lurker

Blue. That’s exactly what you’ve been feeling. You’ve been feeling down about literally everything, over analyzing all your life’s choices. Any sort of self-confidence you had, is being eaten away by your insecurities. Breaking down felt like an option at any moment. Your own mind acting as your own personal hell. A prison. 

Your were jobless, basically friendless, boyfriend-less, and hopeless. How did you end up here in this position? The younger version of you once had so much optimism and ambition. Where was she now?

Even after the Thunderbolts team adopted you, much like they did Bob, it did nothing to stop your thoughts. It quite literally caused them to spiral further. It was so easy to believe them. 

While everyone else seemed to be getting along and becoming fast friends, you isolated yourself. Even surrounded by a group comprised of “black sheep,” you still felt like the odd one out. Although each of the Thunderbolts members had a questionable past (something you lacked), they each were skilled and special in their own way. You felt like nothing compared to them.

They only tolerate you.

Now you find yourself aimlessly wandering the halls of the tower. Hoping to somehow walk away from your stupid feelings, almost like you could avoid them that way. Big surprise, it wasn’t exactly helping or working. 

Passing an open doorway, you realize it’s Walker’s office. Glancing inside you see him in his new uniform, leaning against the front of his desk talking to people you’ve never seen. He says goodbye to them and as they walk out, he notices you. When your eyes lock, he gestures for you to come in.

When you’re finally in front of John, he takes a moment to really look at you. “Whoa, hey, are you okay?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed with concern. That does it. Hot tears start to burn your eyes. He quickly notices, pushing off his desk to take you in his arms as you shake your head letting him know you were in fact, not okay. He somehow knows you need a hug.

With your face buried in his chest, he holds you tight, his chin resting on top of your head. One of his hands rests on your back while the other comfortingly holds the back of your head. If you weren’t so in your feelings and touch starved, you’d be freaked out by how tender he’s being. John is known for being an arrogant, smug, stubborn asshole. 

His scent brings you a sense of calm. He holds you, until you’re ready to let go. Once your tears stop, you separate from the hug. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s nothing. I’m just being stupid.”

“Try me.”

Sighing, you concede, telling him about your feelings of inadequacy and loneliness, sparing no details. He listens. 

“You’re kidding? You, not ‘special’? Hate to break it to you, but having powers or super soldier serum running through your veins isn’t what makes someone special. It’s what lives inside your heart. And damn it you have a good one.”

You look up at him now, eyes meeting. You give him a small shy smile. He continues, “Even though you keep mostly to yourself, you think we don’t notice how you show up in your own way? You’re constantly making sure everyone is okay. You’re caring, kind, and smart.”

You bury your face in your hands, embarrassed by his words. You shouldn’t be, but you are.

“I’m sorry if we haven’t told you enough that we appreciate having you around. You are important to us.”

“Thanks Walker. I needed this.”

“Anytime. Just promise me, if you feel like this again, come talk to me.” 

“I will,” you promise making your way out of his office to head back to your room to wash your face and process his words. 

Since your conversation with John, you’ve been feeling better about your place in life with the team and your insecurities. However, you have a new found problem. Thoughts of John Walker have been inhabiting your mind instead. 

Then it happens a few days later…

After separating from his embrace and hearing his kind words, you’re still in close proximity. You look into each others eyes before you’re both leaning in to kiss. It’s soft and gentle, caring. The kiss quickly becomes passionate with his hands moving lower to your ass pulling you closer to his body. Your hands roam across his body: his arms, chest, and abs. Both of you sighing and moaning between kisses. 

You wake up from your dream with a gasp. Oh god. You have never thought about Walker in that way. Sleep never finds you again that night. You spend the rest of the night thinking of what your dream could mean.

The rest of your week doesn’t go any better. Every night you wake up from a dream centering around John Walker as a passionate and doting boyfriend. 

Your dreams have officially freaked you out. You avoid him as much as you can. Anytime you see him, flashes of all the fantasies you have conjured up of the two of you, invade your mind. You’re afraid you’ll reveal your feelings to him before you even have the chance to come to terms with them yourself. You have yet to face the fact that you now have a massive crush on this version of John Walker.  

If you were honest, it looked more like a movie premiere, as if you were ‘Mission impossible’ stars instead of some random delinquents. Valentina had made sure everyone looked like the poster superhero she constantly sold to the press. She wanted you selling that “pristine, untouchable, aspirational” personality. Whatever the hell that meant.

It looked real ... and people, bless their hearts, ate it up.

The fan barricades were organized by sections. One for each team member, labeled by a close up shot of your faces. People were supposed to line up in their favorite's section like it was a damn theme park ride.

John’s section was set to be between yours and Bucky's.

That thought alone had him spiraling slowly. Actually, not slowly, he was going full speed. John spent the whole week picturing it, you and Bucky with endless lines of smiling fans, while he stood there, embarrassed by his section being completely, tragically empty.

The only void in the crowd that wouldn't have a soul standing there waiting for an autograph, or a photo, or at least to insult him.

Anything.

John hadn't been able to sleep. All week he'd been more distant to the team. Not because he was being modest. Not because he had low expectations. But because he was sure, absolutely certain, that nobody would come.

And it was imminent, as much as he disassociated from the date and everything about it, the day still came. He couldn't escape it anymore.

So he took a deep breath.

He adjusted the shield strap on his arm one more time, even though it was already squeezing his skin red beneath the suit from how tight it was. Next, he fiddled with the beret on his head for what felt like the millionth time. A slight tug to the left, then the right ...then left again. Jesus, how many ways could a hat be wrong?

Wait.

Wait if they don't like it?

He rolled his eyes. Seriously? Why did he even care if they liked the hat or not?

They better like the stupid beret.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath. This was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous. He felt like a clown. He threw one glance at you, gathered with the team near the entrance doors. You looked a bit nervous while you helped Ava adjust the gloves that covered her hands.

He looked away before you could catch him staring.

He'd been pacing for the last fifteen minutes like a lunatic in a corner, far separate from everyone. Trying to hide the fact that he was already freaking out and you hadn't even walked out yet.

"You okay over there, Walker?" Yelena shouted, from her spot next to Alexei.

If John wasn't so caught up in his head, he would've noticed there was no actual hint of teasing in her voice, Yelena was too anxious herself to even bother about mocking him right now. Still, he threw her that ironic dry laugh he knew pissed people off.

He was very visibly not okay, which was already embarrassing enough, so he couldn't even imagine having to say it out loud.

"Oh I'm fabulous, Yelena,” he snapped, waving his hands in the air dramatically. “Just soaking up the magic of the moment."

Aggression was an old habit, one he still couldn’t quite control. At least it was easier than admitting he was spiraling.

Yelena just sighed, irritated, and went back to adjusting her own suit's collar. The stiff leather of the new tactical suit, courtesy of Valentina for this specific event, was scratching her skin and it was not helping her nerves. She sure as hell wasn’t gonna push to deal with an asshole on top of that.

You watched the interaction quietly from your spot next to Ava. You'd been keeping an eye on him the whole time, since all week he'd been acting like he had the plague. Trying to avoid everyone, and snapping at them when he couldn't.

At simple glance you and John were just teammates, like the rest of the group. But some lingering stares, comforting hands on shoulders after rough missions, silent nods between you when you walked past each other on the room’s hallway might say otherwise. Nothing was official, nothing got past those interactions, but there was something there. You knew it, and John sure as hell knew it too, because it wasn’t normal for his heart to skip a beat when you flashed him a half smile in those little moments.

Even the team was suspicious about it, it was no secret that you had more patience with him than anyone in the group.

Of course there were still times when he pissed you off, he was John Walker after all. Times when he would act like an idiot, maybe to you or to someone in the team, and you’d just throw him a glare and leave, because you weren’t entertaining the asshole in him either. And for some reason he couldn’t explain, he actually felt bad after you stormed out.

But then again, aggression was an old habit. A hard one to let go of, especially after his life had fallen apart over the last few years. John had become an expert at dismissing any attempt people had to get close to him with a snark or, in the best case scenario, with a dry "I'm fine."

He was very clearly not fine. Especially today.

You could tell something was off since the day Valentina announced the event, but you knew that if you tried to say something about it he'd bark back like you just stepped on his tail. Just like he did to Yelena, because even if your intentions were good, John was just too deep in his self deprecating head, and nothing was pulling him out of that grave he dug himself.

He was sure today was it for him.

He would just stand there like some washed up loser with a bent shield and a stupid hat, next to people the world actually wanted.

Next to you. That was the worst part.

You'd see it all.

There in the front row, catching every second of his public humiliation. Watching him become the exact joke the world always said he was. A failed Captain America. A failed soldier … friend... husband ... father … the list goes on and on.

This was the moment his new team, and you, especially you, would confirm he was nothing more than a complete failure.

"Hey, John," you said suddenly, as you approached his spot in the corner.

Your hand landed gently on his shoulder, but he still got startled as you snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts. He turned around with wide eyes.

"Oh, sorry," you apologized softly, pulling your hand back to adjust the long sleeves of your suit. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

"You didn't scare me. I'm fine." He snapped, trying to fix his composure way too quickly.

Honestly? at his point not even himself believed it when he said those words.

Time to make a run for it then, he thought, already turning halfway to escape from whatever you were going to tell him. But you grabbed his arm, firmer this time.

"John, wait..."

You kept your hand wrapped around his bicep as you glanced back at your teammates, all stuck in their own heads. Pacing, fidgeting, whispering things to themselves. All except for one … Alexei of course. The only one who looked like he actually wanted to be here. You turned back to John with a sigh.

“We’re all losing our minds right now, John. It’s normal to be nervous.”

You wanted him to hear that. You knew he needed to hear that. He needed to be constantly reminded that he wasn’t alone in this, not now, not ever.

"I’m not nervous,” he snapped, again.

He sighed when you only gave him one of your typical glares. You lifted your eyebrow expectantly, like this time you were ready for him to stop deflecting everything with his attitude. He just rolled his eyes, groaning.

“Look, it’s just ... I’m just … you don't get it," he shook his head, eyes falling to the floor.

He thought you’d be just fine, you wouldn’t even have to try out there. The crowd would fall in love with you, instantly. Hell knows he did, why wouldn’t they?

In his mind, he saw it all too clearly, you walking out and flashing that smile of yours. The one that haunted him at 3 am, the same one that reminded him you deserved so much better than he could ever give you. Not a lost cause like him.

You just stared at him in silence for a moment. You’d always been able to read through John’s layers, to push through that rough exterior to catch a glimpse of the guilt inside, of the way he thought about himself, the way he acted like everyone was inferior to him to hide that crippling insecurity clawing at the back of his throat.

Because those blue eyes could never hide enough. Not from you, at least. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t look at you right now.

“We’re the only ones who get it, John” You whispered, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze.

He kept his eyes glued to the floor, but you noticed the way his breath hitched under the soft pressure of your hand. You fought everything inside you to not launch yourself forward to wrap him in your arms.

God knows John Walker needed a hug.

But before you could follow the intrusive thoughts that told you to just do it, you both flinched at the sudden echo of Valentina’s voice booming loudly through the speakers on the streets.

She started making her over exaggerated team introduction speech.

Everything outside got instantly louder. The cheering, the camera shutters, the shouts from the crowd. All you could think about was that if you could hear everything so clearly, you couldn't even imagine how loud it was inside John's head.

And it was.

As much as he tried to stay grounded to your touch, his gaze kept flicking toward the doors, eyes looking more frantic with every second.

This is it. This is it.

His breath got caught in his throat, and without even thinking he yanked the beret off his head with one hand, while the other raked through his hair, almost pulling it.

You caught on his panic quickly, and moved before it completely overtook him. Without a word, you grabbed the beret from his hand and set it on your own head.

“Hey John!” you called, tilting your chin up like you were modeling it. “How do I look?”

His head snapped at you, eyebrows furrowing instantly as he processed the image in front of him. His eyes flicked just once more to the doors, then settled on your expectant face.

"Be honest, do I look good?" You pushed, trying to keep him distracted. “Bet I even look better than you, huh.”

He huffed at the comment, and for a second, just one second, the panic let go of his throat. His brain stopped freaking out just enough to process the absurdity of it. There you stood, with his dumb hat crooked on your head, clearly too big for you, slipping to one side.

"You look ridiculous," he snarked, reaching to grab it back, but you dodged his hand.

“Excuse me?” You raised your brows, mock offended while taking a step back so he couldn’t take it from you.

“It doesn’t go with your suit,” he stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And it’s too big for you, anyways.”

You laughed, now this was the John Walker you knew. “Yeah, well, almost like it wasn’t made for me.”

“Well duh, obviously," he rolled his eyes, like you were the one not using your brain cells in that interaction.

But when he saw the amused look on your face instead of the typical glare he expected, he was hit with the realization.

His brain cells weren't there either.

And maybe that was the reason he could breathe again. You’d pulled him back from completely freaking out in front of everyone, just like that. His heart still thundered in his chest, but now he didn’t know if it was the anxiety or the fact that you were looking at him with soft, amused eyes and that crooked beret that didn’t actually look that bad on you.

His gaze fixed on the doors again, ready to say something defensive to hide the fact that he was blushing from that moment, but you stepped in before he could unravel again.

You took the beret off your head and walked closer to gently place it back on his, smoothing the blonde hair peaking out the sides of the hat with both hands. Your fingers were soft, careful, and your heart jumped every time you grazed his beard with your palms.

“There you go,” you whispered, finally retracting your hands. “All ready, soldier.”

John was just frozen in place. Speechless. Blushing. Not a single thought behind those clear blue eyes.

Yes, you were definitely the reason his heart was going crazy in his chest.

“That’s your cue! Come on, you have to go!” Mel shouted from the entrance, and John for once was grateful for the interruption so he could try to control the heat in his cheeks.

You turned to the door, matching the panicked expression of your teammates, while Alexei’s laugh boomed through the lobby as he rubbed his hands together. You took a deep breath, hid the horror from your face, and turned back with a smile.

“You got this, John. I’ll be right there with you.”

He swallowed hard, barely holding your gaze. Yeah… that’s the problem.

You would witness him walking out there with no one wanting anything from him. And Jesus, he couldn’t even blame them. He wouldn’t want anything from himself either.

Before he could refuse, you were already walking ahead to the double doors, flashing him a reassuring look over your shoulder. He followed you, hesitantly. Every step toward the entrance felt like marching to the gallows.

“Come on captain, look alive.” Alexei placed his heavy hands on John’s shoulders as soon as he joined the group by the doors, shaking him with excitement. “Do it for the glory!”

John could only nod condescendingly as he muttered a sarcastic ‘woohoo’. You just bit back a smile from your spot, taking a deep breath. It couldn’t be that bad …right?

The doors finally opened, the crisp New York air hitting your warm bodies. The crowd went impossibly louder, and John was pretty sure this was how he finally died.

He braced himself, firm posture, shoulders locked, and one more adjustment to his beret. His heart doing goddamn acrobatics like he was about to be deployed to Afghanistan all over again.

He’d take that over this any day.

No not really, he just needed to lock the fuck in.

“Here are your New Avengers everyone!” Val exclaimed into her mic from her spot on the red carpet, yes a damn premiere carpet, with a cheshire cat smile on her face as she clapped a little too enthusiastically.

John took what felt like his last deep breath, and took one step out, the light instantly blinding his light eyes. He blinked a few times to adjust to the brightness, eyes instantly darting to the distance, checking the side he was supposed to be on for the event.

He had to blink a few more times to make sure what he was seeing was real.

His section was full.

Packed, actually. Shoulder to shoulder. People pressed against the barricades next to his giant poster, with their phones up and stuff in their hands for autographs. He actually saw people pushing to get a better view … of him?

John’s brain short circuited.

What in the actual hell. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Because the single thought of people being in line for hours just to see him, of people loving him like that was probably worse than the hate.

He squinted, deciding it was just too good to be true.

Maybe it was overflow … yeah, that had to be it. Probably Bucky’s section ran out of space. Or yours. That made sense. People just drifted into his section by accident. No way they were all there for him.

You stepped beside him quietly, like you could read his mind, hand brushing against his.

“C’mon,” you whispered softly.

He blinked at you, then at the crowd. His crowd. Letting his eyes scan through them like he wasn’t seconds away from disassociating into another dimension. It was too much. The cheers, shouts from fangirls and fanboys … actual enthusiastic human beings yelling his name like it was a good thing. And somehow he was still convinced there’d been some kind of mistake.

You just gave him a reassuring smile one last time, nudging him forward before you made your way to your own section.

Everyone in the team did the same, taking small steps to drag the actual fan interaction a little bit longer. Except for Alexei, of course. Who ran like a freak toward his section, like he was a football player entering the stadium.

John just huffed, and began making his way to his. As soon as people in his section noticed he was going their way, absolute chaos erupted.

Screaming. Literal screaming.

“OH MY GODDDD–”

“IT’S HIM!” “HE’S REAL–”

“JOHN” “JOHNNY”

His feet moved automatically, dragging him toward his section, past posters of his own face, smug, polished, overly confident, a person he hasn’t been in a long time. Straight into a wave of people who looked like they’d waited their entire lives for this moment.

A couple of girls started crying. One guy near the front looked like he might actually pass out before he even got there. John didn’t even try to hide the confusion on his face.

“What the hell,” he muttered under his breath. “What the actual hell.”

He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he threw up a small wave as he approached, like they taught him in media training. He tried to smile, but all he could manage was a weird showing of teeth with furrowed brows. He got a dejavu, he’s been through this before. But back then he’d been in all of his captain america glory, and after everything that happened since then, he didn’t know how to react to it anymore.

He made it to the front of his section somehow. The barricades were completely swarmed, everyone squishing together just to get a better view, holding notebooks, funko pops, actual tiny shields, anything they could shove in his direction for him to sign.

He reached a girl first, who was leaning over the barricade, waving at plaroid at him like her life depended on it.

“John, oh my god! can you sign my photo!?”

“Me?” he asked back, stunned by the way she was buzzing with excitement.

The girl squealed and turned to her friend, giggling like a teenager. “He’s so funny!!”

“We’ve been waiting for hours to see you,” her friend said, barely holding her excitement too.

Hours? for… me?

John decided it was better if he didn’t say anything this time, because he wasn’t sure he could trust his voice at that moment. So he just nodded, nearly dropping the sharpie the girl gave him.

He checked the polaroid, and for the first time in the whole day, he genuinely smiled. It was a picture of him standing by the New York streets, fully suited, from the time Valentina had them “look over” the pride parade from that year. To her it was just good promo, but to them it was actually one of the few times they didn’t mind doing what she said. If anything, John was sure the idea even came from someone inside the team.

“I took this the first time I ever saw you in person,” she confessed, breathlessly. “You looked so badass and hot and I– wait sorry that’s not … actually you’re really just sooo hot, like, ridiculously hot–“

Her friend smacked her arm before she could continue rambling, and she immediately shut up, all flustered. John just froze mid signature.

“…thank you?” He blurted out, ignoring the way the people around them squealed in agreement.

He didn’t mean to blush, really. But his face was instantly burning, and he could feel it spreading to his ears, neck, everywhere before he could stop himself. He tried to hide it by awkwardly coughing and looking anywhere but the girl's face.

“Here you go, ma’am,” he cleared his throat, finally handing her back the picture and the marker, but before she could grab it, he actually dropped it this time. “Uhh s-sorry …I got it.”

He immediately bent to pick it up, his beret falling to the bright carpet as he reached for the marker on the floor. He grabbed both things, unintentionally groaning when he got back up, his blonde hair flopping slightly in front of his eyes.

People squealed …again. At this point John felt like he was getting flustered to death. He quickly placed the beret back on his head, mimicking the way you neatly tucked his hair before, before awkwardly speaking.

“Sorry, this thing makes my head look weird, right?” He chuckled nervously, grabbing something else to sign so he could at least distract his hands on something.

“Nooo!” “It’s perfect.” “We love it!!” “Better than the other hat!”

A chorus of compliments emerged from the crowd like it was nothing, like he wasn’t fighting back all the voices that told him they were lying and he looked ridiculous indeed.

Okay, his cause of death was definitely going to be ‘blushing excessively’.

After that, time went surprisingly fast. He was doing… okay, all things considered. He hadn’t passed out. No one had been rude to him … yet. If anything, even if his face had this permanent frown from having no idea what on earth he was doing signing stuff and taking selfies like he was some kpop idol, people seemed to like him. A lot.

He successfully made it halfway down the barricade line, still running on nerves, but he was getting through it. Until the vibe shifted.

He clocked this tall man with the corner of his eye, shoving through the fans, knocking a couple arms off the rail without a care in the world.

“Hey, easy!” someone yelled, nearly losing their phone when they got pushed.

John quickly made his way over that spot, where the man had arrived at the front without even sparing a glance at the people he pushed, and had the audacity to wave a ridiculous amount of photos at John.

“Sign all’ese,” he said, practically shoving his phone on John’s face to record the interaction.

All John could do was glare at him, forcing himself not to react. Not in front of the cameras. Not in front of the people who’d waited hours just to see him.

“Oh come on, man, just sign ‘em. It’s your job, right?”

“No,” John snapped, pushing the stack of photos back toward the guy. “You don’t get to push people around like a jerk and still expect something. Especially not from me. Now get the hell out of here.”

The guy looked ready to argue, but John took a step closer, loosening the strap on the shield holster around his arm. He wasn’t going to use it. Of course he wasn’t going to execute someone with his shield again. It was just an “in case” measure.

A hush fell over his section, all phones recording the exchange. From a few feet away, you turned at the sudden shift, your stomach dropping at the sight of John’s tense posture, looking like he was about to punch the man in front of him.

Oh no.

You couldn’t make out what they were saying, all you could hear was the nearby incessant screaming coming from Bucky’s section, the crowd too distracted by his new hairstyle to notice what was happening on John’s side.

“Hey guys, give me a second please …I’ll be right back,” you politely excused yourself from your section, immediately making your way to John.

By the time you reached them, the man pulled something from his jacket’s pocket and shoved it hard against John’s chest. “Then how ‘bout you sign only this one? My favorite.”

John took the folded paper without thinking, just to get him to leave. But when he opened it, everything inside him dropped. A chorus of gasps spread through the crowd, from the people who caught a glimpse of the picture.

It was the moment that marked John’s life forever.

The picture showed him standing over the body of the flag smasher, holding Steve’s prestigious shield with fresh blood dripping off it, his head held high like he was proud of what he had done.

That day. That goddamn day he lost Lemar. And maybe the last part of his sanity too.

The sound of his shield hitting the ground in a loud bang made you flinch. Your eyes darted immediately to his face. John was motionless, staring down at the photo like it had taken him straight back into that day.

Bucky, who had drifted closer in his signing round, almost tripped on the fallen shield on the carpet. He groaned, turning with a scowl.

“Watch your stuff Walker, what are you–"

Bucky’s words got caught up in his throat when his eyes landed on John’s pale face, then the photo in his trembling hands. His head snapped to the man standing in front of them, grinning like an asshole while he still filmed the whole thing.

Bucky didn't even think twice.

"Son of a bitch.“

He ripped the phone from the man's hand and hurled it to the ground, the device completely shattering next to the shield. It didn't even take him a second longer to slam his fist to the man’s jaw, sending him flying backwards.

Loud gasps exploded from everywhere, all the phones switching to Bucky. At least it took people's eyes off John.

“John?” you said gently, stepping in front of him and placing your hands on his arms. “Hey… can you look at me?”

His eyes drifted to yours, but they looked completely lost, hollow. His dry lips parted, trying to say something, but nothing came out.

Behind him, people began chanting Bucky’s name. You peeked over John’s shoulder and saw him trying to leap over the barricade to get to the guy again, but Alexei and Yelena arrived just in time to stop him before you had another member of the team executing someone publicly.

Ava ran up to the group, taking it all in. Her eyes landed on John’s frozen frame and then to you.

“I got him,” you mouthed, and she nodded, turning around to help Yelena.

While the team took care of Bucky, you quickly guided John back into the tower. His feet moved automatically, just following your lead quietly until he felt the warmth of the lobby engulf his body, away from all prying eyes.

That’s when it all hit him.

Suddenly everything was just too much. He violently tore off his leather gloves and yanked the beret from his head to send it flying to the ground. His hands immediately tangled in his hair, pulling hard.

“John, stop–hey … hey, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” You reached for him quickly, peeling his hands away from the hair stands and guiding them down.

You pressed your palms to his shoulders, slowly guiding him to lean against the wall behind him. His back barely touched it, and his body just slid down like the ground gave out beneath him.

You crouched in front of him instantly, noticing the way his breathing changed. He took sharp inhales that got caught halfway in strangled gasps, his chest heaving like he just couldn't catch up with his lungs. His shaking hands shot up to his hair again, tugging it like it would remind him how to breathe again.

The desperation in his wide glassy eyes making your heart shrink.

“Hey, hey … John it’s okay, you’re safe here,” you wrapped your hands firmly around his wrists, guiding them gently away from his head. “You’re safe. I’m right here.”

He gasped for air again, louder this time, throwing his head back against the wall with intentional force. “I-I can’t … I can’t …breathe–“

He fought out of your grip to tear the collar of his suit, shaky fingers fumbling against the stiff fabric like it was choking him.

“I know, I know it feels like that,” you nodded slowly, keeping your voice soft and steady. “I’m gonna try something with you, okay?” you asked, guiding one of his hands to your chest, right over your heart. "Just focus on my heartbeat, John. Can you hear it?"

He shook his head, closing his eyes, trying to shake the noise of the memories, of that specific memory, to push it away enough to focus on the sound of your heart. Your hand kept his pressed against your chest firmly, while the other went up to cradle his face.

"It's okay John, just focus on it.”

He blinked a few times, his ragged breathing was driving him crazy, but he was trying to focus. God he was trying. After a few seconds that seemed like eternity, in the midst of all the fog, he caught something.

