The two-tone ’78 Chevy sat wheezing on the shoulder, its hood punched open like a yawn in the late-afternoon heat. Beyond the ribbon of cracked asphalt, cane fields lay flat and humming, cicadas sawing at the silence. Bucky leaned both forearms on the grill, hair sticking to the sweat on his neck, and offered a lopsided grin that only made things worse.

“Relax, Stevie. Tank’s empty, not the end of the world.”

Steve slammed the driver’s door harder than he meant to; the truck shuddered like it might expire altogether. “Not the end of the world? We’re forty miles from a town anyone’s heard of, it’s a hundred degrees, we got eight dollars between us, and you didn’t think to check the gauge?”

Bucky shrugged, easy as a breeze. “Gauge is busted, remember? Besides, you were the one drivin’ last—”

“Because you were too busy sweet-talking that waitress to keep your eyes on the road.”

“Tyra?” Bucky’s smile widened. “She gave us pie for free.”

“Great. Maybe we can burn it for fuel.” Steve dragged a hand through his hair and squinted up the road; nothing but heat rippling off the tarmac. “We need a plan.”

“We got one,” Bucky said, straightening. He rapped the hood twice, like patting a tired mule. “We walk. Someone around here’s gotta sell gas. Maybe even trade a couple hours’ work for a full can.”

“Or they’ll run us off with an axe.” Steve’s voice softened despite himself; frustration never stuck to Bucky for long. “This was supposed to be different, Buck. Thought we’d find steady work in New Orleans—”

“And we did, for a minute. Things change.” Bucky’s gaze drifted past Steve to the hazy edge where pasture met cypress and moss. “Look, the road forks up ahead—left’s more fields, right’s water. Bayou country. People out here always need strong backs.” He slung their one duffel over his shoulder. “C’mon. Sun’s not gettin’ any kinder.”

Steve glanced at the truck and sighed. “You really think we’ll ‘figure it out’?”

“We always do.” Bucky’s grin turned conspiratorial, the one that had gotten them into brawls and out of worse. “Besides, you love savin’ my ass. Gives you purpose.”

“One of these days,” Steve muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth, “your luck’s gonna run out.”

“Then I’ll borrow yours.” Bucky tipped an imaginary hat and started down the asphalt, boots crunching gravel. After a beat, Steve fell in beside him.

The sun slid lower, painting the sky blood-orange. Somewhere to the east, a smear of water reflected the light. The air smelled of cane juice and distant brackish rot.

Eventually dusk bled over the cane fields in long bruised stripes, the sky turning molasses-thick and purple. For close to an hour, the only sounds had been boot soles on gravel and Bucky’s running commentary; little jokes about gator crossings, predictions of cold beer “just past the next bend,” memories of music drifting out of French Quarter bars.

He talked as if words could keep the darkness from settling on their shoulders.

Steve let most of it wash past. Sweat glued the back of his shirt to his spine; the sun had scalded the bridge of his nose raw. Every mile without a plan felt heavier than the duffel bumping against his hip. When Bucky announced, for the fourth time, that “things always work out,” Steve only answered with a quiet grunt and kept walking.

Then the road took a shallow dip and opened onto a low rise of pasture, and there it was—a farmhouse half-hidden behind live oaks, porch lights already flickering on like fireflies. Off to the right, a tin-roofed barn crouched at the edge of a bayou inlet, its stilts mirrored in dark water. Smoke drifted from a chimney in a lazy ribbon; somewhere close, a cow lowed.

Bucky stopped dead and threw out an arm as if presenting a miracle. “Told you, pal. Luck’s a lady tonight.”

Steve studied the place; fencing mended in patches, tractor parked beneath a tarp, rows of tomatoes staked with twine. Not prosperous, but lived-in, cared for. “Or it’s someone’s home, and we’re about to get run off for trespassing.”

“Won’t know ’til we ask.” Bucky’s grin caught the last shred of light, turning his eyes almost silver. “Guy like you knocks on a door, says ‘Sir, evening, we’re lookin’ for some shelter for the night,’ who’s gonna say no?”

“Plenty of people,” Steve muttered, but the fight had drained out of his voice. He glanced back the way they’d come, miles of empty asphalt slowly disappearing into night, and exhaled. “All right. We try.”

They left the road, boots whispering through knee-high grass that smelled of sun-baked sugarcane and river mud. A chorus of frogs started up, rhythmic and lewd, as if cheering them on. When they reached the split-rail fence, Bucky vaulted it in one easy swing; Steve followed, slower, feeling the rail creak beneath his weight.

Closer now, Steve noticed the details Bucky’s optimism had missed; shutters needing paint, porch boards warping at the ends, the faint uneven beat of a generator somewhere out back. A place run by sweat and necessity, not spare cash.

Bucky rolled his shoulders like a man warming up for a dance. “Let me talk first. I’ll soften ’em up.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “And if sweet talk doesn’t cover room and board?”

“Then you flex those big-boy muscles and show ’em we’re worth feeding.” He winked.

Steve looked past him to the porch. A screen door stood ajar, warm lamplight spilling through, and inside he caught a glimpse of movement—someone crossing a threshold.

“Yeah,” Steve said finally. “Could be worse.”

Behind them the sun sank, and the bayou lapped soft against the stilts, as if tasting something new in the twilight air.

The screen door slapped once against its frame and stayed half-open, lamplight spilling across warped porch boards. A man stepped out. A raw-boned figure in dungarees and a sweat-stained work shirt, the brim of his straw hat casting his face in shadow. The pump shotgun balanced in the crook of his arm said everything his tight mouth didn’t.

Bucky lifted one hand, palm out, easy smile already in place. “Evenin’, sir. Hate to trouble you—”

“You’re already doin’ it,” the man cut in, voice dry as crushed shell. His eyes flicked from Bucky’s scuffed boots to the duffel on Steve’s shoulder, then back. “Road’s that way if you’re passin’ through.”

Bucky chuckled like they were all sharing a joke. “Wish we were. Truck ran dry few miles back. Just lookin’ for a spot of ground to lay our heads, maybe point us toward gas come mornin’.”

Mr. Moreau, Steve caught the stitched name on a feed-store cap hooked to a nail by the door, didn’t blink. “Folks who show up empty always want more’n a night’s sleep.”

“Not us,” Bucky said, still smooth but softer now, reading the room. “Couple hours on a cot, we’re golden.”

Steve stepped forward, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering it. “Sir, we don’t expect charity. We grew up working yards and warehouses in Brooklyn. Let us put in a day’s labour; repair fence, muck stalls, whatever needs doing, in exchange for a meal and a corner of your barn. Tomorrow we’ll walk to town, buy fuel, and be gone.”

The old man studied Steve’s hand like it might bite. Up close Steve could see the lines etched deep around his mouth, the cautious flare of his nostrils, the calculation behind the suspicion. When he finally spoke, he addressed Steve, not Bucky.

“You fix fence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Know your way around a baler?”

“Can learn quick.”

Moreau’s gaze shifted to Bucky. “And you?”

Bucky’s grin turned boyish. “I swing a hammer straight and don’t complain about blisters.”

A long moment of silence stretched, filled only by the bayou’s night chorus and the low thrum of a diesel generator. Then Moreau nodded once, sharp. “Barn’s there.” He jerked his chin past a line of pecan trees toward the weather-silvered structure on stilts. “You’ll sleep in the loft—floor’s solid. I’ll send my girl with sheets, pillows and supper.”

He paused, shotgun still resting easy but present. “Sunup, you start mending the northeast fence line where the posts lean. No smoking, no liquor, no wandering past the pens after dark. Gators like the warm water.”

Steve’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Bucky tipped two fingers from his brow. “Much obliged, Mr. Moreau.”

