There’s an ache. But there’s happiness, too.

Everything in him stopped. He turned so fast it nearly threw him off balance, his eyes searching through the wreckage until he saw you crumpled near the broken steps of a storefront, half-hidden by dust and debris. Your hand was pressed to your side. Blood slipped between your fingers in thin, steady lines, already washed pink by the rain.

“No.” The word tore out of him before he reached you. “No, no, no—hey, hey, I’m here.” He dropped to his knees so hard the pavement cracked beneath them. His shield clattered uselessly beside him. Trembling hands hovered over you for one awful second, terrified to touch, terrified not to.

Your face was pale beneath the grime. Your lashes were wet with rainwater. Or tears. “Steve,” you whispered again, trying to smile.

He hated that smile. Because it was the one you used when he was scared. “Don’t do that,” he said, voice shaking. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that. We’re getting you out of here.” He ripped off his gloves, pressed both hands over the wound, hard enough to stop the bleeding, gentle enough not to hurt you. He called for medics into the comm, shouting until his throat burned.

Only silence greeted him from the other side.

“Stay with me.” His voice cracked. “You hear me? Stay with me.”

You reached up slowly, fingers brushing the wet hair off his forehead like you’d done a hundred quiet mornings before. “You always look so worried,” you murmured.

Steve bent over you, choking on a laugh that became a sob. “I’m worried because you’re bleeding in my arms.”

“I know.” Your hand slid weakly to his cheek. “Still handsome, though.”

“Stop joking.” He swallowed hard. “Please, stop joking.”

Your eyes searched his face with heartbreaking tenderness, memorizing him. “I’m sorry.”

The words hit harder than any blow he’d ever taken. “No.” He shook his head violently. “No, you don’t get to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I was supposed to meet you for dinner.”

Rain dripped from his chin onto your jacket. He didn’t realize he was crying until you wiped at it with your thumb.

“You can still make it,” he said desperately. “Come on, sweetheart, you can still make it. I’ll carry you there myself. We’ll go somewhere fancy. Somewhere stupidly expensive because you always laugh when I complain about the bill.”

You smiled again. Smaller this time. “I liked when you complained.”

“Then I’ll complain all night.” He was openly sobbing now, unable to stop. “I’ll complain forever, just stay.”

Your breathing hitched.

Steve felt it in the air around the pair of you, the subtle shift, the terrifying slowing of your pulse beneath his blood-slick hands. His whole body went cold. “No.” He leaned closer, forehead pressing to yours. “No, no, listen to me. Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered. “I am looking,” you whispered.

“Keep doing it.”

“Steve…”

“Please.” The plea came out broken. Steve Rogers, who had stood against gods and monsters, who had dragged himself through wars and centuries and grief no one could imagine, was begging. “I can’t lose you.”

You exhaled shakily, rain catching on your lashes. “You already had me.” A cough of blood ccame out. “Wasn’t that enough?”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Because the truth was no amount of time would ever have been enough. Not one year. Not ten. Not a lifetime.

Your fingers slipped from his cheek. Your chest rose once. Twice. Then stilled. For a moment, Steve just stared. Like if he looked hard enough, the world would take it back. Then he gathered you against him with a sound no one there would ever forget—a raw, wounded cry dragged from someplace deeper than pain.

He held you as the rain poured down. Held you when the medics finally arrived too late. Held you when the street emptied. Held you when someone touched his shoulder and he nearly broke their wrist. Held you until dawn painted the sky gray.

Because if he let go, if he let go, then it was real.

—

“Rogers.”

He blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the heavy drop of a familiar voice.

Bucky Barnes slumped into the chair across from him, coffee in hand, tie already loosened like the day had personally offended him. “You’re staring again,” Bucky said, not even looking.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Bucky cut in, finally glancing up, one brow raised. “At them.”

Steve flushed. Actually flushed. “I don’t stare.”

“You’ll sketch them from memory later,” Bucky shot back. “Which is worse.”

Steve hated that Bucky knew him that well.

Across the room, you were mid-conversation with another professor, something about archival inconsistencies. Your hands moved when you talked—not dramatic, just enough to emphasize, to underline your thoughts in the air.

Steve’s fingers twitched.

He could already see the lines. The curve of your wrist. The way your brow furrowed when you were trying to make a point.

God.

“Just talk to them,” Bucky said, taking a sip of his coffee.

Steve scoffed softly. “Yeah, okay.”

“No, seriously,” Bucky leaned forward now, tone shifting—less teasing, more intent. “They’re not gonna bite, Stevie.”

“They’re—” Steve swallowed, glancing back at you like you might somehow hear him. “They’re brilliant. And I teach intro-level art to freshmen who still think shading is optional.”

Bucky snorted. “You’re an award-winning artist.”

“I’m a temporary placement,” Steve corrected quietly.

That always sat between his ribs like something heavy. Not permanent. Not secure. Not… enough. 

Across the room, you laughed softly at something your colleague said. It wasn’t loud, but it carried. It always carried.

Steve felt it like a pull in his chest. “I wouldn’t even know what to say,” he admitted.

Bucky watched him for a second. Really watched him. Then sighed, like this was inevitable. “Okay,” he said, standing up.

Steve froze. “Buck—”

Too late. Bucky crossed the room with that effortless confidence Steve had never been able to fake, sliding seamlessly into your conversation.

Steve’s stomach dropped.

He looked down at his sketchbook, suddenly very interested in the half-finished drawing on the page. His pencil hovered, unmoving.

Don’t look. Don’t—

“Steve?”

His head snapped up.

You were standing there. You. Up close, you were somehow worse. Better. Your eyes were warmer than he expected. Curious. Not intimidating—just focused.

Bucky stood just behind you, smug as hell.

“Uh—hi,” Steve managed, immediately hating how small his voice sounded.

“I’ve seen your students’ work,” you said, and Steve blinked.

“That’s—uh—sorry?”

“They talk about you,” you added, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “A lot, actually. You make them feel like they’re… capable. Like their voice matters.”

Steve stared at you like you’d just said something impossible. “I don’t— I mean, I just—”

“You care,” you said simply.

And it wasn’t said like a compliment. It was said like a fact. Something in his chest shifted. Bucky, traitor that he was, clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Steve here also does portraits,” he added casually.

Steve nearly choked. “I—Buck—”

Your eyes lit up just slightly. “Do you?”

“Not— not really, I mean, not professionally—”

“I’d love to see your work sometime.”

Oh. Oh.

Steve’s brain completely stalled.

“Yeah,” Bucky cut in smoothly, because of course he did, “he could show you after hours. Studio’s quieter then.”

Steve turned to him in horror. Bucky just grinned. You hesitated for half a second—just enough to make Steve’s heart stutter—before nodding.

“I’d like that,” you said. And then, softer—almost like you were letting him in on something— “I think you’re underselling yourself, Professor Rogers.”

You walked away before he could respond.

Steve stood there, frozen, staring after you.

Bucky leaned in, voice low. “See? Didn’t kill you.”

You don’t even answer. You just crawl closer and slide your fingers into his hair, slow and gentle, careful of the knots from sweat and stress and too many close calls.

He melts.

Actually melts.

Steve shifts until he’s half on top of you, forehead pressed to your collarbone, arms circling your waist like if he lets go you might disappear too. His breathing evens out almost immediately, the tension bleeding from his shoulders under your touch.

“You’re safe,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”

A quiet sound slips from him—something between a sigh and a relieved laugh.

“You always say that,” he mumbles. “And it always works.”

You card your fingers through his hair again, thumb brushing over his temple. Steve hums softly, eyes fluttering shut. He smells like soap and laundry detergent and something warm that feels like home.

