i love you, writers

you wished things were simpler.

you wished gerard wouldn’t toy with your feelings the way he did. you wished there was more to it all then holding hands in the darker corners of the backstage lots. you wished you could show more than shy glances and quiet whispers when you were wrapped together in hotel beds. you wished you actually knew what you had with him.

you wished he wasn’t the lead singer and that you weren’t just the drummer.

for once, you wanted to be selfish…to put your foot down and scream, and say that it wasn’t fair. you wanted to be able to have it your own way, to finally be able to breathe.

but you were never really good at sticking up for yourself.

☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎

you never particularly liked the way you looked in magazines. maybe it was the poses, or the fake blood, or…. it didn’t matter though, you promised your mother you’d send her one. you did it with every magazine you’d find in convince stores, you’d write her a note and have the guys sign it for you before you posted it off to her. 

the issue you were flipping through boasted an “exclusive” interview with the members of my chemical romance on page thirteen, and you smiled thinly. at least the pictures they used were nice. 

the man at the register cleared his throat, and you looked up. “you gonna pay for that?” you looked around, to find the store empty. he gestured at you again, and you quickly walked up to the counter, pulling out your wallet. your shoes squeaked against the linoleum.

you stood awkwardly as he rang you up. was he looking at you funny, or were you just imagining it? you didn’t speak much as you paid, handing over a five dollar bill. you would have bought a pack of cigarettes too, but frank had borrowed money from you, and all you had was whatever change you got from the five. 

you banged your elbow on the way out of the market. it was colder outside compared to the store, perhaps because of the morning rain. hopefully they had the heater on in the bus.

if only the bus had been in the parking lot.  

like the inside of the store, the parking lot was empty. they had left you behind. again.

you used the payphone behind the gas station to call gerard. when he didn’t answer, you called frank, then mikey, then ray. no one answered. you should have expected it, really. 

you had no money for a taxi. it seemed as if you had no choice but to walk to the hotel, though you didn’t know where that was. you walked away from the store, guessing which direction the bus went. it was a shot in the dark, and all you could do was hope that it wouldn’t start raining as you walked.

☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎

the cuffs of your jeans were soaked by the time you made it to the hotel. it was late, and the hotel staff looked mildly worried at your arrival.

they told you that the others had arrived earlier, and already settled into the room. they had headed out to a restaurant without a care as to where you were. 

you had your pick of bed, though your choice was limited to one or the other.it was a sort of roulette to see who you would be sharing with. you’d go to bed angry tonight, bitter, and fall asleep long before they came back from dinner. 

☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎

 you had a headache. the lights in the interview room seemed too bright, and the arm of the sofa wasn’t very comfortable. gerard woke you up earlier than you would have liked. it was fine though… you just had to finish the interview first and then you could sleep on the bus. you tried not to think about the morning, when you had woken up curled into gerard. maybe you should have slept on the couch, saved yourself the trouble of whatever inner turmoil you had going on. 

you didn’t speak much, with most of the questions being directed to gerard and frank. not that you minded, because the interview would go by faster that way. 

the journalist was a guy you knew from kerrang! you couldn’t remember where you met him though…maybe at a gig or…

“i hate to make you pick favorites, but for this next question you’re gonna have to.” now you remembered. he did a one-on-one a few months ago, backstage before a festival. “let’s start with gerard.” 

you didn’t really want to answer the question, so you listened instead. you’d make something up when it was your turn, and hopefully you were last to answer. 

“well, thats hard… i mean i love all the guys, and mikey’s my brother, and frank and ray are so talented…i dunno” gerard laughed, sliding down the couch. 

frank looked like he was about vibrate out of his seat as he beamed at the camera. “well, ray is just an amazing artist and he get’s so fuckin’ into what he does.”“i mean i, guess he’s my favorite, because i’ve just learned so much from him, really.” 

ray was next. “well i mean i get along with them all, but i think i’d have to say gerard, just because i’ve known him for the longest.” 

you wanted to yell at the interviewer for asking the question. you felt like you were going to puke as you waited for mikey to think about it. “uh…i don’t… i mean maybe my brother gerard?” 

you pretended not to care that you hadn’t been mentioned once. was it because you were a drummer? because you hadn’t been with them since the start? because you were replaceable? 

“y/n? what about you?” you’d pretend their answers didn’t hurt, and so you smiled just as bright as before. you just had to get through this interview and then you could take a nap on the bus. 

“i don’t really think that’s a fair question,” you just had to answer a few more questions and then you could get back on the bus. “y’know i don’t really think i have a favorite. well, i mean…can’t i say that they’re all my favorites? guess i love them all the same.” hopefully they wouldn’t ask you to elaborate, because you didn’t know if you could.

you felt like it was too quiet when you finished talking. maybe it was shame…maybe you should have kept your mouth shut and picked someone.

the interview felt like it dragged on after. you tried to stay on your best behavior, but as every minute passed by you felt the life drain out of you. 

the interviewer didn’t notice the way your smile dropped every time you were ignored, or spoken over. he didn’t notice, but the fans watching the interview would. 

☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎

you felt drained. interviews always made you stressed, and added onto the poor nights sleep you had last night, you felt awful. 

the interview went terribly, so you smoked by the dumpster behind the building. hopefully you could forget about everything.

 frank had been talking to one of the producers, but they should have wrapped everything up by now. you put out your cigarette and headed back to the bus.

you would have been worried about keeping everyone waiting, but it was clear that you hadn’t. they had left without you. again.

never in your life had you felt so small. you wanted to scream, or, cry, or do something. you didn’t. it was instinctual, the phone number you dialed was second nature. 

your voice was calm as you told gerard to turn the bus around. you didn’t care to hear his explanation, if he gave one at all. you waited for them to come back and pick you up.

you didn’t understand how they forgot about you again, and again, and again. fuck, this time you had been sitting right next to them for nearly an hour. yet you were gone for less then five minutes, and they had forgotten about you. 

you didn’t understand how gerard could be so sweet to you, only to act like you didn’t exist. he was gentle when he woke you up, when you found yourself wrapped in his arms. so why did he forget about you so often? why did he ignore you, and speak over you? he made everything so much harder.

the bus pulled into the parking lot before you could think about anything too deeply.

you ignored them and their pleas and apologies. you didn’t care, and you were far too tired to put up with their bullshit. 

frank followed you to your bunk, but you pushed him away, pretending to read the magazine on your bed. it took time, but in the end he got the hint and left you alone. 

irony was bitter on your tongue when you looked at the page you had opened to. it was the magazine you bought from the convenience store the day before, opened to your interview.

you could hear a whispered conversation coming from the front of the bus, and you grit your teeth. still, your eyes scanned over the print, intrigued, because you couldn’t remember that particular interview for the life of you.

“…oh yeah, touring with my chem is just an amazing experience! i mean i’ve only been with them for a year maybe? it’s just great. i wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. 

sure touring has its ups and downs, but i love it. okay…so i’ve been left behind a rest stops a few times, and it does get hard, but i have so much respect for the guys. 

you can tell they love what they do, and i love being a part of not only the creative process, but just…being able to do what i do?! its awesome!! the fans are amazing, and i wouldn’t be where i am without them, seriously! 

really i wouldn’t want to be doing this with any other band.”

you wished you hadn’t read it. you looked so happy in the picture they printed, smiling and crammed into the group photo. what happened?

a part of you wished you never joined the band. it was nothing but heartache, just like what you felt now. you were angry, and so tired, and above all confused. 

your picture beamed up at you from the page, and you felt nothing but white-hot anger. with a scream, you hurled the magazine out from your bunk, not caring where it landed. 

it wasn’t until your breathing became uneven that you realized you were crying. the conversation in the front of the bus stilled, and you heard worried footsteps. 

while you couldn’t stop your crying, you still rolled over, and did your best to pretend you didn’t notice them. someone was standing outside your bunk…you could feel it. but you ignored them, and cried yourself to sleep.

☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎

you wanted to pretend yesterday had been a bad dream. the magazine sitting on the table, opened to page thirteen, let you know that it wasn’t.

the second you crawled out of your bunk and to the dining area everyone’s head snapped up. you hated it.

you didn’t know what to say or where to look. so you looked at the cup of coffee on the table. you knew it was meant for you, the mug was your favorite, and whoever had prepared it made it just the way you liked your coffee. you wanted to cry.

the “i quit,” spilled out of your lips before you could stop yourself. you were met with protests, and apologies, and pleads, but you didn’t listen. “i hope you can find a drummer, because i’m done here.” 

deep down some twisted part of you enjoyed their reactions.

☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎

you had started to pack your shit and call in a few favors. your apartment seemed so empty when you thought of it, so you’d couch surf for a while. 

no one had talked to you since you ‘quit’. not that you minded entirely…it made things easier. thursday’s show would be your last with the band you decided. you refused to let them treat you the way they did, refused to listen to any of their reasoning. maybe you were jumping the gun...but you didn’t care. right?

the air was crisp, and you could near see your breath when you stepped out to stretch your legs. it felt too early to be at a rest stop, the sun barely peeking above the horizon. you leaned against the bus as you smoked, a habit you’d come upon after being left behind more often than not. 

it wouldn’t really matter if they had left without you this time, you were already on your way out.

it was strange, the way that you could pick gerards footsteps from the rest of the guys. you could tell it was him coming down the steps before you even caught sight of him. 

“hey.” he sounded shy…and it all felt so unnatural. you almost felt bad. “i just wanted to say that we- i’m sorry.” 

“okay.” couldn’t he see that the apology had come too late? you wouldn’t lie…wouldn’t say it was okay and then act like you were one big happy family again. 

“you have every right to leave. we’ve treated you like shit.” it was all starting to sink in. it all seemed so final…so foreign. you were leaving and that was it. this whole time you hadn’t even stopped to think…jumping at chances before you even weighed your options. 

“why?”

“i don’t know. and i know i can’t speak for the others. it’s just weird…being on tour. it takes its toll y’know? and i just get in my head. some days i feel like i’m still asleep. but that doesn’t make it okay.”

“i know.” listening to him bear his soul like that was hard, but he still left you feeling like you were buried in questions. “leaving me behind and all that wouldn’t have hurt so much. but i never knew where we stood. what we were…” he took a sharp breath, and you flicked the ash of your cigarette away. “keeping it a secret–hiding in dark corners and trying not to get caught–that’s what hurt the most.”

“i really do care about you. i know i didn’t do the best job at showing it and… fuck i was keeping you at arms length.” his shoulder brushed against yours and for a moment the both of you fell into tired silence. “you can hate me, but i’m putting it all out on the table. i really really like you. and i want to fix this. i don’t want to lose you.” maybe you were stupid for loving him, even though he left you behind at rest stops and hurt your feelings so often. but your chest squeezed, and for once you stopped to think for a moment. 

is this really what you wanted? cutting it all short so abruptly like this? a part of you mourned what you knew would never come to be. but somewhere inside you…this little coil of something you couldn’t understand slithered around. you were moving so fast, and you didn’t want to let go. 

you knew what you were going to do.

“we can start over. make it real…if you want.” you couldn’t seem to help but squeeze back when his hand found yours. “we’ll keep in touch okay? i’ll sit the rest of this tour out…take a breather. and then we’ll see how it goes from there.” 

you talked well until the sun came up…about the new drummer replacing you—tucker—,about plans for the future, about stupid mistakes, and whatever else you could think about. they would go on with the tour and do good and play music. you knew that.

 he wished you luck, and you kissed him. it felt like a goodbye and new beginnings all in one.

 you wouldn’t take back your resignation…you wouldn’t forgive, at least not for now. but you would look at things a little differently now.

you supposed there were worse roommates out there. actually, thinking about it, you realized how lucky you were.

you got along really well with your roommate, gerard. he’d been sharing an apartment for nearly two years now, and you were sure you knew him better than you knew yourself.

you know he forgets to take the coffee pods out of the keurig, and sometimes he leaves the heater running for too long.

you don’t think you’ve ever seen him sleep. sometimes you wonder if he’s a vampire or something, what with the scribbling coming from his room at all hours of the night.

to be fair… you’re hardly any better. you sleep little more than he does, when you do fall asleep it’s usually on the couch, and you leave the television on all the time.

you’re incredibly lucky, you realize. lucky that he’s as sweet as he is, bringing you coffee in the mornings, and stopping by your job on his commute. he’s even slipped a few drawings your way. some are drawings of you, others are silly little doodles he gives you when you’re having a bad day. sometimes, he’ll show you characters for the comics he’s working on, asking for your input.

you realize that you’re lucky that he’s so helpful, that he’s not a creep, that you both get along so well. you’re lucky that you’ve found a friend who will sit and watch television reruns with you when neither of you can fall asleep.

that’s why you slip a record under his door one night. you don’t know if he even likes sinatra, but you give it to him anyway. there’s no special occasion really, you just thought of him when you found in the wee small hours in the record store you visited. you don’t sign your name on the post it you stuck to it. all you write is “from one insomniac to another”. you feel embarrassed for some reason you can’t place, and something slithers in your stomach. maybe you shouldn’t have given it to him…maybe he doesn’t like sinatra. it’s too late now though, it’s already done.

☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎ ☠︎

it’s late one night…or early, depending on how you look at it. you’re tired, whatever movie you were watching forgotten and on mute. you can hear gerard milling around in the kitchen, you can smell the coffee he’s brewing. you’re tired, but you can’t fall asleep.

“thanks for the record” gerard called from the kitchen. “i really liked it”

you smile, one of those hazy tired smiles, the kind you do when you’re between being awake and asleep. “i didn’t know if you liked sinatra, i hope it’s ok”

you miss the way he grins at you, too busy yawning.

“it’s great i actually…” he walked off in the middle of his sentence, a habit you’d noticed he had, only to come back with the disk in his hands. “do you mind?”

it didn’t matter if you said no, he already turned to put it on, smiling back at you as he dropped the needle to the record.

“what are we watching?” he asked, sitting next to you on the couch. close enough to be touching you, but still far enough to give you space. it’s like a paradox, you think, but then you tell yourself to shut up. you’re too tired to know what you’re talking about.

“i dunno, i stopped paying attention.” your eyes flit to the movie playing on the television, watching the car chase for a moment before turning your attention back to him. “you’re going to keep yourself up all night drinking coffee this late.” you might have frowned at him if you weren’t too busy beaming.

he knew you were teasing, you could tell by the glint in his eye. “i just need a few finishing touches on my project and then i’m done.”

you didn’t say anything more for a while, taking a moment to take everything in. the record playing softly in the background as you curled closer to gerard. his head resting on yours as you listened to his breathing, memorizing the pace of his heart.

it’s quiet…intimate, and you’re tired. tired and happy.

“you tired?” he questions softly.

“a little,” you don’t know why you’re whispering.

“do you work tomorrow?”

“yeah, i open,” you groan, rubbing your eyes. you think you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head, but you don’t want to get your hopes up.

it’s quiet again, though this time it’s too quiet. you’re left with thoughts of gerard running through your head, and you wish that one of you would say something. you should be ashamed, you scold yourself, thinking of him the way you do when he’s sitting right next to you.

“what are you thinking about?” he prods gently. he’s soft with you, the way he always is, careful not to overstep with his questions.

“nothing really,” you lie, because you’d rather not risk what comfort you have now. “what are you thinking about?”

it seems like he didn’t expect the question to be turned back on him. he hesitates, and the silence is thick…too thick. his face is illuminated by the light from the tv, and he looks nervous. you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look quite as terrified as he does now. the lighting shifts, and he’s blanketed in darkness again, but you notice something change in his eyes.

“i think i love you” he whispers against your ear.

you feel like you can’t breathe. you think you heard him wrong. you’re worried this is all a dream, a good dream, the kind that would leave you reeling when you wake up.

you want to hear him say it again.

you lean your head back against his shoulder, and he breathes out with a shudder. you watch the explosions on tv as your hand finds his. “i love you too.”

that’s it then, everything is out in the open. maybe you’re tired, but you sigh gently as he cups your face in his hands. thinking back, you can’t exactly pinpoint when your feelings for him changed, but you suppose it doesn’t matter now. he loves you and you love him. it’s surprisingly simple.

“can i…?” he doesn’t need to finish his question as you lean in closer to him. his breath is warm, and he smells like coffee and sleepless nights, and you’re waiting for him. your eyes are closed as you breathe him in, and they stay that way as he kisses you softly.

he’s…soft, softer than you imagine, and you can’t help but smile.

Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.

“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—” 

Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident. 

“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.

You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”

Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done. 

You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.

He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”

“Dick.”