"Can you hear it now?" you mumbled, noticing a slight shift in his eyes.

He nodded, trying to follow the erratic rhythm of your heart. It was going too fast, but he still found it grounding.

“There you go,” you cheered softly. “Now we have to breathe John, okay? I got you … just copy me, in and out.”

You inhaled slowly, chest rising under his palm. It was loud enough for him to hear through the loud attempts of gasping for air.

“In…”

He tried his best to inhale air as deeply as you, he really did, but his breath hitched halfway. He gritted his teeth, groaning, immediately beating himself up over it.

Why the hell can’t I breathe? … Jesus, John. It's such a basic task, why can't you just–

Your hand gently tapping his cheek brought him back.

“You’re doing great, John, don’t overthink it … come on, now out…”

Letting the air out was significantly easier, but his lungs ached from the lack of it. So he did his best to take another shaky inhale, this one deeper than the last one.

“There you go, just like that,” you whispered. “Let’s keep going … you got this, John.”

You kept breathing with him, slow and rhythmic, your hand never leaving his so he felt every raise and fall of your chest. After a lot of tries, the panic began to crack around the edges, and his hands shaking eased a little.

He took a moment to focus on everything about you. Your heart beating under his palm, your hand drawing soothing circles on his rough beard, your soft eyes looking at him with no hint of annoyance, just patience. Like he deserved it. Tears prickled his eyes, but he fought letting them fall, he already felt pathetic enough.

Once his breathing slowed down enough after a while, he slowly dropped his head forward until his forehead rested against yours. His uneven breath ghosted over your skin, as well as a couple of tears he just couldn’t hold back.

“I screwed it up,” he mumbled. “I lost it, I fucking lost it.”

You shook your head immediately, letting go of his hand over your chest to cradle his face with both hands. You pulled apart just enough to make eye contact.

“You didn’t lose anything. You had a human reaction to someone being cruel.” you reassured, but he just chuckled bitterly.

“No, I just gave them exactly what they wanted. Look at Walker, look how unstable he is, what a fucking disgrace–“ his voice cracked slightly. “Jesus … I’m humiliating myself in front of everyone all over again.”

“Your reaction was completely valid, John. This is not weakness. It’s not permanent. It’s just your brain reacting to something awful … that’s all.”

He wanted to keep arguing, to tell you all about the big failure he felt he was, how he was too far gone. But there was something in the way you looked at him that cut through the noise, dulling the venom in his thoughts. Even if it was just for a few seconds.

“You … you really didn’t have to–”

“I did,” you said softly, leaning in. “I wanted to.”

You pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, and your lips lingered longer than he expected. Like you wanted to make sure he felt it. And he did.

“You’re not alone in this, not anymore. I got you.”

He blinked, speechless. He couldn’t control the way his eyes welled up again, but this time he didn’t fight it. He let go. His shoulders slumped, and his body leaned into yours like he’d finally allowed himself to be held.

So you held him. Because God knows John Walker needed to be held.

You stayed on the cold floor with him, his face buried in your neck and your hands brushed his hair gently. You didn’t ask him to be strong. You didn’t rush him. You just stayed while the storm inside him passed.

You got this, John.

⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

-

The moment your date says the words “I’m an alpha, you know,” you know you’re texting Joaquin the second you hit the bathroom.

It had already been bad. The restaurant was too dark, the booth sticky, the wine list a joke. He talked over you through the first course, interrupted your story about Sam with something about stocks, and made three separate jokes about therapy—none of which landed.

But the alpha comment? That’s the final nail.

You step away to the restroom, screen already glowing in your hand.

you: abort mission you: send evac you: i’ll throw myself into traffic otherwise

Joaquin doesn’t respond right away, but he never takes long.

When your phone buzzes two minutes later, it’s a single line.

torres: 10 mins. fake emergency ready.

You exhale. Tuck the phone into your clutch. Go back to the table and fake a smile while your date tries to show you something on his phone—an NFT? You don’t know. You don’t care. You nod and laugh and drink just enough wine to blur the edges of your irritation until you see headlights sweep past the window.

Your escape hatch.

“Shit,” you gasp, grabbing your purse. “That was my friend’s car. Something came up—mission-related. Sorry!”

You don’t wait for a response. Just kiss the air beside his cheek and walk fast enough to feel the wind behind you.

Joaquin’s already got the passenger door open when you reach the curb. You slide in without thinking, dress pulling taut across your thighs. You’re flushed. A little buzzed. And when you turn to look at him, he’s already grinning like he’s proud of you.

“Mission successful,” he says, putting the car in drive.

You sigh and sink back into the seat. “You are a gift.”

“I know.”

“You’re also full of yourself.”

He shrugs. “Comes with the territory.”

You glance sideways. He’s in a hoodie and joggers, baseball cap turned backward, hand steady on the wheel. His wrist is tanned, scarred, strong. You think about kissing it. You think about a lot of things when you drink.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“Place we like,” he says. “Comfort food and healing vibes.”

You smile. Of course. Dumplings and bao from the hole-in-the-wall joint you’ve shared after every breakup, every disaster mission, every bad day. It smells like fried heaven and safety. He orders for both of you like always.

“Extra chili oil?” you ask, leaning over the counter, your shoulder brushing his arm.

“Already added,” he murmurs, without looking at you.

You don’t realize you’re still leaning on him until you feel his breath shift. You straighten, suddenly aware of the warmth in your cheeks. Blame the wine.

Back in the car, you balance the takeout bags on your lap and open the windows. The air smells like spring and distant pavement. He hums along to a song on the radio—off-key but sweet.

“Tell me everything,” he says.

You groan. “The man referred to himself as an alpha.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious. Like, looked me in the eye and said, ‘I’m an alpha, you know.’ I laughed and he didn’t.”

Joaquin snorts, head tipped back against the headrest at a red light. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”

“He explained crypto to me. Twice.”

“Jesus.”

“And he kept touching my shoulder like he was going to brand me.”

“You should’ve stabbed him with your fork.”

You laugh, reaching across to slap his chest lightly. “Don’t joke. I considered it.”

“You get real feisty when you drink,” he says, glancing at you with a teasing glint in his eyes. “And touchy.”

You freeze for half a beat. Your hand is still resting on his chest, over the soft cotton of his hoodie, where his heart beats steadily under your fingers.

“I’m affectionate,” you say, trying to play it off. “You like it.”

His voice dips. “Yeah. I do.”

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The air goes thick, just for a moment. Then he taps your hand, a little too gently.

“Come on. Let’s eat before it goes cold.”

-

You end up back at your place. Sitting cross-legged on the floor with dumplings between you, dipping sauces lined up like a battlefield. You’re still flushed from the wine and the laughing. He steals the last pork bao and you fake rage. He fakes surrender and feeds you a bite with his fingers.

“You’re lucky I’m hungry,” you mutter around it.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he fires back.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward—it’s warm. Familiar. You finish your food. End up sitting back against the couch, side by side. His knee knocks yours. You don’t pull away.

“Don’t date losers,” he says suddenly.

You tilt your head toward him. “You offering to set me up with someone better?”

He meets your eyes. His voice is quiet now. “Maybe.”

You open your mouth to say something—something flirty, or funny, or clever—but nothing comes out. Your brain’s gone soft around the edges.

So instead, you sigh and tip your head onto his shoulder. “Next time I text you mid-date, bring a taser.”

He chuckles, settling in. You feel him press his cheek against the top of your head.

“Next time, don’t go on a date,” he murmurs. “Just hang out with me.”

You don’t answer. Your chest is too tight.

You just let your hand find his. Let his fingers curl around yours. And let the silence hold everything neither of you is brave enough to say.

-

The door opens with the ease of someone who doesn’t need permission.

You glance over your shoulder, blinking sleep out of your eyes as the deadbolt turns and Joaquin steps inside your apartment like he’s done it a hundred times before—which, to be fair, he has.

He doesn’t call out right away. Just drops his keys into the bowl by the door, then sets a brown paper bag on the kitchen counter with a quiet thump. There’s a heaviness to the way he moves—shoulders tense beneath the hoodie, jaw tight. Like he’s holding something in his mouth he doesn’t want to taste.

He finally speaks, voice softer than usual. “I brought food.”

You shift upright on the couch, legs bare and half-tucked beneath your worn oversized t-shirt, hair still a little messy from a nap you didn’t mean to take. The room smells like lavender and soy sauce and something unspoken.

He walks into the living room, eyes skimming over you quickly. He notices the sleep in your eyes, the flushed imprint of the couch cushion on your cheek. His mouth twitches.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you lie, rubbing your face. “I was just… resting my eyes.”

He doesn’t press. Just crouches down beside the coffee table, setting out containers from your favorite spot. Garlic noodles. Veggie spring rolls. That crispy tofu he used to mock you for but now steals from when he thinks you’re not looking.

You pull yourself up and sit beside him on the floor without thinking, your shoulder brushing his. Close, like always. Too close for comfort, but not close enough to matter.

“Everything okay?” you ask after a few minutes, your chopsticks hovering over a spring roll.

He pauses, container halfway to his mouth.

You watch his jaw work, the muscles clenching once, twice.

Then he says, “She called again.”

You don’t need to ask who she is. You lower your chopsticks, rest your hand against the cushion beside you to anchor yourself. “What did Lea want?”

He exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a bitter laugh. “To talk. To see me. To maybe—” he waves a hand, “—start over.”

You’re careful. Quiet. “And… are you thinking about it?”

His silence is answer enough.

You try not to show it—how that silence lands like a weight in your gut. How the idea of him going back to her feels like watching a storm come in slow across the water. Inevitable. Distant. But you feel the pressure building anyway.

“She says she misses me,” he murmurs, mostly to the noodles. “That she didn’t get closure.”

You swallow hard. “Do you need closure?”

He shrugs. Doesn’t answer. Just shifts his weight, leans back against the couch behind him, and stares at the muted TV screen playing something neither of you are really watching.

You nod slowly and pick at your food again. “Right.”

You don’t say, You’ve been sleeping on my couch three nights a week. You text me first every morning. You bring me soup when I’m sick and groceries when I’m too tired to shop. You hold my hand when I’m scared, and you never let go unless I make you.

You don’t say, How can you want her when you already have me?

Instead, you clear your throat and ask, “You want a beer?”

He looks at you. For the first time since he walked in, really looks at you. His eyes drift down—over your bare legs, the collar of your shirt stretched loose at the neck, the sleepy flush still in your cheeks. Something flickers behind his expression, there and gone before you can name it.

“No,” he says, voice low. “I’m good.”

You nod again and reach for the remote, turning the volume up a few clicks—not enough to fill the space, just enough to dull the silence.

By the time you finish eating, the light outside has faded to navy. That thick, late-evening blue that makes everything feel closer. Quieter. You’ve both migrated to the couch, feet up, bodies relaxed but angled toward each other.

Joaquin’s slouched low, legs stretched out, hoodie rumpled around his waist. You’ve got one of the throw blankets half-draped over your legs and the other over his lap, tossed there casually when you got cold. Your knees touch beneath the fabric. You haven’t moved.

The TV glows in front of you, flickering shadows across his face. He’s watching, sort of. Mostly, he’s just still. Like he doesn’t want to risk the wrong movement shattering whatever this is.

You glance at him, letting your gaze linger.

He looks tired. But it’s more than that. He looks worn. Like he’s been carrying something for a long time and doesn’t know how to set it down.

“Hey,” you whisper. “You okay?” His answer is too quiet to hear the first time. You shift closer, knees knocking his. “What?”

“I’m just… tired of feeling like I owe people parts of myself.”

Your breath catches. “You don’t owe her anything, Joaquin.”

His jaw ticks. He looks at you then, eyes dark and soft all at once. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not really.

So you move. Carefully. Slowly. You shift toward him and tuck yourself into his side like it’s instinct—like your body already knows the path. He doesn’t flinch. Just curls an arm around your shoulders and lets you lean in, your cheek against his chest.

You stay like that. His thumb drawing slow, idle circles on your arm. His chest rising and falling beneath your ear. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat. A lullaby you didn’t know you needed.

“You’re safe with me,” you whisper.

The words slip out before you can stop them. Quiet. Steady. Heavy with everything you’ve never said out loud.

And for once, he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk or deflect.

His hand—where it’s been tracing slow, thoughtless circles over your arm—goes still. You feel the change in him instantly, like something inside him has turned to face you.

His breath hitches, the faintest catch in his chest. You feel it under your cheek. Then the subtle ripple of a swallow, like he’s forcing something down—emotion, maybe. Or want. Or words that don’t quite make it to the surface.

“I know,” he says, so soft you barely catch it.

You tilt your face up before you’ve even made the choice to do it. You just need to see him.

His profile is half-lit by the television’s glow—his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, the faint crease in his brow still present, even now. He’s looking ahead, but not at the screen. Not at anything.

Just… still.

Your face is so close to his you can feel the ghost of his breath across your lips. Warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

Your noses nearly brush. One twitch closer and they would. Your legs are tangled under the blanket. His fingers still rest against your waist, just under the hem of your shirt, unmoving but firm. Like he doesn’t know he’s holding on, or like he’s afraid to let go.

The air buzzes—hot and tight between you, electric with all the things neither of you have ever said. All the chances you’ve never taken. All the time you’ve spent not doing this.

You wonder if he can feel your heart racing. You wonder if he knows it’s been his name inside it for years.

Your lips part just slightly. Not in invitation. Not exactly. Just… readiness. Waiting. Bracing.

You don’t move.

And neither does he.

But something shifts. Deep and quiet and undeniable. Like the entire room has tilted four degrees and nothing will sit quite right again.

He exhales, low and shaky, and the breath dances across your mouth like a promise almost made.

And still—nothing.

No kiss.

No lean-in.

Just the ache of something so close it feels like it touches every nerve in your body.

You let your head rest against his chest again, slowly. Carefully. Like lowering a bridge that almost caught fire.

Neither of you speaks but you both feel it. The moment that didn’t happen. And the weight of what it means.

-

You wake sometime later, slow and disoriented, caught in the kind of sleep that doesn’t feel like rest.

The room is quiet, except for the low hum of the fridge and the muted murmur of the TV—still playing something you’d long since stopped watching. Outside, distant city sounds bleed in through the windows: a car passing, a siren somewhere blocks away, the low bark of a dog.

Your cheek is pressed against warm cotton. Joaquin’s chest.

Your arm is draped across his stomach. His is curled around your waist, heavy and solid, hand tucked just beneath the hem of your shirt where your skin is soft and bare. His fingers aren’t moving, not quite—but they twitch every now and then, a subtle flex against your lower back, like some part of him is still holding on in his sleep.

You don’t move.

You barely breathe.

It should be uncomfortable—too intimate, too exposed—but it’s not. It’s warm. Familiar. Dangerous in a way that feels like home.

You can feel his heartbeat, steady and slow beneath your ear. It lulls you. Grounds you.

You wonder if he can feel yours. How fast it’s racing. How hard it’s trying not to hope.

You stay like that for a long time, eyes half-closed, watching the shadows dance across the walls. His breath brushes the crown of your head each time he exhales. One of his legs is tangled with yours beneath the blanket. Your thighs are pressed together. Your whole body fits against his like it was made for this.

And you think—This could be everything. This could be it.

If only.

Eventually, your chest tightens too much. The stillness becomes too loud. You feel the weight of your own desire folding in on itself like a collapsing star.

Carefully, reluctantly, you shift.

You slide your arm from across his stomach, moving slowly enough not to wake him. You lift your head from his chest. His fingers twitch again, just slightly, like some part of him senses the loss of you even in sleep.

He stirs, brow pulling faintly. Mumbles something in Spanish—soft, low, slurred with sleep. You can’t quite make it out. Maybe your name. Maybe a dream. Maybe something you were never meant to hear.

Then he rolls onto his back, sighing. The arm around your waist slips away, falls limp beside him. The blanket shifts.

And suddenly the warmth is gone.

You sit up fully, pulling your own limbs close, arms hugging your knees to your chest. Your shirt slips off one shoulder, cool air brushing your skin.

The room feels different now. Too quiet. Too cold. The air between you somehow filled with the ghost of what almost happened.

You stand, slowly, and cross to the window. Arms wrapped tight around yourself. You stare out into the dark city street, but your eyes catch on the reflection in the glass—your silhouette beside his on the couch. You, upright. Him, sleeping.

You, wide awake with everything you can’t say.

He looks so peaceful like that. Eyelashes fanned against his cheeks. Mouth parted slightly. One hand resting palm-up where you used to be.

He looks like yours.

He isn’t.

And that’s what breaks you a little.

Because he feels like home. And you’re still sleeping in the guest room of your own heart.

You press a hand to the cool glass of the window and close your eyes.

And you wonder—how long can something stay unspoken before it becomes unbearable?

How long before the silence between you splits wide enough to swallow you whole?

-

It’s already warm when you walk into the bar, and it only gets hotter.

Bodies sway shoulder to shoulder under the amber haze of low lights. There’s a thin layer of sweat clinging to your collarbone before you’ve even finished your first drink. The bass from the speakers thrums through your chest like a second heartbeat, low and insistent, steady enough to pull you toward it.

He finds you in the crowd without looking.

You spot him first—leaning casually against the high-top near the back, dark shirt clinging to his chest, a chain catching the light at his throat. His curls are still damp, falling into his eyes in soft, messy strands. His smile finds you the second your gaze meets his.

God, you wish he wouldn’t look at you like that. Like he knows something you haven’t let yourself admit yet.

“About time,” Joaquin calls as you slip through the crowd toward him, the familiar rasp of his voice slicing through the music, warm and low.

“You’re early,” you say, sliding into the space beside him.

“Had a feeling you’d be late.” His eyes flick down, briefly, to your bare legs, then back up—slowly. “You wore that dress.”

You glance down at it. Black, short, skin-hugging. You picked it because you liked how it made you feel. And maybe—just maybe—because you knew he’d see it.

You lift a brow. “You got a problem with it?”

“No,” he says, too quickly. His tongue clicks behind his teeth. “Not even a little.”

You look away before he can see what that does to you.

The night blurs at the edges. A round of drinks. Someone from your group orders shots. Laughter curls like smoke in the air. You loosen slowly, like film unraveling from the spool—one beat, one sip, one sidelong glance at him at a time.

He’s magnetic. Always is. People orbit him. But he keeps coming back to you.

His elbow bumps yours as he leans in to whisper something you don’t catch because the music is too loud. You turn your head, and your faces end up too close, his mouth inches from yours.

You don’t breathe.

He just smirks. “Dance with me, mami.”

You shake your head. “No one’s dancing.”

He nods toward the crowd, where couples sway and grind in a barely contained pulse of heat and sweat and need. “They are.”

You hesitate for one breath too long.

Then you nod.

And follow him in.

The music is sticky-slow now, heavy with bass and syrupy synth, the kind of rhythm that coils low in your stomach and spreads like warmth through your limbs.

Joaquin turns to face you as you step into the center of the dance floor. The world narrows. There are people all around you—laughing, moving, bodies pressed close—but the second his hands find your waist, you forget how to think about anything but him.

His touch is grounding—hot and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, fingers pressing in like he’s measuring the shape of you through muscle and memory. He pulls you closer, a smooth drag of your hips against his. His breath is slow and controlled, but his hands aren’t.

You settle your palms on his chest, just over where his heart beats slow and strong beneath your touch. His shirt is soft from wear, clinging in places where the heat has melted it to his skin, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breath under your fingertips.

Your hips begin to move—slow at first. Testing. His body matches yours without hesitation, like he already knew where to find your rhythm.

The space between you disappears.

Your chests brush. His thigh slips between yours, and you let it, let yourself move with him, let your body find that perfect friction where your thighs part and settle over the thick press of his leg.

You roll into him, just once, and the sensation—sharp, electric—shoots through you so fast it steals your breath.

His fingers tighten on your hips.

He leans in, voice low and hot against your ear. “You’re not usually this quiet.”

“I’m not usually this—” you start, then swallow hard. His thigh flexes between your legs. “This drunk.”

He makes a low sound, almost a laugh. Almost a groan. “You’re not drunk.”

“I’m buzzed,” you counter, but your voice is thinner now, breathier.

“No,” he murmurs, lips grazing the edge of your jaw. “You’re feeling me. That’s not the same thing.”

You inhale sharply when he shifts—subtle but deliberate—and the pressure between your thighs spikes. Your pulse thunders in your ears. You grab at his shirt, curling your fingers into the soft fabric at his shoulders, nails digging in just slightly when your hips grind together again.

His hand slips lower on your back. Not quite possessive. But close.

He guides you now, slow and deliberate. Rocking. Teasing. Your stomach clenches with every drag of your body over his. You’re barely dancing anymore. This isn’t for the crowd. This isn’t for the music.

This is you and him—wrapped in heat and breath and restraint that’s seconds from slipping.

“Joaquin…” you breathe.

He pulls back a fraction. Enough to see your face. Enough to make your chest heave from the loss of contact.

His eyes sweep over you—your parted lips, your flushed cheeks, your dazed, hungry stare—and his expression softens into something dangerous. Like he’s remembering every time he wanted you and didn’t touch. Every time you smiled and he looked away. Every time he could have.

He brushes his thumb along your jaw. The pad of it grazes your cheekbone.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

His voice is low. Rough. Edged with something close to please.

You should. You know that.

But his thigh is still pressed between yours, and your dress is still riding up, and your whole body feels like it’s straining toward him, like it needs him.

You don’t tell him to stop.

Instead, your hand slips up the back of his neck, into his curls, soft and damp with sweat. You curl your fingers there. You tug him down.

And then you kiss him.

Your breath catches against his lips. His jaw flexes. His fingers tighten. You kiss him like you mean to end him. Like this has been building between you for years. 

It’s not careful. Not sweet. It’s messy, desperate, soaked in tequila and sweat and all the almosts you’ve survived up until now.

He groans the second your mouth slants over his, low and guttural, like the sound rips out of him without warning. His lips part, tongue swiping against yours in a kiss that’s already too much, too deep, too real. His hands are everywhere—one curling around your jaw, the other flattening low on your back, pulling your hips into his with a grind that has your thighs trembling.

You gasp into him, and he chases the sound, mouth sealing over yours again, swallowing every breath like it’s the last one he’ll get.

The music and the bodies around you disappear. All you can feel is him.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly he’s walking you backward, lips never leaving yours, hands tight on your waist as he guides you off the dance floor. You stumble into the shadows of the bar, around the corner behind a pillar near the back wall. It’s dim. Private. Hidden from view.

He presses you into the wall like he can’t not touch you. His thigh pushes between yours again and you rock down without thinking, chasing friction.

Your dress hikes up your legs, hem catching high on your thighs. The rough fabric of his jeans hits exactly where you need it, and when your hips grind against him, you whimper.

He drags his mouth down your jaw, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your throat. “You’re gonna ruin me mami,” he breathes, voice rough and wrecked. “You don’t even know.”

“I do,” you gasp, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath. His skin is hot, slick with sweat, muscles shifting beneath your fingers as you run your palms up his torso. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

He groans again—head tipping back like he’s trying to catch his breath, like he’s already lost it. His hand slides down, gripping your ass, lifting you until your back arches and your hips grind down on his thigh again, harder this time.

The seam of his jeans presses against your center and it’s too much—perfect in a way that makes your breath catch and your eyes flutter shut.

He must feel it. Must feel the way you shudder. How wet you already are.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re soaked.”

You nod, desperate. Hips still rocking. Mouth parted, panting into his breath.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper. “Please, don’t—”

And he doesn’t. Not right away.

His mouth crashes back onto yours, kiss deeper, rougher, hand sliding up under your dress to grip the back of your thigh, the edge of your panties, fingers digging into the soft heat of your skin.

You’re moaning now, helpless against the press of his body and the way his tongue curls against yours and the thick, perfect pressure of his thigh between your legs. You roll into him shamelessly, chasing that edge, one of your hands buried in his curls, the other dragging down his chest, clutching at anything you can find.

You want him.

Here. Now. Against this wall. In the dark.

You shift, grind down harder, and your head tips back against the brick with a quiet, broken sound.

“Joaquin—”

And that’s when he breaks.

He jerks back like it hurts, chest heaving, eyes wild.

“Fuck,” he says again, this time like a warning. “This isn’t nothing, mami.” 

“What—?” You blink at him, dazed, lips swollen, your thighs still trembling from the loss of him.

He steps back. One foot. Then another. Hands still hovering like he doesn’t want to stop touching you but has to.

“If we keep going…” he pants, voice low and frayed at the edges, “I’m not gonna stop.”

Your body stills. Every nerve ending still sparking. You blink at him, dazed. Still drunk on the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his thigh, the way your body nearly unraveled in his hands.

He lets out a short, shaky breath, dragging a hand through his curls. “Jesus. We’re—fuck, we’re not doing this. Not here.”

You laugh. It sounds breathless. Too high.

“Yeah,” you echo, heart slamming against your ribs. “Yeah, that would’ve been… wow. That would’ve been a terrible idea.”

“Like. Hall-of-fame level bad.”

“Bad decisions in dark corners of bars? Never ends well.”

He nods quickly, swallowing, trying to straighten his shirt, trying not to look at your thighs where your dress is still bunched up, at your lips still wet from his mouth.

“We should, uh…” he gestures vaguely toward the exit, or maybe toward time rewinding.

“Rejoin the group,” you say at the same time. Too fast.

“Right,” he mumbles.

Neither of you moves.

Then you laugh again, too loudly this time, shoving your hands through your hair. “We really need to stop pre-gaming tequila.”

He huffs a laugh, smile twitching, eyes not quite meeting yours. “Next time we’re sticking to beer. And boundaries.”

You nod. “Right. Boundaries.”

You pretend that the word doesn’t land like a bullet in your chest. You tug your dress down. He adjusts his sleeves. And then you walk back into the noise and light, side by side but never touching.

You’re both still flushed. Still buzzing. Still wrecked by what almost happened.

But you say nothing.

