"If you dream it, you can do it." WD

You were laughing so hard your sides hurt. “You guys are mean!”

“Character building,” Becca said, flipping another page.

“Oh,” Frances said suddenly, snickering. “You’re gonna love this one.”

Your laughter turned into an incredulous squeak. Teenage Bucky—taller, still lanky, all limbs and bad attitude—scowled from a middle school photo. The haircut was… regrettable.

“Oh no,” you whispered, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt. “Who did this to him?”

“Tragic, right?” Becca said with mock solemnity. “We called that era ‘The Flock of Seagulls Rebellion.’”

Winifred patted your knee affectionately. “He’s come a long way since then.”

You bit your lip, smiling down at the photo. “Yeah,” you said softly. “He really has.”

× × × × 

George leaned against the railing, swirling the amber in his glass, while Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets. The faint sound of laughter carried through the glass door. 

“You wanted to talk to me?” Bucky asked.

George nodded. “Just checking in. How’ve you been holding up? Especially with that promotion.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “Kinda stressful,” he admitted. “Big change. A lot to prove.”

His dad hummed thoughtfully. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “Pressure’s part of the job. Keeps you sharp.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment—comfortable, the kind that existed between two men who didn’t need to fill every gap with words.

Finally, Bucky exhaled. “Listen, Dad… I wanted to say thanks.”

George turned slightly, brow raised. “For what?”

Bucky glanced at the garden, then back at him. “For helping me wipe that whole thing from the internet.”

For a beat, George said nothing—just took a slow sip from his glass, eyes glinting faintly with amusement. Then he chuckled, low and knowing.

George studied his son over the rim. “You paid for it. You make it sound like I hacked into the Pentagon.”

Bucky huffed a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, you kind of did. You and Becca, anyway.”

George’s mouth twitched. “Didn’t think I’d ever be using my old network favors to take down that kind of content, but—” he lifted the glass in mock salute, “—I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

“Still,” Bucky said, his tone softer now. “You didn’t have to. You could’ve told me to deal with the fallout myself.”

George turned his gaze back toward the garden—quiet, steady. 

“You’re my kid,” he said simply. “You think I’d sit back and let the world chew you up like that? Not a chance.”

Silence settled for a beat—comfortable this time, filled with the distant sound of laughter coming from the living room.

Bucky glanced through the glass door, where you were sitting, surrounded by his sisters and his mom. Frances was pointing at a photo of him in braces, Becca was cackling over a picture of him at prom, and you were laughing so hard you had to wipe a tear from your eye.

“James,” his father interrupted Bucky’s thoughts, setting his glass down on the porch railing with a soft clink. “There’s not a thing in this world you could do that would make me stop being proud of you.”

Bucky’s brows drew together, the words hitting harder than he expected.

George exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the garden again. “You made mistakes. God knows I made my fair share. But you owned up to them. You worked your way out of the mess. That’s what counts.”

Bucky looked down, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his mouth. “You always make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” George said with a faint smirk. “But it helps to have someone worth doing it for.” He turned his head, catching Bucky’s gaze. “That girl in there—she worth it?”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “She is.”

George studied him for a moment, then nodded once, satisfied. “Then don’t screw it up.”

Bucky snorted under his breath, eyes warm. “Trying not to.”

“Good.” George picked up his glass again, taking a slow sip before glancing toward the house where laughter spilled faintly from the living room—the kind of laughter only women could create when bonding over embarrassing photo albums. “Because from the sound of it, your mother’s already planning your wedding slideshow.”

Bucky chuckles. “Oh God.”

George’s grin was pure mischief. “Son, I haven’t heard her that happy since Becca brought home her boyfriend.”

Inside, Becca’s voice rang out, laughing loud enough to reach them. “Oh my God, look at his shaggy hair!”

Bucky closed his eyes, face in his hands. “I should’ve stayed in the car.”

George chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Too late now, son. Welcome home.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dad… there’s something I should probably tell you.”

George hummed, still watching the light spill from the house. “That sounds like the start of trouble.”

Bucky gave a small, humorless laugh. “Her dad told me to break up with her.”

George’s head turned sharply, brows rising. “He what?”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s jaw tensed as he stared out toward the yard. “We met up at a café. He was polite about it, but—yeah. Asked me to walk away.”

George leaned back against the railing, studying his son with something between amusement and pride. 

“And what did you say?”

Bucky met his gaze evenly. “I gave him a hard no.”

George laughed—a deep, hearty sound that came from his chest. “Good man.”

Bucky blinked, thrown. “You’re not… surprised?”

“Surprised?” George scoffed. “No. Your grandfather told me the same thing when I was your age.”

That earned him a double take. “Seriously?”

“Oh, yeah.” George took another sip of his drink, shaking his head with a nostalgic grin. “Told me not to marry your mother. Said we were rushing because we’ve only known each other for three weeks, that she didn’t know what she was doing, that I’d ruin her life. Little did they know Becca was already made.”

Bucky frowned. “What did you do?”

George looked out at the garden again, voice soft but sure. “I married her anyway.” He smiled faintly. “And I spent the next thirty years proving him wrong.”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, something loosening in his chest at that. “Guess it runs in the family then.”

His father gave him a knowing look. “Maybe it does.” He took a final sip of his whiskey, then added, “If you love that girl, son… don’t let anyone scare you out of it. Not even her old man.”

Bucky nodded, gaze drifting back toward the house where your laughter still carried through the glass. His heart felt full—heavy and certain, like it knew exactly where it belonged.

“I don’t plan to,” he said quietly.

× × × ×

Bucky and George stepped back inside to the familiar warmth of the house—the sound of soft chatter, the faint clinking of plates being cleared, and laughter still spilling from the living room.

Bucky brushed a hand through his hair, spotting you on the couch between Frances and Becca, all three of you flipping through another family album like you’d been best friends for years. The sight hit him square in the chest—so normal, so right—that for a moment he almost forgot what to say.

Then his dad elbowed him lightly. “Go on,” George murmured, amused. “Before they break out the baby videos.”

“God forbid,” Bucky muttered, making his way over.

You looked up the second you felt him approach, eyes soft, the smallest smile curving your lips. “Hey,” you said quietly, like it was just for him.

“Hey,” he echoed. “You ready to go?”

Mary’s head snapped up immediately, scandalized. “What? Already?”

Winifred smiled knowingly from her seat, but Becca was already teasing. “Aw, let them go, Mary. You’re gonna scare her off.”

Mary ignored her older sister completely, turning to you instead, eyes wide and hopeful. “No, seriously—you can’t leave without giving me your number.”

You blinked, half-laughing. “My number?”

“Obviously,” Mary said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “So we can hang out! I need an ally in this madhouse.”

You glanced over at Bucky, silently asking for backup. He only shrugged, smirking faintly. “You’re on your own, babe.”

Mary gasped dramatically. “Babe?!” She whipped out her phone like she was documenting evidence. “That’s it, I’m texting you memes forever.”

Frances snorted. “God help her.”

Bucky chuckled under his breath, resting a hand on the small of your back as you exchanged numbers with his little sister, who was already planning a girls’ night.

“Okay, okay,” Becca said, standing to hug you. “Next time, you’re bringing embarrassing stories about him. We need ammo.”

You laughed, hugging her back. “Oh, trust me. I’ve got plenty.”

As everyone chuckled, Bucky leaned down, lips close to your ear. “C’mon,” he murmured, low enough only you could hear. “Before they adopt you completely.”

You smiled up at him. “I think it’s too late for that.”

He grinned, the warmth in his eyes undeniable. “Oh well,” he said simply—and with that, his hand found yours, fingers lacing naturally as he led you toward the door.

× × × × 

Bucky was shirtless, lying sideways on your bed, propped up on one forearm like a calendar model who’d wandered into your very real life. 

“Where did you say you were going again?” he asked, brows furrowed.

You set your lipstick down and met his gaze in the mirror. “Um… Magic Men show? Y’know, like… Magic Mike?”

“Magic Mike?” He sucked his teeth and chuckled. “Alright.”

Magic Mike? You’re fucking kidding me, he thought—so loudly you could practically hear it.

You squinted and turned to face him for real. “What?”

“What?”

“You have that weird look on your face.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. Totally. Not even a little threatened by abs you don’t own.”

His mouth kicked up. “I own plenty of abs, thanks.”

“Yeah,” you said sweetly. “I know.”

He huffed a laugh, then went quiet—eyes dragging over you as you lined your lips. That blue stare felt… physical as usual. Warm. Possessive in a way that somehow didn’t pinch—it soothed. 

“So,” he said casually, which for him meant not casual at all, “what are the rules at this… educational seminar?”

“It’s a stage show,” you said, fighting a smile. “There are rules. No touching the performers.”

“Good,” he said too fast. Then, softer: “And what are your rules?”

“Oh, I have one big one,” you said, leaning toward the mirror. “Behave.”

He stared at you, deadpan. “That one’s for you.”

You almost smudged your liner laughing. “Oh my God.”

He pushed up to sit, the mattress dipping, wristwatch flashing in the lamplight. 

“Look, I trust you,” he said, slow enough that the words landed. “But also—” His gaze cut to your dress hanging on the closet door. “Show me the dress.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach fluttered anyway. You stepped into the black dress, tugged the zipper to your ribs, then stalled. “Uh… assist?”

Bucky was off the bed in a second, all heat and clean soap and quiet focus. He stood behind you, big hands guiding the zipper up with careful precision, knuckles brushing your spine. Your breath went a little wobbly. He noticed—you felt the smile against your hair.

When he finished, he didn’t step back. He just looked at you in the mirror like you were a secret he wanted to keep, fingers flattening at your waist in a way that said mine without using the word. 

“Turn,” he murmured.

You did. His eyes tracked the neckline, the curve of your shoulders, the way the dress skimmed your hips.

“Uh-huh,” he said after a beat, almost to himself. “No, that’s illegal.”

“Illegal?” You tried to sound unimpressed.

He nodded solemnly. “I’m calling the authorities.”

“Sir, what’s your emergency?”

“My girlfriend looks hot, it’s criminal.”

You snorted—then softened when his thumb found your jaw, tipping your face up. He didn’t kiss you. Just let his gaze linger like he was memorizing you for later, for when he’d inevitably need a flashback. 

“Couple ground rules,” he said, voice dipping. “Text me when you get there. Text me when it’s done. I’m picking you up. If anyone gets handsy, you tell me, and I will—very respectfully—not behave.”

You tried to roll your eyes again, failed miserably, and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

His mouth twitched. “Dangerous words.”

“Relax. I’ll be good.”

He reached past you to your vanity and held up a pack of gum. “For nerves,” he said, trying for casualness and missing. “You chew when you’re anxious.”

You did. It hit you right in the sternum—the way he paid attention to the tiny things. “Thank you.”

He set it in your clutch, then added his black card. “Drinks are on me.”

“Bucky—”

“Please, use it.” 

He leaned in, finally sliding your hair, gently back from your face with both hands, thumbs resting feather-light at your temples. His voice dropped to something smoky and private. 

“One more thing.”

You swallowed. “What’s that?”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, “Enjoy yourself,” he murmured. Another kiss at your other corner. “Come home to me.”

It would’ve been so easy to melt and stay. You forced a breath, steadied your hands, and reached for your earrings. 

“I will.”

He lingered a second longer, then stepped back with a rough little laugh, like he had to physically pry himself away. 

“Okay. Final check.” He ticked off invisible boxes. “Phone charged. Location shared. Gum. Card. Emergency exit plan if Clara decides shots are a personality.”

“Wow, you are a VP.”

He gave you the slow, sinful once-over again, then grinned like a man making peace with his fate. “I’ll be outside at eleven. If you need me before… I’m one text away.”

You tilted your head. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

He scratched his stubbled jaw, not even pretending. “Absolutely not.” Then, honest: “But I’ll manage.”

You rose onto your toes and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth—sweet, then a second one that wasn’t sweet at all. He made a small sound in his throat that lit you up like a match. When you pulled back, his eyes were darker, his hands back at your waist like muscle memory.

“Go,” he said, voice rough with a smile he couldn’t hide. “Before I audition for your show and get us both banned.”

You laughed, grabbed your clutch, and headed for the door. His palm slid down your spine at the last second, a warm, claiming glide that followed you out—then he called softly, “Hey.”

You looked back.

Bucky’s mouth tipped, gentle and certain. “Have fun, beautiful.”

You shut the door with your heart pounding, cheeks hot—and chew two pieces of gum at once, because scientifically speaking, you were in trouble.

× × × × 

Clara screamed-laughed into your shoulder. “I’m getting married for this,” she yelled over the music.

“Bold vows,” you yelled back, grinning despite yourself.

The opening beat of “Pony” hit—you know the one—and the crowd went feral. The lights swung hot and gold, catching on abs, smiles, and the occasional very confident hip thrust. Fresh bottles of water were flung at the first two rows like the world’s thirstiest baptism.

Then the MC cupped a hand to his ear, listening to a producer you couldn’t see, and turned toward your section with a grin that spelled doom. 

“Alright, alright, alright. We’ve got a bachelorette package in the house!” He checked his card. “Where are my Clara… and my Maid of Honor…?”

Clara shot to her feet like a firework. You, unfortunately, were the maid of honor.

“Oh no. No, no,” you said, hands up as your table cackled. “I am taken. Someone replace me—Clara, choose literally anyone with fewer attachments—”

Too late. Clara’s cousin—the chaos organizer—had already flagged a dancer, who had already reached you, “No excuses when your friend’s ‘bout to get married.” She screamed.

“You ready?” he asked, mouth to your ear, voice warm and professional. You nodded (traitor) while protesting (louder).

You were very gently, very inevitably escorted to the stage.

Two chairs appeared under the lights like they’d been conjured. You and Clara were guided into them—Clara bouncing like she’d won the lottery, you clinging to the seat like a lifeboat.

“Make some noise for our bride!” the MC whooped.

The room obeyed.

“And for our Maid of Honor, who swears she is so very taken!”

You covered the bottom half of your face. The room obeyed harder.

The dancers fanned out—two for Clara, one for you—shirtless, jeans riding low enough to qualify for a fine. “Just have fun,” your dancer murmured with that don’t-worry-I-do-this-for-a-living smile. The bass dropped. He planted his palms on either side of your chair, caged you in, and body rolled slow enough to qualify as time dilation. 

The crowd howled.

You locked your hands on the edge of the seat and screamed internally, I told Bucky no touching, I told Bucky no touching—

Your dancer caught your eye, tipped his chin in silent question, then took your hand and—very deliberately—guided it over the ridges of his abdomen. Soft drag. One pass. A show. He let go immediately, stepping back with a grin.

You were not good. You were a human grenade.

Clara, meanwhile, was living her best life two feet away, absolutely losing it as her duo did a synchronized grind that made your jaw actually drop. 

Your dancer hooked a thumb into his waistband, turned, and did a slow, smooth ripple down his back that made the entire front row lean forward like they were trying to see the secret. He dropped to a squat, rolled his hips to the beat of Pony, and then braced one hand on your chair arm and leaned in, close enough for you to smell clean cologne and stage adrenaline.

“Hands to yourself, angel,” he teased softly, eyes kind, all business. “We’ll do the heavy lifting.”

As if you could move.

He pivoted, placed one knee on your chair between your thighs, and rolled his hips in a way that had the bachelorette table levitating. You laughed—loud, startled, helpless—because what else do you do when a professional reminder of the gym is making eye contact and counting eight counts with his hips?

× × × × 

Bucky’s crosshairs drifted somewhere near the moon. Onscreen, his character did a heroic swan dive into a wall and died instantly.

“For the fifth time,” Sam announced, tossing his controller onto the couch cushion like it offended him. “You’re trash tonight. Hot, steaming, artisanal trash. What is this?”

Steve didn’t look away from the respawn timer. “He’s distracted.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky muttered, even as his eyes flicked—again—to the phone face-down on the coffee table.

Sam angled a look at him. “Right. And I’m Beyoncé.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “He’s doing that thing where he pretends not to care while caring so hard it sets off smoke alarms.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. “She’s at that Magic Men show. It’s for her friend, Clara. It’s harmless.”

Sam’s eyebrows climbed. “The show is literally called Magic Men, my guy. They don’t pull rabbits out of hats.”

“It’s a performance,” Bucky said, too evenly. “I trust her.” He paused, then added under his breath, “Obviously.”

They loaded into the next round. Three seconds later Bucky’s avatar was eliminated by someone named ThrustDaddy88.

Sam wheezed. “Okay, that’s targeted harassment.”

Steve finally set his controller down and nodded at the phone. “Text her.”

Bucky didn’t move. “I’m giving her space.”

“That’s noble,” Sam said, “and also why we keep getting smoked by an eighth grader with a username that needs therapy. Send a normal-person text. Not a 911. Not a ‘you better not touch anyone.’ A green-flag text.”

“You know his username could be just a typo.” Steve told Sam.

Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face, then flipped the phone. The lock screen was boring. The thread with your name was not—scattered photos, dumb memes, his last message: Have fun. Call me if you need rescue. (Sent two hours ago. Read. No reply.)

He typed, deleted, typed again.

Bucky: Hydrate. Be safe. Don’t forget to use my card.

He stared at it, then added:

Bucky: Always cover your drink.

Send.

Sam peered, satisfied. “There you go. Look at you, emotionally literate.”

“Proud of you, bud.” Steve grinned. 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but some of the tension in his shoulders unwound. “Shut up and queue.”

They lasted an entire match—miracle—before Bucky’s phone buzzed. Every cell in his body sat up.

You: Yes, sir. I will see you later. 💋

Bucky’s mouth betrayed him with a smile.

Sam caught it and groaned theatrically. “There it is. The Barnes Grin. We’re doomed.”

“We were doomed when he followed ThrustDaddy88 into that tunnel,” Steve said, deadpan.

They lost again, but this time Bucky didn’t swear about it. He tossed his controller aside and stood.

“Break?” Sam asked, hopeful.

“Ten minutes,” Bucky said, already moving. “You two keep dying without me.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam said, side-eyeing him. “We’ve had practice.”

Bucky headed for the kitchen. He pulled the good glasses, the chilled bottle of San Pellegrino, the bowl of strawberries he’d cut earlier because he’d had a feeling you’d come back buzzing and hungry. He set out your favorite chips, the stupid gummy bears you pretended not to like. He put your coziest throw on the couch, flipped the corner back so you’d see it was for you. 

Sam wandered in, leaning on the doorway, “Acts of service,” he murmured. “Disgusting. I’m moved.”

Steve joined him, folding his arms, a softness around his eyes. “You good?”

Bucky capped the water, wiped his palms on a dish towel. He thought about the stage lights, the noise, you laughing with your friends. He thought about trusting you—about you trusting him back. It lodged somewhere deep and aching in his chest, but it didn’t feel like panic anymore.

“I’m good,” he said. And meant it.

Sam nodded at the coffee table. “You gonna keep pretending you don’t have her location shared, or…?”

Bucky shot him a look. “I’m not checking her location.”

“Growth,” Steve said, impressed.

Bucky’s phone buzzed again.

You: Headed out in 20. Bride is feral.

Bucky’s reply was instant.

Bucky: Already waiting. I’ll be out front.

He slid the phone into his pocket, grabbed his keys, and jerked his chin toward the living room. “One more round. Then I gotta go.”

They followed him back to the couch. Alpine jumped up and loafed directly on Sam’s controller.

Sam stared at the cat. “This is collusion.”