He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes, 

He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.

“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.

You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”

Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”

You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically. 

Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.

“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”

Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”

Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”

A deadpan from Tim. 

“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”

Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”

Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”

Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?” 

“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.

“Oh my God.”

He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?

He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.

The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”

The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”

Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.” 

Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”

Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”

Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.

“I can’t help you.”

Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.

Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”

“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”

Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”

Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”

Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom. 

You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you. 

“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.

“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.

He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you. 

Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back. 

You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”

“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”

He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you. 

You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”

The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature. 

He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.

“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”

You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”

He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.

He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”

You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.

Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt. 

“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following. 

“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”

He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”

He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”

You nod, happy to ease his mind. 

You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.

You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.

You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.

He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.

“Fucking idiot—”

You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.

“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.

“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”

He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.

You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him. 

He scoffs, “It better have been.”

You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”

“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”

You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”

“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly. 

You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”

He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”

His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”

You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”

He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”

He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”

“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.

“Dick!”

The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.

He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes. 

“Where is he?”

Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding. 

Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.

He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”

But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.

He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.

There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail. 

“Really? Really?” Jason shouts. 

“It was an accident! It was a fucking—” 

He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.

“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”

Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.

Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”

Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”

He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him. 

Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”

Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”

“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option. 

“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring. 

Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to. 

“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—” 

Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”

“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”

Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”

“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”

 “Yeah, of course I did!”

For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body. 

The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.

It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more. 

“Jason.”

Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption. 

You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.

He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.

“I didn’t hit him.”

Rain lashed against the windows of the safehouse briefing room, streaking down in jagged lines like claw marks against the concrete sky. The air inside was tight with tension, everyone still soaked from the field extraction, voices quiet and clipped. The lights overhead flickered as if they, too, could feel the mood coiling inside the room—sharp, brittle, ready to snap.

You sat at the long steel table, fingers clenched into your thighs beneath it, biting back the ache that had formed in your jaw from hours of grinding your teeth. Across from you, Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced against the surface, the veins in his hands bulging from the tension. His stare was locked on the briefing screen, unmoving. Silent.

Director De Fontaine’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

“This one’s different,” she said, flipping to the next screen. “This one’s personal.”

The image that filled the screen made your stomach roll. You didn’t need to look twice to know who it was.

Cristian Dragomir.

Arms dealer. Human trafficker. Collector of women, weapons, and secrets. He wore suits like armor and surrounded himself with luxury that reeked of rot. On paper, he was a legitimate investor with deep ties to several Eastern European shipping companies. Off the record? He was a man who could broker the sale of a child or a warhead in the same breath.

And now, after weeks of sniffing along dead ends, you had him.

“Dragomir is hosting a private gathering at Club Vânătorii this weekend,” Val continued, crossing her arms as she paced in front of the screen. “Invitation only. No weapons allowed, no comms once inside. His security team is one of the most paranoid in the business. The only way in is to make yourself look too tempting to resist. And the only thing he cares about more than power—”

“—is watching people fuck,” Yelena muttered from the corner, slouched in her chair with a half-wrapped bandage around her ribs. The bruising along her collarbone was deep and purple, a halo of violence left behind from the ambush earlier that day. “Preferably when they think no one’s watching.”

You didn’t look at her injuries. Couldn’t. The sight of her blood staining her tactical gear had been enough to send something sharp and molten screaming through your chest. Ava had taken the worst of it—currently unconscious in the medbay, her vitals steady but shallow. Bob had a shattered femur. And the rest of the team? Shaken, silent. Gutted.

Val nodded grimly. “He has a thing for intimacy. Obsession. Pleasure dynamics. We’ve confirmed multiple reports of hidden surveillance systems in his personal properties—bedroom cameras, two-way mirrors, sound feeds. He gets off on devotion. Believability. If he doesn’t think a couple is real, he loses interest.”

She clicked again.

The screen split into four windows—each showing images of previous “guests” Dragomir had hosted. Couples entwined on silk sheets, touching and moaning while he watched. Some of them clearly unaware. Others? Not so much.

You felt your stomach turn.

“You want us to put on a fucking show?” Bucky said, his voice low and ragged. His knuckles had gone white against the table. “You want us to—what? Be bait?”

Val looked at him, her expression unreadable. “I want you to seduce him. You and her—” she nodded toward you, “—are the only ones who haven’t been made. You’re both unknown to him. He doesn’t know your faces, your aliases, your scent. We can plant the intel we need to get you in as high-end mercenary clients who are… deeply in love.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose.

“Dragomir will only engage with couples who seem hopelessly devoted to each other. Who act like they can’t go five minutes without touching. He likes to observe. Likes to believe that he’s discovering something private. The second he thinks it’s fake, he pulls away. And once he walks, he disappears. We don’t get another chance.”

The air in the room went thinner.

“Let me be clear,” Val said, stopping directly in front of the screen. “We’re not authorizing an assassination. This man is too valuable. He’s the only one who knows where several trafficking channels intersect. Names, drop sites, payment routes—some of them tied to Hydra remnants. We need him alive. We need his files. We need his silence afterward.”

She turned back toward the screen and pointed to the shimmering, golden glow of Club Vânătorii—Dragomir’s favorite hunting ground.

“He’ll be there. He’ll be watching. And he’ll only bite if you convince him that you two can’t keep your hands—or mouths—off each other.”

You sat back slowly, your pulse thudding in your throat.

Across from you, Bucky’s gaze finally met yours.

There was no joke in it. No smirk. Just that fierce, flickering heat you knew lived under the surface. The soldier and the man, warring beneath his skin. A question lingering in the air between you like smoke:

Can we do this?

Val’s voice broke the silence. “You’ll have one night. A single window to get close enough to draw him into a private room. Once he invites you in, we can activate the signal and move to extraction. But he has to invite you. And he won’t if he’s not convinced. You need to act like you’d die for each other. Like no one else exists when you’re in the same room.”

“We get it, Val. Touching. Hands all over each other.” You snap, jaw clenched. The room had narrowed to you and Bucky and the impossible tension already crackling beneath your skin.

He looked like he wanted to say something. But didn’t. Not yet.

“Are there any questions?” Val asked.

Yelena raised her hand, weakly. “Yeah. Who’s going to clean up the puddle when she makes him moan for the first time?”

There was a short, startled bark of laughter from Bob, even through the pain. You shook your head, a flicker of a smirk crossing your lips.

But Bucky? Bucky’s jaw twitched. His tongue swiped across his bottom lip like he was already imagining it.

The smirk vanished. Your throat went dry.

“We leave in 48 hours,” Val said, nodding to the tech team. “Get fitted, get your backstories straight, and get ready to cross some boundaries. This mission won’t be comfortable. It won’t be clean. But it will be worth it if we bring that son of a bitch down.”

She paused at the door.

“And remember… whatever you have to do to get him alone?” Her voice dropped. “Do it.”

Then she was gone.

And you were left staring at Bucky across the table—both of you burning with unspoken words, with heat, with the knowledge that everything was about to change.

Forever.

-

The safehouse bedroom was dimly lit, bathed in the amber glow of a single bedside lamp. The kind of low light that made things feel softer than they were. Or maybe it was just that everything had been so sharp lately—every word, every touch, every stare—that now, in the stillness, the quiet felt unnatural. Unsettling.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your legs crossed at the ankle, your fingers twisting nervously in your lap. Bucky stood near the door, arms crossed, the strain in his shoulders visible even through his black t-shirt. His jaw had been clenched for ten minutes now. You weren’t sure he’d unclenched it since the briefing.

Neither of you had spoken yet. Not really.

He finally broke the silence. “We need to talk.”

You nodded once, glancing up. “Yeah. We do.”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, but not all the way. Not yet. “This mission’s not like anything we’ve done before. It’s not just physical—it’s… performative. Emotional. We’re not just gonna be touching. We’re gonna be selling something that people only believe when they feel it.”

You swallowed hard. “We’ll have to convince them we’re obsessed with each other.”

His eyes met yours then, dark and searching. “We’ll have to touch like we mean it. Look at each other like we’d fuck right there on the floor if no one stopped us.”

The breath caught in your throat. You looked away, heart fluttering.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “That came out—”

“No,” you cut in. “You’re right. We have to talk about it honestly. What we’re willing to do. What’s too far.”

Bucky stepped closer now, kneeling in front of you so your knees were almost brushing. He rested his forearms on his thighs, hands loosely clasped. “So let’s lay it out. Boundaries. What are yours?”

You hesitated, then shook your head slowly. “I don’t know if I can afford to have them on this one.”

His brows drew together. “Don’t say that.”

“No, I mean it. We both know what kind of man Dragomir is. If we hold back even a little, he’ll see it. He’ll know. We don’t get to flinch. And I’m not letting what happened to Yelena happen to anyone else. Not again.”

The silence between you buzzed. His fingers tightened slightly where they rested, and then his voice dropped low.

“So… kissing?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

“Touching?”

“Yes.”

“Hands, mouths, grinding…?”

You flushed, but you didn’t look away. “Yes.”

His throat bobbed. “Clothes on or off?”

“If he asks, or if it gets us closer to the goal… yes.”

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment he didn’t breathe. You didn’t either.

“And after?” he asked quietly. “When the mission’s over?”

You didn’t have an answer to that. Not one you could say out loud.

“I trust you,” you said instead. “To know the difference between the mission and something else. I trust you not to hurt me.”

Something flickered across his face then. His jaw relaxed just a little. His eyes softened, but didn’t lose their intensity.

“I trust you too,” he said. “Which is why I wanted to ask…”

He trailed off.

“What?” you asked, voice barely a whisper.

“That first kiss.” His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered. “We’re gonna have to do it in front of him. In front of a whole damn room. But maybe it’d be better… if it wasn’t the first time.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“I’m not saying we—” He scratched at the back of his neck, looking up through thick lashes. “Not for fun. Just so we’re not surprised by it. So it doesn’t feel… wrong. So we don’t flinch.”

But that wasn’t the whole truth. You both knew it. Because part of you—maybe a selfish part—wanted that first kiss to be yours.

Not the mission’s. Not Dragomir’s. Yours.

You nodded slowly. “Okay. Let’s get it out of the way.”

Neither of you moved at first. Then Bucky rose from the floor, the air shifting with him. He sat beside you on the bed, closer than he had to be, knees brushing yours, one hand bracing against the mattress behind you. The other hovered—hesitant—by your jaw.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

You nodded once.

His hand cupped your cheek, warm and calloused. You leaned into the touch without thinking.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured.

“I won’t,” you breathed.

He moved in slowly, like the moment might shatter if he rushed it. His nose brushed yours. His thumb stroked along your jaw.

Then—finally—his mouth found yours.

It was gentle at first. Searching. Not a performance. Not a test. Just Bucky, kissing you like he needed to know what you tasted like. Like maybe he’d thought about this before, late at night, when you were both supposed to be sleeping. The kiss deepened slowly, his lips sliding over yours with more confidence, more heat, as you melted into him.

You brought your hand up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. He groaned softly into your mouth.

God. He was warm. Steady. Big. You could feel every inch of him where your bodies brushed, and yet he wasn’t rushing it. Wasn’t pressing. Just holding you, kissing you, his thumb still stroking your cheek like he was grounding himself.

When you finally broke apart, your chest rose and fell like you’d been holding your breath for hours. You opened your eyes.

So did he.

No one spoke for a long beat. Then Bucky gave a quiet laugh, voice rough. “That didn’t feel like practice.”

Your lips curved, slow and cautious. “No. It didn’t.”

He reached out, tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I just—” You looked at him fully. “I wanted that one to be real.”

A pause. “It was.”

Another pause. You both stood slowly, feet unsure beneath you.

“Let’s get some rest,” Bucky said, voice low.

You followed him to the door. But before he opened it, his hand found yours and squeezed once.

Not for the mission.

Just for you.

-

The car door shut behind you with a heavy thump, the low click of Bucky’s hand on the small of your back guiding you toward the entrance of Club Vânătorii. It rose like a mirage out of the cobblestone back alleys of Bucharest, nestled behind wrought-iron gates and draped in decadence. A converted hunting lodge, if the rumors were true—though now the only thing being hunted here were thrills.

The air outside smelled like midnight. Warm, pulsing with electricity and expensive perfume. You could already hear the bass thrumming through the walls, deep and slow, like a heartbeat echoing in the dark.

You adjusted the hem of your dress—though really, there wasn’t much hem to adjust. The silk barely passed your upper thighs, a shade of champagne that shimmered like skin under the lights. It clung to your body like it had been poured on, every curve and hollow wrapped in temptation. Thin straps kissed your shoulders. The open back left you exposed down to the waist. One shift of movement, and the side slit promised glimpses of your upper thigh. Everything was intentional. The mission required it.

Still, when Bucky’s eyes dropped to take you in fully for the first time, you had to clench your fists to hide the way your fingers trembled.

He didn’t say anything—not at first. Just stared. Slow. Hungry. Then his tongue swept across his bottom lip, and he muttered under his breath, “Jesus.”

Your pulse fluttered. “You good?” you asked, voice light, teasing.

He met your eyes, that look in them dark and wicked and so very male. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled sweetly. “Try not to die until the mission’s over, Sergeant.”

He wore black tonight. No tie. Just a deep charcoal silk shirt unbuttoned low enough to reveal the edge of a thick chain at his collarbone, the faint dusting of chest hair peeking through. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing the shimmer of his metal arm and the flex of thick forearms that made every woman—and more than a few men—watching your approach twist in place to get a better look. His slacks were cut to frame his thighs and hips perfectly, and when he moved, he did it with the loose, lazy power of someone who knew exactly how he looked in every shadow.

You weren’t walking into a club. You were walking into a performance. Two lovers so obsessed with one another they could barely make it through the front doors without tearing at each other’s clothes.

The bouncer greeted you with a nod and a knowing smirk. Bucky slid a black card across the scanner without breaking eye contact with you. It beeped green. The doors parted.

And you stepped into the lion’s den.

The heat of the club hit you immediately—lavender and champagne curling through the air, light pulsing low and golden from crystal chandeliers overhead. The music wasn’t pounding the way most clubs did. It was slower. Darker. Built to match the rhythm of something else entirely.

Bodies moved across the floor like smoke—touching, grinding, kissing in dark corners, mouths open and greedy. There were no rules here. No shame. Just couples and triads and shadows of lust cast long beneath velvet light.

Eyes tracked you from the moment you entered. You felt it like static on your skin. Curious, covetous. Assessing. Everyone in this room was playing a game, and you were the newest piece on the board.

Bucky’s hand stayed firm on your lower back, his thumb brushing bare skin, grounding you. You leaned into him with an easy smile, tipping your face up so your lips almost brushed his jaw.

“See anyone looking at us?” you murmured.

He nodded, pretending to scan the room. “Everyone.”

“But not him,” you said.

“Not yet.”

You both knew why. Dragomir didn’t rush. He liked the chase. The anticipation. He waited until a couple looked ripe with lust—until they were fraying at the edges and nearly undone—before he made his move. It turned his stomach to see falsehood. He wanted desperation. Craving. He wanted to believe he was interrupting something sacred.

You exhaled slowly and let your body lean more into Bucky’s, hips brushing his. He turned his head slightly, letting his nose skim the shell of your ear.

“You’re doing good, doll,” he murmured, voice rough silk. “Real good.”

Your stomach twisted, heat blooming low.

Couples swayed around you. Some danced. Some didn’t bother. A woman near the edge of the bar moaned openly into her partner’s mouth as his hand disappeared under her dress. Another pair lounged on a couch, the woman’s thighs spread around her girlfriend’s knee as she rocked lazily, glassy-eyed.

You weren’t sure if it was an act anymore. You weren’t sure if any of this was an act.

“Let’s give him something to look at,” you whispered. Bucky’s eyes gleamed.

You turned in toward him, draping an arm over his shoulder and letting your fingers toy with the chain at his chest. His hand slid to your waist, then lower, gripping the soft curve of your hip. You pressed your body to his—slow, syrupy—your mouths close, lips brushing as if you couldn’t bear to be apart for another second.

He kissed your jaw.

You tilted your head back, giving him your throat. It wasn’t a kiss meant to be soft or sweet. It was indulgent. Lavish. The kind of kiss meant to be watched.

When he pulled back, his eyes were darker. A flicker of something feral beneath the polished control. You brushed your fingers against the edge of his waistband, voice sultry. “Think anyone bought it?”

His smile was slow, dangerous. “Does it matter?”

You paused, heart thudding. “No,” you said finally. “It doesn’t.”

He leaned in again, lips barely grazing yours. “Then let’s make it count.”