Steve offered his hand again; Mr. Moreau finally considered the gesture, then shook once. It was firm and testing. “Careful, bayou’s mean at night, and I ain’t friendlier.”

They watched him retreat across the porch, boards groaning under deliberate steps. Inside, a screen door banged and lamplight shifted, framing a second silhouette for half a heartbeat, before it disappeared deeper into the house.

As they crossed the yard the porch lights dimmed, leaving only moon-slivered clouds and the distant lantern glow of the barn.

Bucky exhaled a satisfied breath. “See? Luck.”

Steve shot him a side-eye that was half exhaustion, but reluctant amusement won out. “Your kind of luck usually gets me shot at.”

“Guy didn’t even chamber a round. We’re fine,” Bucky said, swinging the duffel like a lunch pail. “C’mon, punk. We got hay to fluff before the linens arrive. Wouldn’t want the lady of the house thinking we’re ungrateful.”

They crossed the yard toward the barn as cicadas struck up their night chorus, and behind them the bayou breathed thick water-scent into the dark.

The barn’s lower doors groaned shut behind them, sealing in the smell of hay dust, old saddle soap, and the faint sweetness of cane. A thick ladder hugged one beam; Bucky scrambled up first, boots thudding on the rungs. When he pushed through the loft hatch he let out a low whistle that echoed off the rafters.

“Well, hell—thought we’d be beddin’ down with the cows.”

Steve followed, palms rough against the rails. The space wasn’t the raw hayloft he’d pictured. Slanted cedar walls glowed amber in the lamplight, and a faded striped couch sat center stage, its cushions sun-soft. A trunk doubled as a coffee table; books leaned drunkenly on handmade shelves beside a beaten-brass telescope aimed through a cut-out window toward the purpling sky.

Bucky flopped onto the couch, springs sighing. “Damn. Better than half the motels we’ve stayed in.” He stretched, hands locked behind his head, boots still on. “Called it—Barnes luck.”

Steve shot him a look. “Boots off. Don’t wreck the place five minutes in.”

“Boots are fine.” Bucky toed one heel against the other anyway, dropping them beside the trunk. Then he tipped his head back, scanning rafters strung with paper stars and a single model airplane dangling by fishing line. “Knew Moreau wasn’t as mean as he let on.”

“Or this belongs to his daughter, and he’ll tan you for putting your filthy socks on her couch.” Steve drifted to the telescope, brushing a thumb over its brass barrel.

In the corner sat a small writing desk cluttered with jars of dried flowers, a stub of vanilla candle, and a horsehair brush still catching the lamplight in its bristles. Feminine touches, but nothing frilly enough to feel staged.

He glanced at Bucky, who had already settled deeper, arms splayed like a victorious cat. “We’ve got one night of goodwill, Buck. Tomorrow we work till our backs snap, and then we’re still broke. Gas isn’t growin’ in that south field.”

Bucky closed one eye, pretending to sight something on the ceiling. “You worry too loud. We fix the fence, maybe fix the truck while we’re at it—they toss us a few extra dollars, or a jerry can. Folks out here respect elbow grease.”

“Respect doesn’t fuel an engine.”

“Neither does frettin’. You’ll give yourself ulcers before thirty.” He rolled to his side, propping his head on a bent elbow. “Come on, take a seat. Feel this cushion. It’s practically luxury.”

Steve ignored the invitation and set his eye to the telescope. Through dusty glass he caught a sliver of bayou, water black and mirror still, framed by cypress knees. Fireflies sparked like stray embers above the reeds. Something about the view stirred a bone-deep ache for order he couldn’t name.

Behind him Bucky huffed. “You’re really gonna stand there brooding? You’ll ruin my mood, Rogers.”

“You have a mood?”

“Best mood this side of the South, if you’d let it breathe.” The couch creaked again; Bucky’s feet thumped the floor. “Fine. I’ll do a full inspection. Make sure no ghosts under the bed.” He padded toward a curtained alcove where a narrow mattress crouched beneath more quilts.

Steve lowered the telescope. “Careful.”

“Relax, I’m just checking.” Bucky flipped back the curtain, paused, then called over his shoulder, softer, “There’s a vase of fresh magnolias in here, Steve.”

Steve nodded once. “All the more reason to treat this place right.” He dragged fingers through hair damp with sweat and twilight humidity. “Tomorrow, we fence. After that, we find a way to buy gas.”

Bucky chuckled, but it came out tired. “Tomorrow, we survive. Tonight, we sleep on feather cushions like kings.”

A scrape sounded below, the barn’s side door opening. Lantern light bobbed on the ladder rungs. Steve stepped forward, heart ticking faster despite himself, as he caught the soft shuffle of feet heading toward the loft.

“Guess Mr. Moreau’s ‘girl’ brought supper,” Bucky murmured, straightening his shirt, suddenly attentive.

Steve’s pulse thudded, nerves tight for reasons he couldn’t quite blame on hunger. He smoothed his face into politeness.

“Remember,” he muttered, “boots off the furniture. And be respectful.”

Bucky grinned, eyes flicking to the ladder hatch where a warm glow now haloed the first edge of a tray. “No promises, pal.”

Boot-steps creaked up the ladder—slow, sure.You appeared in the hatch with twilight at your back, balancing a tin tray loaded with two enamel plates, a fat mason jar of water beaded with condensation, pillows and neatly folded sheets tucked beneath one arm.

“Evenin’, boys.”

Bucky was on his feet before the last syllable hit the rafters, grin flashing like he’d been rehearsing it. “Evenin’.” He slid a hand under the tray, thumb brushing the outside of your wrist as he relieved you of the weight. “Smells incredible. You must be the angel Mr Moreau mentioned. I’m James Bucky Barnes, and the tall, worried lookin’ fella is Steve Rogers.”

You arched a brow, amused, “Angel, huh?” The word tasted ironic coming from you, syrupy drawl cut with something sharper. “More like delivery girl. Pillow-fairy if you’re polite.”

You set the pillows on the couch arm, smoothed the patterned sheet across the cushions. Up close, sweat-shine on their skin smelled of road dust and cut cane.

Steve cleared his throat, polite even with his sleeves rolled and collar limp. “Thank you for supper… and the linens, ma’am. This your cookin’?”

“Jambalaya,” you hummed, rolling the word slow. “Daddy says it keeps visitors honest—pepper’ll burn lies off a tongue. Hope you’re hungry.”

Bucky inhaled over the plate, eyes closing like a man at church. “Starvin’, darlin’.” Then, glancing around the loft, “Guess this is your spot? Kinda figured we’d be burrowin’ into hay bales.”

Your shrug said maybe tomorrow. “Daddy doesn’t usually let strangers sleep on his land, much less up here.” You perched on the trunk, unbothered by their looming height. “Guess he saw somethin’ useful in you.”

Steve straightened, earnest. “We appreciate it. If you’d rather we sleep downstairs—”

“Relax, Captain Courtesy,” Bucky cut in, throwing him a side-eye. “We’ll keep our boots off the sofa, promise.” To you, softer, “You’re welcome to sit a spell, if you’re not busy. Share a plate. Tell us the house rules.”

The offer hung there with the dust motes, cicadas whirring through the slats, night air thick with sweetgrass and something darker underneath. You let it linger, watching how Steve’s jaw flexed when Bucky talked, how Bucky’s fingertips tapped the tray like he had more to say with them.

Finally you leaned back on your palms, eyes flicking from one to the other. “House rule’s simple; earn your keep. Fence line’s a mess, cows need milkin’, and Daddy hates slackers.” A slow smile uncurled. “But I might come up later, see if the telescope’s still pointed true.”

Bucky’s grin sharpened. “We’ll set it for the moon.”

You rose, brushing hay dust from your jeans. “Eat while it’s hot. I’ll fetch y’all at first light.” At the hatch you paused, tilting your head just enough that lamp-glow kissed the line of your neck. “Sweet dreams, city boys.”

