sai ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹

Your heart unweaves at the seams, observing in terrible silence at the carcass of what you’re leaving behind. A weathered mattress is the only proof that you were ever here. 

You have planned every extravagant detail of your escape. Your mother and her husband will be absent from the house for the next week. Your friends will be studying for their exams, far too engrossed with the vocabulary that riddles their textbooks to notice your immediate disappearance. You were fired from the bookstore two weeks ago. You dropped out of college last week.

Nestled within your clenched fist, a one way plane ticket molds to the heat of your palm. Any earnings and savings have been liquidated to cash. Your bank accounts are closed. Your passport sits in your back pocket. All possessions you are unable to take with you have been given away or sold off. You hold no ownership of responsibility anymore.

The only thing left to do is to walk out the front door.

A single tear burns in the corner of your eye. You refuse to let it fall.

You decided against packing any photographs for your journey. It would be too painful to remember what you’re choosing to abandon. For a brief moment, you allow yourself to mentally retrace the images you’ve discarded. A photo booth collage of Eren and you, pulling funny expressions and making mock kissing faces at one another. A framed portrait of Armin at work, grinning so brightly while stocking the fiction section of the bookstore. Mikasa lounging gracefully in a beach chair, and you in the background burning in the sand. The four of you at your local pub, drinking your first legal beers. 

Countless memories photographed, and you will not take a single one with you. You convince yourself it is an act of mercy on their behalf, your absence will heal all the wounds that you have inflicted upon them. You will not be tempted to reach out to them or stare longingly at the faces stained into the glossy papers. Just as you will be gone, so will they.

You pull out your cell phone — the last item to leave behind. You thumb at your messages, scrolling through your final conversations. They lack any indication of your departure, filled with promises of future plans and see you soon’s. With resilient apathy, you navigate to your settings and erase everything.

The phone is thrown on the barren mattress. Your bags are on your front step. A taxi awaits you with impatience. With one last gaze around the bedroom, you inhale the final breath and close the door behind you.

Before you cross the threshold of the home, you pause. You scribble a haphazard note, abandoned on the kitchen counter.

“Don’t find me,” you read aloud. Your fingers graze the edges of the paper, your final goodbye. 

A daydream flashes. Your mother and her husband returning home, calling out your name. The unemployment of your mouth. The house erased of your presence. The sour expressions of their faces as they read your note. Perhaps a regret will fester within their chests, but more likely it will be a relief.

It is sort of morbid to think this way, so you relinquish the thought and leave the truth to form when the future occurs. You will not be present to witness it, anyhow.

You lock the front door behind you and venture forth. Your heart paces with excitement and anticipation. Remorse is replaced by excitement and hope.

You are leaving, you are getting out of here. You’re really doing it.

The taxi driver is kind enough to offer their assistance, picking up your small collection of luggage and packing it into the trunk of the car. You place yourself in the backseat, staring faithfully ahead as the driver shifts the gear out of park. You do not turn your head as the cab glides forth, the crunching of asphalt and gravel amplifying with each turn of the tires.

You make small talk with the driver on your hour-long journey to the airport. You’re grateful for the casual noise, distracting you from the temptation to sit and dwell on your choices. It would be all too easy for guilt and empathy to latch onto your vulnerable mind, the false convictions of stagnancy speaking murmurs into your ears to reassure you of uncomfortable comfort. 

Truthfully, you still have time to turn around and stay. Your hometown is predictably known to you. You have maintained this routine for the duration of your life. You have loved ones. It wouldn’t be so bad to continue things as they always have been.

Except every cell in your body is screaming in celebration. You have never felt so alive. 

The airport comes into view, and you find solidifying determination.

Regrets be damned. You are getting the fuck out of here.

-

Your name spoken in Mikasa’s voice echoes in your ears. Time slows as the pounding panic consumes your mind, body, and soul. Your limbs feel heavy, weighing you down until you feel as though you are slipping from yourself entirely. Your mouth hangs in a lazy gape, teeth tingling and tongue dry.

Thick tears fall from Mikasa’s lashes, her lip a patterned quiver. Her face displays pure agony and shock, eyebrows knitted tightly together as she holds your horrified stare. You have never witnessed such unadulterated pain before, so raw and tortured. 

You can hear the glass shatter of your heart, smell the smoke of the fire alive in your veins. 

Levi watches on in justified confusion and horror. Silently, his gaze flickers between you and Mikasa. His lips move to speak, but only air leaves his mouth. His eyes are apprehensive, guarded and impatient. His fingers clench and flex at his sides, unable to move or attempt to break the resounding tension.

You feel outside of yourself as you murmur, “Mika?”

The pressure hanging in the room bursts and decays. With frightening speed and violent anger, Mikasa stomps furiously in your direction. You are too slow, too frozen in place, to react.

“Why did you leave me!” she screams mere inches from your face, the uncurrent of a sob amplifying her volume. “How could you do that?”

“Mikasa,” your voice splinters. “I am so sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” she cries. “What are you even doing here? With Levi, of all people?”

“I didn’t know.” Your sight flickers between the cousins. 

Levi must connect the dots, saying, “Is she the one you called?”

“That was you?” Mikasa shouts your name. “It’s nearly been a year, and you decided to call me out of the clear blue like that? Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? Why are you here?”

A pulsing heat flushes the cartilage of your ears, a tidal wave of tears edging your lash line. “I wanted to tell you! I have missed you so much! It killed me to leave you, Eren, Armin! But I had to—“

“Are you even hearing yourself?” Mikasa hisses. “We all thought something terrible happened. Some witness protection program shit maybe, except your mom was still around. You dropped off the face of the fucking planet!”

“I—,” your tongue catches between your teeth, a lack of conviction hanging in the back of your throat. “Please. Just let me explain.”

“And you!” her fury aims at Levi. “How do you even know her? Did you plan this?”

“No,” Levi states stoically. “I met her after she came to the city.”

“What a sick joke,” she laughs without humor. “My best friend disappears out of nowhere only to be found on the other side of the world with my cousin. I feel like I’m in the twilight zone.”

She speaks for the both of you. You can barely wrap your head around the fact of the matter. What a cruel, sick joke the universe plays upon you.

“I can explain!” you shriek, all tears and white hot anger. “I was going to fucking drown back home! I hated my life! I needed to leave. I had to! You would have stopped me!”

“You left me,” Mikasa responds with a deathly cadence. “You left all of us. You told us nothing. Not about how you were feeling, how you felt like you were drowning, nothing. Would I have stopped you? Maybe, but maybe I wouldn’t have. Maybe I would have gone with you.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,” you say. “Mika, you were doing so well in school. You were committed and responsible, it would’ve been so fucked up of me to ask you to abandon everything, everyone. It was cruel enough that I did it.”

“You disappeared. It was like you never existed at all.”

A stinging palm across your cheek would hurt less.

Your lip quivers, “I thought that would make it easier.”

“None of it was easy,” she releases a deep, hallowed sigh. “Armin is still looking for you, you know. He never gave up trying to find out where you went.”

Impossibly, your heart shatters more. “Stop.”

“You know how smart he is,” Mikasa smiles sadly. “He researched all the data you didn’t delete from your socials. Your laptop. Your search history. For the first two months, we all took turns trying to track you down. They were all dead ends. Eren took it the hardest. You should’ve seen his face when he finally realized you weren’t coming back.”

“Stop,” you beg. 

She doesn’t. “You know what’s the most fucked up part of that? You were so uninterested in him, and he worshipped the ground you walked on. He still does. We can’t even say your name without him getting angry. If I ever thought I stood a chance, you leaving absolutely ruined that.”

The distant suffocation of stagnancy creeps from your chest, making you feel smaller and smaller. Your breaths exhale shakily, your inhales sharp and clipped.

It’s too much. Far too much to handle and process.

All your progress, your milestones, your triumphs — they collapse under the weight of consequence. Your cursed cause and effect, the repercussions of your abandonment, slamming into you at breakneck speed. 

You hurt the people you had loved the most. 

“I can’t do this,” you admit brokenly.

“Why don’t you just run away?” Mikasa bites, though her tone lacks the conviction of anger. “That’s how you deal with hard things, right?”

The nail in the coffin. She’s right. 

For a brief moment, you flicker your attention to Levi. You think back to the promises you’d made the night prior, quelling his worries and anxieties. You swore to be better for him, to him.

Maybe it was just a facade all along. Your weary dreamer heart and weak resolve wish you to be the person you swear to be.

You are a coward, you finally realize. At the end of the day, do people truly change? You believed yourself to, but was it truly an evolution of self or were you simply playing your tactical game of avoidance?

You sought to discover a new version of yourself, molded by experience and sacrifice and lessons on love and loss. A memory slithers into your mind's eye. Traveling to this foreign land, stepping into a future so unknown and full of potential it startled you with hope. The call of adventure still rings faithfully in your ears, even now, though it was different back then.

Staring into the eyes of the past and your present, you fumble. Your left foot wobbles forward, while your right remains planted where you stand. 

You want to run. You want to stay. You want to fight. You never want to feel this anguish ever again. 