And behind you—unseen but definitely there—a new pair of eyes began to watch.

-

The lounge wasn’t part of the main club floor. It was darker, quieter, drenched in gold light and voyeurism. Plush velvet seating curved around the room like a theater. There was no stage, but everyone here knew the truth: you were the show.

This was where Dragomir’s guests lingered once they’d passed his first test. The ones he liked to watch but hadn’t quite settled on yet. Some were couples; others, strangers caught in the heat of the night. You could feel the atmosphere sink under your skin as you stepped through the archway, like walking into warm water. The music here pulsed softer, deeper. You could hear whispers, moans, the slick slide of skin on skin if you listened hard enough.

The couch Bucky chose was low and wide, its cushions soft like sin. He sat first, legs spread with casual dominance, one arm stretched across the backrest. You followed his silent cue and climbed onto his lap like you belonged there. Like this was your place. You weren’t even pretending.

His hand slipped around your waist as you adjusted yourself over his thighs, dress riding high, heat blooming beneath it. He didn’t speak at first. He just let you settle.

And then—his metal hand moved.

It brushed along your side, cold against your skin where the dress dipped dangerously low. You sucked in a breath at the shock of it, goosebumps prickling down your body. The chill of vibranium snuck beneath the silk, dragging slowly along your ribs with smooth, calculated pressure.

You didn’t flinch outwardly—but you knew he felt it.

Because a heartbeat later, his flesh hand came to rest on the inside of your bare thigh. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t grope. He just… held. His thumb brushed up, soft and apologetic, like a silent I know. He drew a line over your skin that burned hotter than the cold had.

And then his mouth was at your ear. “Don’t let them get to you,” he whispered. His breath tickled your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Eyes on me, okay, doll?”

You didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. You let your lips part in a quiet, knowing smile as your eyes fluttered shut for one long moment, and when you opened them again—you played the part.

You leaned into his body, your back arching subtly, breasts brushing his chest. You let your hand drift up his chest, fingers toying lazily with the buttons of his silk shirt, undoing one. Then another. Just enough to expose the firm plane of his chest, the dip of muscle, the necklace glinting beneath.

Someone across the room was watching. Maybe multiple someones. It didn’t matter.

Your smirk was slow. Teasing. A picture of indulgence.

The game had begun.

Bucky’s grip on your thigh tightened slightly, his thumb still stroking as his metal hand swept broader circles along your side, palm flexing against your ribcage. The contrast of sensation—cold steel and warm callused skin—was dizzying. You shifted subtly in his lap, one of your hands rising to ghost along the side of his neck before sliding back into his hair. Short now. Still thick. Still something you’d been aching to touch since the moment he cut it.

You dragged your nails lightly over his scalp. He made a sound—low in his throat, nearly inaudible—but you felt it, the way it vibrated under your hands. His mouth returned to your skin, lips brushing your jaw before drifting lower, teeth grazing your earlobe with a sharp nip.

You gasped—real, involuntary—as his metal thumb slid higher along your ribs at the same time. The long sweep of it just barely catching the underside of your breast before retreating.

Your thighs clenched around him. He noticed.

His hand stilled on your thigh, fingers splaying, possessive. His metal hand returned to its slow, lazy exploration. He wasn’t being bold—not yet. But he didn’t need to be. Not when every graze of skin, every press of his mouth, was enough to send your thoughts scattering like glass.

You tilted your head, letting it fall back against his shoulder as his mouth found the curve of your neck. He didn’t kiss. He hovered. Teased. Let his breath wash over sensitive skin until your nipples tightened, your chest feeling heavy and achy beneath the silk.

You arched into him just a little more. Not because the room demanded it. But because you did. You needed to feel more of him.

A server passed nearby, placing two glasses of champagne on the table in front of you without a word. You barely noticed.

What you did notice was the moment a third person approached. A man in a rich burgundy suit, dark hair, darker eyes. He stopped in front of your couch, gaze raking over you with open interest.

Swinger. Not the target. But interested.

“I don’t suppose there’s room for one more?” he asked, his voice slick.

Bucky didn’t so much as twitch. His mouth was still on your neck, metal hand still painting circles on your side.

Then—very deliberately—he let his flesh hand slide an inch higher between your thighs. You inhaled sharply. That was not just for show.

The man raised his eyebrows in amusement.

You shifted in Bucky’s lap, throwing your arm around his neck as you turned your head, brushing your lips against his jaw.

“Why’d you stop, Ștefan?” you purred, using the code name Val had given him for the op. Your voice dripped with seduction. You spread your legs just slightly wider in his lap. For him. “Don’t be rude to our audience.”

That did it.

Bucky’s mouth crashed into yours—not soft, not hesitant. Hungry. Hot.

His hand moved between your legs fully now, not breaking rhythm, thumb pressing teasing circles high along the inside of your thigh but stopping just shy of slipping under the hem of your underwear. His metal hand curled around your side, rising to cup the underside of your breast, thumb brushing the soft swell of it through the silk.

You moaned into the kiss. Your hands were in his hair, tangling as you rolled your hips subtly against him, feeling the shift in his body as he hardened beneath you.

The man in the burgundy suit chuckled and walked away. He wasn’t your concern.

But Bucky was.

You pulled back from the kiss just enough to murmur his name—your real voice, your real self, slipping out like a prayer. “Bucky…”

His head dropped to your neck, breath shaky, lips brushing your skin.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“So are you.” Then your lips found his ear, and you said it—soft, broken, real. “Bucky. Please.”

It left your lips like a secret, a breathless confession shaped by the ache building low in your belly and the press of his body under yours. You hadn’t meant to say it—hadn’t planned it—but the words slipped out before you could call them back.

And the second they did, everything changed.

His breath hitched. You felt it against your throat, warm and uneven. His grip on your thigh faltered for a split second—just long enough to reveal that he’d heard it. That he’d felt it.

That it had shattered whatever wall he’d still been clinging to.

His mouth was still on your neck, parted just enough for you to feel the edge of his teeth when he exhaled. Then, slowly, deliberately, his flesh hand moved.

Down. Between your legs. Past the hem of your dress.

And under.

Your breath stopped entirely as he pushed your underwear to the side, fingers dragging through the slick heat that had been building for far too long. You choked on a sound and caught his bottom lip between your teeth, biting just hard enough to stop yourself from crying out.

He groaned—loudly—his body jerking beneath you, hips shifting up into the cradle of your thighs like he couldn’t help it.

“Fuck, doll,” he whispered, the words ragged against your skin. “You’re soaked.”

Your entire body flushed.

It wasn’t the mission anymore.

It wasn’t the game.

It was him.

You.

And this unbearable gravity that had been pulling you closer and closer for weeks, months—maybe longer than either of you could admit.

Bucky’s fingers slid along your seam, teasing but not entering, stroking you in maddening, gliding sweeps. His thumb circled your clit—slow, careful—like he was memorizing the way your hips twitched against his hand. You dug your nails into his shoulders, thighs tensing around his lap, your head falling back.

He watched every second of it.

His metal hand, still cradling your ribs, slid higher, cupping your breast through the thin silk and dragging his thumb lazily over your peaked nipple. It was too much. Too good. Your hips rolled without your permission, grinding against his hand in desperate little jerks.

His voice dropped, gravel thick and filthy-sweet.

“Look at you,” he murmured, nipping your jaw. “Shaking like this.”

“Because of you,” you gasped, the words catching as he flicked his thumb against you just right.

“Yeah?” His lips were at your ear again. “You gonna come like this, pretty girl? Just from my fingers?”

Your answer was a strangled whimper.

And then he slid two fingers inside you.

You saw stars.

Your back arched instantly, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as your body clamped around him. He filled you perfectly. Not deep, not hard—yet—but slow, deliberate thrusts that had your thighs trembling and your core tightening, fluttering. He curled his fingers with each stroke, grazing that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back.

Your mouth found his again, desperate and open. He caught you easily, kissing you through it, swallowing your sounds and giving you his own.

His tongue licked into you, hot and wet, as his fingers worked you faster. You rocked against him, grinding down onto his lap with reckless need. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. All you knew was the rising, sweeping pressure winding tighter and tighter in your core, your body climbing toward a peak you couldn’t stop if you tried.

And he knew.

“Come for me,” he whispered into your mouth. “C’mon, baby. Show them who you belong to.”

You broke apart.

The orgasm hit hard—fast and molten—your body jerking in his lap as wave after wave rolled through you. You buried your face in his neck, biting down into his skin to keep the scream inside. Your thighs clamped around his, your whole body shaking.

You heard the groan he let out when he felt it—felt you clench around him, soaking his hand, your slick dripping down his fingers. He was panting now, his hips twitching beneath you, his cock straining against his pants and pressing against your soaked core through the fabric.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, sounding half-wrecked himself. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You couldn’t answer. Not yet.

You were still coming down, chest heaving, hands clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to gravity.

You’d forgotten the room. Forgotten the watchers. Forgotten the mission.

You remembered only him.

The heat of his breath. The strength of his body. The filthy, possessive way he held you through it all.

The way you never wanted to leave his lap.

Time passed in uneven heartbeats.

You lifted your head slowly, blinking, trying to gather your voice.

“Wait—” But before you could finish, a shadow approached. And everything snapped back into focus.

Dragomir.

He stood across from your couch, dressed in dove-grey, the fabric of his suit sharp enough to slice. His hair was slicked back, dark eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier light. He held a crystal glass in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket like this was just another casual evening.

But he was watching you like prey.

He said something in Romanian. “Ștefan, preferi sexul dimineața sau seara?” Ștefan, do you prefer sex in the morning or the evening?

You only caught Bucky’s alias—Ștefan—and the word sex. The blood rushing in your ears as you recovered from your earth shattering orgasm not doing you any favors.

Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He stayed exactly as he was—one hand still between your thighs, your body still curled in his lap, lips brushing your jaw.

Then he dragged his hand out from between your legs—slowly—making sure Dragomir could see every second of it. Your breath caught as the cold air hit your soaked core, your body still sensitive and twitching.

Bucky lifted his hand to his mouth.

And licked his fingers clean.

Your entire body shuddered.

He smiled, the curve of it sharp and lazy.

Then answered in flawless Romanian, voice thick with desire: “Cu ea? În fiecare oră, dacă se poate.” With her? Every hour, if that’s possible.

You nearly came again just from hearing it.

Dragomir’s gaze turned molten. He smiled like a man who had just found his next meal. “Very good,” he purred. “I shall be back.”

And then he walked away.

Bucky exhaled, finally turning his attention back to you. You were still trembling. He brushed his lips against your temple and whispered, “You okay?”

You nodded. Just barely. “I have to keep going,” you breathed, heart still pounding. “We almost have him.”

His voice cracked on the next words. “Are you sure?”

You moved on instinct, shifting in his lap—and felt him. Impossibly hard. Thighs trembling beneath you from how tightly he was holding back. The raw want in his eyes made your breath catch all over again.

You kissed him—slow this time—pressing your mouth to his with aching intent.

Bucky understood without another word. Maybe he always had. He slid his hand between your thighs again, knuckles brushing your inner leg as you rocked forward in his lap, opening yourself to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And it was.

Because this wasn’t for the mission anymore. Not really. You could tell by the way his breath hitched when your slick heat met his fingers again, the way his mouth dragged along your collarbone like he was starved.

His lips ghosted against your throat. “You’re still trembling,” he murmured.

“For you,” you whispered against his lips. “That’s for you.” He groaned, forehead falling to yours.

His fingers were slick with you. Heat pulsed between your thighs, a steady, aching throb that hadn’t dulled even after the first orgasm wracked your body. If anything, the edge had sharpened—your nerve endings now hypersensitive, every brush of his skin against yours sending sparks through your veins.

His fingers circled your clit again, not gently this time—with purpose. You clung to his shoulders, one hand in his short hair, the other gripping the fabric over his chest to anchor yourself as your hips chased the motion, grinding down against his hand like you needed him to ruin you.

Your thighs were shaking. Your dress had hiked up so high it was barely covering anything anymore, the silk bunched around your waist. Anyone watching could see what was happening—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The entire room could’ve gone up in flames, and you would’ve stayed right there, moving against him, breath stuttering, pleasure curling tight and fast in your belly.

You pressed your forehead to his.

“Bucky,” you breathed, barely able to say his name, mouth quiet. “Don’t—don’t stop—”

He didn’t. His fingers worked faster, his other arm tight around your waist to hold you steady, to keep you close. His voice was ragged and low, each word kissed along your jaw between strokes.

“Come on, sweetheart. Come for me. You can do it again. Let go for me—just like before.”

Your breath broke on a sob.

And then you did. It ripped through you like a storm, your body tensing, muscles clenching as you came around his fingers, the pressure snapping all at once in a burst of heat and helpless motion. You buried your face in his neck, gasping into his skin, hips still twitching as aftershocks rolled through you.

He held you through it. Let you ride it out, stroking slow, languid circles against your clit as your body trembled against his.

Your thighs were slick. Your skin was flushed and glowing, pulse hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears. You didn’t even realize you were still clinging to him, fingers curled tight into his shirt, until his hand came up to brush your hair gently back from your face.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice ruined and warm.

You nodded, dazed.

His eyes darkened. His hand still glistened with your slick, and the hunger in his gaze returned full force as he took your chin gently between two fingers, guiding your mouth back to his.

He kissed you slowly this time. Deep. Possessive. You whimpered into it, letting your body melt into his.

And that’s when the air shifted.

You felt it before you saw him.

Bucky’s hand didn’t stop moving. Didn’t falter. But his eyes flicked up—subtle, practiced—tracking the figure returning to your side of the lounge.

Cristian Dragomir.

The man was smiling now. Not the courteous kind. Not even the smarmy, rich bastard kind. No. This was something darker.

He came to stand just feet from your couch, watching as you barely managed to lift your head from where you’d collapsed against Bucky’s shoulder. Your dress was askew, cheeks flushed, lips red from his mouth.

You weren’t pretending anymore, and he knew it. Dragomir took a slow sip from his drink, eyes gleaming with something that looked far too much like satisfaction.

“You two,” he said, his Romanian accent curling around the words, “are… extraordinary.”

Bucky didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He kept one hand at your waist, the other hidden between your thighs still—but still. You let out a shaky breath and met Dragomir’s gaze.

He smiled wider. “You’ve impressed me. Very few ever do.”

You fought the instinct to shrink back. Instead, you shifted slightly in Bucky’s lap, letting your fingers trail idly across his jaw like you were that girl—intoxicated, enthralled, insatiable.

Dragomir watched the gesture with hooded eyes.

“I think,” he said finally, “we should get to know each other better. Somewhere more private.”

He turned on his heel with the smooth confidence of a man used to being obeyed. “Come. My personal rooms are this way.”

And then he walked off—just like that.

Not a request. A command.

You sat frozen for half a second.

Then Bucky leaned into your ear and whispered, “We’ve got him.”

You nodded, nerves returning now that the haze had lifted. Your legs felt like jelly. You didn’t trust yourself to stand.

Bucky kissed your cheek. “Let me help.”

You shifted off his lap, your thighs clenching involuntarily from the sensitivity still echoing through your body. His arm went around your waist like it was second nature, guiding you to your feet. You smoothed your dress down as best you could. Your underwear was still shoved to the side, your skin warm and swollen with afterglow.

He looked at you—really looked—and whispered, “You’re perfect.”

You swallowed thickly. So did he. You were both in way too deep. But there was no time to think about that now.

Because Dragomir had taken the bait.

And the trap was about to be sprung.

-

The hallway to Dragomir’s private suite stretched long and luxurious, the marble floors glistening beneath warm golden sconces. You walked beside Bucky in silence, your heels echoing against the polished stone, your hand resting lightly in the crook of his elbow. From behind, anyone watching would see the perfect picture of a woman who’d just been thoroughly ruined by the man on her arm. Which, in a way, wasn’t wrong.

You could still feel his fingers between your thighs. Still felt the quiver in your muscles and the ghost of your last climax lingering like perfume on your skin.

At the end of the corridor stood a tall door flanked by two guards, both built like ex-special forces. They said nothing—just opened the door and gestured you in.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

Not a bedroom. Not a lounge.

A theater.

The suite was elegant and sprawling, the walls paneled in dark wood with sleek leather couches and a wet bar gleaming in the corner. But the focal point was the back wall, made entirely of glass—or so it seemed. The kind of glass that reflected the room back at you… until you looked closer.

And realized it didn’t reflect at all.

Your stomach turned as you stepped inside. That wasn’t a mirror. It was a window.