After a moment, he lifts his head just enough to look at you.

“Hey,” he says, like it’s important. Like everything is important. “If things had gone… worse.” He swallows. “You’d still be here, right? You wouldn’t leave?”

Your chest aches.

You cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks, and make sure he’s really looking at you.

“Steve Harrington,” you say gently. “You’re stuck with me. End of story.”

He blinks. Then his lips wobble.

“God,” he laughs quietly, embarrassed and soft. “You’re gonna make me cry, y’know that?”

You lean up and kiss his nose. Then his cheek. Then the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t mind,” you whisper.

Steve exhales, forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing. His hands slide up your back, warm and sure, thumbs tracing slow circles like he’s grounding himself in you.

“I don’t say this enough,” he murmurs. “But I love you. Like… a lot. Like end-of-the-world, monsters-and-bats-and-everything-else kind of love.”

You smile so hard it almost hurts.

“I know,” you say. “I love you too.”

He grins—that crooked, boyish grin that somehow still exists after everything. Then he kisses you, slow and sweet, like he’s not trying to escape anything—just savor it.

After, you curl together under the blankets. Steve tucks you against his chest, chin resting on your head, arms wrapped around you like a promise.

Outside, the world can be loud. Dangerous. Uncertain.

But here?

Here is Steve Harrington holding you like tomorrow is guaranteed.

And for the first time in a while, he really believes it.

“Come on, baby, it’s freezing,” you mumbled, falling back against your pillow. Your arms wound around his middle when he gave in, pulling him down until his chest was pressed to your back. “You’re warm. Be my space heater.”

“You’re clingy,” he grumbled into your hair, his breath warm against your neck. He gave a token struggle, just enough to keep up appearances, before collapsing into the pillows with a long-suffering sigh. But his hand still found your waist. Always.

You drifted for a while in the soft hush of the morning, the air cool against your skin, the world beyond your window muted by the heavy curtains. Sometimes you’d wake again and find him already awake, eyes tracing your face like he was committing every line to memory.

“Whatcha looking at?” you teased one morning, nudging his nose with yours.

Billy didn’t even flinch at being caught. Instead, he brushed your hair from your cheek, his thumb warm against your temple. He pressed a kiss to your forehead like it was instinct. “Just checking if you’re real,” he muttered, quiet, almost embarrassed by the honesty of it.

You curled closer, lips grazing his collarbone. “Still real. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Never.”

When you finally pulled yourself out of bed, the house was filled with the scent of coffee. Billy leaned against the counter in nothing but sweats, cigarette dangling forgotten between his fingers as he watched you shuffle around the kitchen. You tried to find mugs, yawning into your sleeve, and he smirked when you grabbed the sugar first.

“You’re useless without caffeine,” he teased.

“And you’re cranky without cuddles,” you shot back, giving him a pointed look over your shoulder.

He scoffed, but his smirk twitched wider, betrayed. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t spread it around.”

By the time the coffee finished brewing, you’d dug eggs and bread out of the fridge. Billy made a show of sitting back like he had no intention of helping, but the second you burned your fingers on the frying pan, he was behind you, grumbling under his breath as he nudged you out of the way.

“Jesus, you’re hopeless,” he said, cracking eggs one-handed like it was nothing.

You leaned against the counter, sipping coffee, grinning. “You love it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just focused on the pan, shoulders broad, hair still mussed from sleep and your hands. But when he finally turned, setting a plate in front of you, there was a softness in his eyes that the smirk couldn’t hide.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I do.”

You leaned into him whenever you could, fitting yourself against his side like a puzzle piece that had always been missing. When you walked together, your steps unconsciously matched his. When he stopped, you stopped. When he leaned, you followed. Your hand always found his—sometimes just the tips of your fingers brushing his knuckles, sometimes your whole palm slipping into his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Billy pretended not to notice how much he needed it.

But he did.

He noticed the way his shoulders dropped when you touched him. The way his breathing evened out when you rested your head against his chest. The way his thoughts quieted when your fingers traced slow, idle patterns on his arm like you were grounding him without realizing it.

You treated him gently. Like he wasn’t made of sharp edges.

Sometimes you’d sit together in silence—no talking, no expectations. Just your legs tangled with his, your body angled toward him, warmth seeping into places that had always felt cold. Billy would glance down at you, hair falling into his eyes, and feel something unfamiliar twist in his chest.

Why do you want me like this?

Why aren’t you afraid?

You’d catch him staring and smile, soft and fond, like the answer was obvious.

The cuteness aggression was real. Sudden. Overwhelming.

You’d gasp quietly, hands flexing. “I can’t deal with you.”

“What’d I do now?” Billy would mutter, suspicious.

You never answered—just stepped into his space, grabbing the collar of his jacket, pressing your forehead to his chest while laughing softly like the affection had physically overloaded you. Your arms wrapped around him, tight and warm, like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go.

Billy’s hands would hover for a second every time.

Then, carefully, he’d place them on your back. Solid. Protective. Real.

He didn’t say much when you babied him—when you told him he was good, when you kissed his temple, when you brushed his hair back like he was something precious instead of dangerous. He just soaked it in quietly, memorizing the feeling. Filing it away like proof that this was real. That you were real.

That’s why the absence hit him so hard.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was worse.

You simply… stopped.

No more arms around his waist while he leaned against the car. No more curling into his side during movies. No more absentminded touches that reminded him he wasn’t alone. You still laughed. Still smiled. Still cared.

But the closeness was gone.

Billy felt it immediately, like a sudden drop in temperature.

At first, he told himself not to be stupid. You were allowed to change. You didn’t owe him constant affection. He didn’t want to be needy. Didn’t want to be that guy.

But his body didn’t listen to logic.

His chest felt hollow. His hands felt wrong without you in them. Nights stretched too long, his thoughts spiraling in the quiet. He replayed everything he’d said, every time he’d pretended your affection annoyed him, every moment he’d pulled away out of instinct instead of honesty.

I messed it up, he thought miserably. I always mess it up.

By the time he finally confronted you, his nerves were shot.

You were in his room, folding laundry on the bed, sunlight slanting in through the window. He stood there for a long moment, watching you—close, but not touching—and it hurt more than he expected.

“Hey,” he said finally.

You looked up, smiling. “Hey.”

That was it. That soft, normal smile nearly broke him.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, voice low, careful, like he was afraid of the answer.

You frowned slightly. “What? No—why would you think that?”

“You don’t touch me anymore,” he said, and the words came out rougher than he meant. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. “I thought maybe you were mad. Or… tired of me. Or that I crossed a line and didn’t realize it.”

The room felt too quiet.

Your hands stilled. Slowly, you stood and crossed the space between you, your movements gentle, deliberate.

“Oh, Billy,” you murmured.

When you cupped his face, his breath caught immediately. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second before he could stop himself, leaning into your touch like it was muscle memory.

“I stopped because I thought you needed space,” you said softly. “You never said it bothered you, but I didn’t want to overwhelm you. I thought I was being too much.”

His hands came up automatically, gripping your wrists—not to pull you away, but to keep you there.

“I liked it,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t know how to say it without sounding… pathetic.”

You shook your head, heart aching, and pulled him into your arms.

Billy folded instantly, arms wrapping around you tight and desperate, face pressed into your shoulder. He breathed you in like he’d been holding his breath for days, body sagging with relief.

“I missed you,” he muttered, voice muffled. “I missed feeling like that.”

You held him just as tightly, rocking him gently, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head the way you always used to.

“You’re not too much,” you whispered. “You never were.”

He clung to that like it was a lifeline.