A hand on your back shakes you from your internal battle, your brain a defensively dissociated mess. Levi holds you stable, a comfort ebbing its way through your bones. He’s grounding you, you realize.

“Mikasa,” he says, tone filled with an unidentifiable emotion. “This is all very sudden, and while I don’t understand exactly what’s happening, this is a lot.”

Her mouth parts to respond, a rebuttal at the tip of her tongue, but she spares whatever harsh words dare to escape. She nods reluctantly.

Levi continues, “You showed up unannounced as well. A phone call would’ve been appreciated.”

“I was feeling spontaneous,” she grumbles, her focus floating back to you. “I’m sorry.”

Whether or not her apology is intended for you, the words do allow you to find stable footing. A splintering noise from your throat ensues, a thick hum of a sob ricocheting within your closed mouth. If either of the Ackermans hear, they do not comment.

“I’m staying at a hotel, before you ask,” Mikasa nods to Levi. “Call me, I guess.”

Levi’s lips form into a straight line, “I wasn’t telling you to leave.”

“But I should.”

Despite all the things you have wished to say to Mikasa over the last year, every word dies behind the slippery spit on your teeth. As much as you feel the urge to protest, to duke it out, to find understanding and relish in reconciliation, a simple fact outweighs these desires. 

Mikasa owes you absolutely nothing.

Betrayed malice is expressed in every expression, every movement. Her fingernails dig crescent moons into her closed fists. She grits her teeth. She stares with a fury that can only be described as scorned. 

Mikasa hates you.

Or at the very least, the absolute worst truth, she still loves you. 

Levi nods finally, flickering a worried glance at you. You shake violently within his hold. 

Mikasa’s mouth parts, wobbling tongue tasting words unable to be spoken. You presume you look the same, gaping lips gnawing at air. 

You find courage in a blistering heat. “Can I call, too?”

As she turns to exit, a stray tear falls from the corner of her eye. “I’ll think about it.”

And then she is gone just as quickly as she came. Something like a tornado, you suppose. 

The door closes with a gentle click and you fall to the floor in a crumpling pile of devastation. Heaving gut wrenching sobs, you hardly recognize it when Levi joins you, grasping at your waist to hold you steady. You thrash, overly dramatic and ultimately embarrassingly, but it is raw and you are bruised. 

You feel sick with pain. The emotional weight of it all — you left, you betrayed, you abandoned. How could you ever declare yourself healed? How dare you find love after all the destruction you’ve caused? Did you truly believe you could outrun your past forever?

How do you survive this?

“It’s okay,” Levi coos, pressing himself tightly against your back. Perhaps to prevent further shattering. “Shh, it’s okay.”

“I’m awful,” you choke out. 

“No, you are not. Vous êtes merveilleux.”

(You are wonderful.)

It feels like salt in the wound, his beautiful language. 

“I’m so sorry.”

He holds you together so tightly. “It will be okay.”

It won’t, but you relinquish your right to protest. 

In a matter of minutes, your entire life has fallen to ruin. You hardly understand it, how the past can just so easily sweep in and set fire to your present. Nothing will ever be the same again. 

You pause your hysterics, craning your neck to gaze at Levi. His expression reveals no clues to the internal monologue he must be reciting, just worried eyes and pouting lips.

“That—fuck. What.” Gibberish. You are decimated.

“I know,” he soothes. “I know.”

Your lip begins to quiver again, bone rattling shakes jerking your body against his embrace. Where words fail, cries replace. You become a symphony of apologies and snot.

And Levi simply just holds you there right on the kitchen floor until you finish your breakdown.

-

Despite the heated words and deep-rooted betrayal, Mikasa does in fact reach out to you. Quite sooner than anticipated, mere hours passed from the morning’s events. Levi generously consoled you as you continued to fall apart, body flushed with embarrassment and regret. 

You explain everything through heavy breaths and sniffled mumbles. The honest, ugly truth — your mother despised you, your stepfather was an emotionally absent figure, your college experience ruined by your own doing, your friendships had fallen apart before your eyes. You feel pathetic, going over a story that sounds lackluster and overdramatic when spoken aloud. You feel Levi’s judgement though he tries to maintain a neutral expression. There is not a part of your past left out.

Even the Eren bit. 

How he meant little to nothing to you but the world to Mikasa. How selfish your actions had been, lavishing all of his attention while Mikasa hopelessly pined. How you discarded Eren without a second thought.

Because you have grown, you do realize how trivial your runaway was, how silly your problems. You destroyed your entire life — for these reasons? It’s ridiculous, an echo of who you used to be, of what you used to have.

But it is still you. It will always be you.

Maybe that is the reason why you never reached out to your loved ones left behind. Deep down, you were always going to be that runaway girl. No city, no man, could change this. You belong to nothing and no one. Not even yourself.

It is when you begin this train of thought that your phone lights up. A text message states a time and place, signed by Mikasa. You reread it obsessively, looking for the smoke signals of sympathy and reconciliation. You can decode the blunt statement, you’re sure of it. 

Levi gently strokes the length of your bent spine, observing the text from over your shoulder. He places a peck to the clothed skin, slowly reaching around to your wrist, placing pressure on your hand to lower it.

She wants to see you tonight.

“Are you going?” he asks quietly.

You nod, voice far too hoarse from crying to verbalize your response. He hums in acknowledgement.

She wants to see where you’ve been living.

If you weren’t so emotionally distraught, you would laugh at the sheer ridiculousness. 

You send a text back with your address and imagine the complete look of apathy that crosses Mikasa’s expression. You can envision the shake of her head, a humorless chuckle on her tongue.

Taking a long and deep breath, you gently tap on Levi’s hand. He releases you silently, slowly standing to his feet and outstretching a palm. You take it, using his stability to stretch your wobbling limbs to stand at full height. You breathe once more, shaking with the remnants of your embarrassment and self-pity.

“I’ll cover your shift tonight,” Levi says. “I’ll tell Hange that something came up.”

“Thank you,” you respond. “For everything, Levi. I’m so sorry you got dragged into this.”

“I guess it would have been unavoidable no matter what, family and all.”

You smile at his stab at humor. “Better at your apartment than at the family reunion.”

“Definitely would’ve been awkward.” Levi smoothes a strand of hair behind your ear. “There’s no need to apologize. Shit happens.”

“If I were you right now, I would be completely freaking out. I mean, what are the fucking chances?”

“Sounds like a terrible plot to the worst book you’ve ever read,” Levi says. “Too bad I’m invested. Can’t exactly write me out of the story now, can you?”

“You do happen to be a main character,” you laugh, the sound ridiculous and harsh. “Fuck, maybe everything will be okay.”

“There she is,” he murmurs, adoration and love staining his pupils. “There’s my girl.”

You choke through a teary giggle, suddenly so overwhelmed with gratefulness at the man cradling your face. A nagging thought blooms from atop your spine, that you don’t deserve his sweetness or his empathy, but still, you smile. Regardless if you’re truly deserving, Levi loves you. He’s here, listening to you whine and weep, holding you tightly and trying to uplift your mood.

You believe your words. Maybe everything truly will be okay. You have Levi. Your best friend, your lover, neighbor, co-worker, etcetera. In the year that you’ve had the absolute pleasure of knowing him, he has molded into every role in your life. Your bartender, your photographer, your grumpy and sarcastic boss. It’s him — Levi, Levi, Levi. Your never ending train of thought, the name of the man you fought to learn, the person you fell desperately and incomprehensibly in love with.

He isn’t going anywhere. It scares you. It grounds you. It’s hard to accept. It’s difficult to understand. It’s easy to love him, to want to stay too.

When he looks at you like this, as if you are the world, you feel as though you can accomplish anything. When he smiles at you, you feel invincible. 

“I’ll call you after?” you say it as a question, though you really mean it as a statement.

Levi hums, nodding his head. “I understand if you need space.”

You shrug. You might, you might not. He places a tender kiss on your forehead, his physical reminder that no matter what happens, he will be there. For you, Levi will give you whatever you need.

“I don’t want to do this,” you confess, discarding your eyes to the floor.

He frowns, placing his hand beneath your chin. Levi tilts your head up, forcing your gaze to his. “Maybe not, but you will, and you can.”

“What makes you so sure?” your voice cracks pathetically.

“Because,” he grins. “I have not known you to once be afraid of anything. You are the bravest woman I know.”

“Stop, I’m going to start crying again. I just stopped.”

“It’s true,” he insists. “Regardless of what happens, you’re not who you used to be. You’re not going to run anymore.”

You nod, absorbing his encouragement with apprehensiveness. You’re too sad to be as positive as Levi right now, but it’s still nice to hear that he believes in you.

“Okay?” Levi asks, smoothing his thumb over the sharpness of your jaw.

You nod your head once more, “Okay.”

“Call me if you need anything at all. I’ll be there.”

“Okay,” you repeat dumbly. “Levi— thank you.”

He smiles, so pure and bright. “You’d do the same for me.”

He’s right of course. You would. 

