barely audible. The faint whisper of wind—your window, probably. And then—a sigh. Soft and breathy. 

Your eyes widen as you lean impossibly close. 

Another groan—louder this time. Not stifled. 

Oh, God. Is this real? 

Then you hear it. The quiet slap of skin on skin. A steady rhythm, fast and getting faster. 

Holy fucking shit. 

You drop back onto the mattress, toy still in hand, and resume your position. You suck in a breath as you press the cool silicone to your core, hissing it out through your teeth at the contact. 

Then—a hitched breath. Sheets shifting. Silence. 

Oh. He heard you. 

Fighting a wicked grin, you press the button and the toy hums to life in your hand—a soft whimper escaping your lips as you melt into the pillows. 

Through the wall, you hear a strangled, “Fuck.” 

Your heart leaps—racing now, pounding against your ribs. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and picture him. Sprawled on the bed. Eyes dark and dazed. Boxers shoved halfway down his thighs. Hand wrapped tightly around his cock. 

It makes your thighs quiver. 

Another groan rumbles through the wall, and you arch into the toy, pretending it’s him instead—his hand, his mouth, his breath hot on your skin. 

“Oh,” you sigh, all hesitation gone. “Joaquín.” His name slips from your lips like a prayer. Barely audible—but you know he hears it. 

Because his rhythm falters—then quickens. His breath is shallow and sharp now, rough and uneven. 

Normally, you’d take your time—drag it out until the ache is unbearable. But not tonight. You can’t stop. You won’t. Not with the image of him burning in your mind—eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed, lips pink and parted as he pants. 

You’re already close. So close. 

And by the sound of his soft whimpers—threaded with your name—he is too. 

You bite your lip to hold in a moan, desperate to hear his sounds over your own, but it escapes anyway—soft and broken. 

Then you hear him. A low groan. Raw and wrecked. 

You writhe against the sheets, your hand shaking as it clutches the toy. Whispers. Sighs. Soft moans—some his, some yours. At this point, you can’t even tell. All of it winds tight behind your hipbones, pressure threatening to burst. 

Then his breath hitches. Stutters. Breaks. And your name—your name—leaves his mouth in a low, guttural groan. 

It isn’t quiet. 

It isn’t hesitant. 

It’s loud. And it’s enough. 

You break. 

His name tumbles from your lips, over and over, a reverent chant as you fall over the edge—boneless, breathless, and blushing. 

- 

You wake too hot and far too exposed, sunlight spilling through the blinds you forgot to close. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, your thoughts still slow and hazy— 

Then you bolt upright, the memory of last night burning fresh in your mind. 

Fuck. 

The sound of the bathroom door closing—right across the hall—makes you jump. Your head snaps toward your own door, left ajar in your rush to get to bed. God, that was stupid. 

After a solid ten minutes of berating yourself for acting like a cat in heat, you finally drag yourself out of bed and pull out some clothes. You wait until you hear Joaquín leave the bathroom before darting across the hall and practically slamming the door behind you. 

You spend longer than usual in the shower, one eye on the door through the fogged glass. You’re not sure what you’re hoping for—maybe that he’ll walk in by accident again. Or on purpose. Maybe join you. Show you exactly what he’d been doing to himself last night. 

The thought alone makes you ache, your thighs pressing together instinctively. 

You shut off the water, dry off, get dressed, and brace yourself to face the man who starred in every hot dream you had last night. 

Maybe you need a new house rule: no mutual masturbation through the wall. 

“Morning,” Joaquín says the second you step into the kitchen. 

He’s leaning against the counter beside the coffee machine, one hand cradling a mug and the other braced casually behind him. His eyes are dark and wicked, glinting with something that makes your heart stutter. 

“Morning,” you mutter, keeping your gaze low as you head for the fridge. 

“Sleep well?” he asks. 

You swallow hard, willing your cheeks not to flush. The asshole knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “Great sleep. You?” 

“Best I’ve had since getting here.” 

You nod, lips pursed as you pretend to study the fridge’s pitiful contents. “That’s good.” 

A beat of silence follows—thick and humming with everything you’re both refusing to say. 

Then he breaks it with a simple, “Coffee?” 

Your stomach growls in response, and when you glance over your shoulder, it feels like all the air has been knocked out of you by just how downright delicious he looks. He’s in a muscle tee, arms bare and still gleaming from the shower, curls damp and falling over his forehead. His smile is devastating—lazy and knowing—and has no business affecting the parts of your body that it is. 

You snap your eyes to the machine instead, clearing your throat. “Yes, please.” 

He nods, sets down his mug, and reaches into the cupboard for a clean one. You stay planted on your side of the kitchen island, knowing damn well that you might not make it out of this room with your dignity intact if you get any closer to him. 

It doesn’t take long before he sets the steaming mug of fresh coffee on the bench in front of you. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, wrapping your hands around it. 

He nods, watching as you blow gently across the surface of the liquid. 

When you glance up, he raises his brows—a silent question. 

“It’s hot,” you say simply. 

He chuckles, low and warm. “Like last night.” 

Your eyes go wide, and you nearly drop the mug. 

“The temperature,” he amends quickly. “Just couldn’t cool down. Summer is definitely on its way.” 

You narrow your eyes, carefully setting the mug back on the counter as you drag your tongue along your top teeth. He just stands there—smug and unrelenting. 

“What happened to boundaries?” you ask, arching a brow. 

He laughs again, and the sound is somehow hotter than the coffee. “What do you mean? A wall is a boundary, isn’t it?” 

Then he turns, drops his mug in the sink, and flashes you one last, infuriating wink before strolling out of the kitchen—like he didn’t just fry every nerve ending in your body. 

You spend the rest of the day avoiding him. 

You can’t so much as be in the same room without seeing mental images of him sprawled naked on his bed, getting himself off to the thought of you. 

And God, doesn’t he know it. 

The smug smile on his lips hasn’t faltered in hours. Every time you pass him—every time you glance at his stupidly handsome face—there it is. Those pretty pink lips, curled into the most delicious, insufferable smirk you’ve ever seen. 

If Sam doesn’t find whoever’s trying to kill you soon, you might just die stuck in this safehouse with Joaquín. 

Then it hits you. 

You’re out on the back porch, a book in your lap, pretending to read when the idea flashes through your mind like a lightbulb flicking on. Your eyes go wide and you shoot up from the old porch swing, your book dropping to the ground as you sprint into the house. 

“Joaquín!” you call. “Joaquín, I think I know who it is!” 

You turn into the lounge room—empty. 

Then duck into the kitchen—also empty. 

When you spin around to double back and check the other side of the house, you run right into him. Chest-first. Firm, warm… and damp. 

You glance up. “What the fuck?” 

He’s in gym clothes, sweat trailing from his cheekbone to his jaw, curls sticking adorably to his glistening skin. He must’ve been working out. Where? You have no idea. But whatever he was doing was clearly working his body, and it’s probably a good thing you hadn’t witnessed it. You might’ve dropped dead on the spot. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, slightly breathless, a hint of panic in his tone. 

You step back quickly, dragging your eyes up to his face—away from the tight gym clothes that are making your mouth water. 

“I—I think I know who it could be,” you say. 

He frowns. “Who?” 