A two-way one.

Behind that glass, Dragomir was watching.

Somewhere in that darkness, hidden and invisible, he was waiting. Observing. Probably sitting in a plush chair with a drink in hand, waiting to see if you could prove you were worth his time. Worth his secrets. Worth the invitation into the next layer of his empire.

The door shut behind you with a soft click.

Bucky stood beside you, silent. And then his hand found yours, fingers lacing through yours with slow certainty.

It was nothing the mission required. But it made your heart stutter anyway. He guided you toward the large, round bed in the center of the room—more of a platform, really. Draped in deep crimson sheets. Framed perfectly for the man behind the mirror.

You sat first. Bucky stood before you for a long moment, jaw tense, breathing slow.

“Eyes are on us,” he murmured.

“I know.”

You didn’t say it, but you could feel your pulse thrumming in every inch of your body. The last time had been overwhelming, raw. A wave of heat and desperation in the middle of a crowd. But now?

Now there was silence. And space. And with it came awareness. Of what you were doing. Of what it meant. Of how much more this would demand of you.

Bucky’s gaze softened. “You okay?”

You nodded. “You?”

A beat passed.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I will be. Just… follow my lead.”

You whispered, “Always.”

Then he moved. He stepped between your knees, bending slightly to press his mouth to yours—and this time, there was no show.

He didn’t kiss you like a man performing for a crowd. He kissed you like someone who’d been dying to do it for a long, long time. His lips slotted over yours with heat and purpose, coaxing rather than demanding. You kissed him back, hands rising to frame his face, thumbs brushing over the stubble on his cheeks as his tongue slid against yours in slow, deliberate strokes.

When he pulled back, just a breath apart, his hand came up to cradle the side of your neck. “Lie back,” he whispered, voice low and steady.

You obeyed, reclining onto the bed, the cool satin of the sheets a jarring contrast to your heated skin. Your dress had already ridden up—one of the straps slipping off your shoulder—and Bucky caught it between his fingers, dragging it down slowly, reverently.

He bared you inch by inch.

And behind the glass, Dragomir watched. Leaned forward, even. But Bucky didn’t spare the mirror even a glance.

His eyes were on you. He shifted down the bed, pushing the skirt of your dress higher until it bunched at your waist, leaving your thighs bare to the air. He paused at your knees, trailing his hands upward, caressing your skin like it was a holy ritual. His mouth followed—planting kisses on the inside of your knee, then higher, then higher still.

Your breath hitched as he pressed his cheek to your thigh.

And then—he looked up.

Not at the mirror.

At you.

There was something in his eyes then. A silent apology. And maybe more than that. Maybe a promise.

Then he dipped his head. His breath fanned over your core, still tender and slick with arousal, still aching for more.

You gasped, fingers clenching the sheets. But he didn’t touch—not really. His lips ghosted along the crease of your thigh, featherlight, and when you arched instinctively toward him, he held you gently in place with one strong hand spread over your belly.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

His nose skimmed against you. His mouth hovered, lips parted. The faintest brush—like the first exhale of a prayer. Enough to make your hips jerk. Still, he didn’t move closer. Didn’t give you what you were begging for without words.

He just watched your reactions. Fascinated. Wrecked.

Like he was coming undone from seeing you this way—laid out, trembling, open for him and only him. You whimpered, toes curling. His breath stuttered against you.

Your hand found his hair, carding through it slowly as your thighs fell farther apart in silent invitation. But he still didn’t touch.

He kissed the inside of your thigh again, then the other.

His mouth traveled over skin with reverence, with restraint, his hands steady on your hips like he was trying to anchor himself in the moment, trying not to cross the final line—not here. Not in front of him.

But you knew. You knew he wanted to. That he was holding back only by the barest thread. And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Or better.

Because you were holding on by a thread too. Your breath came in shallow gasps now, body twitching with every not-quite kiss, every near-touch. He murmured things into your skin—not for the mirror. For you. Little nothings in Romanian and English, reverent and dirty all at once. Like you were the offering. You were the altar.

You felt like one.

Your body was alive, sparking under every word, every pass of his breath, every scrape of his stubble. You ached for him. Craved him. And the longer he held back, the closer you came to the edge all over again—just from feeling him near you. Just from knowing he could. That he wanted to.

Then his voice reached you again, hoarse and trembling.

“I’ve never wanted anything this bad in my life.”

You believed him.

Because neither had you.

-

Time had lost all meaning.

You didn’t know how long Bucky had been teasing you—his breath ghosting over your core, his mouth tracing reverent lines along your thighs, marks littering across your skin, his words spoken so low and hungry they felt like sin itself. You’d long since stopped pretending it was just for the mission. His hands on your skin, the gentle rock of your hips against the bed, the tremble in your limbs… it was all him. All real.

And still, he hadn’t truly touched you again. He was holding the line. Barely.

But something had shifted in him. Maybe it was how you were writhing beneath him. Maybe it was because there was no hiding how badly you wanted him. You saw it in the way his mouth followed the curve of your hip like he was worshiping it. In the way he whispered your name—not the code name, not an act. Yours. Spoken like a confession. So quiet that only you could hear it.

Then you felt his hands slide up your sides again, under your dress, slow and steady. He lifted you slightly, shifting your body effortlessly, and you let him—already boneless, dazed. It wasn’t until he pushed you gently down onto your stomach that you registered what was happening.

You gasped softly as the cool silk of the bed kissed your cheek, your chest flush against the sheets. One of Bucky’s arms curled around your hips, lifting them with ease. You followed, rising on your knees as he settled you in place—face down, ass up, utterly exposed.

Your panties were already shoved to the side, soaked and ruined. Now, he tugged them the rest of the way down and slipped them off.

You heard him sigh quietly through his nose, as if the sight of you this way was almost too much. Then the faint rustle of fabric as he pocketed them. No question. No comment. Just a silent claiming.

Your heart thundered.

Then—

His hard cock slid against your bare cunt, rutting just slightly. You cried out against him, rocking your hips back to meet his. His mouth found your lower back.

The softest press of lips. Then another. Slower. Lower.

He kissed down the curve of your spine like he was tracing a roadmap he’d studied in dreams, all while rocking his hips against yours. Each press of his lips made your thighs twitch, your breath catch. You bit the sheets as you felt his tongue sweep along the curve above your ass, and a sound escaped you—a desperate, needy whimper you couldn’t choke down.

Bucky groaned behind you, metal hand gripping your hip a little tighter. You were seconds from begging him to stop playing and just take you when the door behind you clicked.

A soft sound.

But deafening in the silence of the moment.

You froze. So did Bucky. You felt him still behind you, his hand still firm on your hip. He was the only thing anchoring you as the spell shattered and reality rushed back in like a storm.

A new presence stepped into the room.

“I must confess,” Dragomir said, his voice lazy and indulgent, “I was enjoying the view from behind the glass… but I find myself curious for something closer.”

Your stomach dropped.

You stayed frozen, heart pounding against the mattress, not daring to move. Bucky’s body shifted behind you, rising slowly—calculated. Smooth. A shadow cut between you and the mirror now.

You couldn’t see his face. But you felt the change in the air.

The heat gone cold. The hunter returned.

Bucky’s voice, when it came, was low and calm. Measured like a blade being drawn.

“I think you’ve seen enough.”

Dragomir chuckled. “You think so? I could watch her for hours. Your little songbird… the way she opens for you…”

“I said,” Bucky repeated, voice darker now, “you’ve seen enough.”

You chanced a glance over your shoulder—and caught just a flash.

His face. Calm. Deadly. The glint of something hidden in his hand. Just below the waistline of his pants, he drew it in one fluid motion—silent, precise.

The tranq gun.

He didn’t wait.

The second Dragomir stepped close enough to breathe your air, Bucky raised the weapon and fired.

The dart hit center mass. Dragomir’s smirk faltered. Then he stumbled backward, hands grasping at his chest. Bucky stepped forward, shielding your body from view as the arms dealer crumpled to the floor without a word.

Just like that—done.

The room was still for a moment. Then Bucky turned, tucking the gun away in the hidden strap at his ankle before helping you up from the bed, one hand steady on your bare back.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quiet, real.

You nodded, tugging your dress down with shaky hands.

He reached out and framed your face gently between both palms—flesh and metal, warm and cold. His forehead pressed to yours.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Let’s get out of here.”

-

The rest moved fast.

Bucky carried Dragomir’s unconscious body over one shoulder while guiding you down a back corridor that the surveillance team had mapped earlier. Your comms buzzed back to life as you neared the extraction point, a coded pulse signaling successful acquisition.

You barely registered it.

Your mind was still on the bedroom. On his mouth. On the way his body had moved against yours like he needed you.

You weren’t sure if you were walking or floating.

Bucky didn’t let go of your hand the entire time.

Even when he had to maneuver Dragomir into the waiting car, he kept his fingers curled around yours like a lifeline, like he couldn’t bear to break contact. When the doors closed behind you both, and the car peeled off into the Romanian night, he finally looked at you again.

You stared at each other in silence.

There was no mask now. No act. Just the aftershock of what you’d done—and what it meant.

Your dress was wrinkled. His shirt was open. And your panties were still in his pocket.

But the mission was done.

And nothing would ever be the same.

-

The silence was louder than any explosion you’d ever heard.

It followed you both as you left the mission behind—the body delivered, the asset secured, the team informed. It followed you through the late-night drive across the countryside, headlights streaking through endless dark. It followed you into the safe house tucked deep in the Carpathians, past stone walls and creaking floors, a fire already smoldering in the hearth.

It followed you down the hall when you didn’t speak. When Bucky didn’t reach for you. And it wrapped around you like fog when you shut the bathroom door behind you and turned the water on hot enough to scald.

You stood under the spray far too long, hands braced against the cool tile, water pounding your back like it could scrub off the feel of his fingers, his mouth, his voice. But it couldn’t. You still felt him. Not just on your skin.

Inside.

You hadn’t meant to lose yourself in it. But somewhere between the second kiss and the second orgasm, between the filthy Romanian murmurs and the aching way he’d kissed your shoulder, something had changed.

It had been a mission.

And then it hadn’t.

You wrapped yourself in a towel, still wet, and stared at your reflection. Your skin was flushed, your lips pink and full. Your thighs were sore and covered in his marks. Your chest still rose and fell like you hadn’t caught your breath since that room.

You were trembling.

But not from fear. Not even from adrenaline. You were trembling because you still wanted him.

And the worst part? You weren’t sure if that made you brave—or weak.

The kitchen smelled like garlic and rosemary when you padded in barefoot, hair damp, body wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt you found folded at the edge of the bed. You hadn’t looked in the mirror again. You didn’t need to.

Bucky stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, the scarred edge of his vibranium arm catching the firelight. He stirred something in a pan—simple, warm. Comfort food. A quiet offering.

Neither of you said anything when he plated it. Pasta, toasted bread, bits of roasted chicken. He poured water into a glass and set it beside your fork. You sat across from him at the small wooden table. The only sound was the clink of silverware and the crackle of the fire.

You tried to eat. But your throat was too tight.

Bucky barely touched his food.

Eventually, he set his fork down and leaned back in his chair, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped like he didn’t trust himself to let go. You didn’t look up until he spoke.

“I shouldn’t have touched you like that.”

Your head lifted slowly.

He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at the floor, jaw tight, voice hoarse. “I let the mission get to me. Let you get to me. I was supposed to keep you safe. Not make it worse.”

Your fingers tightened around your fork. “You didn’t—”

“I did,” he cut in. “I crossed a line. You asked me to take it further, and I wanted to. That’s the part that fucks with me. I didn’t just go along with it—I wanted to be the one who made you come like that. I wanted to make you shake.”

His voice cracked at the end. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. He still wouldn’t look at you.

You set your fork down and swallowed the lump in your throat. Your voice was soft. Real.

“I’m still shaking.” His eyes flicked up to meet yours as you exhaled slowly. “Not because of shame. Or because of what you did. But because of what it felt like.”

He stared at you like you’d just confessed something sacred. “I’m not scared of you, Bucky.”

His jaw clenched. You stood up slowly, walking around the table until you were standing in front of him. His eyes tracked every step, but he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you.

You dropped to your knees between his, resting your hands on his thighs.

“You didn’t make it worse,” you whispered. “You made it harder to pretend it wasn’t real. That’s all.”

He exhaled sharply, knuckles whitening where his fists were clenched. You leaned in, resting your cheek against his knee. “I’m still aching,” you admitted, voice barely audible. “Not because you hurt me. But because you stopped.”

He let out a broken sound—somewhere between a curse and a prayer. You looked up. His hands reached for you slowly, hesitantly—one flesh, one metal. They hovered beside your face, trembling.

“I didn’t want your first time with me to be that,” he said, voice rough. “A job. A fucking performance. That wasn’t fair to you.”

You pressed into his palms. “It didn’t feel like a job.”

His eyes flicked between yours, searching, desperate. “Then what did it feel like?” he whispered.

You answered without fear. “Like you meant every touch.”

He swallowed hard. “I did.”

“And I wanted every one of them.” He groaned softly, resting his forehead against yours, like your words had cracked something open. Then you whispered the truth you’d been holding back since the moment you left that mirrored room.

“Bucky… I didn’t get to finish that last time.”

He froze.

“I came before. Twice. But when you kissed down my spine…” You swallowed. “When you said you wanted me more than anything—you didn’t even touch me and I almost—”

His breath hitched.

“And then he walked in, and I had to pretend it didn’t matter,” you whispered. “But it did.”

He sat back slightly, his voice shaking.

“You’re still hurting because of me.”

You shook your head. “I’m hurting because I wanted more of you.”

His pupils dilated. And then he stood—fast and fluid—and pulled you up into his arms like he couldn’t bear another second without you.

-

Bucky didn’t kiss you right away.

He just held you. Arms tight around your waist, face buried against your neck like he was trying to make sure you were real. His breath came hot and uneven, chest heaving like he’d run a mile. Like he was drowning and you were the first breath he’d taken in years.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. And when he finally pulled back enough to look at you, your breath caught.

He looked wrecked. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, jaw tight with restraint. Like he was on the verge of breaking—and afraid you’d vanish if he did.

“You sure?” he whispered. “Because if we do this… I won’t be able to stop. Not halfway. Not after everything I felt with you in that room.”

You lifted your chin, no hesitation in your voice. “Then don’t stop.”

And that was all it took.

He surged forward, kissing you like he’d been dying for it—like the hours of teasing and pretending and aching had finally pushed him too far. His hands were everywhere. On your waist, in your hair, sliding beneath the oversized sweatshirt you wore like it offended him. He pulled it up and off, flinging it across the room without ever breaking the kiss.

You were bare underneath. No bra. Just you—flushed and warm and already breathless. His breath stuttered as he looked at you.

“Jesus,” he muttered, cupping your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You pressed your palms to his chest, fingers tracing the lines of muscle, the old scars, the new ones. You leaned in and kissed the center of his sternum, just once, before whispering, “Touch me like it’s real now.”

Bucky groaned, low and deep in his chest. Then he lifted you.

You let out a small gasp as your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your hands in his hair, lips back on his mouth. He carried you down the hall with ease, each step fast and precise, like he couldn’t wait one more second. When he reached the bedroom, he kicked the door shut with his foot and laid you down on the bed like you were something fragile he finally got to hold without gloves.

He hovered over you, pressing kisses to your mouth, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. His metal hand smoothed up your thigh, cool and steady, grounding you. The contrast of temperature made you shiver.

“I thought about this,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Every night since Berlin. Every time you leaned on me after a mission. Every time you smiled like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.”

You reached down, palming the front of his pants—already hard, straining beneath the fabric. “I knew.”

He hissed through his teeth, hips jerking. “You little brat,” he muttered, nose brushing yours. “You knew and you still let me suffer.”

You smirked. “You liked suffering for it.”

His hand slid between your thighs. “You’re damn right I did.” Then he was kissing you again, and this time it was slower. Deeper. Not hungry. Worshipful. He slid down your body, kissing over your belly, your hips. When he pressed your thighs apart and settled between them, his eyes locked on yours like he was asking one last time—

And you whispered, “Please.”

That was it.

His mouth found you, tongue licking a firm stripe up your center that made your back arch off the mattress. Your hands flew into his hair, thighs tightening around his head as he moaned against you. He devoured you—slow, methodical, then filthy and raw. Switching from broad strokes to soft flicks, curling his tongue just right until you were crying out, incoherent.

You came on his mouth, sobbing his name, clenching around nothing—and when he pulled away, lips wet, expression dazed, he kissed the inside of your thigh and whispered, “That’s one.”