-

Pacing the hallway outside of your apartment, you attempt to wipe the cold sweat from your palms on your jeans. Your heart is beating a million miles a second and you can’t stop shaking. You are beyond anxious. Your nerves are atrociously shot. You’ve noticed a loose nail in the floorboards of your hallway and you can’t stop staring at it. It’s kind of a lawsuit waiting to happen, and someone should really fix it. You make a note to talk to your landlord as soon as you can.

Or really, you could run inside your apartment and find your hairbrush. It’s probably sturdy enough to knock the nail back into place, and you could really use the distraction. But then you might miss Mikasa, who should be here any minute now, and fuck you are really not ready to handle the second wave of her anger —

Footsteps, slow and delicate, are ascending the staircase to your right. The sounds echo and reverberate through the empty hall, your trembling breath a backing track to the bass. You stare unyieldingly as the first glimpses of Mikasa appear — the top of her raven hair, strands windswept and dimly lit in the flickering sconces decorating the walls of the hallway. Her eyes are downcast, lashes kissing the tops of her chilled pink cheeks. Her arms are crossed under her ribs, fists tucked under her armpits. She’s bundled up in a green jacket, one you recognize immediately. You were with her when she bought it, you have the same but in a different color.

You wonder if she wore it on purpose.

It is only when she reaches the final step, Mikasa looks up. Her expression reveals nothing, but a frown begins to deepen across her mouth. Awkwardly, you smile and raise your palm in a lazy wave. She nods her head in a similar manner, eyes flickering to Levi’s front door.

“Neighbors,” you mutter. 

“Ah.” Mikasa uncrosses her arms. “So, which one is yours?”

You crane your neck in the direction of your apartment, taking hesitant footsteps to the door knob. You open it silently, aside from the creaking hinges, and extend your arm in invitation.

Mikasa brings her lips into a tight smile and crosses the threshold. She smells of chilled Spring wind and peonies as she passes by, and it is so disgustingly nostalgic that you whimper back a cry. You wonder if you still smell the same, halfway across the world and over a year later. Does she recognize you?

You follow quickly behind her, rushing out formalities that do not belong in the air between you, “I can take your jacket. I made soup if you’re hungry. Can I get you anything to drink? Water, tea, coffee? Wine?”

“Water would be nice,” Mikasa responds, eyeing all of your decor. 

Jeremy’s painting sticks out like a sore thumb amongst it all, being that you still haven’t gotten around to really overhauling your apartment. Your decor resembles more of a collection of trinkets than a fully realized aesthetic, little things here and there. You’ve only recently begun to add photos to the walls, thanks to Levi. You notice Mikasa staring hard at one in particular, one of you, Levi, Hange, and Petra at the bar during Christmas.

“Of course, I’ll be right back,” you say, hurrying to the kitchen.

Retrieving two glasses of water, you take your time to collect yourself. Mikasa is going to have a million questions, a thousand accusations, and an undetermined amount of anger. You set the stovetop knob to low, allowing the soup you’ve made to remain warm should she get hungry. You’re expecting her to be here for a while, and who seeks retribution on an empty stomach?

When you return to your living room, Mikasa is sitting rigidly on your couch, jacket slung across the arm rest, the Christmas photo in hand.

“You’ve changed, haven’t you?” she asks, not removing her gaze from the picture.

“Yeah, you could say that,” you answer breathily.

You place the two glasses on your coffee table as slowly as you can. You place yourself on the floor across from Mikasa, too scared to seat yourself beside her. As tortuous as it is for you, you do not want to miss any emotion that passes her face. 

You deserve her fury. You deserve to witness it, to feel the fire of her disdain.

Mikasa finally looks up with watery eyes, “It’s like you replaced us.”

“No,” you say sternly. “That’s not true at all. I think of you guys literally every second of the day. I could never replace you.”

“Then why,” she takes a deep, stabilizing breath. “Why?”

“I couldn’t do it anymore,” you speak barely above a whisper. “I was hurting others and being hurt by others. I couldn’t pretend to be happy. I couldn’t drag everyone else down with me.”

“Who was hurting you?” Mikasa asks, earnest and raw. “Please, tell me the truth. Just be real with me. It’s me.”

“I know,” you sniffle. “That’s why this is so hard. You were one of them, Mikasa. I was hurting you too.”

“Are you talking about Eren?” 

“Partially. There was more to it.”

“Okay, how was I hurting you?” Her eyes have grown softer, less vengeful.

You exhale a deep and loud breath. “I was in the process of losing everything. I had that thing with Eren, and I wasn’t interested in anything long-term and he was. You’ve been in love with him since middle school, and you hated me. I know you did, and it’s okay, I understand now. When you really care about someone, all you want is to be selfish with them. But you took all of that out on me without even realizing.”

Mikasa casts her gaze away, guilt expanding through her body. “Yeah, I can admit to that.”

“I’m not asking for an apology, either. I deserved it,” you press. “I was really self-centered. But it was one of the reasons why I left. I would’ve bent over backwards to try and be your friend, to make things right, but as long as all of us were still friends, things would’ve never changed. You still would’ve silently resented me, despite how close we were, and I couldn’t keep causing you all of that pain.”

“You give yourself too much credit. I would have gotten over it eventually.”

“Are you over it now?”

She blinks. “No.”

You hum, wrapping your arms around your knees. “I wasn’t a good friend to you. You deserved to be happy. You still do.”

“But regardless,” Mikasa heightens her tone. “We could’ve tried to figure things out, find some middle ground.”

“But there was more,” you reason. “Eren and I weren’t exactly on good terms. I’m not stupid, Mika, I could see that he wasn’t getting over me. It was making things really fucking awkward between all four of us, and I can’t even begin to get started on Armin. He was so optimistic, thinking everything would all work out and we would be friends forever. After I lost the job at the bookstore, he was practically begging our manager to let me come back. I mean, that’s so pathetic! I was such a shitty employee! And poor Armin was willing to plead for me to come back, because he was worried I would go off the rails!”

“Well,” Mikasa gestures towards you. “You sort of did.”

True. 

“And then I dropped out of school, my family life sucked, my mom’s a bitch,” you laugh humorlessly. “I was going nowhere. I was losing all of you. And worst of all, I was stuck. I ran out of options. What the fuck was I going to do with my paintings anyways? Sell them in some annual artisan faire and hope I was going to make a sustainable living? What was I supposed to do other than watch all my friends, all of the people I loved the most, pity me, hate me, obsess over me? All while I fell behind as all of you moved on with your lives, moved on from the deadbeat you called your best friend?”

“You would have figured it out!” Mikasa protests. “Just like you always do!”

“I was a self-centered narcissist, Mikasa!” you yell back. “I was the problem! In everything, it was me!”

“And what are you now, a fucking martyr?” she scoffs. “Thank you so much for moving halfway across the world! It really saved us! I mean really, it was so enjoyable filing police reports, deep-diving into every lead, crying over you, missing you, consoling each other. Despite her being a bitch, which you are absolutely correct about, your mother was, and still is, an absolute wreck. Even your step-dad went above and beyond to try and find you. They’re still looking. We all are! You disappeared!”

“I had to! And I’m sorry!” 

“You have absolutely no idea how much damage you caused. When I called Eren and Armin earlier, you want to know what the first thing they asked was? Is she hurt?” Mikasa softens dramatically. “Then, was she kidnapped? What happened?”

“You told them?” you blanch. “Did you say where I was?”

“Of course I did. They’re getting on a plane tomorrow. You need an intervention, needed one last year.”

“Did you tell her — did you tell my mom?” your voice is deathly still.

She pauses. “No, I didn’t. But you will when Eren and Armin get here. She needs to know that you’re safe.”

“Why are you doing this?” you shout. “You haven’t even asked me how I’m doing! How much I’ve changed, all that I’ve accomplished, what my life is like! You haven’t even mentioned Levi!”

“I don’t really care to know,” she says bluntly. “You do realize that every person you’ve gotten yourself involved with is an accomplice, right? Or at the very least is a witness? You ran away! This isn’t a fairytale! There’s literally legal consequences to what you’ve done!”

In this very moment, your life crumbles before you. You feel stripped and bare. You sequentially realize that it doesn’t matter what you say to Mikasa, or Eren and Armin, they won’t hear you, not really. The versions of them that you’ve held in your mind, the adoration and the memories you’ve grasped so tightly onto, they weren’t real. They’ll never understand you. Maybe they never have.

“We want to talk to you about coming home.” Mikasa slides from your couch and onto the floor. She takes your hands into her own, a bright and teary smile beginning to form on her face. “We can fix this together.”

“But I don’t want to leave. My job, my apartment, and, ” you whimper. “Levi, what about him? I love him.”

“But what about us?” she implores. 

You’re edging on hysteria, your breath quickening and body trembling. You part your lips, mouth sticky with the beginnings of a sob, but no noise escapes. Her dark irises flicker across your face, pupils dilating as they steady, staring directly into your own watery eyes.

“Despite all that you’ve put us through,” she says, smoothing her thumb against your knuckles. “We miss you. We’ve been worried sick, all of us. I miss my best friend. I love you, I still love you. I don’t care about whatever your reasons may have been for leaving, so long as you try to make amends. You tried calling me, right? To fix things, tell me about your life? To tell me that you missed me?”