Because if you did, it might become real. And you’re not ready for that.

Not yet.

-

The next morning is quiet.

You’d expect a text. Something dumb. Some callback to tequila or dancing or—God forbid—the way his thigh felt between yours.

But there’s nothing.

No meme. No “still thinking about that guy grinding behind us” joke. No voice note where he laughs and pretends his voice isn’t hoarse from moaning into your mouth in the dark.

Just silence.

You wake up still aching. Body heavy with the aftershocks of almost. The taste of him still on your lips like a secret. The place between your legs still tender from where you chased friction against him, so close to coming undone you could barely stand.

You press your face into your pillow.

And you don’t call him either.

-

Two days pass.

You fill them with errands and laundry and the kinds of tasks that feel productive but really just help you avoid thinking.

You keep your phone on you like a lifeline. Check it too often. Try to stop. Fail.

When it finally buzzes with his name, your chest seizes.

Torres: Headed out with Sam for a run. Might be a few days.

No emojis. No voice note. Just… that.

Short. Casual. Dry.

It shouldn’t sting. It does anyway.

You type and delete a dozen replies before settling on:

You: Stay safe.

He doesn’t answer.

-

The next update doesn’t come from him.

It comes from Sam. Mid-afternoon. A phone call you weren’t expecting.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. Tense. “Wanted to give you a heads up. Torres is okay—he’s okay—but he took a hit. We’re bringing him back in tonight.”

Your whole body goes cold.

“What kind of hit?”

“Caught some shrapnel. Shoulder and ribs. Nothing life-threatening. He was conscious the whole time, just banged up. But I know you’d want to know.”

You nod even though he can’t see you. “Yeah. Thanks, Sam.”

Your voice comes out calmer than it should. He hangs up after a few more assurances. But you’re already pacing. Already pulling on shoes. Already at the door before your brain catches up with the fact that you don’t even know where they’re bringing him yet.

-

You find him at the safehouse. Small, tucked on the edge of the city. Sam texted the location twenty minutes later, and you made it there in fifteen.

Joaquin is on the couch when you arrive. Shirtless. Wrapped in gauze. His hair is damp with sweat, curls flattened to his forehead, eyes half-lidded like he hasn’t really slept yet.

He doesn’t hear you come in.

He looks… wrecked. And still, somehow, so fucking beautiful.

You kneel beside the couch before he notices you. Place a hand—soft, careful—on the edge of the cushion.

He blinks. Sees you.

You try to smile.

“Hey.”

His lips twitch. “Hey, mami.” The nickname makes your throat close. It feels different now. Too tender.

You swallow it down. “Sam said you were okay.”

He shrugs. Winces. “Define okay.”

Your eyes sweep over him—slow, searching. Bandages across his ribs. Gauze at his shoulder. Bruises darkening along his side. His fingers twitch slightly, like he’s still wired, like his body doesn’t know how to stop fighting.

“You look like shit.”

He grins. “You always know what to say.”

You reach out, tentative. Brush a strand of hair off his forehead. He leans into it without thinking.

“I would’ve come sooner if—” You stop. Breathe. “I didn’t know.”

His smile fades, just slightly. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Well,” you murmur, hand still in his hair, “too late for that.”

You expect him to tease again. Make a joke. Pretend. But he doesn’t.

His eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your eyes. And for the first time since that night, he looks like he might actually say something real.

Then he exhales, and just like that—it’s gone. “Help me sit up?” he asks, voice thin with effort.

You nod. Slide in behind him, letting him lean against your chest as you help shift him upright. He groans as his muscles pull.

“Careful,” you murmur, arms around him. “Don’t be a hero.”

His head tilts back against your shoulder. His breath fans over your collarbone.

“I missed this,” he whispers.

You stiffen.

“This?”

“Being around you.” A pause. “You smell like home.”

Your heart twists.

You could say something now. Me too. I was scared. I thought maybe you regretted it. I didn’t want to make it worse.

But instead, you laugh—soft, almost shy. “Still high on pain meds?”

“Definitely.”

And that’s the story you’ll both stick to.

-

Later, when the pain meds finally start to pull him under, he grows quiet.

Not just tired—quiet in that way Joaquin only ever gets when he doesn’t want you to know how bad it really is.

His head is heavy where it rests against your shoulder. One arm loosely bandaged, the other draped across his lap. The bruises along his ribs are starting to darken into something angry. His breathing has evened out, but every now and then, he winces when he shifts, like his body won’t let him forget.

You brush your fingers through his curls, soft and slow, and he makes a sound—almost a purr. Eyes closed, lips parted, too relaxed to be pretending anymore.

“You should lie back,” you whisper.

“No,” he murmurs. “Comfortable.”

“You’re going to mess up your back.”

“Don’t care.”

You shake your head but don’t push it. He’s warm against you. Steady. Too much. Not enough.

A few minutes pass in silence, just the soft hum of the fan in the corner and the weight of his body against yours. You think maybe he’s drifted off—his breath is steady, eyelids unmoving.

You shift a little, adjusting your leg under him.

His hand shoots out. Finds yours. Grabs it.

Your heart skips.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

“Stay,” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep. “Just—don’t move.”

You blink, startled. “Joaquin—”

“I’m not sleeping if you let go,” he says, clearer now. Dramatic. Almost pouty. “Swear to God, I’ll fight you with one working arm.”

You stifle a laugh. “You’re literally half-conscious.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t win.”

You roll your eyes and squeeze his hand. “Fine.”

But he doesn’t let go.

Not even after you settle deeper into the couch. Not even after his head tips forward again, breath soft against your collarbone. His hand stays locked with yours—firm, possessive, a silent tether.

Like if he lets go, he might drift somewhere he can’t come back from.

You don’t try to pull away again.

Instead, you trace your thumb slowly across his knuckles. Watch the way his fingers twitch, even in sleep, adjusting to keep you close. He mumbles something too soft to catch—your name maybe, or just a breath of it.

And still, he holds on.

Like he’s afraid you’ll leave if he doesn’t.

Like somewhere deep down, even beneath the denial and the laughter and the half-spoken nothings, he already knows.

So you stay there. Hand in his. Heart unraveling slowly in your chest. And you let him hold on.

Even if neither of you is ready to admit what it means.

-

Joaquin’s healing.

Physically, anyway.

The bruises along his ribs have gone yellow at the edges. The stiffness in his shoulder only shows when he thinks no one’s looking. He walks the stairs two at a time again. Smiles more. Flirts more. His laugh is back—loud, whole, dangerous.

But the space between you hasn’t healed at all.

You still talk every day. You still know his order before he says it. You still bring him protein bars he likes and roll your eyes when he tells you he doesn’t need them.

But something’s changed. And neither of you will name it.

-

He comes by late.

Almost midnight.

He knocks like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the first time he’s shown up at your door since the kiss. Like the air between you hasn’t shifted so fully that even breathing the same space feels dangerous now.

You open the door in your sleep shirt—one of those oversized, threadbare things that hangs off one shoulder and smells like detergent and summer. You weren’t trying to look good. You weren’t trying to tempt him.

But the way his eyes pause on you says you did anyway.

He clears his throat. “Forgot my external charger.”

You arch a brow. “You own, like, three.”

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth tugging into that familiar half-smile. “Yeah, but this one’s my favorite.”

You step aside to let him in. The apartment is quiet. Dim. The glow from the kitchen spills down the hall like a whisper. You move ahead of him without a word, padding barefoot over tile, shoulders loose with exhaustion you don’t quite feel.

You pour a glass of water at the sink, and when you turn, he’s still there—leaning against the counter like it’s habit, eyes following your every movement.

His gaze drops.

To your thighs, bare beneath the hem of your shirt. To the curve of your shoulder where the fabric slips. To the place where your lips part as you bring the glass to your mouth.

You hand him the charger like it’s a lifeline. Like it might give you something to hold onto.

“You’re good now?” you ask, voice light. Easy.

He nods. “Back to mission-ready, according to Sam.”

“That’s good.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. It feels brittle. Forced.

He doesn’t leave.

He lingers in the quiet, something heavy settling into the space between your bodies—familiar and foreign all at once. Then he says it, too casual to be casual.

“Lea called again.”

You blink. Slowly. Like you didn’t hear him.

But you did.

You always do.

Your stomach knots before the words finish landing. That slow, cold twist you know too well. You open the fridge to give your hands something to do. To hide the way your expression falters, just for a second.

You stare into the light, at rows of neatly arranged condiments, and say, “What’d she want?”

Behind you, he shrugs. You hear the soft rustle of fabric. The creak of the counter as he shifts his weight.

“Just to talk,” he says. “Said she missed me.”

You shut the fridge a little harder than necessary. The sound echoes.

You don’t look at him. You just lean your hands on the counter and stare down at the pale stretch of tile, the pattern you’ve memorized. The silence pulls taut between you, like thread stretched to its limit.

You tell yourself: If he wanted you, he’d say something.

You tell yourself: He already had his chance.

But your throat is tight. Your skin is flushed. Your pulse won’t slow.

You take a breath and finally turn toward him. He’s already watching you. Not in the teasing way you’re used to. Not with a smile or a smirk. But still. Quiet. Unreadable.

His eyes catch yours and hold. And in that pause—drawn out, aching, so heavy you feel it in your chest—you wonder if he’s waiting for you to say it.

For you to break first.

Because he’s looking at you like he knows.

Like he’s already read every line of your silence and decided he’d rather live in it than force either of you to say the one thing that might unravel everything.

You blink.

He doesn’t.

And for a moment, the whole world shrinks to the space between you, the weight of your longing, and the truth neither of you dares to name.

-

You start dating again the following week.

At first, it’s defiance. A kind of protest you carry in your posture, your lipstick, the tilt of your head when you smile just a little too easily. You say yes when a stranger buys you a drink. You swipe right on someone who seems decent. You respond to texts with emojis and exclamation points. You even laugh out loud on the first date—partly because he’s funny, mostly because you don’t want to be thinking about anyone else.

But you are.

Always.

Even when you’re sitting across from Eli, who’s all clean lines and expensive cologne, you find yourself watching the door, thinking how Joaquin always shows up ten minutes late with some half-assed excuse and a grin that makes up for it.

Eli’s sweet. Polite. He opens your car door, asks about your work, orders a second glass of wine only when you do. He smiles when you talk, really listens. His teeth are a little too straight. His opinions a little too smooth. His fingers, when they brush yours, make you feel nothing at all.

You say yes to a second date anyway.

Mostly because Joaquin hasn’t asked about the first.

You don’t know what makes you more bitter—the fact that he didn’t ask, or the fact that he clearly noticed.

You catch him glancing at your phone one afternoon when it buzzes on the armrest between you. Just a flicker of his eyes before he looks away. But you see it.

You always do.

He doesn’t say a word.

You don’t either.

You keep talking about the mission Sam wants him on. You keep sipping your iced coffee. You keep acting like the string between your ribcage and his hasn’t grown taut enough to snap.

-

The invitation comes two days later, and of course, it’s her.

You’re on your balcony, ankles crossed, a blanket wrapped around your legs. The sun’s started its slow descent, painting the sky with blush-pink clouds. You’ve got a mug in your hands, something lukewarm and too sweet. You’re trying to read, but your eyes keep skating across the same line.

Your phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: Hey :) Joaquin said you’re seeing someone?? Eli?? Thought it could be cute if we all went out together sometime! Me, him, you, your guy. Like a double date but not awkward. Just fun!

What do you think?

You reread it four times. Your stomach drops on the first. You start to laugh on the second. By the third, you’re wondering if this is some kind of cosmic punishment.

And by the fourth, you feel nothing at all.

You don’t respond. You don’t even move. Your thumb hovers over the screen, motionless, until another message pings—this time from the contact that matters more than it should.

Torres: Lea got excited. Said it might be “healing.” I told her I’d ask you. But we don’t have to.

Your chest tightens at how careful he’s being. How neutral. How unassuming.

You know he’s waiting. Waiting for you to call it off. To say no. To admit it’s too messy. Too weird. Too fucking painful.

But you don’t.

Because you’re not sure what you’re more afraid of: saying no and him pulling away, or saying yes and having to watch him touch her across the table.

You don’t answer right away.

You stay outside until the sun sinks below the skyline and the warmth fades from your mug. By the time you go back inside, it’s already decided.

And somehow, the plan is in motion.

You, Eli.

Lea.

And Joaquin.

-

You meet him for coffee the day before the double date.

Neutral territory. Daylight. Public. All the safeguards in place to keep your heart from doing something stupid.

He gets there first, which is rare. You spot him through the window before you push the door open—head bowed slightly, fingers curled around a paper cup, his other hand idly tapping at the lid like he’s got something restless beneath his skin.

His curls are messy. Sunglasses pushed up into them like he forgot they were there. Chain loose at his throat. Hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms.

Too casual. Too him.

You swallow hard and make your way over.

He stands when you approach. Hands you your drink without looking you in the eye. The contact is brief—warm fingers brushing yours—but your pulse leaps anyway.

You sit across from him and take a long sip, pretending you don’t notice how stiff your spine has gone. How wide the table suddenly feels between you.

“This is weird, right?” you say eventually, with a laugh that sounds thinner than you meant.

He shrugs, still not looking at you. “Only if we make it weird.”

You nod. “Right. Totally.”

A beat of silence stretches between you. You stir your drink even though there’s nothing in it that needs stirring.

“You seem okay,” you say, keeping your voice light.

“I am,” he says. Then he tilts his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours for the first time. “Are you?”

You freeze.

Your fingers tighten around the cup. Your heartbeat stutters.

You look at him—really look at him.

At the soft curve of his mouth, the faint bruise still healing at his jaw. The little freckle just beneath his left eye that only shows when the sun hits right. The way his hoodie collar hangs open just enough to expose the glint of chain against collarbone, skin you remember tasting. Wanting.

You remember how his thigh felt between yours. How his breath caught when you moaned into his mouth. How he pressed you against the wall like you were the only thing holding him up.

You remember what he said—I’m not gonna stop—and how you almost let him prove it.

And you remember the silence that followed. The careful steps backward. The joke. The laugh. The way neither of you brought it up again.

The way it’s still there, buzzing beneath your skin like it never stopped.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

He nods.

Doesn’t press.

Doesn’t call you on it.

But his eyes linger on you a moment longer. Long enough to make your stomach flip. Long enough to make you wonder if he’s trying to ask a different question entirely—and neither of you knows how to answer it.

-

That night, you try on three dresses.

Then four.

Each one gets discarded more violently than the last.

Too short. Too low. Too soft. Too obvious.

You finally settle on a black one. Simple. Clean lines. High neckline. Just enough curve to pretend you’re not hiding in it.

You tell yourself you’re going neutral. You’re being respectful. But really, it’s that you don’t want him to look at you the way he did in the bar. Don’t want to feel the way you did when his thigh pressed up between yours and he moaned into your mouth like he was starving.

Because you don’t know what you’d do if it happened again. If he looked at you like that in front of her. If he touched you like that when someone else is watching.

You pull your hair up and change your earrings three times before giving up completely. Your skin is too warm. Your stomach’s in knots.

And when you check your phone, there’s a text from Eli confirming the time for tomorrow.

Under it, there’s a heart emoji.

And all you can think is:

It’s not from the right person.

You set your phone face down and stare at the mirror, wondering how the hell you’re going to survive sitting next to him tomorrow.

Watching him flirt with her.

While pretending you didn’t already taste what he sounds like when he can’t catch his breath.

-

You arrive first.

Eli’s hand rests at the small of your back as you step into the restaurant—upscale, dimly lit, all amber tones and soft jazz that makes you feel like you’re trapped inside a movie you didn’t audition for. You let him lead you to the hostess stand, let him say your name, let him touch you like it means something.

You feel none of it.

You spot them before they spot you.

Lea’s laughing—head tilted, red lipstick perfect, long nails curled around a wine glass like she’s posing for a lifestyle ad. Joaquin is beside her and he’s already looking at you.

Has been, apparently.

You meet his gaze across the room. One second. Two. Long enough to register the tension in his jaw. The way his eyes flick to where Eli’s hand still lingers on your back.

He doesn’t smile.

Neither do you.

Then she notices you and waves—bright, enthusiastic, like none of this is strange. Like your stomach isn’t already twisting into something ugly.

You follow Eli to the table, plastering a smile on your face that feels like it might crack if anyone looks too closely.

Joaquin stands, pulls your chair out like a gentleman.

“Hey,” he says softly, only to you.

You glance up at him, trying not to breathe in the warmth of him, the way he smells like spice and cologne and something you still dream about.

“Hey,” you echo.

You’re seated across from him, just like she planned—perfect symmetry, like this was supposed to be cute. Eli beside you, smiling easily. Lea beside Joaquin, laughing too loud, tossing her hair like she knows she looks good.

Joaquin hasn’t said much.

He offers short replies when spoken to, but mostly he drinks from his water glass and watches the candles flicker. His jaw’s tense. His smile comes late, if at all. His shoulders haven’t relaxed once since you sat down.

You try not to watch him too closely.

Try not to notice the blue of his shirt—the one that makes his skin look more radiant. The way he shaved, but not too clean. The tiny scar at the edge of his chin that only shows when he tips his head just right.

You try not to think about how his mouth felt against yours.

You fail.

Eli is telling some story about a surf trip to Baja, and you’re nodding politely, sipping wine you don’t care about, when you see it.

Joaquin’s leg is bouncing under the table. Fast. Restless. The way it always does when he’s anxious or overthinking.

You’ve known that tic since you were nineteen.

Without meaning to, without even fully realizing what you’re doing, you shift in your chair and stretch your leg out beneath the table—pressing your calf against his.

The movement is slow. Deliberate. Your knee brushes his first. Then more of you touches him.

The bounce stops instantly.

You feel his body go still. The sharp inhale he doesn’t let out.

You don’t look at him right away but you don’t move your leg either. You stay connected, just like that—calf to calf, knee to knee, warmth pressing into warmth beneath the white linen tablecloth, hidden from the people who don’t know any better.

Eli keeps talking. Lea laughs at something and bumps Joaquin’s arm with hers. He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t lean in either.

You glance up, finally.

And find him looking straight at you.

Not just looking—seeing.

His mouth parts slightly. His brows pull together, just the faintest crease between them. And his eyes—God, his eyes—are full of something unreadable. Something wrecked. Something like regret. Something like realization.

For a second, the restaurant fades.

You’re not on a date. You’re not seated next to other people you don’t want.

It’s just the two of you.

The pressure of your leg against his. The memory of his breath in your mouth. The pulse you can feel between your legs. And then someone says his name—Lea’s voice, light and oblivious—and he looks away.

The moment passes.

But you don’t move your leg.

And neither does he.

-

The night eases into something smoother than expected.

Soft jazz hums overhead. Candlelight flickers low across the table. The air smells faintly of citrus and red wine and something richer beneath it—something warm. Familiar.

Lea’s voice drifts across the conversation, layered with Eli’s easy baritone, both of them carrying on, talking about some new art exhibit, or maybe a weekend hike—they’re words you nod along with, but barely track.

Because across the table, Joaquin says something under his breath and you snort before you even catch the full shape of it. Your glass stills midair. Your mouth pulls into a grin without your permission.

The laugh bubbles out of you anyway.

“I did not almost get arrested,” you say, pointing at him across the candle.

He arches a brow, smug and lazy. “You scaled the embassy gate in a blackout hoodie and forgot you had three knives on you.”

“One was decorative,” you shoot back.

“It was pink.”

“And glittery.”

“And illegal.”

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. The table chuckles around you, but you’re not looking at them. You’re looking at him. And he’s looking right back. His eyes glint—low, amused, golden in the soft light.

It feels like breathing for the first time in weeks.

You don’t even realize your knees are still pressed together beneath the table until he shifts—reaching for his drink, leaning in just slightly—and the press of his thigh against yours deepens.

The contact sparks.

Sharp. Immediate.

You don’t move. Instead, you let your shin slide against his, the slow drag of flesh on denim, heat on heat.

A pause.

Then—you feel it.

The inhale.

Barely a breath. His throat working around it. The soft twitch of his fingers on the glass as if he almost forgot how to hold it.

You look down. Then up. Catch him mid-sip, his eyes cutting sideways toward yours.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

There’s a ghost of a smirk on his lips now. Something private.

And you should look away but all you can think about is the way his hands felt curled around your thighs. The taste of his mouth, hot and impatient. His breath at your ear, the rasp of his voice when he groaned into your throat like he needed you just to stay upright.

His leg shifts slightly. Yours follows. Neither of you flinch.

The others are still talking. Laughing. Clinking glasses.

And between you and Joaquin—beneath the tablecloth, in the quiet hum of your locked knees and sliding calves—there’s a conversation happening no one else can hear.

And you remember, all over again, just how easy it is to fall into rhythm with him. You think about the soft rasp of his voice when he said, “This isn’t nothing, mami.”

And the way he said nothing at all afterward.

And how impossible it’s becoming to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

-

When the night ends, there are no dramatic goodbyes. No outbursts. No tension you can’t smooth over.

The others talk about meeting up again.

You laugh, say something noncommittal. Joaquin opens the door for you as you leave.

He says, “Get home safe,” low and quiet.

You murmur, “You too.”

And when you pass him, your arm brushes his. He turns his head.

But he doesn’t say anything.

And you don’t look back.

-

You’re sitting side by side on your couch two weeks later, two takeout containers balanced across your thighs, legs kicked up on the coffee table, some mindless documentary playing in the background. Joaquin’s thigh brushes yours now and then, like always. You pass the sauce back and forth. You argue about whether or not the narrator’s accent is fake. It feels normal.

You almost convince yourself it is.

Until he says it.

“Lea asked to talk tonight.”

You freeze with your fork halfway to your mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. FaceTime. She said it’s important.”

You don’t ask what it’s about. You already know.

Or at least—you think you do.

You imagine it before he can explain: her, bright-eyed, soft-voiced, asking him to finally make it official again. That this time, she means it. That this time, they’ll try for real.

You imagine his fingers on her waist instead of yours. His smile, easy and golden, reserved for someone else. You imagine how easy it would be to lose him—really lose him—and still have to sit across from him like it doesn’t tear something vital out of you.

You force a nod. “Cool.”

Cool. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you’re not already bracing for something to end.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just glances at you, his eyes heavy, unreadable. His hand twitches like he might reach for yours.

But he doesn’t.

You don’t look at him.

You just keep eating, eyes on the screen, heart sinking slow and quiet into your ribs.

He doesn’t tell you when the call is. Doesn’t say if he’s nervous.

But he doesn’t finish his food either.

And you sit there together, close and silent, pretending this moment isn’t about to change everything.

-

You’re barefoot when he knocks.

The wineglass in your hand is nearly empty. Your legs are curled beneath you on the couch, some show droning on in the background that you’re not really watching. Your phone is face-down on the coffee table, ignored. You’d already decided tonight was going to be one of those quiet, aching nights—where you keep the lights low and pretend the pit in your stomach isn’t growing.

Then comes the knock. Slow. Familiar.

You don’t even check. You already know.

When you open the door, he’s standing there—hoodie half-zipped, curls mussed like he’s been dragging his fingers through them, expression unreadable.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you. Like he’s searching for something. Like he doesn’t know what it is.

You step aside, and he slips past you without a word. His hand brushes yours as he goes by.

Your skin burns.

He drops onto your couch like his body finally gave out—sprawled wide, hands on his knees, head tipped back like he might sink straight into the cushions and disappear.

You stand there for a beat, watching the rise and fall of his chest. His leg bounces—nervous, always. He doesn’t look at you.

You head to the kitchen and pour him the last of the wine, lukewarm now. He takes the glass when you offer it but doesn’t drink.

Instead, he stares at the rim, thumb brushing the condensation.

“She met someone.” His voice is rough. Unfiltered.

“Lea?” You blink, not sure you heard right.

He nods once. You’re stunned. Of all the things you were bracing for—that wasn’t it.

She’s been wrapped around him since the beginning. Even when they were off, she always seemed one emotional voicemail away from crawling back into his lap. And he let her.

You expected a rekindling.

Not this.

You swallow around the twist in your throat. “What… what did she say?”

“Said she met someone a few weeks ago,” he says. His voice is too even. “That she didn’t want to leave things unclear. Said it was time to move on.”

You lower yourself into the armchair across from him, your wineglass forgotten in your hand.

“How do you feel about that?”

He looks at you then. And doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches you. Too long. Long enough that your skin starts to warm beneath his stare.

Your mouth parts like you might say something else, but you don’t. You just watch him watch you.

His gaze drops—for a moment—to your knees, bare and folded under your oversized tee. Then up, trailing over the soft slope of your shoulder where your shirt’s slipping just slightly off. The neckline’s too wide. It always hangs off you like that.

You hadn’t meant to look like this. You hadn’t expected company.

“I’m happy for her,” he says finally, with a shrug that’s too slow to be casual.

You nod, even as your stomach twists. “Are you sure that’s not, like… weird?” you murmur, trying to sound neutral. “I mean—she was always so… into you. And I thought you were maybe—”

He moves. A sudden shift. Not violent. But deliberate.

You stop talking. Because he rises from the couch with that soft, deadly grace he always carries on missions—like he’s not sure what he’s doing until he’s already doing it. And then he’s in front of you, lowering slowly, crouching at the edge of your chair.

His face is level with yours now. His hands rest on his knees. Then one lifts.

You don’t flinch.

He reaches forward, slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers graze the shell of it, warm and callused, and trail down to your jaw.

You can’t breathe. Not really. Not when he’s this close. Not when his touch is gentle like this, like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

His thumb lingers at your jawline.

You try to keep your face still, but you’re sure your eyes give you away. They always do.

He leans in—just slightly. His breath ghosts across your lips. You catch the faintest scent of him: soap, spice, something underneath that you’ve never been able to name. Something that always pulls you in.

The space between your mouths crackles. Charged. Fragile.

You don’t lean in. But you don’t lean back either.