You were still shaking when he kissed back up your body, trailing his hand between your breasts, teasing a nipple with his thumb as he rolled his hips down against yours.

You felt him. Thick. Heavy. Hard.

Your breath hitched.

“Condom?” he rasped, already breathless.

You shook your head. “I want to feel all of you. Just you.”

His eyes nearly closed, like the weight of that hit too deep. “You’re sure?” he asked.

You curled your hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down until your lips barely touched. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Then you reached between your bodies and slid his pants down, freeing him from the last barrier.

He groaned into your mouth as you wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly—learning the weight of him, the thickness, the way his hips bucked under your touch.

“Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me,” he gasped, teeth gritted.

“Good,” you whispered. “I want to.”

He lined himself up, head pressed against your entrance. His gaze locked on yours, expression tender and wild all at once. Then—slowly—he pushed in.

You both gasped at the same time. He was big. Stretching you inch by inch. Filling you in a way that made your toes curl and your mouth fall open as your eyes fluttered shut.

“No,” he whispered, brushing his nose against yours. “Eyes on me.”

You opened them. You watched him sink into you, watched his lips part and his brows furrow as he seated himself fully, hips flush against yours.

“Fuck,” he choked. “You feel like—like you were made for me.”

You cupped his face with both hands, eyes stinging. Then you rocked your hips once. He whimpered. Actually whimpered as His composure shattered.

“Fuck, baby, please,” he begged, voice cracked. “I need you. I need you so bad—please let me move—please, I’ll be so good—I’ll make it so good for you—”

You held him tighter. “Then do it,” you whispered. “Make it good. Make it better.”

And he did. He started to move, pulling out slowly before sliding back in, finding a rhythm that made the stars behind your eyes pulse. He rolled his hips just right, grinding deep. His mouth kissed everywhere—your jaw, your ear, the swell of your breasts—like he couldn’t bear to leave any part of you untouched.

You locked your legs around his waist, meeting every thrust, crying out when he hit that spot that made your eyes roll back.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “That’s my girl. Take it—just like that—fuck, I love how you feel—I love—”

He stopped himself. Your breath caught. You stared at him, panting. He didn’t move. His chest heaved against yours.

The words hung in the air. You lifted a hand to his cheek. “Say it.”

His voice cracked. “I love you.” It broke from him like a storm, like a vow. Like it had been sitting in his chest for years and finally clawed its way out.

Your heart split open. “I love you,” he repeated, forehead pressing to yours. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this, but—God, I love you.”

Your hands tangled in his hair. Your lips kissed his mouth. “Then don’t stop loving me.”

His thrusts grew rougher, needier. You clung to him, gasping, crying out, right at the edge. “I’ll make it up to you,” he swore, voice unraveling. “Every day. Every time. I’ll spend my whole life making it up to you—”

Then you came. He followed with a broken cry, spilling into you, arms wrapped so tight around you it felt like he’d never let go.

And you didn’t want him to.

Not ever.

-

You woke to the smell of coffee and the feel of Bucky’s hand tracing lazy circles over your bare lower back. The sheets were a tangled mess around your hips. The mattress dipped slightly beneath him where he sat against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent so he could cradle the mug in his hand. He looked unfairly good in nothing but a pair of sweats, hair still mussed from your fingers, chest kissed in red streaks from your mouth and nails.

You blinked sleepily, cheek still pressed into his side. “You made coffee?”

“Only if you’re nice to me.”

“I was very nice to you last night,” you muttered into his ribs, voice still husky from sleep—and moaning.

“Mm.” He sipped. “Can’t argue with that.”

You stretched with a groan, feeling sore in every way that made you blush. Between your thighs, along your hips, deep in your abs. You felt… used. Loved. Feral.

Ruined.

It was glorious.

His hand trailed down your spine, fingertips dancing over a spot you remembered all too well—right above your tailbone, where his lips had lingered just before—

“You pocketed my panties yesterday,” you said suddenly, voice flat with faux accusation.

Bucky coughed into his coffee. “I… what?”

You lifted your head slowly, giving him your best death glare. “I heard it. Back at the club. Right after you pulled them off. You tucked them into your pants like a perv.”

He smirked, all teeth and sin. “Perv? That’s rude. I was safeguarding evidence.”

“Oh? Gonna tag and bag it for S.H.I.E.L.D. archives?”

“They’re in my jacket pocket,” he said proudly. “I might frame them.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Didn’t stop you from begging for it, sweetheart.” You launched a pillow at his face, which he caught one-handed like a smug bastard.

“I’m never gonna live this down,” you muttered, hiding under the sheets. “I can see the debrief now. ‘Agent compromised. Pantyless. Moaning.’ Yelena will never let me forget it.”

He reached under the covers, dragging you into his lap with zero effort, your naked body wrapping around him instinctively. He kissed your neck, slow and possessive, the hand on your thigh tracing the same maddening circles it always did when he wanted to make you squirm.

“You were more than compromised,” he murmured, voice dropping. “You were mine.” You flushed deep. But you didn’t deny it.

-

You arrived back at headquarters forty-eight hours later—rested, cleaned, still slightly raw from the way Bucky had insisted on making you come on his face before the flight. Twice.

The safehouse glow faded as soon as the elevator doors opened onto the briefing floor.

Val was waiting. So was Yelena. And Bob. And Ava. And every other team member who hadn’t been cleared for that op.

They were all staring at you.

And then—

“THERE THEY ARE!” Yelena crowed, practically climbing over the conference table to meet you halfway. “The performance of the century! Did you see the footage?!”

“You saw footage?” you asked, instantly mortified.

Bob waggled a tablet from across the room. “You were out of camera range most of the time. But the audio feed was… let’s say, deeply educational.”

“I had to turn it off,” Ava deadpanned. “You were making my ventilator blush.”

You turned to Bucky. “You told me there was no audio.”

He raised a brow. “I wasn’t wearing a wire.”

You shoved him. He caught you around the waist and pulled you in without hesitation, grinning against your temple.

Val stepped forward then, all business—but with a flicker of something suspiciously close to amusement in her eyes.

“You secured the target. You extracted without civilian casualties. And you somehow managed to break Agent Dragomir’s security web without tripping any alerts.”

She paused, nodding towards Bucky as she added, “he’s been asking for your ‘wife’ every day since.”

You blinked. “Wife?”

“He seemed to think you two were ‘passionately married’.” Val said dryly. “Wanted us to tell you he misses the way you moan.”

Bucky’s jaw cracked.

You coughed. “That’s… fine. He can miss me from prison.”

Val’s gaze lingered. “Mission accomplished. File your final reports by Friday. And maybe next time—” her eyes cut to Bucky, “—don’t steal any evidence.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just nodded, all calm and smug. “Too late. I’m keeping them.”

You groaned and walked straight out of the room.

-

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t rushed. After everything that had burned through you during the mission—every whispered plea, every desperate kiss—there was a stillness now.

A tenderness. You weren’t pretending anymore. You didn’t need to chase the heat to justify what you felt. You let the slow burn settle instead.

You stayed over that night. And the night after. He didn’t ask. You didn’t leave.

You cooked dinner together—though he chopped like a soldier, and you snuck vegetables into his pockets when he wasn’t looking. You watched old movies on his couch. He pressed his mouth to your forehead when you fell asleep on his chest.

You had long conversations at 1AM about nothing. About everything. He’d never had this before. The aftermath. The quiet. The softness of love without threat looming around the corner.

Neither had you. He walked you to your quarters every morning, hand in yours, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles. Like he couldn’t stop. Like he wouldn’t.

And every time you parted—even for a moment—you looked back.

Without you even realizing, you and Wally kind of became joined at the hip. Anywhere you went, he was usually there too and vice versa. Everyone noticed, you know they noticed. Charley was more subtle about it than Rhonda, but they noticed. And they made sure you knew it.

The funny thing about being trapped for an eternity is that eventually you lose all sense of urgency. Nothing feels that pressing anymore. You have all the time in the world, you can wait. You thought you had a lot more time to figure out what to do with your crush on Wally. You couldn't have anticipated Maddie or Wally clearly being into her. 

You feel you've been handling it pretty well, all things considered. You barely even flinched when Rhonda made the comment about Wally having a crush on Maddie after you all found out about Simon. Wally's reaction to that comment didn't do anything to dispute Rhonda's claim, and that made your heart break just a little bit more.

So you left, followed Maddie's lead and got the hell out of there. And after that you kept your distance. Stayed out of your and Wally's local haunts, tried to avoid him at every turn. Hid out in the auditorium since he barely ever goes in there because Mina intimidates him. You skipped out on movie night and gave yourself a few days to got your head on straight. 

If Wally likes Maddie then you're going to do your best to be happy for him because that's what friends do. Turns out that's a lot easier said than done. 

You come out of hiding just in time for homecoming set up. It's one of your favorite parts of the year and you don't want to miss it. You usually do a lot of the helping because you know how important this is to Wally. Everyone else is kind of just humoring him, but you really want it to be great for him. After all, there aren't many things to look forward to in this place.

You thought maybe they would've waited for you before they started decorating. But, really, why would they? There are so many things to do and so little time. It's nothing personal. And logically you know that, but it still stings to see Wally and Maddie painting the banner together. Because every other year it's been you in her place. 

Charley and Rhonda notice you first. There's some kind of snarky remark, one-hundred percent intended to get Wally's attention, on the tip of Rhonda's tongue, but you shake your head, practically begging her not to, before she can even say it. For once, she listens.

You don't want to be noticed just because of Rhonda. It feels like a silly thing to feel so strongly about, but you do. You've been feeling like you're second best for what feels like months, but hasn't been anywhere close to that long. And you just want to feel like you matter half as much to Wally as he matters to you. 

He doesn't notice you until Maddie leaves to chase after her mom. He drops his paintbrush and a smile takes over his lips at the sight of you. But it doesn't feel good, not like it used to.

"Hey." He says, quickly getting up and trying to swipe some of the paint off his face. He takes one step in your direction and something inside of you panics. You thought you were ready, you really did. But now he's a few feet away and you realize that you're not even close to ready. So you do the only logical thing, even if it is a slightly embarrassing and patheic thing, and you run away.

You make it into the hallway and you know it's only a headstart. He's taller than you and there's no way he's just going to let you have this. He's not going to let this go when you've pretty obviously been avoiding him. 

You hear his footsteps enter the hallway a few seconds later. You don't stop, but you do slow down to a fast walk. You're not really sure where you're heading to, you have nowhere in mind, you just want to get away from him.

"Hey." He calls after you, his voice still kind and curious. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Where'd you go?"

Because you're feeling a little hurt, and a lot petty, you bite back with, "Clearly you haven't been looking hard enough."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks, a bitter edge finally working its way into his voice. 

"Nothing, Wally." You say, shaking your head. "It doesn't mean anything."

The sound of Wally's sneakers hitting the linoleum comes to an abrupt stop, but you don't. You keep heading for the stairwell doors.

"Okay, seriously, what's going on with you?"

"Just drop it, Wally."

"No." He says it with such force that it makes you stop. "You've been avoiding everyone. Rhonda, Charley, me. We've been best friends for twenty years, you think I don't know when something's going on with you?"

"You just think you know everything, don't you?" You snap, finally turning to look at him.

"About you? Yeah, I do." There's a cocky sort of confidence to the way he says it that makes your blood boil. Because you know that he's probably right. It's been a long time. Every single day spent together for twenty years, what could he possibly not know about you after all that time?

In some ways, you're pretty sure he knows you bette than you know yourself. That doesn't feel as good as it used to, either.

"Yeah, well, maybe you don't know as much as you think you do." You think getting punched in the stomach would've hurt less than seeing the expression on his face. It's like you just shattered something priceless. And no matter how you might try, those pieces are never going to fit back together.

This isn't the first time you've pulled something like this. Said something you know you'll regret just to get Wally to back off for a bit. It's usually, scratch that, it's always when there's something you don't want to confront. It hasn't always had to do with Wally. It happened for pretty much the entirety of your senior year. You'd accepted that you were dead by then, it'd been over a year, but it was hard to watch your friends go through so many rites of passage. It hurt to see them all preparing to move on when you were stuck and you always would be.

You wanted to implode. To sabotage what little you had. So you pushed people away so they wouldn't be in the blast zone during demolition. You were protecting them, protecting Wally. And you're still doing it. Even if he doesn't understand, even if he doesn't see it that way right now. Even if he never does.

"I know you do this sometimes." He says, trying a different tactic and aiming for understanding instead of accusation. Like that might be enough to get you to just come clean. "You get in your head about something and you get scared. You kick us out of your life before we can give up on you and run."

He's walking towards you now, and every cell in your body wants to run away. You hate the way the air seems have to shifted. A few minutes ago you felt like you had control over this, but right now it doesn't seem like it. It's in his hands now, and you don't know what to do that.

"But," He says your name just as he gets close enough to touch, his hand reaching out for your arm, "I'm not running anywhere."

"You are, though." You say, almost without thinking, and quickly pull your arm out of his reach. "You're running to something and it's not me."

Wally, to his credit, looks genuinely dumbfounded by that. "I have no idea what that means."

"Don't be dense, Wally, it's not a good look on you." 

You feel like you're making a mess of this. Whatever this is. You don't know the right thing to say. You don't know how to be honest in the right way. You feel like you're ruining everything before you've even really started.

"I'm sorry." You say. "I know I'm being kind of an asshole. I, just, I'm trying to be happy for you, and I am, apparently, really bad at it."

If you were listening, you would've heard Wally ask, "Happy about what?," but you're far too wrapped up in your head to hear it.

"Because you seem really happy lately. Happier than I've seen you in a long time. And that's great, really, it is. I want you to be happy. I just need to get over myself because nothing's ever gonna happen."

Something flashes in Wally's expression. You're not sure if it's shock or maybe guilt, but whatever it is, you know you can't stand it.

"I mean, it's been twenty years. If something was gonna happen, it would've happened by now. And every time I thought something would happen, it didn't. And I've been stupid enough to keep chasing after you because I still thought that maybe something would happen someday. But it won't. And I need to get that through my head."

It was like you hyperventilated through that. Like there wasn't any time to stop and take a proper breath, not that you even need to breathe anymore, because you needed to say all of that. It needed to be out there, and there wasn't time for anything to get in its way.

Right now you kind of wish you could have that feeling back. That sense of urgency, of a timer running down. Because now it feels like time has stopped moving, like you're holding your breath. Because Wally hasn't moved. His expression hasn't shifted an inch and he hasn't said a word. 

You immediately get it in your head that you've made a fool out of yourself. That this connection between the two of you is strictly a friend thing and nothing more, and he's trying to find the right way to let you down easy. You have no interest in sticking around for that. 

Without wasting another second, you turn on your heel and take off towards the staircase doors once more. You hear Wally call your name, finally finding his voice as he begs for you to just wait. But you're not turning around. Not this time.

Okay, so, maybe skipping the homecoming game was a shitty thing to do. You intended to still go. To pull yourself out of wallowing in a darkened corner of the auditorium and find your way to the bleachers. You got halfway up the aisle before you decided you just couldn't do it.

You can't see him right now. You don't want to have to watch as he fumbles for the right way to tell you that he just doesn't see you that way. As he tries his best to not make things awkward between you two for the rest of eternity. 

So you sit this year out. You bunker down in a front row seat and try to block out stray noise from the field. You try to forget that it's homecoming at all.

You go to the field the next night, when everyone should be in the gym at the dance. You want some peace and quiet and a good view of the stars. You get a little more than you bargained for.

You hear footsteps coming up the stairway. Metal clinks beneath each step, you don't bother to look in the direction of the sound. You're hoping it's a maintenance team or one of the coaches, but you know better than that.

The footsteps stop right next to you, you watch from your peripheral as Wally sits down beside you.

"Figured you'd be at the dance." You say, still looking ahead at the field down below. He's certainly dressed for the dance. You've seen the suit before, he takes homecoming very seriously, but it is always nice to get a break from his sweatsuit.

"I was on my way." He says, fiddling with the box in his hand. "But it just didn't feel right."

You nod your head. The last thing you want to do is add to the conversation and risk putting your foot in your mouth even further.

"I've been thinking about what you said yesterday." He starts. "It's kind of all I've been thinking about, actually."

Here it comes. You brace yourself prematurely, preparing for whatever variation of 'we can still be friends' is about to come out of his mouth.

"I think our wires got crossed somewhere. I mean, I thought I was kind of painfully obvious."