You nod reluctantly. Mikasa’s smile widens, though tears of her own begin to descend down her cheeks.

“Let Eren and Armin come. Give us the chance to talk to you,” she continues. “Let us help you. You made all of these rash decisions by yourself. You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

You implode. Throwing yourself forward, you lock your wobbling arms around Mikasa in a suffocating embrace. She matches your ambition with her own fervor, sobbing into the crook of your neck as her nails clutch onto the back of your shirt. 

Although it is the very last thing you have ever desired since running away, you do feel shreds of gratitude for the universe reuniting you with Mikasa. In your wildest of imaginations, this moment wouldn’t have happened for decades. Maybe you’d return home some day, quietly check in on your forgotten loved ones, run into Mikasa at the grocery store on complete happenstance. You’d purchase a bottle of wine, go down to that lake the two of you would frequent, and catch up on all of the years that had zipped by. The pain of absence would be reduced to a phantom ache, a ghostly scar of a wound well healed yet always thrumming with soreness. You would laugh, the urge to cry a miniscule twitch of longing. It would be powerfully healing. It would not hurt, so far removed from the active pain and suffering of the present.

Life has never treated you with such kindness, and your determined spirit requires lessons learned the hard way. You’ve always faced your bullshit head on, for better or worse. You just can’t decide what side Mikasa is on at the moment, good or bad.

Through broken cries, you say, “I’m so sorry, Mikasa.”

“I know,” her voice breaks. “I’m sorry too.”

You can shred yourself apart, deny all of the good parts of yourself and declare to be without conscious or empathy. You can practice self-loathing, play both victim and villain flawlessly. 

But you can finally admit this to yourself — you are brave. The last twenty-four hours have been some of the hardest you’ve internally faced. Yet you did not run. You stayed.

You can do this. You can mend the bridges you’ve burned.

“I’ll see them,” you whisper. “I’ll see Eren and Armin.”

Mikasa really starts to cry. She shakes violently in your hug, her fingers digging into your spine. Loud, hysterical wails are swallowed by your shoulder. 

“I’m so glad that you’re okay,” you can make out through her muffled sobs. “I’m so relieved.”

You lean back, maneuvering your palms to cradle her face. Mikasa looks wrecked, all clumped eyelashes and soaked lips. You probably look identical, a tickling of snot daring to leak from your nostrils. You can’t help but laugh. She mirrors you, laughing as she rubs the backs of her fists along her eyes.

“This is so stupid,” she groans. “What the fuck?”

“What do we do now?” you ask. 

“Talk like normal people, I guess?” Mikasa’s giggling resumes. “I think we covered our shared trauma.”

You smile, an excited lightness filling your chest. “Well, how’s life?”

“It’s good, aside from, well,” she sends you a pointed look. “School is good. I have an internship at a law firm. I got a place with Eren and Armin.”

“That’s great, Mika,” you say. “Really.”

“Yeah, it’s been good.” She bites her lip, suddenly ashamed. “I didn’t mean what I said, about not caring. I just don’t think I can handle hearing how good your life is.”

“I get it.”

“Maybe I can, though.” Mikasa wipes a final tear from her cheek. “Not now, but maybe with some time.”

You nod, conveying sympathy with the gentleness of your tone, “I’m not going to run anymore. I promise.”

“You’ll fix this?” her voice wobbles. “Us?”

“Yeah,” you say. You mean it.

“Okay,” she sighs. “I’ll work on my stuff. Eren and Armin will, too. We’ll be okay again.”

You choose to believe her. You think she makes the same decision, her small smile full of warmth.

-

You do not exactly recall when you gave Levi your extra set of keys, but you’re unbelievably thankful to hear the unlocking of your front door. From your bedroom, you hear the subtle shuffling of the ravenette removing his shoes. Padded footsteps roam down the hallway, flicking light switches off as he passes through. Your bedroom door creeks, the faintest of moonlit illumination swallowing his silhouette. 

Mikasa left quite quickly after your conversation. While there are a myriad of things to discuss, history to recount, the well of words ran dry. There is only so much a person can say in a single night, so she gathered her things, gave you a brief hug, and departed.

And so, you went to bed.

You’re not pretending to be asleep, but you’re also not actively convincing Levi that you’re awake. He stands, relaxed and patient, releasing a sigh that translates his relief. You’re not the blubbering mess you were earlier, at least.

Maneuvering the comforter down your shoulders, you shimmy backwards on the mattress in silent invitation. Without verbal reply, Levi acquiesces, slipping in to the spot your body heat still reverberates.

You curl into his side instantly. Flinging an arm across his torso, you nestle the crown of your head into his chest, pressing your ear to the gentle thrumming of his heart. It beats steadily, staggeringly loud in opposition to the night’s quiet hum. His palm brushes along the nape of your neck, fingertips tickling the thickness of your skull.

“How’d it go?” he speaks harshly above a whisper.

“She doesn’t hate me,” you hum. “We’re going to work on things.”

“Good,” Levi replies.

Your fingers clutch tightly onto his shirt. “The others are coming too.”

He pauses, body rigidly stiff. “When?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

He hums a reply in acknowledgment. Levi’s fingers loosen from their circular pattern.

“I don’t know what I’m going to say to them,” you continue. “But part of me is happy to see them.”

“They’re your friends,” Levi says. “Of course you would be happy. You never thought that you would again.”

“No,” you answer. “But a larger part of me is scared.”

He turns his torso, nudging his forehead against yours. His eyes study your own, and for a brief moment you are entirely without worry. It is only you and Levi. 

His knuckles brush against your cheekbone, his skin cool in stark contrast to your blazing flesh. “Why?”

You whisper it as if it is a secret. “I don’t want them to take me away from here.”

“I wouldn’t let them,” Levi chuckles softly.

“But you would, if it was my choice,” you say without question.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Not without protest, but yes.”

“Would you come with me?” 

His lashes flicker, his brow twitches. “Have you already decided to leave then?”

“No,” you insist. “But what if?”

“Mon cœur bat pour toi, bien sûr que je le ferais,” he says wistfully, his hand dropping from your face.

(My heart beats for you, of course I would.)

“Levi?” An edge of panic stains your voice. “Would you come with me, if it comes down to it?”

“I refuse to make decisions on hypothetical scenarios,” Levi replies. “We are here now. Let tomorrow be what it will be, and the day after that, and the day after that.”

“Poetic,” you humor. 

“I’ve been known to be a romantic,” he jokes lightly. “Say a line or two.”

You hum in response, sleepy and emotionally exhausted. Levi presses a chaste kiss to your forehead and you lower your eyelids. 

You’re really not thinking of leaving, but you aren’t sure if you can’t be convinced. Your resolve has always waned under pressure, and the last twenty-four hours have been a complete whirlwind for you. Add Eren and Armin into the mix, and well, you’re not expecting to know the difference between up or down. 

Maybe they’ll see your life and understand why. Maybe you can convince them you were always better off choosing this path. 

Truthfully, you do not think you could survive loving and leaving Levi – or Hange, or Petra, or your favorite patrons at the bar, or Jeremy. You cannot even imagine doing so, it pains your wearied heart too much. 

How do you manage to have it all then? The reconciliation, the true love, the healing, the growth, the rewards of all of your change. You hear Levi’s breath begin to steady, signaling his drifting slumber, and you cling tighter to his body. How can you keep everything you’ve gained without losing who you used to be?

-

The cafe from across your apartment is a quite cathartic choice of place of reuniting with your past loved ones. It seems as if it were yesterday you were perched upon the mezzanine outside of your bedroom, looming over the railing in awe and envy at the people sitting at the tables lining the sidewalk. You wished to be among the crowd, not just there, but with. To laugh and smile and speak with friends as if you had always lived here, grown alongside them, belonged to this world you forced yourself a part of.

Eren and Armin’s plane landed about an hour ago, according to Mikasa. They will be upon you at any moment now. Your accelerated heart rate might land you in a hospital before you first catch sight of them however. Bluntly put, you feel close to dying. Metaphorically you stand on the precipice of profound change, unable to move backwards from the minutes looming ahead. Physically you are furiously wiping your palms against your jeans, panicking so hard that you’re fighting the urge to dry heave.

You tell yourself that in an hour, your anxiety and worry will be nonexistent. If nothing else, this will all be over with, your meet-up already done and consequences faced.

Levi will be waiting for you after all is said and done. The reminder of this fact allows your heartbeat to steady for a split second.

The slamming of a symphony of car doors forces you to jump out of your seat and to relinquish the grasp on your espresso, desperately grasped in your clammy touch. Your eyes instinctively search your immediate surroundings, your breath halting entirely when you see them.

Armin has cut his golden hair. His eyes are still as big as they are blue. He appears broader, stands more assertively, any inkling of insecurity or shyness is absent from his stature. His arm extends from a taxi, holding out the door as Mikasa shimmies through. You smile. Armin is still thoughtful.

Eren emerges from the street. He’s somehow taller than you remember, his hair longer and his verdant eyes fiercer. He’s grown more handsome, impossibly so, and you understand all over again why you betrayed Mikasa in the first place. Eren oozes charm, even from across the room.