Boot-steps receded, leaving the scent of spices and warm wood in your wake. Bucky let out a low whistle, passing Steve a plate. “Tell me again why you thought today was a bad day.”

Steve didn’t answer. He just watched the ladder, heart knocking once, twice—like somebody’d tapped a match to kindling he’d forgotten was there.

The wire rasped through worn leather gloves as Steve cinched a new section taut against the post.

Morning heat hadn’t hit full force yet; the light was soft, hazy, dust motes floating like lazy sparks each time the staple met wood. Across from him, Bucky should’ve been driving the next nail, but his hammer paused halfway, blue eyes angled toward the paddock.

You were out by the dairy pen, skirt hem stopping at mid-thigh, knees braced to the churn of a milk pail. Every now and then you tipped the tin to pour a pale ribbon into the waiting bucket, the motion flexing your thighs.

Bucky’s lips pulled into a slow grin. “Tell me that view doesn’t make fence-mending a religious experience.”

“Eyes on the post,” Steve muttered, tamping the staple flat. “We finish the south line before the sun’s overhead.”

“M’hands are workin’, my eyes are multitaskin’.” Bucky leaned, deliberately stretching the thick cotton of his vest. “Can you blame me? Those legs could power a tractor.”

Steve followed the angle of Bucky’s gaze despite himself—caught the way morning light traced the curve of your calf, the slip of skin above a worn boot. He cleared his throat and yanked the next length of wire. “Point is, don’t stare. It’s rude. And we told Mr Moreau we’d act right.”

“Act right?” Bucky’s laugh was a slow roll, low enough only Steve heard. “Saint Rogers over here pretending he didn’t spend the last five minutes studying her ass like it’s a map to salvation.”

Steve’s jaw ticked. “I was making sure she wasn’t lifting more than she should.”

“She’s strong. Didn’t you see her lop that bale? Girl could throw you through the barn door if she tried.” Bucky’s hammer finally met the post—thunk, thunk—driving the nail, though his gaze drifted again to the milking stall. “Bet she smells like vanilla and brown sugar up close.”

“For God’s sake—”

“You’re the one sniffing the air like a bloodhound.” Bucky shot him a sideways grin. “Relax your righteous feathers, punk. We fix the fence, we earn lunch, maybe catch her eye after chores. No harm in looking.”

Steve said nothing, but his ears burned hotter than the sun. The fence gave a satisfied hum under tension. Beyond it, you straightened, wiping the back of your wrist over your brow before hoisting the sloshing bucket to your hip. The movement pulled your skirt higher; both men went still, identical pulses jumping in their throats.

You glanced over, caught them, and offered a small smile before turning toward the barn.

Bucky’s voice dropped, sincere in spite of the teasing. “That smile’s an invitation, pal.”

Steve set his hammer on the top rail, exhaling hard. “It’s a warning.”

“Same thing, if you read it right.” Bucky twirled the hammer once, then thunked it into his belt. “Come on, we finish quick, we wash up, maybe wander by the paddock—”

Steve lifted the next coil of wire, but a reluctant curve tugged his mouth. “Finish quick and it better be neat. If her dad sees a sloppy fence, we’re gone before sunset.”

Bucky nailed the last staple with a flourish, dusted his palms, and followed Steve down the line.

The sun hung lazy-low, just warm enough to slick skin but not yet cruel. Fence posts were set, woodchips scattered like confetti around the chopping stump where Steve swung the maul in steady, clean arcs. A few yards off, Bucky rolled hay bales into neat ranks, muscles jumping under sweat-dark cotton.

Bootheels tapped along the packed lane. You appeared with a mason jar in each hand, glass sweating so hard it dripped onto your bare thighs. The hem of your skirt rode high; your cropped tank left a sliver of midriff glowing. You stopped at the paddock rail, hips cocked, watching them work like it was your own private picture show.

“Y’all look parched.”

Bucky straightened first, forearm wiping grit from his brow. One lazy grin and he was sauntering over to you. “Angel, you’re a vision.”

“Uh-huh.” You handed a glass to Steve, eyes glittering. “Don’t spill it.”

Steve set the maul aside, palms broad and pink from the handle. He accepted the lemonade with a murmured thanks—voice gone rough in a way that wasn’t from thirst alone. “Smells like lemons and cane sugar. You make it yourself?”

“Fresh this mornin’. Daddy swears by it.” You sipped from Bucky’s jar, lips glistening, then handed it to him. His gaze tracked the curve of your mouth like a compass needle. “Saw you two knockin’ that fence line out fast. Figured a reward was fair.”

Bucky tipped the drink, throat working. “Could use more rewards just like this.” His eyes drifted down, unapologetic. “Gotta say, the scenery makes hard labour downright spiritual.”

Steve cleared his throat, shooting Bucky a side-long glance that begged for decorum. He turned to you instead. “Is it just you and Mr. Moreau runnin’ all of this?”

“Daddy’s got three hands from town come by Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays.” You shrugged, playful. “So he was mighty generous lettin’ you bunk the loft—already plenty of help around here.”

“Generous man,” Bucky echoed, elbow nudging Steve. “Maybe we earn a longer stay. Few more fences need mendin’? Any chores need extra muscle?”

Steve flicked him a warning, but you only smiled, amused at the jockeying. “We’ll see what Daddy thinks.”

Bucky leaned on the rail, voice dropping. “What about what you think?”

“I think city boys burn quick in bayou heat,” you teased, running a finger along the condensation of Steve’s jar. “But if you don’t mind a little sweat, maybe stick around. Could be fun.”

Steve’s ears coloured; Bucky’s grin stretched wolf-wide.

You tapped the rim of Steve’s glass, then Bucky’s. “Finish up. Lunch at the house in twenty. Don’t keep me waitin’.”

With that you turned, skirt swishing just enough to make both men swallow. The backs of your thighs glowed in the noon light as you sauntered toward the barn, humming something slow and sweet.

Bucky watched every step. “One more day, Stevie. Let’s charm the old man, top off the tank, see where the night goes.”

Steve drained the lemonade, eyes still on your retreating sway. “We charm him by working, Buck. And by keeping our mouths clean.”

“Hands might not stay that way, though,” Bucky muttered, rolling his shoulders before grabbing another bale.

Steve hefted the maul again, but there was a new looseness in the set of his jaw, in the way he glanced toward the barn door you’d slipped through.

The dining room smelled of fried catfish and sweet corn fritters—hot oil, cracked pepper, a shimmer of cayenne that clung to the air like summer sweat. Cedar-plank walls held the noon light soft and amber; a battered ceiling fan turned slow overhead, pushing the warm scent around.

At the rough-hewn table sat Mr. Moreau, back straight, elbows planted wide like fence-posts. His gaze pinned both men while your small radio whispered an old Fats Domino tune from the sideboard.

You settled first, bare calf crossing over knee, skirt riding high so a ribbon of thigh caught the fan breeze. No fuss, no apology, just a lazy slide into the chair to the left of the old man. Bucky and Steve perched side by side on the long bench, shoulders too broad for the narrow space.

Mr. Moreau cleared his throat. “So.”

Bucky flashed an easy grin. “Sir, we wanted to thank you for lunch—and for the loft last night. Fence is tight, wood’s stacked, goats’re lookin’ downright smug. Thought maybe we could hang on a bit. Give you a few more solid days’ work.”

Steve nodded, posture crisp. “We don’t expect pay. Just room, board, maybe a little gas when all’s done.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed, slow as an eclipse. “Men who drift in askin’ favours are usually runnin’ from somethin’.”

Bucky’s grin softened, but didn’t falter. “Only thing we’re runnin’ from is bad luck and an empty tank.” He lifted a fried fillet in salute. “Figured we’d trade sweat for supper till fortune turns.”

