"Life is a soup, and I'm a fork"

©heybrownieboy | do not copy, repost, or translate my work

Overnight, his opinion changed. Texting, he decided, was his favorite thing about the modern world. No longer did he have to wait for a response to the love letters he drafted. No longer did he have to hang around the mailbox hoping for an envelope stained with your lipstick. He could simply fire off an adoring text, and your replies were almost instantaneous. 

But it was uncommon for his phone to blow up like this when the two of you were together. When you were apart, it buzzed every few minutes with your responses to his loving messages. But when the two of you were both home, nestled in the apartment you shared, Bucky abandoned his phone. In his eyes, everything and everyone else could wait. 

He often ditched the thing upon returning home, leaving it on the counter or the coffee table. He didn’t squirrel it away into his pocket or keep it on his bedside table. No, he disconnected from it completely. Happily. He only ever wanted to be present with you. To be completely free from distraction when you were around.

But whoever was calling didn’t get the memo. They called once, twice, five times in a row. 

You’d called out to Bucky every time, letting him know that a very persistent individual was eager to get ahold of him. But he didn’t seem to care. He was too busy folding and putting away your laundry in the bedroom. Too content in this perfect picture of domestic bliss.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said as he finally swept through the kitchen, empty laundry basket in hand. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

“It seems like something,” you told him. “What if it’s Sam or Joaquin? What if something’s wrong?”

Bucky thought it over for a moment. His distaste for his phone was strong, but his concern for his friends was infinitely more powerful. And while he didn’t want to be the kind of boyfriend who spent all of his time occupied by his screen, he opted to give the missed calls a glance. Just in case.

A familiar number- a number he hadn’t seen in ages- was splashed across his notifications. It wasn’t saved in his contacts anymore, but he’d recognize it anywhere. Before he had a chance to wonder why it was plaguing him, his phone began vibrating once again. That same number, one he saw as an ancient relic of a past life, illuminated his screen for a sixth time.

He stared at his buzzing phone. He didn’t want to answer. Had no interest in speaking to this person. But just as he tried to place his phone back on the counter, something gnawed at him. Nagged at him. Told him there had to be a good reason for these calls. 

He eyed you for a short moment and answered the call.

“Um… hello?”

There was no way this was Sam or Torres, that much you knew. But who else would call Bucky six times in a row? Who else would bother him on a Saturday? Whose call would he answer while at home with you? Nat was more of a texter, and Yelena had broken her phone in an “incident” only a few days prior. You found yourself at a loss for answers.

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said into the phone, almost irritated. “Did you need something, or-”

He listened for a long time, throwing in the occasional “yeah” or “okay”. Whoever was on the other end, he didn’t seem thrilled to be speaking to them. But he was hearing them out. Giving them a chance. He even reached for a piece of scratch paper and a pen and jotted down a few notes here and there. You and your cookie dough sat in suspense.

“Um, alright. I’m going to…” His eyes found yours, “Let me think it over and I’ll get back to you.”

And just like that, the mysterious call was over. 

Bucky slipped his phone into his pocket. It wasn’t like him.

“Well?” you stared at him, expectant. “Who was that?”

Bucky let out a sigh. His head fell an inch or two. He smoothed the crease between his brows with the pad of his thumb. He stayed this way for a long, quiet moment. Until finally, he, asked:

“Do you remember me telling you about Tara?”

Tara. Tara. 

“Yeah.”

How could you forget?

He’d told you about his ex-girlfriend Tara a few times. She’d been a fellow special agent with SWORD; that’s how they met. The way Bucky described it, their breakup was amicable and quiet, no dramatics. He said it was for the better. That they simply grew apart.

Sam told a different story. 

After nearly three years together, Tara left. She got a job offer on the other side of the world. She didn’t know how long she’d be gone, didn’t know if she’d ever come back. And while Bucky wanted to stay in Brooklyn, wanted to stay in the only real home he’d ever known, he promised her he’d follow. That he’d go with her, if that’s what she wanted.

But she didn’t ask him to tag along.

Instead, she ended things. She boarded a jet and began an entirely new life, a life that didn’t include Bucky. 

And it destroyed him. 

He wanted, more than anything, for her to be happy. Wanted her to pursue the opportunity. But her departure ate through him like acid. It hollowed him out, turning him into a shell of himself. He had loved her so much. So deeply. So endlessly. They talked about the future they’d share. About getting married. He’d considered their relationship a sure thing. A guarantee. 

And then she was gone.

Sam helped him pick up the pieces. But it took time. A long time. Sam said he barely recognized his friend at times; he was more of a husk than a person. 

An intense feeling of unease settled into your stomach. Why had Tara called? Was she finally back in town? Did she want a second chance with Bucky? Would he leave you for her? Were you just his placeholder until she returned?

“Well, she’s back in the city,” Bucky told you.

Your heart dropped. A pang of anxiety struck you like lightning, but you refused to show it. 

“Oh yeah?” you asked casually. Maybe too casually.

“Yeah. And she wants my help.”

It took you off guard. 

“With what?”

Bucky sat down on one of the barstools that lived under the kitchen island. He scratched at his stubble. “Her new organization thinks they found another underground sect of Hydra.”

“Oh.” You stomach twisted. “Shit.”

Bucky nodded. “They want me to come work with them for a while. Help them handle it. Cause I’m,” he let out a small, cynical laugh, “Cause I’m the expert, or whatever.”

A small part of you, the selfish part, was relieved. Tara had called about a work matter, nothing more. There was nothing romantic to it. But a much larger part of you fell stricken with worry. 

Anytime something Hydra related came up in Bucky’s work, it knocked him off kilter. His nightmares returned. His anxiety worsened. It pushed him to the precipice, forcing him to cling to his newfound peace by his fingernails. It killed you to see him that way. Killed you to know that he was hurting. 

But he refused to back down when it came to Hydra. Refused to shy away from the harsh reality that Hydra was still lurking. Still skulking in the shadows. And no matter how it affected him, he was dedicated to toppling every last Hydra holdout. For the good of the world. For himself.

“So, what do you think?” He stared at you expectantly.

You stared right back. 

“Um, what do I think?”

You weren’t quite sure what he was asking. Or why. This decision was entirely up to him. It was his mental health on the line. His trauma being unearthed all over again. But you offered him your opinion regardless. 

“Well, I think it’s… it’s going to be hard on you,” you said. “Every time you deal with Hydra, it has consequences. But I know you want to take them down- rightfully so.” You shrugged, “So you should do whatever feels right to you. If it gets to be too much, you can always take a step back. And I’ll be here for you the whole time. So-”

Bucky’s smile put a stop to your words.

You couldn’t help but laugh a little, “What?”

“I meant, what do you think about me working with Tara?” He asked. “Don’t get me wrong, your answer was great- perfect, actually. And I definitely needed to hear that,” he smiled at you again, totally smitten.  “But I need to know if you’re comfortable with this. And be honest with me, okay? Because if this makes you feel weird, I won’t do it.”

“Oh, um…” you shrugged.

The truth was complicated. And though you would rather Bucky not work with the previous love of his life, what option did you have? How could you possibly ask him not to take this job? He felt a responsibility to eliminate Hydra, to tear them apart the way they did him. And you weren’t going to get in his way. 

In the grand scheme of things, Bucky working with his ex didn’t matter. If partnering up with Tara meant cutting off yet another head of the snake, it was more than justified. 

You swallowed to your immature, childish, petty feelings about the situation, and put on a smile.

“I mean, it’s a work thing. It’s not like she called you up and asked you to marry her,” you forced a laugh. “We’re all mature adults here. If you want to do it, then you should. I know how much it means to you that Hydra is wiped off the map. And I’m not going to stop you just because the two of you used to be-” 

The words ‘in love’ got stuck in your throat.

“Used to be together,” you said. “Plus, I trust you. I’m not worried about you straying.”

You were, in fact, very worried about him straying. About him spending time with Tara. About him remembering just how much he loved her. About dormant feelings suddenly awakening. In a previous life, she was ‘the one’ for him. The love of his life. And you feared that she’d returned to reclaim her title.

But before the dread could set in, he rose from his seat and made the way around the counter. He wrapped his arms around your waist and settled his chin in the crook of your neck. 

You feared he’d notice your thundering pulse. Your unsteady breathing. 

“You definitely don’t have to worry about me straying,” he said, his breath fanning your skin. “Thank you for always being so understanding. I love you.” 

You leaned back against him, eliminating what tiny space remained between your bodies. And for a split second, you felt at ease.

But the voice in the back of your head, the one that you’d wrongfully silenced in the past, told you this was a mistake. That this was the beginning of the end. It told you that you’d seen this film before and that the ending would by agonizing. It screamed at you, warning you that you were, once again, repeating a well-known pattern. 

But you muzzled it, just like you had before.

Because, while the situation did have a haunting air of familiarity to it, Bucky was different. He was loving. He was trustworthy. 

Wasn’t he?

Yes. Of course. 

You chastised yourself for even wondering. For doubting. It wasn’t fair to saddle Bucky with the weight of your failed relationships. To be suspicious of him when he gave you no reason. 

You wriggled until he loosened his grip, allowing you to turn around. 

“And I love you,” you let your lips melt against his. “So, when do you start?”

It wasn’t so bad at first. 

His days started early, much earlier than yours. He slipped out the door and into the dark morning before you woke each day, leaving you in an empty bed. Waking without him next to you, with his side of the bed empty and cold, stung. 

Gone were the early morning chats over coffee. Gone were the shared showers before work. But you didn’t allow yourself too much time to mourn these lost moments with Bucky. They would return one day, you knew they would. Once his work with Tara’s organization was over, things would return to normal. You just had to be patient.

And while your shared morning routine was a temporarily put on hold, your usual evening schedule was alive and well.

The two of you cooked and ate dinner together every night, just as you always did. You shared a glass or two of wine. Did the dishes. And when the kitchen was clean, you’d curl up against Bucky’s side for a little tv time. 

There was one notable difference, however. One noticeable change to your evenings, to your home as a whole. 

Bucky’s phone never left his side. He always had it with him, either tucked into his pocket or cradled safely in his hand. It sat on his nightstand at bedtime, only inches away. It buzzed with emails, texts. And he refused to let them go unanswered, even for a few minutes. 

Surely, he wasn’t doing it because he wanted to. Right? It was all business, all professional. It had to be. He was the expert, the authority on Hydra. He had to be reachable, that was all.

But his newfound habit didn’t pair well with his borderline constant comments about Tara.

“Tara said the funniest thing today.”

“Tara had a great idea.”

“Do you like this coffee? Tara introduced me to it.”

Tara.

Her name pinballed around inside your head, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. It was loud, almost deafening. A deep, animal instinct screamed at you, warning you: something wasn’t right. He talked about her far too often and far too highly for this to be an innocent professional relationship. Surely, there was something amiss. Something going on between them behind closed doors. 

There had, at one time, been so much love there. Was it really possible that that love died out?

The suspicions piled higher and higher as the days passed. Every time Bucky reached for his phone, a knot twisted in your stomach. Surely, Tara was sending him flirtatious texts. She had to be. You found yourself dying to dig through his phone. To investigate each and every message she sent. But you restrained yourself, never daring to break the trust you and Bucky had so carefully built.

After a short while, you found yourself hating Tara. Cursing her. Raging against her inside your own head. The stories you came up with, the horrible pictures you painted- they twisted her into a villain. An evil siren sent to sink her claws into the love of your life and steal him away.

It almost frightened you how easy it was for you to hate her. To hate someone you didn’t know.

And she hadn’t even done anything wrong. 

But you couldn’t help it; you were jealous. Jealous of all the time she spent with Bucky. Jealous of how often he spoke with her. Jealous that, even when he was at home, she was still on his mind. 

And you hated the feeling. Hated the immature thoughts that stirred inside your head. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t overcome the weight of the green-eyed monster on your back.

Two weeks into Bucky’s new gig, you stood at the kitchen counter, waiting for him. He was late. On a normal night, he returned home between six and six-thirty, but the clock neared seven and there was no sign of him. He didn’t answer your calls, didn’t respond to your texts. It wasn’t like him.

You started on dinner without him, though you couldn’t remember the last time you cooked a meal alone. The two of you always worked together, evenly sharing the labor of making dinner. It was part of your routine, one of your shared patterns. And ever since your morning routine was snatched out from under you, you grew to cherish the time spent making dinner with Bucky. 

Suddenly, you felt startlingly alone. 

You woke up alone. Got ready for work alone. Returned home to an empty apartment. And with Bucky otherwise occupied, you made dinner alone, too. 

As eight o’clock rolled around, you once again fiddled with the tin foil covering the meal you’d so carefully prepared. After doing your best to keep it warm on the stove, a distinctive burning smell forced you to pull it from the burner. You supposed lukewarm and covered in foil was better than charred into oblivion.

As you tore another piece of foil from the roll and wrapped it tightly around the dish, your phone buzzed, and Bucky’s picture lit up your screen. All at once, you found your tight muscles relaxing. 

A deep, calming sigh left your chest. Some silent, subconscious part of you had feared that something happened to him. That Hydra silenced him once and for all. That he couldn’t answer your calls because he was lying dead somewhere. It was a reality too horrible to even acknowledge. And so, you’d pushed it to the darkest corner of your mind and opted focused on dinner. But that didn’t stop your hands from shaking. 

The tremors calmed a bit as you answered his call.

“Buck?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he sounded out of breath. Hurried. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer- I’m so sorry I’m late. I got pulled into a last-minute meeting and it ran long.”

“That’s okay, it happens,” you told him. “Dinner’s ready. Will you be home soon?”

“Twenty minutes, I promise,” he told you. “Did you eat already?”

The question almost offended you. “Of course not, baby. I’ve been waiting for you.”

He let out a disappointed sigh, “Doll, you didn’t have to-” 

“I wanted to. I’d much rather eat with you, even if it means waiting a while.”

He was quiet for a moment; you could almost see the sad smile spreading across his face. “You’re too good to me- you’re the best. I’ll be home soon, okay?”

And he was.

The two of you ate your room temperature dinner together and discussed your respective workdays. Bucky, of course, namedropped Tara more times than you could count. And by all accounts, she was incredible. It made you wonder when Bucky would realize that you couldn’t compare. That you couldn’t compete with her. On paper, she was his perfect match. She was his other half. Tara was whip smart and worldly. Hilarious. Gutsy. And absolutely deadly. 

How could you compete against someone like that?

Sleep evaded you each night as you as you compared yourself to his lost love, to the one that got away. Over and over again, you listed your attributes against Tara’s, examining how you might stack up to her. You played out every possible scenario in your head. Not one of them ended with Bucky choosing you. And you couldn’t blame him.

His weekends were soon consumed by work. No longer did he spend his Saturdays and Sundays with you, browsing the farmers market and enjoying brunch. No longer did the two of you have movie marathons or bake fresh cookies. Instead, he spent his weekends at headquarters or locked in your home office. The two of you didn’t go on dates or spend time with friends. No, Bucky spent all of his time with Tara. 

A month later, Bucky studied you over another late dinner. 

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.

He put down his fork and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, your cheeks, searching for a fever. 

“Um, yeah. I think so…” you eyed the hand pressed against your cheek. “Why?”

“Are you sure? You seem tired, baby.” He looked at you closely, examining the most minute details of your face. His gaze dropped to your plate, and he frowned at your virtually untouched meal. “Are you not hungry? Maybe you’re getting sick.”

A small sigh pushed through your lips. 

It wasn’t at all what you needed to hear. Ever since Bucky started working with Tara, you feared he’d fall back under the spell of her otherworldly beauty, of her wit and charm, and leave you in the dust. The thought kept you up, driving you slowly insane each night. And knowing that you looked tried, that Bucky thought you looked sickly, drove another pang of anxiety into your chest. 

“I just haven’t been sleeping well lately,” you told him. “It’s been- work has been really crazy.”

It was such an easy lie. You reached for it two days prior when Bucky asked why you’d bitten all the skin off your bottom lip. And it came in handy three days before that, when he asked why your nails were bitten down to the quick, why your cuticles were raw and bloodied. 

“Oh, that’s right. Of course. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He removed his hand from your cheek and placed it instead on your forearm. “Do you know when things will go back to normal?”

You simply shook your head. 

And that was the last night you ate dinner together.

The following night, you found yourself back in the kitchen, cooking dinner alone once again. You’d never realized just how much you hated cooking until you had to do it by yourself. With Bucky around, you looked forward to making dinner every night. Looked forward to dancing in the kitchen and watching him chop vegetables with his expert knife skills. But without him, it became your most dreaded chore.

You glanced longingly at the clock and found a renewed sense of hope. It was nearly eight, which meant Bucky would be barreling through the front door and wrapping you in his arms in no time. You poured two glasses of wine and placed them on the table, allowing yourself a smile. He would be home soon.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Around nine-forty, your phone buzzed. Bucky’s name appeared in block letters across your screen. And before you could even say hello, he was speaking.

“Baby, hey. I don’t- I’m so sorry. I’m leaving right now, okay? I promise. I’m on my way.”

It took everything in you to keep your disappointment from seeping into your words. This wasn’t his fault- you knew it wasn’t. And it wasn’t fair of you to be upset with him. To make him feel worse. But you missed him. Desperately.

Never before had any of Bucky’s meetings lasted this long or run this late. You knew in your gut there was something going on. Something secretive and sinister. Something that would rip you to shreds.

The manufactured casual tone you adopted didn’t sound convincing to you, but you hoped he’d buy it. “It’s- don’t worry about it, Buck. Okay? It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not, doll. I didn’t- I was gonna be home normal time. But I couldn’t step away from this briefing.” His words came out in a flurry, “I’m so sorry, I should have at least called. This is- it’s not okay. I feel awful.”

“Don’t feel awful, baby. It happens.” You wondered if this ‘briefing’ included everyone from the team. Or if Bucky and Tara had been the only ones in attendance. “Um, dinner is in the fridge, okay? I made-”

“Please tell me you ate without me,” he nearly begged. 

“Oh, um. Yeah. Yes. I did- I ate already.” 

With crossed fingers, you hoped Bucky would believe your lie.

With Bucky MIA, you hadn’t even considered eating. Nothing sounded remotely appetizing. In fact, your stomach had tied itself into a thousand intricate, painful knots. The nausea crept in soon after, and the idea of eating dinner flew entirely out the window. 

But it was easier to lie, to tell him you’d eaten. It would save him a little guilt. And if you could convince him that you’d already had your share, he wouldn’t ask about your lack of appetite. 

But you adopted your best happy-go-lucky tone and pretended that you weren’t losing your mind.

“Sorry, Buck, I wasn’t planning on eating without you, but it got pretty late and-”

“No, no. I’m glad you ate. I’m sure you were starving,” he said. “I’ll be home soon, okay? I can’t wait to see you.”

He rushed through the front door twenty minutes later, apologies falling from his lips one after another. He scooped you into his arms and dotted kisses all over your face between “I’m sorrys”. And you assured him that all was well. But you had to wonder if his affections were genuine. If his apologies applied only to his late arrival, or if he’d committed some other transgression he’d yet to confess. 

But you sat at the table with him anyway as he reheated the dinner you’d made by yourself. You listened to him tell you all about Tara’s brilliant work in the briefing. And you wondered how much longer you’d get to keep him. 

Dinner became non-existent for you, as did most other meals. You did your best to stomach small, infrequent snacks here and there. But the anxiety of Bucky’s possible infidelity made it almost impossible to keep food down. 

You still cooked, though. Regardless of the intense nausea, the biting stomach pains, you still managed to put together decent meals for him. You’d tuck the food neatly into Tupperware and stack it in the fridge, knowing damn well he’d never be home in time to eat it warm.

It was as if, after his first excessively late arrival, a seal had been broken. Never again did he return home at a reasonable time. He came through the door ever-later as the days dragged on. Nine-fifty. Ten-thirteen. Ten-thirty-five. Eleven. You did your best to stay awake, at least. To be there to greet him when he got home. But as his homecomings grew later and later, you found yourself dozing off before he’d even texted to let you know he was on his way home.

Some nights, he didn’t come home at all. You’d wake in the morning to find his side of the bed untouched. His boots missing from the front hall. On those mornings, it became obvious just how disconnected you were. On those mornings, you realized that the two of you were just ships passing in the nights. On those mornings, you wretched in the shower before work. 

Every obvious warning sign was there. Every red flag. Every neon fucking sign pointed to the fact that Bucky was having an affair. And it threatened to eat you alive.

You’d never been so miserable. So heartbroken. Pain radiated through your chest and pulsed through your veins. Every cell in your body throbbed with agony. You wanted someone to put you out of your misery. To wipe you from the face of the earth and save you from Bucky’s confession and eventual departure. But no such mercy came.

Part of you wished you’d spoken up. Wished that you’d told Bucky not to take the job. 

If you’d just voiced your concerns, maybe he never would’ve strayed. Maybe things would still be normal. And god, did you miss normalcy. You missed the patterns. The routines. The “boring” domestic life you once shared with Bucky. You missed talking to him. Spending time with him. Being close with him. The distance between you seemed to grow every single day. And you feared you’d never bridge that gap.

But you didn’t have to.

Bucky returned home one Sunday night in unusually high spirits. He found you in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, and lifted you into his strong arms.

“Baby…” He buried his face in your neck and smiled against your skin. “I’m so excited for next weekend.”

You were so lost in his touch that the words didn’t register for a quite a while. It had been so long since he was this affectionate, this close. Tears threatened to pool in the corner of your eyes as you relished in the sensation of his arms knitted around your back. His breath on your skin. And for a moment, you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that things might be okay.

Suddenly, you realized what he’d said.

“Next weekend?” You pulled away just a hair, allowing yourself a glimpse at his face. “What’s next weekend?”

 “’What’s next weekend?’” He let an exaggerated, over-dramatic gasp fill his lungs, “I can’t believe you forgot! We’re going to the cabin, sweetheart! Next weekend, remember? It’s the weekend of the nineteenth! Keep up, doll.” He shot you a wink.

The cabin?

Sure, the two of you had planned to escape upstate to your aunt’s cozy little cabin. But that was agreed upon months ago. Long before this job. Long before Tara. You’d assumed that with Bucky’s long hours and lack of weekends, that that plan was defunct. But apparently, you were wrong.

“Wait, we’re still going?” you asked, incredulous.

“Of course,” Bucky said. “I told them I can’t work next weekend, no ifs, ands, or buts.” He snaked his hands from your spine to your sides and allowed them to slowly inch up your body. When they finally cupped your face, he pressed his lips to yours in a long, deep kiss full of longing. “I’m long overdue for some interrupted him with my best girl.”

Your heart fluttered. 

“I know I’ve been really busy. And tired. And distracted. And- I’ve been a fucking absentee boyfriend,” he sighed. The self-hatred in his voice was almost palpable. “I didn’t think this job would be so… intense. I’ve barely been home. And I know this whole thing has gotta be tough on you.”

Tears sprang forth once again. You did your best to blink them away, but they persisted, and a few rolled down your cheeks against your will. 

You sighed, “I just miss you.” The words had a fractured quality about them. 

“Oh, sweetheart…” The heartbreak in his voice forced more tears to your surface. He pulled you into his body, wrapping you in the tightest hug he could safely manage. “I miss you too. So much. I promise nexxt weekend is going to be just for us. And when I’m done with this job, we’ll go away together for a long time, okay? No phones,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “No distractions,” he left a second kiss to your nose. “Just you and me,” he leaned down and dropped a third and final kiss against your lips. 

It was a simple promise, nothing extravagant. But it was exactly what you’d been dying to hear. You’d been so convinced that Bucky would end things any day now, so sure that your time with him would soon be over. But hearing him make promises for your shared future helped ease the agony you’d been shouldering. And just like that, the storm clouds in your soul parted, revealing your first taste of sunshine in weeks. 

Bucky was still yours. And he still wanted you to be his. 

In the days leading up to your weekend away, you found yourself floating through life. Everything seemed easier, brighter, warmer. The constant nausea let up and the anxiety quieted. You ate a real meal for the first time in an indeterminable number of weeks. Sure, Bucky was still glued to his phone at home and staying late at the office. But you could see a light at the end of the tunnel. 

After the absolute misery you’d experienced, hope felt so foreign. So other. But you welcomed it with open arms.

All you had to do was survive until Friday. Bucky talked his team into granting him an early departure from the office, allowing the two of you to escape the city by noon. You’d drive upstate with the windows down, blaring some top 40’s hits from decades past. And together, you’d settle in for some much-needed reconnection.

On Thursday night, Bucky returned home around ten. And regardless of his long day, he was more exultant than ever. He practically vibrated with excitement as he shoveled his dinner into his mouth and rushed to the bedroom to finish packing. It was the most energetic you’d seen him in quite some time. 

“Okay, I double and triple checked my bag,” he told you. “I’m ready.” 

“I’ve been packed since Tuesday,” you bragged. “And I got us…” you rifled through your duffle and unearthed a knotted grocery bag. “S’mores supplies.”

Bucky was floored. “You fucking think of everything!”

When the two of you settled in for bed that night, it almost felt like the good old days. Like the days before your doubts and suspicions and private agony. Before Bucky’s obsession with his phone. Before his late nights and his stories about Tara.

You slept like a rock that night, taking comfort in the fact the next day, you’d have Bucky all to yourself for an entire weekend.

He woke early the next morning, as he always did, and did his best not to disturb you. But you were too excited to sleep any longer. As he slowly and carefully rose from the bed, your eyes flew open. 

“Happy cabin day,” you whispered into the dark. 

Bucky’s startled gasp sent you into a fit of laughter. 

“You scared the hell out of- were you just laying there in the dark waiting for me to wake up?” 

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Well… happy cabin day, you creep,” he laughed, still catching his breath. “Leaving at noon sharp?”

“Noon sharp,” you said back. 

He dressed for his half day of work and allowed you to accompany him to the front door. 

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he left a kiss against your forehead, “And we’re out the door right at twelve.”

“Right at twelve,” you nodded. “See you soon, Buck.”

But you didn’t. 

Eleven rolled around without any sign of Bucky. Eleven-thirty and eleven-forty passed. And as the clock closed in on twelve, you wondered why you’d gotten your hopes up. Why you allowed yourself to get invested in this trip. Why you believed that things would actually work out.

But still, you held out hope. You sat perched on the arm of the couch. Waiting. Your duffel and Bucky’s sat at your feet. Waiting.

Your texts went unanswered. Your calls went straight to voicemail. 

‘Maybe he’s just running a bit late,’ you thought. ‘Maybe he’ll be home by twelve-thirty. Or one.’

But he wasn’t.

Nor was he home by two. Or three. 

The familiar nausea crept back in. The anxiety returned.

At four, you tossed your packed duffel into your closet and stripped out of your roadtrip clothes. You donned a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt and sank into the couch under the weight of your disappointment. All the hope, all the optimism you’d felt in this last week evaporated. And in their place settled a pointed shame. 

You couldn’t believe you’d been so stupid, so naïve. You should’ve known better. Should’ve managed your expectations. This was your own fault, really. If you’d been smart enough to read between the lines, you wouldn’t be so heartbroken. 

Around five, your stomach gave a hollow, gurgling growl. You’d been too excited to eat that morning as you rushed around completing last minute tasks before leaving for your weekend away. And after the realization that Bucky had gone back on his word, you were too sullen to even think about food, made nauseous by your anxiety.

But the nausea subsided for a moment, leaving an unbridled hunger in its wake. For a long moment, you considered putting together a simple dinner. There were groceries in the fridge, and you certainly had plenty of time to cook and eat, seeing as Bucky sabotaged your plans. But you didn’t have it in you.

Every night that you cooked dinner alone required a herculean effort. You had to push yourself, had to give yourself a rallying speech. And every night, it worked. Every night, you somehow found it in you to drag yourself to the kitchen and assemble a decent meal- albeit, a meal you wouldn’t eat. But with your hopes for a romantic weekend away dashed, the pep-talk didn’t work. Encouragement didn’t work. Nothing on the planet could force you to make even the simplest dinner. The kitchen seemed too far; you couldn’t fathom walking all the way to the cupboard for a snack.

But your bedroom? That was close by. That was doable. 

With a pitiful groan, you heaved yourself up off the couch and lugged your body into the next room. You fetched your duffle out of the closet and fished your hand around inside until you unearthed the bag of s’mores supplies. With your bounty tucked under your arm, you made the journey back into the living room and settled onto the couch once again.

A few marshmallows and a graham cracker or two would have to suffice; it was all you could manage. 

At six, your phone rang. Without even looking at the screen, you knew it was Bucky. Knew he’d be guilty and repentant and upset. Knew he’d promise to make it up to you. Knew he had a perfectly good reason for blowing off your trip. 

The petty part of you wondered if he’d simply had trouble tearing himself from Tara’s side. 

On the final ring, you answered his call. 

And you were right, he was guilty. And repentant. And upset.

“Baby, I’m- you have no idea how sorry I am. I wanted to call sooner, we were just- I was so busy. We’re working on a new lead and-” he huffed, “It’s not an excuse, I know it’s not an excuse. I made you a promise and I’m so sorry I let you down again.”

A few tears welled in your eyes, your nose burned. 

“It’s fine,” you said. “Happens.”

“I’m on my way home right now, I’ll be there as quickly as I can and as soon as I get there, we’ll leave for the cabin. We can-”

“We’re gonna hit too much traffic,” you told him, your voice flat. “That was one of the reasons we decided to leave at noon. We didn’t want to get stuck, remember?”

“Right. Well…” He went quiet for a moment as he searched for the right thing to say- for anything to say. “T wanted me to extend her apologies.”

‘T’? He was giving her nicknames now?

“She didn’t mean to keep me so long,” he said.

Your pitiful dinner churned in your stomach, fighting desperately to crawl back up your esophagus. 

Tara. Kept him. It seemed to you that Bucky was somehow reading your mind and acting on your greatest fears.

“Hey, have you eaten yet?” He asked, filling the silence, “I can pick up something for dinner, anything you want.”

The marshmallows and graham crackers looked at you with pity.

“That’s okay, I already- I’m not hungry,” you sighed. You didn’t mean to sound so dejected, but you didn’t have the energy to hide it. “I’ll just see you when you get home.”

You hung up and let your phone slide in between the couch cushions. Never before had you felt so much like an island.

Bucky tore through the door twenty minutes later, his face shiny with sweat. You knew he’d desperately rushed home, hoping it would somehow fix the situation or at least mitigate some of your disappointment. It didn’t. 

“Sweetheart…” he flew to the couch and sat by your side, “I am so, so sorry. I- I didn’t mean to be late.”

He eyed you for a moment, waiting for you to speak. But you didn’t. You remained still, leaning back against the couch cushions. There were no tears, no rageful words. You were quiet. Resigned. 

He averted his gaze, too guilty to even look at you.

“I didn’t want to stay,” he swore. “But T needed me. She practically begged me.”

T needed him. Not the team. Tara. 

It should’ve upset you, but it didn’t. You were past the point of being upset.

“Six hours late is…” You shook your head. “How does that even happen?”

Bucky ran a hand down the side of his face, “I don’t know. I’m the authority on this stuff and Tara said it was really important, so I- it doesn’t matter. I told her I needed to leave at noon, and I didn’t. I fucked up, not her.”

You nodded. You didn’t want to fight with him. And even if you did, you were too tired. 

“I hope you know I’m not actively trying to make you miserable. I don’t want to be gone all the time.” He ran a hand through his hair, “I hate this. I hate that we never get to do anything together, and I hate that I can never spend any real time with you, and I hate that you look so…” He fell silent for a long moment as he drank you in. 

His close observance made you want to shrink away. You knew he was taking inventory of your hollow, heartbroken stare. Your tired eyes. These days, you barely recognized yourself in the mirror. The face looking back at you wasn’t yours- it couldn’t be. It was too empty. Too deflated. More like a fragile husk than a person. 

 “I… I don’t remember the last time I saw you really smile,” the realization swept over him as he spoke.  “Or… heard you laugh,” a deep crease formed between his brows. “I miss it. I miss you.”

You nodded, feeling suddenly guilty. The cynical, sour part of your brain had gotten to you, convincing you that Bucky was relishing in your destruction. That he was taking joy in draining you, gutting you. 

But as you watched the tears gather slowly in his eyes, you realized just how wrong you’d been.

 “I didn’t think it would be like this,” he swore. “I knew I’d be busy, but I…” He shook his head, “I didn’t know I’d be leaving  you alone all the time. And breaking promises. And it’s-” With the back of his left hand, he all too aggressively swiped a rogue tear from his cheek; you were certain the sharp bite of the metal stung as it dug into his skin. “Hurting you like this is- it’s my biggest regret. And that includes everything I did for Hydra. I promised you we’d always be on the same team, and I’m…”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket; your chest tightened. Was he really pausing to check a text from Tara? Now?

“I’m calling the Tara,” he said, “I’m quitting.”

You unearthed yourself from the couch cushions, yanked upright by Bucky’s words. “What?”

“I can’t do it anymore. If I keep working on this, I’m gonna lose you,” he said, his voice wavering, desperate. “And I can’t risk that.”

Suddenly, a distinct and pointed feeling of guilt engulfed you. Here Bucky was, prepared to abandon his efforts to topple Hydra- for you. He was willing to allow that hideous, evil organization to rise again- for you. He was ready to default on the promise he made to himself- for you. 

How could you have doubted him? How could you have been so suspicious? He’d done nothing wrong, aside from coming home late. But that wasn’t an indictment of his character or an accurate depiction of who he was as a partner. He was kind. He was trustworthy. He was loving. 

His fingers flew over his screen, dialing Tara’s number; you didn’t love that he had it memorized. But before he could finish, you rested a hand atop his, stopping him.

He stared at you, “What are you-”

“I can’t let you quit.” 

“But-”

“If you don’t see this through, you’ll regret it. It’ll eat away at you for the rest of your life.”

He tried to protest, to prove you wrong, but you silenced him.

“I know you, Buck. I know how you feel about Hydra. And even though I’m… yeah, I’m miserable right now, but it’s fine. It’s short-term. I’ll survive.” You outstretched your free hand and settled it on his forearm. “You need to do this for you. If you quit, you’ll hate yourself. And if, heaven forbid, Hydra makes some big resurgence, you’ll always blame yourself. You’ll always wonder if you could’ve stopped it, here and now.”

He considered your words for a long, quiet moment; you watched a war rage beneath his surface. You knew you were right. Knew that you’d read his mind. Knew that if he sat idly by and allowed Hydra to claw its way back to power, it would kill him. People would get hurt; people would die. And it would be his fault, at least partially. But he couldn’t help the desperate longing in his gaze, the fraught ache as he stared at you. 