They’ve all grown. They have all changed. But so have you, you think. You wonder what they will think once you stand and announce yourself to them. Will they recognize you? Will they hate who you have become?

Is this all a mistake? Would it have been better to stay gone?

Mikasa’s gaze finds yours, and you realize with startling clarity that none of your questions matter. You cannot control what has already been done, what is currently in motion, and what the future holds. You can only be present. 

Maybe, being present was your lesson all along. Or whatever the fuck the universe wants to teach you.

With surprisingly steady knees, you rise from the table and begin to tread towards the trio. Armin is the second set of eyes to meet yours and the intensity nearly knocks the wind from your lungs. You press onwards, taking faster strides. The blonde murmurs something you cannot decipher, but assume it's about you as Eren whips his head in your direction. His face scrunches together, his bottom lip quivering and eyes bubbling with tears.

Mikasa smiles so softly, speaking a sentence to the two. Then, they are bolting.

Your feet slide from the concrete beneath you as you are tackled by your friends. A myriad of arms encase your form, refusing your fall to the ground to be completed. Your ears are muffled by the combination of chests, but you hear wailing and words and you cannot believe that this is really happening.

You begin to sob, but it is not the sorrowful and remorseful tears you anticipated. You’re crying because you feel as if you are returning home after a long and grueling trip away. So much love surrounds you, it feels as though you might drown in it. 

And what a sight the four of you must be, openly wailing in a crowd of perfect strangers. You’d be embarrassed if not for the fact that nothing else matters at this moment. 

Your grip tightens on whoever you’re holding onto — probably all three of your friends — and you’re spewing. “I missed you guys so much.”

“Don’t ever do that again,” Armin says into your hair. “Just give us a heads up next time, okay?”

“Fucking Marco Polo,” Eren chokes out a laugh.

You chuckle, watery and thick. “I just wanted a change of scenery, I guess.”

“Idiot,” Mikasa says. “Dramatic moron.”

You pull back, a shy smile creeping from behind your teeth. “How have you guys been?”

“Crazy, mostly,” Armin responds. “But good, in some ways. We’ll tell you all about it after.”

“After?” You crane your neck.

“After you tell us first!” Eren shouts. “What the hell have you been up to? You’ve been gone an entire year! You literally have a new identity now!”

“You guys don’t want to yell at me first?” you ask timidly. “Get that out in the open?”

Eren and Armin share a pained look. Mikasa is the one that answers your question, “I think I already covered that part.”

“We’re all caught up on, well, that,” Armin grimaces.

“Got it. Well, um,” you fumble with the buttons on your jacket nervously. “Can I get you guys a coffee?”

“They got beer here in fancy land?” Eren humors.

“We actually have a growing craft beer scene,” you answer autonomously. “Some breweries actually reached out to the bar—“

“Bar?” Armin interjects. 

“Oh,” you blink. “Yeah. I work at a bar.”

“And we’re meeting up for coffee. Why?” Eren throws his hands up.

“Because it’s polite,” Mikasa bites. “And it’s the morning.”

“Not home it’s not,” Eren argues. “We’re still jet-lagged.”

A grin spreads across your face, an unconscious thing. “I’ll take you guys there later, if you want?”

The three friends nod thoughtfully, timidly. Silently, you gesture towards the cafe table you were previously sitting at. They follow, one by one, over to the metal chairs, the chatter of the other tables dispersing as the early morning rolls forth.

Mikasa sits to your left, Armin to your right, Eren directly in front. You cast a glance to your espresso mug, chilled now by the Spring air, and feel mildly guilty that you didn’t order them anything before this moment. 

Not that that is all that important, but the guilt lodges itself right alongside your grief, tugging your attention away from excitement and happiness. You’re here to explain yourself afterall, tell your story of events. 

You clear your throat, cutting through an uncomfortable silence that settles over the four of you. “I’m sure you guys have a million questions.”

Armin is the first to answer, his expression painted in compassion and care, “Yeah, but we just want to know that you’re really okay.”

Eren follows the blonde with, “Why?”

Mikasa stays quiet, but offers you an encouraging smile.

You huff out a tensed breath. “I wasn’t okay. I am okay now.”

“Start from the beginning.” Armin places his palm atop your knuckles. “Tell us everything. We want to listen.”

And you do. For a third, and hopefully a final, time, you spill your guts and rehash traumas and feelings and strife that lead you here. You talk most adamantly about the day you left, walking the three through the visceral memory of abandoning everything, how free you felt in the moments following.

You talk about coming to France. You say it was hard finding a place to live in the first couple of days, so you slept at the airport until the staff caught onto you. You got lucky securing the apartment you did, convincing your landlord to allow you to rent the furniture from the previous tenant. You recalled the job hunting, how you actually used a planner for the first time in your life and immediately threw it away the second you were hired at Hange’s. You talked about Jeremy, your elderly neighbor, Hange, Moblit, Petra, even Erwin.

You talk about the seasons changing, your creaking floorboards, your drafty balcony door, your mother’s soup recipe, your abandoned passion for cupcake making, your perpetually unfinished paintings.

You talk about every single thing there is to talk about until it is time to talk about the one, most singularly important thing.

“Levi,” you chuckle lightly. “Levi is my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Eren shouts, jaw tight. “That’s so fucking cliche!”

“This sounds like the plot of a book,” Armin says. “Like, a really good book.”

“You won’t fucking believe this,” Mikasa quips. “Levi is my cousin.”

Shocked expressions circle the table, and it is impossibly hard not to laugh. It is deeply ironic and you imagine that you’ll be laughing at this fact for decades to come, but now is not the moment to abandon sincerity for humor. 

“Imagine my surprise when Mikasa walked through the door a few days ago,” you frown.

“Scratch the book idea,” Armin blinks. “This is movie potential.”

“Out of all of the billions of people in the world,” Eren says. “Mikasa’s cousin is the guy you decide to shack up with halfway across the planet?”

“To be fair,” you explain. “I really didn’t know. To make it even more fucked up, I called Mikasa and left a voicemail the night prior.”

“She didn’t call you back?” Armin asks, throwing a confused look to Mikasa.

Mikasa’s eyes travel to her lap. “I had just gotten to the city. I had my phone on airplane mode.”

“Wait,” Eren interjects, directing his attention to Mikasa. “You didn’t tell us that part.”

“I told you what was most important,” Mikasa says in a clipped tone. “I found her.”

“Yeah but, we could’ve been here sooner!” Eren raises his volume, eyebrows furrowing into the base of his nose. “That’s like a twenty-four hour difference!”

“Can we not?” Mikasa barks. “We’ve been back together for literally an hour and you’re already starting this shit back up again.”

“What shit?” you ask stupidly.

Armin winces, “I agree with Mikasa, can we not do this right now?”

“I think now is a great time, since we’re airing everything out,” Eren laughs without humor. “Mikasa, in your leaving, had decided to tell us how much we dotted over you and made her the villain. She thinks that when you were around, we were mean to her.”

“That is not what happened,” Mikasa defends. “Nor is that what I said.”

“Then explain, please, to her, about how you felt. Because you acted like the stars aligned in the fucking sky when you realized that she wasn’t coming back, Mika.” Eren crosses his arms over his chest, a deadly glint in his eye.

You stutter out, “Mikasa?”

She stares into the fabric of her pants, unblinking and voice trained as she answers, “That’s not what happened. We all dealt with your disappearance in different ways.”

“Eren,” Armin exasperates. “We can talk about this later, please. We just got her back.”

“Did we?” Eren chuffs. “I think it’s more that she got us back, and she deserves to know the truth.”

His gaze lingers on Mikasa, frowning in a silent apology. His eyes shift to Armin, expression becoming emotive with betrayal. Then, Eren’s eyes land on you, conviction lacing his beautiful features.

“Mikasa all but celebrated the fact you were gone. Armin turned into a detective. I cried each and every day over you and wondered why you didn’t take me with you,” Eren sighs heavily as he speaks the last lingering words of his confession. “I hated you.”

“What?” you’re left all but speechless, jaw slacked and eyes blown wide.

“Eren!” Mikasa barks, all white hot fury with the lingerings of guilt.

“I hated you,” Eren repeats callously, calm and sturdy. “I told myself that if I ever saw you again, I wouldn’t forgive you.”

Mikasa and Armin shrink into their chairs, looking anywhere away from the two of you. Your bottom lip wobbles, but you do your best to keep your tears at bay. Eren glares solemnly into your eyes, sad and bereft, but an indistinguishable emotion flickers within their depths.

“I understand,” you deflate. “I don’t blame you.”

“I didn’t hate you for leaving,” he explains. “I hated you for having the balls to do it. To stay wherever the hell you went. I hated you for not telling me, not taking me. I hated you for not reaching out to me, me, of all people! You knew that out of all of us that I would be the one to understand you the most.

“And you never called,” Eren’s voice softly breaks. “You never texted. You sold all of your things. You got rid of our photos. I didn’t even have a painting to remember you by. You were just gone, completely, like you were never even there. And I was still there. I’m still there.”

“Eren,” you speak above a whisper. “I told Mikasa the same thing, but I couldn’t bring you guys down with me. I didn’t know if my plan would work, if I would get lucky and figure it out, or if I would have to come running home with my tail between my legs.”