Then—softly, with the hint of a smirk—you hear him say it.

“I’m here flirting with you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “so what do you think, mami?”

And your heart stutters. Because it sounds like a tease. Like the way he always says stupid shit when things get heavy. But his eyes are dead serious. His hand doesn’t move from your face. Your pulse thunders.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because this feels too close to truth. Too dangerous. Too much.

So instead, you smile like you always do when he’s too much. You reach up and gently, slowly, take his hand from your jaw.

“Joaquin,” you say, soft. Neutral.

He lets you. Lets you lower his hand to his lap, though his fingers linger—half-curled around yours for a beat longer than they should.

Then he shifts back, rising to his feet again, sighing like he’s not sure whether to laugh or swear.

You both let the moment go. At least, on the surface. But your chest is still tight. Your lips still burn.

And his eyes stay on you like he’s trying to decide something.

He doesn’t move back to the couch. Just stands there for a second, looking down at you—his hands curled at his sides, that same unreadable expression tugging at the corners of his mouth. You feel the weight of something building, coiling in the air between you.

Then, finally, he asks, “You still with Eli?”

The question is soft. Careful. His voice lower than before.

“What?” You blink up at him.

“Eli,” he repeats, eyes on yours. “You still seeing him?”

You almost laugh. Because of all the things you thought he might say next—that wasn’t on the list.

You lean back against the cushion, exhaling. “No. He ghosted me last week.”

Joaquin’s brows lift. “Seriously?”

You nod, swirling the wine left in your glass. “Haven’t heard from him since our last date. Didn’t really mind, though.”

That gets a faint smile out of him. “Cold.”

You shrug. “Selective.”

A beat of quiet.

He shifts his weight, then lowers himself back onto the couch—closer this time. Not touching. But the air between you has tightened again. His thigh is inches from yours.

You can feel the heat of him.

“Can I tell you something?” he says.

You glance sideways. “You’re gonna anyway.”

He smiles at that. A real one.

“I’ve been thinking about you.”

You freeze. Not visibly—at least, you hope not—but your breath stills in your throat.

“Not just lately,” he adds, voice slower now. “I mean… since the Air Force.”

You turn, staring at him. He’s not looking at you this time. His gaze is on the floor, brows furrowed, lips parted slightly like he’s working his way through the words.

“Back when we were nineteen,” he says. “Sharing shitty MREs in the back of that busted truck in Kuwait. You remember that?”

Of course you do. The dust in your hair. The blistering heat. The cold sweat from nerves neither of you wanted to admit. His thigh pressed against yours in the dark, his shoulder the only thing steady enough to lean on when the sandstorms hit.

You remember his laugh cutting through your exhaustion.

You remember wondering, once, if you’d ever feel safer than when his hand brushed yours in the dark—accidental, but maybe not.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I remember.”

“I used to think about kissing you back then,” he says, quiet. Blunt. Like he’s just letting it fall out now. “Didn’t let myself. Thought it would fuck everything up. Or that you’d laugh.”

“I wouldn’t have,” you say, almost before he finishes.

He looks at you now. You hold his gaze.

Neither of you blink.

His mouth parts, and for a second, you think maybe he’ll reach for you again.

But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

“I was an idiot,” he murmurs. “Letting you get that close and not saying anything.”

You nod. Your throat’s tight. “Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”

The silence stretches. Not empty. Not uncomfortable.

Electric.

Joaquin’s eyes flick from your mouth to your eyes and back again.

And still—neither of you look away.

“I kept thinking I had more time,” he says, voice low.

Your chest aches.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “Not really.”

His hand twitches between you, resting on the cushion. Close enough that if you moved an inch—

You do.

You slide your fingers toward his, brushing lightly, the softest stroke.

He exhales sharply, almost like a choke, and in one breathless motion, he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours—not careful this time, not tentative. It’s a kiss full of wasted years and the ache of almosts. Teeth clashing. Hands greedy. Your wineglass falls to the carpet with a dull thud, forgotten, warm drops soaking the fibers.

Joaquin pulls you into his lap in one motion—your knees straddling his thighs, your fingers already fisting in the fabric at his shoulders. He groans against your mouth, low and guttural, as your hips roll against his without thinking.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not slow.

It’s starving.

His hands find your thighs, then higher—gripping under the hem of your shirt, dragging it up until your ribs are bare to the cool air.

You break the kiss long enough to pull the shirt over your head. His eyes drag over you like he can’t believe this is real.

Then you’re kissing again, harder now. His fingers splay across your back, his hips lifting to meet yours. The friction is maddening—heat grinding into heat, breath panting between kisses that don’t stop.

You tug his hoodie up.

He helps you rip it off.

His skin is hot. Familiar. You’d seen him shirtless more times than you could count, but this was different. This was want.

He kisses your jaw, down your neck, bites just hard enough at your shoulder that you gasp, clutching him tighter.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “I should’ve done this years ago.”

“You’re doing it now,” you breathe, your mouth dragging along his jaw, his neck, the edge of his ear.

His hands find your ass, pulling you tight against the bulge in his sweats, and you grind down, both of you gasping.

There’s nothing careful left.

He stands with you in his arms—lifts you without warning. You gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“Couch?” he pants.

You shake your head. “Bedroom.”

He nearly stumbles trying to make it there, your body wrapped around him, your mouth on his jaw, his throat, his shoulder—any part of him you can reach. You both laugh breathlessly as he kicks open your door, backs you into it blindly, presses you against the wood with his full weight.

His hands grip your thighs like he’s claiming them. His forehead rests against yours, panting.

“You sure?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You don’t even speak. You just kiss him. And then you say, “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He lays you down like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Your sheets are cool, but his body is fire—warm, broad, solid as he crawls over you, lips never leaving yours. The kiss slows, deepens. Tongue curling slow against yours in a rhythm that makes your stomach twist tight. His hand cups your jaw. His thumb strokes your cheek like he can’t believe you’re real.

“Mami,” he breathes against your mouth. “I swear to God…”

You arch into him, gasping when your bare chest drags against his. His skin is hot, damp with sweat, his chain dragging across your sternum, and when your thighs part for him, his hips settle between them like they’ve always belonged there.

He grinds once. Slow. Deep. Measured.

You both break apart with a groan that sounds like pain.

“Fuck—Joaquin.”

He does it again.

And again.

Deep, sinful rolls of his hips, dragging the length of his cock through the soaked fabric of his sweats and your panties. You’re so wet the friction sends shivers up your spine. The pressure is maddening. Not enough. Just enough.

His head drops to your shoulder. “Been thinking about this since that night at the bar,” he groans. “You riding my thigh, whining in my mouth. Fuck, mami…”

You bite his shoulder. “You should’ve said something.”

“You should’ve said something.” His hand slides between you, tugging your panties aside. His fingers find you instantly—wet, swollen, aching—and he drags them through your folds with reverence.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “This all for me?”

You nod, eyes fluttering, hips arching into his touch. “It’s always been for you.”

He groans like it physically hurts him, then leans back, tugging his sweats down just enough to free himself. You can’t stop staring—hard, flushed, dripping precome. Your mouth waters.

But you don’t have time to speak.

He’s lining up, sliding the thick head through your slick folds, teasing you both with how slowly he moves.

And then—finally—he pushes in.

You both moan like you’re falling apart. Because he’s thick. Stretching you inch by inch. Filling you in a way that makes your body seize and melt all at once.

“Shit,” he hisses. “You’re so tight. So fucking perfect.”

Your nails dig into his back. You’re trying to breathe, to adjust, but he feels too good. Like he’s settling into a space that’s always been waiting for him.

He bottoms out.

Pauses.

His breath trembles against your cheek as he presses a kiss there. Then one to your temple. One to the hollow of your neck.

You can feel his heart pounding—inside you, against you, around you.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, voice wrecked. “Move. Please.”

And when he does—it’s slow. Deep. Measured.

Not rushed.

Not frantic.

Just devastating.

Each roll of his hips presses you deeper into the mattress. The drag of him against your walls is enough to steal your breath, to make your toes curl and your fingers claw at the sheets.

His hand slips under your thigh, lifting it high around his waist so he can sink even deeper.

He kisses you between thrusts—your mouth, your neck, the edge of your collarbone—like he needs every inch of you mapped onto his mouth, claimed cell by cell.

Your breath stutters.

His chain swings gently between your breasts with every grind. Cool metal against flushed skin. A contrast that makes you shiver.

“Mami,” he groans, voice ragged. “Se siente tan jodidamente bien. Voy a perder la cabeza.” It feels so fucking good. I’m going to lose my mind. 

You don’t know the words—but the tone of them wrecks you.

Rough. Desperate. Reverent.

He groans again, the sound dragging from his throat like it’s being pulled out of him.

“You feel too good,” he pants. “I’m not gonna last.”

“You will,” you breathe. “You have to. You made me wait this long.”

His laugh is sharp and ruined. His next thrust is harder.

You gasp.

Your heel digs into the small of his back. “You trying to punish me?” he breathes, voice hot at your ear.

“A little.”

He kisses you again—open, filthy, needy. Tongue curling with yours, hand gripping your ass, grinding his hips slow and relentless, dragging you over every inch of him.

You’re soaked. So far gone. And when his pelvis rocks just right, the friction over your clit makes you moan, helpless.

“You close?” he asks, eyes dark, mouth swollen.

You nod, frantic.

“Touch yourself.”

You reach between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.

“That’s it,” he breathes, watching you. Feeling you. “Let me see you fall apart, baby. Let me feel you come on this cock.” 

Then—softer, like it slips out without him meaning to, he says, “Siempre ha sido tú. Desde el primer día. Nunca dejé de quererte.” It’s always been you. Since day one. I never stopped loving you. 

You don’t know what he said, but it sounds ruined. Like confession. Like prayer.

Your body tenses.

The orgasm snaps through you—tight and deep and blinding. Your fingers dig into his shoulder, your mouth drops open around a cry, and he groans when he feels it, when your walls clamp around him, pulsing.

“Fuck—fuck, mami, I’m—”

His hips stutter. He thrusts once. Twice. Then buries himself to the hilt and stays.

You feel him pulse inside you. Feel him come—deep, hot, filling you with a broken moan.

He collapses onto you, gasping against your neck. His whole body twitching, hips jerking reflexively.

Still holding you.

Still inside you.

Then—barely audible, like the words were never meant to be heard, “Te amo tanto que duele.” I love you so much it hurts. 

You don’t know what it means. Not exactly. But it sounds like love. It feels like surrender.

And you hold him tighter, like maybe that’ll help you understand. Because even if you don’t know the words—his body, his mouth, his hands—they’ve been saying it for years.

He doesn’t move. Just rests there, still inside you, head buried against your neck. His voice is soft when it finally returns. “You were always mine,” he whispers.

You close your eyes.

Swallow hard.

And then—because you can’t make the same mistake again—you answer.

“I’ve loved you since the Air Force,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Since you gave me your last bite of cold chili mac and made me laugh so I wouldn’t cry.”

His breath hitches. You tilt your face toward his, fingers still in his hair, forcing him to look at you.

“I’m not making the mistake of not saying it this time.”

His eyes—wide, glassy, stunned—search your face. And then he kisses you. Softer this time.

Like a promise.

Like a yes. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—really look at you. His hand brushes your cheek, thumb catching on the tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“Te amo,” he says quietly. No hesitation. No performance. Then, in English, just as soft but more certain, “I love you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he’s known it forever and only now found the courage to let it breathe.

“I think I’ve loved you since the first time you stole my dessert and didn’t even apologize.”

You laugh—wet, stunned, shaking. “You said you didn’t want it.”

“I lied. I wanted the dessert.” He leans in, kissing your forehead. “But I wanted you more.”

You breathe into his shoulder, overwhelmed. Anchored. Neither of you runs this time. Because there’s nothing left to outrun.

Just this.

Just home.

-

Sunlight bleeds through the curtain slats.

You feel it first on your cheek, warm and soft, pulling you out of a dream you don’t remember. The sheets are tangled beneath you. Your legs ache. Your mouth is dry.

But you’re not alone.

You shift slightly, and a warm hand flexes at your waist.

His hand. His arm. His chest against your back, breath slow and steady. One of his legs is tangled with yours, and his other hand is buried under the pillow you’re both sharing. His face is tucked into the crook of your neck, and when you sigh, content and sore, he makes a sound deep in his throat and tightens his hold like he’s not ready to wake up.

You stay like that for a while. Not thinking. Not bracing.

Just being.

It’s strange, how normal it feels. Like this has happened before. Like it’s always meant to happen.

Eventually, you roll to face him. His brow twitches at the shift, his lashes fluttering, and when his eyes open, they’re soft with sleep.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.

You smile. “Hey.”

He blinks slow, eyes roaming your face like he’s checking to see if this is real. If you’re still here. 

You brush a curl from his forehead. His lips curve into a sleepy smile.

“You okay?” he asks, thumb finding the edge of your hip beneath the sheet. His touch is casual, but not forgettable.

You nod. “Are you?”

He leans in and kisses your jaw. Then your cheek. Then your lips. “Yeah,” he says against your mouth. “I’m good.”

You breathe a little easier at that.

For a while, you just lie there. Talking about nothing. The weather. The way your neighbor’s dog won’t shut up. The fact that your back’s probably going to be sore all day because of how hard he railed you into the mattress.

He laughs, smug and bright.

You smack his chest.

He catches your hand. Laces your fingers through his. Doesn’t let go.

It’s so easy.

So him.

And so familiar it should feel like surreal.

But it doesn’t.

Because here’s the truth: almost nothing has changed.

You’re still talking the same. Teasing the same. Moving through the kitchen the same as you both get up to make coffee, shoulder-checking and stealing sips. He still curses too colorfully when he burns his fingers on the toaster. You still hum the same stupid song when you rinse your mugs.

Everything’s the same.

Except now, he walks up behind you at the sink and wraps his arms around your waist.

Except now, when you pass him a towel, he leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth just because he can.

Except now, when he sits beside you on the couch, his hand finds your thigh like it’s always belonged there—and yours covers it like it knows.

And when he presses his forehead to yours later, eyes warm and full and unguarded, he doesn’t have to say anything.

You already know.

“I am today,” you said, standing. “And you’re on strict bedrest, Captain Stubborn. Now lie back and let me take care of you.”

He groaned but didn’t resist when you tugged a blanket over him. Didn’t even protest when you brought out the thermometer and a cool washcloth and your soup pot. Just laid there like a very large, very miserable golden retriever of a man while you doted on him.

-

An hour later, he was drowsing under three blankets, soup untouched on the coffee table, cheeks flushed, lips parted in shallow breaths.

You knelt beside him again, gently brushing the damp hair from his brow.

“Baby,” you whispered. “Try to eat something.”

He cracked one eye open. “Don’t wanna.”

“I made your favorite. Chicken and rice.”

“Don’t like rice anymore,” he muttered.

You snorted. “Liar.”

His hand reached out blindly until he found yours and pulled it to his chest, cradling it against his warm hoodie.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled. “For being gross.”

“You’re not gross. You’re sick.”

He opened both eyes this time, pale blue and bleary. “Still wanna kiss you.”

Your heart thumped.

“Well,” you said, leaning closer, “maybe later. Once the fever breaks.”

“I’ll be good,” he whispered. “Promise. Just don’t go too far.”

“I’m right here,” you said, kissing his stubbled cheek. “Not going anywhere.”

He exhaled like that was the only medicine he needed. And when he finally fell asleep again, your hand was still tucked against his chest, warm under the blankets, his big fingers curled loosely around your wrist.

-

John was never a quiet sleeper—even on his best days, he talked in his sleep, kicked off blankets, muttered half-lucid things like “Where’s my other sock?” and “You gotta see this burger, babe.”

But with a fever?

He was a mess.

You’d curled up on the couch with him after convincing him to eat half a bowl of soup and take some Tylenol. His head had been in your lap, heavy and too warm, and he’d kept one hand curled against your thigh like an anchor. Now he was out cold, but his dreams weren’t letting him rest.

“No—hey, s’not… don’t touch her,” he muttered suddenly, eyebrows pulling together, breath quickening.

You glanced down, brushing your fingers over his forehead. Still hot. Too hot.

“Shh,” you whispered, stroking through his damp hair. “It’s just a dream, baby. I’m right here.”

His whole body twitched.

“Stop the truck—gotta get her out—I told you, I told you—”

“John,” you said more firmly. “Wake up.”

His eyes blinked open, wild and unfocused. He stared straight through you like you weren’t real. Then, like a wave crashing, his arms locked around your waist, yanking you down into his chest so fast your breath caught.

“Hey! Hey, whoa, big guy—”

“Don’t go,” he rasped into your neck, voice hoarse and cracked and frightened. “Please don’t go, don’t—don’t leave me there, they left me—don’t—”

You held him tightly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere, John. I promise.”

He didn’t respond, not really. Just breathed against your throat, trembling slightly. Fever-sweat clung to his skin, and his pulse thudded too fast beneath your palm, but little by little, his grip on you eased—not by much, but enough to shift just enough for you to kiss his temple.

“You’re safe, baby. I’ve got you.”

His lashes fluttered. “You’re real?”

“Real as ever.”

“Thought I lost you in the field,” he whispered, barely audible. “I looked back and you weren’t there.”

“I wasn’t in the field, love. I was making soup.”

He blinked. “That’s worse.”

You laughed gently, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against yours. “What, you’d rather me get shot than make you dinner?”

He mumbled something incoherent—sounded like soup bulletproof—and you smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair again until his muscles relaxed.

Eventually, he fell back asleep, curled around you like a human furnace. One leg draped over yours, one arm tight around your waist, face buried against your chest like he was trying to crawl into you for warmth. You shifted a little, adjusting the blanket, but he just growled softly and pulled you closer.

“No,” he groaned sleepily. “Mine.”

You froze. Smiled. “Yours, huh?”

“Yeah,” he whispered into your shirt. “Mine. Pretty girl. Stay.”

You ran your fingers through his hair again, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Always.”

-

You woke up before he did.

Well—technically, you never went to sleep. Not really. Between John’s fever, his tossing and turning, and the way he’d wrapped every inch of his oversized body around you like a clingy human thunder blanket, it had been a long night of sweaty limbs and whispered comfort.

But damn if you didn’t love him.

Even drooling into your shirt and muttering nonsense like “She’s made of sunlight, don’t touch her” and “I’d fight a bear for her soup,” he was yours. And you weren’t going anywhere.

You were brushing the sleep from your eyes when he finally stirred, groaning softly into your chest.

“Mmff—wha’ time is it…” he rasped.

“Still early,” you said, gently running your fingers through his flattened bedhead. “You’ve got a fever hangover.”

He blinked groggily against your collarbone. “…Did I die?”

“Nope.”

“Are we… on the couch?”

“Yep.”

“…Did I dream about… bears?”

You snorted. “Among other things.”

John shifted, slowly registering the situation. His hand was on your hip. His thigh was slotted between yours. His face was buried in your sleep shirt. And your entire front was damp.

“Wait,” he said, voice low and horrified. “Did I—did I cry last night?”

You grinned. “A little.”

“Oh God.” His arm flopped over his eyes like he was shielding himself from the weight of his own sins. “I was delirious. Fever dreams don’t count.”

“Tell that to the version of you who begged me not to leave him behind in Kandahar.”

He groaned. “Please. Stop.”

“And then proceeded to call me your ‘pretty girl’ five times in a row while actively drooling on me.”

John buried his face in your chest again, growling. “This is why I fake being fine.”

“No it’s not,” you said, brushing your fingers through his hair. “You fake being fine because you think it’s weak to need someone. But it’s not. It’s brave. And cute.”

“Cute?” He sounded personally offended.

“Very cute. Especially when you clung to me like a baby koala and said ‘Mine. Stay.’”

“I should be court-martialed,” he muttered. “Right here on this couch. Stripped of rank and dignity.”

“Too late for the dignity part.”

He huffed—but didn’t let go of you. If anything, his arms tightened, pulling you back into the cocoon of his ridiculous, massive body.

“You still love me?” he asked, voice softer now. Vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with the fever.

You kissed his forehead. “Always.”

Even half-dead, clingy, and emotionally compromised, he was still John Walker—your pain-in-the-ass soldier boy with a heart too big for his own good.

“You wanna brush your teeth and come back to bed?” you offered.

“…Do I have to brush my teeth?”

“Yes, Sergeant Sniffles. You do.”

“Fine,” he sighed, slowly untangling from you. “But I want pancakes after.”

“Deal. As long as you admit I take excellent care of you.”

He paused. Turned slowly. Then leaned in, kissed your forehead with a soft, scratchy-lipped press.

“Cute. I forget you think you’re funny," he said, and you shrugged.

“I forget you think you’re useful.”

"Could do better with that one," he said, and you wanted nothing more than to smash one of the hard nano-cam pouches into his head. You didn’t, obviously. 

Mostly because your fingers were currently gripping the cam pouch like a stress ball. But also because—God help you—this wasn’t the time.

The gravel under the jeep’s tires shifted, and the darkness outside deepened. You exhaled slowly, pressing your thumb to your temple.

"Walker, listen," you said, this time quieter. More serious.

He spared a glance in your direction, and you took that as permission.

"I don't want you walking in there like this is a solo mission." You rubbed the side of your forehead, the words firm. "Don't do that again. Not this time."

Walker lifted his eyes to just stare at you, his jaw clenching. 

"Don't trust me?" It sounded oddly empty, the question. You sighed, shaking your head.

"Sometimes you get reckless—"

"Yet it gets the job done."

"What if it doesn't this time?"

He stayed silent. Then uttered something under his breath you couldn't quite catch.

"We need to work together," you emphasised, "as a team."

But it seemed that was the end of his responses. Of course it was. He still believed, probably, with all his heart that he was the leader of this mission, and had to take full responsibility, despite having a very capable teammate. 

There was nothing more you could do. Not until you reached the location, anyway. 

"Whatever," you muttered, as your shoulder crashed once again into his during a particularly tricky turn. 

Yelena's voice crackled through the talkie holstered at your hip. You felt a wave of relief wash over you. Thank god, it was getting awkward.

"Hello? Am I coming through?"

"Loud and clear," you said, grabbing it and raising it to your face. "I assume we’re close?"

"Yes. Another 700 meters and you’ll hit the estate’s south fence. Visuals show no guards outside, but the man has got layers. Heat sensors, drones, maybe mines. All kind of paranoid war veteran tech."

You grimaced. “Right. Creepy ex-general with a trigger finger and a god complex. Totally normal recon mission.”

“Tell me about it. Drop the cams, tag the perimeter, don’t get blown up.“

"Unless Sir Hyper-independent here decides to switch things up," you muttered, jerking your head toward Walker without looking. A little smirk tugged at your mouth.

You weren’t looking, but you could feel Walker resisting the urge to say something back. Sweet, sweet victory.

"I heard that," he grumbled.

"Good."

"Anyway," Yelena continued, dryly, "keep each other alive. I’m not flying in to collect limbs. Buzz control if shit goes sideways. Over.”

"...Copy that."

The line went static.

Walker still looked mildly constipated, but you ignored him, closing your eyes and leaning your head back on the tough back cushion, going over the exact plan as accurately as you could. 

All you could hear was his shuffling, and impatient breaths, his fiddly taps on the taco shield on his arm, and an occasional clearing of his throat every time your head accidentally lolled towards his side.

Minutes later, the jeep came to a rash stop. You had reached the old cottagehouse and the sprawling acres surrounding it. 

“Jesus, this took a minute,” Walker grunted as he stood up, stretched as best as he could (that’s what being 6’2’’ got you, hah) and put his stupid beret on. You just watched, snorting. 

“You gettin’ ready for a model shoot?”

Walker scowled, which only made him look more stupid. You had to hold back a giggle. 

“Get your ass up,” he spat, and you hated that those words created a reaction in you and had you obeying with minimal delay, shooting straight up. Embarrassing.

“Jeez, don’t get your thongs in a bunch,” you grumbled, and he flashed you a questioning look. 

“You mean panties.”

You smirked, looking at him from the corner of your eye as you gathered up the two pouches and twisted your gun into the holster. “Yeah, but I bet you’d wear thongs.”

The man looked visibly rattled as he blushed, trying to cover up any signs of weakness with a scoff and a glare.

Opening the jeep’s back, the both of you stepped out, when Walker snatched the pouches out of your hand.

"Hey!" you exclaimed, attempting to get it back from him but he simply swatted you away, dodging your extended arms and tossing the pouches hand to hand.

"What the fuck, Walker?!"

"I'm gonna need you to stay back and keep a watch on the perimeter," he instructed, still keeping the pouches far from you. "Not letting you walk into an absolute maniac's backyard."

Oh, he was fucking doing it again, the bastard.

You slapped his back, hard, managing to catch up when he flinched and stumbled, before grabbing one of the bags from him.

"Didn’t think you'd feel that one," you said, grinning. Walker shot you a look, but it was one of the rarer types. The ones that made you feel a little sick.

Always looked like he cared, when his brows slanted and his extra blue eyes gained clarity. In your dreams. Wait, no.

"This isn't a joke," he hissed, and his gaze was frighteningly steady. 

"I just want you to work with me," you replied, not breaking eye contact. 

"We will be. Just listen to me. I just–"

"Just need me to stand in the sidelines while you do the heavy duty shit?" you interrupted, clicking your tongue, feeling a little less jolly now. 

"Walker, we were paired for a reason. We both know I can handle those cams better and not accidentally snap them 'cause I wasn't careful."

Walker's eyes flashed, fixed on you, teeth grit. He looked like he was on the edge of the kind of anger you usually knew better than to poke.

"...Please, Walker," you said, softer this time, hoping he’d budge even a little, and to your surprise, he did. Something in his demeanor changed, his shoulders relaxing, his grip on the pouch turning loose. 

The walkie sputtered once more and Yelena's voice came through.

"Guys, is everything okay?"

"It's been 4 minutes since you reached the location, you dunces, what the hell's going on?"