You could practically see him being torn in two by the nearly impossible choice.

“You’re…” he gave a small shake of his head, “You’re right. But this whole situation is- it’s eating you alive. You just said that you’re miserable. I can’t-” He looked down at his phone once again, “I can’t let you to be miserable. I can’t do that to you.”

You shrugged, hoping to assuage some of his guilt. “So, it’s not ideal.” The laughed you tacked onto the end didn’t convince him; it didn’t even convince you. 

A long silence filled the room. A deep frown settled Bucky’s into Bucky’s mouth as he hemmed and hawed over his options. You knew he’d choose to stay on. Hoped he’d quit. Feared he’d tell you he was leaving you for Tara.

Finally, he spoke.

“I can’t… I can’t walk away from the job,” he sighed, “It goes against everything in me.”

You gave him a polite nod; his decision wasn’t a surprise.

“But that doesn’t mean that I’m okay with- with the way that things have been going for us,” he said. “I’ve been so preoccupied that I haven’t really been- what does my therapist call it?” He thought it over for a moment. “I haven’t been ‘emotionally present’. I haven’t been physically present much, either.”

You shrugged, “You’ve been under a lot of stress. I understand-”

“Yeah, but you’ve been in this by yourself,” he huffed, angry at himself. “And it’s not fair. I turned this into something one-sided.”

Alarm bells blared in your head at the word “one-sided”. What the hell did he mean by that? Was this him telling you that your feelings were no longer requited? Was he apologizing for hurting you, only so he could tell you he was leaving you?

“I’m gonna tell Tara I have to scale back my hours, or something.”

The alarms quieted a few decibels.

“If there’s anything I can do to make this whole thing easier on you, all you have to do is tell me. I’ll do it. Whatever it is.” He bit down on the inside of his cheek, “Cause I can’t keep doing this to you. I can’t keep apologizing and hoping that it’ll fix all the late nights and broken promises.” He shrugged, “But even though I know it won’t fix anything… I’m sorry. I mean it.”

Another long stretch of quiet occurred as you looked him over. His shoulders were hunched in defeat, devastation. His jaw was tense, his brow furrowed. He held one of your hands in his warm palm, and rested his metallic hand on top, as though cradling something delicate. Something precious. He looked genuinely miserable. Genuinely despondent. And your heart ached for him.

He was a good person. He took this job to protect the world, to protect you. Who were you to crucify him for coming home late a few times? Who were you to be suspicious of his intentions when all he wanted was to mend things with you? It wasn’t fair to accuse him of infidelity. To assume that he was stepping out on you behind your back. Your insecurity, you decided, was not his fault nor his problem. 

And so, you vowed to stop jumping to conclusions. To stop assuming the worst of him. To stop writing fiction about what was going on between Bucky and ‘T’. 

However, you did want to ask him one question. 

“I really appreciate the apology- the apologies,” you corrected yourself. “And I know you’re not doing anything malicious. You’re just trying to do your best.”

He nodded. 

“You’re not in an easy position here. I want a lot from you; your job wants a lot from you. You’re being stretched really thin right now. And I know you’re stressed out about how this is affecting me.”

Bucky nodded again, more emphatically this time. 

“There is- there’s one thing you could do that might make things easier on me,” you told him.

Bucky scooted a bit closer, “anything.”

“And I need you to be one hundred percent honest with me.”

“Cross my heart.”

You hesitated, second-guessing your question. But if you were to stay sane for the remainder of this job, you needed a straight answer. There wasn’t a mature, adult way to ask. Each way you phrased it sounded pettier and more childish than the last. 

And so, you simply dropped the question in his lap. 

“Is there anything going on between you and Tara? Romantically or-” you winced, “Sexually?”

He stared at you, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape. 

Was he simply surprised to hear such a preposterous question? Or was he shocked that you figured out about his torrid affair?

“What?” he finally said. “Between Tara and- no!” He shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. “I would never do that.”

The weight that had been sitting on your chest ever since Tara’s first phone call suddenly felt lighter. It didn’t vanish completely, but it lessened. You’d been aching to hear those words come out of his mouth. And now that they finally had.

“I’m not that kind of guy, sweetheart. I don’t do that sort of thing,” he swore. “Did you think that I was-”

You forced a laugh and shrugged. “No, no. Of course not. I didn’t actually think you’d-” the word got stuck in your throat. You had to force it out, “-cheat on me,” you lied. “But with the long hours and the late nights and all the texts and phone calls you guys share…” 

“It is not like that, I promise,” he said, denying the accusation with his entire being. “Tara is great, and yeah, we spend a lot of time together. But I love you. You are the only person for me.”

He went on. And on. And on. For a solid two minutes, at least. He vowed that he wasn’t sleeping with Tara, swearing on every holy book in existence that he didn’t have feelings for her. He promised that he was in love with you, that he wanted you, that you were the love of his life. Only you.

And it should’ve made you feel better. But as Bucky continued his unrelenting, gushing promises about his love for you, he unknowingly planted more seeds of doubt. He strong denouncements and fierce denial of any romantic or sexual wrongdoing brought one phrase to mind: 

“Thou dost protest too much.”

You knew then, without a doubt, that you were losing your mind. 

But you couldn’t stop the vicious cycle; the ghosts of relationships past refused to allow it. And so, over the course of the next few minutes, you found yourself endlessly oscillating between ‘he’s laying it on thick to hide the fact that he’s cheating and ‘he loves me so much, it’s so awful of me to think he’s hiding something.’ 

You thanked the universe that mind reading was not amongst Bucky’s enhanced abilities. If he’d been able to hear all of your thoughts, if he knew how quickly your pendulum swung from one end of the spectrum to the next, he’d think you were crazy.

“All this to say,” he paused, and locked eyes with you in a moment of deep, genuine connection. “I love you. And only you. I don’t want anyone else.”

And though a sliver of suspicion remained, you accepted his words at face value. 

“I love you too, Buck.”

He pulled you in for slow, long kiss. The two of you melted together, desperately affixing your bodies together in an attempt to make up for lost time. 

“What do you think?” Bucky said when the two of you finally parted, “You still want to go up to the cabin tomorrow?”

You had no reason not to. You gave Bucky the affirmative and a wide smile stretched across his face. The previous night’s excitement returned and together, you made a plan for the following morning. 

But when the following morning came, you woke to an empty bed. Again.

When your alarm went off at seven, you bolted upright. Today was the day that things between you and Bucky were finally going to get back on track. But when you turned to his side of the bed, he was nowhere to be found. His pillow was cold. 

“Buck?” you called, your voice bouncing off the walls of the deserted apartment. “Are you here?”

No answer. 

“Of fucking course.” 

With a deeply disappointed sigh, you flopped back down and decided to sleep until noon. How could he do this to you- again? How could he ditch you? How could he promise to be more present, only to turn around and disappear? A tornado of anger swirled inside your chest, interrupted only by tidal waves of hurt. Of grief. 

But just as the first tear slid its way down your cheek, the front door opened. 

Cautious, quiet footsteps crept through the living room, down the short hallway, and into the bedroom. Bucky’s head slowly peeked around the corner. And once he realized you were awake, he rushed to your bedside with his hands concealed behind his back. 

“Good morning, sweet- hey, are you okay?” Concern eclipsed his smile as he eyed the rogue tears clinging to your lashes. “Are you crying?”

You wiped your eyes with your t-shirt and gave a shake of your head, “No, I’m- I just had a really strange dream. It was a sad one.”

Bucky frowned, “I’m sorry, baby. Do you think that a bacon, egg, cheese, and hashbrown breakfast sandwich on an onion bagel would help?”

Your eyes widened, “You went to The Hot Bagel?”

Bucky nodded. From behind his back, he revealed the brown paper bag printed with your favorite bagel shop’s logo.

“Oh my god, this is- how long was the line?” In one swift motion you stole the bag from Bucky’s grasp and tore into it, revealing a miracle wrapped in tinfoil.

“It wasn’t long at all. There were only two people in front of me,” Bucky said, his smile proud.

“Buck…” you narrowed your eyes at him.

His face dropped. He feared that he’d ordered incorrectly. That he’d taken the wrong bag from the counter. “What?”

“If there were only two people in front of you, what time did you get there?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he gave a small shrug. 

“But it’s one of the busiest shops in the city and-”

“And I know it’s your favorite. So, I went.” He said it so matter of factly, as though it were a no brainer. “I would’ve been back a little earlier, but the onion bagels weren’t quite ready when I got there. I almost got you an everything instead, but…”

Your expression grew incredulous. He let out a belly laugh. 

“But I knew you’d give me that exact look. So, I waited a little longer.”

Together, the two of you inhaled what you deemed the best breakfast sandwich in New York. And once you’d tucked the s’mores supplies back into your bag and gotten ready for the drive, Bucky led you by the hand down to the car. 

The drive was exactly what you’d imagined. Windows down. Clear skies. Invigorating music. Bucky danced with you to today’s hits. Eighties ballads. Forties crooners. He provided backup vocals and took the occasional solo. This was how it was supposed to be. This was what your relationship had always been: warm, safe, comfortable.

There was no room here for doubt or suspicion or distrust. 

As the cabin rolled into view, you made a conscious decision to remove any inkling of wariness from your mind. Bucky was yours. And you were his. And that was that. 

Like a perfect gentleman, he unloaded the car and carried the bags up the porch steps. The cabin sat tucked in amongst a swath of trees that shielded it from the main road. Its interior was decorated with thought, with care, with love. It welcomed you in and instantly, you felt right at home.  Rounding out the space was a small yard, complete with a hammock and fire pit.

It seemed that the weekend might be saved after all, until you glanced into Bucky’s bag.

As he was unpacking his toiletries and getting his clothes sorted, the shiny silver corner of his laptop caught your eye. It was tucked under a pair of sweatpants, but you knew in your bones that it was his computer. Upon further inspection, you discovered a hotspot hiding amongst his clothes, as well. 

So much for the ‘uninterrupted weekend’ he’d sold you.

But instead of assuming the worst, instead of spiraling, you reasoned with yourself. He’d packed his bag prior to your heart to heart. Prior to your admission of being miserable. Prior to his promise to scale back his hours. It was perfectly logical to think that he’d simply forgotten to remove his computer and his hotspot from his bag. That he had no intention of using them this weekend. That he only packed them in case of an emergency.

And maybe- just maybe- he didn’t intend to work during your getaway. 

But work he did, anyway.

Bucky found you lounging in the hammock, protected from the sun by the shadow of a large, old tree. 

“Where have you been?” you asked, looking up from your book. “You said you were right behind me.”

He had said it would only take a few minutes for him to “send one last email” before he could “completely unplug.” But that was forty-five minutes ago.

“I know, I’m sorry. One email turned into a phone call, and that turned into a zoom,” he said, exasperated. “But I’m here now. Does that hammock have room enough for two?”

Some childish and petty part of you wanted to call him on his shit. It wanted to throw the words “uninterrupted weekend” back at him and watch as he ate them.

But he looked so tired. Everything about him screamed ‘rundown’. This was the longest you’d ever seen his stubble. His hair was longer, too- longer than he liked it. There was a defeated air about the slope of his shoulders. And every breath seemed more like a sigh. He didn’t get to go out for long runs in the park anymore; this was probably the most time he’d spent in the sun in weeks. 

The loving, devoted, compassionate part of you won out against your immature instinct, and you allowed him to share your hammock. He climbed in with a warm smile stretched across his face and tucked his body into your side. It was the perfect way to spend an afternoon- save for his near-constant texting. But you figured that a preoccupied Bucky was better than no Bucky at all.

He never even cracked the book he brought along for the trip. He, instead, allowed it to rest at his side while he responded to Tara’s messages. Every once and a while, you caught a glimpse of his screen, and everything appeared to be on the up and up. There were no emojis. No flirtations. No double entendres. Just business. 

And though you wished he’d knock it off and be present with you, you let it to slide. He was just trying to make everyone happy. Trying to stretch himself thinner than thin. And he was clearly miserable, himself; you thought it best not to add insult to injury.

And the weekend was still lovely regardless. It was the most time you’d spent together since he started with Tara’s organization, and you swore you could feel yourself coming back to life. The two of you ate and danced and made s’mores and fell asleep under the stars. And even though it was a truncated version of the trip you’d hoped for, you wouldn’t have traded it for anything. 

Things were looking up. 

Another respite from Bucky’s hellish schedule came a few weeks after your cabin jaunt. Just as the sense of renewal granted by the getaway started to wear off, Bucky came home from work one Friday night with a nearly cartoonish grin on his face. 

He bounded through the front door and threw himself at you, sweeping you into his arms. It was unexpected, almost strange; he never came home with his energy intact like this. But you welcomed it; you missed seeing him this way. 

“I have good news,” he said. “Do you wanna guess what it is?”

“Hmm…” you thought it over for a moment, “Are you-”

He didn’t allow you to properly formulate a guess; he was far too excited. 

“I’ll give you a hint: guess who has the whole weekend off?” he asked, spinning you around as though on a dance floor.

Your jaw dropped. “Really?”

“Really.” 

It was like music to your ears. Like your birthday and New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day rolled into one. You could’ve sworn that confetti fell from the ceiling. That fireworks exploded outside your window. It wasn’t just good news. It was great news. The best news you’d ever received. 

“We’ve hit a wall with this lead we’re working on,” he told you. “There’s some information we need in order to move forward, but not even our access team has been able to get to it. It’s not in any of the systems they’ve looked through.”

You gave him a strange look, “What’s an access team?”

He rolled his eyes and laughed a little, “They’re hackers. But they told me to stop calling them ‘hackers’ cause apparently that sounds ‘cheesy’.”

You shrugged, “‘Hackers’ kinda does make it sound like you’re in a bad spy movie.”

“They hack! It’s the name that makes the most sense!” he laughed. “Anyway, they think it’s probably being stored on a drive somewhere off-network, that way no one can hac- I mean, access it. And our entire strategy hinges on that information. So, there’s not much we can do right now.”

It struck you that maybe you were supposed to be sensitive to this plight. To the frustrations of his job. Maybe deep down, he was disappointed that Hydra’s fall would have to be delayed. But he didn’t seem all that bummed about it. If anything, he seemed unburdened. 

“They called things off for the weekend so everyone can recharge,” he told you. “I think they’re hoping that a free weekend will help people come back with fresh eyes and clear minds.”

“Yeah, it’s almost like allowing your employees to rest helps them be better problem solvers,” you quipped.

“Who could’ve seen that coming?” he laughed. The sound hit you deep in your chest; you realized just how much you missed that laugh. It vibrated against his lips as he pressed them to yours.

The possibilities of how the two of you might spend this rare, free weekend- farmer’s markets, museums, drinking and dancing- evaporated from your mind as he kissed you. And suddenly, they were replaced by hungrier, more salacious options.

But for the time being, you quieted them. This was Bucky’s weekend, his free time.

He never had the time to do what he wanted to do anymore. Ever since he started this job, his time no longer belonged to him. This job owned every day, every minute; he was lucky enough to get a few hours on loan so he could sleep.

“Well, whatever you wanna do this weekend, I’m in,” you told him when you finally parted. “You get to pick since you never have free time anymore.”

He fell silent for a long moment, thinking. 

“Anything you want!” you promised him. “We can go on a bike ride or roam around in that fancy bookstore in SoHo or-”

“If it’s alright, I’d rather not.”

“You’d rather not what, Buck?”

He sighed, “Would you mind if we didn’t do… anything? I don’t want you to be bored all weekend, but I just…” 

He let out a long sigh and looked around the room. As his gaze swept through the space, you watched him take in the subtle changes here and there: a new throw pillow on the couch, a different set of coasters on the coffee table, a new lamp to replace the one he’d accidentally broken. 

This was the apartment you’d hunted for together. The apartment he’d called his “safest place”. His “favorite place”. And yet, he’d barely spent any time within its walls in recent days. He was more like a guest here. A stranger. A foreign transplant.

His eyes filled with the same desperate longing you’d seen before the cabin trip. “I just want to be home, you know? But if you want to go and-”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you told him. “If you want to stay home all weekend, we’ll stay home.”

He eyed you warily, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” you promised. “I’ll never say no to weekend at home with you.”

A satisfied smile spread across his face. 

You weren’t quite sure if he was excited to spend the weekend at home with you, or if he was simply thrilled to lounge on the couch for a few days. Either way, you were happy to have him all to yourself. Happy to keep him out of the clutches of others for a few days. 

“Maybe we could get some snacks and have a movie marathon? There are a ton of classics I’ve never seen,” he said. “Jaws, Jurassic Park, Alien. What do you think?”

You quirked a brow at him, “I think it’s criminal that you’ve never seen Jurassic Park.”

“I know,” he groaned. “That’s why I’m trying to rectify it! What do you think?”

You, of course, agreed to his proposal. The two of you made a list of movies and a list of snacks, and you couldn’t resist the excitement building in your chest. This weekend was going to be the mulligan. The do-over. After your cabin weekend was cut short, after it was tarnished by Bucky’s constant correspondence with Tara, the two of you needed a second chance at an uninterrupted weekend. And the opportunity had finally arrived.

The next day, Bucky settled in next to you on the couch. He draped a blanket over your lap, pulled you securely into his side, and pressed play on Jaws. Jurassic Park followed shortly after, and he raved about it as the two of you made and ate lunch. A slew of movies spanning multiple genres left Bucky in awe. It was a strange experience, watching Alien after West Side Story, but you didn’t care. Bucky was home, and that’s all that mattered.

And much to your surprise, he hadn’t mentioned Tara once. Hadn’t texted her. Hadn’t paused the movie to read one of her emails. And for the first time in a long time, things inside your apartment felt less crowded. 

But a nagging thought needled at you. What if he was simply being more covert about corresponding with Tara now? What if he had gotten better at covering things up?

No. You wouldn’t allow yourself to think that way anymore. 

With a deep breath, you nestled yourself deeper into Bucky’s embrace and vowed to simply enjoy the weekend. You didn’t know when- or if- you’d get another one like this any time soon. And you damn sure weren’t going to waste it by concocting wild speculations.

Once the sun finally set behind the skyscrapers, Bucky pressed play on your last movie of the night: When Harry Met Sally. But just as Harry and Sally bumped into each other in a bookstore, there was a knock at your front door. 

Bucky looked at you. You looked at him. 

“Were you expecting someone?” he asked.

You shook your head.  

“Hmm,” Bucky rose from the couch, “Maybe it’s a neighbor.”

He strode toward the front door and pressed his face against its surface, peering through the peephole. You could’ve sworn you heard a quiet gasp fill his lungs.

“Who is it, Buck?”

He didn’t answer. He removed the chain on the door with a slow intensity. Inched the deadbolt open at a glacial pace. His movements were painstaking, deliberate. Almost sluggish. Whoever it was, Bucky didn’t seem too pleased to see them.

When he finally turned the knob, he pulled the door open only a few inches. A sliver, really. He leaned his head out into the hall and spoke quietly with the mystery visitor. 

It was odd, his behavior. He had no reason to be secretive or cagey when speaking to a neighbor. He had no reason to hide his conversation from you. To shield you from this surprise guest. 

As quietly as you could, you rose from the couch a crept closer to the door, hoping to catch a word or two.

“Yeah, and I thought I told you never to come to my apartment,” Bucky said, his words hurried. 

Something about it made your stomach turn. Why would he feel the need to give someone such a specific stipulation, unless he had something to hide?

And then a woman’s voice filled the air. 

Not any woman’s voice.

Tara’s.

“I know, but I need you, Buck.”

A flash of heat scorched your insides. And before you knew what was happening, you’d wrenched the door all the way open. 

Tara stood before you in a floor length maroon gown dripping with intricate beading. She towered over you, her perfect body elongated by elegant heels. Her auburn hair was twisted and tucked into a fabulous updo. Diamonds dangled from her ears and encircled her slender neck. And deep red lipstick accentuated her perfect pout. 

You thought it possible that she’d stepped out of a magazine or off of a runway. 

And suddenly, you wondered what the fuck Bucky was doing with you. What he saw in you. How he could be with you when she existed.

A violent pain tore through your abdomen, nearly stealing your breath. It seemed that something sharp and jagged was ripping through your insides, shredding your guts into confetti. But you forced yourself to remain composed. To appear unbothered. 

Bucky shifted his gaze to you and then back to Tara. He looked nervous, as though you’d caught him red-handed. 

“Sweetheart, this is Tara,” he gestured to the devastatingly beautiful supermodel standing in the hall. “Tara, this is-”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said in a rush, her attention barely drifting from Bucky’s face. “But we really don’t have time for pleasantries right now, Buck. This is an emergency.”

“I don’t think I can tonight,” Bucky told her. “I have plans, we’re watching-”

“I know how to get the drive, I know where it is.” Tara shrugged, “Okay, I’m pretty sure I know where it is.”

Bucky didn’t answer, he simply quirked a brow at her, allowing her to continue.

“There’s a huge gala tonight at Thomas Weller’s house,” she said.

Bucky perked up.

“Weller’s house…” he said, thinking it over. “He lives in the-”

“The prohibition era mansion with the hidden room that acted as a speakeasy. Yeah,” Tara nodded, her eyes a bit wild. She seemed truly exhilarated by the circumstances. “He’s the only one Hydra would trust to keep the drive secure, and tonight’s the only chance for us to find it,” she said. “He has to be hiding it in that secret room- I feel it.”

 “But we can’t be sure…”

“Barnes, I’m sure.”

Bucky thought on it for a long, quiet moment. “Are you willing to stake Magdalini’s on it?”

Tara’s face lit up as her head fell back in a laugh. A loose auburn curl bounced at the nape of her neck. Her perfectly polished nails brushed against her chest as she caught her breath. You were certain she was the princess from every fairytale you’d read as a child.

“Yes!” she finally said when she composed herself. “I am willing to bet you a doz- TWO dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.”

Bucky took this very seriously. A knowing look eclipsed his face, and he granted Tara an understanding nod. You, on the other hand, were left in the cold. You weren’t sure what had just happened between them, but they knew something you didn’t. They shared something you were not a part of. Whether these cookies were an inside joke or some kind of metric, you weren’t sure. But they were important. 

You waited for an explanation, for one of them to afford you an invite to the joke. But no such offer came. 

“Do you still have your tux from the SWORD anniversary party? The one where we knocked over the ice sculpture?” Tara asked.

A small smile flickered across Bucky’s face. He cut his glance toward you, dropped his smile, and nodded at Tara.

“Then get dressed,” she told him. “The party starts in twenty minutes and it’s basically across town.”

“Okay, yeah, just-” Bucky began to make a sweeping gesture of invitation but cut it short when his eyes met yours. “Um, I’ll be out in a minute,” he told her, before shutting the door and leaving her in the hall.

With the door shut, the two of you shared a long, loaded look. 

“I’m sorry…” he finally said. “I know we were gonna watch movies and-”

“It’s fine, Bu-” you stopped yourself, not wanting to use the same nickname as Tara. “Babe.”

He sighed, “I keep disappointing you.”

You shrugged, “It is what it is. This is part of your job.”

You meant it. You knew he wasn’t doing this on purpose. Knew he wasn’t trying to hurt you. It wasn’t fair to blame him. It wasn’t even fair to blame Tara, though you wanted to. She, too, was just doing her job. Just trying to stop Hydra. And who were you to stop those efforts? 

But you couldn’t help the frustration that ground your teeth together. The disappointment. The irritation. It all pooled together into a sinister, inky cocktail that coated your insides. It seemed that, at every turn, Bucky chose Tara. You knew it was childish to feel that way. Knew it was petty and stupid and immature. But you couldn’t stop it. 

And Tara’s piercing beauty didn’t help. Her perfect cheekbones and flawless skin made you want to double over. Made you question if you were even the same species.

Bucky dressed in his tuxedo quietly, eyeing you every now and again. You sat on the edge of the bed, waiting to assist with his tie, if need be. Another heavy, endless silence wedged itself between the two of you. The kind of silence that precedes disaster. 

“So, what’s the deal with Magda… Madgolee-”

“Magdalini’s?” 

“Yeah.”

 “It’s this bakery out in New Hampshire,” he told you. “Tara and I were in Concord doing recon for this job, and we kind of randomly stumbled upon the place.”

You waited for something more, but nothing came. 

“But what do cookies have to do with you going to this party?” you asked.

“Well, when Tara and I were togeth- when we worked together,” he overcorrected. “If one of us had a feeling about something but no proof, we’d bet the other a dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.” He gave a quiet laugh, “Since it’s all the way in New Hampshire and always sells out before noon, it’s a pain in the ass to get those damn cookies. You have to trek out to Concord early in the morning and wait in a long line and it’s- it’s a whole thing.” He shrugged, “So her telling me that she’d bet two dozen of those cookies on this party tonight means she’s sure. Cause if she’s not, she’s gotta drag her ass all the way out there.”

Bucky smiled as he buttoned his shirt, clearly awash in the memories of that bakery. And the woman he shared it with.  And suddenly, you hated those damn cookies. 

You hated the inside jokes and shared memories Bucky had with Tara. Hated that he was leaving you. Again. To be with her. Again. Hated that you were so goddamn jealous. 

“Just um… let me know if you need help with your tie,” you muttered before fleeing the scene.

You found solace in the quiet, empty living room, and leaned against the back of the couch. Over and over again, you forced yourself to take deep, calming breaths. This wasn’t Bucky’s fault, you told yourself. He had a job to do; and as unfortunate as it was, this was part of it. When the dust cleared, things would go back to normal. Tara would disappear once again and your relationship with Bucky would be returned to its former glory. That was the silver lining, the light at the end of the tunnel. Your heartrate slowed, your frustration evaporated, and you discovered a newfound hope.

Until there was another soft knock at the door.

Just as you turned to face the sound, the door opened just a sliver. 

“Hi,” Tara leaned her head in, an apologetic smile on her beautiful face. “Do you mind if I wait inside? Your neighbors are staring,” she chuckled.

Of course, your neighbors were staring; a runway model was loitering in their hallway.

And though you didn’t want her in the space you shared with Bucky, what choice did you have?

You gestured for her to enter,  “Sure.”

She stood just inside the door, her elegant ensemble completely out of place in your home. She tucked her designer clutch under her arm and gave your apartment a once over. 

“It’s so cozy in here,” she said without a drop of condescension. “I love that painting. Where did you get it?” She gestured to the framed canvas hanging on the opposite wall.

“Oh that’s- I painted it,” you told her, suddenly sheepish.

“You did? Wow. It’s beautiful. You’re really talented.”

“Thanks,” you forced a smile. 

Not only was she smart and beautiful and skilled- she was nice, too?

“You um, you look really nice,” you told her. “I like your dress.”

It was painfully awkward. You were certain Tara could feel the envy radiating from your every pore. But you had to make an effort. Had to make nice. She was Bucky’s coworker; and regardless of the punishing schedule she’d set for him, she hadn’t technically done anything wrong. That you knew of. 

But the way she lit up when Bucky walked out in his tux made you wonder. 

Maybe it was unfair, you thought, to condemn her for her reaction- anyone with sight would react the exact same way. Bucky was always attractive but seeing him all dressed up made your knees weak. The custom-fitted tux hugged him in all the right places and accentuated his physique. It took every ounce of your strength not to pounce on him right then and there. 

“Is this okay?” he asked, looking down at his ensemble. “I had a little trouble with the tie.”

“I can help with-”                         “Oh, here, let me-”

Both you and Tara took a step in his direction, arms outstretched, prepared to assist him. Simultaneously, you snapped your head in the other’s direction and locked eyes. Tara flashed you a smile that you categorized as ‘almost apologetic’ and with a sweeping gesture, conceded. 

The tension in the room settled atop the three of you, forcing everyone’s eyes down.

After a deep breath and a shake of your head, you took your rightful place in front of Bucky. With nimble fingers, you adjusted the fabric of his tie until it was perfect. He shot you a look, silently apologizing for the incident. 

You wanted to brush the whole thing off. To pretend that it didn’t bother you. But it did. 

Sure, Tara was nice. But why would she feel entitled to get so up close and personal with Bucky this way? And why would she feel comfortable doing so in front of you? In your home? She was his ex, his coworker. It made no sense for her to be the one to fix his tie, especially when you were right there. Of course, it was just a bow tie; Tara hadn’t volunteered to French kiss him or anything of the sort. But the way she jumped at the chance to enter his personal bubble rubbed you the wrong way.

Maybe, you feared, Bucky allowed her to get close to him at work. Maybe the two of them spent time cozied up in her office when they were supposed to be attending meetings. Maybe she’d gotten so used to being intimate with him that this kind of task had become second nature to her. And maybe she’d been so overwhelmed by the sight of her lover in his tuxedo that she’d forgotten she had an audience. 

Maybe he wasn’t staying at work all night, laboring over this job until the early morning hours. Maybe he was sleeping at her apartment, in her bed.

The possibility trapped your lungs in a vice, cutting off your air supply. Bile rose in the back of your throat; it took everything in you to force it down. By some miracle, you remained composed, and adjusted Bucky’s tie.

“There,” you said , “All done.”

Just as Bucky tried to express his gratitude, he stumbled to the side. Tara had yanked him by the hand and began hauling him toward the door. Bucky stumbled behind her for a few paces before locking eyes with you. He slipped his hand from her grasp and doubled back to place a kiss on your cheek. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “I-”

“I won’t have him home too late!” Tara called from the door with a laugh. “Thanks for sharing him with me!” 

Before you had the chance to blink, Bucky and Tara disappeared out the door and down the hall.

‘Sharing’ him? Another vicious bout of pain ripped through you. And without an audience, you were free so succumb. You doubled over, allowing the agony to take hold of you. The sharp, searing pain sliced its way from your gut to your throat, flaying you wide open. Only when it quieted to an angry throb were you able to stand upright and hobble to the couch.

After an hour or so, you forced yourself to stop thinking about them. About Bucky and Tara together. About the things that might be transpiring on the other side of town. It wasn’t healthy, wasn’t productive. The pain in your abdomen had finally dulled and you knew that if you continued to ruminate, it would return with a vengeance. 

And so, you wiped your tears and dragged your body off the couch. You took a long shower, did your skincare, and slipped into your most comfortable pajamas. All you had to do was delude yourself into believing that Bucky was out with Sam or working with Yelena. It was the perfect fix, albeit temporary.

After your shower you climbed into bed and dove into your favorite silly sitcom. The canned laughter and over the top storylines helped distract you, helped lift your shattered spirits. With one tap of your remote you skipped half a season- expertly avoiding a storyline about the main character cheating on his girlfriend- and resumed your rewatch in a happier spot.

Still, you picked and bit at what was left of your nails. Eyed the clock every few minutes. Checked your phone more than you would’ve liked. You couldn’t help it.

Just before eleven o’clock, you heard the front door open. 

“Buck?” you called, hoping it was only him.

“Yeah…” he said. He sounded different. “It’s me.”

His keys clinked against the wall as he hung them on the hook by the door, and you knew he’d be in the bedroom soon. Knew he’d have his tail between his legs. Knew you were in for a long night of discussions and apologies. You turned off the tv and waited, expecting his slumped shoulders to lean against the doorframe any second.

But he never appeared. 

Something- instinct, intuition- nudged you out of bed.

Something was wrong. 

You cautiously made your way out of the bedroom and into the living room as the pit in your stomach doubled- tripled- in size. 

You found Bucky still standing by the front door, motionless. His eyes were downcast; his hands were shoved into his pockets. The bowtie you’d so meticulously fixed for him was draped loosely around his neck. The first few buttons of his shirt were open.

“Hey…” you called. 

He barely looked up, and only for a split second. “Hi.”

The distance between you seemed much vaster than it was. He seemed to be miles away, adrift somewhere far and unfamiliar. No one moved, no one spoke. The tension in the air grew heavier by the second, nearly crushing you.

And after a while, you couldn’t take the strained silence.

“Um, how’d it go?” you asked. “Is everything okay?” 

Finally, Bucky dragged his gaze from the floor. The misery in his eyes sent a pang of anxiety ripping through your chest.

“Something h-” he gave a small shake of his head, cleared his throat. “Something happened. Between me and Tara.”

His words knocked you off balance. Your nails dug into the couch as you fought to remain upright. The unforgiving pain in your abdomen exploded once again. And a tidal wave of nausea swallowed you whole.

“It was part of our cover, it wasn’t- there wasn’t anything romantic about it,” he swore. The words tumbled out of his mouth in a panicked rush. “We weren’t supposed to be in Weller’s office- a security guard was coming and if they knew we’d taken the drive, Weller would’ve had us killed. So, Tara k-” he choked on the word. “She kissed me. She made it look like we were a couple who’d gotten, I don’t know, carried away or something. Like we were just looking for a private room to…” He didn’t finish his sentence.

Suddenly, his eyes grew wide. 

“But we didn’t- we didn’t do that!” he said, almost frantic. “It was just the kissing, nothing else. I swear.”

Finaly, he unrooted his feet and made his way toward you; he stopped just a foot from where you stood.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so- I didn’t know that was gonna happen,” he said. “I had no idea. She just did it without telling me. I didn’t want to- I didn’t want her to do that.”

His words settled into your body, creating fractures and fissures as they went. 

A storm of sympathy rained down on you as you stared at him. He was in utter agony, that was no secret. His hands shook, his face was flushed, his eyes brimmed with tears. He hadn’t wanted that kiss. Hadn’t known about it or expected it. And he was suffering. The love of your life was suffering. 

But the ghost of relationships past returned, screaming at you over and over. Gloating.

“I told you so!”

“I told you so!”

“I told you so!”

This was exactly what you’d feared. What you’d dreaded. And regardless of the circumstances, your old wounds were ripped open once again. The flashbacks hit you like a truck; the familiar words tore you to pieces. There was no surviving this; no making it out alive. It seemed that you would bleed out, that you’d be lifeless and cold in a matter of moments. 

But the first tear dripped down Bucky’s face, and brought you back to reality.

It took all your might, all your strength, but you forced your impending collapse and demise to wait. Everything would have to wait. 

“I’m s- I’m sorry that happened to you,” you said.

His brow furrowed, “What?”

You breathed through the throbbing, unrelenting ache in your chest, and repeated yourself. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Buck,” you said, matter-of-factly. “She shouldn’t have ki- she shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t want it. Didn’t consent to it. It’s not okay.”

He stared at you, wide eyed. Another tear spilled onto his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice; he was far too shocked.

“Sweetheart, I don’t care about that- I’m fine,” he shrugged. “I’m worried about you. About hurting you.” He dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek, “About what this might- what it might do to us.”

The words came out quieter, weaker than you’d hoped. “Wasn’t your fault.” 