“I didn’t care about any of that,” he shakes his head. “I don’t care now to even hear that. It didn’t matter then, I would’ve gone with you. I would’ve figured it out with you, I would’ve come home broke and embarrassed with you. We all would have, and I hated you most because you knew that.”

“You’re right,” you answer earnestly. “I didn’t tell you because if you three didn’t convince me to stay, you would’ve convinced me to let you tag along. You have every right to hate me, Eren. All of you do.”

Armin smooths his thumb across your knuckles. “I don’t hate you. I never did. I was worried and sad.”

“I don’t hate you either,” Mikasa says. “You know how I felt and how I feel now. I was angry. I’m still angry.”

Eren pauses on an inhale of air, rolling the breath between his teeth before he speaks. “I hated you because I couldn’t actually hate you. Because at the end of it all, I get it. I really fucking understand why you did what you did and I hate myself for not doing the same.”

The confession sombers Mikasa and Armin, their faces broken and grateful in the same expression. You think that maybe they’re just glad that they didn’t have to travel the world to find more than one of their friends.

Eren’s tone wobbles again, “Was it worth it?”

You reflect quicker than you expect to. The answer comes to you autonomously — yes. To see Hange, Petra, and Levi’s faces smiling at you fondly in the cluster of memories, to feel the onslaught of growth and happiness and pure love slither through your bones, to taste the reminisce of all the wine and coffee on your tongue and to understand completely that yes, yes it was all worth it. 

You’ll forever feel remorse for the way you left. You’ve decided that you’ll spend the same amount of time rebuilding those bridges you’ve burned. Leaving was worth it, despite the pain, despite the anguish. You became yourself. You discovered who you were and are still learning about who you may be one day. You found love, so much of it, in all of its shapes and forms. 

Love is Levi, who kisses you so fiercely that it knocks the wind from your lungs. Love is Hange, who is so brightly optimistic and kind and encourages everyone around them to just live their life and have fun. Love is Petra, who is genuinely one of the most compassionate and understanding people you have ever met.

Love is Jeremy, your beautiful begonia, that glitters and shines in his painted terracotta and leaps with joy at every watering.

But love is also this — the hurt, the pain, the longing, the anger, the mistakes. Love is Mikasa and Eren and Armin and love is you declaring that you will do right by them. Love is the lifetime of apologies you owe them.

Maybe love is forgiving yourself too. You make a mental note to verbally apologize to your reflection when you get home. Perhaps you’ve always been a bit dramatic, too hard on yourself, or self-centered. You’re learning though, how to be a human, and you feel love for yourself even in those moments.

“Yes,” you finally answer, violently and unwaveringly honest.

Mikasa, Armin, and Eren stiffen. You do not feel guilty, but you do feel grief. Love is regret, too.

A subtle lift of Eren’s lips leave you confused and relieved. “And that’s why I don’t really hate you, because I understand.”

“I’m sorry,” your attention flickers to each of your friends, your voice agonizingly dripping with sincerity.

Eren utters your name in a dreadfully serious cantor, “Your mom knows where you are.”

You stop moving entirely apart from your eyes, where they dart to Mikasa. Her face betrays her, guilt riddled across her expression.

“I thought you said I would call her,” you mumble, mouth growing dry. 

“I lied,” she says soberly. “I’m sorry. I had to tell her.”

“We’re here to bring you home,” Armin mutters, quietly and shamefully. “Or at least to try to convince you to come back.”

“It’ll be different this time,” Mikasa reassures you, passion etched into her tongue. “We’ll get you back into school, help you find a job, or an internship, or whatever you want to do. You don’t even have to live with her anymore if you don’t want to.”

Your mind reels. You feel sick.

“If I say no?” you ask, devoid of outward emotion.

“Then you say no,” Armin replies. “All of us agreed on no consequences.”

That may just be the most surprising revelation yet. Your mother, no threats and anger? 

“What do you mean?” You look to Eren who has yet to break his intense stare.

“She probably won’t forgive you, but we did talk her out of figuring out how to legally get you back home. She only wants a phone call at the very least,” Eren elaborates.

Okay, so no cops. That’s good at least.

“You have time to think about it,” Armin offers. “We’re here for a couple of days.”

You swallow despite your drying throat, and nod in acknowledgment. An angry and annoyed pit in your stomach engulfs your vocabulary, an anxiety taking root in an unrecognized problem. A thought previously unknown sparks in your brain — could you have left your hometown in a better way?

You feel yourself start to defend your actions. No, of course you couldn’t have. There were too many pressures and not enough support, you would have never left at all. Another voice plays devil’s advocate, yes of course you could have! What were you thinking, believing there wouldn’t be consequences for acting like a child and running away? You could have applied for dual citizenship, gone about all the legal proprietaries and what-not. 

But it doesn’t really matter, given all that you have done and all that still remains to be done. Bluntly stated, it is what it is.

You clear your throat, offering a weak smile and finally paying attention to your abandoned espresso cup. You sip, the drink gone cold, and wonder if something a bit stronger would quell the swelling tides of your discomfort.

You make a decision.

“Do you guys want to see my life?” you ask timidly.

Whatever tension that had begun to build dissipates, the three eagerly nodding. You turn, pointing a finger upwards towards your apartment complex.

“That’s my balcony,” you say. “My landlord is pretty cool, I hardly ever see him except when I pay rent. I live next to Levi, and there’s this old lady who’s a little mean but she let me borrow her sugar one time. Everyone else just kind of keeps to themselves.”

“Can we see it?” Armin speaks up, adventure sparkling in his ocean eyes.

You nod eagerly, standing abruptly. The three follow suit, equally as excited to see what your life has transformed into. You figure it’s a bit intimate, showing them your apartment first — but fuck it. This whole ordeal has been raw and vulnerable enough.

Eren practically scrapes your heels with the fronts of his boots as the four of you travel across the street and into your building. Armin chatters away, in awe of the architecture and speculates the rich history of the bricks. Mikasa, familiar with the layout, silently listens and smiles at Armin’s words. You warn them of the creaking stairs, the loose nail at the top step, the dim lighting of the staircase, the obscenely difficult lock at your front door. 

They cross your threshold after invitation, and you give an excited tour of your humble apartment. You mumble about the distinct differences between your hometown and here, the coldness of the previous Winter, the daylight of Spring. You present Jeremy, freshly watered with his bubbly personality, and show off his royal portrait in your hallway afterwards. You point out the uncleanable paint splatters on the floorboards, express concern about your security deposit, and end your tour outside on your balcony.

Mikasa leans over the metal railing, in awe of the view below. “They look like ants now, all those people.”

You swallow an ironic chuckle, “Yeah, I people watch a lot.”

“It’s probably hard to see the stars,” Armin notes, head facing upwards to the clouds. “All the light pollution.”

“I do miss it,” you say. “But there’s some places in the city where you can still see them!”

“Cool,” Eren says. “You’ll have to take us there later. French stars, ya’know.”

“Oui,” you respond, wagging your eyebrows.

You share a stupid laugh with your friends, embarking back inside to your living room. With a few hours to spare until the next point of exploration, Hange’s bar, you catch up on Eren, Mikasa, and Armin’s lives.

Eren is working part-time at his father’s clinic as a receptionist. He hates it passionately, but it affords him gas for his car and his share of the rent for their apartment. Eren decided to drop out of college, but he’s figuring out if he wants to go back to finish his Bachelor’s or not.

Armin is still in school working on his Master’s degree, because of course he is. He works at that same book store, even managing it now. After he completes his schooling, he’s planning on buying his own book store, which he is both excited and nervous about. He says he wants to travel, but he’s unsure exactly how he’s going to fit adventure into his very busy and strict schedule for the next five years. 

Mikasa, as you know, is interning at that law firm. She goes into great detail about the people she works for, complaining about the dress code and the boring days that seem to drag on forever. She started seeing Jean casually, and he’s begun to fill in the empty space in the friend group that you left behind.

All of the extended friends that the four of you saw on occasion — Sasha, Connie, Jean, Reiner, Bertholdt, Marco, Annie — come around more often now that Eren, Mikasa, and Armin have their own place. Their shared apartment is in a constant state of mess, but it feels like home, they say. They catch you up to speed on all of their lives, the changes each of them have gone through, and how your disappearance brought all of them together.

Which makes you feel sort of weird, knowing that leaving caused a ripple effect in your community. You wonder what they’ll think when word reaches back to them that you crossed the Atlantic to start a new life. 

The mid-day sun withers in the sky, casting orange rays into your apartment. Levi and Petra’s shifts will start soon, and with that, introductions will be made. A new source of nervousness enters your system as you shimmy your shoes on.

What if your old friends and new friends don’t get along?

It’s apparent as the four of you begin your familiar walk to the bar that they do not share your same concern. The three are lively and jovial, Eren pretending to trip Armin several times while Mikasa playfully scolds the two for acting like children. Eren even attempts to run away, pawing at your elbow whenever you pass by an alleyway. It is, for a lack of a better word, goofy. It’s nostalgic as well, flashes of your previous adventures to your hometown pub passing underneath your eyelids when you blink.