You turn your head at that, you can't help it. There are a million ways you thought this could go, but this isn't one of them.

"I talked to Rhonda and Charley, and they pointed out that you've been acting so weird because you think I like Maddie." He says, watching you with a slightly amused expression. "Which was really interesting because Rhonda's been teasing me for decades about my crush on you."

You don't know what to say. You're pretty sure you see a hint of nerves creep into his expression at your hesitation.

"How, uh," You clear your throat, "For how long?"

"Pretty much since the day I met you."

You nod, looking back out towards the field for a moment. For some reason you feel like you can't even begin to process that while looking at him.

"I, uh, I didn't know that." You say, looking back towards him but quickly looking away once more. 

"Yeah, I figured." You roll your eyes, turning your head to look at him. Your stare holds for a second before the two of you start laughing. It's a small thing, short but incredibly fond.

It dies off quickly, and nothing feels funny anymore. Not with the way he's looking at you. He slides in a bit closer on the bench and leans towards you. You tilt your head up slightly to meet him in the middle.

You know it's been a long time coming, but if this is the kind of kiss twenty years can get you, you think it's well worth it. That time doesn't feel so wasted anymore. Because even if you weren't together, it was all leading to this moment. And this feels pretty perfect, you're not sure you would've wanted it any other way. If you would've been ready for it at any other time.

You pull back after a few seconds, but you don't stray very far. Your forehead presses against his as you grin into the space between you.

You let yourself sit in the quiet for a moment, just enjoying what you have. You don't want to be the one to burst the bubble first, to be the one who throws you both back into reality. Not when this feels like such a dream.

"So, do you wanna go to the dance with me?"

You laugh at that, you can't help it. Everything about this really is so high school. It's a scene straight out of a teen movie. But you're not mad at it. You don't think you ever will be.

"Yeah, I'd love to."

Wally takes your hand and leads you towards the steps, but stops before you even get back on solid ground.

"I made this for you." He says, handing over the box he'd been holding this entire time.

You open the lid and stare down at the corsage. It's mostly paper, but that doesn't make it any less beautiful. Besides, your eyes are more drawn to the 57 right in the middle.

"57." You say, smiling up at him. "Your football number."

"Yeah, it was a tradition when I was in school." He watches as you stare at it for a few seconds longer, clearly getting the wrong idea and jumping to play it off. "Do you hate it? Because you don't have to wear it if you don't want to."

"It's perfect." You say as you slide it on to your wrist. You brush your thumb over one of the petals before you lean up and press a kiss to his cheek. "Come on." You take his hand and lead him back to the school.

You can still hear the echo of his phone vibrating on the nightstand from earlier. The world is spinning around him at full speed—headlines, analysts, fans dissecting every angle of the trade—but in here, in this dimly lit space that smells faintly of his cologne and something unshakably sad, it’s like time has stopped.

You step closer, carefully. Luka doesn’t look up, but you feel it when he notices you.

"You should be sleeping," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges.

"So should you," you counter, lowering yourself onto the mattress beside him. The bed dips under your weight, and for a second, neither of you speak. It’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s just... heavy.

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "Crazy, huh?"

You watch him for a moment. The way his fingers tighten around each other. The way his shoulders rise and fall, the weight of the entire day pressing down on him. You could say a lot right now—some perfectly crafted reassurance, something wise and comforting—but instead, you just lean in, resting your shoulder lightly against his.

A small gesture. A quiet offering.

Luka doesn’t move for a few seconds. Then, almost hesitantly, he shifts, just enough that his arm brushes against yours, just enough that he’s no longer holding quite so much of himself alone.

At first, Luka doesn’t say anything. He just breathes—slow, measured, like he’s trying to find a rhythm that makes sense, but it keeps slipping through his fingers. His hands unclasp, pressing against his thighs, then clench again like he doesn’t know what to do with them. The tension in his shoulders is impossible to ignore, so rigid and locked up that you wonder if he even realizes how much he’s holding in.

You don’t push him. Not yet.

Instead, you just sit there, close enough that he can feel your warmth, close enough that if he wanted to lean into you, he could.

After a long moment, he exhales, and it’s the kind of sigh that doesn’t fix anything, just deflates him further. His voice is quiet when he finally speaks, barely more than a breath.

“I didn’t think it would happen like this.”

You don’t need to ask what he means. The trade. The blindsiding weight of it. The way everything he thought he knew shifted beneath his feet in an instant.

“I get it’s a business,” he continues, jaw tensing. “I knew that. I always knew that.”

His voice drops lower, rougher.

“But I didn’t think I was leaving.”

And there it is.

The rawest part of it all. Not the move itself, not the logistics, not even the media whirlwind that’s been dissecting every angle of his future before he’s even had time to catch his breath. It’s the fact that he wasn’t ready. That for all the control he has on the court—for all the ways he makes the impossible look effortless—he had no say in this.

You swallow, watching the way his fingers twitch against his knee, like they want to grip something, hold onto something solid. You hesitate for only a second before reaching out, letting your hand rest over his. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t react at first. But you feel it—the way his muscles are wound tight beneath your touch, like a wire stretched to its limit.

“I don’t know how to say goodbye,” he murmurs, and this time, there’s something in his voice that makes your chest ache.

Goodbye.

It’s such a simple word, but it carries everything Luka isn’t saying. The years he’s spent in Dallas, the friendships, the routine, the city that had started to feel like home. He wasn’t just traded—he was uprooted. And now he’s supposed to pretend like it’s just part of the game. Smile for the cameras. Say all the right things.

But right now, in this room, there’s no script to follow.

“You don’t have to,” you tell him softly.

His brows draw together slightly, finally glancing at you, like he’s trying to figure out what you mean.

“You don’t have to say goodbye, not yet. Not tonight.” You squeeze his hand, just lightly. “Just—be here. Just for now.”

Luka stares at you, like he’s waiting for the catch. Waiting for you to tell him to suck it up, to move on, to think about the future. But you don’t. You just meet his gaze, steady, unwavering, until he finally exhales, something in him loosening just a fraction.

His hand turns beneath yours, fingers wrapping around yours like he’s holding onto an anchor. His grip is warm, firm—not desperate, but grounding. Like he’s only just realizing he doesn’t have to hold all of this alone.

For the first time all night, his shoulders drop slightly.

And you stay like that, in the quiet, just breathing.

Not fixing. Not rushing. Just existing. Together.

Luka doesn’t let go of your hand. If anything, his grip tightens, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away first, like he’s testing the weight of the comfort you’re offering and deciding, for once, to accept it.

His fingers are warm against yours, slightly rough from years of handling a basketball, but there’s something uncertain about the way he’s holding on—like he’s not used to being the one who needs this. Luka is always the one keeping others steady, the one playing through injuries, the one flashing a grin even when his body is screaming for rest. But this? Sitting here, holding your hand, letting himself lean into something softer—this is different.

Slowly, hesitantly, he shifts. His body turns toward you, his knee brushing against yours. His breathing is steady but measured, like he’s still figuring out if he’s allowed to ask for more.

You don’t make him. You just open the door.

Without saying anything, you lift your arm slightly, just enough that it’s clear you’re not just sitting beside him—you’re offering. And for a second, you don’t know if he’ll take it.

But then Luka exhales, long and slow, and leans in.

His weight presses into your side, warm and solid, his forehead dropping to your shoulder like it belongs there. He’s not shaking, not crying, but there’s something heavy in the way he melts against you, like he’s been holding himself together with sheer force of will and finally, finally, he’s allowing himself to let go.

Your free hand comes up instinctively, resting against his back. You can feel the tension still coiled in his muscles, like he doesn’t quite know how to relax, even now. So you let your fingers move in slow, steady circles against the fabric of his hoodie, not rushing, not forcing. Just there. Just present.

Luka exhales again, this time through his nose, and you feel it—the way his body slowly starts to ease. The way his head shifts slightly, resting more fully against you.

“This is stupid,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to his words. Just exhaustion.

“It’s not,” you say simply, your voice soft.

He huffs, but he doesn’t argue. If anything, he leans in a little more.

The room settles into something quieter. Something almost peaceful. Outside, the world is still moving, still spinning with headlines and speculation and expectations Luka isn’t ready to deal with. But in here, it’s just the two of you. Just warmth. Just the quiet weight of the moment.

And then, in a voice so low you almost don’t catch it, he murmurs, “Stay.”

The word is barely there, more breath than sound, but it lands like a tether, anchoring the space between you. You don’t answer right away—not because you’re unsure, but because you want him to feel it, to know that you’re not leaving.

Instead, you shift just slightly, adjusting so he’s more comfortable, your hand still moving in slow, steady motions against his back.

“I’m here,” you say, and that’s all he needs.

Luka exhales one more time, a little softer now, a little less heavy. And for the first time since the news broke, he lets his eyes close.

--

Los Angeles feels different.

It’s not just the time zone or the weather or the way the city hums with an energy that never quite fades. It’s the way everything is unfamiliar—the drive to the training facility, the locker room that still smells like someone else’s cologne, the weight of a jersey that doesn’t feel like his yet.

Two days ago, he was in Dallas. Now, he’s here.

And now, he’s supposed to be fine.

The press conference had gone as well as it could have. The reporters asked the same questions over and over—how does it feel to be a Laker? What does he think about playing with LeBron? What does he want to say to the fans in Dallas?

Luka answered all of them the way he was supposed to. He smiled in the right places, gave the right amount of gratitude, even threw in a joke or two to lighten the mood. But the second it was over, the second the cameras were off and he was back in the hallway leading to the parking garage, he felt it creeping in again.

That feeling.

That hollow, misplaced feeling, like he’s wearing someone else’s life.

You’re already waiting by the car when he steps outside, leaning casually against the passenger door like you have all the time in the world. And maybe you do. Maybe that’s why he exhales just a little when he sees you, some of the tightness in his chest loosening.

You don’t ask how it went. You don’t need to. He appreciates that.

Instead, you just nod toward the car. “You wanna get out of here?”

Luka huffs, running a hand through his hair. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The drive is quiet at first. The city moves around you in golden streaks of headlights and neon signs, the sky just beginning to settle into that deep LA dusk. Luka shifts in his seat, one elbow against the door, fingers resting against his lips like he’s lost in thought.

Then, finally—

“It still doesn’t feel real.”

His voice is softer than usual, like he’s saying it more to himself than to you.

You glance over but don’t say anything right away. Instead, you let the silence sit for a moment, let it breathe.

Then: “Because it isn’t. Not yet.”

Luka looks over at you, his gaze heavy but searching. “And if it never does?”

You tap your fingers against the steering wheel, considering. “Then you figure it out. Day by day. Until one day, it does.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Just watches the city blur past, the weight of everything pressing down on him in a way you can feel, even from where you’re sitting.

And then, after a long moment, he nods. Just barely.

When you pull up to his new place—a sleek but unfamiliar house in the Hollywood Hills—Luka doesn’t move to get out right away. Instead, he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face before turning to you.

“You coming in?”

It’s not really a question. Not really an ask.

It’s more of a need. A quiet, unspoken need for something familiar.

You don’t hesitate.

The house is big but empty, boxes still stacked in the hallway, a duffel bag half-unpacked near the couch. Luka walks in and immediately shrugs off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair before dropping onto the couch with a heavy exhale.

For a moment, you just watch him. The way he leans his head back, staring up at the ceiling like it might hold some kind of answer he hasn’t figured out yet.

Then, without thinking too hard about it, you sit beside him, close enough that your knee brushes against his. Luka doesn’t react right away, but then—slowly, naturally—he shifts.

Not dramatically. Not obviously. But enough.

Enough that his shoulder presses into yours, enough that his body angles slightly toward you, enough that he lets out a breath he probably didn’t even realize he was holding.

And just like that, it’s familiar again.

Not Dallas. Not the way things used to be.

But something.

Something solid. Something real.

And for now, that’s enough.

Sitting next to you on the flight to Slovenia, Luka is fidgeting. Shaking out his hands, bouncing his knee, cracking his knuckles, then cracking them again like they might’ve reassembled wrong the first time. It’s almost endearing. Almost.

“Relax,” you murmur, pressing a hand to his thigh to stop the bouncing. “You act like your family’s about to interrogate me under a spotlight.”

Luka huffs out a laugh, but his fingers still twitch where they rest on your knee. “They might.”

That earns him a sharp side-eye. “You told me this was casual.”

“It is.” He pauses. “Just... Slovenian casual.”

You narrow your eyes. “What does that mean?”

Before he can answer, the flight attendant leans in with a knowing smile, offering Luka a glass of water that he takes without thinking. You don’t miss the way her gaze flickers to you—curious, assessing. It’s not the first time you’ve gotten that look since getting on the plane. Luka Dončić, golden boy of Slovenia, bringing home a loud-mouthed, trash-talking WNBA player? People are curious.

It’s not like you blame them.

Luka downs half the water in one gulp, avoiding your stare. You tilt your head, studying him. There’s something behind his usual easygoing charm, something unspoken.

Luka is confident about a lot of things. But this? This matters to him.

And that? That makes your stomach flip in a way no championship game ever could.

The plane ride is long, but not unbearable. Luka spends half of it dozing against your shoulder, the other half rambling about random things—how good his grandma’s food is, how his mom still calls him by embarrassing childhood nicknames, how his dog will probably go feral the second he walks through the door.

You listen, amused, letting the low hum of his voice and the occasional squeeze of your knee ground you. Luka talks a lot when he’s nervous—not quite his usual cocky, trash-talking self, but this unfiltered, almost boyish version of him that you’ve only recently started to see. And you like it.

When the plane lands, reality starts setting in.

Slovenia is a different kind of beautiful than New York or Dallas. It’s quieter. Greener. Even just stepping out of the airport, you feel the shift—fresh air, sprawling hills in the distance, a pace of life that doesn’t seem dictated by the next game, the next contract, the next headline.

Luka’s hand is already on your back, guiding you forward like he can sense the way you’re taking everything in. He’s home.

And you’re about to walk into it.

The drive is short. Luka chats with the driver in Slovenian, and though you don’t understand most of it, you hear the warmth in his tone, the casual ease of someone who belongs. The car winds through small streets, past red-roofed houses and tucked-away cafés. It’s all so different from what you’re used to, yet somehow, sitting next to Luka, you don’t feel out of place.

But the nerves creep in when the car finally stops in front of a house—not overly big, not flashy, just... warm. A proper home.

Luka gets out first, stretching his arms over his head like this is just another day, while you take a second to steady yourself. You’re an athlete. You’ve played in packed arenas, stared down defenders twice your size, taken hits that left bruises for weeks. But meeting someone’s family? Staying in their house?

You exhale. Suck it up.

The second you step out of the car, a blur of fur barrels toward Luka, nearly knocking him off his feet. “Hugo! Dobri fant!”

His dog. Big, golden, and absolutely losing its mind with excitement. Luka kneels, laughing as Hugo licks at his face, rubbing behind his ears like he never left.

You watch for a second, the moment so soft it makes your stomach do something weird, then crouch down. “What about me, huh?”

Hugo hesitates—just for a moment—then lunges straight for you, nearly bowling you over. You yelp, laughing as Luka watches, smug.

“He likes you,” Luka says, scratching under Hugo’s chin.

“Damn well better,” you huff, pushing the dog’s heavy paws off your lap. “I’m sleeping in his house.”

The front door swings open before Luka can respond.

“Luka!”

His mom gets to him first, pulling him into a hug that Luka sinks into without hesitation. It’s a full-body hug, the kind only a mother gives, and it knocks the last of his tension away. When she finally pulls back, her eyes flicker toward you.

And suddenly, you’re being hugged too.

“Hi—oh, okay,” you say, caught off guard, but you let it happen.

Luka chuckles under his breath as his mom pulls back, holding onto your arms as she takes you in. Her gaze isn’t judgmental, just... observant. Like she’s been waiting to meet you.

“You’re even prettier in person,” she says in accented English.

You blink. Then smirk. “Good first impression. Keep going.”

Luka groans. “Oh my god.”

His mom laughs, then ushers you both inside.

The house smells like food. Something rich, savory, the kind of smell that clings to walls and makes a place feel like home. There’s a warmth to everything—the wooden floors, the family photos scattered on shelves, the sound of someone talking in another room.

“Your grandma is already cooking for you,” his mom says, rolling her eyes. “Like you are still a growing boy.”

Luka grins. “I am.”

You snort. “You are not.”

His mom gestures toward the hall. “Your room is down here. We have the guest room ready—unless you two need separate beds?”

There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, and you’re just about to answer when Luka slings an arm around your shoulders, casual as ever. “She’d get cold without me.”