“Baby-”

“I’m sorry, can you-” you cleared your throat, “Can you just give me one second?” You gave him a strained smile and turned slowly back to the bedroom. Bucky faltered awkwardly in the living room as you fled.

You turned too sharply around the corner into your bedroom, knocking the point of your shoulder into the wall. But you barely noticed; it didn’t hurt. It should’ve; you’d run into this corner enough times to know that it should kill. But it didn’t. You barely even noticed it. Some tiny portion of your brain registered the hit and catalogued it for the future, for when you’d discover the bruise and wonder about its origin.

On unsteady feet, you flew into the en suite bathroom and shut the door behind you. You didn’t mean to slam it, but the panic creeping into your bones stole your sense of decorum. It turned you into a jittery, unstable version of yourself. The sound of the door banging into its frame made you jump. 

With the lock twisted into place, you leaned against the nearest wall and promptly fell apart.

The was the breakdown of the century, the monster you’d been fighting off with sword and shield. But fighting was useless. It came at you like a natural disaster. Unstoppable. Uncontrollable. Life-threatening. It was your own personal category 5 hurricane. Your uncontained wildfire. Your San Andreas fault.

The tears soaked your shirt in mere moments. Your breathing was ragged, labored. A burning sensation clawed at your throat, your chest, as your lungs begged for oxygen. The weakness in your knees forced you to slide down the wall, searching for the stability of the floor. 

But even as you fell to pieces, you forced yourself to stay quiet. To do your damnedest to keep Bucky from hearing. Because no matter what happened at that party, he was still the great love of your life. And you didn’t want to upset him. 

But it was too late. 

“Baby…” Bucky called from the bedroom, his voice jagged with worry. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Please, can we talk?”

The handle of the bathroom door jiggled as he tried it, but found it locked. He sighed. 

His metal knuckles knocked gently against the wood, “Sweetheart, please… open the door.”

You didn’t answer.

“Baby, I’m-” he choked on the panic. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing- there’s nothing going on with me and T-” he didn’t say her name. “I swear to god, I swear on my life. I swear on Steve’s. It’s not like that.”

The logical part of your brain knew he was telling the truth. Nothing about James Buchanan Barnes said ‘cheater’. He was a loyal, decent person who would rather die than hurt you. Never over the course of your relationship had you ever caught him so much as looking at another woman. 

But the tortured, traumatized part of your brain was too busy falling down a rabbit hole of flashbacks to listen to reason. All at once, it grew to be too much.

Once again, bile crawled its way up the back of your throat. And though you tried to resist, you didn’t have any fight left in you. Your mouth flooded with saliva, and you threw yourself to the floor in front of the toilet. Pain rocketed through your knees as your crashed against the cold tile.

And finally, after months of staving off the nausea, you let it win. You allowed yourself to be sick. To be weak.

All of the fear and worry and pain exited your body in an almost violent fashion. It had been building up for so long, slowly taking over every cell. And now, it had forced you to the ground. Forced you to your knees. Forced you to lean over the toilet and retch, over and over again.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky called, distressed. There was a heightened sense of alarm in his voice. A pleading desperation. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

Answering wasn’t an option, as you were otherwise occupied. 

“I’m gonna get you some water, okay? But I’ll be right back.”

‘See?’ you thought, ‘He does care.’

The thought only brought on another wave of sickness.

The force with which your body lurched forward would most likely leave you sore the next day, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything other than bringing air into your lungs. 

Bucky’s voice entered your consciousness every minute or so as he checked on you; he sounded like he might be sick himself. But you weren’t able to ask.

Finally, it was over. The contents of your stomach were long gone, and you’d expelled only bile for the past few minutes. But after a spell of dry heaving, the forceful retching came to an end. You allowed yourself to slump against the nearest wall with relief. A sharp burn ripped through your throat and nose. Your hands shook. Tears clung to your cheeks and lashes. But it was over.

Your head fell into your hands, and you forced yourself to take a few deep, even breaths, though they did little to calm you. Images of Bucky and Tara still pummeled you from every angle. You wondered if you’d find her red lipstick smudged up and down his neck. 

In all honesty, you didn’t mean to say it out loud. You didn’t mean for Bucky to hear you. But you’d lost control of yourself long ago, and the words slipped out before you had the chance to stop them. 

“I can’t do this again.” 

The fire scorching down your throat banished the haunting visions of Bucky and his lost love and dragged you back to reality.

No part of you wanted to face him after the dramatic show you’d put on. After he’d kissed another woman. After everything that could’ve gone wrong did. The anticipation conjured a dark, swirling pit to open in your stomach. Would he end things tonight, after witnessing your instability? Or would he wait till the morning? Would he immediately fly into Tara’s arms? Or would he wait a few days out of respect? 

The nausea returned, but you didn’t have anything left to expel. You dragged a few greedy breaths into your lungs and forced yourself to face the facts: the longer you waited- the longer you hid- the worse it would be. And so, you pulled yourself up off the floor and rinsed your mouth in the bathroom sink.

Bucky hovered closely to the bathroom door. He was so close, in fact, that he left you almost no room to exit. 

“Are you doing alright, sweetheart?” His eyes were red; his cheeks were stained with tear tracks. “I brought you a glass of water if you’re interested.” 

He reached for you tentatively, his hand shaking ever so slightly. 

There was a time when you never would’ve avoided his touch. Never would’ve imagined pulling away from his hand. But you did. Maybe you didn’t mean to, maybe it was a reflex. But you did it. You yanked your body out of his path and tucked your arms into your chest, as though protecting yourself from some great danger. 

More than anything, you wanted to flee the room, the apartment- maybe the state. But you knew there was no point in running. Instead, you took a few long strides across the room, putting some distance between you and Bucky. It felt safer here. More comfortable.

The look on Bucky’s face nearly made you sick again.  

“Sorry,” you said, flames scorching down your throat. “I-”

“No, hey- it’s okay, I get it.” He forced the saddest smile you’d ever seen. “Um, I’ll just- I’ll put this on your nightstand.” He set the glass of water down behind him and turned back to you with anguish carved into his face. 

“Baby…” he sighed. “I’m so-”

“You don’t have to apologize again,” you told him . “It’s-” 

A wave of dizziness crested over you, sending the world around you into chaos. Black, shiny spots shimmered on the edges of your vision. Desperately, you grabbed onto the corner of the nearby armchair in an attempt to steady yourself. Your nails dug into the upholstery as you breathed through your tremulous grip on the world.

Bucky took a small, cautious step in your direction. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m-” You listed to the side once again. “I’m gonna pass out.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, “What?”

And then you were falling. Falling forward. Black clouds obscured your vision, your ears started ringing. A gust of air fanned your face as you quickly folded toward the floor. A pair of strong arms locked around you suddenly. One encircled your waist; the other, your chest. And then you were out.

Everything was still black and cloudy; the sounds came back first.

The words were fuzzy at first, lacking any real, definable structure. But you could tell it was Bucky saying them. Could tell by his tone, his gentle voice, that he was reassuring you. The garbled, shapeless words grew slowly clearer until you finally made them out. 

“I got you,” he said. “You’re okay, baby. I got you.”

A cool sensation glided across your cheek; it sent goosebumps crawling over your skin. It felt so familiar. Why did it feel so familiar? The cold, metal drifted across your skin again, and you recognized Bucky’s vibranium hand. 

“You’re alright, I’m here,” he told you. “I’m right here.”

Finally, you rediscovered the ability to open your eyes. It was harder than you remembered, more taxing. But you did it. And Bucky’s face was the first thing you saw- his beautiful, anxious face. He sat next to you on the bed, leaning over you with unparalleled worry. 

“Hey,” his brow creased with concern. “How are you feeling?”

It took a moment for you to formulate the words, but eventually, you managed an “I’m fine.”

And technically speaking, you were. You weren’t dizzy or nauseous anymore. You hadn’t been injured when you blacked out- Bucky didn’t allow that to happen. So, physically speaking, ‘fine’ was accurate. 

But the embarrassment burned your face; you were certain that your skin must be scorching to the touch. It was all just so dramatic. So over the top. The sobbing, the vomiting, the fainting… It was like something out of a soap opera. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. His voice was still thin, still brittle with concern. 

You gave a cautious nod, “Yeah. I swear.”

He relaxed the tiniest amount. But if you knew anything about him, you knew he’d remain hypervigilant for the rest of the night, just in case. Hell, he’d probably remain hypervigilant for at least a week, ready to save you if need be.

“Thanks for catching me, Buck.” 

“Yeah- of course,” a small smile crept across his face. “Always, baby.” 

He ghosted his thumb over your cheek again, “Is this- has this ever happened before?”  he asked, “Or is it something new?” 

He worried more than anyone you’d ever known. And always about you. You kicked yourself for thinking he would ever stray. For thinking that he didn’t care.

“It hasn’t happened in a long time, but I used to pass out a lot when I was younger. Whenever I was really-” You cut your sentence off at the knees. 

He eyed you, “Whenever you were really what?”

There was no sense in saying it. Bucky already felt guilty enough, adding to his shame wasn’t going to help. 

“When you were what?” he asked again, more insistent this time. Anxiety practically dripped from his words. 

You sighed. “Whenever I was really upset. Or extremely stressed.”

Bucky matched your sigh with one of his own. His was heavier, weighed down by his responsibility for your episode. He gently stroked your face once more, but pulled away before his thumb could sweep the entire length of your cheek bone. He tucked his hands safety at his sides.

“Sorry,” he said. It was almost imperceptible.

“No, I’m-” you began to try and sit upright.

“Okay, hey, let’s just take it slow, alright? I don’t think you should get up yet.”

But you were determined to sit up. If you continued to lie there, Bucky would continue to dote on you. To wring his hands. And it would only increase the evening’s embarrassing dramatics. 

Much to Bucky’s dismay, you didn’t listen to his cautionary words. You pushed yourself up to a seated position without difficulty and rested your back against the headboard. 

In a flash, Bucky was on his feet. He stood right against the bed, his hands anxiously hovering over you, poised to save you at a moment’s notice. If you began listing toward the edge of the bed, he’d catch you. Again.

But no such incident occurred. You were perfectly steady, perfectly safe. You accepted the glass of water he offered you for the second time and drained it in a matter of seconds. 

“Do you want some more?” he asked, already heading for the kitchen, “I’ll go get-”

“No, no, I’m okay,” you said. “I want you to stay here- I wanna talk to you.”

Bucky halted in the doorway, frozen. Dread bloomed in his eyes. He lost his grip on the glass in his hand and barely reacted quickly enough to stop it from shattering. 

“Oh. Okay. Yeah…” he said; his words has a wounded quality about them. 

He took a few slow steps toward the bed but stayed at a cautious distance. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightened. He sucked in a sharp breath and coiled his metal hand into a tight fist. He seemed to be waiting for something, expecting something. 

But after waiting only a few short moments, he spoke again.

“You don’t- you don’t actually have to say it, if that’s okay. I don’t think I could handle hearing the words,” a broken smile flashed across his face for a split second. “But I understand. I won’t beg you reconsider- I get it. And I’m sorry, for what it’s worth- if it’s worth anything.”

“What?”

He placed the empty glass on your nightstand and headed for the closet. 

“I’m just gonna grab a few things. Some clothes and stuff. And then I’ll-” he sighed, “And then I’ll get out of your hair.”

You shook your head, “What are you talking about, Buck? I just said I wanted us to talk-”

“I know, sweetheart.” Something in his words sounded like begging. Like pleading for mercy. “And I know I need to let you say your piece, but I don’t know if I can h-handle it. At least not right now. And I know that’s selfish of me. And I’m sorry. But I’m-”

He was practically falling apart at the seams. Parts of him seemed to be peeling away, stripping him down to his most raw, vulnerable self. His hands shook. His voice wavered. His breathing came in shallow, erratic bursts. His body was determined to self-destruct before you could deliver the final, deadly blow. 

You jumped out of bed on unsteady feet, your arms outstretched toward him. If you could reach his side and anchor him to the earth quickly enough, maybe you could stave off the panic attack that loomed on his horizon. 

He, of course, protested. He tried to say something, something cautioning you against getting up in such a hurry. Against running across the room. But his voice barely carried any weight. 

“Hey, it’s okay. We’re okay.” Your hands cradled his face, “Breathe, baby. I don’t want you to leave. I want you here.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands found your waist. And he dragged deep, even breaths into his lungs. He was so focused, so concentrated on staying above water that you weren’t sure he heard your whispered reassurances. But you voiced them anyway. Just in case he could hear you. In case your words helped him somehow.

 It was a long time before he came back to you. But you waited patiently for him. As you always did. 

When he finally opened his eyes, he looked you over slowly, drinking you in as though seeing you for the first time. The panic had dissipated from his expression, leaving tentative relief in its wake. It seemed that he was just grateful you were still there. Grateful that you hadn’t cut your losses and left him in the dust.  

Finally, he spoke. It was a genuine question. No levity. No humor. 

“You still love me?”

It crushed you.

“Of course- of course, I do, Buck.” Your hands slipped from his cheeks, down his chest, and wound around his back. He pulled you tighter, crushing you against his body. 

“Even after-”

“Yes,” you said against his chest. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. About tonight- about all of it.” He smoothed his hand up and down your back in an endless loop. “I know this hasn’t been easy on you. I know I hurt you. And it’s just so- I’m done working with her. I promise.”

This conversation felt a bit too familiar. Hadn’t this happened before? Hadn’t he already offered to quit? And hadn’t you stopped him? It seemed that you were trapped in a timeloop of sorts, forced to endlessly relive this version of reality. You were about to, once again, stop him from quitting, but he spoke before you had the chance. 

“I know what you’re gonna say, but I can’t do this anymore. I can feel-” he cleared his throat, forcing the emotion down. “I can feel you slipping away. And I can’t keep putting what we have at risk-”

“Buck,” you sighed, “I trust you. Tonight wasn’t your fault. And if you need to keep working with-”

“No.”

And that was it on the subject. He wasn’t open to any arguments or rebuttals. 

“I’m not losing you over this,” he insisted. “I know you want to be supportive, but nothing is worth losing you.”

It was quiet- inaudible, really.  But you mustered up a “thank you” that only someone with enhanced senses could’ve heard.

The relief brought tears to your eyes. Never before had anyone actually chosen you like this. Never before had anyone dropped everything for you because they wanted to. It was a new feeling for you, and you wondered how you’d survived this long without it.

But the relief only lasted so long. 

“What about Hydra? If they’re getting stronger, if they’re coming back, shouldn’t you-”

Bucky shook his head, “The team can take care of it without me. I’ve given them everything I can; they know everything I know. And they have the drive now.” He shrugged, “They don’t need me anymore.”

The two of you remained locked in a tight embrace. A comfortable silence settled around your bodies. And for the first time in months, the suspicious voice in your head was quiet. There were no doubts, no fears. Only comfort. Finally, comfort.

“I’m sorry I reacted like that.” You unearthed your face from Bucky’s chest and did your best to look up at him. “The crying and the vomiting and the passing out, it’s…” you rolled your eyes and let out a huff, “it was a lot.”

He tightened his grip around you. 

“No, don’t be sorry. I’ve been- I’ve kind of been torturing you for months. I put you in such a… I put you in a terrible position- the worst position. And I wasn’t even there for you. I kept hurting you and leaving you and- and then tonight with the…” he shook his head. “I can’t imagine what that felt like for you.”

“But I-” You struggled against his inhuman strength until he begrudgingly loosened his grip and allowed you enough room to really look at him- though he refused to let go completely. “I made this all about me,” you said, disgusted. “She-” you had to force yourself to say the words; they tasted like vinegar. “She kissed you against your will. I know what that’s like, it’s not fun. And I made it about me- it was selfish.”

“Sweetheart-”

“What happened tonight wasn’t your fault.” Your words were steadfast. Unflinching. “I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve been supportive. I should’ve-”

He took your face in his hands, “It’s all okay, sweetheart. I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry.” The words came out so defeated, so bathed in shame. “And I’m sorry I ever thought- I’m sorry I ever even considered that you might cheat. I know you’re not the type- of course, you’re not the type.”

“It’s okay. The late nights and the phone calls and all the-”

“It’s not just that,” you sighed, “I mean, that stuff was definitely part of it. But this whole thing just felt so…” 

For a split second, you allowed your eyes to close. The memories of betrayal and infidelity clawed at you, hissing and snarling as they tore open a pit in your stomach. You gave a slight shake of your head and opened your eyes, willing the past to dissipate. 

“It felt so familiar- too familiar. Like I’ve been here before.”

Bucky’s eyes widened a bit as he put the pieces together. He didn’t know much about your past relationships, just as you intended. He knew only that your exes hadn’t treated you all that well. You never went into great detail about how or why things ended, and Bucky didn’t pry. But a knowing look bloomed across his face as he allowed your words to settle over him. 

“You’ve been cheated on,” he said. 

You nodded, “Three times.”

A sharp gasp filled Bucky’s lungs; disgust twisted his features into a horrified mask. “Three times?”

Again, you nodded. 

“In a row. We were- I was really serious about each of them. We lived together. Talked about building a future together. And then… yeah.”

Bucky was too shocked to move, to blink. 

And suddenly, his disturbed stare was too much. His hands were too big and warm against your skin. His grasp was too tight. You freed yourself from his embrace and put some distance between his body and yours. The air around him was just so heavy, so hot. A similar heat scorched your cheeks as the embarrassment of your admission caught up to you; you dragged deep breaths of cool, crisp air into your lungs. 

Bucky stayed right where you left him; you weren’t sure if it was out of respect or utter shock.

“Is that…” He paused, probably wondering if he should even ask. You nodded, assuring him that it was okay. “That’s why I heard you say, ‘I can’t do this again’?”

A fresh wave of heat struck your cheeks, and you gave a reluctant nod. 

“Yeah.” You rolled your eyes, “I didn’t mean to be so dramatic about it.”

“You weren’t-”

“My instincts have just been screaming at me for months, you know? And I’ve been trying really hard not to listen to them and then tonight happened and- and it was like a chorus of thousands of people screaming ‘I told you so!’” You gave a shake of your head, “It was like all the old wounds were ripped open and I was bleeding out again and it was no one’s fault but mine for not learning from my past mistakes.”

Bucky nodded.

“But it’s- I mean, obviously, this situation is different, cause you didn’t actually do anything wrong. It was just, I don’t know, muscle memory.”

“Makes sense. You’ve been through a lot. Three times is…” He stared at you with heartbreak in his eyes. “Being cheated on isn’t your fault, sweetheart. You said ‘past mistakes’ like you’re to blame, but you’re not. You know that, right?”

Your shrug was cold, detached.

Bucky took a step toward you, “Baby, it’s-”

“I didn’t even tell you the best part,” you said. A cynical smile spread across your face, “Those guys all cheated on me with an ex.” 

Bucky’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Yeah,” you leaned against the nearest wall, crossing your arms over your chest. Suddenly, you felt too exposed. “I know how it sounds, but it’s true. It was- it’s why I was losing my mind the whole time you and Tara were working together. I’m not this possessive, jealous person. I just- I thought the pattern was starting again.”

Bucky made a beeline toward you. He cautiously extended a hand in your direction and rested it against your cheek with a feather-light touch. There was something in his eyes, something sad and compassionate and concerned. The most genuine, heartfelt pity. 

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms gently around you, “I’m so sorry. No one should have to go through that. And I never would’ve taken this job- I never would’ve worked with her. I had no idea.”

“It’s not your fault. I didn’t want you to know.”

Bucky released you from his arms and took a step back, meeting your eyeline. “Why not?”

For a few seconds, you allowed your head to dip. Your eyes closed. Your jaw tensed. Speaking to Bucky openly and honestly wasn’t hard. He was the last person to judge or mock; he always listened with and open mind and open heart. But some things were hard to admit, even to him. He deserved the truth, though. Didn’t he? He deserved to know why you felt this way. Why you’d grown nervous at the first mention of Tara all those months ago.

“Because it’s embarrassing. Because I feel like…” you raised your head but deftly avoided eye contact. “I feel like I have this weird, very specific curse, or something. Like there’s something about me that pushes people back into the arms of their ex. Like something about being with me is so…” disgust colored your voice, “so awful that- that it kind of gives people a wakeup call, or something. And it helps them realize that the person they left behind is way, way better than anything I could ever offer them.”

He gave you the saddest smile you’d ever seen, “Sweetheart, that’s not true-”

 “Maybe if it had only happened once. Or even twice. But what’s that thing they say, ‘once is random, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern’?” The half-hearted shrug you threw his way was almost too pathetic. “When this kind of things happens to you three times- in a row- it makes you wonder if you’re the problem.”

A heavy silence filled the room. Bucky was still, his eyes trained on you. You fidgeted under his gaze, picking at the last remnants of one of your nails. The voice inside your head wailed. It wondered why Bucky wasn’t refuting your argument. Why he was completely silent. It feared that he agreed with you. That he’d taken your words to heart and finally seen the light, finally realized that there really was something wrong with you. That Tara was the better choice. That he was to be number four.

The urge to slap yourself across the face surged through you. There you were, doubting him once again. Projecting your problems onto him. Suspecting him of things he had never done- would never do. It took all of your strength, but you wrangled those skeptical, distrusting thoughts and shoved them into a dark corner of your mind. 

“But um, I know that this is my issue, not yours,” you said. “It’s something I need to work on. Cause it’s not fair of me to- I shouldn’t have put all of my shit on you. I know you’d never-”

“I would never,” Bucky insisted. He closed the space between you and cradled your face gently in his big hands. “I would never do that to you. You’re the only person I will ever want.”

You gave a slight nod. There was something shameful in your words. “I know- I know that. But the logical part of my brain was, I don’t know, hijacked. Or something. All I could think about was…” you sighed, “All I could think about was when you how going to tell me. I wondered if you’d sit me down and say it to my face- or if you’d tell me at all. I thought maybe I’d come home from work one day and all your stuff would be gone.”

His hands left your face. But before you could mourn their absence, his arms were wrapped securely, protectively around your waist. It seemed as though he was trying to save you from the pain of your past, to shield you from the ghosts. It was the same protection you offered him when the nightmares came calling, when the weight of his Hydra days grew too heavy to carry alone.

He let out a contented sigh as your arms wound around his neck and pulled you closer until you were certain that your body and his would meld into one. His heart beat against your chest, his breath ghosted across your skin. And for a long moment, you forgot the fear and agony that had plagued you these last few months. For a long moment, it was perfect.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, “Ever.”

“I know,” your arms tightened around his neck. “I’m sorry for being so suspicious. And so upset. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I-”

Just then, he pulled away, just enough that his eyes could meet yours.

“I know you trust me. But you had plenty reason to be upset. And suspicious.” He brushed a kiss against your forehead, “You’ve been through a lot. It’s not your fault- your instincts were trying to protect you.”

“But-”

“No. No ‘buts’. Okay?” He was steadfast, almost stern. “You thought you recognized a pattern from your past, and you were scared. But you were just doing your best with the information you had. And that’s enough. You reacted in a way that makes sense, given the context. You don’t have to apologize or browbeat yourself for it. Okay?”

He eyed you for a long while until you gave him an unenthusiastic ‘okay’.

“And you aren’t cursed, by the way,” he asserted. “There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing about you that is going to send me running back to Tara or any of my other exes. You are…” His intense expression softened, melting into the purest form of adoration. “Everything to me. I could never want anyone more than I want you. Everything that I’ve been through- I would do it again. All of it. Because it led me to you-”

A quiet laugh left your chest.

“I’m dead serious,” he said, his expression grave. “I’d go back and do all of it again-  I wouldn’t change a single thing. If it brought me to you, I’d do it in heartbeat.”

There was no more humor in your expression, no more laughter bubbling on your surface, because he meant it. He really would repeat every heinous, awful thing that had ever happened to him- just to get back to you. Without a word, your tucked yourself against Bucky’s chest once again, and allowed his arms to crush you into his body. 

He was the good, trustworthy, loving man you always knew him to be. He was gracious. Understanding. Compassionate. Better than you ever dreamed. Better than you thought you deserved. He wasn’t a rerun of your past. No, he was a fresh, blank page. A clean slate. A brand-new story. For the first time, you didn’t have to worry about soul-crushing plot twists. You didn’t have to fear that the story might end prematurely, or that the next page might bring heartbreak. 

You're crouched behind a concrete barrier in Bucharest, rain dripping from the edge of your jacket, earpiece crackling softly as Sam mutters something about the target moving south. The alley smells like wet stone, old cigarettes, and the kind of diesel fumes that make your lungs feel personally insulted.

Bucky is beside you, calm as ever, eyes tracking every shadow. He has his rifle tucked close, his hair damp at the ends, his jaw set in that unfairly sharp way that usually makes you annoyed because nobody should look that composed while being shot at.

You're fine, totally fine. Professional, even.

Then a door bangs open at the far end of the alley. A frightened older man stumbles out, hands raised, speaking too quickly for you to catch anything beyond the panic in his voice.

You tense, but Bucky steps forward before you can.

He lowers his weapon and then he says, low and steady, "Nu vă mișcați. Suntem aici să vă ajutăm."

The man freezes.

You also freeze. Not because of danger. Not because of strategy. Because Bucky's voice has gone soft and rough around the Romanian words, all warm gravel and velvet-shadowed consonants, and your brain immediately drops every file labeled mission protocol into a trash fire.

You blink.

What was that?

The man answers, still frantic. Bucky nods, listening, rain sliding down the side of his face. He responds again, smoother this time, a little faster.

"Înțeleg. Dar trebuie să intrați înapoi. Este periculos afară."

Your mouth goes dry, actually dry. Like your body has decided hydration is no longer compatible with the moment.

Sam's voice crackles through comms. "Everything good down there?"

Bucky glances your way.

You look at the wall. The wall is safe. The wall isn't speaking Romanian.

"We're good," Bucky says.

In English, a tragedy. A mercy.

The man hurries back inside. Bucky steps beside you again, brow furrowing when he catches your expression. "You okay?"

"Yes," you say too quickly.

His eyes narrow.

You nod with violent enthusiasm. "Mission. Great. Love those. Big fan."

Bucky stares at you.

You stare at the wall harder.

From the comms, Sam says, "Why did that sound weird?"

"It didn't," you snap.

"It did," Sam says. "It sounded like your soul tripped."

"My soul is agile."

Bucky tilts his head slightly. "You sure you're okay?"

You make the mistake of looking at him.

He's still damp from the rain. His lashes are wet. His mouth is set in a concerned little line. His voice is normal again, but your traitorous brain has already bookmarked the Romanian version of him.

"I'm perfect," you say.

"You don't look perfect."

"I look incredible."

Sam hums. "That part's true."

"Focus," Bucky mutters.

You nearly fold in half.

Because he mutters it under his breath, annoyed and fond, and for one horrifying second you think he might mutter something else in Romanian if the universe is feeling cruel.

Thankfully, the target chooses that exact moment to bolt from the building across the street. Gunfire cracks. The mission resumes. You throw yourself into it with the desperation of a woman fleeing not bullets, but feelings.

By the time the target is secured and you're back at the safehouse, you have made a decision. You're going to avoid Bucky Barnes until your body stops being ridiculous. This is mature This is tactical. This is self-preservation. It lasts eleven minutes.

"You're avoiding me," Bucky says.

You nearly drop your water bottle.

He's standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, black Henley clinging to him in a way that feels frankly unnecessary. His hair is still damp from his shower, pushed back from his face. He looks domestic and dangerous, which should be illegal in every country you operate in.

"I'm not," you say.

His eyebrows lift. "You walked out of the room when I walked in."

You twist the cap off your water bottle and take a sip, except you're nervous, so you choke on it immediately.

Bucky steps forward. "You okay?"

You wave him off while coughing. "Fine. Water attacked me."

His mouth twitches.

You point toward the hallway. "I have to go do something."

"What?"

"Inventory."

"We already did inventory."

"Emotional inventory."

You flee.

The second you reach the living room, Sam looks up from the couch. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

"Worse," you whisper. "A bilingual man."

Sam slowly lowers his phone. His grin blooms like a terrible sunrise. "No."

"Don't."

"He spoke Romanian, didn't he?"

You glare at him. "Don't make this a thing."

"Oh, it's already a thing. It entered wearing boots and kicked the door down."

You throw a pillow at his head. He catches it. Unfortunately, Sam Wilson has reflexes and no respect for your suffering.

From the hallway, Bucky calls, "You two fighting?"

"No," Sam says, grinning at you. "She's just emotionally compromised."

You hiss, "I will put salt in your coffee."

Bucky appears in the doorway. "Compromised how?"

"No way," you say. "Absolutely not."

Sam stands, pats Bucky on the shoulder, and says, "Man, good luck." Then he leaves.

Traitor.

Bucky looks more concerned now.

You feel bad immediately.

That's the problem with Bucky. He can look like a thundercloud given human form, but the second he thinks he's hurt someone, all the storm drains out of him.

He steps closer, cautious. "Did I do something?"

Your panic skids to a stop. "What?"

"Earlier. After the alley, you got weird."

"I'm always weird."

"Different weird."

"That's rude."

"That's accurate."

You should laugh, normally you would. But his face is too serious. His eyes are too careful. He's watching you like he's already bracing for a hit, and the whole ridiculous situation folds in on itself inside your chest.

You weren't trying to hurt him. You were just trying not to combust.

"No," you say softly. "You didn't do anything wrong."

His shoulders don't relax. "Then why are you avoiding me?"

You look away. Terrible decision. There's a window beside him, and in the dark glass you can see his reflection watching you. There's no escape. There's only Bucky Barnes and your own poor life choices. "I'm not avoiding you because I'm mad," you mumble.

His head tilts. "Then why?"

You say nothing.

He waits. Bucky Barnes has many talents. Patience is one of the worst ones.

You sigh so deeply it may alter the pressure in the room. "Because," you say, "during the mission, you spoke Romanian."

His brow furrows.

You continue, each word dragging itself out like a prisoner. "And apparently my brain decided that was attractive enough to become a medical problem."

Silence.

The safehouse creaks around you. Rain taps the windows.

Bucky blinks. Once, then twice. Then his lips part slightly. "That's why?"

You cover your face. "Please don't make me repeat it."

"You've been running away from me because I spoke Romanian?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds stupid."

"It sounds..." He pauses.

You peek between your fingers.

Bucky is smiling. Small and stunned and soft at the edges, like you've handed him something fragile and unexpected. "It sounds kind of nice," he says.

You drop your hands. "Don't be sweet. I'm humiliated."

"I'm not being sweet."

"You're absolutely being sweet. Your face is doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The dangerously tender thing."

His smile widens.

You point at him. "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Having a face."

He laughs then. Quiet and rough and warm, and it goes straight through you like a match struck in a dark room. "You're unbelievable," he says.

"I'm suffering."

"I can see that."

"No, you can't. You're the cause."

His expression changes. A tiny flicker. An idea landing.

You know it's bad before he says anything.

He takes one slow step closer.

Your spine hits the counter.

He's not crowding you, not really. There's space between you. Enough space to run if your dignity had legs. But he's close enough that you can see the amusement in his eyes.

Then he says, very softly, "Îmi pare rău."

Your knees nearly file a formal complaint. You grab the counter behind you. "That was deliberate."

"It means I'm sorry."

"You're not."

"No," he admits. "Not really."

"Barnes."

"Da?"

You make a strangled noise.

He looks delighted. Bucky Barnes, former Winter Soldier, current pain in your entire existence, looks absolutely delighted.

"You're enjoying this," you accuse.

"A little."

"You were worried five seconds ago."

"I'm adaptable."

"You're evil."

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.

The room gets very quiet. Not awkward quiet. Not dangerous quiet. Something softer. Something with teeth hidden under its tongue.

"I didn't know," he says.

"Know what?"

"That you liked hearing me speak Romanian."

"I didn't either. It attacked me in real time."

His smile settles into something warmer. "I used it a lot when I was hiding here."

That pulls you gently out of your embarrassment. Your hands loosen on the counter. "Yeah?"

He nods. "Had to. Groceries, rent, staying unnoticed. It helped."

There's an ache beneath the words, old and quiet. Bucharest wasn't just a city to him. It was survival. It was stolen peace. It was a tiny apartment, notebooks, plums in a market bag, and looking over his shoulder every day.

You soften. "I didn't mean to make it weird," you say.

"You didn't."

"I ran from you."

"That part was weird."

"Thank you."

"But not bad."

His metal hand rests on the counter beside you. Not touching, just there. An offer, a question without words.

Your fingers twitch.

Then, because apparently you have decided to continue making brave and foolish choices, you set your hand over his.

His eyes flick down. The smile fades, but only because something gentler replaces it. "You could've just told me," he says.

"You underestimate how embarrassing it is to look a man in the face and say, 'Hey, the way you told a civilian to go inside made me forget how knees work.'"

He huffs a laugh. "You liked that part?"

"Don't fish for compliments."

"I'm not."

"You are. You're standing there with your big sad blue eyes and your stupid tactical shoulders fishing."

"Tactical shoulders?"

"They're classified."

His thumb moves over your knuckles. Slow and careful. "Stai aici," he murmurs.

Your stomach flips. "What does that mean?"

"Stay here."

"See, that's the problem."

"What?"

"You can't just say things like that in that voice."

His eyes warm. "What voice?"

"The voice."

"I only have one voice."

"You absolutely do not. You have mission voice. Grumpy old man voice. I'm-going-to-pretend-I-don't-care-but-I-do voice. And now Romanian voice, which needs a warning label."

Bucky leans a little closer. "Should I stop?"

You swallow. You could say yes. He would. That's the worst part. He would stop immediately, no teasing, no pushing, no disappointment. Bucky would step back and never use it against you again.

But your heart is pounding, and his thumb is still moving over your knuckles, and he's looking at you like maybe this silly, flustered confession means more to him than you realized.

"No," you say quietly. "Just... maybe don't surprise me with it during missions unless you want me to get shot."

His face goes serious instantly. "Not funny."

"It was a little funny."

"No."

You squeeze his hand. "Okay. Not funny."

He exhales through his nose, gaze dropping again. "You scared me earlier," he admits. "Thought I crossed a line somehow."

Your chest pinches. "Bucky."

He shakes his head like he's brushing off the vulnerability, but you catch it anyway. "I know. I just..."

You step closer this time.

His eyes lift.

"I wasn't avoiding you because of anything bad," you say. "I was avoiding you because I like you, and my brain has the survival instinct of a spoon."

His mouth curves. "You like me?"

You stare at him.

He stares back.

"You know what," you say, "I take it back."

"No, you don't."

"I do. I like Sam now."

"Sam snores."

"So do you."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do. Quietly. Like a haunted lawn mower."