All too soon you are grasping at the handles of the front door of Hange’s, your fingers slippery once more from anxiousness. The door creaks forth and you step inside the warmth.

The bar has always smelled distinctly of bergamot, cedarwood, and the lingerings of tobacco, but tonight it whips you in the face. The assault comforts you unexpectedly, all of the joints and muscles in your body relax on impact. As your eyes adjust to the typical dim warm lighting inside, your gaze lands on a sight that allows you to completely surrender over to fate.

Levi’s gunmetal eyes lift as the sound of your entry. His face, stoic and calm as always, breaks into something softer, more affectionate. A corner of his mouth lifts, a mockery of a smile, a silent greeting and a loud reassurance. 

You blow out a shaky exhale, the breath hot and humid against your lips. You will not be scared. You simply just won’t.

You hardly notice the fact you’ve gravitated towards Levi until you’re standing directly in front of him. The mahogany of the bar’s surface serves as a barrier, almost knowing that you’d attach yourself to his side within an instant. Levi’s elbows rest on the counter, a shared sentiment you figure. Your hand rests down, his arm lowers. His fingertips brush against yours.

“Hey,” he breathes, eyes lowering to your mouth. “You okay?”

You nod, smiling gently. “Yeah, surprisingly.”

Levi quirks a grin, albeit small. His attention shifts to the group behind you, “Them?”

“Them too,” you answer. “They’re okay, too.”

You stare at one another for a brief pause. It is almost as if you’re seeing Levi for the first time, noting his raven hair — it’s growing longer again, the clipped sides fuzzy and opaque, his bangs teasing his long eyelashes. He appears more chiseled in this light, the hollows of his cheekbones sharp and deep, his jaw angular and square. His nose, arguably your favorite of his features, is illuminated to a heavenly degree. A usually hidden cleft between his nostrils presents itself, the subtle bump in the bridge casts shadows across his cheeks. His mouth is loose and relaxed, plumped and pink.

Levi is so painfully beautiful, and though you know you think this often, it is staggeringly apparent in this moment.

“There she is!” Petra appears in your periphery, bubbly and bright. “And she’s brought friends!”

You reluctantly remove your gaze from Levi, bringing your full attention to the larger group. “Petra!”

The strawberry blonde wraps her arms around your waist, tugging you against her torso in an embrace. You reciprocate it, placing your palms against her shoulder blades. The hug lasts for a breath before you both lean away.

“Petra, these are my friends from home. Eren, Armin, Mikasa,” you smile. “Eren, Armin, Mikasa, this is Petra.”

With unashamed friendliness, Petra launches herself into the arms of your old friends, greeting them individually and leaving the same lasting impression she had given you. They even stare at her with the same sparkle that you had, falling in love instantaneously with her endearing personhood. 

Mikasa is the first to speak out of the three, gesturing to Levi with the flat of her palm, “That’s Levi, my cousin.”

“You guys don’t really look alike,” Eren notes, pupils scanning your ravenette up and down. “Just the hair.”

“They’re not siblings, Eren,” Armin uncharacteristically rolls his eyes.

“Still,” he pouts.

In an act of civility, Levi rounds the corner of the bar and extends his palm out first to Armin. Armin excitedly shakes his hand, offering his name and a kind smile. Levi moves next to Mikasa, placing his hand on her shoulder, smoothing his thumb in a greeting. She smiles back delicately.

When he gets to Eren, Levi studies the brunette’s face. Eren’s eyes are hardset, apprehensive and presumably judging as he towers over your lover. Still, he presents an open palm, knuckles teetering on white as they grasp onto Levi's.

“So, you’re the boyfriend?” Eren asks, eyebrows quirked on his forehead.

“You’re the ex?” Levi responds coolly.

You cringe. “We didn’t really—”

“Yup,” Eren answers in a clipped tone. They’re still shaking hands. “You taking care of my girl?”

You guffaw at the audacity. The air is tight. Armin’s brow furrows, his posture ready to intervene.

“Don’t really think she remembers much about you, ami. ‘Specially not when she’s screaming my n—”

(Friend.)

“Okay!” You clap your hands together. “Now that introductions are out of the way, let’s get a drink!”

Eren and Levi finally relinquish their clutch on each other’s hands, glaring intensely. Eren is the first to break, a mischievous smirk crossing his lips. He laughs loudly, slapping Levi on the back.

“Just fucking with you,” Eren clarifies, his grin toothy and youthful. “Nice to meet you, Pierre.”

“Eren!” Mikasa scolds.

He only continues to chuckle in response, pleased with his cheap shot. Levi, shockingly to you, does find humor in Eren’s mockery. 

“You too, Tanner.”

After a fit of laughter from your entire group, drinks are made and given to each person. You fall into an awkward bit of conversation, Levi and Petra entering and exiting between patrons that order at the bar. You recall fond memories with your old friends, the trouble you’d get into collectively, the good times, until you’re entirely comfortable and your personality sparkles to its fullest extent.

The night is fairly slow, only a regular customer coming and going here and there. Claude, of course, sits at his usual stool, sipping at his vodka. He observes silently, only nodding at you when you make eye contact. It’s sort of funny, how he’s become your favorite patron.

Once Claude pays his tab and grunts his farewell for the night, the bar is completely empty of customers, only leaving the four of you and Petra and Levi. Petra sneakily locks the door, flipping the sign to signal its closing, and makes herself a drink — vodka cranberry. The pair join you at the table you’ve occupied with your friends for the last couple of hours, and Petra animatedly enthralls herself into telling the story of how she met you.

It’s quite out of body, linking your past and present so physically like this. Levi gently brushes his fingertips against the tops of your thighs, focussed on the storytelling of Petra. Eren and Armin both choke on their laughter, Petra going into great detail of your drunken shenanigans. When she begins to tell the story of you and Levi, you lend your ear.

“They were both idiots, they were so obviously in love with one another!” She throws her hands in the air. “Levi was such an asshole too! She was literally an angel who fell out of the sky, actually just appeared one day, and she was such a gift to us all!”

“Oh stop it,” you laugh, hiding your face in his palms. “You’re going to make me blush!”

“We feel the same,” Armin says, smiling fondly over at you. “I guess that’s why we came halfway across the world to find her.”

Your expression softens, eyes brimming with unshed tears. The table falls into a comfortable silence, but the outpouring of affection is heard viscerally. 

How lucky you are to love and to be loved by the people surrounding you. 

“We should do this more,” you say, mostly to Eren, Armin, and Mikasa. “Plan visits.”

“Anywhere in particular in mind?” Mikasa asks, voice hopeful.

You disguise a frown as a laugh. “Here, wherever.”

“Home, maybe?” Armin joins.

The comfortability shifts to an unease. Levi reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. You feel his heartbeat in your palm.

“I don’t think so,” you answer somberly. “Not for a while, at least.”

“I mean, I don’t mind coming to France a few times a year,” Eren interjects, shrugging his shoulders. “Fuck, I might be convinced to move here myself.”

Mikasa speaks your name in a low murmur, “We still have time to persuade you. This is great, your life seems so great, but, don’t you miss it? Don’t you miss home?”

No, not really, just the three people seated in front of you. 

Petra clears her throat, apprehensively taking charge of the conversation, “I know this isn’t really my place, but coming from someone who did a kind of similar thing, I think you guys should let her make her own decisions. I’m sure this is hard enough on her.”

“I’ll say this, and sure, you can still try to change my mind,” you exhale. “But I made my choices a year ago. No, I’m not the same person I was, and yes it was so incredibly stupid of me to leave my entire life behind in the way that I did. I can’t bring myself to regret any of it though. I love you, all of you, but that part of me hasn’t changed. I’m still choosing to live my life on my own terms.

“Let me be stupid,” you continue passionately. “Let me make my mistakes. At the root of it all, I left because I couldn’t be myself. I couldn’t grow. I couldn’t change. And being here, I have changed so much. I’m still changing. You don’t have to understand, but all I ask is that you respect whatever choices I make going forward. I’ll do the same.”

Levi hums in approval, thumb smoothing over your knuckle. You’re grateful for his lack of interjection, glad that he is not the type of person who fights for all of the air in the room. He taught you that, you realize. Levi taught you that you don’t always have to be right, you just have to be you. 

“You’ll feel the same in two days?” Eren poses his statement as a question. “Then that’s it. We can just enjoy our time together, no pressure.”

Mikasa appears defeated, but accepts all at once. “I won’t stop trying to change your mind, but I get what you’re saying.”

Armin nods in agreement. “I understand, too.”

Levi clears his throat, unlinking his hand from yours. You look at him in subtle surprise as he wraps his fist around his glass, raising it above the table.

“Cheers,” Levi smiles gently, gazing into your eyes with such a love that you cannot comprehend. “To being human.”

Slowly, each glass rises from the mahogany grain, clinking together in the center. You watch, heartbroken and gleeful in the same line of feeling, grieving and celebrating. You follow suit, raising your own cup, bringing it to your lips and allowing the liquid to flow down your throat. 