“Whoever’s after me.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. Remember last night, I told you about my ex?” 

He nods. 

“Well… when we broke up, it was messy. He tried to get me to join HYDRA. Told me he loved me and couldn’t live without me. Said I didn’t know the whole story, but once I did, I’d want to join them.” You hesitate. “I told him to eat a bag of dicks. Then it got physical. We fought. He almost had me—but I got lucky. I couldn’t kill him, though. So I let him go.” 

You feel almost stupid admitting it, but Joaquín doesn’t look even remotely judgmental. 

“The last thing he said to me,” you continue, “was that he’d never give up. That he’d find a way to get me back or—” 

“Or what?” Joaquín prompts. 

“Or he’d kill me.” 

His brows shoot up. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s probably something you should’ve told Sam earlier.” 

You shrug, sheepish. “I kind of forgot. I didn’t take it seriously. He always said stupid, dramatic stuff like that.” 

Joaquín blinks hard, like he’s physically stopping himself from rolling his eyes. “You really need better taste in men.” 

You glance up at him through your lashes, dragging your bottom lip between your teeth. “I’ve got much better taste now.” 

He inhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut like you’re dangling a drug in front of a recovering addict. 

“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters, stepping back. “We need to call Sam.” 

You nod, eyes shamelessly glued to his ass as he turns away. “Yeah. Call Sam.” 

A few hours later, under the cover of darkness, Sam arrives, and you all gather around the small kitchen island to discuss the possibility that your ex is behind the attack. 

It all seems to add up, and Sam quickly calls the contact in the Secretary’s office who’s helping him. He explains the situation, gives your ex’s name, and starts organising a team to locate and apprehend him. 

You want to ask if you can come along—this is your mess, after all—but you know he won’t say yes. And a small part of you wants to stay here, in the house with Joaquín, because suddenly this little townhouse feels a lot less godforsaken than it did before. And you don’t really want to leave… 

“Alright,” Sam says, sliding his phone into his pocket. “They’re looking for him now. They’ll let me know as soon as they have any leads, and then we’re going in. He’s been mostly MIA for the past few years, but when he’s popped up, it’s been suspicious.” 

You nod. “So, he’s still HYDRA?” 

Sam shrugs. “I’m not even sure HYDRA is still operating. But whatever he’s up to, it’s definitely nothing good.” 

“Why?” Joaquín asks, his eyes locked on you, a playful smirk trying to appear but looking a little forced. “Thinking about getting back together?” 

You narrow your eyes, lips pulling into a soft, amused smile. “Torres, are you irrationally jealous of my ex?” 

He scoffs. “No. Absolutely not. Just—” 

“Oh, man,” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “What the hell have I done leaving you two alone for this long?” 

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, Sam.” 

Joaquín chuckles. 

Sam’s eyes narrow at you, amusement written all over his face. “Did I hit a nerve?” 

You ignore him and turn to leave the kitchen. 

“You know,” he calls after you, “you have my blessing. If you two want to fuck, I don’t—” 

“I’m going to shower now,” you cut in, shooting a lethal glare over your shoulder before disappearing around the corner. 

You hear them both giggling as you ascend the stairs, rolling your eyes again when you reach your room. You grab some clean clothes and carry them into the bathroom—only to realize your towel is still in the dryer. You start the shower, letting it heat up, then duck out and begin heading downstairs to get to the laundry. 

But then you hear your name and freeze mid-step, leaning over the banister to listen closer. 

“So,” Sam says, “you two haven’t… you know?” 

“No,” Joaquín replies. “We haven’t slept together.” 

Sam chuckles. “You sure? Because you can practically taste the sexual tension in here.” 

There’s a brief pause, then a heavy breath—Joaquín’s, you assume. 

“Something… kind of happened last night.” 

Your eyes go wide. No way he’s about to tell Sam— 

“We could hear each other,” he says, “through the wall.” 

Another pause. 

“Doing what?” Sam asks slowly, as if unsure he really wants the answer. 

“You know,” Joaquín says. “Getting off.” 

“Oh, my God!” Sam exclaims. 

You drop your head into your hands, cheeks burning against your palms. 

“Shut up, dude!” Joaquín hisses. “I doubt she’d want me to tell you that.” 

“Then why did you?” 

“You basically asked!” 

Sam scoffs. “I asked if you’d slept together. Not if you’d jerked off on opposite sides of the wall. Jesus Christ, how old are you? Eighteen?” 

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters, his voice muffled like he’s covering his face. 

You start quietly continuing down the stairs, deciding you’ve eavesdropped enough. Until— 

“Okay,” Sam says, “so if you’re into each other, why haven’t you slept together?” 

“I don’t know, really,” Joaquín replies. “She’s cautious, I think. And I don’t want to pressure her. But God, it’s so fucking hard.” 

Sam chuckles. “I bet it is.” 

“Dude,” Joaquín says, deadpan. 

“What?” 

Joaquín sighs, exasperated. “Look, I really like her. She’s so much cooler than I ever imagined. I don’t want to blow it by—” 

“Blowing it?” Sam cuts in. 

“How old are you?” Joaquín fires back, and you can almost picture him narrowing his eyes at his mentor. 

“Sorry,” Sam mutters, though he’s still laughing softly. “I’ll stop.” 

“Good,” Joaquín says, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to ask her out properly once all this shit is over. I want to try actually dating her. Like, romantic-styles.” 

Your heart thuds harder in your chest, your pulse pounding in your throat. 

“Romantic-styles?” Sam repeats. 

“Yeah. Like flowers and dates, stolen kisses, late-night talks, anniversaries, handmade cards—” 

“Making love under the moonlight?” Sam interjects, voice dramatically wistful. 

“Yes,” Joaquín says firmly. “I want to make love to her under the moonlight, goddammit. I want all the dumb, romantic, cheesy shit you see in movies. Because I like her. A lot.” 

Sam whistles under his breath. “Damn, son. I think you’re whipped.” 

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters. 

You’re frozen halfway down the hall toward the laundry. Your cheeks are burning, your heart is racing, and you can’t remember how to breathe. Everything Joaquín said is possibly the lamest thing you’ve ever heard—in real life—but somehow, it’s making your head spin and your chest ache. 

Then you hear footsteps. 

Startled, you hurry down the hall, silently thanking your years of training for lightning-fast reflexes. You duck into the laundry, grab your towel from the dryer, check the hall is clear, and bolt back upstairs. 

Then you lock yourself in the bathroom. Panting like you’ve just run a marathon and blushing like a fool in love. 

After an intentionally cold shower, you throw on a pair of sweats and an oversized tee before making your way back downstairs. The house smells like roasted garlic with a hint of herbs—rosemary and thyme, you think—and the closer you get to the kitchen, the richer and more mouthwatering it becomes. 

By the time you step into the kitchen, you’re practically drooling. And not just because of the drop-dead gorgeous man at the stove, cooking like it’s his own personal brand of foreplay. 

“Damn,” you sigh. “That smells incredible.” 

Joaquín grins over his shoulder, flipping something in the pan without even looking. “Garlic and herb roasted chicken, with caramelised onion and sweet potatoes.” 

You lean forward and rest your elbows on the kitchen island, propping your chin in your hands. “It’s like you walked straight out of some lonely housewife’s favourite sexual fantasy.” 