Bucky's face does something complicated. "Haunted lawn mower?"

"Emotionally complex machinery."

He laughs again, and this time you don't try to hide how much you like it. His hand turns under yours, fingers sliding between your fingers.

Your breath catches.

Outside, the rain keeps tapping the windows. Somewhere down the hall, Sam is probably pretending not to listen and absolutely listening with his whole nosy chest.

Bucky looks at your joined hands. Then at you. "Pot să te sărut?"

Your brain blanks. "Translation," you whisper.

His voice softens, dropping low enough that it almost disappears beneath the rain outside. "Can I kiss you?"

Your answer comes out embarrassingly fast. "Yes."

Something in his expression melts.

The corner of his mouth lifts into the smallest smile, equal parts relieved and disbelieving, like he'd been hoping for that answer but hadn't let himself expect it.

He gives you one last chance to change your mind. He doesn't rush. His flesh hand rises slowly, warm fingertips brushing your cheek with such care it sends a shiver racing down your spine. His thumb lingers just beneath your eye before tucking an escaped strand of hair behind your ear.

His forehead rests lightly against yours. "Still okay?" he murmurs.

You nod, smiling before you can stop yourself. "More than okay."

His breath catches in the smallest, quietest way. Then he closes the distance.

The first brush of his lips is impossibly gentle. It's less a kiss and more a question. As though he's memorizing the feeling instead of trying to deepen it.

You lean into him instinctively, your hand finding the front of his Henley, fingers curling into the fabric.

That's all the encouragement he needs.

The kiss deepens only slightly, still unhurried, still impossibly tender. His hand cups your cheek while the other settles lightly at your waist, holding you like you're something precious instead of something fragile.

Time seems to loosen its grip.

There's only the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips, and the quiet realization that after everything he's survived, Bucky Barnes kisses like someone who's grateful he finally gets to.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn't go far. His forehead rests against yours again, both of you smiling without meaning to.

You keep your eyes closed for a second, breathing him in.

Then from somewhere behind the wall, Sam yells, "Finally!"

You both freeze.

Your eyes snap open.

Bucky closes his eyes like a man begging for strength from several gods at once.

You shout, "Wilson, I swear to God!"

"I've been emotionally invested for months!"

Bucky groans.

You bury your face in his chest, laughing so hard your shoulders shake.

His arms come around you automatically, holding you close. You feel his laugh rumble against your cheek.

"Months?" you whisper.

"Apparently."

"You knew?"

"No," he says. "I hoped."

Your laughter softens. You lift your head and he's looking at you with that tender face again, the one you told him to stop doing. He doesn't stop. Not even a little. "You hoped?" you ask.

Bucky brushes a damp strand of hair away from your temple. "Yeah."

You try not to melt. You fail with dignity. "Well," you say, "that's inconvenient."

"Why?"

"Because now I'm going to be unbearable."

His mouth twitches. "Now?"

You gasp. "Rude."

"Accurate," he says again.

You poke his chest. "Say one more thing in Romanian and see what happens."

His eyebrows lift. There's a challenge in his eyes now. A tiny spark. A flicker of playful danger.

You regret everything immediately.

He dips his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, "Ești frumoasă."

Your entire skeleton tries to leave. You shove at his chest with both hands. "Nope. Absolutely not. Too powerful. Banned."

He laughs, catching your wrists gently. "You asked."

"I didn't understand the consequences."

"That means you're beautiful."

"I know what it means now, Barnes. The damage is done."

His smile goes so soft it almost hurts. "Good."

You narrow your eyes. "You're going to be a menace about this, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"Bucky."

"Do you want me to stop?"

There it's again. The real question beneath the teasing.

You settle. Your fingers curl lightly around his wrists. "No," you say. "Just don't use it for evil."

He pretends to think about that. "Define evil."

"Making me walk into furniture."

His mouth twitches.

"Making me forget I'm armed."

A nod.

"Making me agree to things before my brain comes back online."

His expression turns innocent in a way that should terrify governments. "I would never."

"You absolutely would."

"Maybe a little."

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

Then Sam appears in the doorway with a bag of chips. "Are we done being emotionally constipated in here?"

Bucky turns his head slowly.

Sam pauses mid-crunch.

You step in front of Bucky, holding up one hand. "No murder in the safehouse."

Sam points at you. "Thank you."

Bucky mutters something under his breath in Romanian.

You slap a hand over your face. "That one sounded mean."

"It was."

Sam squints. "Was it about me?"

"Yes," Bucky says.

"Fair."

You look between them.

The warmth in your chest unfurls, ridiculous and bright. You had spent half the day dodging Bucky like he was a live wire, and now he's standing close enough that his hand keeps brushing yours, smiling like he has just discovered a new way to make your life difficult.

Which he has... unfortunately.

"You know," Sam says, "this explains a lot."

"No, it doesn't," you say.

"It explains the time he said your name during training and you dropped your knife."

Bucky looks at you.

You glare at Sam. "That knife was slippery."

"It was dry."

"Emotionally slippery."

Bucky's smile grows.

Sam grins. "Or the time he caught you staring, and you walked straight into the safehouse door."

You groan.

Bucky blinks. "That was because of me?"

"The door came out of nowhere."

Sam deadpans, "It's been attached to the wall for six months."

You point at the door. "Leave."

Sam holds up both hands, chips and all. "Fine. But for the record, this is great. Weird, but great."

He backs out of the room. Then pops his head back in. "Also, Barnes, please speak Romanian responsibly. She has bones made of soup."

You grab a spoon from the counter and throw it. Sam disappears before it hits the wall.

Bucky is laughing again.

You turn on him. "Don't encourage him."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your face did."

"My face has been accused of a lot today."

"And found guilty."

He reaches for you again, slower this time, giving you space to step away. His arms settle around your waist. "You gonna keep avoiding me?" he asks.

You pretend to consider it. "Depends."

"On?"

"Whether you're going to keep ambushing me with sexy vocabulary."

His cheeks tint pink, just enough.

Your entire mood lifts. "Oh," you say. "That got you?"

"No."

"It did."

"No."

"Bucky Barnes, are you blushing?"

He looks away.

You gasp softly. "You are."

"Drop it."

"Absolutely not. This is my emotional compensation."

He grumbles something again in Romanian.

You point at him. "Translation."

His eyes flick back to yours. A beat passes. Then he says, quieter, "I said you're trouble."

Your smile softens before you can stop it. "Yeah?"

His thumb traces a small line at your waist. "Yeah."

You rise onto your toes and kiss him again, quick and sweet. When you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, expression dazed in a way that does marvelous things for your ego.

"Look at that," you whisper. "Romanian isn't the only weapon here."

Bucky's laugh comes out low. He tucks you closer. "Guess not."

You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The safehouse is still cold. The rain is still falling. There's a mission report waiting, a target to transfer, a world full of sharp edges waiting outside the walls.

But Bucky's arms are warm around you. His chin rests lightly against your hair and when he murmurs, almost too softly to hear, "Rămâi cu mine," you don't need the translation right away.

You feel it in the way he holds you.

Stay with me.

You smile against his shirt. "I think I'm going to need you to keep translating."

His eyebrows lift. "Forever?"

You look up at him. "Seems like the safest option."

His smile softens into something almost impossibly fond. "I can do that."

He kisses your forehead.

A quiet settles over the room, comfortable enough that neither of you feels the need to fill it.

Then Sam's voice drifts in from the hallway. "So... should I download Duolingo or am I just going to be excluded from conversations now?"

You laugh.

Bucky kisses your temple again. "I vote excluded."

"Rude!" Sam calls.

You grin. "He's learning."

Being so lost in your thoughts, you missed when Spock looked back at you. He could tell you were lost in thought by the familiar look on your face. He often saw it when he would look at you on the bridge. You always seemed to be thinking about something, your mind never empty or calm, at least when you were working. Perhaps you were much more serene when you were off duty.

Being honest with himself, you intrigued him. You were one of the smartest officers on the Enterprise, but you never tried to prove yourself, or make yourself known.

You seemed to be burdened by heavy emotion, as he would sometimes catch you, when you think no one is looking, and he could see it all over you. But the second you know someone is looking, or the second you are needed, you can shut it away. Much like a Vulcan in some respects.

You were selfless and often put others burdens before yourself. He had heard many officers talking about ways you've helped them, or how you've put yourself in harms way to save them. He even saw it for himself once. And he admired you for that.

In a more human way than he was expecting, he found himself drawn to you. He would find his eyes wandering to you on the bridge. Or he would always pick up on your voice in the room. It was so much nicer to listen to that others. But he almost never heard it in close proximity. And when he did, he could never seem to tear his eyes away from you.

That was something that confused him, even troubled him in a way. When he would see you with others on board, you were all smiles and conversation. But the second you were with Spock, you were quiet, stoic, and barely ever spoke.

Did he intimidate you? Did you think he would chastise you for your usual demeanor? Did you hate him? Or, perhaps, did he make you nervous in another way?

"Uhm, Commander Spock?"

Spock halted in his steps at the sound of your voice and turned back to face you. You had stopped a ways back, and had a confused look on your face.

"Yes Lieutenant?"

"Isn't the signal coming from this way?" You asked as you pointed to the left of you.

Looking down at his own scanner, he realized that he had gotten so lost in thought that he had not been paying attention. Walking back towards you, he met your eyes. "You are correct. I apologize, I seemed to be lost in thought."

You just smiled at him and stepped away, signalling that he was to go ahead of you. His eyes lingered on you for a moment before he began to head towards the signal. It was close now, he needed to focus. He could think about you later.

You both came to a stop when you saw in front of you, a large field of big orange bulbs, that appeared to be flowers. The two of you looked at your scanned and back at the plants.

"The unusual signal we traced does seem to be coming from these plants" Spock said as he took a step closer.

"They don't appear to be dangerous, but it's hard to say, since the signal is unknown to us." you noted. "But what about them could be sending a signal so strong you can see it from orbit?"

"A good question indeed. Perhaps we should take a sample back to The Enterprise."

You nodded, as you reached into your bag and pulled out a small blade. Spock rose one brow as he saw this and you stared at him for a moment.

"What?"

He tilted his head lightly. "Do you always carry a blade with you?"

You paused awkwardly for a moment. "Yes?"

You saw his lip quirk slightly, in what you could only say was an almost smile. Even if it wasn't a full smile, it still made your blood rush.

Reaching towards the plant cautiously, you placed the blade at the stock and began to cut. As the whole plant seemed to move, you jumped back in alarm.

Spock stared in surprise as the flower seemed to lurch in reaction to your blade, before the leaves slowly started to unravel.

"I think I...hurt it." You said softly, guilt easily heard in your tone.

As the large bloom opened fully, you were taken aback at how beautiful it was. The inside was an array or oranges, reds and blacks. But your eyes were suddenly drawn to the center of the flower as a hole of some kind opened up. Suddenly a thick cloud of pollen was fired out, coating you and Spock.

You both tumbled back and covered your faces, coughing as you struggled to breathe.

"A defense mechanism." You coughed out.

Spock tapped his communicator. "Lt Commander Spock to Enterprise."

"Spock this is Captain Pike, what's going on down there? Your vital signs are spiking."

Spock shook his head as he grew dizzy. Looking over at you, he noticed you were leaning over, with your hands on your thighs as you tried to stay steady.

"The signal was coming from some sort of large flowering plant. We attempted to take a sample but it reacted in defense. We were hit with what seemed to be a large cloud of pollen, but now- now we are feeling affects of debilitation."

"Alright, get ready to be transported back."

"No!" You voice broke in, and Spock looked over at you. "My scans are showing signs of contagious toxin. If you bring us on board the pollen might effect anyone around us."

Spock looked at his scanner. "Lieutenant L/N is right Captain."

"Okay, then prepare for decontamination and quarantine protocols."

You and Spock locked eyes as you both swayed on your feet. Looking back down at the ground you sighed.

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

You looked around the empty room, it's bright lights shining down on you. Spock sat on a bench nearby, watching you. You felt goosebumps cover your arms as you realized this. It was hard for you to speak to Spock, your shyness around him making it so. But being in quarantine with him, alone and in complete silence was worse.

Purposefully looking around the barren room you finally spoke, somewhat alarmed at how loud your voice seemed in the empty room.

"Why do they keep these rooms so empty? Wouldn't you want to distract a patient from the thoughts that would be going through their minds in this sort of situation?"

Looking over at Spock, you saw him consider this as he looked around the room. Opening his mouth, you saw him hesitate for a second. "I- I do not know." His eyes met yours. "Logic would suggest the colors and silence in the room would be soothing."

You frowned and rose a brow. "Really? I feel like I'd go crazy in here after a while."

"Your argument does make sense as well. I am unsure as to why the room is so vacant."

"I mean, you'd think there would at least be books or something." You said as you walked to one side of the room. "It feels more like solitary confinement."

"Perhaps this is something you could bring up to the Doctor once we are released."

"Maybe I will." You said with a hint of agreement.

Spock watched you for another moment as you walked slowly to the nearby bed and sat down. You looked down at your feet, and tapped yours fingers rhythmically on the bed.

"I believe that was the longest conversation we have had during our acquaintance."

He watched as a small smile spread across your face, and you slowly looked over at him. "I think it was too."

"We have been on the same ship for quite a while, and even crossed paths at the academy."

He saw the way your eyes widened a bit. "I- I didn't realize you had noticed me. At the academy, I mean."

"I did. You often had the highest marks in many of your classes."

You repressed a smile and shrugged your shoulder as you leaned back and looked up at the cieling. "You were often the only person I couldn't do better than. Not that I ever expected too."

Spock watched you for a moment. "I would like to know more about you."

He saw the way you seemed to freeze, your breath hitched in your throat, your eyes widened for a second and you seemed speechless. After a moment you looked over at him. "You do?"

He nodded once.

Your heart was hammering in your chest. You never expected him to show any interest in you before, but now this was almost overwhelming. "Well, uh, what do you want to know?"

He thought to himself for a moment before he spoke. "I am unsure. Anything really."

You opened your mouth and found that you were unsure of what to say. Thinking back to your time at the academy, and how you got to know your roommate you turned towards Spock.

"How about a game of twenty questions?"

You watched as he rose one brow and tilted his head a bit. "I do not know that game."

"Well, there are technically two versions of the game. The original is one person thinks of an object, and the other player, or players, has twenty questions they can ask to narrow it down and guess it. But, there is another version, in which two people ask twenty questions, ten each in this case, about the other person, to get to know them."

Spock thought it over for a moment before he rose suddenly. You watched him as he walked over to you and sat down on the bed beside you, much closer than you had expected.

Meeting your eyes, he nodded once. "I would like to play."

Your breath was shallow as you adjusted yourself, unsure if you should move away or not. "Alright, I'll go first. Uhm..."

What did you want to know about him? Everything. But where should you start? Are there things he would find offensive? Things that might trigger bad memories? You decided to just start out simple.

"Alright. Question one, what is your favorite thing about Vulcan?"

Spock tilted his head as he thought about what you asked. Looking to the floor, and back to you, he spoke calmly. "I have always been fond of the warm colors that stretch across Vulcan during the evening."

"You like the sunsets?"

He looked back at you and nodded softly. "Yes. Is that odd?"

You shook your head. "No, no I love sunsets too."

Spock seemed lost in thought for a moment as he stared at you. Clearing your throat lightly you spoke softly. It's your turn now."

"Oh, yes." He looked down at his feet for a moment, and then back at you. "Why did you join Star Fleet?"

"Oh, well. It kind of ran in the family for a long time, before, well, before it didn't. My father was the first to break tradition, he never liked the idea of Star Fleet, I never really understood why. But, I always adored the idea of it. Especially after the stories I heard from my grandparents. Once I was old enough, I decided to go to the academy, even though my father did not approve. He doesn't talk to me much anymore, but my grandparents do." You smiled softly before you looked over at him and frowned a bit. "Was that an answer?" You almost laughed.

He smiled softly. "Yes, I believe I understood, and related in some ways."

You knew of Spock's decision to go to star fleet academy instead of the Vulcan science academy. And how it went against his father's ideals for him. You figured he would not want you to press on the topic. Fiddling with your fingers a bit, you thought of another question.

"Question three, why Science instead of any other division?"

"It seemed logical, as science has always been easy for me to comprehend, and...in many ways, enjoy." Before you could respond, Spock straightened up a bit. "I believe I have my next question."

You nodded in encouragement, and he spoke slowly. "Question Four. Do I intimidate you?"

You blinked in surprise and stared agape at him for a moment before you finally spoke. "I...can you ellaborate?"

"You never seem to be...comfortable around me, so I was wondering it there was a reason."

You felt a small wave of guilt wash over you. "Oh. Well...in some ways, yes. But in no way negatively. I mean, you were always above me at the academy, your intelligence and work ethic is much stronger than mine, so in some ways yes, you do intimidate me. But...I'm not uncomfortable around you, I just, didn't think you'd like me...I guess."

"I would ask you why you think that, but it is not my turn for a question."

You blinked before letting out a small laugh. "Alright, um, question five. I'm sorry that I made you think you made me uncomfortable. Can you forgive me?"

A small smile crossed his face briefly before he spoke. "I can, and do forgive you."

You smiled at him, and waited for him to speak again.

"Why did you think I would not like you?"

You let out a soft sigh. "I...don't have a great track record with Vulcan's. I think I annoy them, sometimes. I ask a lot of questions, and question a lot of their answers. So, I guess I just assumed that, like them, you would not really enjoy my company."

"I think questioning is the best way to learn. I do know that many Vulcan's do not wish to be questioned, or challenged, I have met the same problem during my life on Vulcan. So I believe, that is simply another thing we have in common. And, as to clear the air. I do like you."

You felt your heart palpitate, and your ears burn hot. Ignoring it you smiled at him. "Well, I will also add to the record, that I like you too."

Yours and Spock's eyes seemed to lock steadily for a moment as some form of tension began to build between you. Looking away, you stood up, and cleared your throat. You could feel your anxiety rising, as the tension in the room grew thick. You walked around the small area of the room.

"Alright, question seven. Why did you ask for me specifically to come down to the planet with you instead of another officer?"

"I believed you to be the most competent in the situation. On a previous mission in which we encountered an unusual signal, you were the first to figure out what it was. I thought perhaps this time, you could do the same again."

"Oh. Yeah, okay, that makes sense. Though, it proved to be wrong, as I have no idea how a plant can do that."

"Nor do I." He added. "Though, I would not doubt that you might have figured it out it we had more time, and were not in this situation."

You felt butterflies erupt in your stomach. "I appreciate the confidence in my abilities."

He nodded his head lightly in recognition before he suddenly stood up. You felt a small jolt as he did so, uncertain as to what he was going to do.

"Question eight. Why do you not display your abilities more often on The Enterprise? I believe you are one of the smartest officers on board, and more competent than most, yet you do not often express it except in times of need."

You shrugged a bit. "I'm not very fond of show-offs. Nor do I wish to play a game of who's the best when on bridge. It's not a competition to me."

"That is logical reasoning, though I would not be afraid to show off a bit in the future. You deserve to be recognized for your abilities."

"How is it you recognize them so easily?" You asked quickly, catching yourself off guard.

Spock approached you, and you felt your stomach clench. "That is your next question?"

"Yeah, I guess it is."

"I recognize them, because I notice you. Question ten, you were offered a position on another, more capable ship when you graduated the academy, why did you choose the Enterprise?"

You were thrown off by his comment leading so quickly into another question. "Because I didn't like the Captain, he was a bigoted war-lover. What do you mean you notice me?"

"I notice you because you stand out, even when you think no one see's you. Question twelve, there was another reason other than intimidation that causes you to avoid me, what is it?"

"I don't avoid you."

"Yes you do."

"I- I don't mean too."

He titled his head lightly. "But you do."

You felt as though you were being interrogated, but you were not afraid. "You make me nervous" You finally admitted.

"Why?"

"Not your turn." You countered and you saw his eyes seem to widen, as his lip curved up slightly. "Question thirteen, why is it so important to you that you know me?"

His eyes darted around your face for a moment before he spoke. "Because you intrigue me."

"Wh-" you stopped yourself before you finished, deciding to wait for your next question.

"Why do I make you nervous?" He asked again, his eyes almost burning into you.

Your heart was hammering in your chest, and you felt as though you might blow over with one stiff breeze. The tension between you and Spock was thick, and he seemed to get closer and closer with every question he asked.

"I think it may be because of the same reason I intrigue you."

He tilted his head to the side as he seemed to study your face. "And yet neither of us seem able to say it aloud."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Because it is logical to be afraid that one of us is mistaken, in thinking we know what the other is feeling." Your eyes were locked again, and neither of you had the will to look away. Spock took a small step closer as he spoke. "Do you have feelings for me Y/n?"

You seemed almost stuck in a trance as his eyes bored into yours. His voice was steady, and deep, and seemed to pull the truth out of you, as you mumbled a soft "Yes." Your breath was unsteady, and your voice soft. "So, was I mistaken?"

He softly shook his head "No." His eyes finally broke from yours as he looked at your lips. Meeting your eyes again, he leaned in closer to you, his face only a few inches away. "I believe we are on question eighteen of our game."

You nodded softly as you watched his eyes darted between your eyes and lips again.

"If I asked you, if I could kiss you. Would you say yes?"

You took a short breath, as you began to feel almost delirious. Was this a dream?

Your voice was soft, just above a whisper "Yes." This time your eyes darted from his eyes to his lips. "Are you going to ask if you can kiss me?"

As Spock inched a little closer, his lips almost brushing yours, he spoke "Yes". His nose brushed yours lightly, as he spoke his final question, his lips just touching yours as he spoke "Can I kiss you?"

You nodded your head almost unnoticeablely, as you whispered out a soft "Yes."

The word barely left your mouth before his lips were pressed against yours. You did not realize you were standing near the wall until your back was pressed against it as he deepened the kiss. One hand was cupping your face, as the other grabbed your waist. You pressed your hands against his chest and grabbed the fabric, before you brought one hand up to his neck, as you leaned into the kiss.

You seemed to get lost in each other, time passing without you really realizing. As you heard the room comm come on, and the Doctors voice echo through the room.

"Good news guys, you'll be out of their shortly. We only have one more test result to wait for."

"Thank you Doctor." Spock said almost breathlessly as he was still holding you close, his forehead pressed against yours and his eyes staring into yours.

"You guys need anything?"

"No. I believe we are quite content."

You smiled at this comment, as Spock gently caressed your cheek with his thumb. "I did not believe I would ever enjoy being in quarantine."

You let out a soft laugh. "Neither did I."

Spock pulled you into another deep, yet brief kiss. When he pulled away he smiled softly at you. "I apologize I took so long to make my feelings known."

"And I'm sorry I avoided you because of mine."

"I believe your game of twenty questions seemed to prove quite fruitful."

"Yes," you chuckled "I believe it did."

xx End xx

I wrote this before I watched SNW, so sorry if its a bit off

I had trouble finding a place to end this without it being left off awkwardly, but I hope you liked it! I know it was pretty long and a bit of a slow-burn lol.

"You're so warm," you informed him, for possibly the second time, and pressed your face into the side of his neck to test the theory further.

"Vulcan physiology," Spock said, in the same even tone he'd have used to report a sensor reading, "runs several degrees warmer than human baseline. I am aware this is not new information."

"I like it." You said this directly into his ear, which made him go very still in a way you found extremely funny, so you giggled, which made him go stiller. One of your hands had wandered up into his hair at some point and was now idly playing with it, and it was, you'd decided, an incredible texture, silky and thick, and did he know that, had anyone ever told him that—

"You are currently disarranging several hours of careful grooming," he said.

"You're welcome."

Your other hand had found his, resting on the table beside you both, and you'd laced your fingers through his without any particular plan in mind, just because it seemed like the thing to do. You studied the two of you together, his hand so much larger than yours, and pulled your fingers apart, then wove them back together, slow and deliberate, watching the way his fingers curled slightly around yours each time you did.

"You have hands," you said, with the weight of someone imparting great wisdom.

"An astute observation."

You pulled your fingers apart again. Threaded them back through. Repeated it, entirely absorbed in the small motion, like it was the most fascinating thing you'd ever done. Spock did not pull away. If anything, his hand had gone loose and open under yours, letting you do with it whatever you liked — and you were far too drunk to register that what you were doing, with such cheerful, oblivious repetition, was something Vulcans reserved for the people they loved. A human might have called it a kiss. Several people at the surrounding tables clearly knew exactly what to call it, even if you didn't.

It was around this point that Pike wandered over, drink in hand, wearing the specific expression of a captain performing his duty of care.

"Hey," he said, crouching slightly to your eye level, "how about we get you some water, huh? Maybe give Spock his personal space back."

"I'm comfortable," you said, muffled, into Spock's shoulder.

"I can see that, but—"

"Captain." Spock's voice cut in, mild and immovable, before Pike could get any further. "That will not be necessary."

Pike blinked. "I was just going to—"

"Unnecessary, Captain. I think it is best to keep a close eye on her in her current state, and I find it considerably easier to do so while she is occupied here." A pause, delivered with all the gravity of a status report. "She is, at present, in no danger of wandering off, injuring herself, or falling from a chair. I consider this the more logically sound arrangement."

"Uh-huh." Pike's mouth was doing something complicated, fighting very hard against a smile and losing. "Logically sound."

"Indeed."

"And this—" Pike gestured vaguely at the hand in Spock's hair, the fingers laced through his own, the general state of you draped across your first officer like an extremely affectionate blanket, "—this is just, what, security detail?"

"Precisely, Captain."

You had, at this point, stopped paying attention to the conversation entirely and gone back to your very important work of pulling Spock's fingers apart and putting them back together, humming something tuneless against his shoulder. Spock's free hand had come to rest, apparently without his notice, at your waist, steadying you as you shifted.

Pike looked at his first officer for one long moment. Spock looked back, utterly composed, one eyebrow very faintly raised, as though daring the captain to say a single word further.

"Right," Pike said, grinning that particular grin, the one that meant he absolutely intended to bring this up at the most inconvenient possible moment for the rest of the week. "Well. Carry on, Mr. Spock. Very logical."

"Thank you, Captain."

Pike wandered off, shoulders shaking slightly, and you tipped your head back to squint up at Spock with the enormous, unfocused suspicion of someone very drunk.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing of consequence," Spock said. His hand at your waist tightened, just slightly, drawing you back in against him, and if his mouth curved the smallest fraction at the corner, you were too pleasantly gone to notice. "Continue your research into my hair, if you wish. I find I do not mind."

"You never mind anything," you said, satisfied, and went back to it.

"Not when it is you," Spock agreed quietly, mostly to himself.

You didn't hear that last part, already drifting, your hand slowing where it had been laced through his, your head heavy against his shoulder. The party carried on around you both — Ortegas cackling over something at the card table, the music shifting to something slower — but you had gone soft and quiet against him, humming less, holding on more.

"I believe," Spock said, to no one in particular, since you were by now too far gone to answer, "you will not recall a great deal of this in the morning."

You made a small, questioning noise into his shoulder, more reflex than actual response.

"That is not a complaint," he added, and something in his voice had gone gentler than the rec room could see. He shifted you slightly against him, one arm firm at your back, the other hand still loosely twined with yours, and allowed himself the small luxury of watching you for a long moment — the furrow smoothing out of your brow, your breathing evening into something close to sleep.

He bent his head, unhurried, and pressed the smallest kiss to your forehead. It lasted perhaps two seconds. No one at the surrounding tables so much as glanced over; whatever Vulcan restraint he'd been quietly discarding all evening, he kept exactly enough of it left to make certain of that.

"Sleep," he murmured, in Vulcan this time, low enough that it was only ever meant for you, memory or no memory. "I will remember it for you."

You would, indeed, remember none of it by morning — not the dancing, not the hair, not the two seconds his mouth had rested against your skin. But Spock would. He filed it away with the same quiet precision he filed away everything that mattered, tucked it somewhere private, and did not, for one moment, regret being the only one who had it.

★・・・・・・★

You never understood the metaphor of ‘melting’ in a relationship until you met Kim Seungmin. 

It is no secret to anyone that you have that man wrapped around your finger. Seungmin loved you way before the two of you became official, but only then did his infatuation become that much more apparent. 

Once the two of you started dating, Seungmin never bothered once to hide his love for you. Why would he? He finally scored the girl that he had been longing for since the moment Hyunjin introduced you two years ago. 

It’s almost become an inside-joke with the boys. The moment you walk into a room, Seungmin zones in on you and only you — he can’t even hear the obnoxious kissing noises the boys are making to tease him. Cartoonishly, his eyes glaze over with adoration — you swear you can see hearts in his eyes if you look close enough. Then, when you place your hand on his, he submits completely: ‘melting’ in ways you only knew to be fictional. 

You hadn’t planned to visit Seungmin today. While it was your day off, you knew that your boyfriend had a very packed schedule as he prepared for the new comeback and upcoming performances. 

Unfortunately, you couldn’t ignore the nagging voice in your head that practically begged for some Seungmin-time — even if it was simply a passing moment. Ultimately, you decided to do a coffee run for the boys. You’re sure they will appreciate the gesture regardless of the true intent behind your actions. 

This is definitely not the first time you have done mini deliveries to mask your desire for time with your boyfriend. Thankfully, this makes ordering so much easier. By now, you practically remembered each member’s order better than your own (Seungmin always made fun of you for being so indecisive). 

With nine drinks in tow, you made determined, but cautious, steps toward the practice room. While the drink carrier you had was assisting you tremendously, the last thing that you wanted to do was bump into a wall and watch ₩74,000 hit the floor. 

You couldn’t help the small smile that crept upon your face the moment you heard familiar laughter down the hall. While it wasn’t clear exactly what had happened, you’re sure the muffled noises coming from the practice room was a result of Minho scolding another boy for messing up the routine. That was a comedic scene that you had seen one too many times. 

Just as you reach the door to the practice room, you hear the backtrack for one of their newer songs start to play. You haven’t had the chance to see any of the new choreography, so you honestly aren’t even sure if it’s okay for you to step inside. However, you figure that it’s worth the risk, knowing that Chan would immediately wrap things up if it were truly confidential. 

With practiced skill and full hands, you open the door with your elbow, shimmying your way into the practice room. At first, nobody seems to notice that you have snuck in other than a staff member whom you were familiar with. She gave you a gentle smile and quietly helped you unload the variety of drinks in your hands. 

Finally free, you lean against the wall and watch the boys move in sync with one another, their bodies perfectly swaying alongside the rhythm of the track playing in the background. With one move, Felix turns on his heel and notices you hanging out in the corner of the room. As you wave, he politely smiles back. Yet, when his eyes drift from you to the pile of drinks to your right, his smile is immediately replaced with a look of relief. 

“You are such a lifesaver, Y/N,” Felix sighs just as he goes to turn once more, never once missing a beat. Immediately, you take note of the way that your boyfriend’s ears perk up. 

“Y/N’s here?” Seungmin’s voice is laced with excitement as he twists his body to find you. 

Unfortunately for the poor boy, his excitement overpowered his agile coordination. Misplacing one of his steps, Seungmin unsuccessfully ends his twirl by crossing his ankles and ultimately landing flat on his face. A loud smack is heard as his head makes contact with the hardwood flooring. Everyone in the room stops their movements and stares in disbelief. 

“Dude, are you okay?” Han crouches down to meet Seungmin on the floor. 

When Seungmin only musters a faint grunt in response to Han’s question, you decide to rush over to check in on your clumsy boyfriend. Kneeling in front of Seungmin’s sprawled out figure, you gently run your fingers through his hair; you’re cautious as you aren’t sure how hurt he truly is. 

When he feels the familiar sensation of your fingers soothingly scratching his scalp, Seungmin faintly lifts his head. Though his eyebrows are scrunched from pain, his eyes light up the moment they lock onto yours. 

“Hi, baby,” Seungmin says through pouty lips. At this moment, he looks identical to a sad puppy, his eyes being the only sign that he is actually ecstatic to see you. 

“Are you okay, Min? You took quite the fall there.” Your voice is laced with concern as you move your hand to caress his jaw. When you lift his head to assess the damage, you notice his cheekbone already turning a bright shade of red from the impact. Rather than wincing in pain as your free hand traces the injured part of his face, Seungmin simply melts into your embrace, a small smile adorning his lips as he closes his eyes with content. 

“I guess you could say that I am head over heels for you,” Seungmin quips, earning a groan from the other seven boys in the room. 

“Did he really—?”

“I can’t believe this mutt.”

“He is demonstrably down bad.” 

As the boys are expressing their own disbeliefs to this ridiculous situation, Jeongin steps forward and lightly kicks Seungmin in the butt. 

“Yah! You almost took me down with you. Learn to control yourself around your woman,” Jeongin complained, but you could hear the teasing tone in his voice. 

Instead of responding, Seungmin simply flips over and lays his head on your thighs. Upon seeing how red his face was, the boys each shared winces and gasps. 

“I think that it’s time for a break,” Chan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Seungmin, you’re going home for the day.”

“Oh no…Boss is putting me in time out,” Seungmin manages to quip, but immediately winces when he tries to look Chan’s way. 

“Alright, I am taking you home before you hurt yourself again,” you stifle a laugh at the blissful look on his face. 

“Oh, God,” Hyunjin faintly moans in the background, “Thank you so much for the treats Y/N-ah.” Everyone laughs at how Hyunjin is too fascinated by his coffee to be concerned for his member. 

“Maybe you can use Seungmin’s americano to soothe that welt growing on his face,” Minho snickers. 

“Welt?” There was a tinge of concern in Seungmin’s voice. 

“Don’t listen to him, pup,” you comforted him even though you knew that he would eventually have some swelling on his face from the fall. 

“That’s it – you’re done. No more pet-names. Skidaddle before I get sick,” Jeongin dramatically shooed the two of you away with a giant frown upon his face. 

“The fox is just jealous,” Seungmin said as if Jeongin couldn’t hear him loud and clear. 

Rolling your eyes at the comical, offended look on Jeongin’s face, you decide to make a plan to get Seungmin off of the floor so the two of you can head home. 

With a little bit of a struggle, and some help from Chan, you two made it home safely. Seungmin was now resting in bed with an icepack pressed against his cheek. You had gone to get him a glass of water when you heard pitiful whines come from the bedroom. Concerned, you rushed in to check on your boyfriend. 

“Are you okay, angel?” you ask, setting his water on the nightstand before assessing his face. 

“Why did you leave me?” he pouted. 

“Is that why you were whining?” you scoffed at the ridiculousness of your needy boyfriend. “I was just getting you some water, goob.”

“Mmm, I don’t need water. I just need you,” Seungmin smirked, reaching out to tug you back in bed. 