Mr. Moreau grunted, slicing into cornbread. “Luck’s earned, not begged.”

Across the table, you leaned your chin into one hand, nails tracing idle circles on the lacquer. “Daddy.” The single word mild and amused. “Fence never looked that straight. Saved you two of the town boys this morning.”

Bucky shot you a grateful wink. Steve took a careful sip of sweet tea—eyes flicking from the old man to the curve of your mouth as you licked a crumb of batter from your bottom lip.

“Could use them on the west pasture, too,” you added, voice syrup-slow. “Boards are rotten through. And your back’s been talkin’.”

The old man’s jaw ticked, like admitting pain was heresy. “Mmph.”

You shrugged, turning your attention to the drifters. “Reckon they stay through the weekend, that job’s done.”

Bucky’s boot nudged Steve’s knee under the table. He straightened. “We’ll have that pasture tight by Sunday. After that, we’ll roll on, no trouble.”

Mr. Moreau studied them, then you. “Ain’t your habit takin’ strays, girl.”

You tucked a damp piece of hair behind your ear. “Maybe they’re useful strays.”

Bucky coughed a laugh; Steve nudged him this time—behave. But you’d already hooked a foot beneath Bucky’s boot-lace, giving it a slow teasing drag. His breath caught, just a fraction, before he masked it with another bite of fish.

Steve felt the shift, the invisible pull of your attention, and he flushed hotter than cayenne pepper. You shifted again, thigh brushing his denim under the table’s edge, bare skin against coarse cotton for half a heartbeat, then you broke contact, like a cat pretending no mischief at all.

Mr. Moreau missed all of it, “My daughter’s comfort counts first.”

Bucky leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping to a respectful drawl. “Sir, we’d sooner limp to Baton Rouge barefoot than disrespect your home or your daughter.”

You tipped your glass, amber iced tea shining against your mouth. “Told you they got manners, Daddy.”

Steve cleared his throat, earnest. “Mr. Moreau, we may have never grown up around farms… but work here feels right. Let us finish what we started.”

Silence stretched, thick as cane syrup. A fly buzzed the rim of the pepper sauce; the fan creaked overhead. Your toes traced a line up the inside seam of Bucky’s jeans, making him swallow hard. Steve’s knee jostled under your hand, and his fork stalled halfway to his mouth.

Finally Mr. Moreau set down his cornbread. “Two more days. West pasture, chicken-wire pen, then you go. I’ll spare a gallon for your tank—no more.”

Relief flickered across Steve’s face. Bucky grinned outright. “Much obliged, sir.”

“See it done proper.” He pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping. “I got hogs to check.” Then he turned to Steve, stern but not unkind, “You strike me as a man who knows straight from crooked. Keep him,”—a nod at Bucky—“on the square.”

“Yes, sir.”

The old man left through the side door, screen slapping shut. The room exhaled, something easier curling in the hot air.

Bucky looked at you, mischief lighting every line of him. “Appreciate the save, darlin’. Didn’t think we’d pass inspection.”

You rose, gathering plates, the hem of your skirt lifting as you reached across Steve’s shoulder—letting him feel the soft brush of your hip before you eased away. “Didn’t do it for free. Fence straight Sunday means I pick my payment.”

Steve tried for steady. “And what payment is that?”

You stacked dishes on the sideboard, glancing back over your shoulder. “Surprise me.” Then, softer, to Bucky, “And y’all behave. Daddy’s got a rifle on the porch.”

Bucky’s grin widened. “Lucky for us I’m faster than buckshot.”

“We’ll see.” You disappeared through the kitchen arch, leaving the faint scent of honeysuckle lotion in your wake.

Bucky exhaled a slow whistle. “Think she likes us.”

Steve dragged a hand down his face. “She’s teasing, Buck.”

“Teasing’s just foreplay writ large.” He elbowed Steve, leaning in. “Did you feel her on your leg? Damn near thought my heart’d stop.”

Steve pushed his chair out, cheeks flushed. “Focus, please.”

Sun-bleached boards thudded under their boots as they stepped off the porch. The cicadas had switched to their slow, drowsy rhythm—a back-of-the-throat drone.

Steve kept his voice low but firm. “We’ve got a good thing here, Buck. Two days’ work, a gallon for the Chevy, and a place that doesn’t smell like diesel. Don’t screw it up.”

Bucky shot him a sideways look, half-smile already fading. “Why’s it always ‘don’t screw it up,’ Stevie? Maybe let a man enjoy the view.”

“We promised Mr Moreau we’d behave,” Steve’s glare held steady. “You act like you’ve never seen a pretty girl before.”

“I promised to respect his house. Didn’t promise to walk around blind.” Bucky kicked a pebble off the path, hands sliding into his back pockets. “Besides, she’s not just ‘a pretty girl.’ She’s—” He paused, searching for the right weight of the word. “—a woman. Curves like a prayer and a mouth that could talk the devil into church.”

Steve stopped, jaw tight. “You’re thinking with your dick.”

“Guilty as charged.” Bucky’s grin flickered, then fell when Steve didn’t soften. “Come on, I’m not gonna leap on her in broad daylight. I can look.”

“Looking becomes touching, and touching gets us tossed back on the road.” Steve’s shoulders slumped with the day’s work, but the edge in his voice stayed sharp. “I’m tired, Buck. One calm weekend—that’s all I’m asking.”

Bucky dragged a hand through sweat-stiff hair, irritation creeping in. “You ever get tired of being the saint? Ever just… feel something and want it?”

“I’m not dead.” Steve’s gaze drifted back toward the house where you were in, then snapped back. “I just know consequences.”

Silence yawned between them, warm and weighty. A dragonfly skated past, wings catching the sunlight.

Finally Bucky exhaled, palms up in surrender. “Fine. No dirty business. Cross my heart. Happy?”

“I’ll be happy when we’re rolling down the highway with a full tank.” Steve started walking again. “Fence first. Daydreams later.”

Bucky fell in beside him, muttering, “Still gonna daydream,” but the bite had gone out of his voice. He cast one last glance at the house, wondering if you were watching from a window, then squared his shoulders and matched Steve’s pace.

Night pressed soft against the loft, all damp cricket-song and the slow pump of the bayou. Bucky slept hard—one arm flung over his face, snore sawing in and out like a loose screen door. Steve lay staring at the beams, sweat cooling on his chest, counting every creak of the rafters until the numbers tangled.

Finally he slid upright, feet finding the quilt-cool boards. Maybe a glance through the telescope would bleed off the restlessness. Just stargazing, nothing more.

The brass tube stood ready at the cut-out window, still flecked with dust from the afternoon. Steve angled it toward the water first—silver ripple, cypress knees shining. Pretty, but the hush didn’t fill him. The lens drifted past the dark smear of the barn roof, climbed to the house on the slight rise. One window glowed warm at the top floor—the only light left awake.

Curiosity, he told himself. He dialed the focus with thumb and forefinger, glass settling on the open curtains.

You moved into frame like a slow exhale, backlit amber. Bare shoulders, skin glinting where the lamp touched. A thin bra—lace maybe, pale against the line of your ribs. Matching panties sat low on your hips, soft fabric hugging the curve he’d pretended not to follow all day.

Steve’s breath stalled. He should pivot away, point the scope at the moon. Instead he watched, heartbeat thudding dull over the swamp’s night chorus.

You worked lotion over your body, hands moving over your chest, throat lengthening with each drag. Heat pooled low in Steve’s stomach, spreading tight. His underwear grew snug; he shifted, ashamed and hungry all at once.

Then your hands slid behind your back. A tiny hitch of shoulders, a flick—straps loosened, the bra easing forward before you peeled it off, slow as a secret. Breasts cupped the lamplight, perfect weight swaying when you dropped the scrap of lace onto a chair.