Sam chuckles from across the room, one shoulder braced against the wall. “You sure it’s not your fantasy?” 

You roll your eyes. “Why are you even still here? Shouldn’t you be out looking for my asshole ex?” 

“I’m off the clock until we’ve got a confirmed location,” he says with a smug grin. “And Joaquín invited me to stay for dinner.” 

You stand upright, crossing your arms and scowling at him. “This is a safehouse, Sam. We’re supposed to be undercover, not hosting dinner parties.” 

He raises a brow. “If you want to talk about the stuff you’re not supposed to be doing in this house, we can—” 

“Okay!” Joaquín cuts in, just a little too loudly. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s plate up.” 

You and Sam both glance at him with narrowed, knowing eyes. His cheeks are pink, brows lifted, and his mouth is pressed into a tight smile. 

With a sigh, you decide to let it go and start laying out plates and cutlery while Joaquín serves. Each of you gets a full plate of the mouthwatering dinner he’s somehow whipped up, despite constantly complaining about the grocery situation Sam leaves him with. Then you all move into the dining room on the opposite side of the entrance hall from the lounge. You’ve barely used it since hiding out here. It’s small, just like the rest of the house, and wouldn’t comfortably seat more than four people around the circular table. 

It’s quiet at first—the only sound the soft scrape of cutlery on plates as you all dig into what is, frankly, an obnoxiously delicious meal. You can feel Sam’s eyes flicking between you and Joaquín, that annoying little half-smirk tugging at his lips. 

You can also feel the heat of Joaquín’s thigh brushing close to yours—because for some stupid reason, you decided to sit next to him instead of Sam. 

“She’s all tough now,” Sam says, leaning toward Joaquín and eyeing you as you sip your wine, “but just wait until she’s had two more glasses.” 

You set your glass down with a little more force than necessary. “I will bury you in the backyard, Wilson.” 

Joaquín chuckles, eyes still on you even as he mutters to Sam, “Pretty sure that’s the fourth time today she’s threatened someone with murder.” 

Sam raises his brows, that smirk deepening. “And you still want to date her?” 

Joaquín grins—all cocky charm and perfect teeth. “Are you kidding? That’s half the appeal.” 

Your wide eyes snap to his, heat rising from your chest right up to the tips of your ears. 

“What?” he says with a casual shrug. “It’s true.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and pinch the bridge of your nose, silently begging the floor to swallow you whole—just to escape his stupidly perfect face… and Sam’s insufferably smug one. 

After a beat of silence—far too brief for your liking—Sam starts up again, eyes locked on you and sparkling with mischief. 

“So, what happens if it is this ex-boyfriend of yours?” he asks. 

You raise a brow, swallowing your mouthful of food before replying, “Isn’t that your job, Captain America? Last I checked, lowly civilians like me don’t get to decide the fate of the bad guys.” 

“But if you could,” he presses, propping one elbow on the table, “what would you decide?” 

You bite your lip, gaze drifting to a blank spot on the wall behind him as you consider it. 

“I’d probably kill him,” you say simply. “Or send him to the Raft.” 

Sam’s brows lift. “Really? That harsh?” 

You nod, stabbing a piece of potato like it insulted your bloodline. “He’s an asshole. And obviously a dangerous one. So if it’s between my life and his? I pick mine.” 

“Wow,” Sam mutters, glancing down at his plate. 

You frown. “Why is that surprising? He’s a dirtbag.” 

“I mean, now he is,” Sam says with a shrug, his eyes sliding—none too subtly—toward Joaquín, “but from what I heard, the two of you were pretty serious. Like, real serious.” 

“From what you heard?” you echo, incredulous. 

“Yeah. Barton and Romanoff used to mention it. Apparently, you were talking marriage. Settling down. Getting out of the game.” 

You drop your knife and fork like they’ve scalded you, lips parting in disbelief at the sheer nerve of the man across from you. 

Joaquín shifts beside you, visibly tense. His jaw works as he stares down at his plate, knuckles white around his cutlery. 

“Seriously, Sam?” you ask, leaning forward. “You’re asking me if I’m still in love with the man we think just put a hit out on me?” 

Sam just nods and pops another bite of chicken into his mouth, utterly unfazed. 

There’s a beat of silence. 

Then— 

“Are you?” Joaquín asks. 

Your eyes snap to him, brow furrowed. “No, you idiot. I’m not.” 

Then you turn back to Sam, who’s clearly seconds away from laughing. “And you—what the hell was that? Just because I once considered marrying someone I was in a committed relationship with doesn’t mean I’m still hung up on him. In fact, if he wasn’t actively trying to kill me, I wouldn’t even be thinking about him right now. Because you know what? The only goddamn thing on my mind lately is this—” you shoot a pointed look at Joaquín, heat blooming in your chest— “this unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions—which, by the way, you are one hundred percent aware of.” 

Sam makes a choking noise, but you don’t stop. 

“So don’t play dumb. Or coy. Or whatever little psychological warfare tactic you think you’re running to stir shit up. We don’t need your help turning up the tension in this house.” You stand abruptly, flustered and flushed. “It is already stifling in here. And I swear to God, I am this close to snapping.” 

Then you pick up your plate, turn on your heel, and storm back through the house toward the kitchen—heart pounding in your ears, and face so hot you’re amazed you haven’t already burst into flames. 

“What did she just call me?” you hear Joaquín ask. 

Sam chuckles. “I believe it was an unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions.” 

Joaquín laughs quietly, and you hate the way the sound alone makes you smile. 

“Damn,” he mutters. 

“She likes you, Falcon,” Sam teases. “The big bad assassin lady likes you.” 

You roll your eyes and drop your plate on the kitchen island, deciding to finish the annoyingly delicious dinner before cleaning up. 

Fifteen minutes later, once you’ve decided you’ve regained enough dignity to face them again, you move your empty plate to the sink and head back to the dining room. Without saying a word, you stack their plates in one hand and grab your wine glass with the other, downing the rest of it in two bitter gulps. 

Then you return to the kitchen to start washing up, half-listening as their conversation drifts from the dining room to the lounge. 

Once everything is clean, you refill everyone’s wine glasses and join them in the lounge room, dragging a chair in from the dining room since there’s no space left on the tiny couch. 

Thankfully, the conversation doesn’t stray far from work. Joaquín asks Sam about the plan once they manage to locate your ex, and Sam reassures him that they—whoever he’s working with—have it covered. You can tell from Joaquín’s steady stream of questions that he’s worried. And it’s not just the standard concern for civilian safety. He’s worried about you. 

And damn if that doesn’t make your heart ache a little. 

Eventually, Sam flicks on the TV and picks a movie. You can tell he’s had enough of Joaquín’s interrogation, so you play along and pretend to be invested in whatever crappy comedy he’s chosen. 

On your way to refill everyone’s glasses, you grab a spare blanket and lay it out on the lounge room floor. Then you steal two cushions off the couch and settle down on the blanket, wine in hand, pretending to watch the screen while trying very hard to ignore the weight of Joaquín’s gaze. 

An hour and almost two bottles of wine later, the movie ends, the screen bathing the dark room in soft white light as the credits roll. 