From that day on, Billy stopped pretending he didn’t need you.

He didn’t always say it out loud—but when your hand found his, he squeezed back just a little tighter. When you leaned into him, he leaned back. When you wrapped him up in affection, he let himself sink into it fully, no longer afraid of wanting something soft.

And you? You never stopped touching him again.

“Don’t screw it up,” he grumbled, though his hands were obedient in yours. His nails weren’t perfect — a little rough from work, some edges jagged — but you handled them carefully, steady strokes of the brush making black crescents bloom across each fingertip.

By the time you reached his last hand, you were grinning to yourself. When he wasn’t looking, you dipped into the little bottle of silver polish you’d stashed on the nightstand. Tiny stars began to take shape over the glossy black, small and subtle, like constellations against the night sky.

“Hey,” he said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” you sang, tongue poking between your teeth as you concentrated. “Trust me.”

“I don’t—”

“Shut up, Hargrove. You’ll smudge it.”

He huffed, but he let you finish. And when you finally leaned back to admire your handiwork, he looked down at his hands with a skeptical frown.

“You put… stars on me,” he muttered.

“Silver stars,” you corrected, smiling smugly. “Because you’re my night sky.”

He rolled his eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck, muttering something under his breath about you being “a sap.” But later, when he thought you weren’t looking, you caught him staring down at his hands with the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. Like he was holding a piece of you with him.

He didn’t move. Not even when your arm flopped lazily across his stomach or when you shifted so your shoulder rested against his knee. Not when your fingers twined with his absentmindedly, seeking contact, comfort, connection.

The glow of the TV highlighted the sharp angles of his face, his jaw relaxed for once, the usual tension of his shoulders gone. Billy’s thumb traced slow, careful circles over your arm, more instinct than thought, as he watched you breathe evenly.

Somewhere in the quiet, he realized he didn’t want it to end. Not the movie. Not the night. Not this — you, soft, trusting, letting him be your anchor, your warmth, your protection without question.

When you shifted in your sleep, letting out a small sigh, he leaned down and brushed a stray lock of hair from your face. “Don’t move,” he whispered quietly, half to himself, half a promise. “You stay here. I got you.”

Hours passed like that. The credits rolled unnoticed, the TV casting flickering shadows across the room. Billy stayed exactly where he was, hand still resting on your back, fingers brushing the curve of your arm, head slightly tilted as he watched you sleep. He didn’t adjust, didn’t shift, didn’t speak.

When your lips parted in a soft sigh, he leaned closer and pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. A quiet, protective gesture, a way of telling you without words that you were safe, that you were his, and that in this moment, nothing else mattered.

Even when your head twitched slightly as you dreamed, he stayed, holding you steady, murmuring soft nonsense into your ear to soothe you back into sleep.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice low and rough, almost embarrassed by the sentiment, but sincere. “All yours.”

And you murmured something in your sleep, a half-word, a half-name, and he smiled softly, tightening his hold just slightly.

Billy Hargrove, impossible, infuriating, reckless Billy, didn’t move for hours. Because for once, he didn’t need to. You were there, warm and trusting and entirely his, and that was enough.

He didn’t want the night to end. He didn’t want this moment to end. He just wanted you, quiet, soft, real, and in his arms.

He appeared in the doorway then, bare-chested, hair messy like he’d just woken up from a nap he wasn’t supposed to take. The second he saw the CDs in your hand, his eyes went wide, cheeks heating in that familiar pink flush.

“What… what are you doing?” he asked, voice tight, as though you’d caught him committing some terrible crime.

“You made this for me?” you asked, incredulous, flipping through the tracks. Every single song seemed impossibly… thoughtful. Songs you’d mentioned once, songs that reminded you of quiet moments together, of long drives and late nights.

Billy’s jaw set, eyes darting away. “I didn’t… I didn’t make it… I mean—”

“You did,” you interrupted, holding up the top CD like evidence. “You made it. You actually made me a mixtape.”

He grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Shut up” but it came out under his breath. His arms crossed over his chest, but he shifted his weight nervously, face still pink.

“It’s… it’s really good,” you said softly, pressing the CD to your chest. “I can’t believe you did this.”

He blinked at you, caught between looking annoyed and wanting to grin. “It’s nothing,” he muttered. “Just… some songs. Thought you might like ‘em.”

“Some songs?” you teased, eyes sparkling. “Billy, this is hours of work. You even wrote the notes on the tracklist!”

He ran a hand through his hair, scowling but still hiding a little smile. “Yeah, well… maybe I wanted to,” he admitted quietly. “Don’t get all sappy on me.”

You laughed, walking over and pressing a quick kiss to his freckled cheek. “Too late,” you said. “You’re blushing. I’ve got you now.”

Billy groaned dramatically, hiding his face in his hands for a second before peeking out at you again. “You better not make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun,” you promised. “I love it. I love you.”

He froze, caught off guard, then muttered, almost to himself, “Yeah… well… don’t tell anyone.”

You grinned, tucking the mixtape under your arm. “Your secret’s safe.”

And even though he tried to act like it didn’t matter, you caught him humming the first song under his breath later that night, pink cheeks pressed into the pillow, thinking no one could see.

Rain clung to his broad shoulders as he stepped inside, shaking droplets from his jacket. The streetlights outside caught in his dark hair. Even soaked from the storm, he somehow looked unfairly handsome.

Bucky Barnes walked toward the counter like he didn’t belong to a tower full of geniuses and superheroes, like he didn’t have a vibranium arm and a past carved in blood.

Like he was just a man coming to see his girl.

“Bucky, what a surprise,” you teased, leaning against the counter.

His mouth curved slowly. Soft. Fond. “I’ll have a platter of you and a side of your smile to go?”

A giggle slipped from you despite your exhaustion. “We’re fresh out of that.”

“Damn. I come down here every night for nothing.”

Every night.

That was the thing.

No matter how long your shift ran. No matter how late. No matter how hard it rained or how cold the wind cut through the city streets—he came. He’d sit in the same booth by the window. Sometimes with coffee. Sometimes with nothing at all. Just watching you move from table to table.

Not in a creepy way.

In an admiring way.

Like you were something precious.

He watched you now as you refilled a coffee pot, brows faintly drawn together when he saw you wince while stretching your sore back.

You caught him staring. “You gonna order something real or just stand there lookin’ pretty?”

“I am ordering something real.” He leaned forward slightly. “You. Walkin’ home with me.”

Your heart fluttered, even though this was routine.

Your shift dragged on another hour—then another thirty minutes because a family lingered long past closing. Through it all, Bucky stayed. He didn’t check his phone much. Didn’t complain. Just sat in that booth, chin resting on his knuckles, watching you move.

You were so tired.

But he looked at you like you hung the moon.

When you finally untied your apron and stepped out into the cool night air, he was already at the door, holding it open.

“Thought you fell asleep in there,” you mumbled.

“Nah.” His voice was gentle. “Just waitin’.”

The walk home was slow. He adjusted his pace to match yours without saying a word. When you stumbled slightly off the curb, his hand came to your lower back instinctively—warm, steady.

“You’re exhausted,” he murmured.

“I’m fine.”

He gave you a look.

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, I’m dying. Dramatically.”

That earned a small chuckle.

When you reached your apartment building, you expected the usual routine—goodnight, soft smile, him lingering until you got inside safe.

Instead, he followed you up.

“Buck?”

“You need caffeine. And someone to make sure you don’t fall asleep in the bathtub.”

You didn’t argue.

Inside your small kitchen, he moved with quiet confidence, like he’d memorized the space. He rolled up his sleeves, filled the kettle, found your favorite mug without asking.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him instead.