Steve’s palm tightened on the telescope barrel. He wanted to look away, give you privacy, keep the promise he’d made to himself and to Bucky, but he couldn’t. Not while you turned, adjusting the lamp wick, the soft underside of your breast catching the glow. His breath fogged the eyepiece; he wiped it with a trembling thumb and stared harder, pulse hammering through every inch of him.

Below, Bucky’s snore cut off, shifted, resumed. Steve froze, spine prickling, but the other man didn’t stir. Only the wind moved, pushing thick bayou air over Steve’s damp skin, over the ache pressing urgent inside his shorts.

In the window you stretched, arms above your head, nipples tightening against the night chill. A small satisfied sigh seemed to carry across the dark, Steve almost felt it on his tongue.

“God,” he whispered, a prayer or a curse, he wasn’t sure.

You turned then, facing the glass fully, eyes half-lidded, unaware of the distant drifter watching like a sinner. Steve’s heartbeat slammed. One more second, he promised himself, just one—

A floorboard groaned behind him. He jerked away from the telescope, heat flushing his face even in the dark. Bucky muttered, rolled, settled again. Steve pressed knuckles to his mouth, breathing through the thunder in his chest.

He lay back down but sleep didn’t come. The image of you; smooth skin, bare and unhurried, glowed behind his eyes, bright as the wildfire heat pooling low, refusing to let him go.

A pulse of want rolled through Steve so sharp it bordered on pain. He imagined stepping into that warm-lit room, sliding behind you, palms cupping the soft weight he could only see now in glass and reflections—thumbs circling your nipples until your breath stuttered.

He could almost feel the heat of your skin against his tongue, taste salt and honeysuckle lotion as he mouthed the tip and heard you sigh his name. The thought hit low and thick, tugging at him until his boxer briefs felt two sizes too small.

He tried to drag the vision back to something polite, tried to picture himself knocking on the door, asking if you needed help with chores, but the reel kept slipping; his hands spreading over your hips, his mouth trailing down to suck at the lush underside fo your breast where the lamplight painted shadows.

He wanted to trace every curve, let you arch beneath the weight of his body, feel you shiver when his tongue flicked over pebbled skin. The wanting rode him hard, ruthless, until he clenched his fists against the quilt and swallowed a groan, knowing the taste of you would haunt his tongue long after dawn.

Crickets sang louder, the bayou hummed, and Steve counted the beats until dawn, pulse trapped in the fist of his own wanting.

The next day the sun was high but merciful, tucked behind a gauzy veil of clouds. Steve worked the auger alone, shoulders bunching with every crank. He’d barely spoken since dawn, jaw tight enough to creak.

Across the pasture, you crossed the grass with a slow swing in your hips, skirt flirting just above your knees. Bucky spotted you first; the post-hole digger hit the dirt with a muffled thud. His grin arrived a heartbeat later.

“Afternoon, darlin’. Come to supervise?”

You stopped beside him, fingers trailing the rail he’d just set. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Your friend over there”—you nodded toward Steve—“can hardly look me in the eye without blushin’.”

Bucky followed your gaze. Steve never looked up, but his strokes came faster, as if he felt the attention. “That’s Stevie for ya. Spends half his life polishing a halo no one asked him to wear.”

“And you?” Your tone dropped silk-low. “What do you polish, hotshot?”

“Depends who’s askin’.” He leaned on the fence, sweat darkening the vee of his T-shirt. “If he’s the saint, guess that makes me the sinner.”

You hummed approval, thumb idly circling the rough grain near his wrist. “Sinner’s a big word.”

“Earned it.” His gaze dragged the length of your legs, unapologetic. “Figure sin’s just pleasure folks’re too scared to call by its proper name.”

“That right?” You shifted closer, the scent of hay and skin mingling. “Tell me a sin, then. One you’d commit if no one was watchin’.”

Bucky’s smile dipped wicked. “Start with a kiss, slow and sweet, right where that pulse flickers.” He trailed a knuckle just shy of the soft hollow beneath your ear. “Maybe taste that sheen of sweat on your throat—follow it down, see where it gathers.”

Your breath caught, but you kept your poise, folding arms under your breasts so they lifted, tempting. “Bold talk for a man on probation.”

“Two days’ probation.” His eyes sparkled. “Could make ’em holy or make ’em worth repentin’.”

You glanced back at Steve; he’d stopped, one hand braced on the auger, head dipped like a man praying for composure. A smirk curved your mouth. “Your boy looks ready to burst.”

“My boy’s got eyes.” Bucky lowered his voice. “Bet he’s thinkin’ the same dirty things. Just afraid to name ’em.” He leaned in until his lips almost grazed your ear. “Maybe we should show him sin ain’t so scary.”

Heat spiraled low in your belly at the promise. You slid a fingertip over the tops of Bucky’s work gloves, tracing the crease where leather met skin. “Maybe I like watching men wrestle temptation. Makes the reward sweeter when they finally give in.”

“Careful, angel. I’m a simple man once the rules come off.”

“So take ’em off,” you whispered, stepping back with a tease-slow smile. “When the work’s done.”

Your gaze drifted past the fenceline, toward the shimmer of water where the bayou curved like a dark ribbon through cane and cypress. Bucky’s eyes followed, hungry for whatever had your attention—even hungrier when they slid back to him.

“Pretty out there at night,” you murmured, thumb idly tracing the crease of his glove again. “Moon hangs low, fireflies float so thick it looks like somebody scattered diamonds over the water.”

“Sounds downright romantic,” he said, voice roughening on the word. His fingers twitched as if they’d rather close around your waist than the post-hole digger. “You a fan of romantic things, sweetheart?”

“Mm-hmm. When they’re done right.” You stepped just close enough that your skirt brushed his thigh, letting him feel the heat that lived in the inches between your thighs. “Question is—do you like romance, or are you all talk and no follow-through?”

“Oh, I follow through.” His grin tilted wicked. “Give me a porch swing, bit of night air, someone worth sittin’ close to? I’m a poet.”

“A poet?” You teased, but the word sparked a pleasant thrum low in your belly.

“Maybe more a—” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lowered, lingered at the neckline of your tank. “—hands-on storyteller.”

“Then maybe I’ll tell Daddy I’m takin’ the skiff after supper.” Your voice stayed soft, but the promise in it was as thick as the noon heat. “Could show you that view once your better half’s asleep.”

His breath hitched. “And what view would that be?”

“The one where moonlight paints the bayou silver…” Your fingers ghosted up the inside of his bare forearm. “…and nobody’s around to see if I dip my toes into the water.”

He swallowed hard. “Could be dangerous out there.”

“Only if you scare easy.” Your lips curved. “You strike me as the kind that doesn’t.”

“Saint back there might beg to differ,” he said, jerking his chin toward Steve, who was still hammering like salvation depended on it.

“He’s busy saving souls. I’m busy tempting sinners.” You stepped back, leaving the faintest drag of your nails along his wrist before the distance sealed. “Finish your posts, handsome. Meet me by the dock after dark. We’ll see if romance fits you.”

Bucky’s voice was just a rasp now. “Yes, ma’am.”

You turned toward the barn, hips swaying like slow jazz. Behind you, the clink of wire and rasp of shovel sounded suddenly frantic—as if the devil himself told him every nail he sets is one minute closer to sin.

Across the pasture, Steve finally looked up, sweat-slick hair falling in his eyes. He watched Bucky watching you and couldn’t quite name the tightness curling in his gut; couldn’t decide if it was jealousy, dread, or something hotter than either.

The loft was heavy with darkness—rafters lost in shadow, only a ribbon of moonlight sneaking through the cut-out window. Steve rolled onto his back, blinked, and blinked again. The couch beside him should’ve been groaning under Bucky’s long sprawl, but the cushions sat empty, quilt folded neat as a flag.