Ah, looks like Val was there too.

Walker yanked the walkie from your hip and clicked in. “We’re getting to it,” he said, tone already edged with annoyance.

Val’s voice came through sharp, shrill, and relentless, like a crow on espresso.

Walker didn’t let her finish. “Just give us time,” he snapped, then tossed the device at you without a glance. You caught it, barely.

He wasn’t looking at you anymore, instead straight at the side wall of the house a considerable number of feet away, but you could tell he was still uncertain, tense– still wrestling with your words, your plea.

You were about to say something more, when he looked over his shoulder at you, and you could hear him mumble something like ‘stubborn’ in this weird tone, not quite annoyed, not quite fond either, but something in between, before he began to walk. 

“I’m still keeping one though,” he said, voice taut, waving the pouch in his hand around as he did, and you couldn’t help the relieved chuckle that escaped your mouth, glad he decided to listen to you for once as you followed in his wake. 

As much as it was the bare minimum, it was still oddly satisfying in the way your cheeks flushed just a little.

You began to walk forward, not fully in time with him considering his long-ass legs, but fast enough to be just a foot or two behind him at all times. 

You maintained a straight line, when you stepped on what felt like a particularly hard rock.

At that exact moment there was a click, a beep and when you looked down, heart sinking, there was a faint red glow emitting from the side of your boot sole.

Oh, fuck, no. No. Shit.

There was only about another fifteen metres to the house’s fence. So close.

Walker, despite looking very focused on the task at hand, noticed that your presence was lacking. He turned just slightly, a little bewildered at why you were just... standing there.

You could see him wave his hands in confusion and mouth 'What's the holdup?!' and all you could do was take a big, shaky breath and point at your foot.

He frowned, looking exasperated as he redirected his gaze. Then he saw the light, and the way your leg was stiff and unmoving, and you could see grim realisation dawn on his face.

Slowly, he walked back to where you were. He looked pale, paler than he usually did in the moonlight. His eyes remained on your foot.

"...Landmine," he whispered, and the finality in his voice dropped like a rock into your stomach. Your fears had been confirmed.

"Walker," you started, but then your throat went dry and you couldn't finish the rest of the sentence. What would you even say? 

You could see the cogs turn in his head as he removed the shield from his arm and dropped it aside along with the cam pouch. He tugged the one in your hand too, and threw it away.

Then he scanned around the spot on the ground, his knees locked, as if he was scared even kneeling down might cause the mine to completely detonate. His eyes glazed over in thought, but both of you knew.

You couldn’t really disarm a mine. Not after activating it. 

You lost your voice to the thought of it— dying. Like this.

Because of a goddamn landmine.

Because of that idiot ex-general.

Because luck decided you’d used up all your chances.

Not when you’d just redeemed yourself. And as much as you joked about dying early, it couldn’t happen this way. 

“Walker,” you called again, hesitating as your hand softly patted on his arm. It took you three tries to fully get his attention, but his eyes still wouldn’t meet yours, and it was getting frustrating.

“Walker, listen to me.”

“I’d rather figure out how to get you out of here.”

You could only stay silent in response to this. There was no getting you out. Not unless this was a dud, which was mostly just wishful thinking. 

“Look, just– what kind of mine is it?” you asked, the least that could be figured out, and Walker nodded. 

“Hold on.”

You marvelled at how he managed to keep his voice steady. You joked internally that he didn’t care enough to get emotional. 

But you saw the way his jaw clenched, how his breath stalled in his chest. The way his hands didn’t quite know where to go.

This wasn’t detachment. It was control, or the likes of it. And he was losing it, slowly. Steadily.

You breathed like the oxygen around you was loaned, chest hurting from the way you held it tight. 

You watched, transfixed as he finally knelt down, movements as slow as a hawk watching its prey, and all you could think of was keeping that foot planted like there was no tomorrow. 

He came back up a minute later, swallowing hard as he mumbled, “Soviet-style. Steel jacket. Fragmentation type. Might not be reliable anymore.”

“Oh,” you said, nodding blankly. “Might not?”

“Which means you either survive, or… it kills you outright.”

Oh. Right.

Didn’t even make sense for you to be so surprised. What else were you expecting?

“Jesus,” you muttered, your voice barely at bay. Your fingers were beginning to tremor just slightly, and you could hear your own heartbeat. Hell, you could feel it. 

You needed to hold onto something, anything – something to ground you. Your feet were already going numb.

“I told you to stay behind,” Walker said, suddenly. There was no anger. Just… hurt. 

“I– I know, but we’re a team, and I–”

“If you’d listened, we wouldn’t be here. WIth you, standing on a fucking…” 

He didn’t complete the sentence. Instead, he practically ripped his beret off his head, harshly shoving it into his belt, before running his fingers through his dirty golden hair. 

For the first time in a long time, he looked confused. 

For some reason, that hurt far more than the realization that you were most probably going to die.

The sky remained dark, but time was slipping by. Neither of you knew how much had passed.

Suddenly, the mission wasn’t the ex-general anymore. 

It was you.

The realization was really fucking with Walker's head, it was painfully obvious. You wanted to reach out, comfort him, but right now it looked like he might just do something violent if you tried.

Your forgotten walkie crackled to life, this time with Bucky's voice.

"Team. Status?"

Neither of you replied. Walker swallowed, hands on his hips as his head stayed low.

You took the walkie in hand albeit with extreme caution.

"We're... there's a situation."

"Seriously? What is it?"

"I– I stepped on an active land– landmine."

Saying it out loud only made you want to laugh, simply because of how absurd it sounded.

But the laugh didn't quite bubble out as one- it was a little more of a sob.

Walker looked up at the sound instantly, his eyebrows perking as his eyes tethered to your face.

Looks like the fear was finally leaking out of you.

There was silence on the other end for a good 30 seconds, until Bucky finally spoke again.

"We're sending backup. Can.. is it possible to disarm it?"

Taking the walkie from your hand, Walker replied, "Not really, Bucky. It… It's more of a 'try or die' situation."

You were feeling a little tired now. The churning in your stomach was making you feel exceedingly sick, and your fingers felt unlike yours. Like they belonged to another body.

"I'll take care of it. Of..." He didn't complete. He just cleared his throat, let out a heavy breath, then said, "Just send the backup. Medic, most importantly."

The tenor in Bucky's voice matched Walker's. It was the gravest you'd heard it.

"...Be safe. Both of you."

You sniffled—just a little—and Walker immediately tossed the walkie aside, all his focus shifting back to you.

"Okay, I need you to listen to me very carefully now," he said, in a tone that caught you by such surprise you forgot you were even standing on a fucking mine.

"Look at me."

Oh.

You did as he asked, and part of the immediate compliance stemmed from you just wanting to hear him speak in that voice again. And he did.

"We're gonna get through this."

"Are we?"

"Yes, we are."

You swallowed hard, closing your eyes tight momentarily, bracing your heart for whatever the hell was going to happen next.

As long as it kept beating.

"We need to shift the weight from you to something-- something else, alright?"

You nodded, your brain already resetting to plan mode. "Like-"

"My shield," he said, taking a glance at the taco-shaped hunk of metal on the ground.

"Would.. Would that work?"

"It should. In theory."

"Bob would be proud," you said, the joke slipping past your lips despite the situation, and Walker just glared at you.

"Not now."

"Sorry."

"...it's okay. Let's just focus on getting you out of this alive to make dumb jokes after today."

"Yeah. Right." You felt a little embarrassed. Oh, how silly these things felt right now.

Then Walker looked at you with eyes you wished he gave you the times you weren't in life threatening danger, and stepped as close as he could without disturbing the mine.

He rested a hand over your arm, and said "Look at me," again, and it took you everything to not start crying on the spot.

"We can do this." He looked like he believed every word of that sentence. 

You didn't. 

"I'm scared, John."

The name—his name—felt strange in your mouth. It made your voice shake. Your hands too. You cringed the second it came out, but then he squeezed your arm tighter.

“You’re gonna be okay.” 

You hung onto every word of that sentence, chanting those words in the back of your head, over and over. Anything to keep you from losing consciousness.

Then he nodded once, as if he was reassuring himself.

"Okay," he said, softly. "Ready?"

You had no choice but to nod. It was now or never.

Walker crouched, grabbing the shield and sliding his arm into the leather straps, before placing his hand on the side of your knee.

“When I tell you, just slide your leg off the mine, okay? Slowly. No sudden movements.”

“John–”

“Trust me.”

“...Okay,” you eventually breathed out.

“Hold on.”

The shield scraped against the grassy dirt as he moved it, slow and steady, his hands working like those of a surgeon as the metal clicked against the edge of the mine.

“Shit,” he said lowly, and you saw his jaw flex. “Okay, here goes.”

Oh, shit, it was getting real. Oh, fuck.

You refrained from saying any of that out loud. 

“Now,” Walker said, voice as anchored as his grip on the shield, “Slide your foot off in par with me.”

So you did exactly as he said, your foot inching off with extreme caution, while the curve of his shield followed, until it was entirely off, and now it was just Walker, bent over, shield braced in one hand as it pressed tight against the active mine.

You were too overwhelmed to find solid footing—you stumbled back, legs failing to hold you, and dropped nearly three feet away, ass hitting the grass with a loud thud.

Oh, god, you were alive and breathing.

But before you could even register this fully, light flickered behind your heads, and there was a distinct sound of shuffling coming from inside the cottage-house.

Panic seemed to rise as quickly as it had fallen.

"John, we need to leave, like... right now." You looked over your shoulder, and it was clear the old, dangerous man was awake.

"Stay back," he replied curtly. Actually, he wasn't even replying. It was a very out of the blue statement. It sounded ominous.

"John, what the hell are you--"

"Just stay back, please."

Then you saw it. His shoulders squared, toes digging into the sand as if preparing to sprint.

His knees raised, and you were already running towards him.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot-

Just as the shield lifted, you lunged– arms locking around his waist, twisting with all your might in the air.

And then–

BOOM.

The entire world was swallowed by fire, and white hot light, and the pungent smell of singed leather.

Then.. skin.

You could feel the heat lick at your back, through the layers, and it hurt like a bitch. Everything burned, searing. You felt so lost, so unconscious, yet every nerve seemed to flare with pain. But you could still feel him under you, your arms still tight around him, head falling over his neck, so close you could feel his breathing on your face.

He was alive. He was alive. 

You were too, mostly, but you wished you weren't, because the pain of blistering skin was truly agony. You took in two, three stifled breaths, just to make sure.

You let go, collapsing to his side, his face swimming into your blurred vision. The mud touched your back and you yelped, yanking yourself onto your side again by holding onto Walker's arm. 

He was looking at you with dazed eyes, but you could see his disapproval, and his surprise somewhere behind those eyelids.

"You're a fucking idiot," he rasped.

"You too," you choked out.

Then the world went dark.

.

.

“Second degree burns, both of you. We’ve removed the shrapnel and patched you up, and it’ll take a while to heal, but give it a few weeks and you’ll be alright.”

The doctor nodded to the both of you, wearing a little bit of a judgmental expression. 

“You’re lucky that mine was faulty. Only reason you’re even awake right now.”

She waved her pen in the air, then turned to discuss something with the secondary.

“We’re gonna be back in a few. Don’t do anything stupid,” she said dryly, and the docs stepped out, the door sliding close behind them.

You were seated upright in your bed, a med gown wound loosely over you. The covered and treated burns still stung, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been when you were first carried in here.

According to Yelena (who was thoroughly pissed that you managed to fail every objective), before the old man could get to actually killing you, backup had arrived, he’d been dealt with momentarily, and you’d reached the Watchtowers safely– relatively speaking. 

Walker was sitting opposite you, both legs bandaged. He’d experienced burns mostly there, but a few minor burns on the stomach as well.

Both of you weren’t looking at each other, although you were itching to scream at him.

But then he did it first. Sort of.

“What were you thinking?”

You rolled your eyes as you continued to look at your own feet.

“I should be the one asking you that.’

“I was making the only decision that could have been made at that point in time.”

You just scoffed. “You can’t be serious.” You looked up at him now, and he still had that small frown, even in rest.

“I did what I had to,” he said strongly.

“Just because you’re a super soldier doesn’t mean you just go ahead and take all the brunt of it, for fuck’s sake. You’re not invincible!”

“And neither are you,” he shot back, finger jabbing in the air at your gown. 

“No, seriously, what the fuck was your plan?”

“My plan was to get you off the mine safe, protect myself before letting the mine blow, and then getting the fuck out of there.”

“You couldn’t have waited for back up?!”

“That asshole was already up and he definitely heard us,” Walker replied, vexed. “If he’d seen us out waiting on the mine he would’ve put a bullet in it then and there and neither of us would be breathing right now.”

“How do you know for sure? They were almost there!”

“I had to, alright?” He vaguely gestured at you, then him. “At least our situation was under our control!”

You let out a bitter laugh. “You mean our deaths?”

“Well, yeah!”

“Because that’s just so much better.”

“Oh, get out of here.”

You could just ‘tch’ in response, hanging your head down again. Silence filled the room once more. 

Out of curiosity, your gaze perked as you glanced at him, his tired stature, long, bandaged legs, the gauze just peeking out of his gown round his stomach, the scars on this neck, the scruffy beard you’d thought of a god-awful amount of times…

Fucking hell.

You slipped down from the bed, finding a wheeled stool and sitting on it before awkwardly sliding your way to his bed.

His head turned and an eyebrow raised as he saw you coming in, holding onto the edge of the mattress as you steadied yourself.

“Crazy ride, huh?”

You gave him an unimpressed look, before keeping an elbow on the bed by his thigh, resting your head loosely on it.

“You know, I really wanna keep yelling at you,” you said plainly. Walker sighed, and you raised a hand in mock defeat.

“But I won’t, okay?” 

“Great, yeah. Stay like that.”

“Can you shut up for a second?”

He glowered, then shrugged.

“Good boy.”

He was back to glowering at you again.

“I just… I need you to stop trying to kill yourself,” you said, and you did not expect so much emotion to flow through those words as you said them.

Him neither, it seemed, because his eyes softened, brows relaxing just a little. Then he let out a huff, a half-laugh, and you tsked for the 100th time.

“I’m being serious, Walker.”

“Oh, we’re back to Walker now?” he said suddenly, eyes flashing something. Something weird.

You bit the inside of your cheek. “John.”

He smirked. It was maddening, but you let him have his victory. Mostly because it was hot.

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t be brave,” you continued, eyes still on the bedframe. “I’m just saying… if you keep throwing yourself in the fire every time things go to shit, you’re gonna burn out before anyone can pull you back.”

Walker’s fingers twitched over his sheets, before turning into a fist. 

“That was… eloquent.”

“I don’t know if it got through your skull, though.”

“It did.”

He was quick to respond, and it sounded as though his voice had slackened, considerably so.

Good.

You couldn’t help but look at his fist, and it was taking everything in you to not slip your own fingers in between the crevices.

Then you heard the soft whisper of ‘I’m sorry’ leave his mouth, and you had to look away, because it did things to you.

“Don’t do that, that’s very out of character for you,” you said, and he chuckled that low, rumbly chuckle of his.

“I mean it, though.”

You nodded. “I.. I know. It’s fine.”

Slowly, you looked back at his face, and had a little bit of a miniature heart attack when you saw that he was already looking at you, blue eyes uncharacteristically vulnerable.

Inevitably, your eyes dropped to his lips, and you laughed a little.

“Jesus, those lips are dry,” you mumbled, still grinning. “Didn’t know mines sucked the moisture out from there too.”

Walker squinted his eyes, huffing in amusement. “Why, do you wanna do something about it?”

It took a second for the sentence to make proper sense to you, and when it did you wrinkled your nose instantly, shooting him a look of utter shock.

“That is disgusting, John, who taught you to speak like that?”

He shrugged. “Oops.”

You didn’t stop staring, though. Now there were weird, very wrong, and extremely dangerous thoughts swirling in your head. 

He actually said that.

The words slipped your mouth before you knew it.

“Do you mean that?”

Walker looked mildly perplexed.

“Mean what?”

You couldn’t tell if he was acting dense or actually just that.

“What– what you just said.”

He gave you a long, incomprehensible look. Then he swallowed, jaw flexing.

“Yeah.”

It felt a little bit like when you saved him from the mine, but less rushed, with more intent. 

You stood up, hand cupping his face, palms brushing against his beard as you kissed him, lips melding with his, leaning almost entirely into him.

Your teeth clacked once, then your mouths fell into a rhythm as he started kissing back, and it destroyed you, inside out.

Your cheeks felt like you were back on that field, fiery and warm, while your free hand climbed up his chest, fingers splaying against the covered flesh. 

His own hands snaked around your waist, careful not to touch your burns, before one of them came up to grip your chin, and he pulled you deeper, further into the kiss with a strength that sent chills down your spine.

The feeling of his mouth, his calloused hands, the roughness of his ragged beard grazing against your skin, the golden locks in between your fingers, it was all far too much, and it felt just right.

It was hot, messy, but slow, and most importantly heavy, with all the words unsaid, the thanks, the apologies, the times you’d wanted to kiss him just like this, as if no one else existed in this world, and only him, and his gaze and his warm hands, and even warmer mouth–

He pulled away, heaving a breath, but his hand remained on your chin, then slid over your cheek to hold onto your face as if you might float away otherwise.

He looked at you with wide eyes, almost completely disarmed.

You swallowed, his taste still distinct in your mouth.

“Was that okay?” you murmured.

He looked like he’d forgotten how to speak.

“Yeah,” he finally managed.

There was a sudden beep outside and you scrambled to sit your ass back down on the seat, but the wheels got naughty and–

“Fucking– ow,” you whined, as your back slammed against the wall with a dull thud.

The doctor stared with a rather lukewarm look at you.

Walker winced on your behalf as well, clearing his throat.

“You good?” The doc asked. 

Ohohoho, she thought she was so funny.

You heard Walker chortle and you shot him the coldest look, mouthing, “I’ll deal with you later.”

His lips curled into a smile, and you knew you were going to be a wreck in the next few hours.

walker, on the other hand, is a soldier through and through. he's always ready to jump the gun, always on edge like someone's waiting around the next corner for him. and when you have to blend into a less than savory crowd in a bar in hell's kitchen, he is all too easy to spot as someone with too much training. 

and that's not even getting into the simple fact that the two of you don't exactly have a history of playing nice. it's not that you hate each other, it's just that petty bickering has a tendency of getting in the way of things—or turning into a real fight, if you aren't careful.

the target—a man by the name of rowan taylor—keeps eyeing walker from where he sits on the other end of the bar. there are a small handful of men sitting at the tables next to his, each one fairly large and wearing a suit—presumably hired guards. they stand out like sore thumbs among the rest of the civilians in the bar, who either haven't noticed how conspicuous they are or don't care to.

you're lucky you aren't anywhere near walker, figuring that two newcomers together is a lot more suspicious than two strangers arriving separately and never once interacting. but this rowan guy keeps looking at walker like he's ready to pounce, and it's making you twitchy.

"he knows something is up. you better get out of here soon," you mutter over comms, careful to take a sip of your drink to cover up your speaking. 

walker hums and stands up immediately, like the idiot he is. he should have waited a few minutes, waited until rowan backed off and went back to business as usual. instead, he's got every eye in the bar on him in an instant.

"who are you?" rowan growls, not-so hidden guards standing along with walker. they've got their hands on their guns—thankfully, still stashed in their holsters, but that's a small blessing.

"no one, man," he replies, letting his eyes scan over rowan's men without a hint of concern. dammit, walker, we're civilians here. at least pretend to be worried. "i'm just paying my tab and leaving."

"i said," rowan's got a hand on his own weapon now, unclasping his holster. the sound is so loud in the now-quiet bar that it nearly makes you flinch. "who are you?"

walker decides that's a brilliant time to let his eyes flit to you and then the target. it takes everything in you to suppress a loud sigh.

and then rowan's eyes are on you, too. you can feel them burning into your temple as you desperately try to ignore him.

the next thing you know, rowan's men have guns pointed in every direction, the handful of civilians that populated the bar are screaming, crying, or both, and you and walker are very nearly defenseless. walker doesn't have his shield, and all you've got stashed on you is a small knife.

walker is quick to jump to action—maybe there is something to be said for his constant edginess—and he's got one of the men down before you've even gotten up from your seat. it's a mess of bullet spray and flailing bodies as you and walker take down the men with a smoothness you never expect while working with him. it's almost nice working with him like this, when he finally shuts his mouth and gets to work. he moves efficiently through them, covering civilians and stealing one of the men's guns with a move you can only describe as clinical. 

you do much of the same: herding civilians behind the bar while walker takes care of rowan's goons and taking one of the men out with a chokehold that sends him to the ground far too quickly for an allegedly trained bodyguard.

then you spot rowan in the corner of the bar, and march over to him ready for a fight. the gun in his hand is trained on you the moment he sees you coming.

"c'mon, man, we've got you," you say with a huff.

"not yet."

you watch in slow motion as his finger moves towards the trigger, and you charge at him, tackling him to the ground.

a gunshot cracks through the bar, and you hear walker call your name over the ringing in your ears.

pain lances through your side as the wet heat of blood paints your ribs.

time freezes for just a moment as you wait for your breath to come out gurgling or your ribs to crunch when you move. but they don't, and you're still breathing fine.

it must've been a graze.

rowan's gun clatters against the ground when you both fall, and you're trying to work him into a grapple. he's strong, slamming his head into yours with a grunt. it sends you reeling back, eyes watering and a wetness pouring down from your nose that you know is blood.

he twists himself over you, shoving you against the ground with enough force that the thunk of your skull hitting the wood floor echoes in your ears. adrenaline can only do so much to keep the pain minimal.

rowan is gloating about taking down a new avenger—god, what is with criminals monologuing these days? one of your arms is trapped by your side, mere inches away from your knife that fell when he shoved you back. there isn't enough leeway for you to use your knife, anyways.

instead, you opt for spitting at him, painting his face in a spray of red. it doesn't do much other than piss him off, but the distraction gives you an opportunity to worm your way out of his hold. 

the cool press of the knife in your hand as you manage a long, jagged cut along his thigh is a comfort. rowan is defenseless, no gun, no grapple.

you finally have the upper hand against him.

but valentina demanded no casualties—something about making sure that the new avengers keep a "positive public image," even though you know the old avengers killed a hell of a lot more bad guys than the new ones have, at least publicly—so you work him into a hold that has his arm twisted behind him, just enough that it's close to breaking, and the knife pressed just enough into his neck that it draws a pinprick of blood.

"walker!"

he grunts, and you hear the sound of wood splitting and a body falling to the ground. when you look up to him, he looks nearly untouched aside from the bruise blooming on his cheek and the limp he walks with. damn those super soldiers and their strength. he's by your side in moments, kneeling next to you, and taking over rowan's capture.

you somehow end up leaning against the bar for support, head still spinning. there's still blood in your mouth, you realize, hot and metallic. it must be all over your face by this point. 

"nice going," you manage, words tumbling from your mouth in a blur of sound.

"not the time," walker replies, "cops are here. we just need to deliver these assholes outside. valentina has all the evidence against them to make sure we aren't on the chopping block for this." the cops? one of the civilians must've called 9-1-1 when the fight broke out.

and you hope he's right.

cops are flooding the bar in moments, asking walker a slew of questions that he is well-equipped to answer. when one of them walks over to you, the words he's saying are fuzzy and distant, and your head is pounding. you just shake your head and point to where you think walker is standing—the motion only makes you dizzier.

you're not sure how long you spend by the bar trying to steady your breathing and blinking away the spots in your vision, but walker ends up hauling you up at some point. he's got an arm under yours for support and leads you out of the bar.

you blink and you're sitting in an alley with walker's face mere inches from yours.

"you better now?" he asks, hands pressed softly against your face. he's searching your face for something, and you really can't be sure what. 

but sitting down feels a hell of a lot better than standing did, so you shake your head. it sends a wave of nausea through you as the world spins.

"n-no, i- i think i'm concussed." your tongue is heavy in your mouth, like it won't quite behave.

"yeah, i figured." walker's eyebrows are furrowed as he continues to examine you, and you think this is the most he's ever touched you in the time you've been working together. "you couldn't even talk to the cops."

normally, that would've been a dig—some way to hurt your ego like always—but when he says it now, it's laced with concern.

"yeah." 

"shit, you're bleeding, too."

his hand drifts to your ribs, putting careful pressure against the wound. you distantly hear yourself let out a small whimper.

"i know, i know," he mutters. his eyes are back on your face in an instant. "okay, we have to get moving back to the tower so i can get you to the med bay," he says resolutely. "can you walk?"

"not yet." not when the wall feels like it's falling away behind you, or when walker's hand on your face is the only thing keeping your head from tipping sideways. trudging through the streets of manhattan like this sounds like your greatest nightmare.

"i'll support you, i just need you to get up so we can get to the car." 

the car. right. it's a block away, you think. or at least, it's a block away from the bar. that doesn't sound nearly as bad.

"help me up."

and he does so without question, bracing you to keep you steady, even when your shaky knees threaten to buckle.

-

"that was a fucking disaster!" valentina yells from across her desk. the new assistant she hired a few weeks ago flinches while you and walker sit in front of her with matching looks of disinterest. "civilians endangered, this one got hurt," she gestures to you like you're dirt on the bottom of her shoe, and it makes you bristle, "and you both got made. i mean, seriously, it's like you've never worked a job like this in your life."

"well, don't send mr. 'i failed drama class' on undercover missions, next time," you grumble, and you swear you can see walker's hackles raise next to you. valentina is quick to cut him off before he can get a retort in.