It always did something to you—this massive, dangerous man carefully measuring coffee grounds like it mattered more than the world.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said softly.

He didn’t turn around. “Yeah. I do.”

The kettle whistled. He poured the water slowly.

“You work harder than anyone I know,” he added. “You’re on your feet all day. Smilin’ at people who don’t always deserve it. And you still come out here and laugh at my stupid pickup lines.”

“They’re not stupid,” you teased weakly.

“They absolutely are.”

He handed you the mug and gently nudged you toward the couch. “Sit.”

You obeyed. Too tired to protest.

He disappeared for a second and came back with a blanket, draping it over you carefully—tucking it around your shoulders like you were something fragile.

Then he sat beside you, not too close, but close enough that your knees brushed.

You took a sip. Perfect.

“You wait every shift,” you said quietly. “Even when I text you that it’s gonna be late.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. And for a man who had faced HYDRA, aliens, and gods—this seemed to make him more nervous than anything.

“Because I like knowin’ you’re safe,” he admitted. “And because… I like watchin’ you.”

You raised a brow.

He rushed to clarify, cheeks faintly pink. “Not in a weird way. I just— you get this crease right here.” His finger hovered near your eyebrow but didn’t touch. “When someone’s being difficult. And you bite your lip when you’re concentrating. And when you laugh for real? It’s different than your customer-service laugh.”

Your breath caught.

“I memorized it,” he finished quietly.

The room felt warmer.

“You admire me while I work?” you asked, teasing to cover the sudden emotion in your chest.

“Every shift,” he said without hesitation.

Silence settled between you—soft and heavy in the best way.

Your head tipped to the side, resting against his shoulder before you could second-guess it.

He went completely still.

Then carefully—carefully—his arm wrapped around you. Metal and flesh both gentle.

“Get some rest,” he murmured against your hair.

“You staying?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “I always do.”

Your eyes slipped closed.

And for the first time all day, you didn’t feel exhausted.

But twenty minutes later, you found yourself in front of a full-length mirror in a back dressing room, laced into something soft ivory with a fitted bodice, a slightly off-the-shoulder neckline, and a gentle tulle train that caught the light when you turned. It hugged your curves in all the right places.

And you—annoyingly—looked stunning.

“Oh no,” Wanda whispered from behind you.

“Oh no,” Natasha echoed.

You blinked. “What?”

Pepper leaned in from the hallway and gasped. “Oh my God. You’re done for. If Bucky sees you in that, he’s going to—”

A sharp ding from the boutique’s front door cut her off.

You all froze.

“…Was that the—”

“Ladies?” came a very familiar voice.

“Shit,” Natasha hissed, shoving a hanger at you. “Bucky’s here.”

“Why the hell is Bucky here?!”

"Who told him we'd be here?"

Pepper groaned. “I texted him to swing by to help pick up a gift bag I left in the car, but I didn’t think he’d come in—!”

Too late.

Bucky’s boots clunked across the polished boutique floor, his voice drawing closer as he called out, “Hey, Nat, you said it was in the trunk—wait, babe? You back here?”

Before you could even shout a warning, the curtain whipped open.

Bucky stopped cold.

His mouth dropped open.

You froze, wide-eyed, one heel half off, veil slipping sideways on your head like a drunk ghost. “I swear this isn’t what it looks like—”

But Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

His gaze raked over you slowly, almost reverently—like he wasn’t entirely sure you were real.

“That one,” he said hoarsely.

You blinked. “What?”

His eyes stayed glued to you. “That one. That’s it. That’s the dress.”

“Bucky, I—” you stammered. “We’re not even engaged, I was just—”

“We are now.” His voice cracked with something fierce and unshakable. “I’m not even joking. I’m gonna find a priest. A rabbi. Tony. Someone. You’re not taking that thing off until someone pronounces us married.”

Nat snorted behind him. “Jesus, Barnes, calm down—”

“I am calm,” he snapped, but his tone betrayed him—unhinged, elated, utterly overwhelmed. He stepped closer, eyes glazed and worshipful. “You—look at you. How the hell am I supposed to function knowing what you look like in that thing?”

You felt your heart trip over itself. “Bucky—”

“No, no. Don’t talk me out of it.” His hand curled gently around your waist, pulling you close. “We’re doing this. I’m putting a ring on your finger, you’re keeping this dress, and I’m legally binding myself to you before someone else sees you in it and I have to commit a crime.”

You laughed, cheeks flushing. “This is insane. We were just dating.”

“Not anymore,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “Now I’m yours. All the way.”

Your fingers curled in the lapel of his jacket.

“You’re serious?” you whispered.

“I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

And just like that, Natasha was pulling out her phone to find a courthouse, Pepper was tearing up, and Bucky—Bucky looked like he’d just been handed the moon.

You should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve told him he was being dramatic, ridiculous, Bucky, with his hair a mess and his hoodie half-zipped like he’d run here straight from a mission. But you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Not when he was looking at you like that.

Like you were the only living thing in a dead galaxy.

“Bucky,” you breathed, eyes darting to the others—Pepper discreetly dabbing at her eyes, Wanda beaming like she already knew this was written in the stars, and Natasha grinning like she knew her dare would end like this.

“I mean it,” he said, quieter now. “You think I didn’t know? The second I saw you—really saw you—I knew. This was always gonna be it for me.”

His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “You wearing that dress just made it impossible to pretend I could wait anymore.”

Your throat tightened. “But we never talked about—marriage. Or even living together.”

“I don’t care where we live,” he murmured, forehead pressing to yours. “I’ll sleep in your damn bathtub if I have to. I just want you. Waking up next to you. Coming home to you. Tying myself to you in every way I can.”

You could feel your pulse fluttering under your skin like a moth trapped in your ribcage. You wanted to say something smart, something grounded, something that might cool the fire in his eyes—

But instead you whispered, “Okay.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

And then—chaos.

Pepper shrieked. Wanda clapped. Natasha screamed, “CALLED IT,” and ran to grab a bottle of champagne off the nearest table. And Bucky—Bucky kissed you like you were oxygen and his lungs had gone dry.

“Wait—” you pulled back just a little, blinking. “Are we actually getting married today?”

“Yes,” Bucky and Natasha said at the same time.

“No,” Pepper said, already on the phone with someone. “You are not getting married without hair and makeup. I know a team.”

“I’ll get Tony to open the tower chapel,” Wanda said, typing furiously. “He owes me for that Sokovian dessert wine I smuggled back for him.”

“Wait, chapel—?” you blinked. “Tony has a—never mind, of course he does.”

“Dress is already picked,” Natasha smirked. “Now all we need is a ring.”

Bucky grinned, eyes never leaving yours. “Already got one.”

You blinked. “You what?”

He fished in his jacket pocket—because of course he had it on him—and pulled out a small velvet box, sheepish and smug all at once.

“I was gonna wait,” he muttered. “Till your birthday. Or Valentine’s Day. Or a meteor shower. Some dumb romantic crap. But clearly the universe decided today was the day.”

He opened it. Simple. Elegant. Yours. A platinum band, thin and glinting like starlight, set with a single dark sapphire—midnight blue, stormy and fierce, just like him.

Your hands trembled when he slid it onto your finger. It fit perfectly. You couldn’t stop staring at it. You couldn’t stop smiling. “Holy shit,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, resting his forehead against yours again. “You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart.”

“God help me,” you murmured, and kissed him.

----

You weren’t even sure how it all happened so fast. One minute you were being dragged into a makeup chair, the next you were in a penthouse rooftop chapel lit with candles, Tony officiating in a suit and sunglasses, Steve giving Bucky his tie because his was wrinkled, and Bruce holding up someone’s dog as a makeshift ring bearer.