“Alright,” Sam sighs, tipping the last of his wine into his mouth. “No way I’m getting home now. I’ll crash on the couch.” 

You and Joaquín snap toward him in unison—eyes wide, lips tight. 

“What?” he deadpans. “I’ve had too many drinks and I don’t feel like catching a cab. You two can keep it in your pants for one more night.” 

Joaquín takes a long breath through his nose, his jaw flexing with tension. You’re not sure what shifted in the last couple of hours—maybe Sam’s meddling worked—but the tension in the room is unbearable. Your heart won’t slow down, your skin feels too hot, and honestly, if you don’t feel Joaquín’s hands on you soon, you might actually go feral. Claws out, back arched, hissing kind of feral. 

“Alright,” Joaquín mutters through clenched teeth. “Take the couch.” 

You collect the empty glasses and take them to the kitchen while Joaquín grabs the blanket from the floor and drapes it over Sam, who’s settling into the world’s smallest couch like he owns the place. Then you move quietly back through the lounge room and meet Joaquín at the bottom of the stairs. The air between you is practically humming—so thick with tension one spark might blow the whole house sky-high. 

“G’night,” Sam mumbles, entirely too smug. 

“Night,” Joaquín replies, clipped. 

“Night,” you echo, with a glare over your shoulder. “Hope your back hurts in the morning.” 

Sam chuckles behind you, completely unbothered by the two of you stomping up the stairs like thunder. 

You head straight for the bathroom, flicking on the too-bright light before stopping in front of the vanity and grabbing your toothbrush from the cup beside the sink. 

Your reflection is a perfect mirror of how you're feeling—which is absolutely and completely wrecked. Your hair’s a mess, your lips wine-stained, your cheeks flushed, and your eyes wide and dark with an unrecognisable kind of hunger. 

It’s almost laughable, the way your reflection exposes just how utterly undone you are by the man standing beside you. 

Joaquín grabs his toothbrush and silently takes the tube of toothpaste from your outstretched hand. Then you both take turns wetting your brushes before wordlessly starting to brush your teeth. 

You glance at him in the mirror, shamelessly studying the pretty features of his perfect face—soft curls, straight nose, sharp jaw, and those same wide, hungry eyes staring intently at his own reflection. 

His elbow brushes yours, but he doesn’t seem to notice—not in the same way you do, at least. A sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm and through your shoulder, making you shiver. 

He catches your eye in the mirror and pauses, quirking a brow—just the tiniest, stupidest smirk. But it still sends your heart vaulting into your throat. 

The heat in your cheeks intensifies as you duck your head and focus on rinsing. The water is cold as you splash it over your mouth, but it does nothing to cool the fire simmering beneath your skin. 

“This is torture,” he mutters. 

You dry your mouth on a towel before straightening, frowning at him in the mirror. “What?” 

He gives you a flat look. “This. You. Me. Captain fucking America sleeping on the couch.” 

Your breath stutters, and you have to grip the counter to steady yourself. “It’s one night. We can do one more night.” 

Joaquín blinks, then turns toward you—actually looking at you, not your reflection. “One more night,” he says quietly. “Then what?” 

Your eyes drop to his lips, lingering there as his tongue flicks between them. “You know what.” 

“Say it,” he mutters, stepping closer. 

Your breath hitches, still locked on his mouth. 

“One more night,” he repeats slowly. “Then… what?” 

You let out a shaky breath and take a reluctant step back. “Then…” You swallow, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Then you fuck me so hard I forget why we waited this long.” 

He stops breathing. 

His eyes go wide—impossibly dark. His whole body goes still. 

Your stomach flips. Your knees wobble. But somehow you keep moving, brushing past him and walking straight into your room. 

You feel the heat of his gaze on your back. The phantom drag of his fingers down your spine—even though he hasn’t touched you. Not properly. Not since you made up that stupid, wildly ineffective rule. 

You shut the door without looking back, not trusting yourself to survive what you’d see—him, still standing there. Mouth open, eyes black, foamy toothbrush dangling stupidly from his lips. 

God, even dental hygiene is sexy when he does it. 

You fall face-first onto the bed, groaning into the sheets. 

It’s going to be a long fucking night. 

You spend an hour trying to fall asleep. Tossing, turning, blankets on, blankets off. One pillow, two pillows, fluffed pillow, no pillow. Nothing helps. 

Sleep evades you. 

You’re too hot. Too wound up. The wine and the tension are thrumming through your veins like electricity. Your pulse won’t slow. Your breath won’t settle. All you can think about is Joaquín—his stupid smile, his eyes, his lips, his hands. The way all of it would feel against your burning skin. The way he’d unravel the knot sitting low and tight behind your hipbones, slow and deliberate and maddening. 

It’s too much. You can barely breathe. 

You need to do something. 

After what feels like an eternity, you throw the blankets off and lean over the side of the bed, reaching underneath until your fingers find the box. You slide it out and fumble through its contents for your little bullet vibrator. It’s not the quietest, but it’s efficient—and at this point, you don’t care what Joaquín hears. You just need release. 

You use your phone’s flashlight illuminate the box, but after a few seconds of empty searching, you remember… it’s in the bathroom drawer. 

Of course it is. 

With a quiet sigh, you swing your legs off the bed and pad softly to the door, careful not to let the squeaky hinges whine too loudly. You don’t bother with the lights as you tiptoe into the bathroom, stepping up to the vanity and slowly sliding open the top drawer—your drawer. 

You quickly find the small vibrator and wrap your fingers around it before gently shutting the drawer. Then you turn and tiptoe out of the bathroom, your bedroom door in sight when— 

Joaquín steps into your path. Shirtless. Curls a mess. Nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips. 

You duck your head and try—feebly—to sidestep him, but he moves with you, crowding into your space until your spine meets the bathroom doorframe. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and rough. 

He steps in closer, slow and deliberate, and the hallway suddenly feels too small. Too warm. His face is cast in soft shadow, but you can still see every perfect line—sharp cheekbones, full lips, that frustratingly elegant nose. The kind of face sculptors dream of and sinners pray to. 

But it’s his eyes that undo you. 

Dark. Wild. Burning with something untamed. Hunger, yes—but barely restrained. Like he’s holding himself back with a single fraying thread, one you’re both terrified and desperate to snap. 

You manage the smallest nod. 

He edges even closer, his bare chest now just a breath from your peaked nipples beneath your thin cotton shirt. 

“You’re not wearing a shirt,” you murmur, voice embarrassingly breathless. 

His jaw ticks as he looks at you—like he’s trying not to do something reckless. Then his tongue slides slowly across his bottom lip. “You’re not wearing pants.” 

“Guess we’re both breaking rules,” you whisper. 

He lifts a hand to your face, knuckles grazing from your cheekbone down to your jaw. “What’s one more, then?” 

Your breath hitches, heart pounding in your throat. “Which one?” 

He hums softly, his eyes trained on his fingers as they ghost along your jaw and down the column of your throat. 

“Guess,” he says quietly. 

Then he grips your chin. Hard. Fingers digging into your jaw, forcing your mouth open. 

“You have no fucking idea how hard it’s been not to touch you,” he growls. 