“Nuh-uh,” you tsked, “Not until you get these painkillers in your system.” 

Seungmin pouted but eventually gave in to the princess treatment. Only after you saw him swallow his pills did you crawl back into bed with him. Legs tangled together, Seungmin laid his non-injured cheek on your chest and snuggled closer to your side. 

The two of you stayed just like that for about an hour before Seungmin moved again. Sitting up slightly, Min took the now melted ice pack off of his cheek and placed it on the nightstand. His face definitely looked better, but his cheekbones were still slightly pink. You watched as he ran his fingers against the cold, numb parts of his cheek where the ice once was. 

“You feeling okay, baby?” you checked on him, pushing the hair away from his forehead. 

“Yeah. I am feeling a lot better than earlier; thanks to you,” Seungmin reassured with a smile. 

"Really? I was going to offer to kiss it better,” you teased, watching the gears shift in his head. 

“Oh — I am actually dying, then.” You burst out laughing at his antics. 

“You’re dying?” you rolled your eyes, deciding to play along. 

“Mhm,” he nodded before pointing to his lips, “You should start your treatment here, please.” 

“What would you ever do without me?” you smirk before leaning in to capture his lips with your own. Seungmin softens into the kiss, slightly pouting when you pull away. 

“I’d simply die, Y/N. Speaking of which, it is going to take a lot more where that came from to fully heal me. Unless you want me to wither away," Seungmin dramatically sighed as he placed a hand against his forehead, feigning severe illness. 

“You are a fool,” you chuckle at the serious look on his face.

“Maybe, but I am your fool,” Seungmin agrees through puppy-dog eyes and a giant smile. 

“How many kisses does this fool need to be healed, exactly?” you joke, loving the way his facade breaks once more at your words. 

“I’ll tell you when to stop,” he decides, trying to mask his excitement with a smug face. The moment that your lips met his cheek, that smug expression went away. 

As you peppered his face with kisses, one thing was clear: Seungmin was exactly where he wanted to be.

Namjoon simply shrugged and threw the cooler filled with bait onto the sand, “He gets so worked up over nothing – frustrated with everyone but we really didn’t mean to make him angry,” He shrugged confused but still sympathetic to his friend's feelings.

Yoongi never got upset over “nothing”. Sure, he could be grumpy and easily annoyed by small things, pouting to you that something wasn’t right in his mind but storming off a boat after what was supposed to be a nice afternoon with his friends, whom he loved? That wasn’t your Yoongi and you stayed silent, not agreeing with Joon on this one.

“Well whatever happened, I’m sure he’ll be over it by dinner.” You sighed, willing your words into reality for the sake of the holiday.

The band needed a break and there was only a small window between album recording and post-production that gave them a chance to rent out a huge beach mansion in Malibu. You had been invited along with some of the other wives and girlfriends, all under strict conditions by the record label to lay low. But everyone knew the drill by now, sworn to secrecy. And Yoongi was excited for the break, relishing in the idea of seeing you and spending time with his friends without the pressure of work.

But you knew there was always going to be a diva moment; you just didn’t think it would be your husband losing his cool. Especially with Jin making sure everyone was keeping the house clean and acting like a maniac. 

Jimin nodded in agreement, knowing Yoongi was never upset for long. Thankfully he changed the subject and sent Namjoon on a mission to get him another beer from the beach cooler. You took the break in conversation to return to your room where you assumed your husband was brooding alone, probably grumbling to himself in the otherwise silent room.

And you were right. As soon as you clicked the door open, you heard it. The unintelligible Korean – quietly cursing whoever was coming to ruin his peace and quiet. But you didn’t care if he was annoyed by your presence; you’d been together for long enough to sense what the other needed, especially if something was upsetting them. 

He would've done the same for you.

“Don’t throw a pillow at me. I come in peace,” You said, rounding the corner and surrendering your power with your hands up beside your face.

He looked exactly as you expected; propped up against the bed head, reading glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose and his eyes trained on the book you’d gotten him from the farmers market that morning. At first he ignored you, pretending to be completely immersed in the book he was reading. 

But the quick glance up in your direction was enough to make you smirk. The pout he had on his face when he breezed past you on the beach a few minutes ago was still there, shoulders tensed around his neck. The only difference now was that he was shirtless, gloriously toned and looking painfully beautiful lying on the white linen sheets. 

“You didn’t need to come at all.”

Okay, so maybe not perfect all the time.

“Well I came up because the boys were worried that they’d made you angry…”

Yoongi’s eyes snapped up to yours and rolled, “Well I wouldn’t be angry if they didn’t act like fucking idiots all the time.”

“What did they do?” You asked curiously, sitting on the edge of the bed with caution.

“You know who I’m talking about, right? The question is more, what didn’t they do? Because everything they did pissed me off,” He grumbled and you nodded – trying not to feed into his anger, “But maybe I got too fired up…”

“Do you think you might have overreacted? Because they think you hate them,” You posed the question as delicately as you could, watching Yoongi’s shoulders slouch in defeat. 

“Maybe,” He mumbled under his breath, “I don’t hate them – it was just irritating. They were shouting and we were supposed to be fishing…” He trailed off, rolling his eyes with a huff when he saw the small smile creeping onto your face.

“Sounds like you overreacted, baby.” 

Yoongi groaned and tilted his head back against the headboard. “I’ll go down and apologise when I’ve calmed down,” He added and you understood. 

Rightly or wrongly, he was clearly fired up; fight or flight mode activated with the former winning out. There weren’t many things that really got under Yoongi’s skin but when things were getting out of control and there was nowhere to hide, like a sailboat, he felt trapped. He was the sweetest person you had ever met but when he didn’t like what was happening, it was extremely rare for him to bite his tongue. The truth hurts, he would always say.

Grumpy Yoongi was a force to be reckoned with and you probably should’ve given him space but you thought it would be a shame to let all of that pent up anger and frustration go to waste, you thought.

“Fair enough, honey,” You whispered and stood up, smoothing your oversized shirt out as he went back to his book, “I’ll give you some space but I’m not wearing any underwear right now… Just thought you should know that.”

In true Yoongi fashion, he didn’t even flinch at your words, not even a glance nor did he stop you from leaving at first. It wasn’t until your hand was gripping the door handle that you heard him yell out from the bedroom, “And where do you think you’re going then?”

His voice sounded hoarse, deep and tantalisingly sexy as you trotted back to where he was, now sprawled out on the bed and waiting for your return. The book he was seemingly so enthralled in when you left was still open but discarded as you crawled up beside it with a smirk, merely imitating the expression on his face as he watched you. 

Eyes forever trained on yours, tempting you up onto his lap that he was patting. Your fingernails dragged along the exposed skin on his thighs that the short shorts weren’t covering. Strong and supple, mind reeling from the things they could do.

Yoongi was pouting when you leaned in closer to his face, telepathically sending signals for you to kiss him. It had been a rough afternoon but having you take his mind off it well and truly made up for it. You smiled and pressed your lips to his, arms snaking around his neck as you settled onto his lap, letting the weight of the day melt into his touch. 

His hands crept around your waist and naturally dropped lower to your backside that he was always mesmerised by. There was hardly ever a moment when you were alone that he wasn’t either touching it or gawking at it and you loved it. The attention, the physical touch – he had you wrapped around his finger, and him yours.

“Let your frustration out on me, baby.”

Your permission ignited something deep inside Yoongi. A little spark in his eyes caught on as you pulled back and captured his stare, aroused by the darkness and the steeliness as he tugged you into his chest. He was groaning under his breath as you moved above him, stirring that feeling he couldn’t ignore and that you could feel between your thighs.

“You drive me insane,” He whispered as you reached up and removed the reading glasses from his beautiful face, peppering kisses all over his cheeks.

“I think these make you look so sexy but I don’t want to break them,” You confessed and he simply smirked as he lifted your hips up and pulled his shorts down, freeing himself from the tight material. 

“I know you do, baby.”

You rolled your eyes and licked your palm before grasping his growing stiffness in your hand, delicately rolling your wrist to get him to where you needed him. It never took long and with all of the kissing and teasing you’d done to him all morning; Yoongi was pretty much hard on sight. But you loved how big he felt in your hand and the way his eyebrows scrunched together when you gripped him a little too tight, a hiss slipping from his lips every time.

“Actually you look sexier like this,” You smiled and kissed him again as he started bunching up your oversized shirt, moaning as you continued to pleasure him, tease him. But he got you back, sliding his calloused fingertips through your slick and pushing two fingers into you without warning, jerking you forward over his shoulder.

“Oh my god!” You shouted, both hands now gripping the back of his head as he fucked you, knuckle deep and revelling in the fact that you were now on the receiving end of his pleasure. 

Yoongi gently placed his other large palm over your mouth, giggling quietly at how vocal you could get. As much as he loved hearing every little sound he could elicit from your lips, he knew how thin the walls were and he didn’t like the idea of his friends hearing you. 

“Shh, I can hear people in the other room, jagiya,” He whispered facetiously, voice taunting.

“Well don’t shove your fingers inside of me without warning and I would be quiet,” You snapped back before he hit that sweet spot, causing you to return to the crook of his neck with a whimpering moan.

“Asshole.”

Yoongi snickered at you waving your metaphorical white flag. He loved you taking control and that’s what you did once you sunk down on him, taking his thick cock all the way until you bottomed out. A low, raspy moan slipped from your throat when you felt him twitch inside you, hips snapping up in an attempt to get you to move. 

“Don’t rush me, baby. You feel so fucking big… God, why do you feel so big?”

“Because I am huge,” Yoongi shamelessly retorted, head tilted back and watching squirming on top of him. You rolled your eyes and straightened your back; now feeling like you had a point to prove. 

As you sat up, you pressed your hands to his chest, hips rolling achingly slow and taking full advantage of your position.

“Okay, with that kind of arrogance and the way you’ve been moping around all day, you’ve lost your touching rights, my love.”

You slapped his hands off your thighs and watched his eyes glaze over with lust, “Hands off.”

Yoongi pouted and reached out with his grabby hands, “Ani, please. I have to touch you.”

There was a smirk tugging on the corners of his lips as he pleaded with you, and you could see right through his façade. Even with his unbelievably thick cock filling you to the brim, brushing against that spot deep inside you that would usually have you unravelling in a matter of seconds, you didn’t crack. Not even a little.

“Hands. Off.”

And with those stern words, Yoongi simply laid back on the pillows and tucked his hands behind his head, watching as you gave him a show. He couldn’t have loved you any more than he did in that moment – for making him feel like his entire body was on fire and for remedying his bad mood. 

You really were a miracle worker. And you were all his.

There was something so innately wicked about Yoongi and how quickly he could have you tied in knots behind closed doors, quivering into his grasp. And with anyone else, you’d be mortified by how quickly you came, arched into his heaving chest while his lips floated beside your ear, spurring you on. But you were both equally hooked on each other, a perfect match.

“Ahhh, jagiya, you feel so good,” He whimpered through gritted teeth as you sank back down onto him with a soft hum and took control. He clawed at your delicious hips rolling over him, again and again, sending him into another dimension entirely.

Yoongi looked almost angelic with his pretty eyes clamped shut, eyelashes fluttering over his freckled cheeks as every surge of pleasure twitched at his knitted brows. You knew he was nearing the end of his tether when his pink lips slightly parted and nostrils flared; the deep grumble of pleasure changing from rough and calculated to soft, high pitched whimpers. It was his tell and you’d loved it from the second you heard it – it was desperate and unabashed and god it made you shudder with pleasure every time without fail.

“Close, honey?”

“Uh-huh,” He panted, eyes shut and death gripping your shaking thighs.

“Want you to come inside me.”

“Uh-huh. yep. God, yes please.” Oh, he was detonating.

“Feel so full, Yoon – give it to me,” You coaxed and ran your fingertips along the intricate muscles dancing under the skin of his tensed neck, admiring until his jaw slacked open. Maybe you were a bit hasty to cover his mouth with your firm hand, gasping when you met a set of wide, shocked eyes looking up at you.

“Baby I’m so sorry,” You pouted but held the pace you knew he needed to get off and he nodded in time with the steamy whimpers he was muffling into the palm of your hand, "But you're loud."

“You’re so good to me,” He managed to mumble before his strong arm slipped around your waist to hold you down, bottoming out in your slick, tight cunt as he shakily bucked through the blinding white light.

Yoongi frantically hummed praise and adoration in a voice many octaves lower than yours as he painted your insides, nipping every inch on your damp neck as he floated down from the clouds; a dazed smile etched into that look you knew all too well. 

“Maybe I should be grumpy more often,” He teased, earning a soft slap to the chest.

“Don’t even think about it.” 

He told the truth, he had crazy work to do. Promo pics for the new album had been released and he didn’t even run to Bubble. All last night he’d been sending messages about working out, his need for exertion, exercise, to move his body, like he’d been talking about for a few days now. Surely he was expected to send more, or update his routine, but while one comeback approached, he found himself knee deep in another. 

The next one.

Do It wasn’t set to release for another month or so. 

Useless to fight him though, he did it to himself. He didn’t need to carry this burden alone, no matter if he thought he was supposed to, he had seven other members to lean on.

With how his body reacted to your gentle whisper, you quickly realize his message of, come here need help, received fifteen minutes ago would not go over well if answered by anyone but you.

“Chris?”

His fingers flexed. “Fuck,” he muttered.

Dropping his hands, he used to them to push his chair out from under his desk. Sitting back in his seat, he sprawled his legs in front of him, stretching them out like he’d been stuck in that spot from his first text to his last. Fingers gripping at the black joggers hugging his legs, he tipped his chin back, resting his head on the chair. 

He pouted his lips after a once over of your being. “C’mere,” he whispered, tapping his fingers on his lap. 

Kicking off your shoes, padding over to him in your socks, long sweatpants dragging on the tiled floor, you tossed your things on his desk and climbed into his lap, slotting your knees around his hips. Strong hands took you by the waist, fingertips pressing into your curves, pulling you closer until your chests were pressed together.

One hand took to your cheek, his thumb brushing under your lashes. “You were asleep,” he whispered.

Eyes flickering to his lips, you whispered, “No I wasn’t.”

His pout deepened, his gaze drawing over your heavy eyes. “Yes, you were. You close your eyes right now and you’re done. I know this face.”

Sliding your arms around his neck, you took a deep breath that triggered him to take one with you. “Okay, I was sleeping.”

He gave you the smallest shake of his head. “Don’t pretend just to make me feel better.”

Brushing your nose over his, watching as his eyes fluttered shut, you whispered, “What’s wrong?”

Both hands around your waist again, he tugged you closer if he could and adjusted in his seat, the slightest friction to your center causing you to flinch ever so slightly. Hooded eyes gazed up at you, the corners of his lips pulled down into the tiniest frown he had ever worn.

“Chris, it’s okay,” you assured him with a head shake and kiss to his cheek that made his eyes shut. “Come home. Leave all of this here, and come back to it when you’ve slept, and eaten something better than…” Glancing over your shoulder, his hold not letting you move very far, you caught a glimpse of the Monster cans and empty bags of snacks littering his work space.

When you faced him he wore the ghost of a smile. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” you mumbled, and he let out a quiet laugh. You scoffed, toying with long strands of hair hanging against his neck. “Sure, let my stress over your wellbeing be what amuses you, Christopher.”

Hands smoothing up your back to pull you down on top of him, he cracked a smile and leaned forward to catch your lips in a kiss. “‘M sorry,” he muttered between shared air.

Grasping him by the shoulders, you pressed your forehead to his and sighed. “I could’ve brought you dinner. Your brain works best after a proper meal, or after you’ve sweat it out, maybe you need to go down to the gym. Send some silly messages and thirst traps–”

He cut you off with a kiss. Lips tangling, he held you on top of him and slid his hands down to the curve of your ass, giving you a needy squeeze. Pressing his hips up into your own, his cock half hard, you gasped and he let out a heavy sigh. 

“That clears your mind,” you whispered.

He smiled, lips eager to be back on yours. “Also good for my health.”

Taking your hands to his cheeks, tipping his chin backward, you looked down at him and pursed your lips. “It is like… two forty seven in the morning.”

Glancing to his computer screen, his eyes narrowed when they met yours. “How’d you do that?”

You shrugged. “Intuition.”

He blinked. “Naturally.”

Sitting back on his lap, his disappointment evident on his face, you smiled at him and drug your hands down his chest. Taking a deep breath, his chest expanding as your fingers pulled at the waistband of his pants, he pulled his hands off your body and gripped the metal of the armrests your knees rested under. 

He grew harder beneath you, you could feel him. A one track mind jumping ship faster than you can say let me have you, and all because he wanted to do anything else but focus on his damn work that likely had been finished weeks ago. He couldn’t leave it alone, ever, not until it’d been released. Pushing himself until the very last second of every deadline to exist in his world– His twenty eight a strong fifty three when he sat at this desk.

Or any desk for that matter.

Admirable, really, but you needed him at twenty eight.

“You know what else she told me?” you asked, and he perked a brow. “My intuition?”

Chan breathed on manual, his gaze fighting to look at your hands, or your eyes, or your hips, or your fingers that toyed with the elastic of his joggers. “She’s scary sometimes.”

You smiled. “Is she ever wrong?”

“Fuck no,” he gasped as you tugged.

Working the stretchy fabric to his knees, exposing him and his need for you to touch him, throbbing, leaking, you reached for the waist of your own sweats and pulled them down. 

Whispering, “I knew what you needed,” in his ear as you settled yourself on top of him, his whimper as your slit kissed his tip ignited a fire in your belly, one that pulsed through your veins as you suck down onto his cock, the stretch too much without him prepping you first.

Too full, too big, too much, too much… To the hilt, you stilled.

You would not allow your brain to turn off.

As much as it fought with you, dizziness second nature when he pressed so deeply within you, you sucked in a trembling breath and released it all at once, sliding your arms over his shoulders, locking them behind his neck. 

His full, pink parted lips, he breathed through them, brows cinched in the middle, jaw slack, breath ragged. Blinking up at you, deep brown eyes glazed over and heavy, his own fatigue taunted him.

“Baby,” he whispered as his hands took their time sliding over your thighs and up your bare hips, sitting perfectly in the curve they made. Spreading his fingers, he grabbed handfuls of you and moaned unabashed, shifting you on his cock just a bit.

You both winced, but he whimpered.

Pressing kisses to his jaw as his head thrashed to the side, you grazed your tongue beneath his ear and gently caught his lobe between your teeth. Parting your lips to fan hot air over his neck, content as goosebumps erupted over his skin and he trembled, you flattened your tongue and danced it from his jaw to his collar bone. 

Hands gripping you tighter, sure to leave marks there for you to find tomorrow, he gasped through a whine and pushed up into you, acquiring the exact sound he yearned for.

“Baby, please.”

His tone. Never a beggar, a brat maybe, mastermind ragebaiter with a shit eating grin, but never one to beg.

Letting your lips trail up his jaw and pass over his lips with an obscene smack, you breathed him in and danced your fingers through his hair, combing it backward away from his face, letting your fingers graze his scalp, soothing him. 

“How do you want it?”

He gulped, looking at you like he could swallow you whole, but at the same time, he put his conscience in your pocket. “Just like th-this,” he whispered, tensing his fingers, moving them further back to grip your ass. “Don’t… Don’t fuck me.”

Tucking more hair behind his ears, you kissed the tip of his nose and brushed your cheek over his, laying your weight on top of him fully, one final little push to get him and keep him all the way in. 

“Don’t fuck you,” you repeated his words in case his muddled brain didn’t piece them together correctly. 

He grew hotter, his body heat having spiked since you sat on his lap, and you could feel him inside of you, pulsing, a need to move, to fuck. If you were at home he’d have you a sobbing mess by now. If you were anywhere else for that matter, or if he were in any other circumstance other than burn out.

Chan grasped control, he wanted it, he pursued it, stared it in the face, made it his bitch, but not tonight.

For once in his life he needed to release it.

Your fingers brushed his skin delicately while your gaze watched him suck down mismatched breaths. Laying your head down on his shoulder, kissing his cheek one more time, you smoothed a hand over his chest and thundering heart threatening to rip through the black tee he wore. 

“I’m so proud of you,” you whispered, fingers swirling in a circle in the valley of his chest. His brow furrowed. “I always am, Chris.”

His eyes fluttered open. “You say my name so pretty.”

Nudging his jaw with your nose, you sat up to meet him eye to eye. “Chris,” you whispered, kissing him once. He groaned deep within his chest, a rumbling that sent a shock to your core. “My Chris who works himself too hard. Chris who needs a break. A month-long vacation with his girlfriend who loves him, who’s proud of him, who needs him.”

He hummed, kissing you with fervor. “Where’re we going?” A heady sigh caught you both off guard, one that fell from his lips as he glanced between your bodies. “So wet, baby, fucking christ.”

You clenched around him without meaning to, and you both whined. He adjusted in his seat again, and your vision went blurry. 

“Chris,” you whimpered, grabbing onto him. 

“Kinda like torture,” he released his hold on you and gently smacked your ass with both hands before gripping back onto you, “But it’s too hot knowing your cunt’ll soak my cock no matter what.” 

Lips parting to speak, no noise came out. You had mere seconds until the thoughts in your head watered down to his name and his cum. Chan smiled, his spark returning tenfold.

“Answer my question, baby,” he cooed, hands massaging into your thighs, your hips. “Where are we going?”

Blinking emptily, locked in on his darkened eyes, his olive complexion, the obvious fact that he filled you entirely shocking the nerve endings of every compatible system, you whispered, “Anywhere… but here.”

“Hm,” he hummed, pushing his chair away from the desk. Holding you in his arms, he spun the chair around and carried you with him, smile growing as your legs wrapped around his waist. Splaying you backward on the black leather sofa, ensuring your head laid comfortably over the arm rest, he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, and pulled your sweatpants off of you entirely– without ever slipping out of your heat. “How’s this?”

Wrapping your arms around his back, pulling him down onto you, you breathed, “Perfect,” and caught his lips in a messy kiss as he pulled out of you, only to push back in with a moan. Closing your eyes, your body on fire, your thoughts a matter of nothing, you whispered, “Use me.”

His hand gripped your jaw. “No,” he grumbled, pressing his fingers into your cheeks. “Stay with me. Open.” 

Your lips parted, your tongue poking out, and he breathed through his amused pride. 

“Your eyes, baby, but good girl.” Meeting his gaze, you sighed, and he pouted. “You’re so sleepy,” he said softly, dancing his thumb against your skin, his hips in a steady motion, slow pulls of in, and out. And in, and out.

Your quiet, gentle whines, your tiny, unintelligible moans, like this, meant everything to him. Every hitch of his breath, every involuntary sound that melted from his lips, like this, meant it was real.

Bodies moving in sync, heavy sighs keeping time, sweat adorning your skin and his, parted lips brushing with every rock of his hips, drinking up every breath, every sound that slipped into the heat of the erotically charged air surrounding you– You’ve never been pushed over the edge so intensely, so powerfully, and Chan liked to toy with you.

But, this was different.

Eyes rolling back, toes curling, your body wrapped around him, clamping down on him everywhere. Mouth falling open, Chan kissed at the corners as you shook, body convulsing, euphoria washing through you, every limb, every vein. His name, on your lips like a prayer, a pathetic whimper to stagger his hips, his composure coming to a close as you squeezed him tight.

“Oh, fuck, good girl,” he moaned, nose pressed to your cheek as his thrusts grew sloppy riding you through your high.

Grasping handfuls of his shirt, you gasped, “Chris,” turning your head to kiss him rough.

Just as his tongue dipped out to meet yours, he groaned and grabbed onto you. Eyes screwing shut, he clenched his jaw and let out a broken moan as he spilled into you, tiny thrusts of his hips emptying himself entirely.

He curled up on top of you. Arms sliding around your back, head burrowing into your neck, your chest, he held onto you and eased his breath in time with yours, nirvana induced heartbeats pounding like no other.

Palms flat on his back, feeling each breath he took with the rise and fall of his ribs, the moment you felt as though you could move them, you drew small circles, and he picked up his head.

“Feel better?” you asked within a whisper.

Smiling, sleepier than ever, he hit you with a slow blink. “Come with me to work everyday.”

Breathing through a laugh, you drug a hand through his tousled hair, smiling as his eyes grew heavier. “Then you’ll get nothing done.” You grasped his cheek and brushed his lashes with your thumb.

He smirked. “That’s your dream.”

Pinching his cheek, you whispered, “This room isn’t soundproof during the day.”

“They’ve heard you before,” he teased, wiggling his brow, each blink growing longer and longer.

Scoffing, you brushed back his hair and said, “Jisung did, and that was one time, and it was an accident.”

Chan shrugged, shifting himself around you. Sitting up for all but three seconds, he grabbed ahold of your sweatpants and helped you back into them, situating his own. Settling beside you, cradling you in the nook of his body you curved perfectly within, he slid an arm under your head for you to lay on and wrapped the other around your middle. 

“What time is it?” you whispered through a yawn, knowing you’d both fall asleep here, then wake up to get a coffee from the corner cafe before he holed himself up in here for another twenty four hours.

“You tell me,” he said, voice deep, full of tired.

Closing your eyes, sinking against him, you whispered, “Three twenty nine.”

He picked up his head and squinted in the glow of his computer screen. He took a quick breath and scoffed, thoroughly amused. “Unbelievable.”

You didn’t intend to get in the pool.

You sit with his family for nearly half an hour first, pretending to read while his sister and dad cannonball into the water and his mum settles into her chair with a magazine, but the whole time your attention keeps drifting to the pool itself—to the glitter of the surface, to the children splashing in the shallows, to the deep blue of the far end.

And to Chan.

Every time someone gets too close to the edge, his head turns. Every time a child jumps without looking, he’s already moving. Every time you look up, there’s this strange, impossible sense that he’s keeping one eye on you, too.

Maybe it’s because he’s here that the water doesn’t look quite so frightening, or maybe it’s because your boyfriend isn’t. There’s no teasing or pressure. No one standing over you waiting to see if you’ll fail. Just sunlight, noise, chlorine, and the memory of Chan’s voice in the dark saying, push your feet into the floor for me, breathe with me, I’ve got you.

Without really deciding to, you stand, and his mum glances up from her lounger. “You all right, love?”

“Yeah,” you say, surprising yourself with how steady it sounds. “I think I might… go in.”

Her face lights up with pleased surprise. “Really?”

You laugh a little, nervous. “Maybe just the steps.”

“That’s brilliant.”

His sister pops up at once, water dripping from her chin. “I’ll come with you!”

“No, it’s okay,” you say quickly, smiling. “I just want to try on my own.”

Your words make something flutter low in your chest.

On my own.

It’s not fully true, perhaps—not with Chan thirty feet away and somehow stitched into your courage now—but true enough for you to walk to the edge of the pool slowly, pulse loud in your ears.

The shallow end is crowded with children and inflatables, so you give up on the steps and keep going along the side until you reach the quieter lane where the pool slopes deeper. Not all the way to the diving section, but close enough that the water turns a darker blue and the painted line on the tiles disappears beneath the surface. You stop at the edge. You’re not planning to jump in – you’re not that insane - you just stand there, arms folded loosely over your stomach, looking down at the water and trying to assess it the way Chan taught you to. Not as one giant terrifying thing, but in pieces.

There’s the surface, the depth marker, the ladder, the wall. There’s where your feet would go if you climbed in slowly.

You can do this, you think. You’re not ready for the deep end, and you’re not ready for the noise of the shallow end, but maybe this is enough. Maybe—

“Funny place to start.”

The voice behind you hits like a slap, and you turn so fast your heart nearly stops.

Your boyfriend is standing there.

For one wild second, relief is all you feel. Relief so huge it’s almost dizzying - he’s here, he’s alive, he’s okay – but then he steps closer, and the smell of alcohol hits you. Stale beer, spirits, sweat. The sour, sharp tang of someone who hasn’t slept and has been drinking far too long for it to still be “last night.”

Your relief curdles instantly.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Where have you been?”

He ignores the question. His eyes are bloodshot, jaw shadowed, yesterday’s clothes creased and damp at the collar. He looks wrecked. Not just tired—wrecked in a way that twists your stomach.

It takes you a second to realise what his gaze is fixed on.

It’s not your face but… The water.

“I saw you last night,” he says.

Your mouth goes dry. “Can we not do this here?” you ask quickly, glancing over your shoulder toward his family, toward the lifeguard chair, toward anywhere this conversation might not happen.

He laughs once, but it’s not a nice sound. “Here’s good.”

You step back instinctively. “You’re drunk.”

“Not drunk enough to imagine you all over him in the pool.”

The words hit like a physical blow, and your face burns as you try to deny his words with, “I wasn’t all over him.”

“No?” He takes another step closer. “Looked pretty fucking cosy to me.”

You glance again toward the loungers. His family is too far away to hear. Thank god. Chan—Chan is still in the chair, but from here you can’t tell how much he’s noticed. Your pulse starts to pound.

“Please lower your voice.”

“Why?” he snaps. “Embarrassed now?”

You flinch. His eyes narrow at the movement, and for a split second you see something ugly shift behind them—hurt turning sharp, humiliation hardening into cruelty.

“Let’s see how well you can really float.”

You blink. “What?”

“Float.” He gestures to the pool with one jerky hand. “Go on. Since you’re suddenly such a good little swimmer.”

Ice floods your veins. “No.”

He smiles, but it’s the wrong smile. Thin and mean and frighteningly familiar as he says, “Lifeguard taught you, didn’t he?” He steps closer, forcing you closer to the edge as he repeats, “So float.”

Your whole body goes cold. “I said no.”

“Why not?” His voice rises. “Thought you trusted him.”

“I do—”

The words slip out before you can stop them, and your boyfriend’s face changes. You see the exact moment it lands, the exact moment he decides to hurt you with it.

“Then do it,” he says.

You take another step back, heel skidding dangerously close to the wet edge. “Stop it.”

He follows. There’s fury in his eyes now, but underneath it something worse—something wounded and reckless and desperate to make you feel as out of control as he does.

“Float,” he says again.

“No.”

And then he shoves you.

It happens so fast your brain doesn’t catch up in time. One second you’re standing on hot tiles with your heart in your throat, and the next his hand is on your shoulder, shoving, and the world tilts violently sideways.

You hit the water wrong.

It’s not a controlled entry, not feet first, not anything you’ve practised with Chan in the quiet safety of after-hours. You go in twisted and unprepared, the shock of cold swallowing your scream before it can fully leave your mouth.

The pool closes over your head.

Everything disappears.

Sound goes muffled and monstrous. Light fractures above you in blinding silver ribbons. Your limbs kick out on pure instinct, but there’s no floor beneath your feet—just water, too much water, all around you at once.

Panic detonates, and it’s not the slow-rising terror Chan has taught you to breathe through. This is different, violent. This is being eight years old again and swallowing seawater and watching your mother vanish under the surface because you couldn’t stop screaming.

Your mouth opens on instinct, and more water rushes in. It burns down your throat, into your nose, into your lungs in a choking flood that feels like fire. You try to claw upward, but your body is all wrong - too frantic, too disoriented, limbs flailing without rhythm or thought. You can’t tell which way is up. Can’t tell where the wall is. Can’t hear anything but the roar of blood in your ears and the memory of your own name being shouted over crashing waves years ago.

Help.

You don’t know if you think it or try to say it.

Another mouthful of water fills your throat, and your chest convulses as darkness creeps into your vision. You can feel the fight leaving your limbs, your body growing heavy in the water.

Something slams into the water above you, and there are arms around your middle – strong, sure and impossibly fast – hauling you hard against a solid chest. One hand clamps across your sternum, the other cradles your forehead from behind, forcing your face up, up, up—

You break the surface, coughing so violently you can’t breathe. Noise crashes back in all at once - people shouting, someone screaming, your own body desperately trying to retch up the water suffocating you from the inside in ugly, broken gasps.

Chan’s voice is in your ear, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”

He says it over and over, breathless and fierce, as he tows you toward the edge with one arm locked around your chest. You’re choking too hard to answer. Your whole body is seizing, trying to cough up water and suck in air at the same time, and neither seems to be working.

“Look at me,” Chan orders, voice shaking in a way you’ve never heard before. “Hey—eyes on me, sweetheart, stay with me.”

You can’t.

You’re still drowning somehow, even in open air.

Hands reach down from the side of the pool. Another lifeguard, maybe. A guest. You don’t know. Chan half-lifts, half-throws you toward them and then hauls himself out right behind you, water streaming off him as he drops to his knees on the hot tile beside your body.

Everything feels wrong. Your chest won’t open properly, and your throat burns. Every failed breath comes in wet, strangled little sobs, and the darkness is growing worse. It must only have been a couple of minutes, but it was enough for your body to fail you.

“Come on, baby, breathe,” Chan says, hands cupping your face, his voice so close and so panicked it barely sounds like him. “Come on.”

You cough and cough and cough, water spilling from your mouth, but then your body jerks and your eyes roll. Suddenly there’s nothing - no air, no breath at all - just a terrible locked pressure in your chest and the distant sound of people shouting your name.

Chan swears from somewhere above you, yelling, “Call the ambulance now!”, and then his hands are on you—one at your jaw, one tipping your head back. You barely register the world tilting before his mouth covers yours.

It isn’t romantic. It isn’t even really a kiss.

It’s urgent and clinical and terrifying, Chan breathing air into your lungs while one hand seals around your face and the other braces at your neck. You feel the pressure of his breath forcing your chest to rise, feel him pull back, hear him say your name in a voice that cracks clean through the middle, and then his mouth is on yours again.

Air.

Again.

Again.

You come back with a violent, wrenching cough that folds you in half. Water gushes from your throat. You gasp, sob, choke, and suddenly Chan’s there catching you upright before you can collapse, one arm banded around your ribs, the other cradling the back of your head against his shoulder.

“There she is,” he says, voice wrecked. “There you are. Good girl, good girl, breathe for me.”

You cling to him blindly, distantly noting that his whole body is shaking. He’s warm and solid and saying your name like a prayer against your hair while sirens start somewhere far away.

The hospital is a blur of fluorescent lights and wet clothes and oxygen.

They put you in a wheelchair despite your weak protests. Someone wraps a blanket around your shoulders. A nurse shines a light in your eyes and asks you the same questions three different ways while you sit there shivering hard enough to make your teeth hurt.

What’s your name? Do you know where you are? How much water did you swallow? Did you lose consciousness? Do you have chest pain? Can you breathe deeply?

You answer as best as you can: Y/N. Yes. I don’t know. I think so. A little. It hurts.