You and Bucky barely heard the words. You were too busy smiling. Laughing. Crying. Gripping each other’s hands like lifelines.

And when he kissed you again—really kissed you, as husband and wife—the rest of the world fell away. Just you. Just him. The dress. The dare. The forever. All of it. Yours.

--

//PLEASE REBLOG IF YOU ENJOYED!\\

He shakes his head, already sliding over to your side, pulling back the blanket with one hand and reaching for you with the other. His vibranium fingers tap lightly on the mattress, an unspoken invitation. A plea, really.

“You didn’t,” he murmurs. “I just… noticed when you weren’t there.”

You cross the room and crawl in beside him, placing the glass of water on the table beside you, letting his warmth pull you under the covers. He immediately wrapped himself around you, tucking his face against the back of your neck like it’s second nature, like he’d freeze without it.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “Didn’t go far.”

“I know,” he breathes, voice already thick with drowsiness again. “Still missed you. Even a second without you makes my heart ache.”

You smile against the pillow. His arm — the warm one — snakes around your waist, and his fingers splay protectively over your ribs, grounding both of you. He always holds you like this, like you might vanish in the night. Like part of him still believes everything good is temporary.

“You’re clingy when you’re half-asleep,” you murmur, teasing but fond.

His lips curve into a smile against your skin. “Only with you.”

The room is quiet again. The cold forgotten. His breath slows, and you can feel the weight of him relax — not just his body, but that heavy, haunted thing he always carries in his chest.

And before you drift off too, you think: If this is what healing looks like — reaching for each other in the dark — then maybe you’ll never let go.

--

He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to get a handle on himself. Tried. The mattress shifted beside him.

You. You were still there. Your warmth seeped into him, even across the narrow gap he’d put between you — because he didn't trust himself not to ruin you if you got too close. "Ben...?" Your voice, soft, still fogged with sleep.

He turned his head — barely — enough to see you propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes blurry but alert. Worried. Always worried. He hated that he made you look at him like that.

A lie so obvious even he hated hearing it.

You didn’t call him on it. You just shifted closer cautiously until your hand hovered, uncertain, over his arm. An invitation, not a demand. It shattered him. He twisted toward you — grabbing your hand, pulling it against his chest like a drowning man clutching a life preserver.

You made a soft, wounded sound at the back of your throat and curled into him without hesitation. And for the first time all night, Soldier Boy breathed.

You ran your fingers gently through his hair — steady, soothing strokes — and he squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed.

He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve you. But fuck if he could make himself let go.

"Ben," you whispered, voice barely audible. "It's okay. You're safe."

The words hit harder than any bullet. He shook his head minutely against you. Safe? He wasn't safe. He was a walking bomb. A fucking monster.

But you — You made him feel something. Something besides anger. Something besides that endless, gnawing hollow inside his ribs. Something real. The only thing that felt real anymore.

"I'm sorry," he rasped, voice cracking open. "Christ, I'm sorry."

"For what?" you asked, blinking up at him.

He looked away — jaw tight, throat working like he was swallowing broken glass.

"For... this," he said finally, bitter and raw. "For being... me."

You sat up slightly, bracing yourself on one hand. The motel lamp cast a soft halo around you — made you look almost unreal.

Like something he’d dreamed up.

"You don't have to apologize for surviving," you said simply.

He huffed out a broken sound — half laugh, half sob.

"Survivin'?" he echoed, voice twisted. "That what you call it?"

He dragged a hand through his hair, rough and shaking.

"You don’t know the shit I’ve done, sweetheart. You don’t... you wouldn’t look at me the same if you knew."

You reached out and cupped his jaw — gently but firmly, forcing him to meet your eyes.

"I know enough," you said, fierce and soft all at once. "I know who you are now."

Something cracked inside him. Deep and jagged and bleeding. He surged forward — grabbing you like he was afraid you'd disappear — burying his face against your neck, arms locked tight around your waist. You held him. Without fear. Without flinching. Just held him.

He didn’t realize he was shaking until you started murmuring nonsense into his hair — soothing, rhythmic sounds — rocking him slightly like he was something fragile and precious.

Ben had been called a lot of things in his life. Hero. Weapon. Monster. Mistake. Never precious. Not once. And hearing those words coming out of your beautiful mouth broke him.

"You don’t have to fight alone anymore," you whispered, voice trembling with the weight of it. "You have me. You’ll always have me, you, beautiful boy."

And it broke him. Utterly.

He clutched you tighter, like if he let go for even a second the whole world would collapse around him again.

"You’re the only thing that feels real," he whispered against your skin so raw, so broken that it barely sounded like his voice. "The only goddamn thing."

You kissed his temple. And for once, Soldier Boy — Ben — let himself believe it.

--

He snorts. “Sweetheart, I don’t stalk. I hunt.”

“Delusional.”

“Honest.”

You roll your eyes — but you don’t leave. He pours another drink. Slides it toward you without asking. You hesitate.

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, come on. You afraid you can’t handle it?”

It’s a challenge. You take the glass and chug it down in one swoop. The burn is sharp and immediate. You cough once. He laughs — low, pleased.

“That’s it,” he says. “Attagirl.”

You should hate the way that makes your stomach flip. You don’t.

—

An hour later, the music’s louder. The room is warmer. The edges of everything feel softer. He’s closer. You don’t remember when that happened.

His thigh brushes yours when he shifts. His hand lands on the small of your back like it belongs there. Every time you move, you’re touching him.

“You always look at me like that?” he asks.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking of something dangerous.”

You laugh lightly. “You give me plenty to think about.”

His gaze drops to your mouth. The air changes. It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s heat. Friction. Two bad decisions standing too close together.

“You should stop,” you murmur.

“You want me to?”

No. But you don’t say that. He steps closer instead. Your back hits the counter. The world narrows. His hand braces beside your head. The other drags slowly up your arm, thumb tracing over your pulse. “You’re trouble,” you whisper.

He smirks. “You like trouble.”

You do. And that’s the problem. The first kiss isn’t gentle. It’s hungry. Teeth graze. Lips press hard enough to steal breath. His hand fists in your shirt like he’s anchoring himself.

You grab his collar and pull him closer. There’s a sharp inhale from him at that — surprised. Then he deepens it. The room fades into nothing but warmth and whiskey and the scrape of stubble against your skin. He kisses like he fights — intense, overwhelming, daring you to keep up.

You do.

When you break apart minutes later, you’re both breathing hard.

“This is a bad idea,” you say again, weaker this time.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

He doesn’t move away. Instead, his forehead presses against yours. His thumb drags over your jaw, slower now.

“Say the word,” he mutters.

You look at him. At the cocky grin that’s faded into something darker. Softer. Almost uncertain. You don’t say stop. So he kisses you again. This time slower. Still hot. But less reckless.

His hands slide around your waist. Yours tangle in his hair. The world spins slightly — alcohol and adrenaline mixing into something dangerous and electric.

You don’t remember who pulls who down the hallway.

You just know you’re laughing against his mouth, and he’s muttering something about you being “a damn menace,” and neither of you are convincing anyone — least of all yourselves — that this is just the alcohol talking.

Because when he pushes you gently against the bedroom door, the kiss changes again. Less performance. More want. His hands slow. Like he’s asking.

“You sure?” he murmurs against your lips. You nod. That’s all he needs.

—

The next morning is quiet. Painfully quiet. Sunlight slices through the blinds. Your head throbs faintly. You’re half-expecting an empty bed. But he’s still there. On his back. One arm thrown over his eyes. The other resting loosely around your waist.