Then he surges forward and crushes his mouth to yours, all heat and hunger and pent-up fucking agony. It’s not soft. Not sweet. It’s a collision—teeth and tongue and a groan so guttural it vibrates against your lips. You gasp into him and he swallows it whole, devouring you like he’s starving. 

Your head hits the doorframe with a soft thud, but you don’t care. You’re too far gone. His hands find your hips, rough and possessive, gripping you like he wants his fingerprints embedded in your bones. 

You whimper—and that’s all the encouragement he needs. 

He shoves a knee between your legs, pressing his thigh up against your core. The pressure punches the air from your lungs—hot and perfectly placed—and your hips grind down on him before you can stop yourself. 

He groans into your mouth, deep and wrecked, and then his teeth catch your bottom lip in a sharp, punishing bite. Not enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp. 

“Shh,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Gotta keep it down, baby. We’ve got guests.” 

Then he kisses you again. Harder. Desperate and possessive. Like he’s trying to brand you with his mouth alone. 

You try to lift your hands—to touch him, to feel—but he’s faster. He catches your wrists and slams them above your head, pinning them with one hand as the other slides down and cups your breast, rough and reverent all at once. 

You gasp against his mouth, a shocked, breathless sound that he swallows greedily. 

Then he stills. 

His eyes drag up to where your hands are trapped. To the shape pressed between your fingers—small, hard, and anything but innocent. 

He pulls back just enough to uncurl your grip, slow and deliberate. You try to pull away, but he’s stronger—too strong—and within seconds, he’s holding the little vibrator up between two fingers. Right in front of your face. 

“This what you came out here for?” he asks, voice ragged, low, thick with disbelief and something darker. 

You can’t answer. You’re too stunned. Your breath is coming in shallow gasps, your chest rising and falling like you’ve been sprinting. 

He drops his gaze to your lips, then back to your eyes. And smirks. 

“Nah,” he murmurs, voice like smoke. “You don’t need that.” 

The vibrator drops from his hand, hitting the floor with a soft, humiliating thunk. 

For a moment, neither of you move. 

Then he’s on you again. 

His mouth crashes into yours—devouring, claiming—like he needs you more than air. Like kissing you is the only thing keeping him alive. 

You moan into him, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to claw. He releases your wrists and you drop them instantly to his shoulders, then into his curls, grabbing hard enough to make him groan. 

His hands find your hips again, rough and greedy, dragging you closer until his thigh slots back between your legs. The pressure is maddening. Perfect. You grind down with a gasp, hips rolling instinctively against the solid muscle. 

He pulls back just enough to smirk against your mouth, that dark, cocky glint flashing in his eyes. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Just like that.” 

His fingers tighten on your hips, guiding you into another slow, filthy grind. The drag of fabric against your clit electric. You whimper and drop your forehead to his, your breaths mingling in the heat between you. 

Every rock of your hips sends sparks shooting up your spine, the ache between your legs growing unbearable. His thigh flexes beneath you—deliberate, teasing—and you feel his breathing start to match your own, ragged and fast. 

“Gonna cum on my thigh, baby?” he asks, breathless but teasing. 

You can’t form words. You just whine—a needy, broken sound that ghosts past your lips and makes him chuckle, low and dangerous. 

“That’s it,” he mutters, guiding you a little higher on his thigh. “That’s my girl.” 

You grind harder, chasing the friction, the pressure, the devastating edge that’s so close it hurts. His hands are locked on your hips, dragging you over him like he wants to leave bruises behind. 

“You feel that?” he rasps, mouth brushing your jaw as he speaks. “How fucking wet you are for me?” 

You nod—frantic, breathless—but it’s not enough. He growls low in his throat and suddenly pulls you down harder, his thigh flexing beneath you. You bite down on a cry, head tipping back against the doorframe as your body trembles. 

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” he breathes, watching your face like it’s the most obscene thing he’s ever seen. “Soak my leg, baby—come on.” 

One hand slips up your shirt, calloused fingers grazing the bare skin of your belly before cupping your breast—no bra, just heat and softness and a tight nipple begging for attention. He rolls it between his fingers, rough and greedy, and your hips jerk in response. 

“Jesus, you’re so fucking responsive,” he mutters, leaning in to bite down on the soft skin beneath your jaw. 

You gasp, nails digging into his scalp, dragging him closer. 

“Please,” you whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for—release, more, everything. 

He lifts his head, eyes dark and glittering with wicked intent. “You wanna cum for me, baby?” he asks, voice thick and taunting. “Wanna make a mess all over my thigh like a needy little slut?” 

You whimper—pathetic and wrecked—and he smirks. “Then take it. Rub that desperate little pussy on me like you mean it.” 

He moves his thigh up harder, fingers biting into your hips as he guides you, using your body like it’s his to play with. And it is. 

You’re grinding shamelessly now, panting into his mouth, broken noises falling from your lips as the heat builds. You’re close—so fucking close. Muscles tightening, vision going spotty— 

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Right fucking now.” 

And you do. 

With a strangled whimper, you break—hips jerking, thighs quaking, mouth falling open in a silent scream as pleasure tears through you like a live wire. You bury your face in his neck, biting down on a gasp, desperate to stay quiet. 

A muffled moan slips out anyway, ragged and breathy against his skin. He groans, low and wrecked, one hand fisting in your hair as your body trembles against his. 

“Shh,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, even as his thigh flexes beneath you to draw out every last wave. “You’ve gotta be quiet, baby. Sam’s just downstairs.” 

But you can’t stop shaking—your orgasm crashing over you in hot, relentless pulses—your nails clawing at his back, your teeth sinking into his neck to stifle another sound. 

He holds you through it, breath thick and uneven, a dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he feels you unravel. 

“So fucking good for me,” he whispers. “So sweet when you try to behave.” 

He kisses you again—slow, filthy, coaxing you through the aftershocks with soft praise and a hot tongue. His lips drag along yours like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to taste every noise you made. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded and burning. “So fucking sexy.” 

Then, without warning, he lifts you—strong arms locking under your thighs, making you gasp as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. You cling to him, giggling breathlessly against his shoulder as he starts walking down the hall. 

His mouth finds your throat again, biting softly as he mutters, “You know I’m not stopping ‘til you’re ruined for anyone else, right?” 

You let out a wrecked little laugh, and he grins—dark and dangerous. 

“Gonna fuck you so good, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked and wicked. “Gonna make that pretty little mouth scream my name ‘til it’s the only word you know.” 

You shudder—helpless, breathless—and he chuckles low in his chest, kissing the hinge of your jaw as he kicks open his bedroom door. 

- 

The door clicks softly shut behind you as you both step out into the hall, but neither of you move. 

Joaquín’s back hits it a second later, pulling you with him—your chest flush to his, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a moan. 

“Joaquín,” you sigh, warning in your voice but no real conviction behind it. 

“Mmh?” He leans in, mouth already dragging along the curve of your jaw, his hands low on your hips. “Just one more.” 

You bite back a grin, threading your fingers through his messy curls as his lips brush yours—soft, slow, intoxicating. His tongue teases your bottom lip, coaxing it open, and before you can stop yourself, you’re kissing him again. 

Deeper this time. Greedy. Sweet. A little wrecked. 

His hands wander. Squeezing. Grabbing. Remembering every filthy, delicious way they unravelled you last night. 