Chan doesn’t leave until they physically stop him from following you through the emergency doors. You know this because the last thing you see before they wheel you away is him arguing with a paramedic, hair dripping onto his face, resort staff shirt half-unzipped and plastered to his skin, chest heaving like he’s the one who nearly drowned.

Your boyfriend’s parents arrive not long after.

His mum is crying in that quiet, devastated way that somehow makes it all feel so much worse. She keeps taking your hand and stroking your knuckles and saying I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I’m so, so sorry, as if she can apologise for what her son did. His dad looks like he might be sick. His sister is pale and silent in the corner, hugging herself so tightly her shoulders are up around her ears.

No one says his name at first, but no one has to. He’s the elephant in the room that no one is ready to address yet.

The police come before midday, and suddenly it’s time to address what happened, because, apparently, when a drunk man shoves his girlfriend into the deep end of a pool in full view of half a resort, there’s a procedure to follow, but not much ambiguity to investigate.

You tell them what happened in a voice that doesn’t sound like yours. You tell them about the argument, about the smell of alcohol and him telling you to float.

About the push.

You don’t cry until they leave, but then you cry so hard the monitor on your finger starts beeping.

By late afternoon, your chest aches with every breath and your throat feels sandpapered raw from chlorine, vomit and oxygen. The doctor says you’re lucky, and you’d roll your eyes if you had the energy. You inhaled water and likely had a brief hypoxic episode, but they got to you quickly enough to avoid anything catastrophic. They want to keep you overnight to monitor for secondary drowning symptoms and because your oxygen levels dipped when you first came in.

Lucky.

The word makes you want to laugh and throw something at the wall.

It’s nearly evening when your boyfriend appears.

You know he’s coming before you see him because the atmosphere in the room changes. His mum stiffens in the chair by the window, and his dad mutters something under his breath as he stands. Even the air seems to tense.

He looks awful when he finally reaches your doorway - all hollowed-out and ugly with it. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face ashen beneath patchy stubble, the same clothes from this morning now crumpled and stained. There’s a split in his lower lip you don’t remember seeing before. Maybe someone hit him. Maybe he fell. Maybe his dad did it.

You don’t have any sympathy for him, and you simply don’t care enough to ask.

The second he sees you in the hospital bed—oxygen prongs under your nose, heart monitor leads stuck to your chest, bruising already blooming dark where you hit the pool edge on the way in—his face crumples.

“Oh, my god.”

His mum stands so abruptly her chair screeches against the floor. “No.”

“Mum—”

“No.” Her voice shakes. “You do not get to come in here and make this harder for her.”

“I need to talk to her.”

His dad steps forward, too. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Your boyfriend looks at neither of them. He only looks at you, gaze begging you. You know that you should tell them to throw him out, that you should never have to see him again if you don’t want to, but you’re tired in a way that reaches all the way into your bones, and some part of you knows if you don’t do this now he’ll keep trying until he gets his chance.

So, voice rough and quiet, you mumble, “It’s okay.”

His mum turns to you immediately. “Sweetheart—”

“I just want…” You swallow against the pain in your throat. “I just want to get it over with.”

The room goes still for a minute, and you see his parents exchange a look before they finally move. With the kind of reluctance that feels almost physical, his parents step out into the corridor, ushering his sister out with them.

Your boyfriend doesn’t move until the door shuts behind them, but then he’s approaching your bed like a man walking toward his own execution.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately.

No hello, no how are you. Just sorry, raw and broken and desperate enough to make something old and exhausted in you flinch.

“I know that doesn’t mean anything,” he rushes on when you don’t answer. “I know it doesn’t fix anything, I know it doesn’t even begin to—” His voice cracks. He drags a hand over his face. “I just need you to know I would never—I never meant—”

“You pushed me into a pool,” you say.

The room goes silent, and he just stares at you. You’ve never interrupted him like that before, never cut straight through the excuses to the ugliest part and left it there between you. His mouth opens, closes, and tears gather in his eyes so fast it almost startles you.

“I know.”

“No,” you say, because suddenly the weakness in your body doesn’t matter. Suddenly the ache in your lungs doesn’t matter. “No, I don’t think you do know, actually.”

Your voice is still quiet, but there’s steel in it now. Something clean and terrible and long overdue.

“I told you why I’m afraid of water. You know what happened to my mum. You know I can’t swim. And you still looked at me, smelling like a fucking bar, and shoved me into the deep end because you were angry.”

Your face twists in tired disgust when his tears fall.

“I know,” he says again, shaking his head over and over. “I know, I know, I know, I was drunk and I was angry and I saw you with him and I just—I wasn’t thinking, I swear to god I wasn’t thinking—”

“Exactly.” The word comes out sharper than anything else you’ve said, and his whole face crumples. “You weren’t thinking about me,” you say. “You weren’t thinking about whether I’d be scared, or hurt, or humiliated, or dead. You were thinking about punishing me.”

He makes a broken sound in the back of his throat. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“You nearly killed me.”

He has no words for that, no excuses. The monitor beside you keeps ticking out your pulse in calm electronic beeps while he stands there with tears running down his face and finally, finally seems to understand the shape of what he’s done.

You almost wish it made you feel better, but it doesn’t. It just makes you tired.

“I love you,” he whispers.

It should hurt more than it does, because the truth has become impossible to ignore now, stripped down to its bones by bright hospital lights and the taste of chlorine still lingering at the back of your throat.

Love is not what he did to you this morning. Love is not mockery at the edge of a pool; love is not using your dead mother as collateral damage in an argument.

Love is not putting your hands on someone in anger and calling it a mistake because you regretted the consequences after.

“I know you think you do,” you say quietly. “But I don’t want your version of it anymore.”

His breath catches. Your own eyes sting, but not for the reason he probably thinks. You don’t feel heartbroken; you think you’re too far gone for that now. It’s grief, you suppose. For the version of him you kept trying to salvage, and for the relationship you kept translating into something kinder than it was. For the fact that part of you still wishes this had all turned out differently.

“You can’t mean that,” he whispers.

“I do.”

“Please—”

“No.”

The word lands with a steadiness you don’t feel.

You look at him properly then, at the man you loved enough to come on holiday with his family, the man you made excuses for, forgave, and kept trying to understand, even when understanding came at your expense.

And you let yourself stop.

“I’m done,” you say. “We’re done. I’m not pressing charges, but I never want to see you again. Ever.”

He stares at you as if you’ve slapped him, before he drops heavily into the chair beside your bed and buries his face in his hands. For a horrible second you think he’s going to refuse. That you’ll have to call his parents back in, or a nurse, or the police. But when he finally looks up, there’s something defeated in his expression that wasn’t there before.

“Do you hate me?” he asks.

The question is so childishly devastating that your throat tightens despite yourself.

“No,” you say after a long moment. “I don’t.”

You’re surprised that you don’t hate him. After using your mother’s death as a guilt trip, after trying to drown you, you still didn’t hate him. You just feel hollow.

“I think,” you say slowly, “I’m going to spend a very long time trying to understand how someone who was supposed to love me could look at me terrified and still decide to be cruel.” Fresh tears spill down his face, but you don’t look away. “And I think you need to live with that.”

He breaks then, folding in on himself with a kind of silent misery that fills the room. He says sorry again. And again. And again, like if he says it enough times he can undo the image of you going under.

He can’t.

Eventually you call his mum back in, and she takes one look at your face and understands immediately. Your boyfriend is ushered out before he can say anything else.

You don’t see him again.

The first few hours after he leaves are almost peaceful, and you feel lighter than you have since before this holiday even began.

The decision sits in your chest like a bruise—tender, ugly, unavoidable—but also like relief. A clean cut where there used to be a slow rot. You cry a little after his family goes back to the resort for the night, but it’s mostly exhaustion by then, the kind that comes from surviving something your body still hasn’t fully processed.

Despite everything, you keep expecting Chan. He saved you, he rode in the ambulance, he was there. Of course he’ll come. Maybe he’s finishing his shift, or he was giving a statement. Maybe the resort manager dragged him into some debrief about protocols and incident reports and liability. So, when the door opens, and it’s only a nurse checking your oxygen, you don’t think much of it.

When another hour passes and still nothing, you tell yourself he’s probably showering, changing, dealing with paperwork. When evening turns properly dark outside the window, and his chair by your bed remains empty, something uneasy starts to stir under your ribs.

Your ex’s mum notices first.

“Are you waiting for someone, love?” she asks gently, adjusting the blanket over your legs.

You shake your head too quickly. “No.”

What a terrible lie, you think to yourself.

By midnight, you’ve checked your phone so often the battery dips below twenty percent, but there are no messages from him.

None.

No, how are you? No, I’m sorry I couldn’t come. Not even a stupid emoji, a single full stop, or anything at all to prove he’s thinking about you, too.

The rational part of your brain tries to help, fabricating any and all excuses in the book, varying from him not being allowed to contact guests (lies; he told you that you could through reception) to the resort having some policy after an incident. But the longer the silence stretches, the harder it is not to take it personally.

By morning, hurt has curdled into something rawer, and you replay every second of the last few days with horrible clarity. The way he held you in the pool, the way he said I’m not going anywhere. The way his hand hovered at your jaw at the gate, and the look on his face when he asked if you wanted to come back tomorrow.

Maybe you had imagined all of it.

Maybe the almost-kiss was only in your head. Maybe the tenderness was just because he’s kind and you were convenient to rescue. Maybe once the actual danger happened—once this stopped being quiet after-hours lessons and became police reports, hospitals, ex-boyfriends, and all the messy reality of your life—he decided he wanted no part of it.

That thought hurts more than you expect, more than it should.

You don’t cry when the nurse comes to remove your IV. You don’t cry when the doctor says you can probably be discharged by the afternoon if your oxygen stays stable. You do, however, cry when the hospital room door opens around noon and for one hopeful, humiliating heartbeat you think it might finally be him… and it’s only lunch.

After that, it gets worse.

Everything makes you emotional. The bland soup, the smell of disinfectant, the ache in your chest every time you cough. His mum brushing your hair back from your face as she asks if you need anything brings you to the verge of tears.  By the time his family leaves to go sort your things at the resort, you’re wound so tightly with disappointment that it spills over into anger.

Fine, you think viciously, blinking at the ceiling because crying hurts your head. Fine. If he doesn’t want to come, he doesn’t have to. You don’t need him. You never asked him for anything. You can survive drowning and a breakup and a hospital stay without some lifeguard who apparently only knows how to show up when there’s an emergency.

The thought barely lasts ten minutes before dissolving into fresh hurt, because the awful truth is that you do want him. Not in the broad, dangerous way you wanted him at the gate with his hand on yours and his mouth inches from your own—though maybe that, too—but in the smaller, more pathetic way that matters even more right now.

You want him to walk through the door and say, "I’m here";you want his hand around yours while your lungs still ache. You want the stupid certainty of him, the way he always knows when you’re about to panic, the way he looks at your fear like it’s survivable.

You want him to come, but he doesn’t.

By the time evening rolls around and the shadows in your room start to lengthen, you’re not just upset.

You’re devastated by it.

You don’t go back to the resort because you miss it.

You go back because you left half your life there.

The hospital discharges you late that afternoon with strict instructions to rest, come back if your breathing worsens, and absolutely avoid swimming for the next few days, which would almost be funny if your ribs didn’t hurt every time you laughed. Chan’s absence sits heavier than the paper bag of medication in your lap on the drive back. His mother insists on accompanying you to collect your things, his father carries your suitcase, and his sister hovers like you might collapse if she looks away for too long.

Your ex isn’t there; apparently he’s been told to stay elsewhere while you gather your things.

Honestly, you don’t think you could bear the sight of him right now.

You pack slowly, every movement stiff and sore. Your chest aches in a deep, bruised way that makes breathing feel deliberate. Your throat still burns from chlorine and tears and the oxygen cannula, and there are dark fingerprints of exhaustion under your eyes when you catch your reflection in the mirror. You look like someone who nearly drowned.

You feel like someone who was left suffering.

By the time you zip up the last bag, his mum is standing awkwardly in the doorway with tears in her eyes.

“Sweetheart,” she says softly, “you don’t have to rush off tonight. You could stay one more evening and leave in the morning if you wanted. We’d make sure—”

“No,” you say, more sharply than you mean to. She flinches, and guilt pricks instantly so you try again, more gently this time. “I’m sorry. I just… I can’t stay here.”

Not in the room where you waited for your boyfriend to come back. Not in the resort where he pushed you into the pool. Not in the building where Chan somehow didn’t come.

She nods at once. “Of course.”

His dad drives you to the little rental apartment that you’d booked for the final two nights of the holiday before plans changed and everyone decided the resort would be easier. It’s only twenty minutes down the coast, a whitewashed place above a bakery with blue shutters and a balcony overlooking the sea.

You’d forgotten about it until this morning, and instead of feeling like a sanctuary, it feels like exile.

His dad carries your bag upstairs and sets it gently inside the door. He lingers there for a moment, hands on hips, looking older than he did a week ago.

“I know I’ve said sorry already,” he says quietly, “and I know it doesn’t count for much coming from me, but… I am. More than I know how to say.”

Your throat tightens. He isn’t the one who did it, and neither is his wife, or their daughter. They’ve done nothing but cry and apologise and bring you tea and argue with doctors on your behalf. Still, all you can manage is a tired nod, and he gives you a sad little smile, squeezes your shoulder carefully, and leaves you alone.

On your own, the apartment is quiet, but not peaceful. Just empty in a way that makes everything echo. You set your bag down by the bed and stand there for a long moment, staring at the unfamiliar room with the evening sun striping gold across the floorboards. You should shower, take your antibiotics, and call your friend back home. Maybe sleep for a year. Instead, your eyes catch on the sea beyond the balcony doors.

All at once you know exactly where he is. He wouldn’t be at the pool, at the hospital, at the staff quarters, or at some miserable bar trying to forget what happened.

The cove.

The tiny, quiet cove he pointed out on that first night, when you’d gone walking because you couldn’t bear the noise of the resort and he’d found you staring at the dark water as if it had personally offended you.

Go there if you need somewhere quiet, he’d said then, half-smiling. No one really knows about it except staff and a few locals. It’s good for thinking.

You almost laugh - ‘good for thinking’. As if thinking hasn’t already ruined your life. Still, once the idea has lodged in your head, you can’t dislodge it. He might not be there, maybe you’re insane for even thinking it, and maybe you should have more self-respect than to drag your half-drowned body across the island looking for a man who couldn’t even send a text. But your anger has become too restless to sit still with. It keeps clawing at the inside of your ribs, fed by every unanswered question, every hour you stared at the hospital door, every humiliating second you checked your phone hoping for him.

So, you change into a loose cotton dress that won’t rub too hard against your bruised chest, take your inhaler and your keys and your rapidly thinning patience, and leave.

The walk to the cove is shorter than you thought it would be, and much harder than it should be.

Your body has opinions about being dragged along uneven coastal steps after nearly drowning yesterday. By the time you make it down the narrow path between the rocks, your lungs are burning, and your ribs feel like someone’s driven a crowbar between them. The sea breeze tastes of salt and sun-warmed stone. Waves fold gently against the sand below.

The cove is almost empty, just as Chan promised.

A little crescent of pale sand tucked between dark cliffs, the water calm and glassy in the evening light. A couple sit at the far end near the rocks with their feet in the shallows, talking quietly over a bottle of wine. Otherwise—

There.

You stop dead halfway down the last set of steps.

Chan is sitting on the sand with his back against the cliff wall, one knee bent, one leg stretched out toward the water. He’s in a grey T-shirt and black shorts instead of lifeguard gear, dark hair damp at the ends like he’s showered and then forgotten to dry it properly. One forearm rests across his raised knee, his head tipped back against the rock, eyes closed.

He looks exhausted, the way people do after they’ve been hit by something heavy and are still standing only because they haven’t realised they’re allowed to fall, and your chest tightens at the sight. He’s here; you were right, and some pathetic part of you still feels a pulse of relief at the sight of him before the hurt catches up.

You take one step down onto the sand, and the scrape of your sandal over stone makes his eyes open. For a second he doesn’t move. He just stares at you as if his brain can’t quite make the image fit, like he’s hallucinating you out of guilt and sea air and no sleep. Once his brain catches up, he’s on his feet so quickly it’s almost violent.

“What—” His voice catches. He clears it. “What are you doing here?”

You nearly laugh at the question.

“Oh, are you shocked to see me?” you ask.

Chan’s face changes immediately. He takes one step toward you, then seems to notice how pale you are, how tightly you’re holding yourself, the way your breathing is just a little too shallow from the walk down. He stops dead.

“You shouldn’t be walking around alone,” he says, and there’s alarm in it now, genuine and sharp. “You should be resting. What are you doing out here?”

The concern in his voice is the worst possible thing he could have offered you, because it sounds real. It sounds exactly like the Chan who held your face in his hands and told you to breathe, and it makes the silence of the last twenty-four hours feel even crueller.

Something in you snaps.

“What am I doing here?” you repeat, staring at him. “Are you serious?”

Chan opens his mouth, but you’re already moving. Not toward him—just forward, into the conversation, into the anger that’s been simmering since the hospital room and now spills out faster than you can stop it.

“I spent the entire night in a hospital bed because my boyfriend shoved me into a pool and I nearly drowned,” you say, your voice shaking. “I broke up with him, I gave statements to the police, I had his mother crying at the side of my bed, and the whole time I kept waiting for you to show up.” Chan goes still. “I waited all day,” you continue, louder now, because if you stop you might lose the nerve to say any of it. “I kept checking the door every time it opened like some complete idiot because I thought— I don’t know what I thought, actually. That maybe the man who told me ‘I’m not going anywhere’ might at least visit after he gave me CPR? That maybe the person who spent days teaching me not to panic in water would care enough to see if I was okay when I almost died in it?”

His face has gone white, but you don’t care. You have to finish what you were saying for your own mental wellbeing.

“No text. No call. Nothing.” Your breath catches on the last word, anger and hurt tangling so tightly you can barely tell them apart. “Do you have any idea how humiliating that was? Sitting there like a fucking idiot waiting for someone who clearly had no intention of coming?”

“Hey—”

“No, don’t hey me.” Your voice cracks. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to look at me like that now, not after you vanished.”

Chan drags a hand through his hair, visibly at a loss. “I didn’t vanish.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I was there.”

You stare at him. The words hit hard enough that for a second you can’t even process them. “What?”

Chan’s jaw tightens. “I was there.”

Something in your face must change, because his expression softens immediately—guilt, frustration, and something that looks dangerously close to panic all flashing through at once.

“At the hospital,” he says more quietly. “I came with the ambulance. I stayed until they took you through to triage. I tried to follow, and they stopped me because I’m not family.” He swallows. “I came back again after I’d given my statement. Security told me visiting hours were over, and I wasn’t on your approved list.”

You blink at him, the fury in you stumbling at his words. “Then why didn’t you text me?”

Chan closes his eyes for half a second as if he’s been waiting for that one, and when he opens them again, there’s a bleak look in his face as he says, “I was told not to contact you.”

You laugh once in disbelief. “By who?”

“My manager. The resort’s legal team. Two police officers. Pick one.” He folds his arms across his chest, not defensive so much as trying to hold himself together. “The second your ex told them we’d been seeing each other after hours, everything got messy. Management wanted full statements. They wanted to know why I was giving private lessons to a guest after the pool was closed. They wanted to know if there was anything between us, if I’d crossed professional boundaries, if I’d done anything that could be construed as encouraging a complaint or provoking him.” His mouth twists bitterly. “Apparently ‘helping a traumatised girl not be afraid of water anymore’ sounds a lot less noble when someone’s just shoved her into the deep end over jealousy.” Your stomach drops, and Chan looks away toward the water, jaw tight. “I told them nothing happened. Which was true.” He lets out a humourless laugh. “Mostly.” Heat flickers weakly through your anger at the implication, but it’s gone again just as quickly, swallowed by the rest of it. “They said if I contacted you before they’d finished taking statements, it could look like interference. Like I was trying to influence what you said.” He glances back at you. “And because you were a guest and I’m staff, they made it very clear that if I ignored them, it wouldn’t just be me dealing with it. It could make the whole thing more complicated for you, too.”

You stare at him. Part of you wants to believe him immediately. The facts line up too neatly with everything you already know—the police, the statements, the resort trying to protect itself. But another part is still too hurt to let go that easily.

“So, you just listened,” you say.

Chan flinches, a tiny recoil, like the words found exactly where to land, as he admits, “For a while.”

The honesty of it hits harder than an excuse would have. You fold your arms around yourself, partly because you’re cold now, partly because if you don’t, you might start shaking. “Why?”

He laughs again, and this time there’s nothing funny in it at all. “Because I thought maybe they were right.” You frown. Chan scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly looking every one of the sleepless hours he’s clearly lived through. “Because I was standing there outside your hospital room covered in pool water, and all I could think was that your ex saw us together the night before and then you nearly died the next morning.” His voice roughens. “And I know that’s on him. I know that. But I couldn’t stop thinking if I’d kept more distance, if I hadn’t let it get personal, if I hadn’t kissed the line of your jaw with my eyes every five fucking minutes, maybe he wouldn’t have lost it like that.”

Your heart gives a hard, painful thud. “Chan—”

“No, let me finish.” It’s the first time he’s ever cut you off, and he sounds desperate, like if he doesn’t get the words out now he never will. “I know it’s not rational,” he says. “I know the blame is his. But that doesn’t change the fact that I was supposed to keep you safe in that pool and I didn’t.” His voice cracks on the last word. “I got to you in time, and you still stopped breathing in my arms.”

The cove goes very quiet. Even the couple at the far end have gone now, leaving only the soft hush of the tide and the wind moving through scrub on the cliffside. Chan looks at you with red-rimmed eyes and no defences left.

“I haven’t slept,” he says, and there’s no self-pity in it, only exhausted truth. “Every time I close my eyes I see you going under. I hear you coughing up water and I can’t—” He breaks off, jaw flexing. “So, when management told me to stay away, part of me listened because I thought maybe you’d be better off if I did. And part of me listened because I was scared to see you and realise you couldn’t look at me without thinking about what happened.”

The anger in your chest shifts shape, tangling with something heavier. It doesn’t vanish. There’s still hurt there, still the sting of all those empty hours in the hospital, still the humiliation of waiting. But now understanding wraps around it, and you resent it on principle.

“You should have fought harder,” you say, and your voice comes out smaller than before. “You should have found a way.”

“I know.”

The immediate agreement makes your eyes sting. Chan steps toward you then, cautiously, as if he’s approaching a frightened animal.

“I know,” he says again, softer this time. “And I’m sorry. Not in a bullshit, excuse-making way. I’m just… sorry. I made the wrong call.”

You look down at the sand because if you keep looking at his face you’re going to cry, and you are absolutely not crying in front of him after coming all this way to yell. Unfortunately, your body doesn’t seem interested in your preferences, and your throat tightens as your eyes burn. You blink hard and fail miserably.

“I thought you didn’t care,” you whisper.

The confession lands between you like glass, and you hear Chan inhale sharply. When you risk looking up, his whole expression has changed. Gone is the careful, guilty explanation. In its place is something rawer. Something almost wounded.

“Don’t,” he says quietly.

You frown through the blur of tears. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say that like it’s even possible.”

His voice is low, wrecked around the edges, and before you can react, he’s taking another step closer, followed by another. He stops only when he’s right in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint purple shadows under his eyes, the tiny nick at his jaw from a careless shave, the way his hands flex uselessly at his sides like he wants to touch you and doesn’t trust himself to.

“I care so much it’s making me stupid,” he whispers, looking straight at you. “That’s the problem.” Your breath catches, and Chan laughs once under his breath, miserable and disbelieving all at once. “You think I didn’t want to be there? I spent half the night sitting in my car outside the hospital because I couldn’t stand the idea of leaving and I couldn’t figure out how to get back in without making things worse for you.”

Tears spill hot down your cheeks, and you hate that they do. Hate that your body has apparently decided now is the moment to collapse.

“I was so angry,” you admit, wiping at them with the heel of your hand and only smearing them further. “I was lying there feeling like an idiot because I kept expecting you to walk through the door, and every time it wasn’t you I just felt more stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

“I know that,” you snap, because crying has not improved your temper. “That’s not the point.”

Chan’s mouth twitches despite the circumstances, and it only makes you cry harder.

“Oh, brilliant,” you say thickly, scrubbing at your face again. “Now you’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you.”

“You look like you’re laughing at me.”

“I look like I’m trying not to kiss you while you’re furious with me and crying on a beach.”

The words knock the air clean out of your lungs. Silence drops, and Chan seems to realise what he’s just said about half a second too late.

His eyes close briefly. “Right. Great. Fantastic timing from me, as usual.”

You stare at him through wet lashes. “You what?”

He opens his eyes and looks at you with the expression of a man who has just watched the last available exit collapse behind him. “I said,” he replies carefully, “that I’m trying very hard not to kiss you.”

Your heart stutters. The sea keeps breathing at your feet, but you can feel your pulse in your throat now, in your bruised ribs, in the aching space between one breath and the next.

“You shouldn’t say things like that when I’m mad at you,” you manage.

Chan’s gaze drops to your mouth. “I’m aware.”

“Especially not when I’m still deciding whether to throw sand in your face.”

“That seems fair.”

“You deserve it.”

“Probably.”

You hate him a little for being so easy to stay angry at and so impossible to keep hating. Another tear slides down your cheek. Chan watches it with a helpless sort of frustration, then slowly lifts one hand.

“Can I?” he asks.

It takes you a second to realise he means "touch you." To wipe your face, tuck your hair back, hold your hand. Something small and gentle and probably ruinous.

Your answer comes before your pride can stop it. “Okay.”

Chan steps closer still. His fingertips brush your cheek so lightly you barely feel it at first, just the warm drag of his thumb catching the tear there and wiping it away. He does the same on the other side, careful around the bruised ache of your face, his touch reverent in a way that makes your chest hurt worse than the water ever did.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter now. “For not finding a way around it. For letting you think I’d just disappeared. For all of it.”

You look at him, close enough now to see his pupils blown wide in the fading light.

“I still think you’re a bit of an idiot,” you mumble.

Chan huffs a laugh. “That’s fine. I think that, too.”

“And I’m not done being annoyed.”

“Also fair.”

“And I nearly died, so I’m allowed to be dramatic for at least a month.”

His expression flickers at the words nearly died, pain flashing through it so openly you immediately wish you’d chosen another phrase.

“Six months,” he says quietly. “Minimum.”

You stare at him, and then, despite the ache in your ribs, the tears still drying on your face, and the emotional carnage of the last day and a half, a laugh escapes you. It’s small and wet and shaky, but Chan smiles like it’s the first decent thing he’s seen in days.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

And just like that, your eyes sting all over again.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” you mutter, pressing the heel of your hand to them. “I hate that I’m crying this much.”

“I don’t.”

You look up. He’s still close - too close, really - one hand hovering by your face like he’s resisting the urge to smooth your hair back again, the other clenched tight at his side.

“Why not?” you ask, half defensive, half genuinely curious.

Chan’s gaze softens. “Because you don’t have to pretend with me.”

The words undo you more effectively than anything else has. You make a strangled little sound, and then you’re crying properly, shoulders shaking in a way that instantly punishes your ribs.

“Hey, hey—careful.” Chan moves without thinking, both hands coming up to steady you by the arms. “Easy. Don’t make yourself sore.”

Too late for that, you think. You laugh and cry at the same time, which is as humiliating as it sounds.

“I hate you,” you mumble, stepping into him before you can think better of it.

Chan catches you instantly, without surprise or hesitation. More like he’s been holding himself back from it for hours. His arms wrap around you carefully, one across your upper back, the other around your waist, and he gathers you in against his chest with excruciating gentleness, mindful of every bruise and every aching breath. You bury your face in his shirt, and he tucks his chin over your hair, holding you like he’s trying to make up for every minute he wasn’t there.

“I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know, sweetheart.”

The pet name should probably annoy you. Instead, it makes you cry harder, but Chan holds you through it. There’s no shushing, no telling you to calm down, and no awkward jokes to make you stop. He rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades and lets you soak the front of his T-shirt with tears, seawater, and whatever lingering hospital smell still clings to your skin.

“I really thought you weren’t coming,” you whisper eventually, the words muffled against his chest.

His arms tighten around you. “I know.”

“And I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t matter because obviously I had bigger problems than some lifeguard ghosting me—”

Chan makes a wounded noise. “That is an appalling summary of events.”

A laugh cracks out of you before you can stop it.

“There she is,” he says again, softer this time, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

You pull back just enough to glare up at him, though it’s difficult to look threatening when your face is blotchy and damp and pressed red from crying into his chest.

“Stop saying that.”

“No.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You sniff. “You’re insufferable.”

“Still hugged me, though.”

You open your mouth to argue and then close it again because, annoyingly, he has a point. Chan’s smile grows gentler when he sees you give up, and he brushes a thumb carefully beneath one of your eyes again, catching the last of the tears there before his expression softens and warms.

“You shouldn’t have come out here alone,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“You should be in bed.”

“I know.”

“You definitely shouldn’t have climbed down those steps with bruised ribs and lungs full of pool water.”

“I know, Chan.”

“Okay.” His mouth twitches. “Just checking we’re on the same page.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it now. The anger has been worn down by tears and explanations and the simple fact of being held. What’s left is mostly exhaustion, and the strange, fragile relief of finding him exactly where you thought he’d be. Chan seems to read that on your face, too.

“Come sit down,” he says gently. “Before you fall over and I have to rescue you from dry land as well.”

“I’d never recover from the embarrassment.”

“No, but I would absolutely hold it over your head forever.”

He keeps one arm around your shoulders as he guides you the few steps back to where he’d been sitting against the cliff. When you lower yourself onto the sand beside him, your body protests immediately, ribs aching, legs weak from the walk. Chan notices and shrugs off the thin zip-up hoodie beside him, folding it behind your back against the rock before you can protest, then sits close enough that your shoulders touch.

For a little while neither of you says anything. The sun is dropping lower now, turning the water molten gold. Waves hush over the sand in a rhythm that feels almost like breathing. Chan’s knee presses lightly against yours. His hand rests palm-up on the sand between you, not touching, but there… Waiting. You stare at it for a moment before you quietly slide your hand into his. Chan’s fingers close around yours immediately, a steady, careful grip, warm and sure.

You look out at the sea and say, “I broke up with him.”

Beside you, Chan goes very still.

“Yeah?” he asks after a moment, voice deliberately neutral.

You nod. “At the hospital.”

He squeezes your hand once. “How are you feeling about it?”

You let out a long breath.

“Sad,” you admit. “And not sad. Guilty. Relieved. Mostly tired.” You glance down at your lap. “I think I stopped being properly heartbroken somewhere between him making fun of me for being scared and him trying to drown me.”

Chan’s jaw tightens at the last part, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I just feel stupid,” you finish.

His head turns sharply. “For what?”

“For not leaving sooner. For not seeing it properly. For…” You shrug one shoulder. “For still needing a minute to grieve someone who did something unforgivable.”

Chan is quiet for a beat before he says, “You’re allowed to grieve the version of him you thought you had.”

Its simplicity catches you off guard, and you turn quickly to look at him. He’s watching the sea when he says it, not you, like he’s trying to give you the dignity of not being observed while something painful settles.

“You don’t have to justify being sad,” he adds. “It doesn’t mean you made the wrong decision.”

Your throat tightens with emotion, and you squeeze his hand a little harder.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Chan glances at you then, and the look on his face is so open it almost scares you. “You never have to thank me for that.”

The air between you changes. It’s subtle at first - just the awareness of his thumb moving once across your knuckles. The fact that you’re already leaning slightly toward each other without meaning to. The way the conversation has gone soft around the edges, all the sharp hurt worn away until what’s left is this quieter, more dangerous tenderness. You know you should probably move; you know you are one emotional breakdown and one near-drowning and one fresh breakup away from making a truly catastrophic decision, but when Chan lifts your joined hands and presses his mouth gently to your knuckles, you don’t stop him. Your breath catches. It isn’t a kiss as such, just the briefest brush of warm lips to the back of your hand. Still, your pulse goes wild. Chan keeps his gaze on you as he lowers your hand again, and there’s no missing what’s in his face now. No plausible deniability left. No hiding behind swimming lessons, concern, or the convenient intimacy of a rescue.

You can see the want, see the restraint, and see the emotion threaded painfully through both.

“You need rest,” he says quietly, as if he’s forcing himself back to sense. “And probably actual food. And a doctor would murder me if I let you sit out here until it gets cold.”

You blink, still a little dazed. “Did you just use medical negligence as a flirting strategy?”

“It’s all I’ve got.”

A laugh slips out of you, and Chan smiles, standing and offering you his hand.

“Come on,” he says. “I’m walking you back.”

You look at his hand, then up at him. “And if I say no?”

“I’ll guilt you by pointing out that you almost drowned yesterday and can currently be taken out by a flight of stairs.”

You sigh theatrically and place your hand in his. “You’re impossible.”

“Yet here you are.”

He pulls you gently to your feet, steadies you when the movement makes you wobble, and keeps his hand at your waist just a fraction longer than strictly necessary. Neither of you mentions it. He doesn’t let go of your hand on the walk back up the path, and for the first time since waking in that hospital room, the hurt in your chest eases enough for something else to fit beside it.

Not peace. Not yet.

But maybe the beginning of it.

Chan does walk you back… And somehow ends up staying.

It isn’t dramatic. There’s no grand declaration, no awkward pause in the doorway where either of you pretends this is just a quick check-in before he leaves. He gets you up the stairs to the apartment with one hand at your back and the other wrapped around yours, makes you sit on the edge of the bed while he finds your painkillers and the glass of water you should have had an hour ago, and then gives you a look so unimpressed by the state of your tiny kitchenette that you laugh for the first time all day.

“I was in hospital,” you remind him when he opens the fridge and finds nothing but half a lemon, two yoghurts, and a bottle of water.

Chan glances over his shoulder. “And apparently preparing for the apocalypse.”

“I wasn’t planning to move in.”

“Tragic. Here I was hoping for a full spice rack and at least one pasta sauce.”

You smile weakly as he shuts the fridge and reaches for the takeaway menu abandoned on the counter. “You don’t have to stay.”

The words slip out before you’ve fully decided whether you want them to. Chan looks up, and there’s a beat of silence before he sets the menu down, crosses the room, and crouches in front of you on the bed, elbows resting lightly on his knees.

“I know I don’t,” he says gently. “I want to.”

Your throat tightens. It shouldn’t still catch you off guard, how simple he makes things sound when your head is busy tangling itself into knots.

“I just…” You look down at your hands in your lap. “I don’t want you to feel obligated because I cried on a beach and nearly died.”