"if there was anyone else available, trust me, i would have," she sneers. "you two are lucky that you work well with the others, because you have been the biggest pain in my ass. there's exactly one good thing that came out of this mess." she flips her tablet around to you.

on it is an article titled: "DANGEROUS IN LOVE? TENDER MOMENT SPOTTED WITH NEW AVENGERS." but it's the picture they used that gets you.

it's the two of you outside, tucked into that alley a few buildings away from the bar. you're sitting against the wall and walker is kneeling in front of you, hands on your face even as it's covered in blood. it's one of the few moments after that fight that you remember clearly. and you have to admit, out of context, it's one hell of a touching sight. or it would be, if it wasn't you and john walker, of all people.

"and that's good, how?" walker asks, raising a doubtful eyebrow at the photo.

"because this is one of only articles that's not talking about how you put civilians at risk, and it's a good opportunity for some decent publicity for once." she puts the tablet down and laces her fingers together. "enough of the public seems to be convinced you two are secretly dating that it's believable," she says with that smarmy, self-satisfied tone she always uses with the team.

walker gapes, going red in the ears.

"you're joking, right?" you cut in.

"oh, i am deadly serious, sweetheart. you're trending on twitter right now for that, and it's the only positive publicity you two have ever gotten when you work together." there's a wide smile on her face, and it's made of pure spite and cruelty. "we will be capitalizing on this to cover up your fuck-ups. you two are benched from other missions until you fix this, or that bench will be your new home."

"you want us to pretend to, what, date?" walker asks, ears still aflame.

"absolutely." she hands you both folders, and when you open yours, it's a file on him. it's a list of things he likes: his favorite foods, books, movies, anything valentina could conceivably get her hands on. you imagine walker has one all about you in his hands. "study up, lovebirds. the pr storm starts bright and early this weekend."

you're already thinking of all the ways this could go wrong as you walk out. even on the way to valentina's office, the two of you were bickering about the mission. how on earth you'd pretend to be in love is beyond you.

now, though, the walk back to your floor of the tower is silent, to an uncomfortable degree. you'd take fighting with walker over standing silently in an elevator with him any day of the week.

you take another look in the file, glancing over a few of the highlights.

"your favorite book is a wrinkle in time?"

"what? no, it's catch-22," walker says with a furrowed brow, and then he glances over at the file before taking it from you. "christ, this is all wrong."

"so she's just making guesses?"

"i guess so, yeah." he scans over the file for a bit longer. "i mean, shit, this is just the stuff that i've been reading or watching recently. it's not accurate."

you take the folder valentina gave him, and look through it yourself. sure enough, it's filled with inaccuracies. your favorite restaurant is listed as the takeout place you went to last week, and your favorite book the one you've been powering through for the past few weeks—it's a dreadfully slow read.

"this is going to be a disaster."

"yeah," he says quietly, still scanning over the file. there's something off about the way he says it, but your head is already back to aching and the bandages on your side are starting to itch. you're desperate to take a nap to try and sleep it off. maybe you can convince bucky or yelena to change your bandages while you're at it, if only to avoid another run-in with the med-bay team.

"i'll see you around, walker." you wave over your shoulder when the elevator doors open, making a beeline to your room.

he mumbles a goodbye in return.

-

the dreaded "first date" comes sooner than you want it to.

it's, admittedly, a beautiful day outside, and you'd usually love to walk through central park on a day like this. people are out with their dogs, kids are playing in the fields, and couples are having picnics under shady trees. it's nice to see normalcy in new york like this, especially after the way the void rattled the entire city for months.

the only issue is that walker is by your side, holding an iced coffee in his hand. he's close, but not too close, keeping time with your steps in a way that makes you think he wants to run. it's painfully over-calculated, or at least, you can tell how hard he's overthinking the whole situation.

it's almost like he hasn't been on a date, ever.

because that's what this is supposed to be, isn't it? a first date? granted, you aren't really into walker, and you don't particularly want to go out with the guy, but you're supposed to be head over heels for him. you should be all lovestruck smiles and sappy comments, not whatever this is. 

"so, valentina set up a bunch of fake paparazzi, right?" he asks, then takes a sip of his drink like it'll help calm his nerves. you're not even sure if caffeine works on super soldiers, but that doesn't seem to stop him.

"yeah, and we'll probably get caught by some randoms in the park, too." walker hums at that, scanning around the area like he's looking for an enemy to fight. "hey, cool it on the soldier bullshit, okay? this is only technically an op."

"right, yeah." he keeps at it anyways.

"look," you tug him to a stop, and he just looks at you with a furrowed brow, "we're just two friends taking a stroll in central park. the tabloids have to do all the work for us."

"two friends who can't stand each other," he says with a roll of his eyes.

"okay, fine, coworkers, then."

"demoting me already, wow."

"it's not my fault you're bitchy, walker," you hiss with a saccharine smile.

"doesn't mean you have to-"

"stop." he huffs, crossing his arms, a motion made awkward by the cup in his hand. "if you're going to argue with me right now, at least pretend it's, like, lighthearted teasing or something. if we blow this, val is going to wring our necks and throw us from the top of the watchtower. so, play nice."

he sighs at that, and turns to keep walking. you follow after him with a put-on smile. 

in a last-ditch effort to make things seem more natural, you say, "tell me about war history, or something." he glances at you with a raised eyebrow, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. "i'm being serious. tell me about it. it'll make things seem more natural if you're talking about something you like instead of brooding over how much you don't want to be here."

"is that all i am to you? a soldier?" he asks incredulously.

"i mean- yeah, kind of." he scoffs at that. "okay, fine, tell me about catch-22, then, mr. military."

"i have other-" you cut him off with a single, cold look. "okay, alright," he mutters, and then starts explaining it. he talks about the background of catch-22 as war satire, about the book being the origin of the phrase, about the madness of the characters, and you ask enough questions to make sure you seem interested to any onlookers.

and it's not that you're uninterested, far from it. when you aren't trying to rip each other apart, being around walker isn't half bad. you work well on combat missions—as long as he isn't the one giving orders—and you respect his technical knowledge in the field. it's just the everything else about him that grates your nerves. the overconfidence, the impatience, the general asshole behavior. 

so you tell yourself this is just like any other mission, just a straightforward undercover op, like so many you’ve done before. it keeps your head on steady—like when walker's response to a question about the book is a touch too snarky and you have to bite your tongue to keep from fighting back, or when you have a nearly ten minute long argument about how only walker would enjoy a book about war this much. he insists that the main character is really compelling, and it's not about violence, anyways, but hypocrisy. you just like pressing his buttons when he gets like this.

there's a little thought in the back of your mind that says, walker sure is eager to talk about this book. when was the last time anyone asked? 

you know you haven't, and that thought stings in a way you don't expect it to.

you know that bob and yelena have been binging kitchen nightmares for the last few weeks, that bucky is rereading the hobbit for the millionth time, that alexei is learning how to mix drinks, and even that ava has taken up crochet. but walker is a mystery to you, and that little file valentina gave you is certainly no help. 

maybe you'll look through it again once you're back at the tower. just out of curiosity.

"walker," you interrupt him, and his train of thought stutters to a stop. "one of valentina's planted paparazzo's is up ahead." 

the woman is so far from sneaky that it's nearly laughable. she's sitting on a park bench with a camera in hand and a newspaper sitting next to her. 

"shit, right." he's tense again, all of that easy back and forth sucked from between you in half a moment. you almost regret pointing her out.

"wrap your arm around me-" he visibly tenses more when you say it, so you change course, "or, like, put your hand on my arm or something when we walk past. just make it natural."

"yeah, i can- i can do that."

his hand ends up on your lower back—a move that surprises you so much you nearly choke. 

"and smile like i've said something funny." to walker's credit, the smile he shoots at you looks very nearly genuine. his eyes are still too harsh, though.

you hear the click of the shutter as you're passing the woman on the bench.

"you do this often?" he asks once you're past her.

"pretend to date someone?" he nods with a slight shrug. "not really, but i've done enough undercover ops for valentina and..." you trail off, looking for the best way to describe your previous line of work—'failed shield agent' doesn't exactly scream competency, "other groups to figure this out. it's not exactly rocket science to figure out the right things to do and say. besides, i want to get back to real missions."

"makes sense." walker goes quiet and tense again for the rest of the so-called date, and you can't shake the thought that you might've said something wrong.

-

you wake up to a text the next morning from valentina congratulating you on the first successful outing. she's quick to tell you it's one of many as soon as you get your hopes up about this being over quickly.

the articles are almost fun to read over coffee and a bagel. most of them are laughably speculative, taking mishaps from previous missions and events to spin them into some kind of romanticized thing between you—claiming that walker "pulls your pigtails" on purpose, or that this is some elaborate courtship you two have.

"ENEMIES TURNED LOVERS: UNLIKELY PAIRING SPOTTED IN CENTRAL PARK" reads the newest article about you and walker's alleged relationship. it goes into great detail about your unfortunate history of public arguments—even mentioning the one time you threw your drink at him at a gala, though that one was a legitimate accident on your part. valentina nearly flayed you alive the next day.

and then there are the photos. the first one is obviously taken from someone's phone—just a slightly blurry photo of the two of you walking—and the second seems to be from that paparazzo you spotted. the third sends a chill of discomfort through you.

you're rolling your eyes, turned away from walker for saying something stupid, probably, and he's smiling at you. it's soft and real in a way you don't expect from him, and his eyes are crinkling at the corners. it's intimate, almost.

the article goes on to describe how it seems the "rivalry" hasn't dissipated despite your blooming relationship. that makes you scoff and shut off your phone.

"morning," comes walker's voice from the door to the kitchen. it's rough with sleep, and when you look over at him, he's rumpled in a way you aren't used to seeing. his hair is mussed, long strands of it falling into his face, and his t-shirt is wrinkled all over.

"rough night, walker?"

he grunts, trudging over to the coffee machine.

"seriously, you look like you've been through hell." this is the first time you've seen him so not put together. he's got a militant way about every aspect of his life, and usually, he's ready for the day before anyone else is even up. this seems out of character for him, even if you don't know him well.

"i'm not in the mood." it takes him a moment to pour a cup of coffee for himself, fumbling for a mug and the sugar.

"wake up on the wrong side of the bed today, or something?" you keep waiting for him to fire something back, but it never comes. he just stays in front of the coffee machine, sipping from his mug like it's a lifeline. "okay, um, there's new articles about us-"

"just shut up, will you?" he growls and shoots you a glare over his shoulder. and then he's heading back out of the kitchen, leaving you dumbfounded at the island.

yelena walks in a moment later with a sly smile on her face.

"the date went that poorly?"

"apparently," you respond with a lighthearted roll of your eyes.

"well, twitter is having a field day with you two."

"oh, don't even remind me." yelena laughs at that, and it's a much-needed moment of levity.

"look!" she pushes her phone into your face, and on it is a thread. 

"proof they've always been in love," the top tweet reads.

it's a series of silly pictures of the two of you—some from the planned date, others from team outings. there's a picture of you laughing so hard that walker had to hold you up just to keep you standing. he's laughing too. there's another that you know comes from bob's instagram—which has blown up since he started posting pictures of you and the team, and valentina is grateful for the "down to earth imagery"—where walker is holding the tv remote hostage and you're damn near climbing over him to get at it.

"oh, come on, i was trying to save us from duck dynasty," you say with a snort when you show it to yelena.

"yes, but they don't know that." 

"well, they're very wrong about us being in love, that's for sure. walker won't even look at me."

her eyebrows shoot to the ceiling. "yikes."

"yeah, tell me about it."

the day goes on with walker being bitchier than usual and you wondering what crawled up his ass and died there. when you run into him at lunch, he's cold and withdrawn from the moment you walk into the room until you leave. yelena's eyes flit between you, like she's watching some high-stakes tennis match. you can hear him laughing at something bob says the moment you're heading out.

and then the gym is almost disturbing.

he's tearing into a punching bag, headphones on and facing away from you—a choice you know is intentional, given how he only turned when you walked in. hell, you're almost positive he rolled his eyes when you walked in.

but you ignore it. maybe it's an off day, you rationalize and continue on with your new routine.

the hits against the punching bag are steady as you do stretches with resistance bands—the med team still hasn't cleared you for training yet. this is the closest they'll let you get to the weights or the treadmill until the bruising on your ribs and your concussion heal.

your side aches as you move, but it's a much needed distraction from the frustration of being benched from combat missions until further notice. or it would be, if your current mission weren't actively ignoring you and making it that much more difficult.

he's still working that punching bag when you leave.

it's after dinner when you're fed up with him leaving rooms as soon as you walk in or going quiet once you try to riff off of whatever he's saying.

you corner him while he's washing dishes.

"okay, i know we've had our rough patches, and this whole fake-dating scenario sucks, but seriously?" the look he shoots you is nearly deadly. "we have to at least pretend to tolerate each other, and we did that just fine before today, so what gives?"

"it's not you," he says simply, like that's some kind of explanation.

"kind of feels like it is, walker."

the dishes clatter in the sink when he turns to you. "it's the spectacle, the publicity. it sucks."

"i know, but-"

"no, you really don't." his laugh is almost cruel. "the last time i had this many articles talking about me, i-"

oh. that's what this is about.

you remember the day all those articles came out about him—the ones talking about the flagsmashers and his less than honorable discharge. you remember the way every news outlet tore into him. the things they said were brutal. at the time, you felt kind of bad for him.

knowing that it's still eating at him all these months later only makes that worse.

"but this is good publicity. isn't that-"

"until it isn't." he turns back to the dishes with a huff, scrubbing at them like they're the ones writing the articles. "until they decide i'm some asshole who's conned you into dating me or i fuck up again and then you're on the line."

"okay, so we'll talk to valentina. we'll call the whole thing off." you're more than fine with it, really. especially if it's messing with him this badly.

"yeah, right. like she gives a shit."

and you don't know what to say to that because he's right. valentina would just tell him to get over his stage fright and act like a man.

"then, we'll make this work at your pace." he pauses, turning to you like you've said something ridiculous. "i'm being serious. i'll keep claiming a concussion until you're ready for the next slew of articles. i don't care about valentina's timeline, or whatever she has planned for us."

"okay," he says, quiet in a way you aren't used to.

you're learning not to expect things from walker anymore, not after yesterday and today.

"i'll, um, leave you to it, then. unless you want help...?"

"no, i've got it."

"got it. yeah."

you linger for a beat, letting the silence fall uncomfortably between you, and then you leave him there, still scrubbing away at the dishes.

once you're back in the safety of your own room, you pull out your phone from your pocket and start scrolling through twitter. your entire timeline is filled with yourself and walker. 

there's speculation about when you started dating, polls about who asked who out, and so on. there are endless tweets of just photos of the two of you, and even a handful of fan edits. it's almost sweet to see so many people rallying behind you both—defending you from those who bring up his ex-wife or call you a home wrecker.

you realize with a start that you don't even know his wife's name properly—or his son's for that matter.

And maybe that’s what stung the most—how easily he wore it. How effortlessly he stepped into the space someone irreplaceable had left behind.

With every mission, every close call, your resentment festered. He called himself “Captain America” like it was a job title. Like he earned it. You’d catch him giving press interviews with that painted-on grin, answering questions like a politician, like a man who hadn’t watched the blood dry on his hands yet.

But you’d fought beside Steve Rogers. You’d seen him fall and get back up, not because the world expected it—but because he did. Because he couldn’t bear to do anything less. You knew what it really took to carry that weight—and it sure as hell wasn’t a shiny resume and a PR team.

John Walker… he didn’t have that in him. Not that kind of goodness. Not that kind of determination.

You’ve never had missed your chance to remind Walker of it.

The fight was over. The Flag Smashers were gone, the mission was a mess, and you were still standing on the side of the road somewhere in the middle of goddamn nowhere, heart pounding, blood rushing in your ears—with him behind you.

Captain fucking America.

You turned away from the road, from Sam’s exhausted voice and Bucky’s growl of frustration, trying to catch your breath. Not from the fight—you were used to the fights. It was the way he looked at you. The way he spoke. That unbearable calm in his voice like he’d actually done something good.

Like he thought he was helping.

“You know,” he said behind you, casual, too casual. “We actually made a pretty good team back there.”

You closed your eyes. Counted to five. Then ten. Somehow that heat behind your ribs didn’t fade.

You turned slowly. Met his gaze. Held it, even though it made something twist in your chest.

“Team? That what you think that was?” you asked, voice low and rough.

He shrugged, like he couldn’t see the storm building in your eyes. “I mean, we stopped the trucks. Nobody died. I’d say that’s a win.”

God.

You laughed. Sharp, bitter. It scraped your throat on the way out.

“You really believe this, don’t you?” you said. “You actually think you’re the good guy.”

John frowned, just slightly. “I’m doing what I was asked to do. What this country needs.”

“You think this country needs you?”

You didn’t mean to let that much venom slip out. But you couldn’t stop it now. You were tired. Angry. And something about the way he stood there, looking like the perfect soldier in that uniform that didn’t belong to him—it made you sick.

“You want to be seen as a hero so badly,” you whispered. “But you aren’t one.”

You stepped forward, and something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Uncertainty.

He didn’t move. You didn’t stop.

“You were handed that shield. You didn’t earn it. You didn’t carry it. And every time I look at you, I see a man playing dress-up in a uniform that belonged to someone who was ten times the person you’ll ever be.”

That landed. You saw it—the brief flicker of something raw in his face, like the words had actually hit bone.

He swallowed. His voice was quieter now, almost tired. “You don’t know me.”

“I don’t want to.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Too heavy. The wind whipped past your face, pulling at your jacket, and still—he didn’t look away.

But you did. You turned your back to him, jaw clenched tight, heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to break out.

———

You thought it couldn’t get worse.

You thought you’d already seen the ugliest parts of him—the arrogance, the cocky one-liners, the way he walked into every room like the hero in someone else’s story. You thought your hatred for John Walker had already carved its place into your chest, a familiar wound, sharp but manageable.

And then came Lemar’s death.

And the shield—Steve’s shield—slick with blood that wasn’t his to spill.

You weren’t there when it happened. You didn’t see it fall. You were busy chasing one of the terrorists.

But then Bucky sent you the video. The footage that circled like vultures online—grainy, shaky, someone’s phone camera catching it all: the broken body, the gleam of the shield raised overhead, the fury in Walker’s face as it came down again, and again, and again.

Your stomach twisted when you saw him later. He was standing in the warehouse like a ghost, the shield still strapped to his back like he deserved it.

You should’ve stayed outside. You’d told yourself that. Let Sam and Bucky handle it.

But your feet carried you in before you could stop them.

He turned when he heard you, the edge of his profile illuminated by the fractured light through the busted windows. Eyes rimmed red. Hands twitching.

“Don’t.” Sam said behind you.

But you were already walking toward him. Sam didn’t even try saying anything again or stopping you.

You didn’t speak at first. You just looked at Walker and tried to find something left in his face that resembled a man.

You couldn’t.

He looked up at you like he expected a fight. Like he welcomed it.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said, voice rough. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see what they did—”

“No,” you said quietly. “I didn’t see that. I just saw you kill a man with a shield that was never yours to carry.”

His jaw clenched, but you didn’t stop.

“You’re not Captain America. You never were. You’re a man with a suit and a name and a pile of bodies that you think justify themselves.”

“I lost my best friend,” he snapped. “What would you have done?”

“I would’ve done the right thing,” you whispered. “That’s what Steve would’ve done. That’s what any decent man would’ve done.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

Good.

But it wasn’t enough.

Your fist moved before you could stop it—sharper than the words, heavier than your restraint. You struck him clean across the jaw, the impact echoing off the steel walls. He stumbled a step, but didn’t go down.

He looked back at you with something wild in his eyes. Hurt. Guilt. Fury.

You saw his hands twitch again—and this time, he didn’t hold back.

He came at you fast. Not with full force, not like you were the enemy, but enough to knock you backward, enough to fight.

You hit the ground hard, rolled, came up swinging.

The two of you clashed in a storm of fists and broken breath. You weren’t thinking. Just moving. Just feeling everything you’d buried since Steve gave that shield away. Since Walker took it. Since he tarnished it.

You landed a knee to his ribs—he grunted, doubled over—and you could’ve stopped. Should’ve.

But you didn’t.

You shoved him back, threw another punch. He caught your wrist this time, eyes blazing.

“This what you want?” he hissed. “You want to hurt me? Go ahead. Get in line.”

You yanked your hand free. “You deserve it.”

And you meant it. Because something in you was cracking now—something deep and buried and filled with a grief you hadn’t wanted to name.

It wasn’t just about the shield. Not anymore.

It was about everything he wasn’t.

Everything Steve was. Everything you lost when the world decided to move on without asking if you were ready.

You were both breathing hard now, blood on your knuckles, bruises blooming under skin.

He stared at you like he didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Like he didn’t know how to be hated by someone who used to believe in what the shield stood for.

And now here you were. Staring at him back like you couldn’t forgive.

Staring at a man who wore your friend’s legacy like a weapon.

A man who made you feel like nothing in this world would ever be right again.

———

Everything changed after that day.

After the blood dried and the shield was stripped from his hands and everything he thought he was collapsed under the weight of what he’d done.

And few days later when Sam finally took the shield, when he earned it—stood tall and steady in a suit that actually meant something—you thought that was it. The end of it. Of him.

You figured you’d never have to think about John Walker again.

But time passed. The world kept breaking in new, creative ways. And now—now you were standing in a cold facility in the middle of nowhere, gripping a gun with your name on the target folder and a job from Valentina echoing in the back of your head like a dare.

Get rid of John Walker.

Get in. Get rid of him. Clean break. Simple.

You took it. It wasn’t like you, not really. But the hatred you had in the back of your head spoke louder than your heart and everything you thought you stood for.

Little did you know it was all a setup. A trap.

You should’ve known the moment you got the assignment. The briefing had been vague—too vague. No layout of the facility, no escape routes, just a location and a file with a familiar name stamped across it in thick black ink.

And then you walked into the belly of a concrete labyrinth and found other people—including Walker—standing there, weapons drawn, faces just as confused and angry as yours.

The doors sealed behind you with a hydraulic hiss. Locking down. Air pressure shifted, and red emergency lights flickered on like a funeral march. Somewhere deep in the walls, system roared to life. Not to protect you. To go up in flames.

Valentina had played you all like chess pieces, and now the board was on fire.

Ghost moved first, flickering out of sight, trying to go through the walls, which failed miserably. Bob stayed silent. Yelena cursed in Russian, muttering something about never trusting Val ever again.

And Walker—

God. Walker was standing with his hands raised slightly, like he thought someone might still shoot him. His face was tight, unreadable.

“What the hell is this?” he said, voice cutting through the silence. “This wasn’t the op.”

“No shit,” you snapped.

You hated how different he looked. Like time had pressed in on him. Like regret had left fingerprints all over his face. He wasn’t the clean-cut puppet from years ago anymore. Just a man left standing at the edge of the wreckage he helped build.

Gladly you all managed to get out. With Ava’s strange ability, Yelena’s plan and Walker’s „On your left,” when he smashed the power source. You almost punched him in the face just for saying that.

You didn’t want to work with him. You didn’t want to stand on the same side of any fight as John Walker. But when the truth about Valentina came out—about Sentry, about her plan to kill you all, and the experiments in Malaysia—you didn’t have a choice.

You told yourself it was temporary.

You told yourself he was just… useful.

And then you landed back in New York.

The Void descended with no warning—rupturing through the skyline, swallowing people like smoke through a keyhole. People screamed. Reality bent. You were thrown into the heart of it with no backup, no plan, and too much debris between you and the people you were trying to protect.

The city was collapsing, falling.

You fought through the chaos. Through the ripping wind and the shifting streets. Until something bigger caught your eye—a building fracturing at the base, tilting in on itself. Fast.

It was about to hit people below so you ran towards it—of course you did—hoping you’ll manage to save them.

You didn’t see the metal bar swing into your ribs.

You didn’t see the rubble above start to fall.

You hit the ground hard. Vision spinning.

And then came a a grunt. A thud. Arms around your waist.

You gasped as you were yanked sideways just before a concrete slab slammed into where you’d been lying.

Dust filled your throat. You coughed and blinked up.

There he was. Walker, blood on his cheek, breath ragged. His body practically covering yours like a shield.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

The sounds of the city raged around you—sirens, crumbling steel, distant screams—but in that second, everything went still. His arms braced on either side of you, holding his weight just above your body, chest rising and falling against yours in rough, uneven gasps.

You could feel the heat of him through your suit. Smell the dust and blood on his skin. See the tight clench of his jaw as he checked the collapse behind you, as if making sure the danger had really passed.

And still… he didn’t look at you. He didn’t ask if you were okay.

He just pulled back, slow and steady, like if he moved too fast you’d shatter.

You sat up once he was off you, cradling your ribs, avoiding his eyes. You didn’t thank him. Couldn’t. The words felt too sharp in your mouth. Like admitting what he’d done would rewrite everything you’d believed about him.

And maybe it had.

Because he didn’t have to come back for you. He didn’t have to throw himself into the collapse. He didn’t have to look at you like that—like the grudge didn’t matter anymore. Like it never had.

You told yourself it was just instinct. Just battlefield protocol. But that moment stayed with you.

Long after the end of everything. After Void was sealed. After the city’s streets were crowded again.

You were brought back to reality from your thoughts when Val announced you as The New Avengers.

You didn’t even pretend to hide your reaction.

A scoff escaped your throat before you could catch it. You folded your arms, weight shifted to one side, glaring at the floor like it had answers.

This wasn’t what you signed up for.

You were supposed to survive the facility, stop Val, shut down the Sentry project. Then walk away. Back into the dark. Back into the part of the world that didn’t ask questions about how much you hated or trusted the people you bled beside.

But now?

Now there were press conferences being planned. Uniforms being discussed. Public names, joint assignments, coordinated housing.

And all of it included Walker.

You hadn’t spoken with him since that day.

You couldn’t.

Not after the way he pulled you out of that collapse. Not after the way he didn’t say a damn thing and somehow that meant more than words ever could.

You tried to ignore him whenever you passed him in the Avengers Tower but you could always feel his presence, heavy in your periphery.

He avoided you as well. Like he didn’t know what to do with it either.