He trails kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat, sucking a bruise into the dip of your collarbone as he lowers himself slowly. 

Dropping to his knees. 

You tip your head back, lips parted and panting softly. 

“We—We have to go downstairs,” you murmur, though you don’t try to move. 

“I am downstairs,” he mumbles, lifting the hem of his shirt to kiss your stomach. 

You let out a shaky little laugh, your breath hitching as his tongue slides over your hipbone. 

His hands slip up beneath the shirt, fingertips dancing over your hot skin like he’s thinking about dragging you back to bed. Again. 

You’ve been trying to get downstairs for over an hour now. This is the furthest you’ve gotten. 

“You’re not helping,” you hiss, voice catching as his knuckles graze the underside of your breast. 

“I’m not trying to.” 

You thread your fingers through his curls and tug, reluctantly pulling his mouth away from you. He looks up at you through thick lashes, eyes dark and hungry, grinning like a man thoroughly satisfied with his own choices. 

“Come on,” you sigh softly, wanting nothing more than to have his head between your legs again like it was twenty minutes ago. 

He rises to his full height with a playful eyeroll, slipping one hand into yours and lacing your fingers. Then he uses his free hand to cup your head and pull you toward him, pressing a tender kiss to your temple before turning down the hall. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he says with a soft chuckle. 

You giggle quietly, biting your lip to stop yourself from begging him back to bed. 

Halfway down the stairs, he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You realise I’m gonna spend all day thinking about what you sound like when you cum.” 

You nearly trip, but he catches you easily—smug and warm behind you, his laughter a hot puff of air against your neck. 

You elbow him, but you’re smiling, flushed and glowing and absolutely ruined. 

You let him lead you into the kitchen, fingers still laced together, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. You try not to look like someone who’s just had every bone in her body melted and rearranged—but the limp in your step and the heat in your cheeks aren’t exactly subtle. 

Sam’s already there, leaning casually against the counter beside the coffee machine, mug in hand. His eyes sparkle with that familiar, knowing mischief the moment you enter. 

“Well, well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living.” 

You pause at the edge of the kitchen, but Joaquín doesn’t. 

“Morning,” he says easily, strolling over to the coffee machine like he hadn’t just threatened to make you scream his name five minutes ago. “Coffee?” 

Sam takes a long, deliberate sip from his mug. “It’s probably cold by now. Didn’t think you two were ever coming down.” 

You press your lips together, fighting back the embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Joaquín just shrugs. 

“We got distracted,” he says, opening a cupboard and pulling out a mug. “Important business.” 

Sam snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I heard. Whole neighbourhood did.” 

You choke on your breath. “Oh my god.” 

Joaquín turns to you, mug in hand, a smirk spreading across his face—smug and utterly unrepentant. “She’s loud when she’s happy.” 

Your eyes go wide, and you’re surprised you don’t implode on the spot. 

Sam groans, setting his mug down with a thud. “Jesus Christ. I take it back. You’re officially banned from happiness.” 

Joaquín just grins wider. “Too late.” 

You drop your face into your hands with a soft groan. 

“At least one of you has the decency to blush,” Sam mutters as he walks past you. 

You drag your hands down your face and shuffle further into the kitchen, stopping at the island across from where Joaquín is pouring two cups of coffee. 

He nudges the mugs toward you, but neither of you makes a move to grab one. Instead, he steps around the island, slips his arms around your waist, and pulls you in—pressing you flush against him as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorise every trace of you. 

All of it completely shameless, even with Sam just a few feet away on the lounge, sipping his coffee and looking vaguely traumatised. 

Honestly, though? You can’t bring yourself to care either. 

Your hands drift up Joaquín’s arms to link behind his neck. 

“You hungry?” you ask. 

His head snaps up, eyes dark with immediate interest. “Yes.” 

You roll your eyes, thighs clenching despite yourself. “Not like that. I meant actual food. You know—sustenance.” 

“The other thing is sustenance,” he mutters, mouth finding your neck again. 

“I’m still here,” Sam calls. “And you’re still not quiet. Do either of you know how to whisper?” 

Joaquín lifts his head and glances toward the lounge. “We didn’t invite you to stay. Feel free to leave anytime.” 

Sam shakes his head, laughing in disbelief. “You two should be thanking me.” 

You frown. “For what?” 

“Introducing you,” he says, pausing like he expects applause. Then he sighs and adds, “And tracking down your shady ex.” 

That gets your attention. Both you and Joaquín straighten, turning toward him. 

“You have a location?” you ask. 

Sam nods. “We’re organising a strike team. Intel says he’s been renting this place under an alias. Plan is to hit him when he’s not expecting it.” 

“Tonight?” 

“Tonight,” he confirms, pushing off the lounge. “Which means I’ve got a team to prep.” 

He moves into the kitchen, drops his empty mug in the sink, and glances back at you. 

“If your hunch is right and he’s behind everything… you’ll be able to go home soon.” 

You nod, trying to ignore the tight knot forming in your stomach. “Great.” 

Joaquín slowly releases your waist and lifts his coffee, taking a sip to hide what you know is a frown. 

You wait for Sam to gather his things and bid you both goodbye, stepping out the front door with a knowing smirk and muttering something about ‘getting the house fumigated’ after you two finally move out. 

When the door clicks shut behind him, you turn to Joaquín, who’s settled on the tiny lounge, elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled beneath his chin.  

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping in front of him. 

His hands immediately find your hips, like that’s where they’re meant to be. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, tugging you onto his lap. 

You straddle his thighs, hands pressed to his chest. “You know,” you say, resting your forehead against his, “if you wanted to stay here a while longer… I wouldn’t be opposed.” 

He huffs out a soft laugh, breath ghosting over your lips. “Yeah? You want to stay in this tiny house with paper-thin walls?” 

“I’d stay anywhere with you,” you whisper, so quiet it barely registers—as if saying it aloud makes whatever this is feel real. Too real. 

His breath stutters. His fingers tighten at your waist. 

“Really?” 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

“What about my apartment in D.C.?” he asks, leaning back to study your face with wide, hopeful eyes. “It’s not much bigger than this, but—” 

“Okay,” you interrupt, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like an idiot. 

His eyes go even wider. “Really?” 

You nod again, giggling. “Let’s call it an indefinite sleepover. Just in case you get sick of me and want to send me back to my own place.” 

He laughs too, the sound rumbling deep in his chest beneath your palms. “I’m never gonna get sick of you.” 

“You sure about that?” you tease, shifting your hips to grind down against him. 

His breath catches, lips parting in a soft sigh. 

“Baby,” he whispers, “we’re just getting started.” 

Then, before you can blink, he lifts you, flipping you onto your back and pressing you into the couch cushions. He hovers over you, lips finding yours like they belong there—sliding against yours and stoking that slow-burning flame deep in your belly. The same flame he lit the first day you met. The flame that now blazes so bright, your whole body glows—burning beneath his touch. 

He pauses, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven. 

“You know,” he murmurs, voice thick with promise, “I plan on making you forget your own name by the end of today.” 

You grin, tugging him down for one last kiss—soft, slow, but packed with everything you feel. 

“Good,” you whisper against his lips, “because I don’t want to remember anyone else’s.” 