You shove him off. “Don’t say that to your mother, you freak.”

Luka’s mom just shakes her head, muttering something in Slovenian that makes Luka laugh. You’ll ask for a translation later.

The guest room is small but cozy. A neatly made bed, a window overlooking the backyard, soft lighting that makes everything feel warm. There’s a folded blanket at the foot of the bed, fresh towels on the dresser. Thoughtful little details that make it clear this isn’t just a spare room—it’s a space prepared for you.

Luka drops your bags, stretching his arms over his head before flopping face-first onto the bed.

You sit on the edge, looking around. “It’s nice.”

“Mhm.” Luka’s voice is muffled against the pillow.

A beat of silence passes. Then, quieter, he says, “They already like you.”

You glance at him, catching the way his fingers drum lightly against the sheets. That nervous energy, still lingering.

You shift, leaning down until your head is next to his. “Yeah?”

He turns his face just enough to meet your gaze. “Yeah.”

Your lips twitch. “Good. ’Cause I plan on winning them over completely.”

Luka hums, shifting onto his side so he can drape an arm lazily across your waist. His hand rests against your hip, easy and familiar, like he’s already melting into this space. Into home.

“You always do,” he murmurs.

And just like that, some of your nerves settle.

Because as much as this means to him—this trip, this introduction, this moment—you realize it means something to you too.

And you’re ready for it.

Dinner smells like home. Not your home, exactly, but a home. The kind of scent that’s been passed down through generations, steeped into the walls, woven into the rhythm of a family that has been sitting around the same table for years.

The dining room is small, but warm. A wooden table, long enough to seat Luka’s immediate family and then some, is already set by the time you both step in. Plates of food crowd the center—something rich and slow-cooked, golden potatoes glistening under the dim light, a fresh loaf of bread torn into pieces.

Luka inhales deeply, eyes half-lidded in something close to reverence. “Babi,” he sighs, voice dripping with affection.

His grandmother, a small but sturdy woman with sharp eyes and a soft smile, waves him off, muttering something in Slovenian. Luka grins and leans down, pressing a kiss to her cheek before pulling out a chair.

“You’re gonna cry, huh?” you murmur, nudging him as you take the seat beside him.

“Shut up.” He elbows you lightly, but he can’t wipe the grin off his face.

His mom sits across from you, and his grandma takes the seat nearest to the kitchen, overseeing the meal like a general commanding her troops. A few other relatives fill the rest of the space—his stepfather, a cousin who looks like he could be Luka’s twin if not for the extra few years on his face. It’s a full house, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming. Just... close.

Luka leans in, voice low. “Eat everything she puts on your plate.”

You raise a brow. “You think I wasn’t gonna?”

“She’ll take it personally if you don’t.”

“Good thing I came hungry.”

His grandmother scoffs like she understands exactly what was just said, then starts piling food onto plates without waiting for anyone to ask. The conversation around the table moves mostly in Slovenian, but Luka dips in and out of English just enough to keep you from feeling lost. His mom asks about your season, his stepfather mentions catching one of your games on TV.

“You’re intense,” he says, switching to English as he points his fork at you. “Fiery.”

Luka snickers. “She’s worse in real life.”

You shoot him a glare but don’t deny it. “I like to win.”

His mom hums in approval. “Good.”

You’re mid-bite when his grandma suddenly says something in Slovenian, gesturing vaguely between you and Luka.

He pauses, clearly debating something, before groaning. “Babi.”

She swats at him. “Tell her.”

Luka sighs, throwing you an almost sheepish glance. “She says you remind her of me.”

You blink, then snort. “Oh, I know that’s stressing you out.”

Luka’s cousin chokes on a laugh. His mother tries—and fails—to suppress a smile.

His grandma, still unimpressed with the lack of translation, flicks Luka’s arm and says something sharper this time.

“Okay, okay.” He waves her off, then rubs a hand over his face before turning back to you. “She says you have the same fire. And that you must be patient to deal with me.”

You grin. “She’s a smart woman.”

Luka groans, slouching dramatically in his chair while his family laughs. You’re pretty sure his grandma doesn’t need the translation to get the gist of what you just said, because she watches you for a moment, then nods approvingly.

Your plate is never empty. Every time you finish something, his grandmother replaces it like she’s personally ensuring you don’t leave the table anything less than full. The food is good—really good—and you can see why Luka was nearly misty-eyed about it earlier.

As the meal winds down, conversation gets looser, more comfortable. You get asked about your family, about how you and Luka met, about whether or not Luka is as insufferable at home as he is on the court.

“He’s worse,” you say.

His mom lets out a knowing sigh. “I believe it.”

Luka throws his hands up. “I thought this was supposed to be my welcome home dinner.”

His cousin grins. “It is. We’re welcoming her.”

Luka slouches further into his chair, muttering something under his breath, but there’s no real irritation in it. Just the kind of resigned amusement that comes with being the baby of the family.

By the time the plates are cleared and dessert is brought out, something settles inside you. A warmth. A familiarity you hadn’t expected to feel so soon.

Luka’s hand finds yours under the table, fingers curling loosely around yours. You glance at him, and he’s already looking at you—not with nerves, not with his usual teasing smirk, but something softer.

You squeeze his hand once. Then let yourself settle in.

Because this, you realize, is just the beginning.

You were smiling at him.

Not just a polite, thanks for the compliment kind of smile. No, this was your engaged smile, the one where your eyes softened just slightly, your head tilted just enough to show you were actually interested in the conversation.

And Devin hated it.

He wasn’t insecure. He knew where he stood with you. He knew you weren’t the type to entertain just anyone.

But that didn’t mean he liked seeing someone else make you smile like that.

Didn’t mean he liked the way the guy leaned in just a little too much, how his eyes flickered down toward your lips every time you spoke.

Didn’t mean he liked the way you hadn’t noticed Devin watching.

His jaw tightened, fingers flexing slightly as he debated how long he was willing to let this play out. Because right now? He was two seconds away from walking over there, sliding an arm around your waist, and making it very clear whose girl you were.

Devin’s grip on his drink tightened, the cold condensation damp against his fingertips, but he barely noticed. His whole body was taut, a slow burn creeping into his chest as he watched the scene in front of him unfold with agonizing patience.

The guy was still talking—still laughing, still leaning just a little too close, his confidence grating against Devin’s last nerve. It was the way he looked at you, like he thought he had a chance, like he didn’t realize that Devin was standing right there, watching, barely keeping his temper in check.

And you?

You weren’t flirting. He knew that. You were just being you—warm, polite, effortlessly charming. It wasn’t your fault that men mistook your kindness for an invitation.

But that didn’t mean Devin had to like it.

Didn’t mean he had to sit back and watch this guy try his luck like he wasn’t standing ten feet away, like he wouldn’t have zero issue shutting this down.

His jaw ticked. His patience was running thin.

Then it happened.

The guy reached out—just a simple gesture, fingertips grazing the bare skin of your arm as he said something low in your ear, something that made you laugh, made your hand lift to cover your mouth like you were actually entertained.

That was it.

Devin wasn’t even thinking anymore. One second he was standing on the other side of the room, and the next he was right beside you, his presence immediate—a shadow, a heat, a weight that was impossible to ignore.

You barely had time to turn your head before his arm slid around your waist, firm, possessive, his fingers splaying against your hip, pulling you flush against him.

The conversation died instantly.

The guy blinked, clearly caught off guard, his smile faltering for the first time. Devin’s expression didn’t change—didn’t waver, didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to say anything.

His body language spoke loud enough.

“This your man?” the guy asked, his tone forced-light, but Devin caught the slight edge to it, the unspoken challenge underneath.

You hesitated for half a second—just a blink, just enough time for Devin’s grip to tighten.

“Yeah,” you finally said, your voice softer now, aware of the shift in energy. “This is Devin.”

Damn right, I am.

Devin’s eyes didn’t leave the guy’s face, dark and unreadable, daring him to test his patience, to push just a little further.

But the guy wasn’t stupid. He got the message.

His hands lifted in mock surrender, his smirk returning, but it was different now—less sure, less cocky. “Didn’t mean to step on any toes,” he said, voice laced with something close to amusement. “Just having a conversation.”

Devin finally smiled, slow and sharp. “Yeah? Well, conversation’s over.”

The guy chuckled, but it was hollow. “Alright, man.” He gave you one last glance—one that Devin definitely didn’t like—before he stepped away, melting back into the crowd.

And just like that, it was just the two of you.

The tension didn’t leave Devin’s body immediately. His grip on your waist lingered, his thumb pressing into your hip like he needed a second to remind himself that you were his, that there was no real threat, that you weren’t going anywhere.

You turned toward him, tilting your head slightly.

“Jealous?” you teased, your voice light, but he could hear the amusement tucked beneath it.

Devin scoffed, but the way his fingers flexed against you betrayed him. “Nah,” he muttered, leaning in closer, his lips brushing just below your ear. “Just don’t like watching other men act like I don’t exist.”

You smiled, slipping your arms around his neck, letting your fingers slide into the soft curls at the nape of his neck. “You know I wasn’t flirting, right?”

“I know.” His voice was low, smooth. “Doesn’t mean I liked it.”

You bit your lip, leaning in just enough so your noses brushed. “Then maybe you should remind me who I belong to.”

Devin’s eyes darkened, his grip tightening.

“Oh, don’t worry, baby,” he murmured, his lips curving into something wicked, something promising. “I will.”

“I just don’t get why you still talk to her.”

Devin had sighed, already exhausted before the argument even started. “It’s not like that.”

You had given him a sharp look, arms crossing over your chest. “Then what is it like, Devin? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like your ex still thinks she has a place in your life.”

“She’s not in my life,” he had said, voice tight, like he was trying to keep his patience in check. “We broke up. We don’t talk like that. Why are you making this a thing?”

That had been the match to the fire.

Because it was always the same when you fought—he was calm, collected, logical. And you? You felt everything all at once, sharp and overwhelming, and it burned at you until you had to say something. And the worst part? He never saw it the way you did. He never understood why it sat so heavy in your chest.

And now, here you were.

Standing at his side at some exclusive event, dressed to perfection, forced to smile and act like you weren’t barely speaking to him when, in reality, you felt like you were drowning.

And then—because of course the universe hated you—she showed up.

The ex.

The one who wasn’t in his life but, apparently, was still comfortable enough to be here, in his space, in your space, looking at him like she hadn’t lost him years ago.

She was beautiful. Stunning, even. And worse? She knew it. She had that effortless, casual confidence of someone who wasn’t afraid of anything, least of all you. And that made you sick.

It wasn’t even what she said—it was the way she looked at him. The way she leaned in just enough when she laughed, the way she barely acknowledged you standing right there, like you were an afterthought.

And the worst part? Devin wasn’t shutting it down.

He wasn’t flirting, but he also wasn’t walking away.

And that was enough to send your stomach twisting, your throat tightening, the words already bubbling up before you could stop them.

You weren’t mad.

But you were about to be.

The air between you and Devin was thick—tense—so much so that you could barely hear the hum of conversations around you, barely register the music drifting through the venue. All you could focus on was her and the way Devin wasn’t doing a damn thing to put distance between them.

Your nails dug into your palm as you watched the exchange unfold. She was laughing, tilting her head just slightly, that kind of effortless, I know I still get under your skin type of posture that made you feel feral.

And Devin?

He wasn’t laughing. But he also wasn’t shutting it down.

Not immediately. Not the way you would have wanted him to.

His body language wasn’t exactly inviting, but it wasn’t closed off either. His hands were in his pockets, expression unreadable, giving those short, polite responses that weren’t necessarily warm but weren’t cold enough.

And that’s what killed you.

Because you knew Devin.

You knew what it looked like when he wasn’t interested in a conversation. You’d seen him completely ignore people at events like this, brush them off, make it clear he had no time for them.

But right now? He wasn’t doing that.

He was letting her talk.

Letting her linger in your space, steal your moment.

Your chest felt tight, like your heart was pushing up against your ribcage, trying to claw its way out. The irritation burned under your skin, hotter and heavier with every passing second.

And then—then—she reached out.

Fingertips, barely there, just a light touch on his arm as she said something low enough that you couldn’t hear.

And that was it.

The thin thread of restraint holding you together snapped.

Your hand shot out before you could stop yourself, curling around Devin’s wrist, firm, a clear, unspoken message.

His head turned instantly, eyes locking onto yours—dark, sharp, aware. He knew. He knew. And yet, for some reason, he still looked surprised.

You forced a smile—tight, too sweet, dripping with something almost dangerous. “Babe,” you said, voice light but laced with an undeniable edge, “I didn’t realize we were catching up with old friends tonight.”

Devin exhaled slowly through his nose, something flickering behind his eyes. “It’s not like that.”

You tilted your head, squeezing his wrist just a little before dropping it. “Really?” You flicked a glance at her, your expression unreadable, before turning back to him. “Because it looks a lot like that.”

She let out a soft little laugh, the kind that made your blood simmer just under your skin. “Relax,” she said, tone airy, like this was all a joke. “We were just talking—nothing serious.”

Your eyes snapped back to her, and you felt something sharp twist in your gut. You weren’t proud of the way you reacted next, but at this point, you weren’t thinking straight.

“Oh, I’m relaxed,” you shot back, still smiling, still maintaining that same deadly sweetness. “But maybe next time, you can just talk from a little farther away.”

There it was. The shift.

The briefest flicker of surprise crossed her features before she masked it with a knowing smirk, like she loved that she was getting to you, like she thrived off it.

But Devin?

Devin sighed, raking a hand down his face, and that? That pissed you off more than anything.

Because now he was acting like you were the problem.

Like you were making something out of nothing.

Like you were overreacting.

The heat in your chest turned ice-cold. You took a small step back, your arms crossing over your chest. “You know what?” Your voice dropped, quieter now, more dangerous. “I think I’m done with this conversation.”

Devin’s brows pulled together, his body shifting slightly toward you, like he could feel the way you were closing yourself off. “Wait—”

But you were already turning on your heel, already stepping away, already heading toward the exit.

And if he didn’t follow?

Then that would tell you everything you needed to know.

Devin caught up to you just as you stepped onto the curb, your phone in hand, thumb moving over the screen with quick, furious taps.

“Are you serious right now?” His voice was rough, low, still measured—but barely. Like he was fighting to keep it together.

You didn’t look at him. “Dead serious.”

His jaw clenched as he caught sight of your screen. Uber arriving in 4 minutes.

“Come on, man,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand down his face like he couldn’t believe he was actually dealing with this. “You’re being ridiculous.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Your head snapped up, eyes burning, voice razor-sharp. “I’m being ridiculous?”

He exhaled, hard. “Yeah. You are.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Devin.” You let out a hollow laugh, shoving your phone into your bag with a sharpness that made your hands shake. “Did I ruin your little moment back there? Did I embarrass you?”

His head tilted, his eyes narrowing in warning. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I wanted that to happen.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest, shaking your head. “You let it happen.”

“I—” He cut himself off, looking away for half a second, hands planted on his hips, trying to breathe. “It wasn’t like that.”

“But you didn’t stop it either,” you shot back, voice sharp, pointed, digging into him like glass. “You let her stand there, you let her touch you, you let her look at you like—”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, taking a step closer, his voice dipping dangerously low. “You’re really doing this right now?”

“Yes, Devin! I am!” Your voice cracked at the end, emotion spilling out, raw and unfiltered. You didn’t care who was watching anymore. Didn’t care that people were turning heads as they stepped out of luxury cars, eyes flickering toward the two of you with thinly veiled curiosity. Let them watch.

“You don’t get it,” you muttered, shaking your head, your chest rising and falling fast, your emotions right there, just under the surface, threatening to rip you open. “You never get it.”

His brows pulled together, his voice quieter now. “Then help me understand.”

But that’s what made you angrier. Because he wasn’t raising his voice, he wasn’t matching your fire, he was standing there, calm, acting like this was something logical, something fixable, when it felt so much bigger than that.

You ran a hand through your hair, gripping the strands at the roots. “You don’t see the way she looks at you, Devin. The way other people do. The way—”

His jaw flexed, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I don’t give a fuck how she looks at me.”

“But you don’t care how I feel about it either,” you said, voice breaking.

And that? That landed.

His entire body tensed, his expression shifting just slightly—something cracking, something faltering.

But before he could say anything, before you could even process the weight of your own words, your Uber pulled up.

You turned immediately, reaching for the door handle, but before you could even blink, Devin’s hand wrapped around your wrist, firm, pulling you back.