This was supposed to be easy. He was supposed to be the one you hated. The one you didn’t have to forgive.

And now you’d have to see him every goddamn day. Train with him. Fight beside him. Sit across briefing tables trying to pretend like nothing had shifted inside your ribs the moment he shielded you with his body like it was instinct.

———

You weren’t sleeping. Not really. Your body ached from training and you tossed in bed every two minutes.

So you got up wandered the hallway in silence, the floor cold under your bare feet, hoodie hanging loose around your frame. You told yourself you were just getting water. Just stretching your legs.

But the second you turned the corner near the common room, you froze.

He was there. Walker. Leaning against the wall, head tilted back, arms crossed over his chest. In sweats and a T-shirt, no armor, no shield, no sharp edges. Just him. Just John.

You almost backed away but his gaze landed on you.

Shit.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, voice rough from disuse.

You shrugged. “Didn’t think anyone else would be up.”

Silence bloomed, thick and pressing. You crossed your arms, suddenly cold despite the hoodie.

“I’m not gonna thank you,” you said. „For saving me back then.”

His mouth twitched like he almost smiled. “Didn’t expect you to.”

“I just—” you faltered, jaw clenching. “You don’t get to pretend like it didn’t happen.”

He nodded slowly, gaze steady. “I’m not pretending.”

You hated the way your stomach turned. The way your chest tightened when he looked at you like that—not smug, not superior. Just honest.

“I don’t get it,” you muttered. “Why’d you even do that?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Because I didn’t want you to die.”

You stared at him. Your throat tightened. “You hated me.”

“Maybe I did,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I wanted you gone.”

He pushed off the wall, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he should leave or come closer. His voice softened.

“I know what I did. Who I was. And maybe you’ll never forgive me for it. But that doesn’t mean I’d let you go down in a pile of rubble just to prove a point.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

Because you wanted to be angry.

You wanted to throw the past back in his face. But all you could feel was the echo of that moment again—his weight over you, his arms around you, the silence between you burning louder than any scream.

“You’re still an asshole,” you said finally, voice flat, throat tight.

He huffed a laugh, low and tired. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

You should’ve walked away. Shut the door to this half-buried thing between you before it cracked wider. But your feet didn’t move. And neither did his.

The hallway felt too quiet. Too still. Like the tower itself was holding its breath.

Walker ran a hand through his hair, eyes dipping down, jaw clenching. He looked like he was debating saying something. Like whatever it was might undo the last few years of distance you’d tried so hard to build.

“You know I’d do it again.” His voice was softer now, quieter.

Your chest went still.

He glanced up, eyes catching yours. “If it happened again. If everything was falling and you were under it.” He paused. “I wouldn’t think twice.”

The words shouldn’t have hit you the way they did.

But they did. Harder than any rubble ever could. Heavier than the shield he used to carry.

You swallowed, hard. “That doesn’t mean we’re—” You broke off. “That doesn’t fix anything.”

“I’m not trying to fix it,” he said. “I’m just… telling you the truth.”

Your hand curled around your arm. Fingertips digging into your sleeve. “You make it really hard to keep hating you.”

His mouth pulled into something between a smile and a grimace. “That’s not intentional.”

“Well, try harder.” You meant it to come out cold. Dismissive. But it sounded… tired.

Exhausted by everything you’ve carried for years—the blood, the betrayal, the fire in your chest that never quite settled. And now it’s shifting. Changing. Because of him and his stupid act of bravery.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he finally learnt how to do the right thing and became the man you expected him to be when he got the Steve’s shield years ago.

Walker stepped closer—not enough to touch, but enough that you felt the gravity of it. The pull.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” he said.

You didn’t answer because you didn’t know how to say “I don’t want to hate you either.”

So instead, you closed the distance between the two of you. Your lips crashed into his—no warning. No pretense.

Just heat and exhaustion and years of something tangled and unsaid breaking loose all at once.

You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe it was your way of saying thank you, even though you said you were’t going to do that. Maybe you hoped it would stop that burning feeling inside your chest whenever you saw him.

His lips caught yours like a second too slow, like he didn’t believe it at first but then he was on you.

Hands at your waist. Then your back. Then tangled in your hoodie like he needed to get under it, like the feel of you wasn’t enough with cotton in the way. His mouth was rough, warm, desperate. He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it since the day you told him you’d rather kill him than work beside him.

You gasped when his hand slid up under your hoodie, skin to skin, dragging heat across your ribs. He caught that sound in his mouth—bit your bottom lip like he couldn’t help it.

“You really wanna do this?” he muttered against your jaw, breath hot, voice thick.

“I wouldn’t be kissing you if I didn’t,” you snapped, and tugged him back in like you were trying to punish him for making you feel this way.

He groaned. Like the way you hated him turned him on more than anything.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was everything else—anger, relief, want.

You pulled him back with you until your spine hit the wall, your hoodie rucked up, your hips dragged against his thigh as he slotted himself between your legs. His hands gripped your waist, pulled you flush, and god—he was hard already.

You weren’t doing this to be sweet. You didn’t want slow.

You just wanted to feel something real after too long pretending you didn’t.

“Off,” you breathed, tugging at his shirt. “Take it off—”

He obeyed, pulled it over his head and tossed it behind him, and fuck—

You hadn’t let yourself think about what he looked like, but now you couldn’t not see it. The way his body moved. The way he breathed. The scars and wounds which still haven’t faded from the last mission he was on.

Your hands were on his chest, then lower—scraping nails along his abs as you dragged his waistband down enough to feel the heat of him straining against fabric.

John hissed. Caught your wrist gently but firmly. He kissed you harder, deeper. One hand sliding down the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up around his waist. His fingers pressed between your legs through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts and you gasped—hips grinding forward, aching.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered against your ear, breath ragged.

“Shut up.”

But you were.

You didn’t care.

All you cared about was the way he touched you—how fast his fingers slipped past the fabric, how his thumb pressed against your clit just right, how your hips jerked and your head hit the wall and you let out a sound that was definitely not subtle.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let me hear you.” he said and took of your shorts off for easier access.

You bit your lip. Nearly drew blood.

But he knew what he was doing. His fingers circled, slid inside, curled. You gasped again, louder this time.

Your hand gripped the back of his neck, the other fumbling for the waistband of his sweats. He helped you—pulled them down with one hand, never letting up with the other.

When he pressed the head of his cock against you, your hips lifted to meet him like instinct.

“No teasing,” you muttered. “Just fuck me.”

And he did. One deep thrust that filled you to the hilt, his head dropping to your shoulder with a low, guttural curse. Your fingers dug into his back, your leg tightening around his waist as he began to move—slow at first, then harder.

The hallway was filled with the sound of skin, breath, need.

It was rough, frenzied at first—your bodies crashing together like the only way to silence everything between you was to fuck through it. You held onto him like a lifeline, nails dragging down his back, and he rutted into you with all the restraint of a man who’d waited so long to touch you.

Then something changed.

He slowed. Just a little. Hands smoothing over your hips, your waist, up under your hoodie like he needed to feel you. Really feel you.

You tried to kiss him again, tried to draw him back into the rush of it, but he broke away and pulled out of you, which made you whimper at the loss. His lips began trailing down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

“Take this off,” he whispered.

His fingers slipped under the hem of your hoodie, pushing it up, revealing inches of bare skin as he went. He kissed every part he uncovered—slow, reverent. Like peeling you out of your clothes was something sacred.

He tugged it over your head. You stood there, naked in the dim glow of the hallway, chest rising and falling too fast, heat rushing to your cheeks. The clothing dropped to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.

His gaze drank you in.

“Fuck,” he murmured. His hand lifted to trace the line of your breast, your ribs, like he didn’t trust himself to grab hold too fast. “You’re…”

You rolled your eyes, flustered. “Don’t get sappy on me, Walker.”

But your voice betrayed you—breathy, shaken, softer than it should’ve been.

His lips brushed your ear. “You’re so pretty like this.”

You felt it in your stomach. Low. Aching.

He kissed down your chest, mouth hot and open, leaving a trail that had your spine arching off the wall. His hands moved with him—down your sides, your hips, thumbs sweeping across your thighs as he sank to his knees like it was nothing. Like it was natural and you’ve had done it a thousand times before.

He pressed his mouth to your skin, just above your most sensitive area.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispered.

You didn’t ask when. You didn’t need to.

Because you’d thought about it too. Even when you hated him. Maybe because you hated him.

Your hand found his hair, tugged gently.

He looked up at you—pupils blown wide, lips slick, chest heaving—and there was nothing cocky left in him.

Only want. And the sharp edge of something deeper. Something you didn’t dare name.

There was no hesitation. His mouth was on you in seconds—hot tongue parting your folds, lips wrapping around your clit like he knew exactly how to tear you open from the inside out.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, one leg draped over his shoulder, your hands scrambling for balance—fisting in his blonde hair, clutching at the smooth tile behind you, anything.

But it was him.

It was him holding you steady. Him on his knees like it was right where he belonged.

“Jesus, Walker—” you gasped, hips rolling forward before you could stop them.

He groaned like it encouraged him. His fingers dug into your thighs, keeping you pinned. His tongue moved in long, slow drags, then faster flicks—pressing and circling like he was studying you, learning every twitch and breath and curse that spilled from your lips.

You looked down at him and nearly choked on your own breath.

His eyes were on you. Dark, heavy-lidded, full of something close to reverence. Like he needed to see your face while he broke you open.

“You taste so fucking good,” he muttered against your skin, the vibrations making your knees buckle.

“Shut up,” you rasped, breath catching. “Just—fuck—keep going.”

And he did.

Tongue fucking you now, nose brushing your clit with every movement, jaw working with a kind of desperation you hadn’t expected. He wasn’t doing this for you to moan pretty. He was doing it because he needed to.

Your leg trembled around his shoulder. Your body started to tighten.

You could feel it—fast, sharp, barreling toward the edge like gravity, and he must’ve felt it too, because his grip tightened and his mouth slammed against your clit, sucking hard and fast while his fingers replaced his tongue, curling inside you—

You came with a broken cry. Your whole body went tense. Then loose like he’d knocked the fight right out of you.

Your hand clutched his hair, riding it out, legs shaking as he worked you through it—slow now, gentle licks, like he was savoring the last of it.

You gasped, tried to speak, failed.

John kissed the inside of your thigh once. Then again. Slow. Almost sweet. He looked up at you, lips slick, face flushed.

Your legs were still shaking. You dragged in a breath, swallowed hard, then whispered, “I need you.”

His brows lifted slightly.

You leaned down, fingers sliding into his hair again—not to pull him back this time, but to bring him up. Back to you. Where he belonged.

Your voice cracked, soft and raw. “I need to feel you inside me again, John… Fuck, please—”

It spilled out before you could stop it. His name. The please The desperate, aching want in your tone.

And you hated how much you meant it.

His mouth twitched—like he could barely process hearing you beg for him, like some part of him didn’t believe it was real. But then his hands were on you again, lifting you up into his arms without a word, carrying you back down the hall toward your room like nothing else mattered.

Like he couldn’t wait another goddamn second.

He kicked the door shut behind him.

Laid you down like you were something fragile—even though you both knew better. Even though you were already reaching for him again.

He groaned when he saw how wet you still were. How ready. How wrecked just for him.

You spread your legs and pulled him between them.

He knew what you wanted and didn’t hesitate. He buried himself in you deep and hot and so good it knocked the air out of your lungs.

“Fuck—” you gasped, head tipping back. “God, yes—”

He moved over you with that same rhythm he had before—hips rolling deep, like he was trying to memorize every flutter of your walls around him.

You clung to his shoulders, nails dragging down his back, needing more—more pressure, more stretch, more him.

“Harder,” you whispered. “Please, just—don’t stop.”

“Not planning to,” he growled into your neck.

Then he really started fucking you.

Harder. Deeper. Every thrust slamming into you like he was trying to chase the memory of hate from your body and replace it with this. With him. With the burn and ache and heat of wanting you back.

His hand slid between you, fingers rubbing quick, tight circles over your clit while his cock pounded into you and you swore you saw stars.

“John—fuck—John—” Your voice was wrecked. Your body was so close again, too soon and he could feel it.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Come on, sweetheart. I want to feel you come around me. Want you to squeeze my cock just like that—fuck, that’s it—”

You shattered.

Legs shaking, mouth open, nails digging into his skin, leaving crescent shaped marks as your orgasm hit so hard you almost sobbed.

He followed with a broken sound, hips jerking, breath ragged as he came deep inside you—head buried in your neck, arms tight around you like he needed to hold you together.

The silence that followed was heavy and full of everything you didn’t know how to say.

Your body still trembled slightly—aftershocks of what you’d just shared, what you’d just given. You could feel his breath against your skin, still uneven, still catching on the edges like he didn’t know how to slow down either.

He pulled out of you slowly and lay down next to you. Then, gently—tentatively—his fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face. Like he was afraid you’d flinch. Like he wasn’t sure he had permission to be soft with you.

You didn’t flinch. You looked at him instead. Tired. Raw. Searching.

Neither of you said anything. Neither of you knew what this meant. What came next. What the hell to do with it.

You gave him a weak, shaky smile. Small. Almost embarrassed. But real.

Before you could change your mind, you shifted—just slightly—and curled into him. Buried your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of sweat and heat and him. Your arm draped across his waist like muscle memory.

And he… let you.

More than that—he pulled you in tighter.

One arm around your back. The other coming up to cradle the back of your head like you were something precious. His lips pressed a soft, almost hesitant kiss into your hair, and he exhaled slow, like it let something out he’d been holding for years.

It’s late. The rest of the team are either battling insomnia and sleep or away on a mission. The floor is so dark and quiet, if you weren’t with John, you were sure paranoia would weigh down on you. The shadows loom large and deep across the hall; you could almost imagine eyes peering at you in the dark. 

But you had bigger problems right now.

Like the fact Walker was bleeding out, leaving a trail of crimson along the sterile hall. You glance at his side, his large hand pressed heavily into the wound, dribbling blood between his fingers, the flesh open and exposed beneath his suit. 

“Yeah, well you’re alive so quit complaining.” His voice breaks the quiet, a loud hiss following as you stop suddenly, the movement jerking his body. “OW. what was that for?”

You glare at him.

“You’re lucky I was able to get us out of there. You acted recklessly!” 

“If I hadn’t pushed you out of the way, they would have killed you.”

“Walker, you compromised the whole mission! You had the arms dealer right there and you let him go.” John shakes his head, his helmet caked with dirt and blood, his scruffy beard barely hiding the large bruise blooming along his jaw. His mouth is set in a heavy frown. 

“He was a lost cause anyways.” His voice is strong, authoritative as it always was, his tone commanding and final. But you could see it in his eyes. 

He didn’t really believe it. He had let the mission fall apart because he was more focused on you. 

You had been hiding in the shadows of the crates lining the large warehouse, watching Walker from across the room. The both of you had spent the last few days scouting the warehouse, looking for the target Valentina needed information from. And he had finally shown up. 

Walker had the arms dealer cornered, grilling him, the shield on his back glinting menacingly. John had been so close to getting the information you needed. 

It happened so fast. Two guards burst into the warehouse, their loud boots clattering up in the rafters of the room. 

They had quickly spotted you behind the crates, pointed their large weapons at you, your own gun raising, John shouting your name as they fired-

And then you felt his arms around you, the weight of him barreling into you as he pushed you out of the way. John had fallen on top of you, the both of you grunting from the impact, a loud and pained groan escaping his lips. 

Your eyes had widened as you watched the guards reload their weapons, your fingers quickly groping at John’s thigh holster, pulling the pistol out and shooting the guards. And despite his heavy body pinning you down you had shot both of them with perfect aim, eyes desperately searching the warehouse for the target, only to find he had gotten away.

You had been so angry at how reckless John had been. So angry at the fact he had compromised the mission for you; so angry at the fact your heart had skipped a beat at the thought he cared, at how protected and safe you felt as he had covered your body with his. The way he had screamed your name as if it was his final breath, as if the word alone was enough for him to save you.

You had ignored John’s questions as you helped him into the transport vehicle, keeping silent the whole ride back to the tower, only speaking to tell him to shut up after he had asked if you were alright for the fifth time.

Your mind wouldn’t have been able to come up with a response anyway. You were too caught up in trying to calm your speeding heart, your brows furrowed as memories began to surface in your mind. This wasn’t the first time John had acted recklessly around you. 

It had started slowly, the way his eyes always flitted towards you in the training room, the way he would push himself too hard, showing off. He had begun to leave his post on missions, either to help you out or just be near you, giving some lame excuse about not trusting you to get the job done. Walker had begun to always choose you as his mission partner, not that he had much of a choice. You were one of the only New Avengers members who was willing to partner up with him. 

But he had begun to stick by your side in missions, somehow always near enough to protect you with his shield, to pull you up by your vest when you fell, to throw himself at any thug or rogue agent who so much looked at you wrong.

You give Walker a pointed look, shifting your arm beneath his body. 

“Don’t make me regret being the only person who’s willing to save you, captain.” 

John doesn’t say anything at that. He just looks down at you, eyes searching your bruised and cut up face to see if you’re serious. And you are.

“I’m sorry, okay,” He says, tilting his head.

“You’re not.” John doesn’t push back. He knows it’s true. “But I’m not worried about that now. We have to get you to the medbay.” You begin to walk, but John doesn’t move his legs. You turn, giving him a questioning look as he shakes his head. 

“Not the medbay. Barnes will have me benched for the rest of the month.”

“Good. Maybe you need to be.” You raise your eyebrows, John removing his arm from where it lay on your shoulder, the relief in your muscles is immediate as his weight is lifted, his body leaning against the wall. 

“You would have been killed-” John begins again, his argument cut off by your frustrated sigh.

“You don’t know that Walker. You didn’t even give me a chance to defend myself!" He licks his bloody lip, shifting the hand he has pressed against his side. 

“I couldn’t take any chances.” His voice is serious. So serious it cuts deep into your bones, the words burned into your brain. John doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes on your dirt covered boots. You bite your lip, watching the blood dribble past his fingers, less intense than it was in the elevator, the super serum already kicking in and healing him. 

You wanted to ask why he cared so much, why out of every member of the New Avengers, it was you he had clung to. But you don’t. 

You’re too tired to deal with that can of worms. Too scared to crack it open, to see if there was something more between you and John than you would let yourself believe. You sigh, defeated.

“I know you have enhanced healing but you should still get that looked at-” 

“No medbay.” His eyes are pleading as they meet yours. “I can’t be benched right now. You know how much this means to me.” You did. 

You saw how much thrill and purpose fighting gave him. How with every mission, he seemed to forget the angry texts his parents sent him, full of discontentment and dismay. How the days seemed to pass by faster between weekends he had with his son; how he was fueled to do his best, to finally be a father his boy could look up to. How with every mission he got more comfortable with you, how he opened up more during stakeouts, how he sought you out at press galas for comfort. 

“Please,” he whispers. You just cross your arms, fingers gently prodding a bruise forming at your elbow. John looks down at you as if you held his fate in his hands. And you sort of did. You nod, and he sighs, relieved and tired.

“But you should still get your wound looked at.” Your hand comes to his side, fingers gently lifting his bloody fingers, dark crimson staining your nails as you look at the wound. John watches you intently.

“You could look at it for me.” You let out a quiet laugh, amused at the thought. 

“I’m not exactly a nurse, John. I might just make it worse.” 

“Just watch me then. I’ll walk you through it.” 

You smile softly, your fingers still lingering on his own larger fingers. They twitch against you and you’re not sure if it’s because of the pain or because he’s holding back. 

You laugh. “You always have to be in charge, don’t you?” You tease quietly. He chuckles, groaning as his torso shakes with laughter. 

“I am the captain.” 

You help John into his room, turning on the bathroom light as he shuffles into the cold room. You’ve only seen his bedroom in passing, just getting a glimpse of his private space from the crack in the door. But being inside it is totally different than you had expected. 

Yelena’s room was a mess, a flurry of clothes thrown on her furniture, papers and jewelry littering her desk. Bob had a tendency to leave old takeout in his room, and on the rare occasion you needed to borrow a book from him, you’d help him clean up.

From what you’d heard from Yelena, Alexei kept an entire cabinet of his own merchandise and Russian Propaganda posters littered the walls of his room. You knew Ava kept a mostly normal room, just like yours, clean but lived in. (nobody knew exactly what was in Bucky’s room. He was always mysterious about his private quarters.)

But John Walker’s room was bare. Not empty, not clean, bare. Unused. Unlived. As if he couldn't bring himself to feel comfortable in the space.

There was just the bed in the center of the room, with its navy blue comforter and single pillow, the desk with a stack of mission debriefs and a box of supplies to clean his weapons and shield, and finally a sad looking bookcase with only a few books and a single picture of his son. You frown as you turn to help John sit on the edge of the tub. 

You’re quiet as you take his shield, setting it at the end of his bed. John attempts to unclip his helmet with one hand, but his fingers shake so badly, you quickly take over.

“Here, I’ve got it,” you pull his hand away, sitting on the toilet next to the tub, your own fingers gentle as you remove his helmet. His blonde hair flops loosely onto his forehead, slick with sweat.

You can’t help thinking of how handsome he is like this. How breathtaking his blue eyes are, even if their normal hue is dull from lack of sleep and pain.

“Like what you see?” You stand, setting the helmet on the sink and rifle through his medicine cabinet for gauze and antiseptic cream. 

“A stubborn know it all who thinks it’s always up to him to save the day?” You give John a pointed look, smiling playfully. He rolls his eyes, brushing it off with a grumble. But you don’t miss the way his brows furrow. 

You pull off your dirty tactical vest, slip off your boots leaving yourself in just your dirty combat pants and a tank top. Your hands are careful as you help Walker out of his suit, peeling it off of his body until his torso is completely exposed. The job is slow, leaving John panting and slick with sweat, his side bleeding again at the movement. 

“Are you sure-”

“I’m positive.” His voice is clipped.

“You’re not invincible you know.” You give him a serious look as you follow his instructions to start with a cold compress, pressing it against his wound to staunch the bleeding. He looks down at you, his hands supporting himself on the edge of the tub. 

“I know. But I have to do the most while I still can.” You snort. 

“You could have done more if you hadn’t jumped in front of me.” You tilt your head to look up at him. John sighs, running a hand through his hair.  

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you sweetheart. Join everyone’s favorite club.” You furrow your brows, confused. You don't acknowledge the way your heart skips a beat at the pet name.

“What club?” John looks away, his face heavy with memory.

“The ‘Disappointed in Jonathan Walker’ club. Founded by my father and led by my ex- wife. Filled with a never ending stream of new members everyday.” You shift, your thighs growing tired from sitting on the toilet seat, and you move to kneel beside him. The tile is cold beneath your feet, but you don’t mind. 

You wouldn't move even if you wanted to. John is uncharacteristically downcast. His usual annoyed frown is lined with a deep sadness. 

John put so much pressure on himself. To be better, to be the best. He always had to be perfect, to always have the right play, the right plan. 

But he was only human. 

And you knew that fact killed him. 

“John,” you begin, removing the compress, the fabric stained red. His wound had stopped bleeding which was good. “I’m not disappointed in you.” 

John doesn't say anything for a moment. He just hands you the antiseptic cream for you to apply, watching as your fingers gently dab the gelly substance onto his torn skin. 

“I’d believe you if you weren't so insistent I was being reckless.” 

“You were-” 

“And what about you?” He asks, his voice rising defensively . “When you took a bullet for Ava, that wasn't reckless?” You flush, remembering that mission, how you'd shoved her out of harm's way, the bullet slicing through the meat of your side. 

“That was different-” 

“And the time when Alexei warned you about the unstable wires? When Yelena had to dive after you when you purposely cut yourself loose from your cable?” 

“Okay,” you say angrily, removing your fingers from John’s side  so you wouldn't hurt the man more. “Okay I get it. I’ve done crazy things for the sake of a mission. But what you did wasn't for the assignment.” You look up at him, your face barely a foot from his. 

You tried not to think about how intimate your proximity was. How your body was slotted between his spread legs, your hand resting on his thigh in support.  

You could smell the iron tinge from his blood, the sweat dribbling down his collar, the hint of his shampoo, fresh and clean. John’s eyes are focused on your face, dipping down to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking on your eyes, frustrated. 

“John, I’m not disappointed. I’m just worried.” You pause for a moment, your next words stuck on your tongue. You swallow. 

“Do you not trust me?” 

John furrows his brows. “Of course I do.”

“Then why won't you let me do my job? I’m part of this team, just like you. As your partner I need to know that we can work together without you being so worried about me.” 

He swallows thickly, looking away. 

“I just… seeing you out in the field, always in harm's way…” John's voice trails off, his eyes growing glassy. You gently cup his face, something you’ve never done before, but in this moment you felt compelled to do so. 

“John,” your thumb caresses his skin and he closes his eyes at your touch. For a moment, he almost leans in; you can feel your noses brush, the ghost of his lips against yours. And then he grabs your hand, his hold gentle and firm, and pulls it away from his face, forcing himself back. 

John sniffs, shaking his head. He clears his throat, eyes distant as he regains his composure. 

“You shouldn’t worry. I can handle it.” You frown. 

Stubborn as always. 

And you're angry again at how much of an idiot John Walker is.

“You ever stop and think maybe this is why you’ve lost so much? You hold everything in Walker. You feel like the weight of the world is on your shoulders and you don’t let anyone help you until it’s too late and you feel like you’re going to implode.” 

John stares at you, his face full of an emotion you don’t recognize right away. His shoulders shake, his jaw set in a hard line. And then you realize what it is. 

It’s fear. 

Fear of being recognized, of being understood so deeply. 

John had once told you that sometimes it felt like the only person who ever understood him was Lemar. His parents didn’t get him; John had quickly learned how to shape his life to please them, tucking the parts of him they didn’t like away.