Chan’s mouth twitches. “Very persuasive argument for leaving, that.”

You huff out a laugh despite yourself. He reaches out and hooks a finger under your chin, lifting your face until you’re looking at him properly.

“I’m staying because I want to be here,” he says quietly. “Not because I feel sorry for you. Not because I think I owe you. Because after the last twenty-four hours, the idea of leaving you alone in this flat feels objectively ridiculous.”

Something warm and unsteady unfurls low in your chest. You swallow, murmuring, “Okay.”

Chan smiles, small and relieved, as if he were waiting for permission he didn’t want to ask for. “Okay,” he echoes.

He orders food—something bland enough not to upset your stomach and salty enough to make you drink water—and then all but bullies you into showering while he changes the sheets on the bed because, apparently, he can’t bear the thought of you trying to sleep in hospital-smelling clothes and sand-covered linen.

“You’re weirdly bossy for someone who technically works in flip-flops,” you call through the bathroom door while steam fogs the mirror.

“I’m choosing to hear that as flirtation,” he calls back.

Your laugh catches in your sore ribs, turning into a cough and a wince. “Don’t make me laugh, you ass.”

“Noted.”

By the time you emerge in one of the oversized T-shirts you sleep in, hair damp and skin pink from the shower heat, takeaway has arrived, and Chan has somehow made the apartment look inhabited rather than abandoned. The curtains are half drawn against the dark, lamps switched on. Your phone is plugged in on the bedside table, and the little paper bag of hospital medication lined up neatly beside a glass of water like you’re under the care of a very attractive, mildly overbearing nurse.

You stop in the bedroom doorway and stare.

Chan looks up from where he’s setting cartons out on the tiny table by the balcony doors. “What?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrow immediately. “That’s a lie.”

You lean your shoulder against the doorframe. “You’re just very… domesticated for someone who met me because I was having a breakdown next to a resort pool.”

He snorts. “Please. I’m deeply mysterious.”

“You folded my pyjama shorts.”

“Deeply. Mysterious.”

You smile to yourself, hand coming up to hide it before he could see the full extent of it.

He watches you for a second, something soft passing over his face at the sight of it, before he jerks his chin toward the table. “Come eat before your antibiotics start trying to kill you.”

It’s not elegant when you eat together. You sit cross-legged on the sofa with a carton balanced in your lap while Chan steals your spring rolls and pretends he doesn’t know why you’re glaring at him. You take your medication under his supervision, which is humiliating enough that he has the decency to look smug about it, and by the time the food is cleared away and the apartment has gone properly quiet, the exhaustion you’ve been outrunning all day catches up with you in one brutal wave.

Chan notices before you say anything.

“You’re fading,” he says softly from where he’s rinsing chopsticks in the sink.

“I’m fine.”

“You just yawned so hard I saw your soul leave your body.”

“I did not.”

He turns, leaning one hip against the counter, and gives you a look, waiting. You yawn again immediately, and Chan points at you in silent triumph.

“Shut up,” you grumble.

He grins and dries his hands on a tea towel. “Come on, then.”

You frown. “Come on where?”

“To bed.”

The words land with enough force that your brain simply stalls. Chan seems to realise how that sounded about half a second too late.

“To sleep,” he says quickly, ears going pink. “I meant sleep. As in rest. Because you look like you’re about to fall face-first into the rug.”

You blink at him, and he blinks back, but apparently neither of you can survive a normal conversation, because you both burst out laughing at the same time. It hurts your ribs, but it’s worth it.

“Right,” Chan says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I can take the sofa, obviously. Or the floor, if the sofa’s awful. I just meant I’d help you get settled and make sure you’ve got water and—”

“No.”

He stops in his tracks. You’re not entirely sure where the certainty comes from. Maybe the lingering panic of the hospital, or the way the apartment suddenly feels too quiet every time he moves more than a few feet away. Maybe the fact that you haven’t spent a single night alone since nearly drowning and the thought of starting now makes your chest go tight.

“Don’t sleep on the sofa,” you say, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “It’s tiny.”

Chan’s expression softens immediately, and you look away before it can do anything unhelpful to your pulse.

“I just…” You pick at a loose thread on the blanket draped over your knees. “If you’re staying, you could stay properly.”

There’s a beat of silence. When you risk a glance up, Chan is looking at you with an expression so warm it nearly burns.

“Are you asking me to share your bed?” he asks gently.

Heat floods your face. “I’m asking you not to martyr yourself on a two-seater sofa after you’ve spent all day pretending to be Florence Nightingale.”

He smiles, slow and unbearably fond. “That’s not actually an answer.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re very irritating.”

“And yet.”

“And yes,” you mutter. “I’m asking you to share the bed.”

Chan’s smile changes at that – softens, deepens. Loses its teasing edge entirely.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Your heart stutters. He doesn’t make a big thing of it after that. Just checks that you’ve taken everything you need, turns off the main lights, and disappears into the bathroom long enough to brush his teeth with the spare toothbrush you offer him, then comes back looking unfairly comfortable in a borrowed T-shirt and his own lounge shorts.

You are suddenly, acutely aware that there is a man in your bedroom… A very attractive man. In your bathroom.  A man who has already admitted he’s trying not to kiss you. A man you have now voluntarily invited into your bed.

Oh, shit.

You feel like you’ve been hit by a bus and dragged through a swimming pool, which helps to distract you somewhat. Chan seems to understand that balance instinctively as he doesn’t touch you straight away. He slips under the covers beside you carefully, keeping a respectful distance while you settle onto your side facing away from him, and for a few minutes the room is filled only with the soft whir of the fan overhead and the faint hum of traffic from the street below. You thought maybe the quiet would make things awkward. Instead, it makes them too easy. Too soft.

You can feel his warmth at your back even without contact, a steady presence in the dark that loosens something knotted in your chest.

“Hey,” Chan says after a while, voice low in the dim room. “You okay?”

The answer catches somewhere behind your sore ribs, because the truth is, you’re not entirely sure.

Your body hurts, and your head won’t stop replaying the moment you went under. Every time you close your eyes for too long, you feel water rushing into your nose, your mouth, your lungs. And underneath all of that there’s the newer fear, quieter but no less insistent:

This is temporary.

Two more days of holiday, then home and real life. Distance and silence and the possibility that this—whatever this is—might disappear as quickly as it arrived. Your throat tightens at the thought, and you shuffle back slightly towards him.

“Can you…” You stop, embarrassed by how small your voice sounds. “Can you hold me?”

There’s no hesitation.

“Yeah,” Chan murmurs. “Come here.”

You turn toward him, and he immediately opens his arms, gathering you in with the same careful gentleness he’s used ever since the hospital. One arm slides under your head, the other curves around your waist, drawing you close until your cheek is tucked against his chest and your leg slots carefully between his. He smells clean now. Soap, salt, and something warm that is just him. You breathe it in and let yourself melt a little. Chan’s hand settles between your shoulder blades, rubbing slow, absent circles through the cotton of your T-shirt. Not trying to soothe you into talking. Just there, steady and warm and impossibly comforting.

For a while you say nothing. You just listen to the thud of his heart under your ear and the quiet rise and fall of his breathing and try not to think about how badly you’ve come to need the simple fact of him being here.

It doesn’t work.

“Chan?”

“Mm?”

You trace the hem of his shirt between your fingers, eyes fixed on the soft fold of fabric where it disappears into the mattress.

“I have to go home in two days.”

His hand stills for half a beat, then resumes its slow path up and down your back as he says, “I know.”

His calmness catches you off guard, and you tip your chin up enough to look at him. “That’s all you have to say?”

Chan glances down at you, one dark brow lifting.

“What would you like me to say?” he asks mildly. “That I’m going to chain myself to the departure gate?”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and you gently slap his chest, saying, “Don’t joke.”

“I’m not joking. Airport security would absolutely love me.”

You smack his chest weakly again, and Chan catches your hand gently against his shirt and folds it back against his ribs, holding it there. His expression softens when he sees yours.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Talk to me.”

You hesitate. It feels ridiculous to say it out loud. Childish, almost, compared to everything else that’s happened. You nearly drowned. You ended a relationship. You spent the night in hospital. In the grand scheme of things, what if I never see you again after this holiday sounds embarrassingly small.

Yet it sits there anyway, heavy and aching and impossible to ignore.

“I just…” You swallow. “I’m worried that this is it.”

Chan watches you for a second. “This?”

“This.” You gesture vaguely between your bodies, which is difficult considering one of them is currently wrapped around the other. “You. Us. Whatever this is. I’m going home in two days, and you live here and—”

Chan interrupts you with his laughter. It’s not cruel or loud, just a warm, startled little huff against your hair, like something about your panic is unexpectedly endearing.

You pull back enough to glare at him. “Excuse me?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Sorry.”

“You are absolutely not sorry.”

“No,” he admits, still gently amused. “I’m not.”

You stare at him in affronted silence, and Chan’s smile softens when he sees the real worry underneath it.

“Sweetheart,” he says, brushing his thumb over your side where his hand rests at your waist, “this is my summer job.”

You blink quickly. “What?”

“I don’t live here.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow despite your ribs’ immediate objections. “You don’t?”

Chan reaches up to steady you automatically, hand sliding to your lower back as you shift. “No,” he says, looking faintly entertained by your confusion. “I work here for the summer because the pay’s decent and I get free accommodation if I don’t complain too much about tourists doing catastrophic things with inflatable flamingos.”

You stare at him, and he stares back, smile growing as he watches the pieces click together so slowly it’s almost painful.

“You mean…” Your mouth goes dry. “You’re going home too?”

“Eventually, yes.”

“Where?”

Chan’s smile softens, as if he can see exactly where your mind is going now and is trying not to enjoy it too much.

“I’m from Sydney,” he says. You freeze, and he watches you carefully. “That look means something.”

You push yourself up a little more. “Sydney?”

“Yeah.”

“You live in Sydney.”

“Last time I checked.”

Your brain short-circuits because Sydney is not here, and it’s not exactly home either, but it’s close enough to your home city that the train journey is irritating rather than impossible. Close enough that you’ve done day trips there before. Close enough that your best friend once dated someone there and still somehow managed to see them every other weekend.

Close enough that the sudden ache in your chest loosens into something bright and disbelieving.

“That’s two hours from me,” you say.

Chan’s mouth curves. “I know.”

You narrow your eyes. “You know?”

He has the decency to look only slightly smug. “It came up when you were half-lucid in the hospital and ranting about train delays when someone mentioned your address.”

Your jaw drops. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I was on oxygen!”

“And deeply passionate about the NSW TrainLink, apparently.”

Mortification crashes into you so hard you forget your ribs and smack his shoulder. Chan laughs properly this time, catching your wrist before you can do it again.

“You’re evil,” you accuse.

“Maybe a bit.”

“I cannot believe I apparently trauma-dumped my transport grievances while concussed.”

“You weren’t concussed.”

“Not helping.”

He’s still grinning when he brings your hand to his chest and settles it there again, before his expression gentles.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, quieter now, “I was going to tell you anyway. About home. About not living here.”

You search his face. “Why?”

Chan looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “Because I’d like to keep doing this.”

Your breath catches. He says it so simply. There’s nothing big or dramatic about it. It’s just the truth, placed carefully between you.

“Doing what?” you ask, though your voice has gone so soft that it’s almost not a real question.

Chan’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then lifts again before he speaks. “Getting to know you. Seeing you. Taking you on actual dates that don’t involve near-drownings or me yelling at children not to run by the pool.” His hand slides a little higher up your back, warm and steady. “If you want that too, I’m very willing to make two hours work.”

You stare at him. There’s something surreal about how quickly your fear rearranges itself into hope. It’s still fragile—still tangled up with fresh bruises and the wreckage of the last few days—but it’s there, undeniable and bright.

“You’d really do that?” you ask.

Chan’s brows lift. “Travel two hours to see a girl I’m already sharing a bed with? Seems manageable.”

Heat floods your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” His thumb strokes along your side once. “Yes. I would.”

Your eyes sting a little, which feels frankly unfair given how much you’ve already cried. “You say things very casually for someone saying kind of life-altering stuff.”

Chan smiles. “Should I make it more dramatic?”

“No.”

“I could get on one knee. I’m sure your ribs would love the excitement.”

You snort before you can stop it, and he grins before sobering just enough to brush a strand of hair back from your face.

“I mean it,” he says quietly. “I’m not asking you to decide anything tonight. You’ve had enough decisions for one week. But if part of what’s scaring you is the idea that this ends when you get on a plane…” He shrugs one shoulder. “It doesn’t have to. Not unless you want it to.”

The room goes very still. You look at him—really look at him. At the tiredness still living under his eyes, the softness in his face when he looks at you. You feel the careful way he’s holding you, like even now he’s mindful of every sore place. And you realise that, despite everything, he’s offering you something steady instead of something urgent.

Your chest aches for reasons that have nothing to do with chlorine now.

“I do want it,” you whisper.

Chan’s expression changes instantly and your pulse jumps at the intense look in his eyes.

“Yeah?” he asks, voice lower now.

You nod.

“Even if I’m annoyingly smug about geography?”

“Especially not because of that.”

He laughs softly, and then his hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb resting just under your eye as he murmurs, “Okay”.

It’s such a small word, but it feels enormous.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s both of you. Maybe it’s been happening since the cove and this is just the first moment neither of you is too frightened or guilty or half-drowned to stop it. All you know is that one second you’re looking at him and the next Chan is leaning in slowly, giving you every chance in the world to pull away.

You don’t.

His lips meet yours gently - so gently it almost hurts. There’s no urgency in it, none of the frantic relief and adrenaline that’s been chasing the edges of every touch between you. It’s just warmth and care. The soft press of his mouth against yours like he’s been wanting to do this for days and is still treating the moment with the same tenderness he’s treated everything else.

You make a tiny, helpless sound into the kiss and Chan’s free hand tightens at your waist. He kisses you like he’s trying to prove something and protect something at the same time—slow enough not to startle, soft enough not to take more than you can give, but with a kind of aching certainty underneath that makes your whole body hum.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. Your breathing is a mess, but his doesn’t sound much better.

“Well,” Chan murmurs after a second, voice roughened into something that makes your stomach flip, “that probably complicates the friendship angle.”

A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, and it jostles your ribs, making you hiss.

Chan’s eyes widen in alarm, hands hovering over you. “Shit—sorry. Sorry. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” you wheeze, still laughing. “You just made out with me and then said friendship angle.”

He looks offended. “I’m trying to keep things light.”

“You’re terrible at it.”

“And yet you kissed me back.”

You smile so hard your cheeks hurt. Then, because the exhaustion is finally winning and your body has started to sink into that heavy, drifting ache that comes right before sleep, you tuck yourself back against his chest and let him pull the blanket up around your shoulders.

Chan presses a kiss to the top of your head, murmuring, “Get some sleep.”

You curl closer automatically. “Only if you promise you’re still here when I wake up.”

His arms tighten around you instinctively as he says, “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

This time, you believe him, and with your cheek over his heartbeat and the knowledge that two hours is not nearly enough to lose someone you’ve just found, you finally let your eyes close.

You wake to warmth.

It’s not the sun, though there’s plenty of that leaking gold around the edges of the curtains. It’s not the fan overhead either, turning lazily in the thick morning air.

It’s him.

Chan is still there. One arm is tucked under your head, the other wrapped around your waist beneath the blanket, his chest warm against your back and his breath slow and even at the nape of your neck. At some point in the night, you must have wriggled closer, because you’re practically folded into him now, your legs tangled, your hand resting over his where it spans your middle.

For one disorienting, sleepy second, you don’t remember anything.

Then it all comes back in a rush.

The pool, the hospital, the cove. His arms around you in the dark. Sydney.

That kiss.

Your heart does a ridiculous little stutter.

As if sensing the shift in your breathing, Chan’s fingers flex lightly against your stomach.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep behind you.

You smile before you can stop yourself. “So are you.”

“Barely.” His nose brushes the back of your neck, warm enough to make you shiver. “I’m considering going back to sleep for another six hours.”

“You’d be a terrible nurse.”

“I’m not a nurse,” he mumbles. “I’m a lifeguard. Entirely different skill set.”

You turn carefully in his arms until you’re facing him, trying not to jostle your ribs too much. Chan blinks back at you through messy hair and sleep-heavy eyes, his face soft and unguarded in a way you’re not sure you’ve seen before.

He looks unfairly lovely first thing in the morning, but you should probably keep that to yourself.

Instead, you say, “You drool in your sleep.”

Chan squints. “Rude.”

“You absolutely do.”

“You’re lying to damage my self-esteem.”

“I’m simply reporting the facts.”

He studies you for a beat, then tightens his arm around your waist and drags you bodily closer until you make an indignant noise.

“Chan—”

“This,” he informs you, voice still husky with sleep, “is what happens to people who slander me before breakfast.”

You laugh, which is a mistake because your ribs protest immediately. Chan’s expression changes at once at the pained look on your face.

“Hey—careful.” His hand is at your side in an instant, thumb brushing lightly over the place just below your ribs, his brow furrowed. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you say quickly, still smiling. “Just laughed too hard.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“It’s okay,” you promise, softer this time. “Just sore.”

Chan exhales through his nose, the crease between his brows easing only a little. Then, because apparently his concern is terminal, he lifts the duvet and peers down at your middle as if he expects visible evidence of pain to present itself on command.

You stare at him blankly as you ask, “Are you inspecting me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s very weird.”

“It’s thorough,” he corrects, then glances up and catches your expression. “What?”

“I nearly drowned, and somehow you’ve turned into someone’s aggressively protective husband.”

Chan goes still for half a second before one dark brow lifts. “Aggressively protective husband?”

You realise what you’ve said approximately one second too late, and you feel the heat race up your neck. “I didn’t mean—”

“I’m not complaining,” he says, and there’s a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth now. “Just trying to work out whether I should be offended that I apparently give off husband energy.”

“You absolutely do not.”

“Wow.”

“I mean—” You flounder. “Not in a bad way. Just in a very bossy, making-sure-you-take-your-medication, checking-the-fridge-like-you-pay-bills-here kind of way.”

Chan’s smile spreads slowly, devastatingly. “So… husband energy.”

“Oh my god, stop talking.”

He laughs quietly, ducking his head enough to press a quick kiss to your shoulder through the T-shirt. It’s a tiny thing, barely there, but your whole body notices. You go very still, and Chan seems to realise what he’s done only after the fact. His mouth lingers for half a beat before he lifts his head and looks at you, gaze suddenly warmer, quieter.

“Morning,” he says softly.

Your stomach flips unnecessarily.

“Morning,” you manage.

For a second neither of you moves.

The room feels different in daylight. Less dreamlike than last night, maybe. Less wrapped in adrenaline and confessions and the soft blur of exhaustion. What’s left now is clearer somehow—him looking at you like he still can’t quite believe he gets to, your body tucked instinctively into his, the memory of his mouth on yours sitting low and warm in your chest.

Then Chan glances toward the curtains and groans dramatically, “We should probably get up.”

You narrow your eyes. “You literally just said you wanted another six hours.”

“I did. Tragically, I’ve remembered you only have one full day left before you leave, and I’d like to make selfish use of it.”

Your heart gives a traitorous little kick. “Selfish use, hm?”

“Mm.” He stretches, all long limbs and warm skin and sleep-rough voice. “Feed you breakfast. Make sure you take your antibiotics. Maybe steal an entire day of your time.”

You try very hard to sound casual. “That’s a lot of ambition for someone who was snoring in my ear ten seconds ago.”

“I do not snore.”

“You absolutely do.”

“More slander. Unbelievable.”

He rolls onto his back and drags you with him until you’re half sprawled over his chest, and for a moment you just lie there, looking at each other in the soft, gold quiet of the room. Then Chan tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and says, “Come to the cove with me.”

Your breath catches. He must see it happen, because his expression softens instantly.

“Only if you want to,” he adds. “No pressure. We can do literally anything else. Stay here. Walk into town. I’ll buy you breakfast and let you bully me over my snoring. But…” He hesitates, thumb brushing once over your cheekbone. “I thought maybe it might be nice. To go back in daylight. On your terms this time.”

The cove.

The sea.

Not a pool. Not chlorinated deep water under a hundred staring eyes. Not the place where your ex pushed you under.

The sea where Chan first told you that you were safe. The sea you’ve only watched from shore since. The sea that still makes something old and frightened twist low in your stomach.

You swallow. “I don’t know if I can.”

Chan’s hand slides to the back of your neck, gentle and grounding. “That’s okay,” he says immediately. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“I know.” You look down at the line of his collarbone, tracing it with your eyes. “I just… I want to. I think.”

There’s a pause before Chan asks, very quietly, “Do you want to try?”

Your throat tightens. You think of your mother and the cold water and panic and years of avoiding anything deeper than a bath. Of the way the sea looked yesterday evening, calm and clear and nothing like the nightmare in your head. Of Chan standing in it with his hands out, never once mocking, never once pushing, always waiting for you to come to him. And you think, with sudden clarity, that you don’t want the last thing water took from you to be this, too. Not this holiday and this fragile new courage you’ve built. Not the chance to step into the sea with someone who makes you feel safe instead of small.

So, you nod. Chan’s face changes in the smallest, softest way at it.

“Okay,” he says.

No big reaction. No triumphant grin. No, I knew you could do it. Just that one quiet word, as if you’ve entrusted him with something precious and he intends to hold it carefully.

He kisses your forehead before either of you can make it weird, then throws the duvet back and climbs out of bed before you can overthink the fact that he just kissed your forehead like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Right,” he says briskly, as though he didn’t just short-circuit your nervous system. “Breakfast first. Bravery second.”

Breakfast happens at a tiny café down the road where the owner seems to know Chan well enough to greet him with, “Back again?” and then looks between the two of you with such obvious interest that you nearly choke on your orange juice.

Chan, the traitor, only grins.

“You come here a lot?” you ask once you’re seated outside under a striped awning, the sea visible in flashes between whitewashed buildings.

“Most mornings when I’m working,” he says, stirring sugar into your coffee before you can reach for it. “Good food, good coffee, and Maria threatens anyone who serves me watery eggs.”

You watch him slide the cup back toward you. “You remembered how I take it.”

Chan glances up, like he’s surprised that would surprise you. “Of course I did.”

Something warm unfolds in your chest. It gets worse when he orders for you too—not because you can’t, but because when the waitress asks if you want something lighter after the hospital, he’s already gently suggesting toast and fruit and something with actual protein in it before you can insist you’re fine. He’s not controlling about it - not even close. Just attentive.

A small distinction, maybe, but one that feels enormous now.

The whole morning is like that. Chan steering you around uneven pavements with a hand at your back, passing you his water bottle without asking when the heat starts to get to you, slowing his stride automatically when you lag on the uphill bits because your lungs still aren’t quite happy. Touching you in a hundred absent little ways that somehow never feel possessive—his fingers brushing your wrist when he wants your attention, his palm warm at the small of your back, his knee knocking lightly against yours under the café table.

And every time it happens, some tiny part of you notices the contrast.

Your ex used to make you feel like an inconvenience whenever your fear got in the way of what he wanted. Chan makes you feel like your fear is simply a fact to work around. Not shameful or dramatic. Just real.

By the time you’re walking the path down to the cove just before midday, sun hot on your shoulders and Chan carrying a tote bag with towels and water and the medication he insisted on bringing “in case you’re annoyingly stubborn later,” your nerves have settled into a low, manageable buzz.

The cove looks different in daylight - softer, somehow. The water is so clear you can see the pale sand beneath it, sunlight scattering gold over the surface. The cliffs throw pockets of cool shade across the shore, and the tide is low enough that the beach is wider than it was last night. There are a few people here today—an older couple reading under an umbrella, two teenagers skipping stones near the rocks—but it’s still quiet enough to feel private.

You stop at the edge of the sand, and Chan notices immediately. He doesn’t say anything at first, just sets the bag down and comes to stand beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment.

You nod, then shake your head.

“Useful,” Chan murmurs.

You huff a laugh, and he reaches down to link his pinky with yours. The tiny gesture nearly undoes you.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit.

Chan looks out at the water with you. “You don’t have to know.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“It’s not meant to be.” His mouth twitches. “It’s meant to remind you that there isn’t a right way to do this.”

You turn to look at him. He’s watching the sea, squinting a little in the sun, hair already ruffled by the breeze. Beautiful in a way that still catches you off guard, but steadier than that too. Safer.

“When we did the pool lessons,” he says, “you trusted me enough to get in, right?” You nod. “Okay. Same principle.” He glances at you then, expression open. “We go as far as you want. If that’s your ankles, brilliant. If it’s your knees, amazing. If you get to the waterline and decide actually you’d rather sit in the sand and throw pebbles at me, I’ll be offended, but I’ll survive.”

A laugh escapes you, and Chan smiles, pleased. “No pressure. No deadlines. No proving anything.”

The knot in your stomach loosens a little at his reassurance, and you take a deep breath before you say, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes.

You spread the towels first, mostly because it gives your hands something to do. Chan strips off his shirt while you’re pretending to be very interested in arranging a beach bag, and the sight of him in swim shorts with sun-warmed skin and broad shoulders and the kind of stomach that should probably come with a warning label does absolutely nothing helpful for your concentration.

You look away so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.

Chan catches you at it anyway, and his mouth curves. “You all right there?”

“Fine.”

“Mm.”

“You’re very smug for someone who folds pyjama shorts.”

“That’s because I contain multitudes.”

You roll your eyes, but your face is hot.

Then it’s your turn.

You’d packed a swimsuit because some stubborn, hopeful part of you knew you might want to try, but pulling your dress off in bright daylight still makes you hesitate. Not because of him exactly, but because of your body. The faint bruising still yellowing at your ribs, the soreness, the vulnerability of bare skin after everything that’s happened.

Chan seems to read every thought on your face. He turns away without being asked, busying himself with opening the water bottle and facing the sea.

“I’m not looking,” he says lightly.

Your chest tightens for a reason that has nothing to do with fear this time.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

“Anytime.”

You change quickly, wrapping your arms around yourself for a second once the dress is off, just to steady the strange self-conscious flutter in your stomach. Your swimsuit is simple and dark, nothing dramatic, but you still feel exposed in it.

When you tell Chan he can turn around, he does. Infuriatingly, he just stares - not in a crude way, not even obviously. Just long enough that you become acutely aware of every inch of skin you’re showing.

“What?” you ask, defensive at once.

Chan blinks like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing. “Nothing.”

“Chan.”

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking about seventeen instead of devastatingly competent. “You look nice.”

Your heart trips over itself. “Oh.”

It’s not exactly poetry, but it still makes you blush. Chan’s gaze drops briefly to your ribs then, and the softness there replaces whatever had been in his face a second ago.

“How sore are you?” he asks.

“Manageable.”

“That’s not a number.”

“I don’t know. A six?”

He winces. “You’re not going in if it’s a six.”

“It’s a six when I laugh or twist. It’s like a three when I’m standing still.”

“Okay.” He considers that. “Then I’m not making you laugh.”

“That sounds impossible.”

He gives you a look. “I’m very serious.”

“You literally made a joke about airport security while spooning me last night.”

“That was emotionally supportive comedy.”

You smile despite yourself, and Chan sighs like you’re proving his point before he holds out his hand. The sight of it does something odd to your breathing – the simplicity of it: just Chan, barefoot in the sand, sun on his shoulders, hand outstretched, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to ask you to trust him. You take it, and his fingers close around yours, warm and sure.

“Come on, then,” he says softly.

The first touch of water around your feet steals your breath. It’s not cold, just cool and sharp over sun-warmed skin, but it’s water, moving around your ankles with a pull that immediately wakes up every old instinct to freeze. You stop dead, and Chan stops with you. There’s no pressure on your hand, no tugging forward. Just stillness.

“Breathe,” he says quietly.

You do. In through your nose and out through your mouth, all whilst the sea laps around your ankles, then retreats, then returns. A rhythm. Not a threat. Just movement.

“It’s shallow,” Chan reminds you. “And I’m right here.”

You nod without looking at him. Another wave curls around your feet, followed by another. After a minute, the panic doesn’t disappear, but it changes shape. Softens at the edges. Becomes something you can stand inside without immediately wanting to run.

“I hate this,” you whisper, echoing your words from earlier in the week.

Chan’s thumb strokes once over your knuckles. “I know.”

“I feel stupid.”

“You’re not.”

“I know, but I feel stupid.”

He hums. “That one I can work with.”

You glance up at him quickly. Chan’s expression is serious, but there’s warmth tucked into it too, a quiet kind of steadiness that says he’ll stand here all day if that’s what you need.

“You know what I think?” he says.

“That you’re about to annoy me.”

“Always. But also, that you’re doing really well.”

Emotion catches you off guard so sharply you have to look away. No one has ever said that to you about this. Not your ex, who treated your fear like an inconvenience. Not the well-meaning relatives who told you to “just try to relax.” Not even yourself.

Chan says it like it’s obvious, like he isn’t measuring your success by how far into the water you go, only by the fact that you’re trying at all.

“Can we go a bit further?” you hear yourself ask.

Chan’s surprised eyes flick to yours, checking. “Yeah?” You nod, and his smile is small and immediate. “Yeah. We can do that.”

You tentatively take steps forward until the water reaches your calves, followed by your knees.  Your heart races the whole time, every inch of progress fought for and fragile, but Chan never lets the panic get ahead of you. He talks quietly as you move, asking about ridiculous things—what breakfast you’d force him to eat if he visited you in your hometown, whether you think seagulls know they’re evil, if he’d survive meeting your best friend—and somehow the normality of the conversation keeps your body from tipping into terror.

By the time the water reaches mid-thigh, you’re breathing hard, and Chan asks if you want to pause. You nod, and he steps closer so the water moves around both of you, his hand still locked with yours. Sunlight flashes over the surface between your bodies. You can feel the sea pulling gently at your legs, the drag of the tide, the old fear still pacing at the edges of your mind.

“I don’t know if I can do more,” you admit.

“That’s okay.”

You look at him, eyebrow arched. “Do you ever get tired of saying that?”

“Nope.”

“Even when I’m being dramatic?”

“Especially then.”

You laugh softly, and this time the pain in your ribs is worth it. Chan’s gaze lingers on your face, then drops to where the water eddies around your waistline.

“If you want,” he says, voice quieter now, “I can hold you.”

Your pulse stumbles. “You’re already holding my hand.”

“I know.” His thumb strokes across your wrist. “I mean properly.”

Heat flickers low in your stomach despite the nerves. The request shouldn’t feel loaded, and maybe it doesn’t to him. Maybe he means exactly what he says—support, stability, nothing more. But one look at his face tells you he knows exactly how intimate it would be, too.

Your mouth goes dry as you whisper, “Okay.”

Chan doesn’t make a big thing of it. He just shifts closer, slowly enough that you can stop him at any point and slides his free hand carefully to your waist. The touch is warm even through the water, broad palm settling against your side with a steadiness that sends a different kind of shiver through you. When you don’t pull away, his arm comes around your back too, bringing you gently against his chest until there’s barely any space left between you. Your breath catches. There’s something surreal about standing in the sea—your greatest fear and your newest source of comfort colliding all at once—and feeling safe because of the way someone is holding you.

Chan lowers his head a little so he can look at you properly. “You with me?” he asks.

You nod.

“Good.” His voice softens. “Because I want you to do one thing for me.”

“What?”

“Lean back.”

You stare at him. “No.”

Chan huffs a laugh. “Very decisive.”

“I’m not floating in the sea.”

“You’re not floating in the sea,” he says patiently. “You’re floating on me. There’s a difference.”

“That sounds fake.”

“It’s not fake, it’s physics.”

“Physics can piss off.”

Chan bites back a smile. “Language.”

You gape at him. “Did you just tell me off?”

“I’m trying to create a calm environment.”

“In the ocean?”

“In the ocean.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. Chan’s grin flashes, quick and bright. Then he sobers and adjusts his hold, one arm firm around your waist, the other sliding up between your shoulder blades.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “I’m not letting go.”

The words hit somewhere deep. You look at him—really look at him—and see no impatience there. No challenge. No expectation. Just trust, offered freely.

You take a breath and very, very carefully, you let some of your weight tip backwards into his arms. Every muscle in your body locks, but Chan just tightens his hold in response.

“That’s it. I’ve got you.”

The water lifts a little under you, buoying your hips, your lower back. Your hands clutch at his shoulders on instinct, nails digging in hard enough that he should probably complain. He doesn’t. He just keeps one arm braced behind you and the other secure at your waist, anchoring you against the sea and against your own panic.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re okay.”

You’re half-floating - not properly, not independently, not anything you’d be able to brag about to literally anyone - but the sea is holding part of your weight, and Chan is holding the rest, and you are not drowning.

You are not drowning.

Tears prick unexpectedly at your eyes.

“Hey,” Chan says at once, misreading the expression on your face. “Too much? Sit up, sweetheart. You can sit up.”

“No,” you say quickly, voice shaking. “No, I’m okay. I just—”

Your throat closes around the rest. Chan stills, and you can feel the exact moment he understands. His gaze softens into something so gentle it almost hurts.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly.

You nod once, swallowing hard. “I’m doing it.”

The smile that spreads across his face is small and unbearably tender. “Yeah,” he says. “You are.”

The tears spill over anyway. Embarrassing, maybe, but you’re beyond caring now. The sea is cool against your skin. Chan’s hands are warm and certain where they hold you. Your body is trembling with effort and fear and something close to triumph, and for the first time since you were a child, you are in open water without feeling like it’s about to take you.

Chan shifts you upright before your ribs can start protesting too much, bringing you back against his chest with one hand splayed between your shoulder blades. You wipe at your face furiously.

“Not a word,” you mumble.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You were thinking things.”

“Only nice things.”

You sniff. “That’s still suspicious.”

Chan laughs softly and tucks damp hair away from your face. “You were incredible.”

Your chest tightens. “Stop that.”

“What?”

“Saying nice things when I’m already emotional. It’s manipulative.”

“It’s honest.”

That steals whatever sarcastic reply you were about to make. For a second, you just stand there in the water, looking at each other. Chan’s hands are still on you - one at your waist, one warm and broad against your back. The sea moves around your bodies in slow, shining ripples. Sunlight catches in the droplets on his lashes, the wet strands of hair falling over his forehead, the curve of his mouth when he looks at you like that—fond and a little awed and maybe just as affected by all of this as you are. Your pulse kicks because you know that look now. You know what it means when his gaze drops briefly to your mouth and then lifts again, checking… Asking.

You tilt your chin up before you can talk yourself out of it and Chan kisses you gently. It’s softer than last night somehow, though you didn’t think that was possible. One hand slides from your back to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing damp skin just below your ear as he kisses you with the kind of care that makes your knees feel unreliable. You make a tiny sound into his mouth, and Chan’s arm tightens around your waist at once, keeping you steady when the sea and your own body both seem determined to turn your legs to mush.