Bucky smirked, settling in, phone warm against his thigh, mind finally quieting. “Don’t worry. I’ll carry.”

Steve snorted. “That’ll be a first tonight.”

Bucky’s crosshairs snapped true. Headshot. Another. Calm hands, steady breathing, a tiny, stupid smile he couldn’t quite kill.

Sam groaned. “Oh, now he can aim.”

Steve chuckled. “Told you. He just needed the text.”

× × × ×

The bouncers had seen it a hundred times—heels wobbling, laughter too loud, glitter everywhere—but Bucky still straightened when your group spilled onto the sidewalk like champagne foam.

He spotted you instantly. Undignified, tipsy… fine, drunk. Hair mussed, lipstick a little smudged, eyes star-bright like you’d swallowed a disco ball.

“Holy—no wonder she didn’t want to sit on stage,” Clara’s cousin stage-whispered, clocking Bucky in one sweeping, appreciative scan. “She’s got one at home.”

The girls cackled; you slapped at the air, mortified and delighted. “Oh my God, shhh—stop.”

Bucky’s brows shot up at the implication, but you were already beelining for him, joy drunk and gravity-challenged.

“Hii baby! Question? Why is your face so handsome?” you demanded, stopping inches from his chest and squinting like the geometry would reveal itself if you stared hard enough.

“What?” He sounded genuinely bewildered.

“Handsome?” you repeated, enunciating like a scientist defending a thesis. “Don’t people tell you that?”

“Yeah, I get that all the time,” he deadpanned.

“Really?” your smile faded a bit.

“No.”

You huffed, offended on behalf of mathematics. “They should. Everyone you meet should tell you that. You’re annoyingly handsome.”

His mouth curved despite himself. 

“C’mon, trouble.” He shrugged out of his jacket and settled it over your shoulders like you were royalty he was sworn to protect. “Home first, TED Talk later.”

He pressed a chilled water bottle into your hand (because of course he had one), tipped it toward your mouth, and waited while you took obedient sips. When you swayed, his palm found your waist, steady and warm.

Clara stumbled over to kiss your cheek. “Text me when you get home, my maid of honor who refused premium abs.”

“I did not refuse,” you argued, wobbling a finger. “I delegated. To other faces.”

“Mm-hm,” Clara teased, eyes flitting to Bucky. “Hi, Mr. Handsome. Thank you for rescuing our gremlin.”

“Anytime,” he said easily, then turned to you. “You good to get your shoe? The left one’s giving up.”

You looked down and Bucky crouched before you could protest, two-fingers gentle on your ankle as he fixed the buckle, then rose with a quiet, “Better.”

Bucky’s hand slid to the small of your back. “Car’s this way.” He nodded to the group. “Night, ladies—and congratulations.”

“PONY!” someone yelled as a farewell.

You snorted. “They did grind to ‘Pony.’”

“Incredible information,” he murmured, guiding you around a street puddle. “File that under ‘things I’ll process never.’”

You planted both hands on his chest. “You’re not jealous.”

“Maybe a little bit.”

You paused to rub at your aching heels, making a face. Before you could blink, his gaze flicked down, then he bent and swept you up—clean, effortless, bridal. A tiny, involuntary noise escaped you.

“C’mere,” he said.

His jacket fell around your bare legs; his arm was solid under your knees; your hand found his shoulder mostly to steady yourself and partly because you wanted to touch him everywhere you could get away with.

You stared at his profile while he moved—jaw carved like it was hand-selected by architects, lashes too pretty for someone with forearms like that, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth like he couldn’t help being pleased you were in his arms. Streetlights slid over his cheekbones; his cologne was clean and expensive, a little musky; the vein in his forearm ticked against your thigh, steady as a drumline.

“Bucky,” you whispered, because your heart was doing parkour. “This is unnecessary.”

“Mmm,” he said, not breaking stride. “Those shoes are killing your feet.”

You tried for dignity. “I’m heavy.”

He huffed a laugh, tightening his hold just the slightest bit. “Are you? Even if you think you are, I’d still carry you.”

He angled his body so your head didn’t bump the door frame, opened the car one-handed like he’d practiced for this exact moment, and set you on the seat like you were made of something precious. He crouched, buckled your belt with careful fingers, then looked up—close enough for your breath to catch.

“File this under things I’ll process always,” he said softly. “You. Safe. With me.”

Your stomach did a swan dive straight into fireworks. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Handsome and ridiculous,” he conceded, lips tipping. “Terrible combo.”

You smiled, helpless. 

He slid into the driver’s seat, the door settling shut with that expensive, satisfying thunk, and the car eased into motion like it knew better than to jolt you out of whatever spell he’d just cast by carrying you. You let your head fall back against the headrest and exhaled a sigh that felt too big for your ribcage, like it had been waiting all night to escape.  

“Why the sigh?” he asked, eyes on the road, voice low in that way that made ordinary questions sound like confessions.  

You watched the blur of streetlights drag gold across his cheekbone and forced the words out in a single, unbroken line. 

“I have to talk to my parents about the part where my dad asked you to break up with me, and I hate that conversation already, and I hate that it needs to happen, and I hate that it’s one of those grown-up things where everyone’s trying to protect everyone.”

His hand left the wheel long enough to find your knee, a warm, steady weight that made your shoulders drop an inch. 

“Do you want me to be there,” he asked, “or do you want me on standby?”

You stared at his profile.

“I want you there,” you said, and then, because honesty had started to feel like oxygen with him, you added, “but I want to do the talking, and I want you to let me try before you come in swinging like a battering ram—unless they question you directly.”

His mouth curved, but the softness in his eyes was the real answer. 

“Copy that,” he said, thumb tracing a slow circle just above the hem of your dress, “you lead and I follow, and if you need me in front, I move in front, and if you need me at your side, I glue myself to your side, and if you need me quiet, I will astonish the world with my silence.”

You huffed out a laugh that loosened something tight behind your ribs. “Astonish the world is ambitious.”

“I was promoted,” he said, deadpan, “my ambitions are very tired but still present,” and then, more gently, “and if they say something sharp I won’t swing back unless you squeeze my hand twice, because that will be the agreed-upon signal for ‘Barnes, fire the polite cannons.’”

“Maybe bring those custard tarts my dad pretends not to like and then eats three of them when nobody’s looking.”

“Consider them acquired,” he said, easing to a stop at a red light and turning just enough that the weight of his attention felt like a heated blanket over your entire nervous system. 

You pulled your phone from your bag, thumbs hovering as if the message might combust on contact, then typed anyway because choosing each other had started to look like this—small brave things instead of grand gestures that burned out too fast. 

× × × × 

The four of you sat in heavy silence—the kind that made the faint tick of the kitchen clock sound like a drumbeat. The scent of baked scones filled the air, sweet and buttery, and the china clinked faintly as your mom set down a plate in the middle of the table, along with cream and jam like a peace offering no one knew how to accept.

Your dad’s eyes flicked between you and Bucky like he was tracking a tennis match he hadn’t wanted to play in the first place.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “So,” he said slowly, gaze landing on Bucky. “You really meant what you said.”

Your mom sighed softly and nudged his knee under the table—a silent, be gentle.

“Yes, sir,” Bucky said, his tone respectful but firm. “I did.”

Your father nodded once, more to himself than anyone, then leaned back slightly. “I see.”

You could feel Bucky beside you— trying to be calm, his hand resting just close enough to yours on the table that the warmth of him steadied the tremor in your chest. You took a quiet breath, straightened your spine, and spoke before the moment stretched into something unbearable.

“Dad,” you began, carefully, “I know what you’re thinking. And I know you’re just trying to protect me. But you don’t have to.”

Richard’s brow furrowed, the lines on his forehead deepening. “I’m your father, and you’re my only daughter. That’s part of the job description.”

You braced yourself—because you knew that tone. The one he used right before launching into something that was meant to sound logical but always landed somewhere between protective and infuriating.

He sighed, glancing down at his hands before meeting your eyes again. “Don’t you think you’re going a little too fast? You can mistake infatuation with being in love.”

Under the table, your mom’s foot shot out and made sharp contact with his shin. Richard winced, jerking slightly in his seat.

“Richard,” she hissed through a tight smile, her hand coming up to smooth her hair like that would hide the marital violence. 

“What your father means,” she said, turning to you and Bucky with a look that was all apology and soft edges, “is that sometimes, as parents, we get… cautious. Not because we don’t trust you, but because we know how much it hurts when you get it wrong.”

You stared at them both, fighting the urge to laugh, cry, and groan all at once.

“Right,” you said flatly. “So in translation, that means you think I’m just—what—caught up in some kind of delusional whirlwind with Bucky?”

Your dad’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “That’s not—well—”

“Richard,” your mom warned, voice sharp enough to slice through the air.

“I’m just saying,” he muttered defensively, looking to his wife for backup that wasn’t coming. “I’ve seen people rush into things before. It doesn’t always end well.”

Your mom sighed and rubbed his arm. “You’re projecting, dear.”

“I’m being practical,” he grumbled.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms together on the table before speaking. 

“Dad, I know you’re trying to protect me. But I need you to understand something.” You looked straight at him, then at your mom. “I’m not some teenager who doesn’t know the difference between a crush and love.”

Bucky stayed quiet, his hand inching closer until his pinky brushed yours.

Your voice softened. “I’ve had people tell me they loved me before. And it never felt like this.”

Your dad’s expression faltered, like you’d hit something he didn’t have a counterargument for.

“Besides,” you added, a hint of dry humor slipping into your tone, “you’ve met him. You think I could possibly mistake this—” you gestured vaguely toward Bucky, who blinked in faint surprise “—for a passing infatuation? Have you seen how patient he is? Do you know what kind of mental endurance it takes to deal with me on a bad day?”

Your mom laughed quietly into her tea.

Even Richard’s mouth twitched, though he tried to hide it. “That’s fair,” he muttered.

Bucky, sensing the tiniest break in the tension, smiled faintly. “She’s not wrong, sir. It’s… a full-time job.”

Your dad’s gaze flicked to him, assessing, measuring, and—for the first time—something almost like respect passed through his eyes.

Your mom sighed in quiet relief, leaning back in her chair. “See?” she said brightly, reaching for the jam. “He’s got a sense of humor. That’s half the battle.”

Richard groaned. “Don’t make this sound like a victory speech.”

“Oh, hush,” she chided, smearing jam onto a scone and handing it to you. “Let’s not ruin perfectly good baked goods with your skepticism.”

You took it, trying—and failing—not to smile. The tension had eased just enough that the room finally felt breathable again.

Richard sighed—a long, resigned sound that seemed to deflate some of the fight still clinging to his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair, the rigid line of his posture softening as he stared down at the table for a moment before exhaling through his nose.

Your mom watched him with that knowing, practiced patience only decades of marriage could teach. Then she arched an eyebrow, her voice deceptively light. “Richard, aren’t you forgetting something?”

He looked up, brow creasing. “What?”

She tilted her head toward Bucky in a silent gesture so obvious it might as well have been a neon sign.

“Oh, for—” Richard rubbed a hand over his jaw, muttering under his breath. “You mean I should apologize.”

She smile was sweet but firm. “That would be the polite thing to do, yes.”

Richard looked at Bucky for a long moment, eyes narrowing—not in hostility this time, but in deep thought. Finally, he sighed again, the edge in his voice replaced with something steadier, more grounded.

“I’m not good at… speeches,” he began, clearing his throat. “And I’m not going to pretend I’m thrilled about how all of this started.” His gaze flicked briefly to you, then back to Bucky. “But I can see you care about her. And I can see she’s different with you.”

He paused, drumming his fingers on the table once before adding, quietly but with weight, “But I won’t say sorry for being protective. But I will say this—treat her the way you’d want someone to treat your own daughter one day.”

It wasn’t an apology in the traditional sense—but in Richard-speak, it was monumental.

Bucky nodded, respectful but earnest. “Yes, sir. I can do that.”

Your mother smiled faintly, a soft sigh escaping her as she reached for her teacup. “There,” she said, satisfied. “Progress. And no one even threw a scone.”

You bit back a laugh, relief and affection swirling warm in your chest as you reached under the table and brushed your fingers against Bucky’s.

This time, when your dad caught the gesture—he didn’t scowl. He just looked away and took another sip of his tea.

× × × ×

The ceremony was something out of a dream—an aisle framed by centuries-old oak trees draped in Spanish moss, sunlight filtering through the canopy in soft, golden ribbons. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and champagne, and somewhere off to the side, a string quartet played the kind of music that made everything feel cinematic.

Bucky sat halfway back, surrounded by Clara’s family and old friends he didn’t know, but none of it mattered. Because all he could see—really see—was you.

You stood up front with the bridesmaids, a bouquet of ivory roses in your hands, the soft fabric of your dress catching the light every time you shifted. You were listening to the vows, smiling faintly at Clara, but your gaze kept flicking—like it couldn’t help itself—toward him.

And every time it did, it landed squarely on his.

Bucky’s lips curved, the kind of smile that didn’t need words. He didn’t look away when you caught him; he never did. He just sat there with one arm draped over the back of his chair, suit jacket open, blue eyes tracing you like he was memorizing the way the sunlight hit your skin.

You tried to look away. You really did. But your chest tightened, and a smile—shy and helpless—broke through anyway. You ducked your head, pretending to fix your bouquet, even though your pulse was hammering from the weight of his stare.

Bucky’s grin deepened, that subtle little half-smile he got when he knew exactly what he was doing to you. He tilted his head slightly, like he was daring you to look at him again.

And, of course, you did.

The officiant said something about love being patient, love being kind, and you nearly laughed under your breath, because how were you supposed to be patient when he looked at you like that? 

When the man sitting in the fourth row—the one who’d once broken your heart just by saying he was in love with you—was looking at you now like he wasn’t done loving you yet?

He caught your gaze again, this time mouthing the word breathe.

You rolled your eyes, biting your lip to stop a laugh, and he chuckled quietly, shaking his head. His thumb brushed along his jaw as he looked at you—like he wanted to touch you, but this was the closest he could get in public.

By the time Clara and her groom kissed, you weren’t thinking about the music or the applause or the petals falling like confetti. You were thinking about how Bucky Barnes had been watching you the entire time—like you were the only thing in a world full of beautiful distractions worth looking at.

× × × ×

The air was warm and electric with laughter and champagne—the kind of chaos that always followed dinner and too many heartfelt toasts. Clara stood in the middle of the dance floor, her veil pinned back and bouquet of white peonies clutched dramatically in one hand, her other raised to hush the shrieking crowd of women gathering behind her.

“All right, ladies!” she called out, laughing. “You know the rules. Whoever catches this is next!”

“Rig it for me!” someone yelled.

“Not if I get there first!” another woman countered, already stretching like she was about to run a relay.

You, on the other hand, stood off to the side, your expression hovering somewhere between amused and mildly terrified. 

“This feels like the Hunger Games,” you muttered to the girl next to you.

Clara glanced over her shoulder and spotted you. “Get in here!”

You shook your head firmly. “I’m fine back here!”

“Nope,” she grinned wickedly. “Come here. Maid of honor’s honor!”

A chorus of cheers went up, and before you could protest, someone—probably one of Clara’s tipsy cousins—grabbed your wrist and dragged you until you were standing squarely in the danger zone.

“Perfect!” Clara yelled. “Ready?”

Clara turned around, spun once, twice, and threw the bouquet with the kind of force that suggested she’d once played varsity softball.

The crowd erupted.

You didn’t even move. The bouquet flew way over the heads of the eager women up front—an impressive, soaring arc—before hitting one of the chandeliers, bouncing off, and ricocheting straight toward you.

You blinked. “Oh, shi—”

Thunk.

It landed squarely against your chest, bounced off your shoulder, and fell neatly into your hands like the universe had a wicked sense of humor.

The room went silent for half a second—then erupted in cheers and laughter.

Clara was doubled over, wheezing from across the dance floor. “I told you!” she managed between laughs. “I told you!”

You stood there, holding the bouquet like it might explode, face on fire. “This doesn’t count!”

“Oh, it counts!” someone yelled.

You turned just in time to see Bucky at your table, hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. When your eyes met, he dropped his hand and mouthed, Nice catch.

You groaned, pressing the flowers to your face to hide your grin. “Yay.”

× × × ×

The night had folded into something soft and golden—the kind of quiet that follows the chaos of laughter and music and champagne toasts. The reception lights twinkled across the lawn like fireflies, and the air carried that faint, sweet mix of roses and late-summer breeze.

You’d just helped Clara out of her heels and into something more comfortable when Bucky knocked before appearing at the doorway, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, holding your bouquet like it was his job.

“Mind if I borrow my girlfriend for a bit?” he asked, voice smooth, eyes finding yours.

Clara leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, grinning. “Depends. You gonna bring her back in one piece?”

Bucky’s lips quirked. “No promises.”

Clara laughed, waving you off. “She’s all yours, Sergeant Symmetrical.”

“Still not my rank,” he called after her, shaking his head as you snorted, trying not to laugh.

He offered you his arm, the bouquet still in his other hand. “C’mon.”

You frowned playfully. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere quieter.” His tone was low, but his smile was easy, teasing. “I feel like I’ve been sharing you with everyone all night.”

The gazebo sat on the edge of the property, wrapped in string lights that glowed like trapped stars. The muffled hum of the reception drifted over the lawn—soft laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the faint thrum of Those Eyes by New West seeping through the open air.

When you turned back toward him, Bucky was standing a few steps away, eyes glinting under the warm lights, one hand extended toward you like some modern-day Mr. Darcy who knew exactly what he was doing.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, mock-serious, but his voice came out husky, like it had dipped straight into something deeper.

You raised an eyebrow, smiling despite yourself. “Are you—are you asking me like we’re in a Jane Austen novel?”

He shrugged, grin softening into something that made your chest ache. “If the shoe fits.”

You placed your hand in his, and his fingers closed around yours, warm and sure. He tugged you gently toward him until your chest brushed his, his other hand finding its way to your waist—steady, protective, familiar.

He guided your hand up to rest against his chest, right over the steady thud of his heartbeat. “There,” he murmured. “Now you know you’re doing it right.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “So confident.”

“Mm,” he hummed, swaying you side to side, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your hip. “You love that about me.”

The lights caught the blue in his eyes, and you forgot what breathing felt like for a moment. The music carried around you—soft, slow, perfect—and neither of you said anything else. You just moved together, finding rhythm in each other’s silence.

And when his gaze flicked down to your lips for the briefest moment before finding your eyes again, your heart gave that traitorous, dizzy leap.

His breath brushed your forehead as he murmured, “You look beautiful tonight.”

You smiled, voice quiet, teasing to keep from melting. “You already said that.”

“I’ll keep saying it ’til it sticks.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt. His chest rose and fell against your hand. For a while, you just swayed—his thumb tracing the outline of your waist, your forehead resting against his chin, the music slow and hazy in the background.

Then, after a beat, you felt the soft rumble of his laugh against your temple. “You know,” he said, voice low and lazy, “for someone who claims to be so chill, you really fought that bouquet toss.”

Your head tipped back, eyes narrowing playfully. “I did not fight it. I was trying to avoid it.”

“Mm-hm,” he drawled, grinning. “Yeah, I saw. Real smooth move, by the way. You dodged left, the bouquet went right, hit a chandelier, and still landed in your hands. That’s talent.”

You chuckle. “The universe has jokes.”

“Or maybe it’s trying to tell you something,” he teased, his grin widening when you rolled your eyes.

“Oh, don’t start.”

“What?” he said innocently, though his eyes gleamed with mischief. “Don’t you wanna get married to me?”

You froze mid-sway, blinking up at him. “I—uh—wait. Is that a trick question? Because it sounds very trick-question-y.”

Bucky bit his lip to keep from laughing, shoulders shaking. “Relax, baby. I don’t have a ring in my pocket—so technically, it’s a hypothetical question.”

You squinted, pretending to think hard. “Then I’m not answering.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t confirm nor deny hypothetical questions,” you said primly, and he burst out laughing, head falling back as the sound echoed softly against the rafters.

When he looked at you again, his smile was softer—eyes still crinkled at the corners, voice a little rough from laughing. “God, you drive me insane.”

You bit your lip, smiling up at him. “I do?” you asked, all innocent tilt and teasing spark, though the warmth in your voice gave you away.

“Yeah,” he said, still swaying you gently. “You do.” His gaze dipped to your mouth for a heartbeat before finding your eyes again. “You walk into a room and somehow every other thought I’ve ever had just—evaporates.”

Your pulse fluttered, your fingers clutching a little tighter at his shirt. “That sounds inconvenient,” you said, trying to play it off, but your voice came out quieter than intended.

“Completely inconvenient,” he agreed, leaning closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “But I’ll live.”

You tilted your head just enough to meet his eyes again. “You sure?”

He smiled, the kind that started slow and spread all the way to his eyes—lazy, warm, a little dangerous. “You kidding? I’ve been living off this kind of chaos since the day I met you.”

Your laugh slipped out. “That’s not healthy.”

He shrugged one shoulder, lips brushing the corner of your jaw in a way that made your heart stutter. 

“Neither is you biting your lip like that,” he murmured, “but here we are.”

You barely had time to breathe before he kissed you.

His mouth moved against yours like he already knew the rhythm, like he’d been waiting to fit there all along. The world shrank down to the space between you: his hand at your waist, the faint scrape of his stubble against your skin, the hot press of his lips molding perfectly to yours.

You melted before you even realized it was happening, your fingers curling into his shirt, the faintest sigh escaping between you. He caught it, deepened the kiss just a fraction—enough to make your knees go weak, enough to make your thoughts scatter like confetti in the wind.

And when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you still catching your breath.

“Still think it’s not healthy?” he whispered, his lips ghosting the edge of your smile.

You could barely find your voice. “If it’s not… I don’t want to get better.”

His soft laugh fanned against your mouth, and then he kissed you again—slower this time, sweeter, like the night itself had been waiting for it.

× × × ×

You'd meant to answer one email.

Instead, you drifted—curled on the couch, laptop half-open on the coffee table, Alpine a perfect white loaf on your chest like a purring paper weight. The afternoon light wnet honey-soft. Your eyes did that heavy flutter thing once. . . twice . . .

Keys jiggled. The door clicked.

“Hey, baby—” Bucky’s voice softened mid-word. He took in the scene: you, out cold in his hoodie; Alpine, queen of gravity; your mug of coffee on the side table, barely touched.

He crouched beside you, forearm on the cushion. 

“You keep stealing my cat,” he whispered, like he might spook the loaf. Alpine cracked one eye, judged him, and resumed purring.

You stirred. “Mmm—what time is it?”

“Four.” His palm settled on your forehead, warm and broad, then skimmed to your cheek. “You feel hot?”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, voice sleep-thick. “Just… tired.” You tried to sit up; Bucky’s hand guided the laptop safely shut and slid a pillow behind you like muscle memory.

“You’ve been ‘just tired’ three days in a row,” he said gently, thumb brushing your temple. “Did you sleep last night?”

You nodded vaguely. “Sort of. I don’t know. I just feel… drained.”

He frowned, that quiet crease between his brows deepening. “You’ve been running on empty lately.”

“I’ll be okay,” you said, offering a small, tired smile. “Probably my iron again, I keep forgetting to take it.”

Bucky’s expression did that quiet lock-in thing—decision settling. “Okay. Then let’s not guess.” He reached for your phone and placed it in your hand. “Call your doctor. Make an appointment now.”

“Now?” you said through a yawn. “It’s not urgent. I’ll be fine after some rest.”

“Hey.” His fingers laced with yours, steady and warm. “Humor me. Please.” His gaze softened, teasing lightly to keep it from being too serious. “We can’t both nap all day; one of us has to work for a living.”

You exhaled a little laugh. “Says the guy with the black card.” 

His smile flickered, then faded back to worry. “You’ve been wiped, babe. Let’s just make sure it’s nothing else. . . I don’t stress you out do I?”

“No.” You stared at the phone, the reflection of his worried eyes over your shoulder. 

“Fine,” you said softly. “I’ll call.”

“Good.” He kissed your hairline, relief exhaling out of him. “I’ll drive. I’ll sit in the waiting room and take all the free mints.”

“Of course you will,” you murmured, already scrolling for the clinic number.

He reached for Alpine, scooping her up with absurd care. The cat loafed on his forearm like royalty while he added, “And if the earliest appointment’s at some ungodly hour, I’m still going. Don’t argue.”

You shot him a look. “What if I want to argue?”

He grinned. “No, you don’t want to argue.”

You smiled despite yourself.

The phone rang, and Bucky moved to the kitchen, busying himself with something to give you space. You heard the faint clatter of mugs, the rhythmic hum he always fell into when he was nervous but pretending not to be.

“Hi—yes,” you said when the receptionist picked up. “Earliest you have is fine.”

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, caught your eye, mouthed I’ll take you.

You nodded.

“Tomorrow at nine?” you repeated into the phone. “Perfect.”

You hung up, and Bucky returned, bracing a knee on the cushion to lean in close. “All set?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Now lie back, close your eyes, and let me handle the boring stuff.”

You did. His scent—clean aftershave, comfort—settled around you like warmth itself.

And as the room filled with the quiet domestic sounds of him moving around, Alpine purring somewhere near your feet now, you let yourself drift again.

tags: @bohoooitsme @barnescamboy @strangefunthornqueen @mayusenpai666 @seven0714

@rabbitrabbit12321 @alexsl-universe @xunquish-blog @hzdhrtss @winchestert101

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@mochiclouds @yesiamthatwierd @civilbucky @19jammmy @quinquinquincy

@morganlolitta @openup-yourmind @urbanleftovers @fallout-girl219 @goddess--mischief

@red22wolf @lostboys1987girl @tenmaabnesti @elloredef @daddylorianisastateofmind

@leighta @formulas-bitch @waywardhunter95 @cereal6666 @gg-trini

@ohdrey89 @theboysfanficmaker @clintsupremacy @whatislovevavy @okeypoteto

@lilynotdilly @byunleedy @mrsalexstan @jamesbarneswife @chiseplushie

At first he wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary—just passing by with his towel slung around his neck, hair damp with sweat, wearing a black fitted shirt that clearly hated you because it left nothing to the imagination. You probably wouldn’t have even noticed him if you’d seen this live—except he did notice the phone.

And you.

At 01:16, he paused mid-stride, did an awkward little backstep like he wasn’t sure if he’d just wandered into somebody’s FBI surveillance footage, and then glanced from the lens to you.

At 01:19, you were in the middle of your descent—totally unaware—while he did something you only ever saw in movies: leaned down, put his ridiculously handsome face right into the camera, and smiled.

A full-on, hi-I’m-here-to-ruin-your-entire-life smile.

At 01:21, he disappeared out of frame, and for a few seconds, all you could see was yourself struggling through your reps, muttering something under your breath that was probably, “Why did I pay money to be tortured like this?”

And then—oh then—he came back. This time holding a scrap of paper he must have begged off the front desk. He crouched slightly so the note would be in view of the camera.

Bold. Straightforward. A phone number.

Except—when you replayed it later in your apartment, face smeared with post-gym regret and hair in what could only be described as a crime scene—the tragedy revealed itself.

The last three digits? Cut clean off by the edge of the frame.

You stared at your phone, thumb scrubbing left-right-left on the timeline like that would magically make the camera pan wider. No such luck. Each time you froze the video, it was the same: half-smirk, devastating blue eyes, a jawline that probably had its own fitness regimen… and seven tragically incomplete digits.

“Of course,” you muttered to your empty apartment. “Of course I meet the hottest man alive—possibly the only man capable of looking hot in fluorescent gym lighting—and the universe gives me a Sudoku puzzle for his phone number.”

You rewound it again. Played it in slow motion. Like maybe the missing digits would reveal themselves if you stared hard enough, if you believed hard enough.

Nope. Still missing.

But there he was—this mystery guy with the cocky little smile, so sure that you’d find his number, call him, fall madly in love, and probably name your first child after the gym where it all began.

Instead, you were left holding your phone like an idiot, trying not to swoon over a man who technically didn’t even exist in your contacts yet.

× × × ×

You hadn’t planned to become a stalker.

But there was only so much a girl could take after discovering that her squat video had been hijacked by a hot stranger who decided to videobomb her camera with his face, his smile, and his phone number—minus the last three digits.

The man had audacity. Like who does that? Who just leans into a stranger’s video like some sort of gym rom-com hero?

Apparently, the universe had decided you needed new material for your diary.

So here you were again, phone tucked in your bag, leggings on, sneakers double-knotted. Not because you were planning to squat your way into glory again. No, today’s workout was less about glutes and more about reconnaissance. Operation: Hot Videobomb Guy.

Except… Operation was not going well.

You scanned the gym floor once. Twice. Three times. No ocean blue eyes. No charming smile. Just a sea of people who all, inconveniently, weren’t him.

You did a warm-up set of lunges you didn’t care about, checked your phone like maybe he’d magically AirDropped you the missing digits. Nothing.

By set three, you were beginning to feel ridiculous. What were you going to do if you actually saw him? March up like, “Hey, remember me? Girl with tragic posture and a camera you flirted with? I would love the rest of your phone number, thanks.”

Smooth. So smooth.

By set four, you were questioning your life choices.

And by set five, you had to admit it—he wasn’t coming.

Not today. Not while you were sweating bullets and pretending you didn’t care.

You sighed, grabbed your stuff, and headed toward the door—mentally rehearsing how you’d explain this to your trainer if he asked why today’s video was nothing but you awkwardly staring into the mirror like a rejected Hallmark heroine.

That’s when it happened.

The automatic doors slid open, cool air rushing in, and someone brushed past you. Broad shoulders. Dark hair damp with a post-shower sheen. A black hoodie pulled over his head.

You didn’t even notice him.

Because at that exact second, your phone buzzed with a text from your trainer: “Posture looks good last time, keep it up.”

And you—like an idiot—looked down at your phone, thumbs flying in response, “Thanks, trying my best :),” completely oblivious to the fact that you’d just walked within three inches of Mr. Videobomb himself.

He glanced sideways, clocked you instantly, slowed down for half a heartbeat—like maybe he was about to say something—but then the door shut behind him.

And you kept walking outside, completely unaware that the world’s hottest meet-cute had just… missed its mark.

You made it halfway across the parking lot before your dignity caught up with you.

Which, frankly, was impressive, because you’d just spent an entire hour craning your neck like a desperate meerkat, searching for a man whose only known identifiers were:

1. ridiculously symmetrical face,

2. killer smile,

3. mystery number cut short by your tragic camera placement.

You hit the unlock button on your car fob, tossed your gym bag in the back seat, and immediately dialed your best friend.

She answered on the third ring, voice groggy. “This better be good. It’s midnight. Normal people sleep.”

“Guess what happened yesterday?” you blurted, not even bothering with hello.

“I don’t know—did Starbucks finally run out of oat milk? Because I’ll riot.”

“No. Better.” You leaned against your car, grinning even though nobody could see you. “This hot guy videobombed my workout video.”

Silence. Then, suspiciously: “Videobombed?”

“Yes. Like—walked into frame, leaned down, looked straight into the camera, and smiled. At me. At me, okay? Then he literally left his phone number.”

Another beat of silence. Then a slow, disbelieving laugh. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I swear on my discount protein powder.”

“Wait. Hold on.” Her voice sharpened, awake now. “So where’s this number?”

You winced. “That’s the problem.”

“Problem?”

“The last three digits got cut off in the video.”

There was a shriek so loud you had to pull the phone away from your ear. “YOU’RE KIDDING.”

“I wish I was! I sound insane, don’t I? Like some girl inventing a hot stranger who conveniently left her his number. But it happened. It really happened. He was gorgeous. I kind of wish he’d been here today.”

“Oh my God.” She was practically hyperventilating. “Show me the video. Send it right now."

You hesitated. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing would be if you farted during squats and that was caught on camera. This is the opposite of embarrassing. This is cinematic. Send. It.”

Rolling your eyes, you opened your gallery, hit share, and waited while she pulled it up.

A few seconds later, through the speaker: “Holy. Shit.”

“Told you.”

“Look at that smile—oh my God. He’s not just hot. He’s stupid hot. Like, central-casting hot.”

“Right?” You covered your face with your hand, cheeks aching from smiling so hard. “And he just left a number—who even does that?”

“I’ll tell you who. A man who clearly wanted you to call him, that’s who.”

“Yeah, well. Too bad I can’t. Seven digits don’t exactly get you far.”

“Girl, you have to go back. Every day. Same time. Same squat rack. He’ll come back.”

You groaned. “Do you hear yourself? That’s not casual. That’s a stakeout.”

“So what? Stake him out. I would. For those eyes? Please. I’d bring a lawn chair and snacks.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you slid into the driver’s seat. “You’re crazy.”

“And you’re hopeless if you don’t track him down. Mystery Hot Gym Guy is practically fate handing you a meet-cute. Do not waste this.”

You pressed your forehead to the steering wheel, still grinning like an idiot. “Fine. I’ll try again next week. But if I end up looking like a stalker—”

“Worth it.”

“—and if I get arrested—”

“Even more worth it.”

You hung up before she could get in another word, but her laughter lingered in your ear, mixing with the echo of his smile still burned into your brain.

× × × ×

The following week, you returned. Same day. Same time. Same gym. Same plan.

Because if Mystery Hot Gym Guy was a creature of habit—and based on his biceps, you were betting he was—then you’d catch him here again. You’d replayed that video so many times you probably could’ve described the exact shade of his smile to a sketch artist.

This was it. Round two.

You warmed up, set your phone in your locker (because no accidental creepy-girl stakeout recordings this time), and climbed onto a treadmill. Headphones in, playlist blasting.

And then—you waited.

You pretended you weren’t waiting, obviously. You jogged at a comfortable pace, adjusted your ponytail, checked your heart rate on the monitor like a serious athlete. Totally normal gym-goer stuff.

Meanwhile, the door at the far end slid open.

And in he walked.

Black T-shirt again. Grey sweats. That same stupid towel draped over his shoulders like a magazine cover model. He scanned the room, looking for something—or someone—just as a buddy clapped him on the shoulder and pulled him toward the free weights.

And that was it. His attention shifted, his focus stolen. No lingering glances. No accidental eye contact. He just followed his friend across the floor, distracted and laughing at something you couldn’t hear.

You, meanwhile, were lost in your music. Taylor Swift was telling you to shake it off, and you were focusing on your stride, determined not to trip like an idiot on camera one day.

He passed behind your row of treadmills without ever seeing you.

And you jogged on, completely oblivious that the man you’d been half-hoping, half-dreading to see was less than twenty feet away.

Two ships. Same harbor. Passing in silence.

By the time you hit cool-down mode, your hopes had pretty much evaporated. The treadmill beeped, your pace slowed, and you pulled your headphones down around your neck, sweat sticking to your skin. You gave the gym one last casual sweep—just in case.

Nothing.

No videobomb guy leaning against the water fountain, no devastating smile across the weight racks. Just the usual mix of gym bros grunting like they were auditioning for a caveman documentary, and a girl in neon shorts killing it on the stair climber.

You sighed, grabbed your towel, and stepped off the treadmill, heart sinking in spite of yourself. Figures. First time in your life a hot stranger leaves you his number, and it’s literally unusable. Now he’s gone. Poof. Like he never existed.

By the time you made it to your car, disappointment had hardened into resignation. Maybe your best friend had been wrong. Maybe this wasn’t fate. Maybe it was just… a funny blip in your otherwise tragically uneventful gym life.

You slid into the driver’s seat, reached for your phone, and saw the little blue notification dot you almost never clicked.

Facebook Messenger.

From: Satan with a Whistle (aka your trainer).

“Got you a surprise. I found a buddy who can help train you tomorrow since I’m not there. Same time, same gym. He’s good—don’t argue.”

You blinked at the screen, rereading it twice.

A buddy?

At your gym?

Tomorrow?

You bit your lip, a thrill sparking low in your stomach despite your better judgment.

It couldn’t be him. Could it?

No way. No way the universe was setting this up that neatly.

And yet…

You threw your head back against the headrest and groaned, half-laughing, half-panicking. “Oh my God. If this is Videobomb Guy, I’m going to die.”

× × × ×

The next day you arrived early, determined not to look like someone who spent all night refreshing her squat video like it was ger tiktok page. You set up, started warming up with some stretches, earbuds in, hype playlist on, trying to look casual and definitely not like a woman who might collapse if a certain blue-eyed videobomber walked through the door.

And then—

“Y/N?”

Your whole body froze.

Please be him, please be him, please be him—

You turned, heart already hammering in your throat.

And came face-to-face with… not him.

“Uh… hi?”

The man in front of you had a warm smile, kind eyes, and the sort of presence that screamed personal trainer who doesn’t believe in rest days.

“Sam Wilson,” he said, extending a hand. “Your trainer said I could help you out today.”

You blinked, staring at his hand like it had just offered you a consolation prize. “Oh! Right. Yeah.” You plastered on a smile, quickly shaking his hand before your disappointment could show too much. “Nice to meet you, Sam.”

Of course. Of course the universe wouldn’t make it that easy. If Videobomb Guy actually turned out to be your trainer’s friend, that would’ve been… well, too good to be true.

So you swallowed down the letdown and dove into the session. Sam was good—really good. Encouraging, focused, even funny. He cracked jokes between sets, teased you when you made faces mid-lift, and didn’t even flinch when you muttered, “This is how I die,” under your breath on the leg press.

An hour later, drenched in sweat but still alive, you grabbed your water bottle, guzzling half of it like you’d just crawled out of the Sahara. You dropped onto the bench, stretching your sore quads and preparing to call it a day.

That’s when it happened.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Sam straighten, grin, and hold out his hand in that very specific man-to-man handshake—the one with the clasp, the shoulder pat, the unspoken “bro” energy.

And the person he was doing it with?

Videobomb Guy.

Your brain short-circuited.

He’d just strolled up, casual as anything, black T-shirt again (was it glued to his body?), smiling at Sam like they were old friends.

You immediately dropped your gaze, fumbling with your bag like it contained state secrets, willing yourself invisible. Because if you actually looked at him, you might combust on the spot.

“You just missed a great session,” Sam said, clapping him on the back. “I was training Y/N—”

You froze.

Don’t say it. Don’t—

“—she’s right there.”

You turned, startled, caught like a deer in headlights as you finally locked eyes with him.

His brows lifted, surprise flickering across his face, and then—slowly—he smiled. The same smile from your video. The one that had ruined your entire week.

“Well,” he said, voice warm, amused. “We meet again.”

Your finger shot out before you could stop it, pointing at him like you were accusing him of a crime. “I—it’s you!”

Sam looked between the two of you, confused. “Wait, you know each other?”

Your eyes went wide. “No! Not really!” you blurted out, far too quickly, shoving your water bottle into your bag as if that somehow proved your point.

Sam raised an eyebrow, suspicious. Videobomb Guy just chuckled under his breath, eyes still locked on you, like this was the funniest plot twist of his day.

And maybe… it was.

Sam’s gaze ping-ponged between the two of you, his mouth slowly curving into the kind of grin that made you immediately nervous.

“Uh-huh,” he said, chuckling under his breath. “Y’all are definitely looking at each other like you know each other.”

You waved your hands quickly. “No! No-no-no, we don’t—”

“She does look familiar,” Bucky cut in, his lips twitching like he was seconds away from smiling. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking annoyingly relaxed. “But maybe that’s because I left her my number, and she never called me.”

Sam’s eyes went wide before he slapped a fist against his mouth like he was trying to hold back a laugh. “Oooof. Hold up. You—” he pointed at Bucky, “—gave her your number, and she—” he turned to you, “—just ignored you? That’s brutal. High five, girl.”

You sighed and gave him the limpest, most half-hearted high five in history. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Bucky tilted his head, curious now. “Then what is it?”

You turned to him, cheeks warming. “Because the number you left? It got cut off. The last three digits weren’t on the video.”

Bucky blinked, genuinely thrown. “Wait—seriously? No, I wrote the whole thing. All ten digits.”

“Not from my end,” you said, shaking your head. “All I got was seven. Seven digits aren’t exactly useful.”

For a second, Bucky just stared at you—then laughed softly, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Well, that explains it.”

Sam, meanwhile, completely lost it. He doubled over, laughing so hard he had to grab the wall. “Oh my God. Barnes—you left her most of a number? Man, what were you expecting? That she’d just start cold-calling strangers until she found you? ‘Hi, uh, are you the hot guy from my squat video?’”

Your hands flew up. “Exactly!”

Bucky chuckled, looking amused but not the least bit embarrassed. “Guess my master plan wasn’t so flawless after all.”

Sam wiped at his eyes, still grinning. “This is killing me. You thought she rejected you, and she thought you vanished into thin air. Meanwhile, both of you were probably overthinking this all week. That’s comedy gold.”

You ducked your head, smiling despite yourself. “Yeah, something like that.”

Bucky’s eyes lingered on you for a beat too long, and then his mouth curved into that smile—the one from the video, except warmer this time. “Well… glad we cleared that up.”

Sam groaned dramatically, throwing up his hands. “You two are ridiculous. Just get coffee already before I actually die from watching this.”

Before you could argue, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, muttered something about being late, and clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Barnes, don’t screw this up. Y/N—good luck surviving this guy.”

And just like that, he was gone. Out the door. No safety buffer. No third-wheel distraction.

Leaving you standing there with Mystery Videobomb Guy. Alone.

For a second, the silence stretched. You adjusted the strap of your gym bag. He shifted his weight, still smiling like this was the best coincidence of his week.

Then—smooth as anything—he extended his hand toward you.

“Hi,” he said, that smile edging toward playful now. “I’m Bucky. The guy who apparently can’t even leave a proper phone number.”

Your lips twitched, fighting a laugh as you slid your hand into his. Warm. Solid. A little too steady for how your heart was currently doing somersaults.

“Y/N,” you said softly. “The girl who apparently ghosts incomplete numbers.”

He chuckled, his fingers wrapping gently around yours. “Guess we’re even, then.”

You smiled, starting to pull your hand back, but he didn’t let go just yet. Instead, his thumb brushed once against your knuckles—light, teasing—before he said, “So, what do you think? We try this again? With a complete number this time?”

Your brows lifted. “What, like, a do-over?”

“More like an upgrade,” he said smoothly, finally releasing your hand but only so he could slip his own into his pocket. “Because, full disclosure? Tinder doesn’t really work for me.”

You snorted. “Oh, I can imagine. Poor thing—swiping left and right with those terrible looks and muscles. Must be so hard.”

He grinned at your sarcasm, tilting his head. “Exactly. People just assume it’s a catfish. I get reported more than matched.”

That made you laugh, really laugh, the kind that bubbled out before you could stop it. “Wow. Life must be tough for you, Hot Gym Guy.”

“Tragic, really,” he said, straight-faced. “So here I am, resorting to videobombing squat videos to meet women. Desperate times.”

“And leaving half a phone number,” you teased. “Real smooth.”

“Hey, at least you remembered me,” he shot back, his eyes crinkling when he smiled. “That’s progress.”

You shook your head, still laughing, and for a moment it was just… easy. Effortless. Like you’d known him longer than thirty seconds.

Then he leaned in slightly, dropping his voice into something low and conspiratorial. “So, how about I skip the tragic dating apps and you just… let me take you out? Coffee. Dinner. Dealer’s choice.”

Your stomach flipped so fast it was embarrassing. You raised an eyebrow, pretending to weigh your options. “Hm. Coffee first. Dinner requires me to commit to a full entrée. Coffee I can bail on after ten minutes if you turn out to be secretly terrible.”

He grinned, eyes gleaming. “Fair enough. But ten minutes?” He leaned back, smug. “That’s all I’ll need.”

tags: @lomlbuckybarnes @winterslove1917 @hzdhrtss @mostlymarvelgirl

@missvelvetsstuff @unaxv @carnal-vogue @bmyva1entine @wheredidiputmyfish

@thereoncewasagirlnamedjane @wanda-widow @filmologetica @awaywithtime @Thealyrs

@greatenthusiasttidalwave @winchestert101 @strawberrybisou @unaxv @asgards-princess-of-mischief

You climbed off the bed with your phone in one hand and flung your closet open with the kind of optimism usually reserved for people who say things like "it'll be a quick trip to IKEA." The result? A tragic, horrifying display of jersey knits, three identical black dresses you kept for funerals or "slightly fancy dinner" situations, and one dress that still had a dry-cleaning tag from your cousin’s wedding in 2018. The most glamorous thing in there had sequins, but they were falling off like your will to live during tax season.

You texted back.

You: uhhh i think so?

There was a pause. You waited. And then:

Bucky: You think so? That doesn’t sound reassuring.

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in your skull.

Bucky: Should I get someone to help you?

You made a choking noise, then typed furiously:

You:What??? NO. Do you think I’m incapable of styling myself?!

Bucky: 😬… I’m not going to answer that.

You: WTH? JAMES.

Bucky: I’m just saying... if you need help... let me know.

You threw your phone onto the bed like it had personally insulted your family name.

The audacity. The sheer, unfiltered audacity of this man.

Never mind that the last time you did your full makeup for a wedding, your eyeliner rebelled halfway through and you ended up looking like an extra in a Tim Burton movie. Or that you once tried to curl your hair and somehow managed to temporarily weld two strands together.

It’s fine. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.

Except Bucky Barnes, Ford engineer slash secret adult film star, had just asked you to be his date to a formal company party. To meet his actual colleagues. To see his real job. The one where he kept his clothes on.

And all you could think about was how your last "fancy event" outfit involved a panic-buy from H&M and shoes that made you cry by the second hour.

You stared down at your phone.

You: Are you being serious about the dress code? Like, serious serious?

Bucky: It’s at a golf resort. With valet parking.

You: So... not jeans.

Bucky: Not unless they’re made of your dreams and cost $3,000.

You sighed and sank back into your bed.

This was a test. Not of your style. Not of your ability to blend in among women who probably knew the difference between contour and bronzer.

No.

This was a test of your willpower not to fall harder for the man who remembered to text you about a dress code because he wanted you there.

Even if he did think you needed backup.

You stared at the blinking cursor, pride and panic battling it out like two raccoons fighting over the same slice of pizza. Then you typed with the confidence of a woman who absolutely did not have her life together:

You: I’ll sort something out.

Translation: I will absolutely not sort something out. But I know people.

Specifically, Amy and Trish—two women whose closets could double as costume departments and whose eyeliner wings could cut glass.

You didn’t waste time. You called Amy.

She answered on the first ring, like she'd been waiting her entire life for this very moment.

"Hey," you began without preamble. "This guy I’m seeing asked me to be his date to a work party. I need help. Can I borrow a dress?"

There was a brief pause before Amy gasped dramatically. "Oh my GOD, girl, yes! When is it?"

You paused. "Hang on, let me ask."

You quickly texted Bucky:

You: When is the party exactly?

He replied like he had all the time in the world.

Bucky: tomorrow night.

You blinked. Then blinked again. Because clearly this man was operating on a different calendar. A lawless one.

“…Tomorrow night,” you said flatly into the phone.

Amy, bless her chaotic soul, didn’t miss a beat. “Oh shit. Then we need to sort you out ASAP. I’m calling Trish for a second opinion. You think you can come by my house in thirty?”

You looked down at your current outfit—oversized lemon-print t-shirt, bike shorts, and a single fuzzy sock that may or may not have given up on life.

“…Yeah. Thirty works.”

Thirty-five minutes later (you got stuck behind a garbage truck), you stood in front of Amy’s front door, mentally preparing yourself for what could only be described as the Fashion Emergency Summit of 2025.

You knocked. The door practically swung open before your knuckles touched it.

“There she is!” Amy squealed, grabbing your wrist and yanking you inside like you were the last contestant on America’s Next Top Model: Desperate Edition.

Trish was in the living room, surrounded by garment bags and aggressively sipping wine like it was go-go juice. She looked up, immediately shook her head, and stood like you’d just triggered a makeover bat signal.

“Okay. Work party. Man you're seeing. Formal. Urgent. Got it. First things first—take your pants off.”

You blinked. “Hello to you too.”

“Sorry, did you want to impress him or nah?” she replied, already unzipping a dress bag like she was opening a sacred scroll.

Amy appeared at your side. “We’re skipping the niceties. You’re in crisis and we are the fairy godmothers your mom warned you about.”

You tried to keep up as they steamrolled around you—pulling out dresses, shoes, necklaces, even a clutch shaped like a seashell (for some reason).

“Wait,” you said, hands up. “I just asked to borrow a dress. I didn’t realize I was auditioning for princess diaries.”

“Sweetheart,” Amy said, gently tossing your limp ponytail over your shoulder, “have you seen your closet? This is not a dress loan. This is a full-blown humanitarian mission.”

“So,” Trish said, one perfectly arched brow lifting as she gave you the slow, evaluative once-over, wine glass in hand like she was about to perform a sacred ceremony. “This mysterious man. Is he hot? Rich? Emotionally unavailable? Give me something to work with.”

You dropped your bag with a dramatic thunk near the doorway, already regretting every life decision that had led you to this moment. “He’s… complicated.”

Two synchronized groans echoed through the room.

“Oh God,” Amy muttered, flopping dramatically onto the velvet chaise like this was all too much for her emotionally. “She’s in deep.”

“Complicated is girl-code for ‘his abs should be illegal,’” Trish said, sipping her cabernet like the all-knowing oracle she believed herself to be. “Am I wrong?”

You tried not to look too smug. Shrugged, oh-so-casual. “They should probably be regulated. Yes.”

Amy clapped once. “Then let’s begin,” she said, in the same voice you imagined Caesar used before unleashing gladiators. She looked too smug for your comfort. Like she’d been preparing for this since the day you met.

First came the dresses. A waterfall of fabrics in every imaginable shade. Trish, who had appointed herself Commander of Evening Wear, flung dresses at you like she was battling inner demons through couture. “This,” she said, holding up a gold sequin bodycon dress that screamed Vegas, baby.

Amy barely looked up. “She’s not about to elope with Elvis.”

Midnight blue slip? Too clingy. Velvet green number? Too ‘winter gala at the Met.’ Champagne satin gown? Way too bridal. You looked like someone about to accept an award for Best Performance in a Rom-Com That Ends in Tragedy.

Then came the black satin dress. You stepped out of the bathroom and turned toward them—and everything stilled.

“No one speak,” Amy whispered, eyes wide. “We found it.”

Trish made the sign of the cross.

Then came hair.

Trish unzipped her emergency beauty toolkit with the reverence of a trauma surgeon. Curling irons, dry shampoo, hairspray, texturizing powder—you weren’t even sure some of these things were legal.

She got to work, curling and teasing and muttering “trust the process” like a woman on the brink. She moved with the intensity of someone who’d seen too many TikTok tutorials and wasn’t afraid to experiment. Bobby pins dangled from her lips like tiny swords.

“Turn your head,” she ordered. “Not that way. The other way. We’re building volume, not a crime scene.”

While she worked, Amy began on your face, swiping and sculpting and muttering spells under her breath like she was summoning Aphrodite.

“We contour where we want the light to hit. We bake where we hold grudges. We highlight where we seduce.”

Highlighter shimmered across your cheekbones. Eyeshadow turned your lids into smoky, mysterious omens of danger. Your lashes were now capable of generating electricity and fanning away weak men. Your lips? Berry-stained, sultry, slightly dangerous. Like you bit hearts for breakfast.

Amy stepped back and tilted your chin up with her fingers. “I love us.”

Then came accessories.

Trish handed you gold hoops—small, elegant, powerful. Amy slid a chunky cocktail ring onto your finger like she was knighting you. “You’re welcome, America.”

Shoes. Strappy, black, gorgeous. The kind of heels that whispered I am expensive and will step on you if necessary.

Then perfume. A single spritz.

And finally—quiet.

Amy took a dramatic breath, wiped imaginary sweat from her brow, and in the worst Italian accent you had ever heard, she began:

“Your Majesty… Paolo is exhausted. Because your Majesty—” she pointed at the lemon-print shirt you had worn over here, crumpled on the chair like a sad lemony corpse. “Only Paolo can take this—”

She then gestured to the tragic hairbrush still sitting on the dresser. “And this—”

And with a dramatic flair worthy of an Oscar for Best Supporting Friend, she stepped aside and swept her hand toward the mirror.

“And give youuuu… THIS.”

And actually gasped.

You looked—expensive. Like you belonged in the corner booth of a dimly lit rooftop bar, sipping something with one perfect ice cube. Like the kind of woman who didn’t return texts because she was too busy living.

You stared at yourself. Equal parts shocked and delighted. Maybe even a little terrified. Because this girl in the mirror?

She looked like the kind of woman who would ruin a man in the best possible way.

“…So what now?” you asked, voice just slightly shaky.

Amy raised a brow and smirked. “Now? Now you go knock his emotionally unavailable, hot-ass socks off tomorrow.”

× × × ×

You were already sweating.

Which wasn’t ideal, considering you hadn’t even made it to the event yet. Or gotten into the dress. Or zipped the stupid clutch. Or—most importantly—figured out how to re-create the smoky eye Amy had lovingly summoned onto your face the night before like she was Michelangelo and your eyelids were the Sistine Chapel.

Currently, you were sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, surrounded by brushes, palettes, half a makeup wipe, and your own crippling sense of inadequacy.

Your phone was propped up on a candle jar. Amy’s face appeared on the screen, slightly angled and very judgmental.

“Okay,” she said, squinting at you like you were a math problem. “Back away from the mirror. You’re too close. I can’t help you if I’m staring up your nostrils.”

You scooted back on your fuzzy rug and sighed dramatically. “I already forgot everything you taught me. This brush is the same size as the last one. Why are there fifty of them? Why do they all look like they could paint miniature horses?”

Amy ignored your spiral. “Show me what you’ve done so far.”

You held up the brush. Then the palette. Then your own barely-attempted eyelid, which currently looked like it had survived a light dust storm.

Amy winced. “Okay. First of all—that’s a blending brush, not a shovel. Stop packing on the pigment like you’re laying asphalt.”

You dropped the brush. “I’m panicking. I forgot the order of everything. Is it brown first? Then black? Where’s the ‘seductress but approachable’ shade?”

Amy flipped a page in a literal notebook and started going down a checklist like she was prepping you for a space launch. You could see the title written in all caps: OPERATION SMOKEY HOT BITCH.

“Okay. You have the dress?”

“Hanging on the door.”

“Earrings?”

“In a dish. Next to my sanity.”

“Perfume?”

“Already spritzed. I smell like danger and debt.”

“Backup heels in your bag in case you die in the stilettos?”

You blinked. “Wait, you packed me backup heels?”

“I’m not an amateur,” she replied, flipping another page. “Okay. Hair—you curled it this morning, right?”

“Yes. But it’s slowly turning into a soft wave of disappointment.”

“We’ll refresh with spray in a minute. Focus. Now—eyeshadow. Grab the warm brown shade we used yesterday. Light hand. Light. You’re not smearing Nutella on toast.”

You followed her instructions, holding your breath like you were disarming a bomb.

“There,” she said finally, nodding. “Now darken the outer corners. Just a smidge. And blend like your life depends on it. If I see one hard edge, I’m revoking your mascara privileges.”

You swirled and blended, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. “How do you make this look so easy?”

“Because I’ve done this a hundred times. Also because I have no kids and a supportive husband and an emotional support Starbucks within walking distance. You? You’re in the trenches.”

You laughed, then paused to look at yourself.

It was… not bad. Honestly? It was almost the same as last night. Maybe a little less “editorial photoshoot,” a little more “sexy villainess who gets a redemption arc,” but still.

Amy was nodding. “Good. Add eyeliner. Lashes. But no crying, or I swear to God I will teleport to your house and reapply it myself.”

You applied the mascara with surgical precision. “Are we good?”

She squinted again. “Hold up the clutch.”

You held it.

“Okay. Lipstick?”

“Same berry one. It’s already in my bag.”

“Do not put it on until after you drink water. Hydration is important, but blotting is key.”

You saluted her with your water bottle. “Thank you, General Beauty.”

Amy softened then. Smiled at you through the screen like a proud stage mom. “You’re going to kill him, you know.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not like that.”

“Mmmhmm,” she said, turning the page again. “Final checklist item: emotional damage immunity.”

“…What?”

“In case he says something like ‘you look… different’ or—worse—‘cool dress.’ We are not accepting bare minimum male commentary tonight.”

You snorted. “You really made a whole checklist?”

“I printed copies,” she said proudly. “Trish laminated hers.”

You couldn’t stop smiling. “Thank you, I love you. You know that, right?”

“I do. And you look like a goddess. Now go prove it.”

You nodded, nerves dancing in your stomach, adrenaline humming beneath your skin. 

× × × × 

You opened the door and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Not because of your own nerves. Not because you were internally cataloging whether your lipstick would survive a full meal. Not even because you were wearing heels that felt like baby deer training stilts.

No, you forgot how to breathe because Bucky Barnes was standing at your door.

Back turned, suit tailored within an inch of its life, head ducked as he spoke low into his phone. The kind of low that made your stomach swoop like a rollercoaster. His hand was in his pocket, jaw tight in concentration, voice steady—but there was the hint of a smile. Like whoever was on the other end had said something funny and he was too cool to admit it.

You were not okay.

He hadn’t even seen you yet, and you already felt like a defibrillator had been applied directly to your entire central nervous system.

You cleared your throat. “Bucky.”

And then—

He turned.

Slowly.

Like it happened in cinematic time.

Like God itself hit the slow-mo button just for you.

And his reaction?

Immediate.

His brows twitched. The phone slipped just slightly from his ear.

You watched the way his gaze swept over you—once, twice, like he couldn’t believe you were real. And then, as if his brain could no longer support basic functions, he hung up on whoever he’d been talking to. No goodbye. No explanation. Just thumb to screen and click.

And then—nothing.

He just stared.

Which was both flattering and also a little awkward, because now you were just standing there on your welcome mat, heart jackhammering in your chest, hoping your deodorant had done its job.

“I—uh.” He cleared his throat. “Hi.”

Hi?

He said hi?

You blinked. “Hey.”

He ran a hand down the back of his neck, clearly scrambling for something better. “Sorry. You just—you look…”

And then he trailed off. Like the word he wanted didn’t exist yet. Like Webster’s Dictionary needed to invent something new, something stronger than stunning or breathtaking or every thought I’ve ever had since puberty is now obsolete because you just broke my brain.

You could see it all written across his face.

Like he had genuinely believed he was prepared.

But now that he was seeing you in that black satin dress—with your hair curled and makeup done and your lips in that warm berry shade—he looked completely, utterly unprepared.

And weirdly? A little helpless about it.

“You look…” he tried again, but gave up and shook his head, smiling like someone who just lost a bet with God. “I didn’t know you could look more beautiful. I already thought…”

He stopped, eyes dipping briefly—neckline, waistline, back to your eyes.

“I’ve never seen you in a dress,” he said, quieter this time. “You’re usually in flats and office attire.”

You arched a brow. “So you do notice what I wear.”

He gave a short, breathless laugh and shook his head. “I notice everything about you.”

That?

Should not have hit as hard as it did.

You suddenly had to remember how legs worked, because standing under Bucky Barnes’ open, reverent gaze was starting to feel like being dipped in molten chocolate and rolled in praise kink.

“Well,” you managed, smoothing your hands over your dress like it was no big deal. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

And he did. He really, really did.

The dark suit hugged him in all the right places—broad shoulders, tapered waist, sleeves that hinted at forearms with enough power to bend physics. His hair was slicked back but still soft-looking, and the shadow of stubble on his jaw gave him just enough menace to make your knees whisper threatening things to your dignity.

He stepped closer, eyes still on yours. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you said, locking the door behind you with fingers that maybe, possibly trembled just a little.

And when he held out his arm for you to take—

Like a freaking gentleman—

You slid your hand into the crook of his elbow, his warmth seeping through the fabric like a secret, and thought:

Oh my gosh I wanna squeeze his biceps.

× × × × 

You stood just outside the entrance.

A velvet rope. Soft lighting. Gentle orchestral music drifting from inside like the event was scored by a live soundtrack.

Your heart? Doing its own version of a drumline.

Bucky’s suit caught the ambient glow of the chandelier light above, and for a brief second, he looked like he belonged in a perfume ad. Or maybe a political thriller. Or maybe the private collection of a very specific Pinterest board you definitely didn’t have bookmarked under “Hot Men in Suits Being Inexplicably Affectionate.”

You fiddled with the tiny clasp on your clutch, not because it needed adjusting but because you needed something to do with your hands.

“Do you have any gum?” you asked.

Bucky’s gaze slid to yours, half-lidded and very not helpful to your nervous system. “No. Why? Did you need fresh breath for something?”

And then—that smile.

The one that curled into a wolvish one. The one that said, I know things about you, even if you don’t want to admit them out loud.

God, he was going to be the death of your ovaries.

“I chew it when I’m nervous. Or to help me concentrate,” you said, voice slightly tight as you looked away and pretended the potted plant beside the doorway was suddenly the most interesting thing on Earth. “Some of my best work has been done while chewing gum.”

“Sorry,” he murmured. “No gum tonight.”

He glanced toward the entrance.

Then back at you.

“Shall we?”

You inhaled slowly. “Okay.”

You nodded, your hand starting to reach for your clutch again—except he moved first.

Without hesitation, Bucky reached down and slid his fingers into yours.

You reacted like you’d just grabbed a live wire—jerking your hand back so fast you smacked yourself right in the mouth.

“OW.”

His eyes widened. “Did you just…?”

You covered your mouth with both hands, your lip already throbbing. “That really just happened.”

He exhaled sharply, somewhere between disbelief and long-suffering patience. “Are you going to keep jumping every time I touch you? It’s just me.”

That’s exactly the problem, it’s you. 

“No—I know,” you mumbled behind your hand.

“And now you’re injuring yourself.”

“I know.”

His expression softened a fraction. Just enough to make your lungs consider quitting. “You okay?”

You dropped your hands and nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, shaking his head. “I just—” he hesitated, searching your face. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to hold your hand.”

You looked at him.

And in that second, the noise in your brain—every insecurity, every mental spiral—just quieted.

“I’ll give you a warning next time,” he said with a small smile.

You let out a shaky laugh. “That would be great, thanks.”

And then he held out his hand again—deliberate, open, offering.

You hesitated for half a breath.

And then took it.

His fingers laced with yours like he’d done it a hundred times. Like he’d been waiting to. And then he gave your hand the tiniest squeeze.

The kind that said: I’ve got you.

You walked through the entrance like that. Side by side. Hand in hand.

A few people noticed you. Just a glance here, a flick of the eyes there. Some curious. Some surprised. A woman in emerald whispered something behind her flute of champagne. A man near the bar paused his conversation mid-sentence. It was more subtle—just that ripple of intrigue you get when someone walks in with the kind of quiet confidence that makes people wonder what the story is.

And more specifically—they noticed you with him.

And Bucky? He didn’t shrink from it.

If anything, he straightened a little more. His shoulders pulled back, posture tall, presence grounded. He wanted to be seen with you.

There was no awkward fidgeting. No looking around like he didn’t belong. No quick hand drops like some guys did when they got nervous about what others might think.

Bucky Barnes was standing beside you like he’d just won something. Like he’d earned something.

And then he looked at you.

That look.

You’d seen that look before. It was the same look you’d seen on men watching their teams win the Super Bowl. That deeply satisfied, slightly stunned pride. Like he couldn’t believe he got to be the one standing beside you.

Except it wasn’t about a game.

It was about you.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe he got to bring you here. Like someone had handed him the crown jewel and said go ahead, show her off. Like every other man in the room was going to have to deal with the fact that he was the one with you on his arm.

You caught a few stares.

You leaned in and whispered, “Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” Bucky said, eyes still on you. “You just look so damn good.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you had to look away before you did something idiotic like giggle.

“Shut up,” you muttered, nudging him with your elbow.

He only smiled wider, not even pretending to hide how smug he was. And you got the distinct impression he wasn’t going to shut up at all. Probably ever.

Then his gaze flicked over your shoulder—scanning, focused—and you could see the shift in his expression as soon as he spotted someone.

“There he is,” Bucky said under his breath. “C’mon. I want you to meet my friends.”

You blinked, a little caught off guard. “You do?”

He gave your hand another squeeze. “Yeah. I really do.”

You let him lead you across the room, weaving through soft pockets of conversation and the scent of champagne and expensive cologne. Up ahead was a group of people clustered around a tall, broad-shouldered man with a full beard and an even fuller laugh. The man—who you’d later learn was Alexei—was in the middle of some wild story, hands gesturing, accent thick and unapologetic.

Steve stood nearby, glass in hand, grinning at whatever Alexei was saying.

But then he looked up.

Saw Bucky.

And then—he saw you.

That was when his grin turned knowing.

“There he is,” Steve called out over the noise, lifting his glass a little. “And I see you brought someone special?”

The entire group turned their attention.

More like… interest. Like they’d all been waiting for this moment without even realizing it.

Your hand was still in Bucky’s, but suddenly you were very aware of the warmth of it. Of the fact that this wasn’t just a night out anymore.

When you and Bucky reached the group, Steve stepped forward without hesitation and offered you a firm handshake.

“Steve,” he said, still smiling. “So you’re the girl who had this guy calling me in the middle of the night.”

Your eyebrows lifted as you looked up at Bucky. “You did what?”

Bucky groaned. “Steve—man—”

Too late.

Steve just chuckled. “Yeah, like a week or two ago. Something about ‘I need an opinion, but if you laugh I’ll block your number forever.’”

You blinked. “What was the opinion?”

Bucky had already released your hand and was mock-wrestling Steve by the lapels, swatting him on the shoulder as if that would undo the betrayal.

Steve didn’t even flinch. “He made me rate your smile from a photo.”

“Oh my God,” you said, laughing and burying your face in your free hand. “What did you give me?”

Steve winked. “Twelve out of ten.”

“I hate both of you,” Bucky grumbled.

“And yet here you are,” Steve said, clapping him on the back.

Then Bucky straightened and gestured toward the rest of the group. “Alright, alright. Before Steve says anything else that makes me die inside—let me introduce everyone.”

He turned to you, still grinning like an idiot, then pointed as he went around the group.

“This is Sam,” he said, nodding toward a sharply dressed man with a killer smile and an energy that said I could charm your entire family without trying. 

Sam gave you a small salute and said, “Respect for pulling him out of the house. We thought he was going feral.”

“Natasha,” Bucky continued. She wore red, carried a glass of white wine, and raised one brow like she could read your soul in five seconds flat.

“Yelena,” Bucky added, motioning to the blonde beside her, whose smirk was almost identical but with an extra dose of mischief. 

“Hi,” she said, her voice dry. “He never brings anyone.”

“That’s Alexei,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the large man still chuckling into his drink. “He thinks he’s funny.”

“I am funny,” Alexei replied with a dramatic bow in your direction. “You just don’t have taste.”

Bucky ignored that. “This is Bob,” he said, pointing at the tall, quiet guy beside Alexei, who raised a hand in greeting and gave a polite smile.

“John,” Bucky added next—square-jawed, clearly trying to play it cool—and then, “Ava,” who stood between John and Yelena, wearing a silky green dress and eyes that tracked everything.

You gave each of them a polite smile, trying to lock in names and faces like you weren’t internally panicking about your heel strap digging into your foot.

"So, pretty girl," he said, voice booming with a thick Russian accent. “What you do? Hm? How you meet… uh…” he motioned vaguely at Bucky, “…Barnes?”

How do you explain that you first saw Bucky naked?

Like hello, SergeantBarnes on Pornhub, traumatized your search history forever naked.

You swallowed thickly, scrambling for a plausible answer that didn’t involve the words “stepbrother stuck under the sink.”

“Oh, uh… we live on the same floor,” you said quickly, voice pitching two octaves higher than usual. “Same apartment building.”

There was a beat.

And then—

“Aha,” Alexei grinned. “So he seduce you in hallway, yes?”

You let out a sheepish chuckle. “Uh… not exactly.”

“Oh, this is rich,” Sam laughed, clapping his hands together once. “You mean to tell me Barnes actually spoke to a woman in an elevator? I thought he only made eye contact with the floor.”

“I’m not anti-social,” Bucky scoffed, affronted.

“I bet he offered to help carry her groceries,” Yelena added with a sly grin.

Bucky snorted, clearly remembering something. “Actually… yeah.”

You whipped your head toward him. “That was not my grocery bag.”

“Aww,” Ava cooed, all faux sweetness. “He’s such a gentleman.”

Bucky rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes flicking between everyone, clearly trying to stay calm while mentally organizing their names in alphabetical order for future murder plans.

“Also,” Natasha said, her smile all teeth and glass-cutting precision, “you didn’t tell us she was this gorgeous. You undersold it.”

“Oh, he definitely did,” Yelena smirked. “He made her sound cute. This? This is not cute. This is problematic.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Bucky muttered—but the red dusting his ears betrayed him.

“Okay,” Bucky said dryly, crossing his arms, “let’s just go around the circle and list how many of you are single. Then we can revisit my ‘flirting problem.’”

“Oooh,” Sam said, clutching his chest. “He brought stats. I’m hurt.”

“I’m not single,” John offered, clearly lying.

“Bob’s a poet who refuses to ask for anyone’s number,” Bucky added helpfully.

Bob blinked slowly. “I don’t believe in digital intimacy.”

“There it is,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

Alexei shook his head and lifted his glass. “Still. Barnes not usually this… how you say… social.”

“That’s because none of you know how to shut up long enough to let me talk,” Bucky deadpanned.

Steve finally stepped in, grinning. “Hey—I’m just glad you finally took my advice and brought her flowers at work.”

You looked at Steve, then at Bucky. “Wait—him showing up with flowers every day for a week? That was your idea?”

“Yeah. . . But—” Steve blinked. “He came every day for a week?”

“What?” Your brows knit together. You looked back at Bucky.

Bucky stayed very quiet.

Sam lost it. “Ohhh. So that’s where you were all week. I thought you were secretly working a second job.”

Yelena looked absolutely delighted. “You took a sabbatical for love. I’m gonna cry.”

“I didn’t take a sabbatical,” Bucky muttered.

“You did,” Ava said.

“Barnes,” the guy said butting in, clearly someone important based on the tone alone. “Got a minute?”

Bucky straightened subtly, the shift in his body language almost imperceptible unless you were watching—which, of course, you were. He looked at you first.

His thumb rubbed against the side of your hand. “I’ll be right back,” he said quietly. “You gonna be okay?”

Your mouth opened to say yes, automatically. But something about the way his eyes searched your face made you pause.

Were you okay?

You didn’t really want to be left alone with seven people you just met. Not when every single one of them had seen through you in five seconds flat and teased Bucky with the skill of professional roasters. Not to mention your feet already hurt, you were positive you’d sweated off your setting spray, and the last thing you wanted was to stand here trying to remember whether Bob was the one who didn’t believe in digital intimacy or if that was John.

Still, you nodded.

Because he had to go. And because you weren’t about to be that clingy girl at a formal event.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, managing a small smile. “Go. I’ll be okay.”

Ava chimed in before he could say anything else. “Don’t worry, lover boy,” she said with a teasing grin, “we’ll keep an eye on her.”

She winked at you, slow and dramatic.

You blinked, equal parts entertained and terrified.

Bucky gave her a long, warning look.

Then glanced at you one last time—longer this time. Like he wasn’t quite ready to go. Like if the executive hadn’t called, he might’ve just stayed glued to your side the entire night. His thumb gave one last affectionate brush against yours before he let go and stepped away.

You watched him cross the room, shoulders squared, confidence back in full force as he approached the man in the suit. Just like that, he shifted into someone important. Someone focused. Professional.

And then it was just you.

And seven pairs of eyes staring at you like you were the opening act of a stand-up show they weren’t sure how to categorize yet.

You turned back toward them slowly, giving your best polite smile.

Steve cleared his throat and offered a charming, if not slightly mischievous, smile. “So… are you two official?”

You blinked. “Oh. No. I’m just his date tonight.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes slightly, the corner of her lip curling up. “Why? He looks like he’s into you. Like, genuinely into you. He hasn’t asked yet?”

You let out a small, sheepish laugh, suddenly hyperaware of how all their faces were now angled toward you with laser-focused interest. “It’s… complicated.”

“Ah,” John said, swirling his drink. “That usually means she wants us not to interrogate her about Bucky.”

“Oh, I’m still going to,” Natasha said breezily. “I just wanted to gauge her starting defenses first.”

Ava leaned in slightly. “Define ‘complicated.’ Like ex drama? Secret long-distance boyfriend? Weird emotional standoff?”

“Or,” Sam cut in, grinning, “maybe she’s just trying to protect herself. Barnes can be… intense.”

You opened your mouth to respond, then immediately closed it, because how were you supposed to explain that your first impression of him came with 4K resolution, suspicious camera angles, and way too much eye contact for a man who wasn’t looking at you in person?

“It’s just a little new,” you said carefully. “And unexpected.”

Steve nodded, expression gentler now. “Unexpected, sure. But he’s been different lately. Softer.”

“Obnoxiously softer,” Yelena added. “He helped an old woman cross the street last week and didn’t even glare after. I thought he was sick.”

“He made lasagna for Bob,” Natasha pointed out.

“And I didn’t ask him to, I just complimented his lunch. . . Once,” Bob added, deadpan.

“Yep,” Ava said, sipping her drink. “Lover boy mode: activated.”

“I swear he used to hiss when people mentioned feelings,” Sam added, eyes crinkling.

“He once threatened to fire me for putting a heart emoji in our group chat,” Yelena said.

You laughed, cheeks warm. “He didn’t actually—”

“Oh, he did,” John confirmed. “But then he panicked and re-added her twenty minutes later. Classic Barnes move. Grumpy, then guilty.”

There was a pause.

Then Steve smiled at you again, gentler this time. “It’s nice to see him like this. Happy.”

The conversation shifted easily once the spotlight moved off you. The group began trading stories about their workplace shenanigans—inside jokes, chaotic meetings, and a surprisingly heated debate about who had really broken the espresso machine in the break room last year.

You laughed when Alexei mimed the sound it made before sputtering its last breath, and Sam insisted it wasn’t him (“I don’t even drink office kitchen coffee, I’m bougie”), while Yelena swore she saw him pressing every single button like he was trying to hack into NASA.

The teasing, the banter—it was a rhythm they all clearly knew, one you didn’t quite belong to, but were being carefully folded into. Bit by bit, your shoulders loosened. You even caught yourself smiling at Natasha’s dry, one-liner comebacks.

It wasn't hard to like them. They were smart, quick, loyal in the way people only were when they'd seen each other at their worst and still decided to stick around. They bickered like siblings, interrupted each other constantly, and somehow finished each other's stories even when they contradicted the facts.

Still... every few minutes, your eyes drifted toward the crowd.

Scanning.

Searching.

Looking for him.

You hadn't meant to. You hadn't even realized you were doing it at first. But Bucky had been gone for a while now, and the part of you that had hesitated when he let go of your hand was starting to stir again.

You weren't uncomfortable.

Not exactly.

But the truth was-you just felt better when he was around.

Steve must have noticed, because his voice cut through the din—low, kind, threading through the laughter and clinking glasses like a safety line.

“Hey,” he murmured, leaning in just slightly, his breath brushing against your ear, “You okay?”

His hand hovered near the small of your back—not touching, but close enough that you felt the warmth of it there, like an unspoken offer of comfort.

You blinked, caught off guard by his quiet presence.

Then smiled. Just a little. “Yeah. Just… wondering where Bucky wandered off to.”

Steve’s mouth quirked, the corners of his lips tilting up in amusement. “Probably still stuck talking about something boring.”

He paused. “You want me to go check?”

You shook your head, brushing a hand down your dress like it was no big deal. “No—it’s fine. I’m good.”

You were still smiling faintly when Steve leaned back again, his hand dropping away as subtly as it had hovered. He didn’t push, didn’t press—just gave you space to exhale.

“You let me know if you change your mind,” he said, then tipped his head toward the group with a grin. “I’m pretty good at rescue missions.”

You laughed softly, the sound surprising even yourself. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You found yourself scanning the room again, heart skipping every time you thought you caught a glimpse of his broad shoulders through the crowd.

And then—there he was.

Coming back toward you through the sea of sequined dresses and sharp suits. Jacket unbuttoned now, hand tucked casually in his pocket. He looked lighter, freer, but focused—all business until his eyes landed on you.

And just like that—his whole expression shifted.

Because you were already looking for him.

Your gaze lifted across the crowd, found his, and stayed there.

You couldn’t help it—you smiled.

And Bucky? He froze for half a second, like the air had been knocked out of him, before his own mouth curved. Not the cocky grin you’d seen him use when he wanted to win an argument. Not the smirk he used when he was trying to charm his way past your defenses.

No—this smile was different. Softer. The kind of smile a man wore when he’d just spotted his favorite person in the room.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t barrel through. But his eyes never left yours—not once—as he crossed the space back to you.

And when he finally reached the group, he slid back into his place beside you so naturally it was as if he’d never left. His arm brushed yours, deliberately, and the corner of his mouth tipped even higher like he was relieved.

“Hey,” you said softly, a little breathless. “You were gone for a while.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes lingering on your face. “But I’m here now.”

“Shall I make it up to you?” he asked, his voice a low hum, lips curving like he already had the plan.

Your brow arched. “Make what up to me?”

“For leaving you here with this circus.” His eyes flicked once toward the group, then back to you, all warmth. “How about a dance?”

Your stomach flipped. A dance. With him.

You shook your head quickly, heat rising in your cheeks. “Oh, no. I’d love to, but I don’t dance.”

Bucky tilted his head, studying you like he could see past the excuse.

“I mean it,” you rushed on, lowering your voice. “I’ve got two left feet. It’d be a crime against rhythm. You’d regret it.”

The corner of his mouth tugged higher, slow and knowing, like he didn’t buy a single word.

“Doll,” he murmured, leaning just slightly closer, “something tells me you’d be worth tripping over.”

You laughed softly, caught between shyness and the sudden, terrifying desire to say yes.

And still, he watched you with that look—that soft, patient certainty—that maybe, eventually, you would.

And then, right there, he held out his hand.

Finally, you were the girl being asked to dance—the thing that had lived in your daydreams while you hummed along to radio ballads in your kitchen. And it did funny things to your stomach.

Against your better judgment, you took his hand.

Bucky’s smile deepened, and he led you onto the dance floor. The opening chords of Perfect by Ed Sheeran began to play, and the timing was so disgustingly cinematic you almost rolled your eyes.

He pulled you gently into his embrace, his right hand finding your waist, steady and warm. You looped your arms around his still-unfairly-sexy neck, trying not to hyperventilate at the closeness. Then he tugged your right hand down, twined his fingers through yours, and guided them to rest low between you. His left hand wrapped firmly around yours, and your breath caught.

“I know the last time you danced was probably at school,” he teased, leaning close enough that his breath tickled your ear, “but you’re not in seventh grade.”

You scoffed, cheeks burning. “What makes you think I even went? I told you—I don’t dance.”

A pause. Then a quiet sigh of surrender. “Okay, fine.”

There was no point in arguing—not when his grip on you made resistance impossible. Still, you clung to a shred of stubbornness. Because despite the way he’d assured you that you were safe in his arms, you felt too exposed. Too vulnerable.

But then he was swaying you to the music, slowly, gently, and it did feel a little like a seventh-grade dance. Only this was the adult version—with a very hot man who had his hand on your waist and his eyes never leaving your face, even though there were plenty of beautiful women he could have been staring at instead.

You willed your hands not to sweat. It wasn’t going well. His heat seeped through your dress, tingling through your body until it felt like even your cells were leaning toward him.

You needed a distraction. “Did you get in trouble with your boss?”

He chuckled low. “No. It’s about a promotion.”

Your brows lifted. “Oh really? Wow. Does that mean you’ll focus on this job more?”

It felt oddly surreal to be having that conversation in the middle of such closeness.

His fingers flexed against your waist. The smallest gesture, but it sent a burning ripple outward, every nerve on alert. He smiled down at you, almost like he wanted to say something—then didn’t.

“By your silence, I guess not.”

He laughed, hand tightening around yours, grounding you.

“What’s so funny?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “I told you—I can’t quit that easily.”

You squinted at him. “You’re not love-bombing me so I’ll agree to do a film with you, are you?”

Instead of answering, he spun you into a turn. You misjudged the distance and stumbled straight into his chest.

Firm, solid, warm.

For a beat, you didn’t move. Engulfed in electric flames, pressed against him, your entire body humming at the contact. His voice dropped low. “Of course not. I told you—I won’t force you to do anything.”

That only made things worse, your lungs refusing to remember how to work. You pulled back a step, discreetly sucking in air, but Bucky guided you right back into position, his hand steady as ever at your waist.

“You’re very suspicious, you—”

“Hang on.” His gaze flicked to your cheek. “You’ve got an eyelash.”

You held your breath as his fingers lifted, brushing your skin so lightly it felt like a spark had detonated under your skin. He plucked the eyelash, then held it up in front of your lips.

“Make a wish,” he said softly.

You were afraid to. Afraid because you knew what you wanted to wish for—and it had nothing to do with promotions or jobs. It was him.

Still, you closed your eyes, blew gently, resisting the wild, reckless urge to kiss the tip of his finger while it hovered so close to your mouth.

“So,” he murmured as he tucked the eyelash away, hand finding your waist again, “seems like we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

But his voice sounded a little off. Strained.

And then he stopped moving.

The world narrowed to the circle of his arms holding you in place. One hand resting at your waist, the other lifting to tuck your hair carefully behind your ear. His fingers lingered, brushing lightly over the outer shell before drifting down the slope of your neck, across your shoulder, trailing fire down your arm until both hands settled at your waist again.

Everywhere he touched burned.

And then, his voice quiet, husky, he asked, “What’d you wish for?”

You swallowed hard, already a pile of putty in his arms, the fire from his hands lingering on your skin like they’d branded you.

“If I tell you,” you whispered, breath shaky, “it won’t come true.”

“Of course,” he murmured, voice low and mesmerizing, rough and exciting all at once. “How could I forget?”

And while he spoke, he was pulling you closer. Closer until you were pressed fully against him, your body aligning with his in a way that made coherent thought impossible.

Then—God help you—he leaned his head down, lips grazing just shy of your ear, and in that gravel-and-silk voice, he quietly sang along with the song filling the room:

When I saw you in that dress, lookin’ so beautiful, I don’t deserve this… darling, you look perfect tonight.

The words tickled your ear, and you shivered, your entire body lighting up like struck matches.

You knew you should still have your defenses up. You knew you’d sworn to yourself that you were immune to him. But apparently your immune system had the strength of wet tissue paper, because you were ready to drag him to his bedroom like a woman possessed.

And worse? It wasn’t just the heat of his body or the magnetism of his touch that had you undone. It was that part of you—stupid, fragile, hopeful—that wanted this to be real. Wanted the man who introduced you to his friends tonight, who smiled at you like you were the only person in the room, to be genuine about all of it.

Your chest rose and fell too fast, every breath uneven. Everything was too tight—your throat, your lungs, your very skin—but at the same time, it all felt like it was about to burst. You caught it then: the faint hitch in his chest, the way he was breathing harder, too.

Would you call this a typical first date? Absolutely not. But then again, nothing about him was typical.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked suddenly, pressing his fingers into your back. Not harsh—just firm, grounding. Enough to send another wave of shivers racing down your spine.

And the real problem?

You were dangerously close to telling him the truth.

You looked at him.

And then looked away—because saying out loud what you were really thinking about? That was way too dangerous.

“I have a theory,” he said, voice low and deep, each word sliding across your skin like a shiver.

More than anything, you wanted to hear it.

“Uh-huh,” you managed.

His mouth curved in that way that spelled trouble. “…I think you want to be kissed.”

Another slam to your nervous system.

“Say I’m right,” he added boldly.

You scoffed, half a laugh and half a gasp. “Then… what do we do about it?”

Your head told you to stop. But your ovaries? They were making a very convincing counterargument.

“We should test my theory, don’t you think?”

“Here?”

“Not here.” His voice dropped, impossibly lower. And really—why, when the universe was handing out brains, charm, and abs, did it also decide Bucky deserved the world’s sexiest voice?

This was your chance. To tell him no. That you couldn’t do this. That it would be a mistake because you were scared.

Scared because some part of you knew that if Bucky Barnes broke your heart… it might never heal right.

“Where?” you whispered, breathless.

His eyes lit up. “Follow me.”

He took your hand and led you off the dance floor, threading through the ballroom and into a quieter hallway. He tugged on a couple of doors until one opened. A darkened conference room, long tables and empty office chairs.

He closed the door softly behind you.

And stood too close.

Not technically too close—if you were about to kiss, this was exactly the right distance. But for your peace of mind? Way, way too close.

This had to be meaningless. He couldn’t possibly know how badly you wanted him to kiss you. How many times you’d daydreamed about it.

You tried—pathetically—to push the thought away.

But he was right there.

Not touching. Just radiating that masculine warmth, making your skin ache with the phantom feel of him. He reached down, took your hand, and pressed a soft, hot kiss against your knuckles.

You had to press your other hand against his chest just to stay vertical, leaning into his strength while your brain threatened to shut off entirely.

“Y/n,” he murmured, his lips brushing over your skin, “the only reason we should be kissing is because you want to.”

“I do.” The words flew out before you could stop them, honest and raw. Your whole body ached with the weight of it. “For science,” you added quickly, because you refused to sound completely pathetic.

“For science,” he repeated, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Then he let go of your hand and cupped your face with both of his instead.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Some tiny part of your brain whispered again to run, to not let this happen. But the rest of you—the entire rest of you—was begging for it.

When your blood finally went back to its rightful places, you would regret this. Probably. But right now?

Right now the only thing you cared about was his mouth on yours.

“So many things to research…” he mused, his voice a sinful murmur as he dipped his head closer. “For science, of course.”

Your breath caught. If he didn’t kiss you soon, you were going to pass out.

“What does it taste like?” His lips hovered over yours, brushing but not pressing. “Strawberry? Cherry?” He shifted his head slightly, teasing. “Will it end up all over my lips?”

The suspense was torture. Sweet, thrilling, maddening torture. You looped your arms around his neck, clasping your hands behind him like you could hold him there forever.

He was teasing you—drawing it out.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

Every nerve in your body vibrated, the air between you charged like lightning about to strike.

So you gave him what he wanted. What you wanted.

The truth.

“I want you to kiss me, Bucky.”

tags: @bohoooitsme @barnescamboy @strangefunthornqueen @mayusenpai666 @seven0714

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She looked different from how he remembered her but she was still the most gorgeous person he had ever laid eyes on. At that moment he remembered why he fell in love with her in the first place, he was still very in love with her. But then all his drunken thoughts flooded back into his mind so he turned his focus back on his drink and drank it in one go before ordering a new one.

Y/n didn’t know why but she was in desperate need of a drink, she wasn’t someone who drank often and definitely never more than a few drinks. But the day had been dragging her down. After her panic reaction from the day before seeing Steve, she kept herself in a higher state of alert. But the next day it affected her work day too and the fact that her workload increased immensely hadn’t helped either. But luckily, a coworker had joined in to help her with the monstrosity of an assignment. 

After the long day at work, she needed to let off some steam and this pub she was about to enter was the same one she used to go to when she’d sneak out of her parent's house when she was younger. It had a feeling of nostalgia around it and just seeing it brought back fond memories.

But when she pushed the door open and walked in she instantly regretted her decision. Bucky Barnes was sitting at the pub’s bar just a few feet in front of her. Panic soared through her and all she wanted to do was run, she wasn’t ready for a confrontation. It seemed like he hadn’t noticed her walking in so she took a deep breath to calm herself and kept walking into the pub straight to the back in the hopes she wouldn’t be noticed. 

When she sat down and had her first drink she couldn’t stop herself from staring at Bucky from the corner of her eye. He still looked handsome, maybe even more handsome than she remembered. But she did notice the darker circles under his eyes, there was a somber aura surrounding him. She wondered what had happened to him after she left. But one thing clearly hadn’t changed, he was still a member of the MC, the kut on his back staring back at her.

Unable to resist the pull, Bucky got up from his seat, looked around the room and sure enough he found Y/N sitting in the back. He approached her, the alcohol fueling his courage and clouding his judgment. When he stood there before the table she was sitting at, his voice tinged with bitterness and hurt. 

"You're here," he said, his words somehow laced with both relief and resentment. As soon as the words left his lips he knew that wasn’t the way he wanted to come over but alcohol was a bitch. He wanted nothing more than to have a civil conversation with her but his mind was working against him.

Y/N met his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest fearing the worst. For the first time, she was actually scared of the man she grew up with and loved for so long. 

"I'm here," she replied, trying to sound casual. She hoped that her wavering voice didn't betray the anxiety she felt. "But I didn't plan on running into you." 

The air between them crackled with unresolved tension, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavily in the space. Both wounded souls yearned to reach out, but the walls of pride and hurt held them back.

Bucky couldn't ignore the hurt that simmered beneath the surface. "You disappeared without a word, Y/N. You left." he spat out.

Y/N's eyes hardened, mirroring the pain she felt. "I left because I had to, Bucky. It wasn't an easy decision."

Bucky scoffed, a bitter, derisive laugh escaping him. "So you just decided to leave without even telling me? It's like you never cared about us."

"I cared, Bucky." she glared up at him, eyes watering. "I care. But it was too complicated. You wouldn't understand." Bucky's jaw clenched, the alcohol fueling his temper. "And you really think leaving was the best solution? Just running away? Like a coward?" he said, his voice cutting across the pub which had now gone silent. 

People at their tables glanced at the duo out of the corner of their eyes, trying not to seem too obvious that they were listening in.

Y/N's voice wavered, glancing around the dim pub. Her heart was torn between the love she still felt for him and the pain of their separation. 

"I didn't know what else to do. I needed time to sort things out." She lied in a whisper. She wasn’t ready to tell him what his father told her, afraid that he wouldn’t believe her or that his father was right that Bucky never had truly loved her.

The words hung heavily in the air, a painful admission that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. The hurt between them deepened as they both lashed out in frustration and fear.

"You think leaving was the best thing for us?" Bucky's voice grew louder, his emotions bubbling to the surface. A chair creaked in the distance as someone shifted in their seat. "You didn't even give us a chance to talk!"

"And what would we have talked about, Bucky?" Y/N retorted, her voice breaking. "Our lives were heading in different directions. We were never meant to be."

Bucky's eyes darkened, his anger simmering. "Don't you dare say that," he whispered, almost pleading. "We had something real, something special."

Those words made Y/N chuckle. A dry, mirthless chuckle. At that point she just gave in to all those fears and negative thoughts she had. 

“Fuck! Like you care, Bucky. You never cared, not about me or anything else! You’re just a good actor taking whatever you want and then using it like a toy you can get rid of when you've had your fun!"

Bucky was stunned by her words. He leaned away from her, eyes glistening.

Was that really how she saw him? 

Instead of proving her wrong, he balled his fists in anger, if this was anybody else, they would have already been sprawled on the floor from the force of the blow he would deliver. But this was someone who owned his heart ever since they were kids.

“Sounds more like someone else, do I need to remind you that you were the one who left. Don’t you dare to put this on me Y/N.”

"You broke my heart," he said and Y/N looked away from him.

"You broke mine too," she whispered.

After that, everything else became fuzzy. Y/N vaguely remembered them arguing over drinks until even she had drank more than she ever had done. They both said things they didn’t mean but couldn’t take back. The next thing she knew, the owner of the pub had kicked them both out due to their argument starting to get too heated and too loud and disturbing other patrons.

Once on the curb Bucky just started walking without even looking at her, it was only when he was almost at the corner of the street that he called out to her.

“Are you coming or what?” He slurred out, the alcohol affecting his speech.

She didn’t know why but she did as he asked and followed him to wherever he was going. She just hoped that it wasn’t the MC’s clubhouse. Cause she knew if they went there things wouldn’t end well for her. But even in her drunken state and after their fight she still trusted him. 

They walked in complete silence beside each other and for a little bit, it almost felt like old times. Their hands were almost touching, that’s how close they were walking. But the atmosphere around them was still filled with the aftermath of their fight, anger, hurt... 

Almost every emotion went through her. 

She didn’t know how it happened but, by the time they stopped in front of a building she remembered it to be Bucky’s house, their hands had been intertwined. But that wasn’t the only thing, they were almost glued together, that was how close they were walking. To any outsider, they would look like just an average couple.

Bucky opened his front door and led her inside. A lot had changed, most of the furniture was the same as those she remembered but there wasn’t any life in it. It was clear that he wasn’t here much, dust covered most surfaces. But the thing that touched her the most was the big picture frame that was hanging on the wall above his couch. The frame was filled with pictures of Steve, Bucky, and her.  Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at it. Every emotion rose inside her. She missed those days portrayed in those pictures, they were so happy back then. At least she was. Now it was just a painful reminder of everything that had happened. Did he bring her here to torment her? Cus if he was, this was a very good start. 

“Why did you bring me here James?” she asked, her anger and sadness bleeding through her words. But before she could fire off her next question Bucky had stepped closer to her, his hands framing her face as he planted his lips on top of hers. 

At first, she was so shocked by his actions that she froze, she didn’t really know what was going on. Bucky was kissing her. She didn’t really know what she was feeling, this was something she had dreamed of for so long. But she was still feeling anger and hurt towards him. And that was where the alcohol kicked in, if she’d been sober then she’d have pushed him off her in a second, hell she would have never even walked home with him.

When she felt him pull back, probably because she wasn’t kissing him back, she pulled him back in and deepened the kiss. She might have still been angry at him but the alcohol started to cloud her judgment more and more until she just didn’t care anymore, she just wanted to live in the moment for as long it would last. Her tongue ran over his lips which he opened happily for her. His hands dropped from her face to find their place on her waist before pulling her with him, their lips and tongues still intertwined, to the couch.

 As soon as he felt the edge of the couch he let himself fall into it and pulled Y/N with him so she landed on his lap. 

With her chest pressed against his she could feel the rapid beats of his heart, the heat of his skin under her fingers. Even the soft movement of his breath against her face with the smell of alcohol. Every little detail of him she had missed so much and now she just tried to drown herself in them. It lighted her up, like she was on fire and that all just from making out. But then Bucky’s hands moved down from her waist until they were resting on the swells of her butt and softly squeezing them making her moan into his kiss. 

“You still sound so gorgeous when you moan babydoll,” he groaned before softly biting her lower lip. 

For just a second it was like there was a fuse exploding in her mind when she heard the nickname rolling over his lips. She quickly shook it off before pushing him back down against the reclining part of the couch. She pushed him down until they were laying down.

“Just shut up," she sighed. "It's clear we’re not here to talk.”

She wasn’t even done talking when she started to push his kut over his shoulders until he took it off completely, his shirt following quickly after.

‘Was his chest always this defined?’ 

She thought to herself while her fingers glided over every inch of his tattooed skin. Bucky’s eyes closed, enjoying her touch. It wasn’t long before the alcohol in his blood gave him a new confidence boost. He picked her up again just to flip them around so she was laying beneath him. 

“You’re wearing too much clothes, let’s make this even.” 

It wasn’t long before both of them were making out on the couch just in their underwear, hands wandering all over each other.

Y/n hadn’t been this turned on in years, it was like he still knew every little thing that made her tick. She could practically feel herself dripping all over Bucky’s leg that she was grinding on after he had pushed it between her legs. What added to it was the fact that she could feel Bucky’s obvious hard-on against her thigh. He was clearly aware of it as he gripped her hips and guided her movements against his leg and adding a bit more pressure by tightening the muscles in his leg, making her softly moan into his mouth. 

“Touch me, please,” Y/N softly spoke when she pulled back from their kiss.

“Never have to ask me twice, babydoll,” he said before he pulled away a bit and pulled her panties down her legs.

“Look at that, so wet for me,” he said, making Y/N gasp when he softly swiped his thumb over her folds, collecting some of her wetness before putting it in his mouth.

“Mmm still the sweetest taste, I need a better taste. Will you let me? Hm? Can I eat this pretty pussy?”

His question hadn’t even left his lips completely and she was already saying yes, begging for him to do it.

It wasn’t long before she was a moaning mess, riding his face as he was fingers deep inside her while making out with her clit. He pulled orgasm after orgasm out of her until she begged him to stop. But that little break didn’t last long before she pulled him back in for a kiss which soon ended with him deep inside of her. 

He really did fuck her brains out, there wasn’t a single thought in her mind. There was only them and pleasure in that moment, nothing else. With every thrust of his hips he took her higher and higher until she felt like she was floating, the only thing she could do was hang onto Bucky for dear life. 

Y/N's eyes fluttered open, and a searing pain in her head made her wince. She was disoriented for a moment, trying to piece together the events of the previous night. The room was unfamiliar, and her heart raced as she glanced around. Then she noticed an arm wrapped around her. Bucky was breathing steady as he slept beside her.

The memories started to flood back. They had both indulged in too much alcohol, drowning their sorrows while they had argued. In the haze of the night, they had ended up in Bucky's bed.

Y/N's thoughts raced, and a surge of panic washed over her. Did he take advantage of her? Or was he simply looking for a fleeting moment of nostalgia, reliving the past by seeking comfort in their physical connection?

Carefully, Y/N slipped out of Bucky's embrace, her movements slow and deliberate as she tried not to wake him and walked back into the living room. Her clothes were strewn on the floor, a stark reminder of the night's events.After their play time on the couch he had taken her to his bed for round two before falling asleep in each other’s arms. As she hastily dressed, the weight of her assumptions and insecurities pressed down on her.

She could hear Bucky shifting in his sleep, but Y/N didn't dare to look back. The room felt suffocating, and the idea of facing him filled her with dread. She believed she had made a mistake, that she had been foolish to drink so much and let him affect her so much that she had fallen for his charm, again. Maybe it had all just been a drunken whim for Bucky, she didn't want to be the one holding onto false hope that it could have been something more.

With one last glance at Bucky's sleeping form, Y/N quietly slipped out of the house, closing the door behind her. The cool air outside hit her like a wake-up call, and she hailed a taxi, ready to put some distance between herself and the uncertainty of the night before and back to where she had left her car.

As the taxi drove her away from Bucky's place, Y/N's heart ached with regret and doubt. But in her mind, it was better to leave now, to protect herself from the heartbreak that she thought was inevitable. She wished that she had never ran into Bucky the night before.

            Off-limits. Nothing has ever pissed James Bucky Barnes off more than the phrase off-limits. The fact that it’s you who’s been labeled off-limits only adds to the fiery rage that’s steadily growing inside of him.

            Bucky leans back in his desk chair, running his flesh hand through his hair while he goes over his options in his mind. He could just take you. He could give a few orders and have you in front of him by nightfall, though he isn’t quite sure how he feels about starting a war simply because he’s thinking with his cock rather than his head. He could have a sit-down meeting with the man he detests most in this world, the man who currently has total control over your future. He could make an offer, bargain for the right to have you to himself. No, that sounds too polite.

            The sound of a fist rapping against the heavy wooden door of his office breaks Bucky out of his thoughts.

            “You told me to come back at eight, so here I am. What did you decide?” Sam asks, shutting the door behind him after entering. He’s itching to do something, anything. His life has been hell ever since Bucky first laid eyes on you. It’s as if the entire fucking operation dropped to the bottom of the totem pole while you rose to the top. It would be great if he could bash a few heads in, fire a few rounds, and deliver you to his boss tonight so he could fuck away whatever this newfound obsession is and get back to being the cunning, ruthless mob boss he’s meant to be.

            “We’re paying my least favorite lowlife a visit.”

            Just like that, James Bucky Barnes and his entourage of over-eager gunmen are on their way to your house, to see your father.

            As you tiptoe down the mahogany stairs of your childhood home, your bare feet just barely gracing each step, you forget for a moment that you’re not a little girl anymore. You can hear the distant sound of low voices and tense discussion coming from your father’s home office near the bottom of the staircase. When you were younger, those sounds would’ve had the hair on the back of your neck standing up and you would’ve been hightailing it right back to your bedroom. You’re not so timid anymore. The man already holds your entire life in the palm of his hand, molding and shaping it however he sees fit. What’s the point in trying to abide by his rules when it’ll never get you anything other than exactly what he wants for you? So, you continue your daring trip to the kitchen, with the hem of your oversized t-shirt skimming along the skin beneath the curve of your ass and your heart set on a late-night snack.

            Bucky sits across from your father’s desk, his jaw aching due to the number of times he’s caught himself clenching his teeth together during the past hour of deliberations. As he lifts his hand to massage the sore muscle along the side of his face, he hears the sound of a wooden floorboard creaking somewhere outside of the room that he currently sits in. He shifts his gaze around the room, noting the way his own men, your father, and your father’s men all seem oblivious to the miniscule noise that came from somewhere in the house.

            “It doesn’t matter how long we sit here and go through this. My daughter is not getting married, she isn’t on the table.” Your father’s tone, though resolved and sure, doesn’t match the look in his eye. It’s a look that lets Bucky know you’re not actually off the table, he just hasn’t made the right offer yet. The words echo in his head for a moment: on the table.

Fuck. If he sits here for another second, picturing you physically on top of a damn table, he might make an unreasonable offer just to turn that fantasy into a reality. It’s what prompts Bucky to rise to his feet suddenly, reaching into the pocket of his black suit pants to retrieve his phone and act as if he’s going to make a call, maybe a call to check on things within his business to see what else he can offer the piece of shit who sits in front of him. In reality, he’s making up an excuse to get the hell out of that stuffy office and clear his mind just enough to close the deal.

“Let me make a call.” Bucky says evenly, shooting your father a steely look. Your father leans back in his desk chair, relaxing for the first time since his rival showed up on your doorstep an hour ago. When Sam and Torres make moves to follow Bucky out of the office, Bucky holds up a hand, signaling for them to stop. “Stay, I won’t be long.”

Leaving his suit jacket draped over the back of the armchair he had been sitting in, Bucky steps out of the office and guides the door to shut as quietly as possible. It’s fucked up, what he’s doing here. He knows that good and well. Offering large sums of money, offering obscene amounts of quality product, offering a damn near eternal truce in the streets…all to have a woman he barely knows. As his eyes adjust to the darkness of his enemy’s home, he casts a glance up the staircase by the office door, wondering if you’re awake up there. Are you sitting in your posh bedroom without a single worry plaguing your pretty little mind? Are you sleeping soundly as he barters with your father for the right to have you all to himself? Or are you thinking about him too, about the handful of times you’ve run into each other over the past two months?

Shaking his head to clear his mind of all thoughts of you, Bucky takes a few steps to his left and turns the corner at the bottom of the stairs, entering the kitchen soundlessly. That’s where he finds you, hidden behind the open refrigerator door as you rummage around for a snack. He sees your bare legs first, peeking out beneath the half-door. He clenches his teeth and tightens his grip on the phone in his right hand simultaneously. It fucking hurts just to look at you.

“Your father lets you walk around like that with guests in the house?” He seethes. Startled, you shove the refrigerator door shut just before dropping the container of blueberries in your hand. As the plastic container goes crashing to the kitchen floor, blueberries scatter around your feet. James. When your eyes land on him, you can see the look of disdain all over his face. He despises you, you’re sure of it. Never one to take shit from a man, you narrow your eyes at him before crouching down and positioning yourself on your knees. Bucky watches intently as you pick up the blueberries one by one, placing them back into the plastic container.

“I don’t think my father considers you a guest.” You whisper the insult just loud enough for him to hear it, but not loud enough for your voice to carry over to your father’s office. Bucky’s squeezing his phone so tightly in his hand that he’s already thinking about having to send someone out to pick up a new one for him tomorrow, because surely, he’s shattering the screen of it. It isn’t your cute little attempt at a comeback that’s irking him. It’s the fact that you’re still on your knees, with your t-shirt riding up your thighs and your eyes lifting to meet his gaze as if you have no idea what effect you’re having on him. He’s sure you aren’t that naïve, which means you’re doing this shit on purpose.

“Get up.” He says through his teeth. You narrow your eyes at him before cocking your head to the side and picking up another fallen berry. It’s a test. He wants to see if you’ll listen to him. The way Bucky sees it, if you listen to his command and stand up, he’ll feel a bit better about going to all of this trouble to have you. It would tell him that although you’re defiant and like to talk back, you still know how to do what you’re told. But if you don’t listen? He can think of a few enjoyable ways to break you of that bad habit.

“What would my father do if he knew you were in here telling me what to do?” The question leaves your lips with the intention of being threatening, but Bucky’s hard stare and cold expression melds into a look of mild amusement. You pick up one of the last few remaining blueberries and drop it into the plastic container, keeping your gaze steady on the cold-blooded man a few feet in front of you. You watch with masked curiosity as he tucks his phone into the pocket of his suit pants and begins rolling up the sleeves of his white button-up shirt. He notices the way your eyes fixate on his black and gold arm, the way you almost seem fascinated by it. When he uses his metal hand to roll up the sleeve on his right arm, your focus shifts to the tattoos covering the majority of his flesh forearm. It isn’t your eyes that tell Bucky you like what you see. It’s the way you subtly clench your thighs together as you drop another berry into the container. You don’t shy away, you don’t move even an inch as he begins walking toward you. Even when he comes to a stop in front of you, close enough that the toes of his dress shoes are nearly touching your knees, you stay where you are. You look up at him through your lashes without tilting your head upward, refusing to move any more than just your eyes for a man that you know would take a mile if you gave him an inch.

“What would your father do if he knew you were on your knees in front of me?” He lifts his flesh hand toward your face, expecting you to flinch away or refuse his touch, but you don’t even blink as he lets his fingertips trace the curve of your jaw. He drags his fingers downward, until he’s in the right spot to curl them beneath your chin and force you to tilt your head up for him. Again, you don’t resist him. “Get out of here before someone else sees you like this.”

It isn’t at all what Bucky wanted to say to you, not even close. But it was what needed to be said. If anyone else had walked out of your father’s office and stolen the privilege of seeing you looking so pretty on your knees like that, he would’ve shot them dead right there in the kitchen. Whether it was one of your father’s men or his own, he wouldn’t have given a shit. So, Bucky lets his hand fall away from your chin, but he doesn’t step away. You reach down for the container of blueberries and grasp it in your right hand as you move to stand, keeping your eyes locked on Bucky’s the entire time. You want to shove him, to tell him he has no right to tell you what to do, especially not in your father’s home. At the same time, you wouldn’t be opposed to tracing the tattoos on his flesh forearm with your lips. What is it about this man that makes your rational mind war with the rest of your body?

            When you step around Bucky a second later, setting the container of blueberries on the island in the center of the kitchen before heading toward the stairs, he has to fight the urge to reach out and grab you. Not now, not yet. You’re not his yet. When you round the corner of the kitchen and begin tiptoeing up to your room, Bucky makes his way to the bottom of the stairs and watches you silently as you take each step. You don’t look back as you make it to the landing and turn right, disappearing behind a wall. When he hears the faint sound of your bedroom door closing, he reaches into the back pocket of his suit pants and retrieves a small silver cylinder. It sits heavy in his hand as he pulls his gun from the back waistband of his pants. As Bucky screws the silencer onto the barrel of his gun, a distant voice in the back of his mind is screaming at him to be rational about this. Don’t do it. Don’t go to such insane lengths for a woman you don’t even know. Don’t spill blood on these nice mahogany floors.

            When he enters the office a few seconds later, he fires two shots. The first into the shoulder of your father’s righthand man, and the second into the thigh of the other hired gun. His face is emotionless as he steps over their bloody, writhing bodies and presses the cool metal of the silencer against your father’s temple. Bucky only has to speak one sentence to let the man know that he isn’t to be fucked with.

            “We make a deal tonight, or I make your daughter an orphan.”

TAG LIST:

No fucking way.

Your throat tightened. The reflection in the mirror portrayed a stranger—pale complexion, vacant eyes.

“You look beautiful,” Nat reassured you, placing her steady hands on your bare shoulders, but you’d never felt so appalled. She was trying to comfort you but fell on deaf ears.

Your gaze dropped to the dress. It fits you perfectly, especially with your hair trailing down your back.

You wanted to rip it all off.

“Nat”, your voice meek, tears threatening to fall.

"I'll be by your side through it all, and if that mystery man dares to step out of line, well, a broken nose wouldn't hurt," she attempted a smile, but it faltered. Your best friend gave your shoulders a final squeeze.

Today is your wedding day.

As you found out yesterday. Yesterday. You seethed, manicured hands clenching.

“How could this happen to me, Nat?”, you asked through gritted teeth, the reality of the situation setting in.

Nat's gaze softened, her eyes filled with a sadness you couldn't bear to meet. "We both know why," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, the truth of her words like a knife to your heart. Your father's illicit dealings had finally caught up with you, dragging you into a web of deceit and manipulation from which there seemed to be no escape.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could I be so naive?

And so, you became a pawn in your father’s game. An object to be bought, owned and sold off at will.

It was all a show of power. You cross me, and I’ll rob your daughter of the rest of her life. You were nothing more than collateral damage.

———————————

As Bucky adjusted his tie in the mirror, the reflection staring back at him was that of a man with a steely resolve, a predator poised to strike. His jaw clenched with determination, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity.

“One last drink before you’re hitched?” Steve smirked, pushing a whiskey into his best friend's hand.

Bucky sent him a sharp look. “Come on Steve, you act like I'm not the one calling the shots here”, the glint in his eyes portraying a confidence that bordered on arrogance.

In a swift motion, he downed the alcohol and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His throat burned. He lavished the feeling.

“Marrying a woman you’ve never even seen?” Steve's grin widened, his tone holding a hint of scepticism.

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “All part of the game, my friend” he responded cryptically, a flicker of anticipation glimmering in his eyes.

“You never know, pal, she might be a knockout”, Steve teased, a veiled reassurance towards his friend.

”Yeah. Fat fucking chance, as long as Pierce knows I can take everything he holds dear, I’m a happy man”

With a nod of agreement, Steve raised his glass in a silent salute. "I'll drink to that," he said.

———————

Deep breaths.

You felt nauseous.

You stepped into the aisle, honing your vision on the figure standing by the altar. He had his back to you but, he was tall, broad and masculine.

Ripping your eyes from the man and planting them on your feet. Just make it down the aisle without tipping over.

Bucky turned to face you. Holy shit. His surprise was palpable. He wasn’t expecting this. You knocked the breath from his lungs. You looked beautiful. Your dress moulded perfectly to your body, skin glowing. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

You felt a cool hand press against the small of your back.

“Hey”, a deep voice whispered in your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

A response far too casual for the situation at hand.

His hand moved to your waist, guiding you to face him and look at him. Fuck him. You knew this was a stupid, stubborn attempt to maintain some form of control, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

That was until he placed a finger under your chin, his touch surprisingly gentle. Oh. He is gorgeous. Sculpted face, baby blue eyes, pink lips. His touch was far too gentle for someone so evil.

“H-hi”, you stammered, your voice portraying the nervousness you felt.

Bucky’s smirk only widened at your response, as if he found amusement in your discomfort. It was infuriating. He was drinking in your wide eyes and aloof expression. You were so innocent. He almost felt bad for inviting you into his world. Almost.

He wanted to devour you.

”Well…aren’t you a sweet little thing”, his finger tilted your head back as he unashamedly raked his eyes over your features, with an almost predatory hunger.

You forced a sweet smile, concealing the disgust you felt at his patronising comment, “get your fucking hands off of me”, you retorted sharply.

Bucky’s smirk faltered for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his features, before being replaced by amusement again. “Such a filthy mouth for a pretty girl… I’ll sort that out for you”, he replied, his grip on your chin tightening.

You snarled at him, resisting the urge to clock him in his cocky face.

It was almost humorous, the way the interaction looked like a loving husband whispering sweet nothings to his wife, when it couldn’t be further from the truth.

The vows went by in a blur, all words sounding muted and unreal, until the time came to kiss the man you met half an hour ago.

Bucky couldn’t look anymore gleeful, revelling in your discomfort.

“Come on honey, I promise I’m a fantastic kisser”, he taunted, arrogance in his smirk.

You opened your mouth for a retort, but his lips landed on yours before you could protest. You hated how he was so gentle, caressing your cheek while his tongue ran across your bottom lip.

Damn it, he is a fantastic kisser.

Pulling away, you forced yourself to compose, concealing the turmoil within. He was so gentle, as if he was afraid you’d break in two at his kiss. Bucky’s touch held a power over you. You despised it, but it was overwhelming.

The reception blurred into a whirlwind of congratulatory embraces and forced smiles. Every glance from Bucky sent shivers down your spine. He was everywhere. A hand on the small of your back, an arm draped across your waist.

As the night wore on, you found yourself cornered by Bucky, his presence suffocating. His whispered promises of a future together sounded more like threats, each word tightening the knot of discomfort in your stomach.

“Is it time for that broken nose yet?” Nat whispered into your ear as you snorted at her comment, your first genuine smile all day.

“I’m ready whenever you are”, you replied, before taking her into an embrace. Her presence was a lifeline in the chaos of this ceremony.

Even after your moment of solace with Nat, Bucky's presence loomed like a dark cloud. His eyes followed your every move, logging everybody you spoke to, as he watched with an adverse gaze.

Unable to bear his suffocating presence any longer, you slipped away from the crowd, seeking refuge in the quiet solitude of the garden.

The cool night air enveloped you, offering a brief respite from the whirlwind wedding. Sitting on the wooden bench, you closed your eyes, simply focusing on breathing, before being unsurprisingly interrupted.

With a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, Bucky leaned against the stone wall, the faint glow of a cigarette illuminating his features in the darkness.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said, his voice low and gravelly, tinged with a hint of his streetwise charm.

"Yeah? Well, I’m fine," you replied curtly, refusing to show any vulnerability in his presence.

Bucky's smirk widened, the glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Sure you are," he said, his tone teasing. "But just in case you need a hand getting rid of any unwanted guests, you know what to say."

“Nobody’s watching here, you know? You don’t need to keep up this facade”, you replied, more angrily than you’d expected.

Bucky’s expression darkened at your accusation, a flicker of hurt crossing his features. “Facade? Come on, darlin’ you know me better than that”

”Do I?”, your voice echoed, not ready to submit to him.

He took a step closer, his movements fluid and deliberate. "Yeah, you do," he replied, his tone edgier now, devoid of its earlier teasing edge. "You think I’m doing this all for me?"

You found yourself unable to make eye contact with the mobster, “I think this is a game… where I’m being used as a pawn”, you confessed, a sadness in your voice.

Bucky was taken aback by your raw vulnerability. He lifted your chin with his forefinger, as he did in the ceremony, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were a cocktail of remorse and sincerity.

“A game? I won’t lie, doll, I’ve done things that I’m not proud of”, he swallowed hard, grappling with the actions that had led to this moment, “but I wouldn’t drag you into this twisted world simply to be a pawn”.

You fought internally, unsure of what to believe.

Bucky stepped back slightly, his eyes raking over your features as his finger drew an arc over your jaw. "I know this ain't the ideal situation for either of us," he began, his voice softer now, tinged with a hint of regret. "But we're in this together now."

Your features softened and you let yourself relax into his gentle touch. The voice in your head stressing about how dangerous this man was began to quieten. You needed this comfort.

"I want you to know," Bucky continued, his words measured yet genuine, "that I ain't gonna let anyone hurt you. Not while I'm around."

"Thank you," you murmured, the weight of the day's events finally beginning to lift from your shoulders. "I appreciate that."

Bucky offered you a small, understanding smile before gesturing toward the door leading back to the reception hall. "Come on," he said gently, "let's get back inside.”

Bucky flicked his cigarette into the darkness, the ember glowing brightly before fading into nothingness.

As the night wore on, the exhaustion of the day's events began to weigh heavily on you.

“You ready to call it a night?” Bucky asked, sweeping a stray hair behind your ear.

His eyes were fixated on yours until you replied with a simple nod.

You began saying your farewells to the guests, making sure to hug Nat especially hard. You eyed Bucky as he seemed to be having an enthralling conversation with a man you recalled being introduced to as Steve. You made a mental note to ask him about his friend.

You let Bucky guide you into his mansion, down the large halls, to the bridal suite. Everything was gorgeous, sophisticated and modern.

You hadn’t let your mind trail to what your wedding night would bring, you found yourself wondering whether he’d even stay in the same wing as you.

As you and Bucky stepped into the dimly lit room, the air was hot with anticipation, charged with the unspoken tension between you.

As you turned to face him, ready to bid him goodnight and retreat to your separate quarters, Bucky's gaze met yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. There was a vulnerability in his eyes, a rawness that took you by surprise.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" His voice was low, almost hesitant, betraying the confident facade he often wore. There was a hint of uncertainty in his words, a vulnerability that made your heartache.

It was a bold move, really, you both knew it. For a request you were so sure you would’ve declined earlier in the day, you found yourself taken aback.

“Yes," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the pounding of your heart. "Yes, you can stay."

As the door clicked shut behind Bucky, you felt anticipation in the air. His gaze lingered on you, his eyes tracing the contours of your figure with a certain hunger.

“Let me take off that wedding dress," he murmured, his words laced with desire. His eyes bore into yours, daring you to resist him, daring you to deny the attraction that pulsed between you.

Your head was spinning, the way he bounced between sincerity and domination.

For a brief moment, you hesitated, the thought of shedding the symbol of your forced marriage felt like an admission of defeat, surrendering to the forces that had brought you to this moment.

The primal hunger in Bucky’s eyes convinced you, with a hesitant nod, you faced your back to him and pulled your hair over your shoulder.

Bucky’s fingers delicately worked the fastens on your dress, his gaze transfixed on your back. You felt yourself becoming conscious, truly realising for the first time that this man was going to see you at your most vulnerable.

Sensing your apprehension, the air shifted, “you’re doing great, sweetheart”, he murmured, “Tonight, it’s just you and me”.

You eased at his words, as the fabric pooled at your feet in a cascade of silk and lace.

With a tender smile, Bucky reached out, his hand brushing against your cheek with a feather-light touch. “God, you’re beautiful”, he whispered, his voice filled with awe.

His words warmed you from the inside out. There was something more than desire in his gaze. It ignited a fire in you that threatened to consume everything in its path.

In the dim light of the room, you could see the raw hunger in Bucky's eyes, the longing that burned like a fire deep within his soul. But beneath the hardened exterior, there was a vulnerability—a longing for connection, for intimacy.

You doubted he was some sort of blushing virgin, especially with the stunt he pulled at the altar, but it was hard to believe he looked at other women like this.

“W-will you… are you going to…”, you faltered, not quite knowing how to ask him the question.

”Going to what, doll?”

“You know… it’s an arranged marriage. Are you planning to…see other women?”, you ventured, your voice hesitant, uncertain of how to broach the topic.

Bucky's gaze softened as he sensed the gravity of your words, his expression shifting from one of intensity to one of attentiveness. He reached out, gently grasping your hand in his, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand.

“I understand why you might have doubts, especially given the circumstances," he began, his voice calm and reassuring. "But I want you to know that I take this marriage seriously. This isn’t a game to me. You’re my wife".

His words carried a weight of sincerity that eased some of the tension in your chest. "I won't deny that my past may have been... adventurous," he continued with a wry smile, "but when it comes to you, I'm all in. I won't be seeing other women. You have my word."

“O-okay”, a small smile playing on your lips.

“And just so we’re clear”, he added, a playful glint in his eye, “you’re not allowed to see other men either”.

You rolled your eyes at that, your smile widening.

Bucky's eyes softened as they landed on your lips, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his own. "You've got a beautiful smile, you know," he remarked, his tone unexpectedly sincere.

As you met his gaze once more, you couldn't help but notice the way his eyes sparkled with a warmth that mirrored your own.

“Thank you," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, feeling the electricity between you intensify with each passing moment. The hunger in his eyes mirrored your own.

With a boldness you didn't know you possessed, you reach out to him, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt as you draw him closer. The air crackles with tension as your lips meet in a searing kiss, passion and need colliding in a heady rush of sensation.

His hands pulled on your hips, desperate to get you impossibly closer. Your head was spinning.

Bucky gently walked you to the bed, falling onto the sheets when your calves knocked the frame. He ate up the gasp that escaped from your lips hungrily.

“Fuck. I want to devour you”, he murmured against your lips, before taking your bottom one between his teeth. You could only gasp in response as he rolled it.

Bucky’s hands grabbed your wrists, gently placing them above your head. A stark contrast between his gentleness and dominance. His lips trailed down the curve of your neck, nipping and tucking, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

You arched against him, a soft “B-Bucky” escaping your lips.

Bucky released a guttural moan as you bucked your hips into the muscular thigh positioned between your legs.

”Easy, sweetheart”, he whispered, his voice husky with desire. “I don’t want to overwhelm you”.

Bucky's hands trembled slightly as he fought to restrain his desire, the urge to lose himself in the moment almost overwhelming. His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to control the primal urges that threatened to consume him.

His hands, which had been so commanding just moments before, now moved with a feather-light touch.

"I need to slow down," he muttered, more to himself than to you, his voice strained with effort.

You placed a gentle hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch, “we can slow down, Bucky”, you whispered reassuringly, your eyes filled with concern.

Bucky's struggle was like a battle raging within him, the conflicting desires tearing at his very core. He was used to being in control, but with you, he felt a primal urge to let go, to surrender to the passion that threatened to consume him.

But he couldn't. Not yet. Not with you.

He looked into your eyes, his own filled with gratitude and longing. "Thank you," he said softly, his voice tinged with relief. "I just want to make sure I'm not pushing you too far, too fast."

He’d never cared for the women he’d taken to bed in the past. There was something about you, an innocence he wanted to preserve, but simultaneously fuck out of you, make it his own.

“I’m okay, I promise”, you reassured him.

“No…it’s me. I want to lose myself in you but… I won’t be able to control myself. I want to do this right”, he admitted.

You caressed his face with your hand, letting a silence fall over you and your husband. He traced circles on your bare skin with his fingertips.

Bucky's arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a warm embrace, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. Feeling the weight of the day finally catching up with you, you nestled into Bucky's embrace, allowing the rhythm of his steady breathing to lull you into a peaceful slumber.

Bucky drifted into a calm sleep, the calmest he’d had in months, until the shrill ring of his phone shattered the silence. Groaning, he fumbled for the source of the disturbance, his hand eventually finding the cold metal of his cell phone on the nightstand.

"Steve?" Bucky muttered, his voice thick with sleep as he answered the call, his mind struggling to shake off the fog of slumber.

"Yeah, it's me," Steve's urgent voice crackled through the line, cutting through Bucky's drowsiness like a knife. "We got a problem”.

Bucky sent a glance to your sleeping form, the sheets pooling around your waist, with your chest lifting rhythmically.

He ran a hand down his face and groaned, not wanting to leave you. “How bad is it?”, he asked, debating whether to throw the phone at the wall.

“Bad enough”, Steve replied grimly.

——————————

Taglist!

She looked different from how he remembered her but she was still the most gorgeous person he had ever laid eyes on. At that moment he remembered why he fell in love with her in the first place, he was still very in love with her. But then all his drunken thoughts flooded back into his mind so he turned his focus back on his drink and drank it in one go before ordering a new one.

Y/n didn’t know why but she was in desperate need of a drink, she wasn’t someone who drank often and definitely never more than a few drinks. But the day had been dragging her down. After her panic reaction from the day before seeing Steve, she kept herself in a higher state of alert. But the next day it affected her work day too and the fact that her workload increased immensely hadn’t helped either. But luckily, a coworker had joined in to help her with the monstrosity of an assignment. 

After the long day at work, she needed to let off some steam and this pub she was about to enter was the same one she used to go to when she’d sneak out of her parent's house when she was younger. It had a feeling of nostalgia around it and just seeing it brought back fond memories.

But when she pushed the door open and walked in she instantly regretted her decision. Bucky Barnes was sitting at the pub’s bar just a few feet in front of her. Panic soared through her and all she wanted to do was run, she wasn’t ready for a confrontation. It seemed like he hadn’t noticed her walking in so she took a deep breath to calm herself and kept walking into the pub straight to the back in the hopes she wouldn’t be noticed. 

When she sat down and had her first drink she couldn’t stop herself from staring at Bucky from the corner of her eye. He still looked handsome, maybe even more handsome than she remembered. But she did notice the darker circles under his eyes, there was a somber aura surrounding him. She wondered what had happened to him after she left. But one thing clearly hadn’t changed, he was still a member of the MC, the kut on his back staring back at her.

Unable to resist the pull, Bucky got up from his seat, looked around the room and sure enough he found Y/N sitting in the back. He approached her, the alcohol fueling his courage and clouding his judgment. When he stood there before the table she was sitting at, his voice tinged with bitterness and hurt. 

"You're here," he said, his words somehow laced with both relief and resentment. As soon as the words left his lips he knew that wasn’t the way he wanted to come over but alcohol was a bitch. He wanted nothing more than to have a civil conversation with her but his mind was working against him.

Y/N met his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest fearing the worst. For the first time, she was actually scared of the man she grew up with and loved for so long. 

"I'm here," she replied, trying to sound casual. She hoped that her wavering voice didn't betray the anxiety she felt. "But I didn't plan on running into you." 

The air between them crackled with unresolved tension, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavily in the space. Both wounded souls yearned to reach out, but the walls of pride and hurt held them back.

Bucky couldn't ignore the hurt that simmered beneath the surface. "You disappeared without a word, Y/N. You left." he spat out.

Y/N's eyes hardened, mirroring the pain she felt. "I left because I had to, Bucky. It wasn't an easy decision."

Bucky scoffed, a bitter, derisive laugh escaping him. "So you just decided to leave without even telling me? It's like you never cared about us."

"I cared, Bucky." she glared up at him, eyes watering. "I care. But it was too complicated. You wouldn't understand." Bucky's jaw clenched, the alcohol fueling his temper. "And you really think leaving was the best solution? Just running away? Like a coward?" he said, his voice cutting across the pub which had now gone silent. 

People at their tables glanced at the duo out of the corner of their eyes, trying not to seem too obvious that they were listening in.

Y/N's voice wavered, glancing around the dim pub. Her heart was torn between the love she still felt for him and the pain of their separation. 

"I didn't know what else to do. I needed time to sort things out." She lied in a whisper. She wasn’t ready to tell him what his father told her, afraid that he wouldn’t believe her or that his father was right that Bucky never had truly loved her.

The words hung heavily in the air, a painful admission that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. The hurt between them deepened as they both lashed out in frustration and fear.

"You think leaving was the best thing for us?" Bucky's voice grew louder, his emotions bubbling to the surface. A chair creaked in the distance as someone shifted in their seat. "You didn't even give us a chance to talk!"

"And what would we have talked about, Bucky?" Y/N retorted, her voice breaking. "Our lives were heading in different directions. We were never meant to be."

Bucky's eyes darkened, his anger simmering. "Don't you dare say that," he whispered, almost pleading. "We had something real, something special."

Those words made Y/N chuckle. A dry, mirthless chuckle. At that point she just gave in to all those fears and negative thoughts she had. 

“Fuck! Like you care, Bucky. You never cared, not about me or anything else! You’re just a good actor taking whatever you want and then using it like a toy you can get rid of when you've had your fun!"

Bucky was stunned by her words. He leaned away from her, eyes glistening.

Was that really how she saw him? 

Instead of proving her wrong, he balled his fists in anger, if this was anybody else, they would have already been sprawled on the floor from the force of the blow he would deliver. But this was someone who owned his heart ever since they were kids.

“Sounds more like someone else, do I need to remind you that you were the one who left. Don’t you dare to put this on me Y/N.”

"You broke my heart," he said and Y/N looked away from him.

"You broke mine too," she whispered.

After that, everything else became fuzzy. Y/N vaguely remembered them arguing over drinks until even she had drank more than she ever had done. They both said things they didn’t mean but couldn’t take back. The next thing she knew, the owner of the pub had kicked them both out due to their argument starting to get too heated and too loud and disturbing other patrons.

Once on the curb Bucky just started walking without even looking at her, it was only when he was almost at the corner of the street that he called out to her.

“Are you coming or what?” He slurred out, the alcohol affecting his speech.

She didn’t know why but she did as he asked and followed him to wherever he was going. She just hoped that it wasn’t the MC’s clubhouse. Cause she knew if they went there things wouldn’t end well for her. But even in her drunken state and after their fight she still trusted him. 

They walked in complete silence beside each other and for a little bit, it almost felt like old times. Their hands were almost touching, that’s how close they were walking. But the atmosphere around them was still filled with the aftermath of their fight, anger, hurt... 

Almost every emotion went through her. 

She didn’t know how it happened but, by the time they stopped in front of a building she remembered it to be Bucky’s house, their hands had been intertwined. But that wasn’t the only thing, they were almost glued together, that was how close they were walking. To any outsider, they would look like just an average couple.

Bucky opened his front door and led her inside. A lot had changed, most of the furniture was the same as those she remembered but there wasn’t any life in it. It was clear that he wasn’t here much, dust covered most surfaces. But the thing that touched her the most was the big picture frame that was hanging on the wall above his couch. The frame was filled with pictures of Steve, Bucky, and her.  Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at it. Every emotion rose inside her. She missed those days portrayed in those pictures, they were so happy back then. At least she was. Now it was just a painful reminder of everything that had happened. Did he bring her here to torment her? Cus if he was, this was a very good start. 

“Why did you bring me here James?” she asked, her anger and sadness bleeding through her words. But before she could fire off her next question Bucky had stepped closer to her, his hands framing her face as he planted his lips on top of hers. 

At first, she was so shocked by his actions that she froze, she didn’t really know what was going on. Bucky was kissing her. She didn’t really know what she was feeling, this was something she had dreamed of for so long. But she was still feeling anger and hurt towards him. And that was where the alcohol kicked in, if she’d been sober then she’d have pushed him off her in a second, hell she would have never even walked home with him.

When she felt him pull back, probably because she wasn’t kissing him back, she pulled him back in and deepened the kiss. She might have still been angry at him but the alcohol started to cloud her judgment more and more until she just didn’t care anymore, she just wanted to live in the moment for as long it would last. Her tongue ran over his lips which he opened happily for her. His hands dropped from her face to find their place on her waist before pulling her with him, their lips and tongues still intertwined, to the couch.

 As soon as he felt the edge of the couch he let himself fall into it and pulled Y/N with him so she landed on his lap. 

With her chest pressed against his she could feel the rapid beats of his heart, the heat of his skin under her fingers. Even the soft movement of his breath against her face with the smell of alcohol. Every little detail of him she had missed so much and now she just tried to drown herself in them. It lighted her up, like she was on fire and that all just from making out. But then Bucky’s hands moved down from her waist until they were resting on the swells of her butt and softly squeezing them making her moan into his kiss. 

“You still sound so gorgeous when you moan babydoll,” he groaned before softly biting her lower lip. 

For just a second it was like there was a fuse exploding in her mind when she heard the nickname rolling over his lips. She quickly shook it off before pushing him back down against the reclining part of the couch. She pushed him down until they were laying down.

“Just shut up," she sighed. "It's clear we’re not here to talk.”

She wasn’t even done talking when she started to push his kut over his shoulders until he took it off completely, his shirt following quickly after.

‘Was his chest always this defined?’ 

She thought to herself while her fingers glided over every inch of his tattooed skin. Bucky’s eyes closed, enjoying her touch. It wasn’t long before the alcohol in his blood gave him a new confidence boost. He picked her up again just to flip them around so she was laying beneath him. 

“You’re wearing too much clothes, let’s make this even.” 

It wasn’t long before both of them were making out on the couch just in their underwear, hands wandering all over each other.

Y/n hadn’t been this turned on in years, it was like he still knew every little thing that made her tick. She could practically feel herself dripping all over Bucky’s leg that she was grinding on after he had pushed it between her legs. What added to it was the fact that she could feel Bucky’s obvious hard-on against her thigh. He was clearly aware of it as he gripped her hips and guided her movements against his leg and adding a bit more pressure by tightening the muscles in his leg, making her softly moan into his mouth. 

“Touch me, please,” Y/N softly spoke when she pulled back from their kiss.

“Never have to ask me twice, babydoll,” he said before he pulled away a bit and pulled her panties down her legs.

“Look at that, so wet for me,” he said, making Y/N gasp when he softly swiped his thumb over her folds, collecting some of her wetness before putting it in his mouth.

“Mmm still the sweetest taste, I need a better taste. Will you let me? Hm? Can I eat this pretty pussy?”

His question hadn’t even left his lips completely and she was already saying yes, begging for him to do it.

It wasn’t long before she was a moaning mess, riding his face as he was fingers deep inside her while making out with her clit. He pulled orgasm after orgasm out of her until she begged him to stop. But that little break didn’t last long before she pulled him back in for a kiss which soon ended with him deep inside of her. 

He really did fuck her brains out, there wasn’t a single thought in her mind. There was only them and pleasure in that moment, nothing else. With every thrust of his hips he took her higher and higher until she felt like she was floating, the only thing she could do was hang onto Bucky for dear life. 

Y/N's eyes fluttered open, and a searing pain in her head made her wince. She was disoriented for a moment, trying to piece together the events of the previous night. The room was unfamiliar, and her heart raced as she glanced around. Then she noticed an arm wrapped around her. Bucky was breathing steady as he slept beside her.

The memories started to flood back. They had both indulged in too much alcohol, drowning their sorrows while they had argued. In the haze of the night, they had ended up in Bucky's bed.

Y/N's thoughts raced, and a surge of panic washed over her. Did he take advantage of her? Or was he simply looking for a fleeting moment of nostalgia, reliving the past by seeking comfort in their physical connection?

Carefully, Y/N slipped out of Bucky's embrace, her movements slow and deliberate as she tried not to wake him and walked back into the living room. Her clothes were strewn on the floor, a stark reminder of the night's events.After their play time on the couch he had taken her to his bed for round two before falling asleep in each other’s arms. As she hastily dressed, the weight of her assumptions and insecurities pressed down on her.

She could hear Bucky shifting in his sleep, but Y/N didn't dare to look back. The room felt suffocating, and the idea of facing him filled her with dread. She believed she had made a mistake, that she had been foolish to drink so much and let him affect her so much that she had fallen for his charm, again. Maybe it had all just been a drunken whim for Bucky, she didn't want to be the one holding onto false hope that it could have been something more.

With one last glance at Bucky's sleeping form, Y/N quietly slipped out of the house, closing the door behind her. The cool air outside hit her like a wake-up call, and she hailed a taxi, ready to put some distance between herself and the uncertainty of the night before and back to where she had left her car.

As the taxi drove her away from Bucky's place, Y/N's heart ached with regret and doubt. But in her mind, it was better to leave now, to protect herself from the heartbreak that she thought was inevitable. She wished that she had never ran into Bucky the night before.