Olivia didn’t understand; she had loved him deeply, yes, but John was just her high school sweetheart, her jock, her soldier. She loved the picket fence dream she had imagined with him, not all the hardships and trials that came with it. 

But Lemar had always understood. As John had signed up for the military, his father’s eyes boring into his back, Lemar had been right there with him, his own name on the roster just minutes later.

When John was sick in the dark of the barracks, wondering if he’d made the right decision, the right call, Lemar was reassuring him he’d done the best he could. 

When John was frustrated, when he felt like everyone was judging his every move, judging him for even having the gall to hold Captain America’s shield, Lemar was telling him to put everything into perspective and to remember what was important. 

But Lemar was gone. And soon after John had lost hold of everything else he had loved. He was like a ship lost at sea, drifting aimlessly. 

And then you came into his life. 

After three long years of feeling alone, you’d quickly proven to be someone John could care for. You’d matched his energy so well it was jarring; he’d throw an annoyed and witty line at you and always come out surprised at your reaction. You had accepted the fact you would always be paired up with him early on, too kind to say no and too proud to say you actually liked being with him.

You were one of the only members of the team who would listen to him, who let him take charge, who trusted his decisions. You quickly figured out how to combat John’s overly large ego, making sure to keep him humble when he got too confident. But John always appreciated the rare compliments you’d give him, knowing they were genuine.

John had found himself opening up to you, seeking you out during Avengers meetings and promotional events. He found his thoughts drifting to you during missions, always keeping an eye on you during combat, making sure you were safe. 

And it wasn’t long before John realized you were filling that void inside of him left by his friend, by his ex-wife. You were opening him up to love after feeling like he would never be able to find it again. And it scared him. So John had pushed it down. 

He doubled down on just watching you from afar, on keeping you out of any scenario where you might get hurt. Because if you were killed, John wouldn’t know how he’d be able to live with himself. To live with the fact he’d lost something precious, and you didn’t even know.

“I just…” John looks down at you, eyes searching for the right words. “I don’t think I could live with myself if I failed you.” It was so vulnerable, so unlike him. Your fingers are gentle as you grasp his shoulder, your skin soft against his battle-worn body. 

“John,” his name is barely a whisper on your lips. “You could never fail me. You’re far from perfect, but I see how hard you try.”

He takes in your words, clinging onto them as they fill the cold bathroom. John is quiet as you kneel there beside him, your fingers gently moving from his collar bone, up to his stubbled neck, your thumb caressing his bearded cheek. You both just look at each other, allowing the silence to fill in the rest of the words he’s too stubborn and proud to say. 

He moves first, large hand gently moving towards your face, pulling you close. And you let him, closing your eyes as John presses his lips against yours. It's soft and kind and so unlike his brash and loud personality.

John tastes like blood and the peppermint gum he always chewed on missions. His lips are cracked, broken against your soft lips, but you wouldn't have it any other way. You pull away slightly his body leaning towards yours, as if to tell you not to go.

You sit there just looking at him, swallowing the intense feelings stirring in your chest.

John eventually clears his throat, looking away and picking up the gauze, telling you how to wrap his side. You follow his instructions carefully, tying off the bandage and looking to him for approval, your cheeks flushed a bright pink.

You stand and put everything away in his medicine cabinet, a little unsure of what to do. So you just bite your lip and leave John to change in the bathroom, standing awkwardly in his room.

You’re about to leave his room, to go lay in your room and pretend to sleep, a task impossible with John Walker on the brain, when John stops you. You’re halfway out the door, telling him to get some rest when his fingers clasp around your wrist, his hold loose and hesitant. 

You stare at him, eyes wide in the dark. 

“Stay with me?” he whispers. You turn, giving him a small, tired and relieved smile.

“Only if you don’t mind me snoring.” John matches your smile, pulling you back into his room, giving your cheek a small kiss. Your heart beats faster and you know he can hear it. But you don’t really care anymore. 

As you sit on the edge of his bed, you’re overcome by exhaustion, realizing just how much the events and emotions of the night have taken their toll on you.

John lets you borrow a pair of his sweats, way too big on your smaller hips. If the kiss wasn't an indicator this certainly was; a gesture that makes you realize your relationship with him is going to change. John rolls the covers off of his bed, you slip under next to him, keeping a healthy distance between the two of you.

But you can’t help reaching your hand out between your bodies, John’s fingers reaching back to thread between yours, bringing your knuckles up to his lips and placing a gentle kiss on each one. You smile, eyes bright even in the dark. 

“So… does this mean we’re a thing now?” you whisper. John can’t help the loud laugh which reverberates in his chest, whincing at the ache in his still healing side.

“And you called me an idiot.”

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

Bonus:

Nobody notices anything different between the two of you. Not at first.

After that first night, a week goes by before John actually asks you out, sliding up to you quietly in the kitchen as you make yourself a cup of coffee.

"Hey," John's fingers subtly press into your side, eyes darting to Bob by the kitchen island, making sure he was still engrossed in his book. "You got something pretty to wear for tonight?"

"For what?"

"I'm taking you out. Italian." You hummed into your coffee cup, trying to disguise your smile.

"And you're telling me this like it's a secret mission because..." John shrugs, grinning. He moves away as he sees Bob glance up at the two of you.

"Are you guys getting take out?" John's grin falls and you laugh into your drink.

John had wanted to keep it low key. It was easier to just keep things between the two of you and not let anything get messy with your nosy team mates. And you agreed; keeping it simple for your overly chaotic life.

Your dates were disguised as simple errands. Picking up dinner from your favorite restaurant for the team, grocery shopping, "accidentally" getting locked in the elevator, early morning runs (your least favorite, but John liked them. And seeing him sweaty and breathless was a bonus).

Yelena raised an eyebrow when you returned from a run one morning, the sun barely reaching the tower. Your face was flushed, hair a mess, the elevator doors slipping closed behind you. But not before she spotted John fixing his shirt, looking just as flushed as you inside.

"Since when do you run with Walker?"

You shrug, walking away before she can ask any questions. "He's good company." Yelena didn't push. She figured you had your reasons. But she found it strange

Her suspicions only deepened when you started joining Walker on weekends when he went to go pick up his son.

"I thought you said you didn't like kids?"

You shrug, ignoring Yelena and Ava as they hovered in the common area, eyes narrowed, John trying not to make it obvious he was watching you as you fiddled with your bag.

"It's called immersion therapy. We're trying something new," John deadpans. You have to hold in a laugh as you wave goodbye to the girls.

"They're acting so weird. Don't you think it's weird how they're always together now?" Yelena asks Ava.

"Totally weird. Do you think she's blackmailing him for something?" Yelena shrugs. It was possible.

But it wasn't just Yelena who noticed. Alexei questioned why John seemed to always be in your line of sight when training, pulling flashy moves and taking down the larger Russian with a little more force than necessary.

"No need to show off Mr. Walker. We know you're strong."

Ava found it odd when she entered the elevator and you pressed the button for John's floor and not yours.

"Oops, I pressed the wrong one."

Your floor button was nowhere near his. And it didn't slip past her when she heard your feet padding up the stairs minutes after she stepped out on her floor.

Bucky was the first to guess. His eyes narrowed during briefings, when the two of you sat across from each other; John's eyes glued to your hands as you doodled on your notes, an amused smile on your face as you listened to John rant.

Bucky was the first to notice the lingering looks, the knees which always touched on plane rides, the lipgloss stains (your exact shade partially wiped off) marking John's cheek, the side of his mouth.

And then Yelena was the one to actually see it first. John had joined you on a grocery run, telling the team you always forgot to get the right brand of protein powder (a big fat lie if you said so) and you couldn't reach half of the things on the shelves anyway (a lesser lie, but you couldn't complain when his shirt rode up in the middle of the aisle).

Bucky had prompted Yelena to go to the store after them, giving her a look that suggested the trip was more about the two of you and less about the "party supplies" he needed. Bucky didn't throw parties.

She obliged, curious, wandering down the aisles of the large store, when she saw it. The two of you in the cereal aisle, a box of wheaties in John's hand, your laughter echoing in the store.

"Come on, the hat's cool, right?"

"maybe if you were an art teacher, not an Avenger..."

Your hand lingered on his shoulder, closer than Yelena would think appropriate for teammates just getting groceries, his eyes softer than they should be for someone who hated getting laughed at. And then Yelena saw him whisper something in your ear-

Wait...

Yelena flushed and turned down the aisle as soon as she realized he wasn't whispering. He was kissing you.

She had returned to the tower practically vibrating, needing to share what she saw. Her wide eyes and stuttering breath were all Bucky needed to confirm his suspicion.

And then the meeting happened.

A typical pre-mission briefing. Bucky working through the plans Valentina had sent, Alexei doing his best to not interrupt, Ava cleaning her weapon while Yelena kept glancing at you oddly. And of course John right beside you, his knee gently pressed against yours, your hand covertly resting on his thigh.

Bucky was giving the details about your position when he dropped the bomb:

"And John, if I see you leaving your post to cover her, I'm benching you both."

John just shifted in his seat, giving him a look that tried to come across as content but still read 'frustrated'. Bucky caught it right away.

"Do you have a problem with that Walker?"

"No. She can take care of herself." Yelena just looked at him amusedly.

"You tell her that when you're in bed together?" John flushes a bright red, your own face going pink.

"What?!" You squeak.

Ava looks between the both of you.

"Do you have something you'd like to share with the class?"

"No-"

"They've been seeing each other." Yelena answers, looking at her nails.

"Yelena!" You cry, your friend giving you a wild grin.

"Oh please, I saw you both in the grocery store. And then I checked the elevator cameras and saw everything else you've been doing for the past few months." Yelena smirks as your face grows hotter and redder. You both hadn't done anything crazy.

Just heavy kissing.

And hands running through hair, and... oh man.

Walker drags a hand over his face.

"You have been together for whole time!" Alexei roars with laughter, "Oh it makes much sense. You and you, haha. Always near one another. Like moth and flame."

"I'm presuming Walker is the bug in this scenario." Ava smiles.

"Hey!" John glares at the team, Bucky crossing his arms at the head of the table.

"It's okay Walker. No one's going to take her away from you. Just don't let it make problems for missions, you hear me?"

John grumbles in agreement. You nod, still embarrassed but feeling a little lighter.

"We are such idiots." Walker mumbles to you as the meeting ends.

when alexei had finally finished explaining the rules, the group slowly dispersed amongst the room, taking positions on couch cushions, dining room chairs, and the bar. john looked around the room from the couch, almost in disbelief that everyone was actually on board with the plan. you caught his eyes briefly and then he sighed, stood, and took up residence on an end table, perched precariously on the end.

"i am going to count down from three and at three, the floor will become hot, scorching lava," alexei called out from the couch where the cushions sunk with his weight. val would yell at him later for that. "one...two...three! if you are caught touching the floor, you will be sentenced to death."

you snorted at his accent making each and every word rough and serious-sounding.

in just a few short minutes, the game had continued to something beyond your understanding. it wasn't even the alcohol in your system. alexei's idea of a drinking game was borderline incomprehensible. he would shout russian and american leaders, yelling acts and historical events as if this was something he had been playing his whole life. you're positive he had.

in a moment of quiet permeated by alexei mumbling to himself to figure out the next phase of the game, you glanced around the room. yelena was balancing precariously on a barstool, nursing her beer. bob wasn't too far behind her, sitting on the windowsill, a can of coca-cola in his hand rather than the drinks everyone else had chosen.

ava had managed to get on top of a large bookshelf and there she laid comfortably. bucky was rolling his eyes on the arm of the couch, but you were sure there were flickers of enjoyment there. the same couldn't have been said for john, who sat practically pouting at the dining table, having already finished his beer despite the premise of the game.

your eyes lingered on him for a second, your own lips turning into a bit of a frown at the true displeasure that seemed to be written all over his face. after spending some fourteen months as john's teammate, you grew to know when something was plaguing him.

you'd be damned if you would let him sulk alone.

before you could hop from your position and find some way over to where he was sitting, alexei called out again, remembering the rest of the game. it was a jumble of words, as most of the game had been, but you weren't paying attention.

john let out a huff, his bottle hitting the table with a loud thud. the group drunkenly gasped as his feet hit the floor.

"walker!" alexei shouted from the couch. "the floor is lava, my man!"

"i don't wanna play this game anymore," he grumbled, moving out of the common room and down to the hallway to his room.

you looked after him, eyebrows knitted together. as he stalked off, you moved from your spot, feet also hitting the floor. gasps echoed again, but you jogged ahead, trying to catch up to john.

"john!" you called out. he didn't turn around, only kept moving forward. suddenly, though, alexei's body came into view, blocking the exit out of the room that the two of you were heading from.

"you can't just leave the game that easy," he tutted, placing his arms on the doorframe. "you stepped in lava. you have to face punishment."

"geez, man, just let me through," john said, his voice laced with frustration and tiredness.

"no," alexei said strongly, eyeing the two of you. his large hands came to yours and john's backs, pushing you back to the main room. facing the rest of the group, alexei's arms stretched around your shoulders, pulling you closer together. "what should the punishment be?"

the room erupted in whispers and drunk laughter, the cases on the floor dwindling easily. when a unanimous decision was reached, yelena waved her father over. alexei reluctantly released your shoulders, not without a firm "stay" targeted your way.

a minute passed of you and john standing awkwardly next to each other. his leg bounced on the floor, chest heaving with annoyance. you could read it all over his face. you glanced sideways at him, trying to make some kind of contact, but he kept ignoring you.

alexei's voice interrupted the awkward quiet that had settled over the two of you. "the punishment is decided," he said, then paused for dramatic flair. "i will put you in that pantry and you can not come out until you kiss."

your eyes widened. "what?!" you and john shouted. yours, though, was more confusion, while john's felt like disgust. his tone settled in your bones.

alexei just chuckled, pushing the two of you towards the large pantry room in the kitchen. with one hand, he opened the door and pushed you inside with the other.

a few short moments later, you heard the door get jammed shut, likely from super soldier power, perhaps from something else. john grumbled at the door, pushing on the doorknob with his strength. you stood just a short distance from him, arms crossed over your chest, staring down at the floor as if it were the most interesting thing. as if this wasn't the worse outcome for the night.

"jesus, come on, guys!" john yelled, jiggling the doorknob more.

"less yelling, more smooching!" alexei yelled from the other side.

john rolled his eyes, moving away from the door finally. you hadn't looked up from the floor, feeling too overwhelmed by everything to be able to look at him.

"this is bullshit," john grumbled, leaning against a wall on the other side of you. you looked up through your lashes, then back down.

he didn't say anything past that, but, clearly, something heavy and unresolved sat in the air shared between you. it was like a glaring red elephant, blowing its trunk, begging to be addressed. but it seemed as though john was going to make no move to acknowledge it. so neither did you.

a minute of silence passed.

"sorry," you finally mumbled. had you not followed after him, it might have ended differently. really, had you not been the one to initiate your flirting a few weeks back, then nothing like this would have happened.

john glanced up, looking into your eyes, then said nothing in response. you chewed on your lip, foot tapping against the floor.

"i mean...they're...they're not gonna let us out, you know," you tried. john didn't respond again, just looked at the door as if someone would come open it any second. when nobody did, he sighed.

"clearly not," he said, wiping a hand down his face.

you took a good look at him as he glanced around the room. he was casual, having swapped his red and blue uniform for a pair of gray sweatpants and some military t-shirt. the overhead lighting casted dark shadows on the high points of his face, making him look mysterious. handsome, even.

in another world, you could've kissed him and been done with it. but in this world, you had a crush on the man in front of you and he seemed to be completely apathetic towards you. your mind ran in circles, flashes of nights before flickering in your thoughts. not only that, but you wondered what was making this situation hard for him. surely it was just that he didn't want to kiss you. you tried to ground yourself, tell yourself that.

more time passed. minutes, seconds, you didn't know exactly how long. just more stretches of silence and tension that weren't getting fixed by any means.

finally, you spoke up, despite your better judgement. "the quicker and less awkward we do it, the quicker we can get out of here. waiting around or arguing is doing nothing. alexei will leave us in here the whole night."

"i'm not gonna kiss you, y/n," john said, his voice firm, as if he had already made that decision a long time ago.

your lips parted in surprise, at his quick reaction and strong words. "jesus, walker, it's just for a second."

he looked up that time, almost taken aback that you used his last name instead of his first name that you had taken to liking more. "no, i'm not kissing you. i won't." he stepped almost imperceptibly closer to you.

"why not? am i repulsive or something?" you asked. his words were unsettling you. you felt that lump in your throat, the one that told you you'd soon be crying.

"no, god, no," he said, turning around and running a hand through his blond hair that had fallen down his face. "i just-"

"what is it?" you asked.

"i don't-"

"just kiss me, walker!"

he took a large step, coming so close that in one fell swoop, he could bend down and plant his lips on yours. "no. not like this."

the tension in the room popped, like one huge bubble had been crowding everyone and everything inside of it. his chest heaved with his admission, breaths coming out deep and quick. his eyes, his bright, blue eyes softened just enough to show you the genuineness in his words. you blinked, unsure of how to respond.

not like this.

it replayed in your mind.

he wouldn't kiss you. not like this.

you swallowed and opened your mouth to respond, but john didn't give you much of a chance. he sprung into action then, clearly spurred on by the quick confession that had just tumbled from his lips a few short seconds ago. you stepped back against the wall as john backed up, bringing his shoulder to the front.

"john, you don't have to-" he charged forward, cutting off your sentence. the serum's strength pushed him forward and a loud bang echoed through the common room as john pushed the door down. he glanced behind for a second, before storming off quietly to his room.

you stood there, dumbfounded. shell-shocked. confused. your friends came to the door, asking questions, but you stared ahead.

not like this.

you couldn't sleep that night. it had to have been four in the morning by the point that you acknowledged sleeping was futile and that your time could be spent making a tea and sitting on the balcony. the previous hours replayed in your head like a torturous loop.

john's sulking, john's glances your way, john's eyes as he told you it wasn't that he didn't want to kiss you. he wanted to. in a better place, better circumstances, conditions, whatever you wanted to call it. how could anyone sleep with a revelation like that hanging from their shoulders?

you groaned as you rose from the bed and slipped on your houseshoes. your bedroom door slid open with a click and a hiss and slowly, you shuffled down the long hallway towards the kitchen. you could see the faint shadow of a light turned on in the room and as you approached, your breath hitched. john was leaning against the kitchen counter, a cup of ice water forgotten on the counter behind him.

as he heard your shuffling come closer, he looked up. his eyes widened only a fraction. he didn't move though, which, to you, felt like some kind of accomplishment. he was quiet, though, as you moved around him, brewing a cup of tea for yourself.

you leaned across from him on the kitchen island, staring blankly at the boiling water in the kettle.

you felt eyes on you, baby-blue eyes on you, but you tried to not look up. john was eyeing you, observing you. for what reason you weren't sure. finally, the kettle clicked as your water finished and you pushed from the island to pour the water into your cup with the bag.

just as you moved, john's arm shot out, his hand wrapping around your elbow in a soft, yet firm, hold. you looked from his hand to his face, shock evident in your expression. he didn't say anything, but you tracked his eyes as they glanced down at your lips.

it felt like an eternity before he bent down, connecting his pink lips with yours. it was harmonious, deep, but gentle. more gentle than you thought he could manage. his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you in closer. after a beat of standing still, you wound your arms around his neck, lips never parting.

finally, at a point when you both needed to breath, you pulled away. your breaths mingled together, his being minty and cold.

he pulled away slowly, almost hesitating to do so, then grabbed his glass of water. "i meant something like that," he said, walking out of the kitchen and back towards his room where you heard his door open with a hiss and a click.

you stared at the spot where he just stood. your lips tingled, you still felt dizzy with the way his strong arms took you so easily, wrapped you up in effortlessly. you could smell the lingering scent of his shampoo and body wash enveloping you. you forgot about the tea. forgot about your room. everything.

instead, you stalked off the way he left, his words replaying in your mind.

You barely get a word out before he’s storming across the room. Your cup hits the table. You rise from the couch—but he’s already there.

Hands on your face. Mouth crashing into yours. Desperate. Consuming.

You gasp against him, stunned, but then your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans—like he’s waited a year for this exact second.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You don’t even know, do you?”

Your breath hitches. “John—?”

His hands drop to your waist, gripping tight. Like he doesn’t know whether to hold you still or drag you closer.

“I’ve tried,” he growls, voice low and shaking. “I’ve tried to be good. To give you space. But you keep showing up like you’re not wrecking me.”

Your eyes widen.

“You’re in my head,” he says, voice cracking. “Under my skin. You’re fucking everywhere.”

Your mouth parts—but no sound comes out.

He pulls you in again. Kisses you like he’s drowning. Like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered.

“I can’t sleep without thinking about you,” he murmurs against your lips. “I can’t breathe right when you’re not around. I walk into a room and look for you like a damn dog.”

You shiver. His fingers flex on your hips.

“I think about touching you. All the time. And I’m so goddamn in love with you it makes me sick.”

Your hands slide up into his hair. He moans—moans—into your mouth when you kiss him again, softer now, letting him feel it.

“You don’t have to try anymore,” you whisper.

And that breaks him.

He lifts you off the floor like nothing, carries you to the bedroom, lays you out like he’s worshiping something holy.

He doesn’t throw you on the bed. Doesn’t rip your clothes. He could—God knows he’s big enough, strong enough, starved enough to lose it completely.

But he doesn’t.

John lays you down like you’re something breakable. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish the second he stops touching you.

His hands tremble as he undresses you. Slow. Almost reverent. He peels your shirt up, kisses the skin he uncovers like he’s been dreaming about it for years. His fingers brush the band of your pants, and he pauses—not out of hesitation, but awe.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, almost like it hurts.

You reach for him. He leans into your touch like a man starved, kissing your palm, your wrist, your shoulder.

When he finally pushes into you, it’s not hard or fast.

It’s deep.

So deep you gasp and clutch his arms—those arms—tight and trembling around you.

His breath catches. His brow presses to yours.

And then you feel it.

The first one.

“…mine.”

It’s quiet. Barely a whisper.

He pulls back, thrusts in again—slow and aching, grinding his hips down to push himself even deeper.

“Mine.”

His hands cradle your face now, thumbs sweeping your cheeks, eyes locked on yours like he’s memorizing every blink.

“Mine.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. You’re full—of him, of it, of everything. His body, his voice, his love, flooding every inch of you.

His forehead leans against yours again as he rocks into you, slow and steady.

“I tried so hard not to feel this way,” he confesses in a broken whisper. “But I do. I do, baby, I’m so gone for you.”

You stroke his back. His shoulders. His jaw. You kiss the corner of his mouth. He whimpers.

“John,” you breathe, dizzy.

His rhythm stutters—just for a second.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, desperate.

You cradle his face between your hands, kissing him softly. Slowly. “John.”

He moans into your mouth, hips rolling a little harder now.

His hands slip under your back, wrapping around you like he’s trying to hold you inside him, trying to make sure none of this escapes.

You feel him everywhere. Skin to skin. Chest to chest. He’s breathing hard, jaw tight, but still—still—he doesn’t speed up.

He’s not fucking you to come.

He’s fucking you to stay.

He thrusts in deep again, slow, dragging it out, feeling every inch of you clamp around him like you were made to keep him there.

“You’re mine,” he whispers again, voice cracking on the word.

This time it sounds like a vow.

Not to keep you.

To deserve you.

You can feel it in his body.

The way his breath hitches. The tension tightening across his back. The deep, desperate grind of his hips like he’s trying to get as close as possible—closer than skin, closer than blood. Like he wants to climb inside you and never leave.

His arms are shaking.

He’s still moving slow, impossibly slow, like drawing it out might keep the moment suspended in amber. His forehead is pressed to yours, nose brushing your cheek. His breath is hot and uneven against your mouth.

You stroke his jaw, and his eyes flutter shut.

“John,” you whisper, so soft it nearly breaks him.

His hips stutter.

His voice is ragged. “I’m close—fuck, baby, I—”

You wrap your legs around him, pull him in tight, lock your ankles at the base of his spine.

“Don’t hold back,” you whisper.

His head drops to your shoulder and he groans—fucks into you just a little harder now, deeper, more erratic. His lips press frantic kisses to your throat, your collarbone, his breath breaking apart.

“Wanna feel it,” you murmur against his ear. “Wanna feel all of you.”

That’s it.

His body shudders hard—he drives in deep and stays there, buried to the hilt, as his cock pulses thick and warm inside you. You feel it flood you. Hot. Endless. Like he’s been waiting months to come like this—inside, safe, claimed.

He clings to you, panting against your neck.

“Jesus—fuck—baby—” he gasps.

His body trembles with the force of it. His arms squeeze tighter around you. You stroke his hair, soft and slow, while his chest rises and falls in stuttering waves against yours.

“I got you,” you whisper.

He lets out a broken noise—almost a sob—and kisses your neck again, slower now, lips trembling.

Neither of you moves for a long time.

He’s still inside you.

Softening, but not pulling out.

And then—

He shifts, gently rolling to the side without letting you go. One arm stays under your shoulders, the other wrapping fully around your waist as he tugs you up onto his chest. Your legs tangle. His cock slips out with a wet sound, and he exhales, like it physically pains him to let go of your body.

You’re straddling his thigh now, your chest pressed to his, his hand warm on the small of your back. He presses a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering like he can’t bear to stop.

“You okay?” he murmurs into your hair.

You nod, pressing a kiss to his throat.

“I didn’t mean to lose it like that,” he says softly. “I just… I’ve wanted that. You. This. For so long.”

“I know,” you whisper.

His eyes close. He exhales shakily, arms still locked around you like the fear might come rushing back the second he lets go.

“You’re not going anywhere, right?” he asks.

“No,” you promise.

His hold tightens just a little more. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not letting go.”

And he doesn’t.

Not for the rest of the night.

Not even when sleep comes. You fall asleep tucked into his chest, and he stays awake a little longer—just holding you. Breathing you in.

Like he’s never been safer.