It continued with the sock.

A sad, balled-up sock that smacked him directly in the face like the universe was punishing him for trying to sleep. John exhaled slowly, one eye cracking open as the sock rolled off his cheek and onto the pillow beside him. Earlier it had been you laughing so hard there were tears at a war movie. That then turned into you poking him and getting his face which he just loved. He had briefly settled you down by practically holding you down and talking to you. But that was short lived.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he said, voice gravelly from sleep and exhaustion and you, dragging him through hell at 1:00 a.m.

You were a blur of an oversized t-shirt and bare legs as you half-skipped, half-crawled across the foot of the bed, energy buzzing off you like static. The lamp on the nightstand threw everything into gold-edged half-light: soft shadows, warm skin, the sharp gleam of your eyes. You threw yourself down hard onto John’s chest to which he let out a huff watching as you tossed your hair around right in his face. 

“You’re being dramatic,” you said, breathless with the kind of laughter you only got after midnight. “You didn’t even flinch.”

“Because I’m numb,” he muttered, pulling the sides of his pillow around his face he mumbled out the words, “Numb to your late-night bullshit.”

You ignored him completely and got comfy on top of him using his chest as an arm rest you kicked your feet in the air behind you. Eyes alight with mischief and something warmer. “John.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me ask.”

“Don’t need to. I’ve seen that look before. That’s your ‘I’ve had three caffeinated drinks and cannot tell you how much caffeine was in each one behavior.” You had moved his pillow out of his face, his grip weakened from his need to get some sleep.

You grinned. “Okay, true. But seriously. Just hear me out.”

“No.”

“But what if—hypothetically—” you were leaned in as close as you could be without your faces touching, chin resting on your hands, face inches from his, “—I bit your bicep?”

His eyes closed for just a moment and then opened. Slowly. Like he couldn’t believe you’d said it. He blinked a couple of times for good measure before speaking,

“…what?”

“Your bicep,” you said, tone sultry-soft now, a velvet drawl wrapped in chaos. You were now touching your forehead against his. Your hair makes almost a fort around your two faces, “I want to bite it. Just once.”

A beat of silence. The hum of the night pressing in around the room. The overhead fan spinning a lazy circle above you both. John stared at you like he was asking whatever higher power cursed him why. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, not even sure what else to say. He had never heard even a similar request from you or anyone else. In fact he had never even heard it be asked on TV.

“But hot?”

“You are trying to bite me like I did not get you dinner earlier.” He was seriously confused, he considered it maybe being one of those trends where women were asking their boyfriends and that you were not being real about this. 

You moved one arm to stretch down his, your palm finding his forearm, thumb dragging over the warm stretch of muscle. His body was tense—coiled, even—like he couldn’t decide if he should roll with it or run.

“You can’t blame me,” you whispered, leaning in so your breath kissed his jaw. “You walk around all day with these arms out, sleeves pushed up just enough to ruin my life. What did you think was gonna happen?” You knew that stroking his ego would get him to bend or at least consider your proposal. 

He made a noise. A low, strangled kind of grunt that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“I should sedate you.”

“You could,” you said, fingers sliding up over his bicep now—slow and featherlight. “Or you could let me have one bite. A sexy one. Like... a ‘we’re alone, and it’s quiet, and you look really good in this lighting’ kind of bite.”

He turned to look at you. Really look at you. Your lips were slightly parted, breath hitching in the quiet. The lamp cast golden halos over the lines of your face, your neck, the sliver of thigh visible beneath the hoodie. And you weren’t laughing anymore—not really. There was humor there, yeah, but behind it was something hungrier. Real.

You tilted your head. “I’ll make it worth it.”

His jaw clenched.

And then, slowly, deliberately—he flexed.

You lit up like a struck match. Gleeful and glowing. Straddling his lap even tighter than before so that he could not change his mind, you let your hands smooth up his arm like you were worshipping it, not teasing it. Your lips brushed at his shoulder first—soft, reverent—then your mouth moved down to what you had been begging for. That is when your teeth sank in. Not hard. Not deep. Just enough to mark the pressure, enough for him to feel it through every nerve. You hummed low in your throat, content, lingering. Let your nose nuzzle against the skin. His hand landed on your hip without thought, fingers pressing into the curve of you.

His breath caught.

When you pulled back, you were grinning—but there was something else in your eyes. Heat. Need. That wild, unspoken ache that only surfaces in the dark when the world feels far away. You ran your tongue over your teeth with your lips slightly parted making the deepest eye contact you could. 

John was looking at you like you were trouble.

Beautiful, irresistible trouble.

“That wasn’t a bite,” he said, voice rough. His hands stayed put on your waist, he could still feel the nerves in his bicep twitching and the saliva from where your tongue had just lightly touched the skin was getting cold. 

You shrugged. “Wasn’t it?”

He exhaled through his nose. Shook his head. Then reached up and pulled you to him like it had been inevitable all along, he had wrapped his arms more around you to place his hand in the middle of your back in order to keep you stable. The kiss was nothing like the bite. It was hungry, unguarded—months of willpower unraveling all at once. His mouth was hot and heavy on yours, hands tight on your body like he didn’t know how to be gentle with this kind of want. You gasped into it, hands roaming anywhere you could reach, pressing your body to his like you could climb into his chest and stay there.

When you finally broke apart, your forehead rested against his.

“Still want me to go to sleep?” you whispered, breathless. Now touching his face lightly grazing your fingers on and through his facial hair. 

“Hell no,” he muttered. But he rolled you onto your side, tucked you under his arm anyway, buried his face in your hair, and pulled the blanket around you both like a cocoon, one hand still splayed across your hip. And when you finally fell asleep, lips tingling and heartbeat in your throat, you could’ve sworn you felt him kiss the top of your head.

Just once.

It was supposed to be just a job. An easy one at that. 

Really, you were embarrassed to admit to yourself that you actually believed Val when she told you that this would just be an easy in-and-out, that you she was only sending you with your only frequent collaborator because she wanted extra assurance that the package you were retrieving would be found in a timely manner. Believing Val about anything had been a mistake from day one, especially something that had to do with your own personal security and well-being. 

From the moment a cloaked man’s blade embedded itself in your thigh, you knew that this wasn’t ever supposed to be an easy job. 

“She’s trying to get us killed.” Your voice came out as more of a complaint than an actual statement that you were trying to communicate to the man in front of you who was doing his absolute best to patch up your wound with what he had on him. 

“We’re alive, aren’t we?” Walker was stubborn, he always was. But sometimes you wondered if that stubbornness came from the fact that he had more going on than he ever wanted to let on to people. You knew about his issues at home, what had happened about six months ago at this point. It was why you became gentler with him, but he all but rejected any sign of kindness from you - mainly because he seemed to believe that you were just patronizing him, because, as he said, he ‘didn’t want to be coddled’. That didn’t mean that, eventually, he hadn’t started being a bit nicer to you, too. 

“Didn’t you take a knife to the shoulder, too?” 

“Yeah but I’m a super soldier, I’ll be fine.” 

He was too stubborn for his own good. 

“You still couldn’t died, I could’ve died. She told us this was easier than it was, and you know it just as well as I do.” 

As you finished speaking, he finished wrapping your leg and looked up at you. But there was a look in his eyes that told you that this conversation simply wasn’t going to go the way that you wanted it to go, because there was no reasoning with him on this matter. 

“If she wanted us to die, we would be dead.” 

“John-”

“You’ve said this for the last two jobs, if this is too hard for you, you can always tap out.” 

Sometimes it was easy to get a more human side out of him, but sometimes - times like this - it proved itself to be a challenge. Deep down, you were sure that he knew that there was a part of this operation that relied on Val lying to you so you would be more willing to do what she wanted you to do. Did she really want to get you killed? Probably not, she’d have to find more people willing to work for her if she did. Granted, you were certain that would-be superheroes weren’t too difficult to find nowadays. 

“Maybe she doesn’t want us to die, but she clearly has no regard for our well-being.” 

“Oh, please-”

“Forget it, John, I don’t want to argue.” 

Maybe it was the exhaustion on your face that made him listen to you as he moved away from where he was sitting, grabbing the chair that he had moved opposite to the edge of the bed that you were on while he was patching your leg up and moving it to the corner. 

“I’ll be in the other room.” 

Like usual, when you had far-away jobs, Val would either fly you out or get you a hotel with adjoined but separate rooms. When John decided to get up and leave, you could go talk to him whenever you wanted - and you typically did. That was what made it so difficult for you, when it came down to it. Well, it was among the things that made everything so difficult for you.

The issue stemmed from the fact that, at some point, the two of you had become friends. You weren’t sure when things changed, when your professional relationship had become a lot more personal. Maybe it was the night that you were feeling a bit rough, and while he wasn’t the type to talk you through that and give you a hug, he didn’t mind wordlessly sitting beside you and watching movies that the hotel had until you eventually fell asleep. Then you both started sharing more personal things with each other, personal issues that neither of you were sharing with other people. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t like that you were friends, because you did. But sometimes you liked it too much. It hadn’t taken you very long to figure out that the feelings that you had when you were around John weren’t exactly platonic, but that wasn’t something that you were going to tell him. Even if it had been months ago, he was clearly still reeling from the loss of his marriage and you knew that. The issue wasn’t workplace romance, or not wanting to tell him because of some minuscule reason. It was because you knew him, and you knew that if anything were to happen between the two of you it would need to happen on his terms - for both of your sake. 

Knowing him itself was a battle, because sometimes you wished that you could do more to help him. You wanted to do something beyond just exist and be a friend, because you knew what it was like. It was the reason you were the way that you were, and the reason that you were in the position that you were in. You knew - perhaps in a difference capacity - the pain that he was experiencing and you wished that there was something that you could do to help him. But knowing him meant that knowing that he would just live with whatever pain it was that he was going through, that trying to talk about it would only make matters worse. 

As you heard him settle into the other room, presumably changing out of his uniform, you did the same and let yourself lay down. The pain in your thigh was quite unbearable, but you were so used to getting stabbed at this point that it wasn’t something that you were particularly surprised by. 

With some Advil in your system and the knowledge that his experience in patching up combat wounds probably left you in a pretty decent position, it took you maybe twenty minutes to fall asleep for what you hoped would be the rest of the night. But that hope was dashed a bit later as you awoke to the sound of a light knocking on the door attached to your own. 

“It’s John, uh, if you’re still asleep that’s fine.”

“You can come in, there’s no locks.” You replied, sitting up in your bed and turning on the light. It had been about five hours since you had fallen asleep. John had clearly gotten out of the shower a bit ago, his hair still damp even if he was covered in dry, clean, casual clothing. 

“Have you been able to shower or is the pain too bad?”

“You know, it’s not often polite to tell a girl she needs to bathe more.” You replied, a normal playful tone in your voice as you spoke. But you knew that he was just being nice, even if a small smile covered his lips, you wanted to be nice, too. “I was going to, but then I fell asleep.” 

“I can wait here, you know, just in case you need anything.” 

“What’s going on, John?” 

He could be nice to you, but right now he was downright doting. It was true that you had been in danger during the mission, but even then he didn’t seem too disturbed by it afterwards. This was odd, to you. You had never seen him act so… caring. 

When he didn’t respond, though, you nodded and got up off of the bed. “We can talk after my shower.” 

You weren’t as quick as you would’ve liked to be in the bath, but you were trying your best to stay off of your bad leg. Despite the fact that the pain had dulled considerably since it happened, and the fact that you were used to things like these happening, you couldn’t say that you enjoyed the pain. Nobody did, even if it was something that you had become used to over time. Still, you were out and dressed in your sweatpants and tank top before you knew it, and you found John sitting on the bed waiting for you like he had nothing better to do. 

He wasn’t on his phone, hadn’t turned on the TV even though the remote was sitting right beside him. He was just waiting. It was quite odd, especially for him. 

“Seriously, John, what’s wrong?” There was no judgement in your voice as you sat down beside him, careful to not sit in a way that would disturb the medical bandages that were covering your leg. “I mean, you know I enjoy your company and all but it seems like something happened.”

You really felt like you shouldn’t known that something was wrong from the moment that he was the one to knock on your door, and not the other way around. Something had clearly been bothering him since before he had come into your room, and the fact that he asked if you were still asleep implied to you that he had seemingly tried to talk to you before, and couldn’t because you were knocked out. 

“You were right, I just wanted to tell you that you were right.” The confused look in your eyes seemingly only made this more difficult for him from the way that he was looking down. “About Val, she doesn’t care about us that much.” 

Truthfully, whether he told this to you or not, you knew that this was something that he was never going to repeat to someone else. He was telling you because he wanted to tell you and because he trusted you, but you were well-aware of the fact that this wouldn’t change how he acted around other people. You would never really ask him to change who he was, though. There were aspects of everyone that could be changed, it wasn’t your place to change that for him. 

“Is that the only thing bothering you?” You asked him, not because you were prying, but because it seemed like there was more that he wanted to tell you. There was a part of you that knew he would never, ever be completely out in the open because it just wasn’t who he was. But you hoped, somewhere deep down, that he would try to be more honest and open. 

“I just wanted to tell you that, I don’t want you to leave. I don’t… I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to be withholding.” 

Seemingly, it was difficult for him to get those words out. You understood why, and you were honestly more than surprised that he even said anything to begin with. But again, you knew him and what he had been through. He hadn’t been there for his family, he hadn’t been there for anyone other than himself. He got selfish, and mean, and he wasn’t the person who you were sure that the people who cared about him knew. You weren’t there when any of it happened, because that was his home life and you weren’t really friends at that point, but you knew about it. He told you about it. And you knew the importance of him coming to you now.

“You’re the only person I have, I don’t want to make you leave.” 

“I won’t leave, John.” Your words were soft, and quicker than you intended. But he didn’t seem bothered by it, and for once, he didn’t seem bothered by the feeling of you pulling him into a hug. Even softer this time, as though you were confessing some kind of secret that he didn’t already know, you continued -  “You’re the only person I have, too.” 

The tone of the evening seemed different than the other nights that you’d fallen asleep watching movies with him, because for the first time, he didn’t leave. He didn’t mind the feeling of you asleep on his arm, and you didn’t feel perturbed the next morning when you woke up to find his blond hair obstructing your eyesight and you tried to get up.