It’s a complicated mess, all of this, your situation, but it is your mess, your life. 

You’re not a runaway anymore, you think ironically. You’re choosing to stay this time, to keep fighting for things you thought previously lost, people you’ve loved in different eras of your story.

You inhale the oxygen in the air to your fullest capacity, your lung swellings in your chest. You roll your tongue in your mouth, tasting the wine in your cup down to each individual note. You memorize the faces surrounding you, down to the smallest line in the corners of their eyes, their mouths. You take it all in, every detail, every smell, sound. 

Finally, you are completely and irrevocably present.

A ring tone breaks your line of thought, the perpetrator being Levi’s cell phone. He picks up the call, rolling his eyes and he murmurs an agreement to the other line, and holds his phone out on speaker.

“Hi Eren! Hi Armin! Hi Mikasa!” Hange’s voice crackles over the line, and you can see their perfect excitement in your mind’s eye. “Petra, Levi, why didn’t you tell me she had friends in town? This is betrayal! I should fire you lot!”

“Sorry, Hange!” Petra winces. “They’re here for a couple more days though!”

“Yeah, we’ll be back here tomorrow,” Armin offers sweetly. “We would really love to meet you!”

“Fuck that,” Hange gruffs. “Party at mine, tomorrow night. Levi, write off a case of beer from the inventory. Bring it, or you are actually fired.”

The ravenette sighs in annoyance. “Can’t you just buy your own?”

“How dare you suggest that?” Hange gasps dramatically. “After all you’ve done tonight? You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“I’ll make sure he does,” Petra giggles.

“I knew I made the right choice hiring you Petra, you sweet angel.” Hange practically growls your name, “You can be forgiven. Only because you’re cute and I love you.”

You sigh a mock of relief, “Thank god. Hange, I’m sorry, we’ll wrap it up.”

“Good, I’m kicking you out of my bar. You’re not allowed to have any more fun if I’m not there. It’s literally written in your job descriptions.”

“Got it,” Levi says. “Bye, Hange.”

“Wait, don’t hang up, I want to talk more to Mikasa and how cute Levi was as a kid—”

The silence that looms over the party is stifling. Simultaneously, you erupt into a laughter so loud it shakes the floorboards. A stray tear trails down your cheek, Levi’s thumb gently reaches across to swipe it off of your skin. You turn your head to face him, your breath knocked out of your lungs.

Levi gazes at you as if you hung the moon. He looks at you like he loves you, like he is positively in love with you. Your heart skips a beat, and you realize that he is only mirroring how you’re currently looking at him.

Your tear threatens to drop from the curve of Levi’s thumb as he brings it towards his lips. He presses a kiss to the tear, maintaining his adoring eye contact, and the liquid smears across his mouth. A promise, that’s what he’s doing — Levi will be there for everything. Your happy tears, your gut wrenching sobs, the good, the bad, the ugly. 

God, you love this man. You love who he influences you to be. You love how you’ve changed him as well, your grumpy neighbor turned sentimental lover.

“You think we can see the stars from here?” Armin asks once the joint laughter dies.

Levi shakes his head, “Not here. There’s a place not far from the bar you might be able to, though, if you guys want to see.”

“Yes!” The trio speak in unison. 

You have an inkling suspicion on where the place in question might be, so you stifle an excited grin and allow Levi to show your friends around his beautiful city.

-

“Uh, I don’t see any stars,” Eren scratches his temple, neck craned back as he stares into the night sky’s abyss.

“The moon’s too bright,” Armin nods. “They’re there though! If we look hard enough, we might see one!”

“But the water looks so cool!” Mikasa gasps. “You can see the moon perfectly in the river!”

How odd you would find concrete to be sentimental, but as you pace the river’s edge you can’t help but feel overtaken by fondness. Levi showed you this place all those months ago, before either of you had really come to terms with your feelings. You understand this place to be something made of magic, something wonderful and precious.

“Tourists don’t really know this spot,” you echo your memories of Levi’s words. “It’s too far from any landmarks, so it’s almost always empty like this.”

“I’m spoiling all of my hiding spots,” Levi sarcastically mumbles into your ear. “This was only supposed to be for your eyes, you know.”

“And I went and ruined it,” you whisper back. 

“I’ll tell you what your punishment is when we get home,” he chides, nipping his teeth at your earlobe.

You stifle a giggle. “A very nice and cute cuddle, right?”

“In your dreams,” he purrs. You slap his chest playfully.

Eren, Armin, and Mikasa wander off alongside Petra to do their star searching, leaving you and Levi at the river’s edge. You lean your head against Levi’s, watching in perfect serenity as the water’s tides flow southbound. The waves aren’t exactly calm tonight, given the moon’s fullness, and the tide swells to its fullest potential. The water laps against the concrete beneath the metal barrier, creating a symphony of white noise.

“You were really brave today,” Levi says suddenly. “You’ve always been brave, but you really amazed me.”

“I didn’t have a choice but to face them,” you respond. “I didn’t really want to run away, either. I thought about it though.”

“Oh yeah?” Levi hums. “What was your master plan?”

“Buy a train ticket,” you chuckle. “Pack all of my shit, give Jeremy to the old lady next to us. Write you a note, call Hange and Petra and apologize.”

“You wouldn’t have left me a note,” Levi snorts. “I would’ve known right away. Would’ve seen it in your eyes.”

“Really?” Your eyebrow raises. “I doubt that.”

“I would’ve,” he presses. “And I would’ve bought a train ticket too and would’ve gone wherever you went, whether you liked it or not.”

“I would’ve,” you repeat. “Liked it, I mean. I wouldn’t say it in the moment though.”

“Stubborn,” he clicks his tongue against his teeth. “You would’ve reduced us to homelessness and I wouldn’t even get appreciation for it?”

“Sounds about right,” you joke, gently pushing against his side. 

Levi blows a laugh from his nostrils. “You’re very lucky I’m as in love with you as I am, or else I might have bought a ticket to go in the entirely opposite direction.”

You feign a shocked gasp, “Traitor!”

“Fortunately for you,” his eyes sparkle in the warm moonlight as he shifts his face towards yours. “I would never.”

“Good,” you flutter your lashes. “Because I don’t think I could ever leave you behind.”

“Gross,” he smiles, scrunching his nose. 

“Agreed, this is too sappy,” you giggle. “Let’s talk about leaving each other again, that was super thrilling.”

Levi places a gentle, adoring peck to your cheek. “No, let’s not.”

“I’m glad I’m not leaving,” you state, wrapping your arms around Levi’s midriff.

“Me too.”

“This is my home,” you continue. “You, Petra, Hange. You’re my home.”

“Me too,” he repeats, softer and full of sentimentality.

“It’s nice though, having everyone back together again. I did miss my friends.”

“Then you’ll plan to see them again,” Levi says as if it is the simplest thing in the world. “They’ll visit, you heard them. You’ll call, you’ll text, write, whatever. You stay in touch.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do about my mom, though,” your teeth capture your bottom lip.

“One burnt bridge at a time, my love,” he kisses your temple. “You’ll figure it out, you have time.”

He parts from you then, turning his full torso and attention to you. You stand there unmoving, just staring at one another. It feels like you’re looking into a mirror. You know Levi feels the same.

When his right foot steps forward, so does yours. Closer and closer to each other’s bodies, you move so slow it seems like you’re in a dream. You can’t hear anything in the distance, only the rhythmic thumping in your ears that reminds you that you’re alive — you’re here, you’re standing in front of the man you love, in the city you fell in love in, the place you’re happy you moved to. 

His eyes search your face once you stop directly in front of him. Your smile wobbles, and so does his.

“So, if we could go anywhere in the world, where would you want to go?” Levi asks so softly, so gently. His palms cup your cheeks, his forehead pressed to yours.

Your hands cover his, your eyes flutter shut, “Anywhere?”

“Maybe even everywhere.”

You breathe out a laugh through your nose, tears slipping past your closed eyes, “That’s a lot of world to see.”

“Wherever you’re going,” Levi’s thumbs slide across your cheeks, collecting your tears. You gaze at him, breathing the air he exhales. “I’m going.”

You kiss him. For how long, you don’t know. You could kiss Levi for an eternity, if he’d let you. 

Levi would kiss you for just as long, if you’d let him.

Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.

Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.

A shield.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.

But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.

Not to eliminate.

To protect.

At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.

“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”

“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.

“Yet,” Tony shot back.

You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.

Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.

The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.

Bucky was on you instantly.

His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.

He was still in there.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.

Unless they posed a threat to you.

That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.

“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.

“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.

“No,” he replied flatly.

“Bucky—” you tried.

“The room is secure.”

“That’s not the—”

“She does not require assistance.”

“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”

Bucky didn’t move.

You exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”

That got his attention.

“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”

His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—

“…Understood.”

Progress.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.

Just a moment of quiet.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.

And then you heard it—his breath hitching.

A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.

You blinked sleepily, looking up.

Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.

His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.

“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.

You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”

His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.

He just buried his face in your neck and held on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.

“I know,” he admitted, voice rough.

“You threw Steve like a ragdoll.”

“…Yeah.”

“…Kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

A laugh. Quiet, but real.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

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