He’s awake. You can tell. “You drool,” he mutters without moving his arm.

“You snore.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

There’s a pause.

Then he shifts slightly, pulling you closer without looking at you.

“So,” you say carefully. “We pretending that didn’t happen?”

He exhales slowly. “No.”

That surprises you. “No?”

His arm drops from his eyes. He looks at you — not smirking this time. “Wasn’t the whiskey,” he says.

Your stomach flips. “It wasn’t?”

He studies you for a second longer than necessary. “Don’t make it weird.”

You laugh softly. “You’re the one making it weird.”

“Am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

He rolls his eyes — but his thumb traces absent circles against your hip. Not drunk. Not reckless. Intentional. “You coming back tonight?” he asks, casual. Too casual.

“Are you inviting me?”

He smirks slightly. “You gonna behave?”

You raise an eyebrow. “No.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Good.”

He grins. Slow. Sharp. “Oh, I’m not predictable.”

You finally meet his eyes. Green. Cold. Evaluating.

“And what am I?” he asks.

“A problem.”

His jaw tightens — but he laughs it off. “Cute.”

It starts with proximity. Long car rides. Shared motel rooms because the team doesn’t trust him alone. Arguments that crackle with something hotter than anger. He crowds your space on purpose. Leans too close. Watches your mouth when you talk.

“You nervous?” he murmurs once when you’re alone in the hallway.

“No.”

“Your heart’s racing.”

You don’t answer.

He steps closer. “You hate me,” he says, studying your face.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Then why don’t you walk away?”

You don’t.

Second mistake.

The first time he touches you, it’s not sexual. It’s instinct. A mission goes sideways. Gunfire everywhere. One of the supes gets too close — too fast. You don’t see the blast coming. He does. He grabs you, yanks you behind him, takes the hit straight to his chest.

The explosion rattles your bones. When the smoke clears, he’s standing there, breathing hard, shielding you with his body.

“Stay behind me,” he snaps.

You shove him away. “I don’t need—”

“You think I did that for fun?” he growls.

His hands are still on your arms. Too tight. Too desperate. For a second, something cracks in his expression. Not arrogance. Fear. “You could’ve died,” he says, quieter now.

You stare at him. “We’re not supposed to care,” you say.

He releases you like you burned him. “Yeah,” he mutters. “No kidding.”

After that, something shifts. He watches you more. Not in a territorial way. In a worried way. He gets meaner with everyone else. Sharper. But softer when it’s just the two of you. It confuses you. It terrifies him.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” he says one night after too much whiskey and too little sleep.

You’re sitting on opposite beds. Too much space between you. “Know what what is?” you ask.

He laughs bitterly. “This.” He gestures vaguely between you. “The tension. The staring. The… bullshit.”

You swallow. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Good.” He stands abruptly. “Because it can’t.”

The words hang there. Heavy.

You nod. “Right.”

He moves toward the door. Stops.

Without turning around, he says, “You ever look at someone and just know they’re gonna wreck you?”

Your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. “Yeah.”

He nods once. Then leaves.

Third mistake: you miss him the second the door closes.

The breaking point comes in a cheap motel room with flickering lights and blood on your sleeve. Not his. Yours. It’s not bad. Just a slice along your ribs.

But when he sees it— He goes still. Dead still. “Who did that?” he asks.

“It’s nothing.”

“Who.”

The temperature in the room drops.

You step back instinctively.

“Ben—”

He grabs your wrist — not hurting, but firm. “I asked you a question.” His eyes aren’t angry. They’re furious. For you.

“That supe from earlier,” you admit. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

His thumb brushes the edge of the cut. You inhale sharply. He notices. Of course he does. His jaw clenches. “You feel that?” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

“Good.” His gaze drags up to yours. “Because I feel it too.”

The air thickens.

“You don’t get to,” you whisper.

“We’re not supposed to,” he corrects.

His hand slides from your wrist to your waist. Slow. Intentional. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t.

Fourth mistake.

“I’ve buried friends,” he says quietly. “Watched teams burn. Watched people beg.” His grip tightens. “But the idea of losing you?” His voice cracks — barely, but it’s there. “That makes me want to burn the world down.”

Your heart stutters. “This is a bad idea,” you breathe.

“Yeah.” He steps closer. “Worst one I’ve ever had.”

“And you’ve had a lot.”

He huffs a short laugh. “Damn right.” His forehead touches yours. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just contact. Just truth.

“We can’t,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes. “I know.”

Silence.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

“We’re not supposed to feel this.”

His hand slides up to cup your jaw. “But we do.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment the dam breaks. He kisses you like he’s trying to prove a point — rough, desperate, furious at himself for wanting it.

You grab his jacket, pull him closer. It’s messy. It’s wrong. It feels inevitable.

When he pulls back, his breathing is uneven. “You’re gonna regret this,” he says.

“Probably.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth. “Yeah.” He rests his forehead against yours again.

But this time, his voice is softer. Almost scared. “If this goes bad… I don’t think I’ll survive it.”

You don’t know if he means emotionally. Or literally. You slide your fingers into his hair. “Then don’t let it go bad.”

His jaw tightened. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I watched you walk away!” Your voice cracked as rage flared, sharp as shrapnel. “You made the call. You could’ve pulled me out—”

“There wasn’t time!”

“You had seconds, Ben—”

“Exactly!” he snapped, voice booming like a damn grenade. “I had seconds to choose between you and the whole damn team getting wiped. So yeah, I left you.” He stepped closer, eyes wild and furious. “And you know what? I’d do it again.”

You felt like you’d been punched in the chest. The gun dipped slightly.

He shoved a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged animal. “You think I wanted to leave you there? You think I haven’t seen your face every goddamn night since?”

“Don’t you dare act like you’re the victim—”

“I’m not. But don’t act like I betrayed you.” He stopped in front of you, voice low and burning. “I didn’t betray you—I saved you. If I hadn’t done it, we’d both be dead.”

Your lip trembled. “You call that saving me? I was captured. Tortured. Spent months clawing my way out of that hellhole.”

“And I spent months thinking you were dead,” he said, breath ragged. “I went back. Hours later, when the smoke cleared. There was nothing but ash and blood. I buried what was left thinking it was you.”

Silence fell like a weight.

You stared at him, the anger still there but dimmed, tangled now with something raw. Something that hurt worse than betrayal.

“You didn’t even check if I was alive.”

He reached out—hesitated—then pulled his hand back like it’d been burned. “I never stopped looking. I swear to God, if I’d known you made it out…”

Tears blurred your vision. “What happens now?”

He looked like he’d been hollowed out. “That’s up to you. But I didn’t come back to fight. I came back because I never got to tell you…” He faltered, chest rising and falling. “You weren’t just another mission. Not to me.”

You lowered the gun.

But you weren’t ready to forgive him. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

--

You hadn’t said a word in two hours.

Not since you and Soldier Boy climbed into the back of the armored SUV, the mission file dropped between you like a landmine.

He hadn’t tried to talk either—not really. Just sat with his arms crossed, looking out the window, jaw tight enough to crack. Occasionally, his eyes would flick your way. Like he couldn’t help himself.

You pretended not to notice.

The mission was a simple infiltration: an ex-Vought scientist holed up in an abandoned outpost with a dirty bomb and delusions of grandeur. You and Soldier Boy were the only two assets with enough clearance—and firepower—to get close.

But the real powder keg was between the two of you.

“You remember Kamarov?” Soldier Boy said finally, voice rough.

You didn’t look up from the file. “The guy with the cybernetic eye and a superiority complex?”

“Yeah. He’s running security for the target now.”

That made you pause. “You didn’t think to lead with that?”

“I figured you’d read the damn file.”

You glared at him. “Maybe I would’ve, if you didn’t keep breathing down my neck.”

His lip curled. “Didn’t realize I had to stop breathing to make you comfortable.”

“Oh, please. Don’t act like we’re partners. I’m only here because the mission comes first.”

“Right,” he said, leaning back with a bitter laugh. “God forbid you do anything for me.”

You slammed the file shut. “You don’t get to pull that card, Ben. Not after what you did.”

He leaned forward, hands braced on his knees, eyes locked on yours like a battlefield. “I already told you—I did what I had to do.”

“And I lived with it,” you snapped. “Alone.”

Something flickered behind his eyes—regret, maybe. Or guilt he hadn’t buried deep enough.

Before either of you could say more, the SUV lurched to a stop.

Driver’s voice crackled through the intercom. “We’re here. Two klicks out from the compound. You want backup?”

You and Soldier Boy locked eyes.

“No,” you said.

“I got this,” he said at the same time.

A beat of silence.

You rolled your eyes. “We’ll handle it.”

The back doors swung open, cold wind rushing in. You stepped out first, pulse steady, fingers twitching near your weapon. Soldier Boy followed, close enough you could feel his heat at your back.

“Try not to get captured this time,” he muttered.

“Try not to leave me behind again,” you shot back.

He gave you a look that could peel paint.

But despite the venom, your bodies moved in sync as you approached the compound—muscle memory from years of working side by side. Covering corners. Watching each other’s six. Like your bones hadn’t forgotten even if your heart tried to.

The moment the bullets started flying, something shifted. You caught his glance across the field, nodded once, and you were on. Two forces of destruction, unstoppable and precise. The kind of dance only people who’d once trusted each other with their lives could pull off.

At one point, a grenade hit too close. You hit the ground, ears ringing.

Soldier Boy was there in a heartbeat, shielding you with his body, barking your name over the ringing.

When the dust cleared, your hands were fisted in his vest, your breath catching.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rasped, eyes scanning you like he could memorize every wound.

You hated how you nodded.

You hated how his relief softened his face.

But most of all, you hated the way your heart still leapt like it remembered something your mind swore it wouldn’t forgive.

--

The plan was simple. Get in, neutralize the target, extract.

But plans had a nasty habit of falling apart around Soldier Boy.

“MOVE!” he barked, grabbing your arm as gunfire ripped through the air.

You didn’t argue. You both sprinted through the trees, adrenaline roaring in your ears, blood slick on your side where shrapnel had torn through your jacket.

You didn’t know how far you ran—just that eventually, the cold bit harder than the pain, and Soldier Boy jerked you into the half-collapsed remains of a hunting cabin hidden in the trees.

He slammed the door shut behind you, chest heaving. “They’re sweeping the forest. We’ve got maybe five hours before they circle back.”

You leaned against the wall, trying to breathe through the stabbing in your ribs. “You think they saw us?”

He looked at you—really looked—and the color drained from his face. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” He was in front of you in a flash, ripping your jacket off like you were made of paper. “You got hit. Jesus, why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I was busy not dying, thanks,” you snapped, wincing as he peeled the fabric back.

He muttered a curse and pulled out a field kit, cleaning the wound with hands that were far too gentle for a man who could crush skulls without flinching.

The silence was thick as he worked.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked finally.

He didn’t look up. “Because you’re hurt.”

“No.” You swallowed hard. “I mean, why are you here, Ben? Really. After everything.”

He hesitated—just for a second—before taping the gauze down.

“Because I still give a damn about you,” he said gruffly. “Even if you hate my guts.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t know how to respond.

Instead, you glanced around the cabin. “No food. No heat. No backup.”

“And one bed,” he said, deadpan.

Your head whipped around. “You’re kidding.”

He pointed to the far corner. A narrow cot, dusty and crooked, barely wide enough for one person.

“Great,” you muttered. “I’ll take the floor.”

“The hell you will,” he growled. “You’re wounded.”

You crossed your arms. “So are you.”

He stepped closer, towering over you, voice low. “We’ll both freeze if we don’t share it. You know that.”

You hated that he was right.

You hated how his closeness made your pulse race.

“I’m not cuddling you,” you snapped.

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. “Didn’t say you had to.”

It took a long time to settle.

You lay on the edge of the mattress, stiff as a corpse, back to him. The blankets were thin, and the cold crept in like a curse. Behind you, Soldier Boy radiated heat and tension.

Eventually, you shivered hard enough to make the bed creak.

He cursed under his breath and slid an arm around you. “Stop fighting it.”

“I’m not—”

“Just shut up and let me keep you warm.”

You hated how natural it felt. How your body fit against his like no time had passed. Like you weren’t still carrying the scar of his absence.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

His breath ghosted against your neck.

“I never stopped looking for you,” he said quietly.

You closed your eyes. “Then why does it still feel like you left?”

Silence.

Then—

“Because I did.”

You turned in his arms, meeting his eyes in the dark. There was no armor in them now. Just regret. And something achingly human.

He cupped your cheek. Rough palm, trembling thumb. “I can’t change what I did. But I’d do anything to fix it.”

You didn’t kiss him.

But God help you—you almost did.

--

The morning brought frost on the windows and gunfire in the distance.

You were already halfway out of bed when Soldier Boy grabbed his shield, scanning the treeline through a crack in the boarded window. “They’re here.”

“Thought we had more time.”

“So did I.”

You both moved like muscle memory—packing what little gear you had, ready to run. But when the first bullet shattered the window, you realized too late: this wasn’t a sweep.

It was a f**king ambush.

Soldier Boy barked your name, tackled you to the ground just as the front wall blew in from a concussion blast. Ears ringing, lungs burning—you scrambled, dragging your weapon toward you, but two men were already inside.

You got one with a clean shot.

The second hit you with the butt of his rifle. Everything spun.

Your fingers twitched, reaching blindly—but someone grabbed you, yanked you to your feet.

“BEN!”

Your scream split through the chaos.

You saw him—the look on his face when they dragged you out. The sheer terror in it. Not rage. Not fury.

Terror.

Like he was watching it happen all over again.

“LET HER GO!”

They stunned him with something—maybe modified gas, maybe sonic tech—long enough to force him to his knees. But he kept coming.

Even on fire.

Even screaming.

Even when it was too late.

--

You woke in a cold metal room.

Your head throbbed. Your wrists were cuffed.

But none of that mattered.

Because you knew he’d come for you.

He had to.

-

Back in the forest, Soldier Boy rose from the wreckage like a damn god of vengeance. The forest burned behind him. His shield dripped blood.

He tore through the enemy camp like a weapon unleashed. No mercy. No second chances. Not this time.

Because the last time he hesitated—

He lost you.

And he would never let it happen again.

By the time he reached your cell, alarms were blaring, walls crumbling. You heard the carnage before you saw him.

Then the door exploded.

And there he stood.

Bloodied. Breathing hard. Eyes locked on you like you were the only thing in the world.

He crossed the room in three steps, ripping the cuffs from your wrists like they were paper. His hands cupped your face, frantic, shaking.

“You okay?” His voice cracked. “Talk to me—are you okay?”

You nodded, throat too tight to speak.

His jaw clenched. His forehead pressed to yours. “I thought I lost you again. I saw them take you and—I swear to God, if I hadn’t gotten here…”

“I knew you’d come,” you whispered.

His hands gripped you harder. “You shouldn’t have to.”

For a moment, all the noise outside faded.

And in the middle of the wreckage, with the fire still burning and the enemy in pieces behind him, he kissed you.

Desperate. Raw. Like he was taking back every second you were gone.

--

The safehouse was silent, save for the wind whining through cracked boards and the slow drip of water from a rusted pipe.

Soldier Boy sat on the edge of the table, shirt off, blood streaked down his side. Burn marks. Lacerations. He’d barely flinched during the fight—but now that the adrenaline was gone, he looked tired. Fractured.

You soaked the cloth in what clean water you could find, fingers trembling. You’d already checked the perimeter twice. Laid every tripwire. Set every trap.

And still, your hands shook as you turned back to him.

“Hold still.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he muttered, wincing as you pressed the cloth to his ribs.

The silence stretched, heavy. You cleaned each wound with methodical care, refusing to meet his eyes.

“You should be pissed at me,” he said quietly.

You didn’t answer.

“You should hate me.”

“I did,” you said. “For a long time.”

He went still.

You finally looked at him—really looked. Blood on his face. Bruises blooming along his jaw. And that look in his eyes. Like he was scared of what you’d say next.

“But I never stopped loving you.”

The words hung in the air like a live wire.

Soldier Boy blinked like you’d hit him. “What?”

“I loved you, Ben.” Your voice cracked. “Even after you left. Even after I told myself I didn’t.”

He stared at you like he couldn’t breathe.

You stood, taking a shaky step back. “And I hate that you can still make my heart race. That I still look for you first when the bullets start flying. That I waited—hoped—you’d come back.”

His expression twisted. Pain. Regret. Desperation.

“I never stopped loving you either,” he said hoarsely. “I just... didn’t think I deserved to.”

You turned your face away, but he stood, grabbing your wrist—gentle, but firm.

“I made the call back then because I thought it’d save you,” he said. “But losing you nearly killed me. I’ve walked through fire and blood and hell since then, and nothing ever hurt like that.”

You swallowed hard.

“I thought if I could just get you back—just once—I’d fix it.” His voice cracked. “But I don’t know how.”

You stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest, over the wound you’d just cleaned.

“You don’t fix it in one night,” you whispered. “You show up. You stay. You choose me. Again and again.”

He looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m yours, if you’ll still have me.”

And when he leaned in—slowly, hesitantly—you met him halfway.

This kiss wasn’t frantic like the last. It was quiet. Shaky. A surrender. His forehead pressed to yours after, breath ragged.

You held him like you were afraid he’d vanish again.

“Ben,” you breathe, the word barely making it past your throat.

“I’m fine,” he snaps immediately.

Too fast. Too sharp. He sways a fraction of an inch anyway. There’s a tear just beneath his ribs, fabric shredded where something — a blade, you assume — got close enough to matter. The stain beneath it spreads steadily.

You step toward him slowly, like approaching something dangerous and hurt at the same time. “That doesn’t look fine.”

“It’s nothing.” He brushes past you, shoulder knocking yours without apology. “Just a scratch.”

It isn’t.

You see the way he favors his left side. The rigid set of his spine. The careful way he controls each breath so it doesn’t hitch. That’s how you know it’s bad — not because he’s bleeding, but because he’s pretending he isn’t.

He drops into one of the kitchen chairs like he’s daring it to argue with him.

You reach for your phone instinctively.

“Don’t,” he warns.

You freeze. “I’m not calling anyone,” you say gently.

“Good.”

“I’m getting the kit.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something uncertain crosses his face — there and gone so fast most people wouldn’t catch it. You do. That’s all the permission you need.

—

The bathroom light is harsh and unforgiving. It shows everything. He refuses to lie down at first. “I can sit,” he says flatly.

“You’re bleeding on the tile.”

“I’ve bled worse.”

“I know.”

That makes him look at you. Not angry. Just wary. But he lets you guide him to the edge of the tub. He sits, shoulders tight, knees spread, hands braced against the porcelain like he’s bracing for impact.

You kneel between his boots and start peeling the torn fabric away from his side. His hand snaps around your wrist. Not hard. Just instinct. Your eyes lift to his. There’s no fury there. Just armor.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you murmur.

His grip loosens immediately, fingers sliding away like he burned himself. “I know,” he mutters. Like that’s the problem.

You ease the ruined fabric off him. The wound underneath makes your stomach twist. It’s deep. A clean blade caught him just beneath the ribs and dragged. Not fatal — not to him — but deep enough that anyone else would’ve collapsed before making it home.

You press antiseptic-soaked gauze to it.

He hisses. “Jesus. You’re worse than the damn fight.”

“Hold still.”

“I am holding still.” He absolutely is not. His fingers are bone-white against the tub’s edge.

You press firmer. His breath catches. And then — without thinking — he grabs your hip and pulls you closer between his knees.

Not control. Not dominance. Balance.

His forehead drops against your stomach. He’s shaking. Barely. But he is.

Your hand moves automatically to his hair. You smooth it back from his forehead, fingers slow and steady. He freezes. You expect him to jerk away. To reassemble the armor. He doesn’t.

Instead, he leans into it. “You should’ve called someone,” he says into your shirt, voice muffled.

“You would’ve left.”

A pause.

“Yeah.”

“I know.”

The quiet stretches between you — heavy but not hostile.

You begin stitching, careful and precise. He doesn’t complain this time. His breathing stays uneven, warm against you. Every now and then his grip tightens slightly on your waist, like he’s grounding himself.

“You ever think,” he says suddenly, voice low and rough, “that maybe I don’t heal right?”

Your hands slow. “What do you mean?”

“The outside does.” He gestures vaguely toward the wound with one hand before letting it fall. “Inside doesn’t.”

The words hang there. He never talks like this. Never.

“Ben—”

“Don’t.” His jaw tightens. “Don’t get that look.”

“What look?”

“Like I’m something you can fix.”

You set the needle aside carefully. You lift his chin so he has to look at you. “I don’t think you’re broken.”

His eyes search yours like he’s trying to catch you in a lie. “You should,” he says quietly. “You’ve seen what I can do. What kinda shit show I am.”

You nod. “And I’ve seen what you don’t let anyone else see.”

That hits.

You see it land. The way his breathing changes. Rougher now. Unsteady.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers. “Shouldn’t be anywhere near me, baby girl.”

“Then push me away.” You hold his gaze.

He could. He knows he could. Instead, his hands tighten around your waist. He doesn’t move you. He just holds on.

You finish bandaging him, smoothing the gauze carefully into place. Your fingers brush over his skin one last time.

He catches your hand before you can pull away. Holds it. Carefully. Like it’s fragile. “Don’t leave tonight,” he says. It’s not a command. It’s almost… afraid.

You step closer until your knees brush his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows. His thumb drags slowly across your knuckles, rough but careful. “I’m not good at this,” he admits.

“At what?”

“Needing someone.” The word sounds foreign in his mouth.

You lean in, resting your forehead against his. “You’re allowed to need me.”

Something in his face crumples — just slightly. Just for you. “I love you,” he says. The words are rough. Pulled out of him like they hurt. Like he expects you to flinch.

You don’t. You just inhale sharply, because it matters.

Immediately, his expression shutters — defensive. “Don’t make it a big thing.”

You smile, even though your eyes sting. “I love you too.”

His shoulders drop. All the way. The tension leaves him like a slow exhale he’s been holding for decades.

He pulls you into him — careful of his side now — and buries his face in your neck. His hands are warm and firm around your back, holding but not crushing. “You don’t tell anyone,” he mutters.

“I won’t.”

“This stays here.”

“Okay.”

A long pause.

Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him, “Stay.”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders. “I will.”