“Oh, hell no,” he muttered.

You yanked your arm, but his grip was solid. “Devin, let go.”

“Not a fucking chance,” he bit out, already reaching past you to yank the door shut before you could open it.

“Are you serious?” You turned on him, furious, shoving at his chest with both hands, but he barely moved.

“You’re not getting in that car,” he said, his voice low, his grip still tight on your wrist, not painful, but enough to make it clear.

You struggled against him, your heart hammering, every part of you buzzing with adrenaline. “Let. Me. Go.”

His eyes burned into yours, dark and unrelenting. “No.”

You shoved at him again, but this time, he moved.

Not away. Forward.

And before you could stop him, before you could even think, he was wrapping an arm around your waist, lifting you like you weighed nothing, turning toward the valet stand like he was on a fucking mission.

“Devin, what the fuck! Put me down!” You thrashed against him, pushing at his shoulders, his chest, but it was useless. He was stronger, determined, stubborn as hell.

“You wanna scream at me?” he gritted out, barely breaking stride. “Fine. You can do it in my car.”

The valet had his car waiting already, probably watching the scene with wide eyes, but Devin didn’t give a single shit. He reached for the handle, yanked the door open, and practically threw you into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut before you could even think about escaping.

You were fuming, your entire body vibrating with frustration as you ripped at the door handle—locked.

The driver’s side opened, and Devin slid in, his jaw tight, his hands gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles went white.

Silence hung thick between you, the kind that burned, that pressed against your chest like a vice.

Your breath was ragged, your entire body coiled tight.

You turned to him, eyes blazing. “You cannot be serious right now.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head once before glancing over at you. His eyes were still burning, still heated, but there was something else there, something desperate.

“I wasn’t about to let you leave like that,” he said, voice rough, quiet, like the fight had drained him, like the weight of everything was settling on his shoulders.

Your throat felt tight, too many emotions swirling all at once, too much heat, too much everything.

So you said the only thing you could.

“Then fucking fix it.”

Devin let out a sharp exhale, his hands gripping the steering wheel like he was using it to anchor himself. His jaw was tight, his eyes locked straight ahead, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths—like he was trying to keep himself in check.

But you could feel it.

The tension. The heat radiating off him. The way his whole body was taut, wound up like a rubber band stretched too thin, about to snap.

You weren’t much better.

Your pulse was pounding, the remnants of the screaming match still hot in your veins, your hands clenched into fists in your lap. Your throat was raw, your face still flushed, your mind still replaying every little moment from the last hour—the argument earlier, the look on his ex’s face, the way Devin hadn’t immediately shut it down.

The way he’d practically thrown you in his car to stop you from leaving.

You were both breathing hard, like neither of you had fully come down from it yet.

The car was silent.

Thick, suffocating silence.

You weren’t sure who was going to break it first, but it sure as hell wasn’t going to be you.

Devin finally inhaled, slow and deep, before gripping the gear shift and pulling out of the valet lane. His driving was steady—controlled—but you could tell he was barely holding it together. His jaw was clenched so hard you swore you could hear his teeth grinding.

Minutes passed.

The tension didn’t ease.

Not when he turned onto the highway. Not when the city lights blurred past the window in streaks of white and gold. Not when he let out another slow breath, his fingers drumming against the wheel like he was working through the thousands of things he wanted to say.

Then, finally—

“I wasn’t entertaining her.”

His voice was low, heavy, like he was forcing himself to say it.

You didn’t turn your head, your arms still crossed over your chest, your nails digging into your skin. “You didn’t stop her either.”

Devin’s hands tightened around the wheel. “I was about to.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head as you stared out the window. “Right. Sure. About to.”

His grip on the wheel twitched. “Don’t do that.”

You turned sharply toward him, eyes blazing. “Do what?”

“Act like I wanted any of that shit.”

“You didn’t stop it, Devin.” Your voice cracked on his name, and that—that was what really betrayed you. The heat of your anger was laced with something else now.

Hurt.

And he heard it.

He felt it.

His jaw ticked, his eyes flickering to you for the briefest second before returning to the road. “I was being polite.”

You let out another bitter scoff, your whole body twisting toward him now. “Polite?” You stared at him, incredulous. “Polite is saying ‘hi’ and moving the fuck on. Polite is not standing there, letting her laugh at every stupid thing you say, letting her touch you like—”

“She wasn’t touching me,” he snapped, his voice suddenly sharper.

Your heart dropped.

Your head tilted, your nails digging into your palms. “Are you—are you actually trying to tell me she wasn’t touching you?”

His throat bobbed. His fingers flexed against the wheel.

You knew Devin inside and out. You knew what every little movement meant, the way his body betrayed what his mouth wouldn’t say.

He knew he’d messed up.

Knew he’d let it go on too long.

And the fact that he wasn’t admitting it? That burned.

“Wow,” you muttered, voice hollow, shaking your head as you turned back toward the window. “Okay.”

Devin let out a breath through his nose, his hands gripping the wheel tighter. “I didn’t—fuck.” His voice cracked, frustration bleeding into it. “I wasn’t thinking, alright? I should’ve shut it down faster. I should’ve told her to fuck off the second she opened her mouth.”

You swallowed hard, willing yourself to stay angry, but your heart was hammering in your chest.

“But you didn’t,” you murmured.

Devin exhaled sharply, one hand coming off the wheel to rake through his hair.

“I didn’t,” he admitted, voice rough, like it physically pained him to say it. “I fucked up. I know I did.”

Silence.

You stared at your lap, your mind racing.

Devin glanced at you, his voice softer now, like he was trying to break through the wall you were putting up. “I wasn’t thinking. I swear to you, baby—I didn’t give a fuck about her. I don’t. I don’t.”

Your throat felt tight, your arms still crossed over your chest like they could somehow hold you together. “She still thinks she has a place in your life.”

“She doesn’t.” His voice was firm now, like he needed you to hear it. “And I’ll make sure she knows that.”

You closed your eyes for a second, inhaling deeply, trying to process everything. The fight. The way your emotions were still buzzing under your skin. The way Devin sounded so—so gutted now, so frustrated with himself, with you, with all of it.

The car slowed as he pulled onto the street leading to his house.

When he finally parked in the driveway, he turned the engine off but didn’t move. Didn’t look at you. Just gripped the wheel, his breathing deep, controlled.

Then, finally—

“I don’t ever want you to feel like that again.”

Your stomach twisted, your chest aching in a way that made it hard to breathe.

Devin turned, his dark eyes burning into yours, intense, raw. “You have to know that you’re it for me.”

You didn’t say anything, your throat too tight.

He reached for you then—soft, his fingers brushing against your hand, like he was waiting for you to pull away. But you didn’t.

His voice was lower now, quieter. “Come inside?”

You hesitated for a second, your emotions still raw, but deep down, you wanted to. Because despite the fight, despite the way your heart still ached, he was Devin.

And Devin had never made you feel like you weren’t his.

So you swallowed hard, exhaled, and finally—finally—nodded.

His shoulders sagged slightly, relief flickering across his face, and he squeezed your hand, holding onto you like he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

And you?

You weren’t ready to let go either.

Devin didn’t waste a second. The moment you nodded, his hand slid into yours, warm and solid, his grip tight—like he was afraid you’d change your mind, like if he let go for even a second, you’d slip through his fingers.

He practically rushed around the car, opening the passenger door for you before you could do it yourself. The moment your feet hit the pavement, he was there, standing close, his presence heavy, his body heat radiating into yours.

Neither of you spoke as you walked inside.

The tension wasn’t gone. The fight still hung between you, thick and unrelenting, buzzing under your skin like a live wire.

But Devin wasn’t letting you go.

Not tonight. Not ever.

The front door shut behind you with a quiet click, and before you could take another step, his hand was on your wrist again—firm but not forceful, pulling you to a stop.

“Hey.”

His voice was soft now. Rough around the edges, strained, but softer.

You didn’t turn around immediately. You weren’t sure if you could without completely unraveling.

“Baby.” His fingers curled tighter around your wrist, like he was trying to pull you back, trying to pull you into him.

You swallowed hard, squeezing your eyes shut for a second before finally—finally—turning to face him.

And the second you did, Devin exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath this whole time.

He stepped closer, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing against your cheek, his touch hesitant—like he was waiting for you to push him away.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You were so mad at him. You were still hurt. But Devin was Devin, and his touch had always had this way of grounding you, pulling you back to him, making it impossible to stay away.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I hate fighting with you.”

Your chest tightened. “Then don’t give me a reason to.”

His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against your cheek, his lips parting like he had a million things to say but didn’t know where to start.

“I fucked up,” he finally murmured. “I know I did. And I swear to you, baby, I’ll never let that shit happen again.”

Your throat felt tight, emotions bubbling up again, but you forced yourself to speak. “It’s not even about her, Devin. It’s—” You swallowed hard, voice quieter now. “It’s about how I felt.”

His jaw ticked. “I know.”

“No, you don’t,” you said, shaking your head. “You don’t get what it’s like to stand there and watch someone act like you belong to them. You don’t get what it’s like to feel small in the middle of a room full of people because your boyfriend—the man who swears he loves you—isn’t stopping it.”

Devin flinched. Actually flinched.

Like your words physically hit him.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, closing his eyes for a second before exhaling sharply. “That’s not—fuck.” His grip on your waist tightened. “That’s not what I want you to feel. Ever.”

Silence.

His eyes searched yours, desperate, pleading, like he was trying to fix this just by looking at you.

And maybe—maybe—he was.

Because as much as you hated to admit it, the way he was looking at you was fixing something.

It wasn’t everything. But it was something.

You inhaled slowly, hands resting against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the soft fabric of his hoodie. “Then prove it.”

Devin nodded once, sharp, like he understood, like he’d already made the decision. “I will.”

You studied him for a second, your anger still there, still simmering beneath the surface, but your trust? That hadn’t broken.

Not yet.

Not with him.

He leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his voice a whisper. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t answer immediately. You let him wait, let him feel the weight of the moment, let him sit in the tension he had created.

Then, finally—finally—you nodded.

And the second you did, Devin didn’t hesitate.

His lips crashed into yours, desperate, needy, like he needed to feel you, needed to show you everything he hadn’t been able to say. His hands gripped your waist tight, pulling you flush against him, like he couldn’t stand the thought of even an inch of space between you.

And you let him.

Because damn it, you needed it too.

The fight wasn’t over.

The anger wasn’t gone.

But right now? Right now, you just needed to feel him.

And the way Devin kissed you?

The way he held you like you were the only thing that mattered?

That was all you needed to know.

Like last week, when he tried to buy you sneakers—something simple, nothing crazy—and you refused to let him pay, insisting you could get them yourself. Or the time he booked a vacation for you two, and you fought him over sending him half the cost for the flights.

And then tonight.

You were out to dinner at one of his favorite restaurants—nothing too fancy, but nice enough that the bill was going to be a little ridiculous. He didn’t even think about it when the check came, just reached for it instinctively.

And then your hand was there, quick as lightning, grabbing at the other side of the black leather check holder like you were about to enter a full-on tug-of-war match over who got to pay.

“I got it,” you said, so casually, like it was nothing.

Devin barely held back a groan. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” you insisted, already reaching into your bag for your wallet.

Devin shot you a look. “Are we really about to do this again?”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I just don’t want you always paying for everything.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because!” You gestured vaguely, searching for the right words. “It’s just—it’s weird. I don’t need you to pay for me, Devin. I have my own money.”

He leaned back, giving you a look. “I know you do. That’s not the point.”

You sighed, your fingers drumming anxiously against the table. “It’s just a thing for me, okay? I don’t want to feel like I’m just—taking from you.”

Devin let out a slow breath, his head tilting slightly, like he was really trying to understand where you were coming from. But also? Like he was trying to figure out the best way to break you out of this.

Because he wasn’t about to let his girlfriend treat herself like a damn charity case every time he wanted to do something nice for her.

And tonight?

Tonight, he was putting an end to it.

Devin didn’t move right away. He just watched you, fingers tapping against the table, your brows pinched in that way they always did when you were overthinking. He knew that look too well.

You were already building an argument in your head, already ready to fight him on this. And that was crazy to him.

Because what you didn’t seem to understand—what he needed you to understand—was that this wasn’t about money. It was about you.

And he wanted to take care of you.

Not because he thought you needed him to. But because it was how he showed love.

So he exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face before sitting forward, his voice lower now. Steadier. “Alright. Explain it to me.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Explain what?”

“This.” He gestured between you two, between the check still sitting on the table, between this entire situation. “Why does this bother you so much?”

You sighed, leaning back in your chair, playing with the edge of your napkin. He knew you were stalling.

Finally, after a long pause, you muttered, “Because I don’t ever want you to think I’m with you for the wrong reasons.”

Devin froze.

For a second, he just stared at you. Then his jaw clenched, something flickering behind his eyes—something that made your stomach twist.

“You really think I’d ever believe that?” His voice was low, almost hurt.

You swallowed. “It’s not about you believing it. It’s about other people.”

Because that’s what it came down to, wasn’t it?

You had seen the headlines. The Twitter comments. The whispers whenever you and Devin were out in public together. Gold digger. Another NBA girlfriend just riding the wave. She’s only here for the lifestyle.

You hated it.

And yeah, Devin had money. More money than most people would know what to do with. But you never wanted that to define your relationship. You never wanted people to look at him—at you—and assume it was just about that.

Devin’s jaw ticked. “So, what? You’re gonna keep splitting every bill for the rest of our lives just to prove a point to people who don’t even know us?”

You flinched. “It’s not about proving a point.”

“Then what is it?”

You let out a sharp exhale, suddenly feeling exposed, like you had been backed into a corner with no way out. “It’s just—it’s weird for me, okay? I’ve always taken care of myself. I’ve had to. Letting someone else do it feels… I don’t know. Like I’m losing something.”

Devin went quiet at that.

His fingers drummed against the table once, twice—like he was processing—before he nodded slowly, leaning back, his dark eyes locked onto yours.

“Alright,” he said. “I get it.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how easily he was letting it go.

“Wait, you do?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I get why you feel like that.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So… we’re good?”

Devin let out a slow breath, his lips twitching—like he was trying really hard to hide a smirk. “No. Not even a little.”

You frowned. “Then—”

“I get why you feel like that,” he said again, tapping his fingers against the check. “But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you keep doing this dumb shit.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Dumb shit?”

“Yes.” He nodded, casual as ever, fully ignoring the way you were now glaring at him. “Because you’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Multi-Millionaire. Some of us didn’t grow up with an unlimited budget.”

Devin rolled his eyes. “Baby, I didn’t either.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but—okay. Fair point. Devin didn’t come from crazy wealth. He had worked for it. Earned every dime.

“But that’s exactly my point,” you argued. “You earned it. You should get to spend it on whatever you want.”

He gave you an exasperated look. “And I want to spend it on you.”

You paused.

Devin sighed, leaning in, his voice softer now. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“That it makes me happy to do this for you.”

Your breath hitched slightly.

His gaze was steady, his thumb rubbing absentmindedly against the side of his glass. “I want to take care of you. Not because I think you need me to. Not because I think you can’t take care of yourself. But because you deserve to have someone who wants to do things for you.”

You swallowed hard. “Dev—”

“No, listen.” He tilted his head slightly. “You do so much for me. You deal with the travel, the media, the bullshit that comes with dating someone in the NBA. You support me constantly. You make my life easier in ways you don’t even realize.”

You were silent.

“So, if I want to take you to a nice dinner, or buy you a pair of sneakers, or book a trip just because I know you’ll like it—why the fuck would you fight me on that?”

You let out a breath, your frustration softening into something more like… guilt.

Because when he put it like that…

You bit your lip. “I just don’t want to take advantage of you.”

Devin let out a quiet laugh—not mocking, not patronizing, just… fond.

“You think you could take advantage of me?” He shook his head, smirking now. “Baby, you won’t even let me buy you coffee half the time.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

He grinned, leaning forward. “No, what’s embarrassing is you thinking you have any real say in this.”

You peeked through your fingers, frowning. “What does that mean?”

Devin grabbed the check, pulled out his card, and slid it in like it was final. Like this was done.

“Means I’m paying for dinner,” he said simply.

“Devin—”

He held up a finger, stopping you before you could argue. “And next time, I will tackle you if you try to split it.”

You deadpanned. “You wouldn’t.”

His smirk was all teeth. “Try me.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, throwing your hands up in defeat. “Fine. You win.”

Devin just shook his head, amused. “Oh, baby.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours, his voice nothing but a murmur.

“I won the second I met you.”