When he pulls back, it’s only an inch to murmur, “You all right?”

You stare at him, breathless. “You cannot ask me that immediately after kissing me in the sea.”

His mouth curves. “Fair criticism.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, quick and sweet and entirely unfair before he ruins the moment by saying, “Though for the record, if you drown because I kissed you too well, that’s going to be a nightmare for the paperwork.”

You burst out laughing. Properly this time, head tipping back, the sound spilling out of you bright and helpless over the water. Chan beams like he’s just won something.

“There she is,” he says.

“Oh my god,” you groan, hiding your face in his shoulder. “If you say that one more time—”

“What? It’s true.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you continue to cling to me in a very boyfriend-adjacent way.”

You pull back just enough to stare at him. “Boyfriend-adjacent?”

“Mm.”

“That’s somehow worse than husband energy.”

Chan looks delighted. “Interesting that you’re the one who keeps bringing up long-term titles.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

No, you don’t, you agree.

The truth of it sits warm and terrifying in your chest.

You stay in the water a little longer after that, though not much deeper. Chan coaxes you through a few more minutes of floating against him, enough that by the time you wade back to shore, your body is exhausted but your fear has loosened in a way that feels almost impossible.

You did it.

Not perfectly. Not fearlessly. But you did it.

The rest of the afternoon slips into something softer. You lie on the towels in the shade while Chan disappears to buy ice creams from a little kiosk up on the road, returning with one already dripping down his wrist and the triumphant expression of a man who believes he’s just performed a heroic act.

“You got pistachio?” you ask in disbelief.

“You said it was your favourite.”

“I mentioned that once.”

Chan shrugs, sitting cross-legged beside you. “And?”

You take the cone from him, trying very hard not to smile too much.

At some point he ends up stretched out on his back with his head in your lap while you card your fingers through his damp hair, and the intimacy of it should probably feel strange considering how recently all of this started. It doesn’t. It feels… inevitable.

He tells you about Sydney—about the flat he shares with two friends from uni, about the café near the harbour that does the best cinnamon buns you’ll ever eat, about how he only took the resort job because his dissertation left him too broke to be picky and one of his course mates knew someone who knew someone.

“You’re at uni?” you ask, playing with the ends of his hair.

Chan squints up at you. “You say that like you’ve just discovered I can read.”

“I don’t know, you spend a lot of time shouting at children not to belly-flop into restricted areas. It doesn’t scream academia.”

“I’m wounded.”

“What are you studying?”

“Physio.”

Your fingers pause in his hair. “Really?”

He nods. “Last year. One more placement after summer and then I’m done.”

You look down at him properly then, this man who held your body together in the water like it was the most natural thing in the world, who knew how to soothe panic without ever belittling it, who notices every flinch and every shallow breath and every time you pretend you’re less hurt than you are.

It makes sense in a way that almost makes your chest ache.

“You’d be good at that,” you say softly.

Chan’s expression changes. He reaches up and catches your wrist, turning his head just enough to press a kiss to the inside of it.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You keep saying nice things like that, and I’m going to become the most insufferable husband.”

You scowl at him and say, “You’re already insufferable.”

“True.”

By the time the sun starts to sink lower, the cove has emptied again.

The older couple has gone, and the teenagers disappeared hours ago. It’s just the two of you now, wrapped in salt and warmth and that strange, suspended feeling of time running out too quickly.

You know you should probably head back. Instead, you stay where you are, sitting shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the water while the tide creeps up and cools your feet, Chan drawing idle patterns against your palm with his thumb.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

You lean your head against his shoulder. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Very.”

He waits, and the patience of it undoes you more than if he’d pushed.

“I don’t want tomorrow to happen,” you admit eventually.

Chan’s hand stills, then turns to lace his fingers through yours. “I know.”

“It feels unfair.” You stare out at the horizon, all molten gold and deepening blue. “That I only just found you and now I have to leave.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles.

“You found me on day one,” he points out.

“Yes, but you were being annoyingly professional and refusing to fall in love with me.”

Chan nearly chokes, and you grin despite yourself.

He turns to look at you, scandalised. “That is an outrageous thing to say to someone who is trying very hard to behave.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

He nudges your shoulder with his, smiling, before his expression softens.

“Leaving tomorrow doesn’t mean losing me,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”

You look down at your joined hands. “I know.”

“You’ve got my number now. My address if you really want it. Mildly concerning amounts of enthusiasm about seeing you again.”

That earns a small laugh, and Chan turns your hand over and presses a kiss to your knuckles, just like he did last night.

“I’m not disappearing,” he murmurs.

The words settle deep, belief settling alongside it. It feels dangerous because believing him means wanting this properly. Not as a holiday thing, not as a bright little bubble to keep separate from real life, but as something that might continue once you’re back home, the sea is far away, and there are no more excuses left.

You don’t voice your words, choosing to just squeeze his hand as you say softly, “Good, because I’m not done with you yet.”

Chan smiles, slow and warm and devastating.

“Excellent,” he says. “I’ve been hoping that.”

The walk back to the apartment is unhurried.

He carries the beach bag again, even when you protest. Stops to buy you chips from a little place on the promenade because apparently sea swimming has made you “look suspiciously peaky.” Kisses your temple while you wait for the crossing light and then acts like he didn’t do anything at all when you stare up at him.

By the time you reach the flat, the sky has gone dusky pink. You shower first while Chan orders dinner. Then he showers while you sit cross-legged on the bed, eating stolen chips from the paper bag and smiling every time you hear him singing badly through the bathroom door.

The evening folds around you in soft pieces after that.

Takeaway cartons on the bed because neither of you can be bothered with the table. Chan stealing your drink and claiming yours tastes better. You tucked under his arm while some terrible reality show chatters in the background and neither of you pays attention because talking to him is better.

At one point, you yawn so hard your eyes water, and Chan glances down at you, where your head rests on his shoulder. “Bed?”

You pretend to consider. “Only if there’s cuddling.”

He looks solemn. “I suppose I can make that sacrifice.”

“Good.”

“On one condition.”

You narrow your eyes. “What condition?”

“That you admit I don’t snore.”

You gasp. “Absolutely not.”

Chan laughs and drags you closer when you try to wriggle away, until you’re half sprawled across him and both of you are grinning like idiots.

It’s different than this morning, almost worse once the lights are out.

Worse because the dark makes everything feel softer, more intimate. Because Chan curls around you from behind the second you settle under the duvet, fitting himself against your back like he belongs there, and you have to lie very still for a moment just to survive it.

His hand slips under the hem of your sleep shirt, not wandering, just warm against your stomach. “Comfortable?” he murmurs against your hair.

“Mm.”

“Ribs okay?”

“Mm.”

“Need anything?”

You smile into the pillow. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who’s allegedly trying to seduce me.”

Chan goes still before choking out, “I’m trying to what?”

You laugh so hard you nearly choke yourself. He makes an offended noise and tightens his arms around you in retaliation, dragging you flush against his chest.

“Go to sleep,” he mutters.

“Make me.”

“I’m literally spooning you. I’m doing all I can.”

You turn in his arms just enough to find his face in the dark, moonlight spilling silver across the pillow between you. Chan’s expression softens the second he sees yours, and there’s no teasing in him now. Just warmth, and maybe a little ache, because tomorrow is coming whether either of you wants it to or not.

You reach up and touch his cheek.

“I’m glad it was you,” you whisper.

His brows draw together slightly. “What was?”

“This holiday.” You swallow. “The cove. The lessons. All of it.”

Chan goes very still before he leans down and kisses you, slow and quiet and a little sad around the edges. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m glad it was you, too,” he says.

Your chest hurts in that lovely, unbearable way feelings sometimes do, so you kiss him again, because words feel too small for it. The kiss deepens only a little before Chan pulls back with visible effort, thumb brushing once over your lower lip.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, voice rough.

“Bossy.”

“You love it.”

You do, probably, but he doesn’t need to know that yet.

So instead, you tuck yourself back against him, let him pull the blanket up around both of you, and listen to the steady beat of his heart as the room goes quiet.

Tomorrow you’ll have to leave. Tomorrow there’ll be goodbye and airports and the awful uncertainty of stepping out of this little bubble and trusting it to survive in the real world.

But not yet.

Tonight, Chan’s arms are around you. Your body is tired in that good, earned way that follows bravery, and for the first time in years, when you think of water, it isn’t only fear that comes.

Sometimes, now, it’s him too.

a/n: ha-- so I've never really drowned (thankfully), so I had to do a bit of research on it? I hope it reads as somewhat believable. I love Poolside Channie and reader -- their banter and communication are goals, I think. What do we think of Part 2?

a/n2: happy for this to be the end, or I can give you guys an epilogue with the airport goodbye and a little bit after that? Let me know in the comments xo

Taglist: @hanniesbubuwife @skrach84 @felixstarz @starrynightviper @mrsleeknowsaurus @2minracha @cchapssaltteok @barbie-girl84 @hannieslovebot @nzzzzzzzzzzzz @mongmongsworld @sparklybunnygirl @lunr-eclipsee @jeonginsfavglazer @hyunjinswifey143 @stolasisyourparent @whights-t @itsraininghyunebuckets @ysljoon @ughyeka @amethystametista

he lets out a groan that could’ve contained stress and tiredness across several generations, and now is released as his eyes flutter close, not quite tired —he wishes he could be that lucky— but itchy in that sleepy way that tells him he’s well over his bedtime.

but, to be fair, could anyone blame him? love makes people a little bit crazy.

“chan-ahhhh,” your voice echoed in the hotel room through his computer, left not too far away from the bed, sitting on the dark desk table there. “muffinnnn,” you teased.

chan knew himself to be a weak man. and a weak man knows no law. or what was it?

“oh noooo,” your voice echoed with that electric sound coming from the computer call. if chan’s eyes were open, he could see you lying on your bed, arms folded beneath your face with one hand holding your face up as you made silly faces at the screen. “baby, your camera’s off.”

a weak man knows no law? no, that can’t be. a something man knows no something. god, english can be such a prick of a language sometimes.

it only came to chan’s head when you started making kissy sounds from your end of the facetime. drowning. a drowning man knows no law. and it only occurred to him because chan would’ve given by now exorbitant amounts of anything, there it be money or else, to be drowning in your kisses as you spoke.

“mmmm,” he hummed all smily, knowing you could hear it from the other end.

“darling,” you mumbled softly, sweet as so many different things that chan would probably get type one diabetes if he tried them all one after the other.

you teased him. “you’re soooo sleepy, mr. chan.” your accusation was met with nothing but silence, so you knew you were right. “you should sleep, honey,” you spoke, softer again.

chan let out tiny whines and moans as he stretched himself.

you hummed, smiling. “mmm, hot boy noises.”

“yes,” he let out before relaxing his body again, now less tense. “your hot boy,” he giggled, the smile rolling off his tone.

there was a bit. two. he turned his head over and looked at the camera.

maybe it was how you were the closest thing he could get to have you there with him, in the flesh, and still, the computer screen could never be enough, or maybe he was just very sleepy indeed, but before he could think too much about it, he let out a soft,

“i miss you so much i get flashbacks of you when i close my eyes.”

and the worst part is that the affirmation wasn’t just said to hear your lovingly cute giggle and the “awww baby” that you let out before, or to see your face all smiley on his computer screen. It was true.

“really?” you asked all giggly, like just the mere thought of your boyfriend thinking of you could turn your heart and your brain into fluffy mush.

it was something like that, to be honest.

“i swear,” he sighed softly, both loving and tired.

“what do you see? Is it like, do you picture me like in dead wife flashbacks, or like, more of a powerpoint of me’s.” you rambled, also starting to feel sleepy.

he snorted, and snuggled into himself, lying on the bed the closest he could be to the computer.

“dead wife?” he let out, “i don’t want my wife to die.”

you cackled, your chest all warm and fuzzy just because he uttered the w-word. “im not dead yet, silly. you don’t know what dead wife flashbacks are?”

maybe chan knew what it was. maybe he’d seen some in a couple of movies here and there. but, it was the perfect excuse to keep hearing your voice and watching you talk as you snuggled against your pillow at the other side of the screen.

he’d be a fool not to take it.

“what are you even talking about.”

you snorted at his tired confussion, and answered the question he was too tired to ask with the necessary questioning tone. “it’s like, in movies, when the main character’s partner dies, usually when they also have a child together, and there’s always like, old videos of usually him recording her while they’re like, on the beach late in the day and the sun is going down and it shines against her and she’s laughing, or something,” you licked your lips, yawning.

he yawned back, the damn thing ever so contagious.

he closed his eyes again, and now tried to imagine you in the way you just described. but, without noticing, he turned around and opened his eyes again, staring at the screen.

“i see my beautiful girl,” he started, his heart softening when he saw your smile on the screen. “she’s all smiley. i see her in a computer screen, lying on her bed,” he chuckled as you started cackling.

“so you just see me in your flashbacks?”

it wasn’t just you. it was you. he didn’t need anything else but you. and he loved you. he loved you, warm, and solid, and equally soft, and tender, and all so… yourself. he’s truly mad for you. and it’s all madness. the one that made him unable to think about all this properly, let alone put it into words —not when there’s so many things left to be said.

he loved you. he’d be nothing but a fool if he didn’t mention the way he was obsessed with every square milimeter of your skin. he wanted to crawl beneath it and cover himself with it like a blanket. he wanted to swim in the ever so shimmery colour of your eyes.

but this was all too much to let out for sleepy, sleepy chan. so he blinked slowly as he looked at you.

“yeah,” he sighed instead, smile still on his face. “no wives killed in the process.”

you let out a soft giggle at his sleepy humour.

“it’s so unfair that your camera’s off,” you then mumbled, your face snuggled in your pillow.

chan shrugged, even though you couldn’t see him. “I turned off the lights, so the camera can’t really see anything. maybe that’s why it turned off.”

“maybe,” you nodded softly.

there’s a beat in which none of you spoke, and then you sighed.

“my love.”

he found himself in awe at how soft the words came out. It tickled his heart, warming it. chan blinked, looking at his computer’s screen.

“i’m so in love with you,” he mumbled. “i miss you so much. two months without seeing you is torture,” he almost whined. “and there’s still a month left.”

“i miss you too. so much.” you smiled sofly, honesty oozing off of it. “i should let you sleep.”

you giggled at chan’s dramatic whine, as you started to drag out the moment you’d need to hang up the call. but you couldn’t help but smile. maybe because you were so in love with your boyfriend he had already drove you mad.

or maybe because of the plane ticket you had, scheduled in a couple days.

but, to be fair, could anyone blame you? love makes people a little bit crazy.

[🔸★💗★🔸]

~kats, who'S POSTING AFTER ALMOST A YEAR?? …yeah, um, sorry, my dudes. this doesn’t mean im back (because writer’s block is still out to fucking catch me and i don’t like making promises i could break) but this short bit came out in a whim and i miss my little tumblr blog corner <3 hope y’all don’t hate me for this one.

catiuskaa, july 2026 ©

He craves the simple, sweet, delightful smell of your apartment. The way your TV is always on even if you’re not watching it. The way every room in the house is spotless except for your bedroom which goes from organized to a disaster in just a few short days.

Seungmin can never get enough of you. Never has been able to, and he never will.

Which is why it hurts so bad that you’re with someone else. You and your boyfriend have been together for four months. Four painful, excruciating months.

The guy doesn’t even understand how good he has it. He does t grasp how lucky he is to have captured your heart.

What is Seungmin supposed to do when he comes over for movie night and that jackass is sitting on the couch next to you? His stomach flips and churns uncontrollably until he makes up some lame excuse to leave early.

Your boyfriend doesn’t even treat you the way you deserve and it boils Seungmin’s blood.

Right before his very eyes, he watches as your chump of a boyfriend drops your hand when you tried to hold it during a big group dinner. Seungmin had been sitting directly across from the two of you at the large table full of a mixed bag of friends.

Innocently, and with the most adorable smile ever, you reached down and laced your fingers with your boyfriends. As if you burned him, he drops your hand and motions down to his food.

“How am I supposed to eat if you’re holding my hand?” he asks with an annoyed tilt to his tone.

“Oh,” you frown, that gorgeous smile of yours was wiped off your face. “Sorry, hon.”

“It’s whatever,” he replies and goes back to the conversation that he was in beforehand.

Meanwhile Seungmin was seething. He watched the entire interaction like some sort of car accident. Does the guy need two hands to eat? What kind of lame excuse was that?

The rest of the night, your mood was different. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes. And your laughter sounded fake and hollow.

No one seemed to notice.

No one except for Seungmin who took it upon himself to go up to the bar and order your favorite drink on his way to the bathroom. He told the waiter not to say anything about him being the one to order it.

It was already in front of you when he returned from the restroom.

“Look, Minnie!” you chirp while he’a sitting down. “The bartender said they made an extra by accident and gave us this drink on the house!”

A rainbow stretches over his heart at how happy you sound. But dark clouds come crashing through just as quickly.

Your boyfriend look down at the drink as you were about to take your first sip.

“Hey!” he calls out and places his hand over the top of the drink before you could even taste it. “You’re the one driving home.”

Your expression fell. “What? But you said you would drive home this time.” You look around the table and lower your voice to keep it between the two of you. “I’ve driven home every time we’ve gone out, I never get to—“

Your boyfriend slides the drink away from in front of you at the same time he kisses your lips gently. You don’t respond to the kiss at all, you don’t even close your eyes. “Thanks, babe. You’re the best.”

He leans away from you and picks the drink up, taking a sip from the straw. His face twists up in a disgusted expression.

“Fuck, what even is this?” he asks, looking down at the drink.

“It’s a Long Island…” you murmur, looking down at the table.

“Who drinks this shit?” He places it down on the table and pushes it away from him.

You do. It’s your favorite drink. You always order a Long Island no matter where you go. How does the guy not know that? What boyfriend doesn’t know his girlfriend’s favorite drink?

What kind of shit head does that?

Seungmin is seeing red. He wants to vault the table and throttle the guy. His shoulders are shaking he’s so angry.

Your demeanor drops even further through the floor, taking Seungmin’s heart with you. No matter what conversation anyone tries to pull you into, you only offer one word answers.

Your boyfriend barely pays any mind to you.

Seungmin nudges your ankle underneath the table. You look up at him with dull eyes. He motions for a writing utensil in the air.

You think for a moment, turning and fishing through your purse until you pull out a pen and hand it to him.

He flips the paper placemat over on the table and draws a tic-tac-toe board on the back. He draws one ‘X’ in a box and then slides it across the table at you.

When you look down, the corner of your lip quirks in a tiny smile. You take the pen and draw an ‘O’ in another box, then slide it back to him.

This continues a few times before the game comes out to a tie.

Wordlessly, he meets your eyes with a cocked eyebrow. You nod. He draws another board and you do it again.

With each X and O that’s drawn on the back of the paper placemat, life returns to your eyes. You even let out a few giggles when Seungmin makes a ridiculously terrible move.

Each and every game comes out in a tie until you make a specific, unbeatable move. Seungmin looks down at the board for a few drawn out seconds.

He bites his lip with a grin. “There’s no move I can do that you won’t win.”

“I know!” you cheer and laugh. “I mastered the technique.”

“You didn’t master shit,” he grumbles in fake annoyance. “You cheated.”

Balking, you gasp. “I never cheat, Kim Seungmin.”

“Well, you just cheated at tic-tac-toe so you’re also a liar.”

“I didn’t cheat!

“Did so.”

“Did n—“ You’re cut off by a hand on your arm.

“We’re going.” Your boyfriend’s voice is gruff, slurred, and a bit agitated.

For what seems like the hundredth time tonight, your face falls when you look at him. “What do you mean? We just finished dinner and I thought that we’re going to the karaoke bar after this.”

“Not anymore.” He grabs your jacket off the back of your chair. “Come on, get your purse, we’re going.”

“But—“

“We’re going.”

Your body tenses and your mouth flies shut.

By the flush that crawls up your neck, Seungmin can tell you’re embarrassed. Embarrassed that you would let someone speak to you this way. Embarrassed because now most of your friends were watching you both closely.

You’ve always hated confrontation.

You take a deep breath and push back from the table, seemingly giving up. Seungmin has had enough.

“I think she wants to stay,” Seungmin says from across the table. “Can’t you call an Uber or have someone else take you home?”

Your boyfriend’s eyes flash with anger. “Hey, why don’t you stay out of our business?”

Seungmin’s nose twitches, he’s gripping the pen in his hand so hard it might snap in half.

“I just think that you’re ignoring the fact that she doesn’t want to leave.”

You look over at Seungmin. “It’s okay, Minnie. I’ll go out another time, promise.”

His gaze softens when you call his name.

“Yeah, Minnie, she’ll go out another time.” Your slime of a significant other slides his arm around your waist and pulls you away from the table.

You only fight his pull for a moment, glaring at the side of your boyfriend’s face before looking over at Seungmin one last time.

You’re apologizing with your eyes. Seungmin can read you too well. The two of you never needed words to communicate.

Then, you’re gone. And everyone else around him continues to talk as if nothing happened.

Seungmin flexes his jaw while he fights back his anger. A small part of him wants to run after the two of you and deck your boyfriend in the parking lot.

But, it’s not worth it. Who knows how you’d react to that.

He looks down at the paper placemat and draws your final ‘O’, drawing the line across to signify your win.

Seungmin doesn’t go to the karaoke bar that night either.

____________________________________

It was the next night when you texted him.

[January 10 1:26 AM]

Y/N: Are you awake?

Seungmin was about three seconds from sleep when his phone buzzed. Normally, he would ignore it and answer in the morning, but something in his brain told him to roll over and check anyway.

His eyes widened at your text, his thumbs flying to answer you.

Seungmin: I am, what’s up?

Y/N: Can you come over?

This late? You’re asking him to come over now? Sure, it’s a Saturday but it’s still strange.

Y/N: Please. I need you here.

Seungmin: I’ll be there in 10

He only took seven minutes to get to your apartment. The other three were spent jogging through the parking lot and up the stairs to your floor.

Only one knock lands on the door before you rip it open.

Seungmin’s heart falls through his chest.

You’re looking up at him with red rimmed, glassy eyes. Tears flowing down your flushed cheeks.

“Hi, Minnie,” you choke out.

Seungmin steps inside and looks all over your body, trying to find any sign of an injury or anything. “What’s going on?” he asks in alarm.

He cups your cheeks and looks in your eyes after kicking the door shut. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” you cry. “‘M sorry if I scared you.” Another sob wracks your chest. You throw your arms around Seungmin, burying your face into his chest. His own arms immediately fly around your body.

“I broke up with him,” you mumble into Seungmin’s hoodie.

It’s shameful how his spirits lifted. Internally, Seungmin wants to pump his fist in the air and jump around. He wants to stand on your balcony and scream victory at the top of his lungs.

But externally, he keeps his cool, one hand moving to rub your back in soothing circles.

Fucking finally.

“What happened?” he asks gently, resting his chin on the top of your head.

You force a dry laugh. “It’s been coming for a while, I couldn’t fucking stand the way he talked to me last night.”

Seungmin laughs under his breath. Yeah, yeah he saw it. He wasn’t the only one that wondered why the hell you were still with the guy.

“He always talked to me like trust. I just…” You sniff and bury your face further into Seungmin’s hoodie. “I think I just liked having someone, you know?”

Seungmin’s heart clenches.

“It was nice having someone who at least pretended to like me like that.”

Do you not see him? Do you not see the way he looks at you whenever you walk into a room? How his entire demeanor perks up by your very presence?

If he had a tail, it would wag whenever you blessed him with your presence.

You let out another sob and hold him closer. “God, why am I crying so much?”

Seungmin grabs both of your upper arms and rubs up and down a few times. “Here,” he says gently. “Why don’t you sit on the couch and I’ll make you some tea, okay?”

Nodding, you pull away from him and wipe at your cheeks with your sweater sleeves. “Yeah, okay.”

He reaches out and uses his own sweatshirt sleeve to wipe at your cheeks with great care. “I’ll only be a few seconds, okay?”

Again, you nod. But your body makes no move away from him. You lean into his gentle touch, craving the closeness of it all. Eyes sliding close, your lip quivers with more cries.

His fingers poke out from the sleeve and run down your tear-stained cheek. His hands are always so warm.

It could be the dead of winter or the middle of summer, his hands were always warmer than yours. But even an ice sculpture’s body held more heat than yours did.

On several occasions, you would shove your hands into Seungmin’s pockets to thaw your frozen digits.

He can still remember last winter where you unzipped his huge, puffy jacket and then zipped it back up with you inside of it, your back to his chest. Seungmin can’t remember a time where his heart was beating faster than that day.

He had warmed you right back up, gladly sharing his body heat to keep you toasty warm. He even went as far as wrapping his scarf around both of you.

The bus came late that night to pick the two of you up from that stop and he was grateful for every single second he got to spend wrapped around you.

You’ve always been his soft spot.

Seungmin cups your cheeks with both hands, thumbs swiping away the tears that keep falling. Your tongue pokes from your lips and then you bring your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Tea will make you better,” he whispers. Seungmin leans forward and presses his lips to your forehead.

The happy sigh that you let out doesn’t escape his notice. It was a sigh that was reserved for when you were relaxing after being tense for so long.

He’s heard it after you’ve kicked your shoes off after a long work day. After the first bite of a hot dinner. After curling up in a cozy blanket on Friday night.

And now when his lips meet your skin.

It wraps around his heart and squeezes even tighter.

He pulls away first and nudges you backwards a bit. “Go sit down.”

“Okay,” you answer with a whisper, turning and making your way to the couch while he moves into the kitchen.

He meanders around like it’s second nature, there’s not a single dish in your kitchen that he doesn’t know where it is.

There’s a pan full of cold food sitting on top of the stove. It looks like it was never served.

So, you haven’t even eaten.

Seungmin clicks the burner on to reheat the food while he switches the electric kettle on.

When he comes in with a full plate of food and hot tea, you’re on your phone with a scowl on your face.

“What is it?” He decides to be nosy.

“He’s texting me.” You don’t look up at Seungmin as he places everything on the coffee table in front of you.

“Don’t answer,” he says simply.

“I’m not. But he’s just…” you trail off. “Being so mean.”

Seungmin’s eyebrows furrow. “Show me.”

You only hesitate for a moment before showing him your phone.

[January 10 2:02 AM]

DON’T ANSWER: I’ll be here when you decide to stop being a bitch and remember you need me.

DON’T ANSWER: As if you could even do any better than me, did you think about that? Have you seen yourself and then looked at me?

DON’T ANSWER: You’re the one who said relationships are all about compromise and some shit. So why are you making all the fucking rules?

DON’T ANSWER: so now you’re not even going to answer??? You’re leaving me on read??

DON’T ANSWER: cunt

DON’T ANSWER: couldn’t even give good head, what good are you for anyway.

The rage Seungmin felt last night is nothing compared to what he feels right now. His hands are shaking with thinly veiled anger. His eyebrows are furrowed so much his face might start cramping.

He grabs your phone away from you and looks closer at the texts to make sure his eyes are seeing this right.

“Don’t say anything,” you say quickly.

“I won’t,” Seungmin replies angrily. His teeth might shatter from how hard he’s clenching his jaw.

Who the fuck says this to someone? Someone with a majorly bruised ego, that’s who.

He takes it upon himself to tap through your ex-boyfriend’s contact and block him. Your phone is thrown onto the coffee table soon after.

You don’t address it. You sip your tea and take an uneasy bite out of your food.

Seungmin’s leg starts bouncing on the floor. He’s never been a particularly angry guy, his emotions are always in check. Usually with situations that get him upset, he lets it roll off his shoulders.

But that’s when it’s about him. This is about you.

You, who finally stood up for yourself and you’re getting shit for it.

The sound of the plate and mug being placed on the coffee table hits his ears.

“Minnie,” you say gently, letting your hand slide up his arm. “I think you’re more upset about those texts than I am.”

Seungmin huffs and bites his lip. “How could he say that shit about you?”

“I wounded his fragile ego, that’s why,” you chuckle dryly.

Your touch is soothing. Like an ice pack on a burn.

“What happened?” he asks, looking over at you. “What happened between the two of you?”

You gulp and avoid his eyes. “After last night when we got home, I didn’t say a word to him, I didn’t have the energy for it. I dropped him off at his apartment and he got so mad that I didn’t stay the night.”

Your legs pull up under you, your hand drops from Seungmin’s arm to wrap around yourself. “He came over tonight since we usually have dinner on Saturdays together and just… everything went to shit before we ate. I told him how he spoke to me and acted yesterday was unacceptable and he just went off on me.”

You’re right, though. It was unacceptable. It was uncalled for, rude, toxic, disgusting, all the above.

“I said I was done. He blew up; spouting all this nonsense about how he’s the best I’ll ever have and blah blah blah.” You pause and let out another dry laugh of disbelief. “It’s funny cause he’s actually the worst. Even my dumb high school and college boyfriends were better than him.”

A small furl of jealousy bubbles in Seungmin’s gut, but he stamps it down.

“Why were you with him for so long, Y/N?” The questions comes out of his mouth before he could stop it. You stayed with the guy for four months, about to hit five.

You swallow thickly. “Loneliness?” You shrug and fiddle with your hands in your lap. “I… I liked the way he looked at me in the beginning I guess. It made me feel wanted.”

How was he looking at you any differently than Seungmin was? He stares at you every single day with his big puppy dog eyes just waiting for you to look up!

Just look up!

“I was…” Again, you hesitate, trailing off and biting your lip nervously. “I was trying to get over someone else truth be told. After pining for so long I couldn’t take the one sidedness of it.”

Seungmin feels his heart crack. God, how much more of this can he take? Even before all of this, someone else had your heart?

“So, it’s like I’m back to square one again.” You run your fingers through your already messy hair.

“You still have feelings for this person?”

“Yeah.” You look around the room and then directly at Seungmin. “They never went away. Maybe that’s why I’m so upset. Not because of my ex but because I have to go back to yearning for him to just look up and see how much I like him.”

He’s trying so hard to be a good friend, he really is. His happiness at your freedom was so short lived. He got, what? Twenty minutes? Twenty minutes of hope.

But he needs to be supportive.

“Y/N.” His voice cracks when he says your name. “You’re… amazing and beautiful and intelligent. I’m sure whoever has your heart would bend over backwards for an opportunity to be with you.”

Your eyes sparkle when he speaks.

Fuck, stop making this harder than it already has to be, please.

“You think so?”

“I know so. If it’s a guy, you just gotta be direct. Look him right in the eye and say ‘I have feelings for you’”

You tongue your cheek and think about something for a long five seconds before speaking up again. You stare at Seungmin directly in the eye and speak.

“I have feelings for you.”

“Yeah, just like that. See? It’s easy.”

“I have feelings for you,” you repeat with a little more feeling. He can’t look at you anymore. It hurts too much.

Seungmin’s head hangs down a bit, hair falling in front of his eyes. “Yeah, Y/N. You got the hang of it.”

“No, Seungmin.” You crawl closer to him on the couch until you’re kneeling directly next to him. You take his face in both of your hands. “I have feelings for you.”

What?

Is the world still turning? Is he awake? Is he interpreting this right? Are you still practicing?

“Huh?” Smooth, Kim, smooth.

“Seungmin, I have feelings for you. I have for so long and I was so scared of losing you as a friend so I didn’t say anything.”

His brain is malfunctioning. His heart surely is going to explode from the fluctuations in his heart rate.

Him? You had feelings for him this whole time? Is he breathing?

“It just seemed like you didn’t feel the same, so I kept it to myself and tried to move on. I’m sorry if this makes things awkward between us.”

“Me?” The word is hoarse when it comes out.

“Yes, you.”

“You have feelings for me?”

“Yes, Seungmin.”

“Oh my god.”

He says it under his breath as his body acts on its own. He grabs your face the same way you’re holding his and smashes your lips together.

It feels so right. Your lips are so soft against his, he could cry. They’re everything he dreamed they would be and more. No amount of daydreaming compares to how it feels to finally kiss you.

His bottom lip slots between both of yours while his hands slide all over your body. They start on your face just for one to thread in your hair while the other comes down to your waist.

Your mouths open and close like mirror images of one another, lips sliding over each other. Your own fingers slide into his hair while the other caresses his jawline as it moves.

He could die right now and he would be happy. Anyone could tell him anything and it would be okay.

Seungmin would give you the world if you asked him to. He’s absolutely on cloud nine, his head in space.

Small hums and groans come from both of your throats the longer your mouths slide over one another. He’s never felt more alive, more awake than he does right now.

He can barely feel his legs.

Seungmin didn’t even realize how much he was leaning into you until you lose your balance and fall back on the couch, his body quickly coming up to hover over yours.

Your lips don’t stay separated for long at all.

When they meet again, your tongue slides along his lips and Seungmin swears he hears angels singing. You taste like tea and happiness.

Your tongues tango for a while. His chest flush against yours. Can you feel his heart hammering against his rib cage? Can you taste the years of desperation on his lips?

All this time he thought you were just ships passing in the night.

“I’ve loved you for so long, Y/N,” he murmurs into your mouth. You suck on his bottom lip and a shiver races up Seungmin’s spine. “You’re the one that needed to look up, idiot.”

Pulling back, you stare up at him like he hung the moon.

“Do you mean it?” Your fingers trail over his face, tracing the soft lines of his features. When they run over his lips, he purses and kisses the pads.

“Every word.” He grabs your hand and holds it to his cheek. “These past few months have been torture, Y/N. I’ve been waiting for so long for you to see me like I see you.”

You gulp and stare deeply into those big, brown puppy dog eyes. “I can’t believe it. This is real, right?”

With a laugh, Seungmin pinches your side with his free hand. You yelp and giggle.

“I should ask you to pinch me.”

You grin wider.

His eyes fall to your lips. Seungmin is only able to control himself for another three seconds before he dips down and captures them with his own once more.

Your smile doesn’t fade even as you wrap your arms around his neck. It’s so contagious that his own grin blossoms against your sweet lips.

The long, heated kisses dissolve into delicate pecks since neither of you can control your happiness. Your lips are stretched too wide to properly interlock them.

The happiness shared between your hearts is overflowing. The dams that were holding back your feelings for years have finally burst.

No longer do you need to hang onto fleeting moments and cling to hoodies forgotten at your apartment.

You sigh. Your happy little sigh huffs out of your nose.

Seungmin’s heart sings with joy, it grows wings and flies from his chest and into orbit. You’re everything he ever needed.

And all he needed to do was look up.

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips.