average jo(e)

You and your dad always had a plan for the Fourth of July weekend.

In the morning, you both would go to the 24-hour diner just a few blocks away in your pajamas and order the classic All American Breakfast. It was a tower of buttermilk pancakes with a side of bacon and sunny side up eggs cooked to perfection.

By noon, you’d be swimming with friends and family under the bright, burning sunlight while your dad took over the backyard. He would have the grill ready, making the best burgers— the kind that were a little burnt at the edges, and hot dogs that were charred and crispy on the outside but soft and juicy on the inside.

Beers and seltzers would already be chilled in the coolers, the ice nearly melted because it couldn’t keep up with the summer heat, and you’d crack a cold one just as the sun went down and the fireworks began to light up the sky.

Fourth of July weekend was the holiday you looked forward to most—so when your dad told you he wouldn’t be home for it, you could only imagine your disappointment.

You were lying in your bedroom with every intention of sleeping in since every plan for the weekend was out window, but the sun piercing through the glass window and the sound of rustling in the living room downstairs woke you up.

Climbing out of bed tiredly, your bare feet padded softly down the wooden steps. You were still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes by the time you reached the kitchen.

“Dad?” you mumbled sleepily. “You’re home already—?”

Once the sleepy vision fog cleared, what you found in your kitchen was not your father, but rather...

“Not your daddy,” Steve said, turning to face you from the kitchen island. He set the mail he’d just picked up and his spare keys down on the counter. “But someone better.”

The spare keys.

The ones your dad had lent to Steve for ‘emergencies’—which he never actually used them for but instead used them to come over whenever he wanted, watch TV, and crash on the couch. But you didn’t mind, because you liked and respected Steve.

Plus, it had been a while since you had last seen him.

“Well, are you just gonna stand there and gawk? Or are you gonna give your good ol’ Steve a hug?”

You flashed a droopy, sleepy grin as you met him at the counter. Getting up on your tippy toes, you raised your hands to wrap them around his neck, and he returned the gesture with a tight hug around your waist.

“Mmm,” he hummed with a squeeze. “There she is.”

“What are you doing here, Stevie?” you asked as you pulled away.

“What? You don’t like seeing your dad’s favorite best friend over?” he asked with a playful grin and a matching head tilt.

You chuckled tiredly. “That’s not it, and you know it. It’s just… what brings you here? My dad isn’t even in town.”

“That’s the point, sweetie.” He leaned back against the counter, folding his large arms over his broad chest.

You swore he was too old to be wearing shirts that were always one size too small for him.

“I know how much celebrating the Fourth of July means to you—and since he’s out of town… well… I figured I’d take over the celebration.”

You crossed your arms and raised a brow, half suspicious yet half amused. “Did he make you do this?”

“What? No. I’m doing this out of the kindness of my old heart,” he chuckled lightly. “And besides, I wouldn’t want to celebrate my birthday alone this year. So… how ‘bout it? A fun weekend with just you and me?”

Hanging out with Steve on the Fourth of July weekend was far better than doing nothing all alone. And by hanging out with Steve, it meant he’d pay for everything—breakfast and all. You knew you couldn’t turn him down—not that you wanted to—but you still wanted to try and pull his leg.

“I don’t know,” you sighed dramatically, running a finger along the tile of the counter. “You should’ve asked me a lot sooner. My friends already planned something this week.”

You didn’t even need to look up to see Steve’s frown.

“But it’s also my birthday,” he said pathetically. “You wouldn’t leave me all alone on the Fourth of July now, would you?”

You had to bite back a smile. He looked like a kicked golden retriever. It was never a question of how or why your dad became friends with Steve Rogers—he was just too much of a likable guy all around.

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely—I guess I’ll spend it with you.”

His smile was so wide it was contagious.

“That’s my girl.”

Steve swiped the keys off the counter and twirled the keychain around his rough finger. “Your dad told me all about your guys’ adventures over a beer one time. Wouldn’t shut up about it. So the only right way to do this is by starting off with breakfast at a diner, right?”

Your lips quirked into a half smile as you bit your lip. “Not just any diner. It’s Mama Joann’s, just a few blocks away. And not just any breakfast, either. We get the—”

“—All American,” Steve finished with a smug grin. “I know. Your old man talks a lot.”

He pocketed his phone and wallet into his jeans and nodded towards the front door. “I’ll get the car started. Go on and get dressed now.”

When you didn’t move an inch, he paused and raised a brow at you.

“Guess my ‘old man’ forgot to mention during his ramblings that we actually go in our pajamas,” you explained, waving a finger at him. “So technically—you’re the one who isn't dressed.”

Steve’s face was unreadable as he scratched at the stubble on his chin.

“Honey, if you wanted to see me in nothing but my underwear, you should’ve just told me.”

Your face immediately warmed at his bold statement. “Y-you—! What—!”

But before you could even stammer out a coherent sentence, Steve was already walking out the front door to wait for you.

A red 1966 Ford Mustang was parked at the curb of your house. It was an old thing that made more odd sounds than it did distance.

It was Steve’s pride and joy—that typical man project he was always working on in his garage. He rarely ever took it out, occasionally driving it around the neighborhood just to keep the engine breathing. You guessed he had actually planned on spending time with you this weekend before today, because he’d gotten it all fixed up and ready just for you.

The car creaked and groaned as it made its way to Mama Joann’s, the radio connected to an aux cord playing Bob Dylan—his favorite.

He had the top down, leaving your hair to whip wildly in the wind. You caught him glancing at you through the side mirrors.

“What are you staring at, Stevie?” you asked without looking at him.

Steve held the wheel with one hand, while the other rested casually on the gear shift. “Nothin’,” he said, a grin evident in his tone. “It’s just… your pajamas.”

“And what about them?” You looked down at yourself, peering over the rim of your sunglasses. You were wearing a soft white tank top and a pair of light pink plaid sleeping shorts. “Did you take me out to breakfast just to make fun of my sleeping clothes?”

He chuckled—deep and raspy. He glanced over at you, blue eyes dancing over the rim of his own dark sunglasses as they traced the curve of your bare leg up to your tank top. You realized just then that you weren’t wearing a bra, since you never slept in one and hadn’t bothered to put one on.

“Not making fun of you, sweetie,” he said, pinning his focus back on the road. “Just think the shorts are cute and all.”

Despite the wind blowing in your face, you still felt warm.

Finally pulling into Mama Joann’s busy parking lot, Steve stepped out of the car.

When riding with Steve, he never let you open the doors yourself. He would quickly park, scramble over to your side, and hold the door open for you. Every time he did it, your dad would always say, “See what Uncle Stevie does for you? This is why I won’t let you settle for anybody less.”

“Thank you,” you said with a smile, grabbing his hand. “But you know you don’t have to do that when my dad’s not around, right?”

“When has your dad being here ever mattered?” he asked genuinely, raising an eyebrow as he shut the door behind you and locked it.

You shrugged. “You know how he is—he’ll always be like, ‘Look at Steve! When you get a boyfriend, make sure he respects you like Steve does,’ yadayada.”

A short snort left his lips as he held the diner door open for you. “Honey, I don’t think there’s any man out there who’ll be respectable enough for you anyway. It’s best you save yourself from the disappointment and stay single.”

You raised a brow at that. Sometimes, you found him acting more paternal than your actual father did with how often he lectured you.

The bell chimed with a welcoming jingle, and Steve stepped in right behind you.

As always, Joann was walking around with a black apron wrapped around her waist, refilling the coffee cups of everyone seated at the booths. The bell chiming caught her attention, and she smiled upon seeing you.

“There you are!” she greeted so loudly it caused the customers to look up at you and Steve. “You had me believin’ for a second that you’d be missin’ out on a yearly tradition.”

She set the pot down, motioning to the booth by the window that she always gave to you and your dad.

Speaking of which…

“Now, this handsome man next to you ain’t your daddy,” she said, nodding to the six foot two man standing right beside you. “Who’s this? And is he single?” she asked shamelessly.

Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m Steve—a good friend of her dad’s.”

“Hey, Joann,” you waved with a smile. “My dad is out of town for a work trip, so Steve insisted on taking me out for the Fourth of July weekend.”

You two slid into the booth as Joann laid two menus over the sticky wooden table.

“Well, ain’t he sweet,” she cooed. “I know you and your dad always get the All American, but in case your friend here wants somethin’ different, I’ll give you guys some time to look over the menu.”

Then, before leaving, she threw a wink in Steve’s direction, though she was talking to you. “And if Mr. Steve wants to hang out with someone more… age-appropriate—just know that the folks in town call me Mama for a reason—”

“—Okay, thanks, Joann!” you quickly dismissed her with a burning face and an embarrassed wave of your hand.

Steve chuckled, lifting the menu and leaning back in the booth. It looked way too small for a man his size with the way he filled the space.

“She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” he joked.

You blew a raspberry and gave him a look, glancing at your own menu despite already knowing what you were going to order. “Should I invite her back over to have breakfast with us, then?”

Steve grinned wolfishly. If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve assumed you were jealous. His eyes raked over the menu. “So, the All American, you said?”

You nodded enthusiastically, looking giddy as you smiled brightly over the top of the menu. “It’s the best thing here. Joann’s buttermilk pancakes are the best—better than anything you can get from a chain.”

You pointed to where it said ‘with a side of bacon and sausage’ on the menu, and tapped on the bacon text. “And make sure to get the bacon extra crispy.”

“Geez,” Steve huffed a laugh, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling up handsomely. “Sounds like you and your dad know what you’re doing.”

You laughed at the fond memory of your father taking you to this same diner since you were a little girl. The fact that he wasn’t here to celebrate was saddening, but you couldn’t have asked for a better man to spend it with than Steve.

You watched as he reached for his coffee mug, his large hands cradling the ceramic. It looked tiny and weightless in his grip, the tight hold emphasizing the veins and roughness of his hands. He lifted the mug to his lips, blowing on it gently before swallowing in slow gulps that made his Adam’s apple bob.

You swallowed hard and tried to avert your gaze so he wouldn’t catch you staring. But instead, your eyes trailed lower to his built chest and the way his stomach slightly pushed against his tight shirt.

He set his mug down and glanced up.

He caught you staring, and he smiled.

You quickly tried to save face.

“Yeah, um—I bet the calorie intake will probably throw off your entire game,” you stammered out with a chuckle that sounded awkward and nervous. Jesus. What were you saying?

‘Nervous’, however, wasn’t in Steve’s vocabulary.

Awkward? Probably.

“What?” he frowned.

Steve glanced down at himself, noticing his slouch and the way his belly seemed… a bit softer as of late. He had one too many steaks and far too many beers.

He looked back up at you, his grin turning slow and lazy. He rested his large forearms on the edge of the table, leaning in just enough to make himself look even more imposing.

“What’s the matter?” he murmured, his voice dropping deep and gravelly in a way that made your nerves dance. “A girl like you doesn’t like a man with a little meat on his bones?”

Your breath hitched and your eyes widened. Before you could even stammer out a response, he continued.

“Besides,” his blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he maintained eye contact, “don’t you think I need a little extra fuel if I’m gonna keep up with you all weekend? Unless you’re planning on keeping me busy enough to burn it all off, that is.”

It was way too early for Steve fucking Rogers, of all people, to be making you feel this way.

This unexpected, flustered and butterflies-in-your-stomach type of feeling caused by your own father’s best friend.

You had never seen Steve in any light other than as your father’s highly respectable, closest friend. At this point, you couldn’t tell if he was just taunting you like he normally did, or if he was actually flirting. But with the way he was looking and smiling at you—no.

Surely, he wouldn’t take that risk.

Then again, with your dad out of town, maybe there was a side to Steve he usually kept hidden—one you knew nothing about, but was now curious to unravel.

Desperate for a distraction, you grabbed your own coffee mug, which had cooled down enough for you to swallow it in big, hasty gulps.

“Easy, girl.”

“Just…” you wiped your lips, “…thirsty.”

Steve grinned. “Coffee is a diuretic, silly goose.”

And there was the taunt. You mentally groaned, wanting to kick yourself for even entertaining the possibility that Steve would ever blur the line between himself and his best friend’s daughter.

“It’s too early for you to be teasing me like this, Stevie,” you mumbled shyly, tracing your finger along the wooden table.

Steve wore a wolfish grin, resting both of his large arms on the table as they crossed over each other, taking up even more space in the tiny booth. “Sorry, I can’t help it,” he snickered. “Especially when you react the way you do.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean—” you started to say, but your words died in your throat as a large presence that was hard to ignore fell over the booth.

“What do we have here?”

The voice was gruff and deep, lacking the playful warmth you and Steve had just been exchanging. You and Steve both froze, staring up at Bucky, who stood at the edge of the table holding his own coffee mug. His expression was unreadable, his sharp eyes glancing back and forth between the two of you as you sat there completely dumbfounded.

He raised a brow at your silent, wide eyed stares. “There a party going on that I don’t know about?”

While your father was best friends with Steve, you didn’t know how your father also managed to become best friends with a man like Bucky Barnes.

Growing up, Bucky had his share of good moments—he helped you learn how to drive, despite snapping at you impatiently whenever you hit the curb. He picked you up from parties whenever you were too drunk to get yourself home, and he would often spoil you with sweet treats or something he found at a store, always with a simple, “Saw this running errands, thought you might like it.”

But, in return, Bucky also had plenty of bad moments.

He was incredibly specific about how he liked things. If you ever tried to help him or your dad with something—like the grill or fixing a drink— Bucky would already be over your shoulder, nudging you away and taking the tongs right out of your hands.

“I got it. You’re just making a mess.”

There were times where you would be dressed up to go out with friends, and he would be sitting on the porch with your dad for a smoke. He would look you up and down, eyes lingering, and say something like, “You’re really going out looking like that? Go put a jacket on.”

Or sometimes, when your dad was away and you needed a hand around the house whether it be checking on the locks or fixing a leak, Bucky would show up, but he’d be short tempered the entire time. He would constantly scoff while he worked, acting like he had a million better places to be.

Your dad always told you that Bucky was part of the family—that it was just how he was, and that was how he showed his love.

But you didn’t buy it.

You felt like he had something personal against you.

And… it also felt like he might have something personal against Steve, too.

“Bucky,” Steve greeted, though it sounded more like a warning.

Or maybe, it was Steve that had something personal against him.

Bucky’s eyes flickered down to meet Steve’s, holding his gaze for a long moment. “Steve.”

While the two men stared at each other in a silent competition, you took this opportunity to take in Bucky. He wore a dark leather jacket that had seen better days with a white tank top—that strained against his thick lower belly—tucked beneath his belt and jeans.

Bucky tore his gaze away from Steve to look down at you.

“Well?” Bucky’s lips tugged into a lazy, tired smirk. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

There were times when Bucky would disappear, going M.I.A. for weeks at a time. It had gotten to the point where even your father had gotten involved, leaving late at night, scrambling out the door with nothing but a hasty, “Don’t wait up for me, okay? Uncle Bucky is… uh, going through something and he needs me right now.”

It hadn’t taken you long to piece together that your father kept having to pick him up from bars, or even the police station. Yet despite his recent wrongdoings, just like your father, you still had a soft spot for him that you could never push away, no matter how much he worried you.

“Of course I am,” you finally said.

Even with your lack of enthusiasm, Bucky seemed pleased with your answer. His leather jacket creaked as he gestured with his coffee mug to the empty spot on the bench right next to you. “Mind if I sit? Or is this seat reserved for someone else?”

“Sit down, Buck,” Steve said. All the warmth he had shared with you gone and thrown out the window now that Bucky was here. “We were just about to order.”

Bucky glanced at Steve, pursing his lips as he gave a short nod. “Good.”

He set his mug down on the wooden table and slid right next to you in the booth. His denim clad knee brushed roughly against your bare leg, making you shudder and feel even smaller. “Because I’m starving.”

Bucky rested his hands on the table, intertwining his fingers. He looked like he worked with his hands, and he smelled like Marlboro Reds.

You could see the dirt trapped underneath his fingernails, his skin calloused—the rough texture of someone who spent his life either fixing things or breaking them. He scratched the stubble on his chin.

Just like Steve, it looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks.

He caught your gaze and smiled, letting his eyes trail down to your legs. “Cute pajamas.”

Steve’s eyebrow twitched.

“Thanks,” you said shyly, looking down and playing with a stray string that had come loose from your shorts. “My dad—well, when he’s actually in town—likes to take me to this diner on the morning of the Fourth of July weekend. It’s usually our tradition.”

While Steve already knew your tradition with your father like the back of his hand, Bucky had no clue.

“Ain’t that sweet,” Bucky hummed in amusement, giving you his full attention. “What else do you and your dad do? I wanna hear all about it.”

You smiled just thinking about it. “We always host—”

“—a party in their backyard, grilling burgers, drinking beer, and swimming,” Steve cut in, taking a sip of his coffee as he glared a sharp dagger straight into Bucky’s eyes. “The one he hosted last year was fun. And the one before that too. It’s a shame you missed it, Buck.”

Steve wasn’t being sympathetic at all, and both of you knew it. He was being petty, even immature, throwing it in Bucky's face that he hadn’t been around for any of the holidays—or that he didn't even know your father was out of town, for that matter.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, but he kept his smile up, trying to save face just for you.

“Is that right?” he murmured. “Guess I had some important business to take care of last summer. But I’m here now, Stevie. So why don’t you fill me in on what else I missed?

Steve had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something offensive.

“You missed a lot, Buck,” Steve said flatly. “More than you think.”

You sat there, sandwiched between a tension that was rapidly becoming suffocating.

It was clear that whatever Steve and Bucky had going on—which you had no clue about—they never communicated or resolved. You figured it might have had something to do with Bucky and his recent downward spiral—traveling down a wrong, bumpy path with signs that led to nowhere. But you weren’t going to sit here and become their mediator.

Clearing your throat, you caught both of their attention.

“I have to use the bathroom,” you announced. “If Joann comes by, you already know what to order for me. Bucky, will you excuse me, please?”

Bucky nodded before sliding out of the seat. He offered his hand to help you out of the booth, and the two older men watched you walk off towards the restroom. As you left, Bucky wore a grin that Steve knew all too well—a smile that meant nothing but trouble.

“Look at her,” Bucky said, watching you from afar with a soft look in his eyes. “Our baby is all grown up.”

Steve scoffed in disbelief. “Our baby?”

The smile Bucky was wearing quickly dropped into an annoyed frown now that you were no longer there to witness it. He slid back into the booth, leaning across the table as he glared at Steve.

“What the hell is your problem?” Bucky hissed, ditching his good boy facade entirely.

“My problem?” Steve sneered, leaning across the table to meet Bucky halfway. “My problem is that you show up after months of silence whenever it’s convenient for you—bringing all sorts of trouble with you.”

Steve kept his voice low, trying to maintain enough control to avoid drawing attention to their booth.

“What the hell have you been doing these past few months?”

Bucky’s brows drew together so closely as he glared back at his childhood best friend. Before your father came into the picture, Steve and Bucky had been two peas in a pod. They were inseparable growing up, but as they got older, they naturally drifted into their own separate lives, with only occasional chatter here and there.

Steve had already gone through the whole marriage routine. He had tried to start a family with his ex-wife, Peggy, but after she cheated on him, he went through a heartbreaking divorce. Meanwhile, Bucky had suffered a string of devastating losses.

Bucky had always prided himself on being a family man, and when he lost it all, he felt like he had nothing left. His mother, Winnie, and his sister, Rebecca, had both passed away in the same year. From there, Bucky fell into a dark stupor, finding comfort only in solitude and alcohol.

Over time, Steve grew to despise the way Bucky coped—hating to watch his best friend drink himself silly and end up in places he shouldn’t be. Bucky, on the other hand, hated being lectured by Steve. He believed that a true friend should support him at all costs, through all the good and the bad.

Eventually, they both just kept their distance, leaving you and your dad as the middle ground.

“I’m in recovery, Steve,” Bucky protested weakly, his fingers digging into his palm as he tightened his fist.

“Yeah?” Steve scoffed with a bitter smile. “And how’s that working out for you?”

Regret washed over Bucky’s blue eyes, and for a split second, Steve nearly softened. But he couldn’t. His friend had pulled his leg for far too long. The mental reminders of Bucky taking advantage of him over the years were enough to make Steve push down his guilt.

“Look, I’m trying, okay?” Bucky muttered, staring into his half-empty mug. “I just wanted to pay a quick visit to town—see how you and her dad are doing.”

“See how he and I are doing?” Steve folded his arms across his chest, sitting back. “Or see how she’s doing?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He kept his head down but raised his eyes to glare back at him. “And if I was, is there something wrong with that?”

Steve really tried his best to keep his composure. Bucky knew exactly how to get under his skin—using a voice that could pass for innocent when it was anything but.

“You have no right showing up back in town after all the bullshit you pulled. Did you even know her father was out of town? Or did you take advantage of him being gone just so you could spend time with her?” When Steve realized how loud he was getting—catching the attention of some of the diner staff—he dropped his voice to a harsh whisper.

“If you’re still involved with whatever shit you were getting into, leave it behind. Don’t drag her into this—”

“—Jesus. Where the hell is the waitress?” Bucky muttered, throwing his arm over the back of the seat and looking behind him.

Steve snapped his fingers to yank his attention back. “And don’t think for a second I didn’t notice you checking her out. Are you fucking kidding me, Buck? She’s your best friend’s daughter!”

“Hey—all I did was call her shorts cute.” Bucky turned back to Steve. “I was just being nice.”

Steve ran out of scoffs to give. “You’re a lot of things, Bucky, but you’ve never been subtle.”

Bucky could feel his own patience frying. “Wanna know what’s funny, Stevie?”

“What?”

Now, it was Bucky’s turn to lean in so no one else could eavesdrop. “To an outsider, you look like an old, perverted man taking a young, respectable lady out on a date. Come on, Steve. How old are you again?” he tilted his head with that taunting tone that made Steve’s blood boil. “You’re drilling me so hard over something so trivial, but you’re no saint either.”

Steve slammed his hand on the table, causing the wood to shake and making the family of four at the next table gasp. So much for being discreet.

“What the hell kind of person are you trying to make me out to be?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it,” Bucky shot back. “A pretty girl like her—looking up at you the way she does, with that cute smile of hers.”

Steve opened his mouth, his face turning a furious shade of crimson. “What are you saying—!”

Bucky held his gaze, his eyes boring deeply into Steve’s. “Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t thought about fucking her, Steve.”

Neither of them had noticed Joann standing there, her pen poised over her notepad. She stared at them completely dumbfounded, her mouth slightly agape in shock.

“Uh,” she drawled, her gaze shifting slowly between the two grown men. “What’ll it be, boys?”

Both Steve and Bucky blinked up at her.

They cleared their throats rapidly and sat back, trying to put as much distance between each other as the small booth allowed. Steve forced his charming smile back onto his face, acting as if he hadn’t just slammed his hand down and yelled a second ago. Across from him, Bucky crossed his leg and turned his head, pressing a hand over his mouth to hide his frustration as he forced himself to look out the window.

“We’ll have the All American,” Steve said.

Joann jotted down their orders—along with an extra chocolate milkshake added by Bucky, which earned him a side-eye from Steve, since Steve was the one paying for it all.

On your way back from the bathroom, you bumped right into her.

“Oh, hey Joann. Did you already take our orders?”

“Sure did, but honey, you better be careful with those two,” Joann warned, pointing her pen over her shoulder toward your booth with a worried expression. “They look like they bite.”

The chance to elaborate was long gone as she was already walking off towards the kitchen. Turning your attention back to the booth, you saw Steve pressing his cheek against his palm, staring morosely out the window, while Bucky casually sipped his coffee.

You smiled to yourself, oblivious to all the tension.

From where you stood, it looked like they had gotten along just fine while you were gone.

The breakfast platters were already cleared away, leaving nothing but a pile of crumpled napkins and Bucky’s drained milkshake glass.

Up front by the old cash register, Steve stood with his back to the booth, digging into his wallet as Mama Joann rang up the bill. Even from behind, Steve’s broad shoulders were still stiff from his earlier irritation.

Breakfast had gone by smoothly enough—though it wasn’t quite as fun as it normally was with your dad, you still appreciated their company. The entire time, however, it felt like they were talking to you rather than to each other. Every time Bucky asked you a question, you would answer, only for Steve to immediately grab your attention next. Once you replied to Steve, Bucky would subtly try to fight for your focus again.

The whole dining experience felt more like a job interview than spending time with close family friends.

Now, you were left alone in the booth with Bucky. With Steve away from the table, Bucky’s shoulders eased up just slightly.

“So,” he drawled. “What are you and Stevie going to do after this?”

You thought about it for a moment, realizing you and Steve hadn’t actually planned much of anything.

“I’m… I’m actually not sure,” you replied with a shrug. “Breakfast was all we talked about today.”

“Sounds boring, and sounds just like Steve,” Bucky said, leaning back against the seat and draping his arm over the top as he looked down at you.

Under his cold stare, you always felt so small.

You knew Bucky was the kind of man who just took what he wanted—and right now, it felt like he only wanted you.

“You remember Becca’s old house? The one by the lake?” he asked.

You blinked, caught off guard. Ever since his sister’s passing, your father had strictly warned you never to bring up Bucky’s family. It was only safe to do so if Bucky brought them up first, and even then, you had to be careful to avoid any painful triggers.

“I do,” you nodded, keeping your response brief to let him control the conversation.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been over there,” Bucky explained, his blue eyes studying your face. “I think I can fix up her old boat in the shed. Maybe we can take it out for a spin on the lake.”

Your mouth parted slightly with a loss for words. Bucky was inviting you to his late sister’s house? To ride on her boat, no less? He rarely ever spoke about Rebecca, let alone extended an invitation to her place. You were pretty sure not even your dad had ever been invited over there.

“And considering it’s been some time since I last saw you, I think it’d be a great opportunity for us to catch up,” Bucky added.

“Catch up on what?”

Both you and Bucky looked up to find Steve standing at the edge of the booth. He was pocketing his wallet in the back of his jeans, taking in your wide eyes and Bucky’s slouched, unbothered posture.

Bucky kept his arm draped casually over the seat behind you. “Just telling her about Becca’s old place,” he said with that smug tone. “Thinking about going down to the lake later. Get some fresh air. You know, since you didn’t make any plans.”

Steve’s jaw clenched so hard you were sure you heard his teeth click. He crossed his arms tightly over his broad chest, glaring down at Bucky.

“Oh, is that so?” Steve huffed. He then shifted his gaze to you. “And what did she say about it?”

Being put on the spot made your stomach drop. It felt like there was no right answer.

Your eyes flickered back and forth between them. You could understand Steve’s apprehension—Bucky’s reputation hadn’t been... the best, as of late. But looking at Bucky, seeing as much hope as he could muster in those tired blue eyes and the vulnerability of him sharing a piece of his late sister’s memory with you, you already knew your answer.

“I’d love to check out Becca’s house and ride on the boat,” you finally said.

Bucky let out a quiet breath of relief, while Steve’s brows pinched together in disbelief.

“…But,” you added quickly, “I think it’d be fun if Steve tagged along, too.”

The disgruntled noise that left Bucky’s mouth would’ve made you laugh, but the way Steve’s eyes nearly bulged out of his sockets beat you to it.

Bucky pulled his arm back, throwing you an incredulous look that he didn't even bother trying to hide. “Sweetheart, I was actually hoping it would be just the two of us—”

“I would love to come,” Steve interjected, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face that Bucky wanted nothing more than to wipe off.

A smile broke across your face. You knew there was still an underlying tension between them, but the prospect of visiting Rebecca’s old house for the first time and riding in a boat was far better than sitting around doing nothing.

“Yay!” You clasped your hands together, your enthusiastic gaze flickering between the two of them. “Steve and I will stop by the house first so I can change—”

“No,” Bucky interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “You already extended an unwanted invite to Steve, and I’ll only forgive you if you don’t keep me waiting.”

He kept his eyes locked on Steve as he slid out of the booth, rising to his full height to meet him face to face.

“You remember the way to Becca’s house?” he asked.

“‘Course I do.”

“Good.” Bucky spared a quick glance down at you as you began sliding out of the booth yourself, before turning his attention back to Steve. He leaned in, voice dripping quietly so only Steve could catch it.

“Don’t have too much fun with her on the way, yeah?”

Steve only glared harder.

On the drive to Rebecca’s house, you noticed Steve’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles taut. One of his favorite songs came on the radio, and he didn’t even care to acknowledge it.

There was something deeply wrong between him and Bucky—something you had missed entirely while you were in the bathroom.

Finally mustering the courage, you decided to address it. “Steve—”

“There’s something you should know about Bucky,” Steve cut you off, deciding to it for you.

“Okay,” you murmured, prompting him to continue.

“I don’t know how much your dad has told you,” Steve said, letting out a deep breath through his nose. “But Bucky’s been through a lot. He isn’t the same guy he used to be. I know he’s… family to you, and I know your dad trusts him. But Bucky’s been running with a bad crowd lately. Getting into things he shouldn’t be, making promises he can’t keep. He’s reckless.”

You leaned back slightly in your seat, your right arm propped on the window sill as you watched Bucky’s truck ahead of you. Everything he was saying to you wasn’t exactly new.

“Where are you going with this?”

“He treats everything like a game. People, relationships,” Steve continued.

He paused for a moment, chewing his bottom lip in apprehension as he tried to find the right words.

“I recognize the way he’s looking at you, and I don’t like it one bit. He’s looking at you like a distraction from his own mess. I just... I don’t want to see you get hurt, or caught in the middle of whatever trouble he’s dragging behind him.”

You slowly let out the breath you had been holding.

For the most part, you were grateful that Steve was actually being open with you about Bucky and his bad habits. Whenever Bucky’s name came up around your father, your dad was always quick to beat around the bush, never addressing anything seriously.

“Ah, Bucky is just going through a rough patch right now.”

“He’s just in another one of his moods. Leave him be.”

“I invited Bucky to your birthday party, but he… he couldn’t make it. You know how he is.”

Even though Bucky was everything a girl like you should avoid, at the end of the day, he was like family. And the idea of him being alone this weekend while he was back in town killed you.

He had his ups and downs, and as much of a grumpy old man he could be now, you weren’t going to throw away all the good times just because of the bad.

“I’m a big girl, Steve,” you reassured him, glancing over. He kept his gaze locked on the road. “I can make my own decisions. Bucky invited me to his late sister’s boat—and despite everything, I couldn’t refuse that. You know why.”

Up ahead, Bucky’s truck slowed down, turning left onto a narrow, gravel driveway lined with overgrown pine trees. The reflection of the sun hit the lake and shone through the branches in the distance.

Steve pulled up right behind him, shifting the car into park but keeping his foot firmly on the brake. He turned fully in his seat to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours with earnesty.

“I know. It’s just… promise me you’ll stay close to me today,” Steve pleaded softly.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and gave him a reassuring smile. You nodded towards Bucky’s truck, where he was just hopping out of the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut.

“You act like he’s going to murder me.”

Despite your attempt at a joke, Steve’s expression didn’t waver.

“Your dad left you under my watch, so in a way, I feel responsible for protecting you—”

“—protecting her from what?” Bucky asked, slapping his calloused hands against Steve’s window and leaning over. “Woah—this car is still running? You know, my sister used to love this thing. Coulda’ sworn you were gonna win her over with it every time you pulled up to the house.”

Steve gave Bucky a deadpan look. With a grunt, he pushed his door open—forcing Bucky out of the way. But just as Steve started walking around to your side to open your door, Bucky beat him to it.

“Watch your step,” Bucky said, holding your hand to help you out of the seat. “Lots of rocks.”

“Since when did you get so sweet?” you teased, sandals stepping down onto the crunching gravel.

Bucky chuckled—a low, raspy sound as he shook his head. “Geez, you really think I’m an awful guy, don’t you?”

You gave him a small smile, which he returned with a gentle one of his own before letting go of your fingers.

Steve kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot. He didn’t like this interaction one bit, but he swallowed down his pride for your sake.

He looked around the property, taking in the overgrown grass and the faded paint on the siding of the old house. The place hadn’t been maintained in what looked and felt like years. The fences had once been painted a bright coral blue—Rebecca’s favorite color—but now, they were stained with dirt and weathered from years of neglect.

Steve glanced at you, knowing you were thinking the same thing. A solemn look settled into your eyes. You knew how close Bucky and his sister had been, and leaving this house to him had obviously been more than he could handle.

Bucky stood there stiffly, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. The playful twinkle his eyes had held for you just moments ago slowly faded the longer he stared at the house.

“It hasn’t changed much,” Steve said quietly, clearing his throat. He was trying to ease the tension, even though they both knew it was a lie.

Something between a snort and a self-deprecating laugh left Bucky’s lungs.

He nodded towards the path wrapping around the side of the building. “Come on. The shed’s down by the dock.”

The three of you fell into a single file line, with you taking the middle spot. As you approached the shed, Bucky fished around in his pocket for the keys. It took him a moment to find the right one, but when he finally pushed the door open, it revealed an eighteen foot wooden motorboat right in the middle.

The deep emerald green paint on the hull was flaking away in brittle scabs, exposing the gray, sun bleached wood underneath. Inside, the white oak ribs were coated in dust and cobwebs, and the stagnant rainwater pooling in the bilge smelled faintly of rot, causing you to wrinkle your nose.

Bucky took the first step inside, his hand reaching out to gently touch the worn steering wheel.

“We’ll get her fixed up today,” he murmured. “We’ll take her out on the lake.”

He spoke so softly you weren’t sure if he was talking to you, or to himself.

“I don’t know, Buck,” Steve hesitated, dragging a finger along the side. “She might leak like a sieve if you put her in the water right now. You’re gonna need a miracle to get this thing to turn over, let alone idle.”

Bucky’s shoulders dropped, his expression turning somber. He knew Steve was right, and seeing that defeated look pulled at your heart. He was already carrying so much emotionally, it ached to watch him rarely try to plan something special, only to see it fall apart.

“Chin up, you guys,” you spoke up enthusiastically, breaking the silence. “It doesn’t look that bad. Especially since there’s three of us—we can fix this in no time.”

Steve raised a skeptical brow at you. “You’ve never even touched a boat, sweetheart. There’s a lot of heavy lifting to be done here.”

“Well—it’s a good thing I’ve got two strong men by my side!” you joked, hopeful eyes flickering between the two of them. “Even if we don’t fix it completely, even if we just end up floating out there,” you shrugged, a smile tugging at your lips, “at least we got it on the lake, right?”

That, at least, managed to pull a small smile from Bucky.

And with the soft spot Steve always had for you, he knew he couldn’t deny your wishes.

With a reluctant sigh, he started moving around the shed, scanning the shelves for the tools they would need. “Well? What are we standing around for, then?”

For the rest of the afternoon, the three of you worked side by side to bring Rebecca’s old boat back to life.

Steve and Bucky took turns with the heavy lifting, hauling out the rusted battery and helping each other realign the heavy parts of the inboard motor. Bucky insisted on handling the delicate mechanical work—scraping away layers of rust, cleaning out the gummed up carburetor, and replacing the brittle fuel lines.

You did your best to help where you could, taking a wire brush to the flaking paint on the hull and wiping down the dusty wooden benches. Mostly, you acted as their mediator, passing wrenches and screwdrivers back and forth while they worked in relative silence.

By the time the sun began to slip behind the trees, painting the sky in beautiful shades of orange and pink, the boat was far from perfect, but it finally looked cared for again.

Bucky stood over the engine block, hands on his hips. He had discarded his leather jacket hours ago, and his shirt was now thoroughly drenched in sweat.

He looked over at you with a grin. “Think she’s good enough to take for a spin?”

Your lips started to tug into a smile. “Yes—!”

Steve shook his head, shutting you down. “No. The bilge pump is shot. It needs to be replaced before we put her in the water.”

Sitting on the wooden bench inside the boat, you glanced over your shoulder and met Steve’s eyes with a frown. “But we worked on it all day. Are you sure we can’t take it out? Not even for a little bit?”

“Without that pump, water is going to leak through the planks like crazy,” Steve explained.

But caught between your crestfallen look and the disappointed crease between Bucky’s brows, he sighed and gave in.

He checked his watch, tapping the glass. “It’s just past five. The auto parts store in town closes at seven on Fridays. If I leave right now, I can grab a replacement pump and be back before it gets dark.”

“Really? You’d do that, Stevie?” you beamed, your excitement returning in an instant.

Steve’s eyes softened. He hated how easily he gave in to you. “Yeah. I’ll be quick—just stay here, alright?”

Bucky shifted, rocking back on his heels with a rare and slightly sheepish look. “Thanks, Steve.”

Steve stepped away from the boat, fishing his car keys out of his pocket. Before he turned around, he pointed a stern finger at Bucky. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

To anyone else, that saying could have passed as typical, lighthearted banter between two old friends. But you knew Steve well enough to hear the real warning underneath it.

Bucky just shrugged, unbothered. “How can I? When you’re taking all the stupid with you.”

Steve was already walking briskly up the path towards the driveway, keys jingling in his hand. He muttered something under his breath and shook his head, ignoring Bucky’s comment entirely.

The two of you watched him get into his car and drive off. The moment the sounds of Steve’s engine faded away, Bucky turned back to you.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face—it was a look that insinuated he was up to no good.

“How ‘bout we take her out anyway?” Bucky asked, nodding to the lake. “Just to see how long she’ll float?”

You gasped. “Bucky, no! Steve literally just said she’ll leak—”

“Steve worries too much,” Bucky scoffed, clicking his tongue. He stepped over to the stern and began pushing the boat towards the lake, ignoring the fact that you were still sitting inside. “It’ll take time for the water to really start coming in. We’ll just go out a hundred yards, turn around, and come right back.”

You knew Steve would be furious, and logically, sitting in a boat that was destined to take on water was a terrible idea. But looking at the sudden, bright spark of life in Bucky’s eyes—the first real glimpse of the carefree guy your dad used to talk about—you found yourself softening.

“A hundred yards,” you bargained, pointing a stern finger at him. “And the second my feet get wet, we turn right around.”

“Deal.”

Before you could change your mind, he shoved the boat down the wooden launch ramp. “Hold on tight!”

The cedar hull hit the once calm glassy surface of the lake with a splash, sending a hard ripple across the water. Bucky tied her off to the dock quickly, then vaulted over and immediately went to work on the flywheel.

He wrapped a pull rope around the starter, took a deep breath, and gave it a hard yank.

The engine coughed, sputtering out a cloud of blue gray smoke, but failed to catch.

“Come on,” Bucky muttered to the machine, wrapping the rope again. He gave it another tug.

This time, the engine sputtered, groaned, and then loudly chugged to life. Bucky laughed triumphantly, the sound so raspy and genuine— it made butterflies swarm in your belly.

He unhooked the mooring line from the dock and tossed it into the bow, then hopped back to the center of the boat to take the steering wheel, gliding the boat away from the dock and further into the water.

The cool lakeside breeze greeted your face, a godsend from working under the sun for hours. Surprisingly enough, the engine and boat remained stable while the sun turned the lake into a pretty pool of liquid gold.

Bucky had a gentle look on his face, the lines around his eyes creasing slightly as he wore a soft smile.

“My sister and I used to ride this boat all the time,” he explained softly, eyes boring into the sun dipping past the lake line. “We would go fishing—and she’d always hate me for catching the biggest fish.”

You smiled softly. It wasn’t often that Bucky shared a part of himself, but every time he did, it was beautiful.

“We should go fishing one day,” you said. “My dad loves fishing, and it’s been a long time since he saw you. Maybe we could do it when he gets back.” You chuckled quietly to yourself at the idea. “He’d probably be so jealous if he found out I got to ride your boat before he did.”

Bucky hummed, the corners of his lips quirking up.

The two of you stayed quiet for a moment as he steered the boat deeper into the lake. Compared to you and Steve, your conversations with Bucky weren’t as lighthearted or enthusiastic. Majority of the time, it’s just you sitting in awkward silence—well, awkward for you—while Bucky just basks in the moment.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around these days,” he suddenly murmured, back still turned to you as he kept his focus on the sunset. “I’ve been caught up with a lot of things. I’m sure your father has told you, and I’m also sure I lost all his respect for me.” He huffed a self-deprecating laugh as he added, “Not that I deserve it, anyway.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself.” Even though he wouldn’t look at you, you kept your eyes on his back. “He still respects you.”

Then, Bucky slowly looked over his shoulder, eyes half lidded and tired.

“And what about you?” he rasped. “Do you still respect me?”

You tilted your head and raised a brow, not expecting him to care about your respect for him of all things.

“Of course I do, Bucky.”

“Good,” he nodded, looking back at the lake. “That’s good…”

While on the topic of respect, you couldn’t help but wonder…

“What about you? Do you respect me?”

Bucky’s lips curved up into an even bigger impish grin. “I don’t know yet,” he teased.

Your eyes bulged. “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean—!”

But the already short teasing interaction got cut even shorter, a wet sensation seeping through your sandals and between your toes.

You glanced down, catching the way the water was bubbling up through the gaps in the floorboards like tiny miniature fountains. The dark pool in the bilge had risen past the soles of your sandals, and with every small wave that hit the hull, the water level crept higher toward your ankles.

“Bucky,” you gasped, lifting your foot. “Bucky! Look down!”

Bucky glanced down, that impish grin stripped off his features as he lifted his boot, now dampened with water. “Shit.”

Your eyes flickered in a panic around you. The dock looked tiny in the distance. The shoreline was far away—way further than the promised a hundred yards. In the middle of your conversation, Bucky had kept driving obliviously and you were now stranded right in the deep center of the lake.

“Bucky, we’re too far out!” you shrieked as you lifted your knees to your chest, trying to keep your feet out of the freezing water.

The bilge was filling fast, making the boat feel heavy and sluggish.

“Turn it around!” you urged.

“I’m trying—” Bucky grabbed the lever, but the moment he shifted it into reverse to swing the boat around, the engine made a startling noise with a sputter that choked on the rising water. And died.

“Shit. It’s not turning—can you swim?” He met you in the center of the boat, where it rocked dangerously, and he grabbed your wrist.

“Oh, God,” you felt your heart race in horror. Being stranded in the middle of a lake with no life vest was a far reach from your usual swimming capabilities that only belonged in a swimming pool.

“Bucky—I don’t know how—”

“It’s okay,” he tried to reassure you, grabbing both your wrists, which only caused you to panic even more. “Just hold still—”

He tried to widen his stance to keep his balance, but your flailing caused him to hiss impatiently, pulling you closer to his chest with a harsh and sudden tug.

He was strong—strong enough to cause you to collide into his chest, and without the engine running to keep the boat steady, the sudden movement tipped the vessel. The momentum caused you to fall over, bringing Bucky down with you.

A shriek managed to escape your lips before you were engulfed completely under the freezing lake water.

You flailed your arms, trying to figure out which way was up. Bucky found your wrists again, pulling you upward with him as your head broke the surface. You gasped for air, blinking the dirty lake water out of your eyes.

“I got you—I got you, okay? Just stay with me,” he reassured, his deep and asserting voice overriding your panic momentarily as his long, dark hair hung wet over his gruff face. “Don’t let go.”

You stood in the middle of the first floor bathroom with Bucky. He was frantically rubbing you down with a towel, ruffling your hair into an even wetter mop than it already was as he kept mumbling things about not wanting to get you sick, and how both your father and Steve would kill him if he did.

“I’ll be okay, Bucky,” you grabbed the towel from his hands, pausing him. “You need to take care of yourself too. You’re drenched.”

“Right. Well, I was only able to find one towel in here—” He started browsing through the other cabinets, his large hands shifting through expired bottles and dusty toiletries out of the way.

As he rummaged deeper, his movements started to slow.

Hidden behind a stack of old soap bars was a small, dusty bottle of vanilla perfume and a faded pink hair ribbon—things left abandoned by Rebecca years ago, who was… no longer around to use them.

His shoulders dropped as he just stood there, staring at them.

You frowned softly, watching the change in his expression. “Are you okay?”

He closed the cabinet door slowly and shrugged, trying to shake it off, but there was no use. “I couldn’t find another towel, so I’ll just air dry.” He answered instead.

Your frown deepened as the water droplets from his hair hit the cold tile floor.

He was soaked from head to toe, and he was shivering. You knew there might have been a spare towel somewhere in the house, but you knew Bucky didn’t want to look. It had been clear that there weren’t any signs of life in this house after his sister’s passing up until now, and if he got shaken up from just seeing the perfume bottle and hair tie alone, then you could only imagine what he’d go through if he walked through the rest of the house.

“Don’t be stupid,” you murmured softly, gathering the damp towel and pressing it against his hair.

Bucky went still, his breath hitching as you began to dry his wet strands. You wiped the back of his neck, then moved down to gently dab at his broad shoulders and the damp fabric of his shirt.

“You should take your shirt off,” you explained. “You’ll get sick.”

He huffed a short laugh, glancing subtly over his shoulder down at you. “I could say the same thing to you, but that’d be inappropriate.”

Pausing, you quickly glanced down at yourself and realized just how inappropriate this already was—even with your shirt still on.

Your white cotton tank top was soaked right through, your cold and perky nipples poking against the fabric obscenely. Your shorts, completely damp, clung tightly to the curves of your body, riding up as water drippled down your thighs.

The entire sight was improper, and you were sure Bucky was thinking the same thing—he just didn’t want to address it.

Slowly, he turned around to face you, his hands finding your wrists and gently catching them to stop you.

“Thank you for riding the boat with me,” he murmured, gently guiding your hand with the towel over his damp and stubbled cheek.

Your breath shuddered. Bucky—your dad’s friend, who was usually always walking around with grumpy frown lines and his arms crossed—looked so utterly small and vulnerable in the small space of this cold bathroom.

“Of course,” you whispered.

Bucky’s grip on your wrists loosened, his large hands sliding slowly up your forearms, past your elbows, until they found comfort on your waist.

Even though he was drenched, his hands felt warm against your skin. Pulling you closer, his thumb brushed against the bare skin of your hip bones where your tank top had rose up.

“Every time I leave town, my mind always screams at me—telling me to come back to one thing,” he spoke quietly, his eyes tracing the vulnerable column of your neck. “Not even to your dad, or to Steve, or even… this house.”

He stepped closer, one strong leg finding its way between yours as he pushed you gently back against the sink’s counter.

“But to you. Isn’t that so wrong of me?”

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until you found out he was actually waiting for an answer.

“I don’t see how that can be wrong,” you spoke, more timidly than you’d like. “We’re like family, aren’t we?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed so deep it should’ve scared you.

“That’s what makes it so wrong,” he murmured, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, letting his thumb glide over the curve. “Because I have these thoughts—thoughts a man like me shouldn’t have for a girl like you. Like how badly I want to kiss you.” Bucky rasped, his voice conflicted as he pulled you closer against him, until no space was left. “I know I shouldn’t. But hell, everything in my body is telling me to.”

The look in his eyes matched the conflict he poured into every single word.

His hands held you tight, keeping you trapped between the counter and his body, but the look in his eyes was begging himself to let you go.

You knew you shouldn’t encourage this. You knew this wasn’t right.

And yet…

You reached up, your fingers tangling into the wet strands of his hair, and pulled him down and met his lips with yours.

The gasp that caught in his throat was overcome by the warm sensation of your mouth. Shock paralyzed him, but the longer he felt your lips press against his, he lost all the resolve that was screaming at him to stop.

Bucky took the control he wanted to have over you for a long time. His hands gripped your waist, meeting your first gentle kiss with a rough, demanding one. He slipped his tongue in as he lifted your body up until you were sitting right on the edge of the sink counter. He stepped closer, forcing your legs to open and let him in.

He didn’t want this moment to slip away, or even grace you with the opportunity to change your mind. His hands explored all over your body, large palms sliding to cup the curve of your ass, rocking the erection that grew in his pants within seconds just from being close to you.

“Fuck—we shouldn’t do this,” he rasped against your lips before pulling away to catch his breath. “We shouldn’t—shit—”

“I don’t care,” you whimpered, your pleading eyes meeting his hungry ones. “I want this.”

A dark, raspy chuckle left his lips. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

His mouth trailed down your jawline to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He bit and suckled at your sensitive skin, making you arch your back as his hot breath and wet tongue sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands slid up, fingers hooking under the hem of your soaked white tank top and pushing the fabric up until it was bunched beneath your chin.

You shuddered as the cold air hit your skin. Bucky’s eyes were dark and hungry, staring at the water dripping down between your breasts like a taunt.

“Christ, look at you. Looking like every man’s dream,” he groaned, greedy hands coming up to cup your tits before pressing both of them together. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

He leaned down to capture one cold, perky nipple between his lips. He swirled his tongue around the peak, sucking it deep into his mouth with a tug that had your fingers gripping his shoulders in pleasure, your hips rolling up against the bulge of his lower stomach as you filled the bathroom with the slutty sounds of your breath.

You arched your back, tugging at his hair while his tongue feverishly licked and sucked at the sensitive bud. While his mouth gave its attention to one nipple, his rough fingers would play with the other. Then he would switch between the two, giving your body all the love he knew it was lacking.

Bucky pulled his face away with a wet pop of his mouth, a string of saliva connecting to your chest as he licked his lips clean.

“This… this is so wrong,” his words drifted uselessly in the air as he broke the space again, his nose to your neck as his tongue found something new to play with.

His warm mouth danced around the skin of your neck, sucking, biting, and groaning with every nibble.

He was sure to leave marks, but you didn’t have the strength to tell him to stop—you didn’t want him to.

“Keep going,” you said breathlessly, your head rolling to the side while he made love to your neck and memorized your body with his hands. “Don’t stop, Bucky—”

Suddenly, all the tension in the room shifted into something far more wicked than what was transpiring between you and Bucky.

The door slammed open, hard enough that the knob left an indent on the wall, and right there, standing in the doorframe, was Steve—who had once been holding the brand new bilge pump that had fallen and hit the floor.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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You mean to answer right away, but your brain is still someone in the rafters, floating among the dust motes he knocked loose out of you. 

So what comes out is less words and more a sigh that shivers through every exhausted inch of your body. 

His grin spreads, triumphant. “Need a real answer, honey.”

You find your voice, albeit ragged, but present. “M’fine. Floaty.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He leans in anyway and kisses the corner of your slack mouth, lingering until he feels you kiss back. “Stay right there a sec. Gonna grab water, towel, and and see what I can do about the pretty mess I made of you.”

“Cocky,” you mumble, though there's no bite to it. Really, he’s only stating the obvious. You are a mess, he made you one, and Robby is far too pleased with himself about both.

He chuckles, snagging his boxers from the floor. “Call me whatever you want, sweetheart. You’ll still be asking for more once you recover.” 

While he’s gone, you stare at the ceiling fan, counting revolutions until everything sounds less like static and more like your own heartbeat again.

By the time he returns, you’ve made it to an elbow. He sets a glass on the nightstand, drops the towel beside it, then crawls back over you on his knees, trailing the towel like a cape. 

“Water first.” He nudges the rim to your lips, waiting until you take a sip. “Attagirl.” 

The praise hits harder than the water, but you drink anyway, throat working around the cool relief. 

When you stop to breathe, Robby wipes a stray drip off your chin with his thumb. “Good?” 

“Better.”

“Anything else you need right now, baby?”

You shake your head, too lazy to hunt for words. You just want him back where he was, wrapped around you, body weight crushing you like a weighted blanket. 

He seems to read that want plain as ink. He moves the water, folds the towel under your hips for cushion, then lowers onto his side and drags you into the curve of him. Chest to back, his arm bands over you, palm flattening between your breasts. 

“Heartbeat’s settling,” he says into your hair. “Thought I snapped the thing right out of you for a minute.” 

You snort, the sound embarrassingly fond. “You tried.”

“Yeah, well.” He peppers kisses across your shoulder, each one a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence only he can read. “Wanted to make sure you remembered whose girl you are.”

Your laugh comes out airy. “Possessive much?” 

“Extremely,” he admits without a hint of shame. He noses behind your ear. “Listen, floaty girl — next time you spot that mirror in the hallway, take a good look. There’s a hell of a lot to be possessive of.” His teeth graze your lobe; the hand on your chest gives a gentle squeeze. “And lucky me, I got there first.” 

“Think you might be a little biased,” you tease, warmth creeping into your cheeks despite the sleepy little smile pulling at your mouth.

A low laugh rolls out of him, all soft thunder against your back. He lets the sound fade into a lazy trail of kisses, mapping collarbone, shoulder blade, the delicate chain at your throat. Each brush of his lips is slower than the last, until he nuzzles into the crook of your neck. 

“Of course I’m biased,” he says, pressing another kiss beneath your ear. “Still know what I’m looking at.”

MARIA NOTE lowkey this is dogshit but fuck it wii ball <3