“Damn it, Buck,” he muttered.

Boots in hand, he eased to the ladder, the barn’s hush broken only by the soft drip of night dew through the roof tin. Outside, the world glimmered silver—pasture brushed in moon-pale grass, house lights long since snuffed. Steve angled toward the porch first, nothing. He circled the truck, checked the tool shed, found only his own irritation sharpening.

Last option, water.

He followed the narrow path that cut between cane rows, the air warm and wet against his skin. Crickets chirred in lazy chirr-chirrs; now and then a bullfrog belched from some hidden hollow. The bayou opened ahead, black water reflecting slices of stars.

That’s when he heard it—soft at first, a breathy hum sliding into a low, bitten-off moan. Another, higher, drenched in pleasure and muffled by sleepy dark. Steve stopped dead. The sound floated from the dock where the skiff rocked, a rhythm that was distinctly human, distinctly intimate.

He swallowed, pulse thumping in his throat. A rustle followed, then a hushed male laugh—Bucky’s, unmistakable, husky with mischief. Another sigh answered him, velvet-sweet. Steve’s cheeks flamed; every warning he’d given rattled back in his skull.

He stepped closer, shoes silent on damp earth, but stayed behind the screen of cypress trunks. The voices blurred but the tone was clear—slow, wet kisses; a whispered “you like that, darlin’” that tightened his gut. Wood knocked softly, a back hitting the dock, maybe, then a tremor of breathy laughter, yours, sliding straight beneath Steve’s skin.

Steve’s boots sank into the soft mud as he edged forward, the cypress shadows cloaking him like a guilty secret. The air hung heavy, laced with the musky tang of the bayou and something sharper—sweat, skin, raw need.

His heart hammered against his ribs, each step pulling him deeper into the forbidden pull of those sounds; the slick glide of bodies, the creak of the dock under shifting weight, your gasps weaving through Bucky’s low, filthy murmurs.

He parted the low-hanging branches, breath held tight, and there it was—laid bare under the fractured moonlight. The old wooden dock stretched out over the inky water, a threadbare blanket rumpled beneath you, your body arched and exposed in stark naked glory.

Legs splayed wide, knees hooked over Bucky’s hips, you lay on your back, skin flushed and glistening, breasts heaving with every ragged inhale. Bucky loomed above you, just as bare, his muscled frame glistening with effort, driving into you with relentless force—like a piston hammering home, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm that made the skiff bob gently against the pilings.

“Goddamn, angel, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” Bucky rasped, voice gravel-rough and dripping with heat, his arm braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider.

He plunged deep, cock thick and veined, disappearing into your slick folds with each savage thrust, the wet squelch of your cunt taking him echoing softly over the water.

You encouraged him, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails that made him hiss and buck harder.

“Yeah, just like that… fuck me deeper, honey, don’t stop,” you moaned, voice husky and demanding, hips rolling up to meet him, chasing the friction that had your toes curling against the blanket.

Steve’s gut twisted, a vicious knot of jealousy coiling tight. That smug son of a bitch—breaking their word, claiming you right here where anyone could stumble on it.

Part of him wanted to storm the dock, drag Bucky off you, demand answers—Why you? Why him? Why not…?

But his feet stayed rooted, eyes glued to the obscene union where Bucky’s cock stretched you wide, emerging slick and shining with your arousal before slamming back in, balls slapping heavy against your ass.

He couldn’t tear away. Watched, transfixed, as Bucky’s ass clenched with every drive—muscles bunching tight, flexing under the moonlight as he powered forward, burying himself to the hilt.

Your pussy lips clung to him on the outstroke, puffy and soaked, the connection a filthy, mesmerizing sight that sent heat surging through Steve’s veins. Jealousy warred with the fire building low in his belly, his cock swelling hard and insistent against his pants, throbbing with a need that shamed him even as it gripped him tighter.

Bucky leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongue thrusting in time with his hips, while his hand slid between your bodies to circle your clit, making you arch and cry out into his mouth.

“Come on, pretty girl, squeeze me—milk this cock like you own it,” he grunted against your lips, pace turning frantic, the dock groaning under the onslaught.

You bucked beneath him, moans spilling free, body trembling on the edge, and Steve’s hand drifted unconsciously to his zipper, palm pressing against the rigid length straining there, breath coming in shallow pants as arousal drowned the anger, leaving only the pounding urge to watch you shatter.

His resolve cracked like dry earth under the relentless pull of what was unfolding before him. His hand trembled as it fumbled with his belt, the zipper rasping down too loud in the humid night, but the bayou swallowed the sound.

Shame burned hot in his chest, a sick twist of disgust at his own weakness—spying like some pervert, palming his aching cock free into the cool air. It sprang out, thick and heavy, veins pulsing with the blood roaring through him, pre-cum already beading at the tip as he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, stroking slow at first, then matching the brutal rhythm Bucky set.

Bucky shifted, his thrusts deepening, hips grinding forward with a force that buried him balls-deep, your slick walls clenching around his length in greedy pulls. Steve’s eyes locked on the way your body yielded, pussy stretched taut around Bucky’s girth, juices coating him shiny and wet with every withdraw.

He pumped his fist tighter, breath hitching, hating how the sight made his balls draw up, how the jealousy gnawed deeper when Bucky dipped his head to your chest.

Bucky’s mouth latched onto one breast, sucking hard on the swollen nipple, tongue lashing the peak while his teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.

Your back bowed off the blanket, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there, and Steve’s gut clenched like a fist—fuck, he wished that was him, his lips sealing over that pebbled flesh, tasting the salt of your skin, drawing those desperate sounds from your throat.

“Harder, handsome—suck ’em like you mean it,” you gasped, voice raw and pleading, and Steve’s strokes quickened, imagining those words spilling for him, your body writhing under his weight instead.

He leaned against the cypress trunk for support, the rough bark biting into his palm as he jerked himself off in frantic pulls, the wet schlick of his hand mirroring the obscene slap of Bucky’s hips against yours. Every encouragement you tossed out—“Yes, just like that, fill me up”—twisted the knife of envy, but he devoured them, pretending you meant him, that your heat was clenching around his cock, not Bucky’s.

Then it hit—you shattered with a loud, keening moan that sliced through the night, body convulsing as your orgasm ripped through you. Steve watched your pussy spasm, milking Bucky’s shaft in rhythmic squeezes, walls fluttering visibly around him.

Bucky groaned low and guttural, the sound vibrating from his chest as he felt it, your release soaking him further.

“Fuck—yeah, cum all over me, sweet thing,” he grunted, pace turning savage, hips pistoning faster, chasing his own edge with short, brutal drives that made your tits bounce and the dock shudder.

Steve’s vision blurred, the coil in his gut snapping as he stared at the frenzy—your nails digging into Bucky’s shoulders, his ass flexing with each punishing thrust, cock slamming home through your climax.

It was too much; his balls tightened, and he came with a stifled grunt, hot spurts erupting over his fist, splattering the mud at his feet. Ecstasy flooded him in white-hot waves, cock twitching in his grip, but as the peak crested, shame crashed down like a Louisiana storm—disgust churning in his veins, sticky and vile, for getting off to his best friend fucking, to you choosing Bucky’s roughness over whatever Steve might have offered.

Bucky kept going, mouth claiming yours in a sloppy, devouring kiss, tongues tangling as he rode out the aftershocks, hips still rolling deep.

Steve’s hand shook as he tucked himself away, cum-smeared fingers fumbling the zipper up, heart pounding with the need to vanish before the guilt swallowed him whole.

He backed away silent as a ghost, retreating into the cane rows, the sounds of your shared breaths fading behind him, leaving only the bitter ache of what he’d seen, and what he’d done, in the humid dark.

Morning sweated slowly into afternoon, the sun floating white-hot behind a gauze of haze. Down in the west pasture the fence line rattled beneath the steady thunk of a post-hole digger, but today its rhythm belonged to only one pair of hands.

Steve drove the iron blades into the soil again and again—shirt plastered to his back, jaw set so tight the tendon jumped. Every few minutes he straightened, wiped the grit from his palms, and turned the next section of wire without so much as a glance toward the barn.

Bucky tried talking first thing, an easy joke about cane toads croaking love songs, but Steve answered with a curt nod and buried himself in work. Now, hours later, Bucky was done pretending it didn’t sting. He stalked up the fenceline, boots crunching weeds, sweat glistening on his forearms.

“Alright, punk, what crawled up your ass?”

No answer. Steve slammed another staple home, muscles flexing under sunburned skin.

“Come on, Rogers. Usually I can’t shut you up about alignments and load-bearing angles. Now you’re growlin’ like a kicked dog.”

The hammer paused mid-swing. Steve’s eyes cut sideways, bruised with sleeplessness. “I’m working.”

“Yeah, and ignoring me like I shot your horse.”

“You’d have to own a gun first,” Steve muttered, turning away.

The hammer came down hard, bending the staple sideways. Steve cursed under his breath, pried it out, tried again. Bucky leaned on a fencepost, arms folded.

“You gonna keep this up all day?” he asked, softer now. “Or tell me what I did.”

Steve’s shoulders heaved once, twice. Finally he tossed the hammer into the grass and faced him. “I saw you.”

Bucky blinked. “Saw me what?”

“Last night.” The words grated out like gravel. “By the bayou. With her.”

Silence sucked the air from between them. A cicada screeched somewhere overhead; the wind died.

Bucky’s mouth opened, shut, then set in a thin line. “You spying on me now?”

“I came looking because your dumb ass snuck off.” Steve’s voice cracked with heat—not anger alone, but something raw beneath it. “We agreed, Buck. No screwin’ around with Mr Moreau’s girl.”

“She’s not a girl, Steve. She’s a woman. And she made the first move.”

Steve barked a humorless laugh. “So that clears your conscience? She offered, you took, and the rest of us be damned?”

Bucky pushed off the post, expression hardening. “Don’t pretend it’s about conscience. It’s about you bein’ jealous I got there first.”

Steve flinched as if struck. “You think this is a competition?”

“Isn’t it?” Bucky stepped closer, voice dropping. “I’m tired of tip-toeing around you so you can pretend you’re above wanting her.”

A flush crawled up Steve’s neck. “This isn’t about me. It’s about respect—”

“It’s about you not knowing what to do with what you feel,” Bucky shot back. “So you call me reckless to make yourself feel righteous.”

Steve’s fists clenched. “Reckless? You call sneaking out to fuck the farmer’s daughter on the dock responsible? You risked us getting thrown off the property.”

“Worth it,” Bucky said, and the word was all challenge, “I’m not ashamed of wanting her. She sure as hell wasn’t ashamed of wanting me.”

Steve’s breath hitched; the memory flashed—moonlight on skin, your voice breaking open. Shame burned inside him like lye. “We’re guests here,” he managed. “We owe Mr Moreau respect.”

“I didn’t touch her where he could see.”

“That’s not the point.” Steve turned away, picking up the wire as if work could armour him. “You never think past the next thrill. And I’m always the one patching whatever you tear up.”

“So patch this,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “Or admit the real reason you’re mad is because you wanted to be where I was.”

Colour surged up Steve’s throat. He took a half-step back, fists clenching, then exhaled hard. “You don’t know what I want.”

“You think I can’t see it? You stare at her like she’s Sunday salvation—then play saint when she looks back.” Bucky shook his head, frustration edging his tone. “I’m not sorry, Steve.”

Steve’s gaze flicked toward the house, shutters still closed and curtains fluttering soft. His jaw worked. “If you cared half as much about respect as you do about getting off—”

“Respect?” Bucky scoffed. “I asked her what she wanted. She said yes—loud enough the gators could hear.”

Steve’s eyes flashed, hurt bleeding through. “You don’t get it.”

“What I get is a partner who can’t decide if he’s my brother or my warden.” Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “If you wanted her, you should’ve said so.”

Steve spun, eyes blazing. For a heartbeat words tangled unsaid—about loyalty, about how long he’d followed Bucky into trouble and how this, somehow, hurt worse than any fight in a back alley. Instead he grabbed the digger, drove it into the ground with a grunt.

“Go inside,” he muttered. “I’ll finish the line.”

Bucky took a step, but not back. His voice dropped to a thread. “You gonna tell her you watched?”

The tool froze mid-lift. Steve’s gaze snapped up, raw panic flickering before he masked it. “Don’t.”

Bucky’s anger faltered, replaced by something like wonder. “Jesus, you did more than watch, didn’t you?”

Steve’s face went white, then red. The digger slipped; he caught it, palms stinging. “Shut up.”

Bucky exhaled, disbelief softening into a rueful smile. “Saint Rogers,” he murmured. “Guess halos tarnish after all.”

Steve’s eyes glinted, hurt and humiliated. He dropped the tool, stepped past Bucky, shoulders stiff. “I’m done talking.”

“Steve—”

But Steve was already striding toward the cane rows, boots kicking dust, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The sky boiled with late-day clouds, thunder rumbling somewhere distant. Bucky watched him go, chest tight with something that wasn’t victory at all.

The stall smelled of clean straw and warm horsehide, lantern light pooling soft over the cedar boards. Steve stood at the far end, shirt stuck to him, shoulders working a curry brush over the sorrel mare’s flank. The rhythm was steady, measured—every stroke a word he couldn’t speak.

You eased between the stalls, plate balanced on your palm, hips brushing the half-open doors as you passed. “Skipped lunch,” you said, “Figured a man could use somethin’ besides self-reproach for fuel.”

He turned, blue eyes wary until they landed on the sandwich, then gentled. “Ma’am, you didn’t have to—”

“Didn’t ask if I had to.” You held the plate until he took it, fingers grazing his knuckles, a quick spark you pretended not to notice. “Eat before you faint and scare my horses.”

Steve managed a crooked smile, sank onto an overturned feed bucket. The first bite broke the tension in his shoulders; you leaned against the stall door, arms folding under your breasts, watching him chew like it was the most interesting thing in Louisiana.

“You work too hard,” you said after a moment. “Makes me nervous—like I’ve gone and offended you.”

His gaze flicked up, guilt flashing. “You haven’t. I’m… just wired tight today.”

“Wired tight.” You tasted the words, slow. “Could loosen you, if you’d let me.”

He focused on the sandwich, and cleared his voice, despite colour creeping up his throat. “Wasn’t raised to pester a lady while I’m a guest under her roof.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Feels more like you’re dodgin’ than mindin’ manners. You won’t hardly look at me unless I corner you.”

Steve set the plate on his thigh, thumb worrying the edge. “I—” He paused, swallowed. “You make it hard to keep my thoughts straight.”

“That so?” You pushed off the door, closed the distance until your boots touched his. Fingers slipped beneath the collar of his damp T-shirt, brushing the salty line of his neck. His breath caught hard.

“You ain’t doin’ anything wrong, sugar,” you whispered, letting your nails trace a half-moon before sliding away. “Least not with me.”

The mare huffed behind Steve, but neither of you moved. Your palm skimmed the line of his shoulder, slow and coaxing, to where the muscles knotted beneath damp cotton. “Tell me what’s eating you, pretty boy,” you murmured, thumb easing up the column of his throat to the sharp square of his jaw.

Steve’s lashes flickered. He tried to keep his eyes on the half-eaten sandwich, but the gentleness in your touch tugged his gaze up—and once he met your stare, whatever dam he’d built cracked. “I— last night,” he rasped, voice scraping raw. “I went looking for Bucky. I saw you two… by the bayou.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks. “I stayed. Watched. Should’ve turned around, but I—”

The confession spilled in a tumble of guilt and want. “I hated how jealous I felt. Hated that I couldn’t stop.”

“Oh, baby.” The words were a hush, almost a lullaby. You slid your fingers into the short hair at his nape and guided his head forward until his brow rested against the fine cotton of your shirt just above your navel. He inhaled, sun-warmed linen and honeysuckle, and shuddered.

“You didn’t do wrong by me,” you whispered, stroking the back of his neck. “Feelings aren’t sins.”

Steve’s hands hovered, uncertain, then settled at the backs of your thighs, big and tentative. You stroked his hair once more, let the silence breathe. Outside, the afternoon cicadas blurred into a single shimmering note.

“You can want something without tearing the roof down,” you said, voice low. “All that goodness in you doesn’t disappear ‘cause your body woke up.”

He nodded against you, and the movement, the trust in it, pulled a soft ache in your chest. You tilted his chin, thumb brushing the stubble-rough corner of his mouth. “Look at me, Steve.”

He did, eyes ocean-deep and storm-tossed at once. Your pulse skipped. “Let me show you it’s all right,” you breathed.

You bent, brushing your lips to his—a feather’s kiss, barely there. Steve’s exhale trembled, lashes falling shut as though the simplest touch was sacred. You tasted salt and sun and something sweeter before you lifted away a sliver. His eyes opened, dark with wanting, but he waited, polite even here, and that patience lit a spark low in your belly.

So you kissed him again, surer this time. The soft drag of mouths lingered, then opened; tongues met in a slow glide that tasted like a promise. Steve’s grip tightened at your thighs, thumbs sweeping small circles against your skin as though mapping sacred ground. You inched forward a fraction, pressing him back onto the overturned feed bucket; the move stole a breathy groan from him, swallowed into the kiss.

The stables seemed to narrow around you—lantern glow pooling honey-thick, dust motes floating like sparks in the slanted light. Somewhere a horse stamped, but the world had fallen to heat, straw, and the soft slick slide of lips.

You pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth. “Still feel like you’ve done wrong?”

His eyes opened; blue storm clearing to summer sky. He shook his head, a dazed smile ghosting. “Feel like I’m still figuring out what right feels like,” he murmured.

Your thumb traced the edge of his lower lip, swollen now, beautifully kiss-bitten. “Right’s easy,” you said. “It’s what makes you breathe easier, not harder.”

Steve’s gaze dipped to your mouth, then to the stretch of skin exposed where your shirt rode up. Courage flickered. One big hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the curve just beneath your hemline—a question more than a claim. You answered with a slow nod, lowering your weight a breath closer until his knuckles pressed warm between your ribs.

You slid the half-eaten sandwich and tin plate to the floor with one careless sweep, then eased a knee onto Steve’s lap, settling astride him. The overturned feed bucket creaked; Steve’s hands darted automatically to steady your hips, then froze as if he touched fire.

“Wait—” His voice was a husky scrape. “What about Bucky?”

You leaned in, thumbs brushing the fine blond stubble at his jaw. “Bucky’s not here, sugar.” Your hips sank a fraction, finding the thick shape straining beneath his work jeans. A tremor ripped through him; his eyelids fluttered.

“I can feel how bad you want it,” you murmured, amusement curling in the words like smoke. “Been feelin’ it since I met you. You think I didn’t notice?”

Heat bloomed crimson along Steve’s cheekbones. “I— I keep tryin’ to be respectful.”

“You are.” You cradled his face between your palms. It was steady and reassuring. “Respect doesn’t mean pretendin’ you don’t ache.”

His fingers finally unclenched, sliding up your thighs, rough thumbs stroking slow circles that raised gooseflesh. You rocked once, lazy and testing, and the low sound that spilled from his throat made the lantern sway on its hook.

“I want you too,” you confessed, voice just above a breath. “Want to hear you forget every polite word you know.”

Steve swallowed hard. “That might… take some coaxin’.”

You smiled, nose brushing his. “Lucky I have time.”

Storm-cloud light flickered through the high slats; somewhere beyond the stables a first fat drop of rain hit the tin roof with a hollow ping. You tilted his head back, claiming his mouth again—slow at first, letting him taste the yes in every slide of your tongue. His hands gripped your waist now, anchoring you as though the whole building could spin away.

“Tell me,” you whispered against his lips, “does this feel wrong?”

“No,” he exhaled, breath shivering through the single syllable.

“Then let it feel right.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, guiding him to the soft hollow of your throat. He pressed his mouth there, and the sharp sigh he let out bloomed heat low in your belly.

Rain pattered harder, drumming steady on the roof—cover for any sound you might choose to make. You rolled your hips once more; Steve answered instinctively with a slow lift of his own. The friction dragged a gasp from you both, tangled in the humid air.

You ground against him harder, hips circling with deliberate pressure, the denim barrier between you doing nothing to dull the rigid heat of his cock pressing up into your core. Steve’s mouth yielded under yours, the kiss turning rough—tongues clashing wet and urgent, his lips bruised from the depth of it. He looked utterly lost in it, eyes half-lidded and glassy, like a man three shots deep into whiskey, chasing the burn of your flavor.

Your teeth nipped his lower lip, drawing a ragged inhale from him as you murmured against the corner of his mouth, “That’s it. Touch me, honey. Feel how wet you’re makin’ me already.”

His palms hesitated for a split second, then surged upward, callused fingers digging into the swell of your ass, kneading the flesh through your skirt with a grip that bordered on desperate.

“Good boy,” you breathed, nipping his earlobe before sucking it between your teeth, the vibration of your praise humming into his skin, “pull me down harder. Make me ride that thick length of yours.”

Emboldened, Steve’s hands clenched tighter, yanking you flush against him with a low groan that rumbled from his chest. The force of it slammed your clit right over his bulge, friction sparking white-hot through your veins, your pussy throbbing with the need to be filled.

He bucked up to meet your rhythm, the overturned bucket groaning under the strain as you rutted rougher, denim grinding cotton in slick, heated drags that had slickness soaking through your panties.

Steve’s breaths came in hot pants against your neck, his confidence blooming like the storm outside—fingers spreading wide to cup your cheeks fully, thumbs pressing into the cleft, urging you to grind faster, deeper.

“God, you feel so good,” he rasped, voice thick and broken, finally shedding that polite shell as his hips rolled up hard, chasing the pressure building between you both.

The storm raged fiercer, rain lashing the roof like a thousand frantic fingers, drowning out the world beyond these weathered walls. Impatience clawed through you, a hot coil tightening low in your gut—you needed more than this teasing grind, needed him bare and buried deep.

With a frustrated sound against his lips, you lifted your hips just enough to break the contact, the sudden absence making your clit ache from the loss of friction.

Steve chased it instinctively, a desperate buck of his hips upward, his bulge straining toward you like it had a mind of its own.

“Easy, baby,” you soothed, voice a husky purr as you pressed a palm to his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath sweat-damp cotton. “I got you… gonna take care of that ache right now.” His eyes were wild, pupils blown dark with lust, but he stilled under your touch, breath ragged and waiting.

Your fingers fumbled hastily at his belt buckle, the metal clinking sharp in the humid air before you yanked the zipper down with a swift tug. Steve’s mouth never left your skin, latching onto the pulse point at your throat with hot, open-mouthed sucks that sent shivers racing down your spine—teeth grazing just enough to sting, tongue lapping greedily like he was starving for your taste.

His hands, bold now in their roaming, shoved up under your shirt, palms rough and seeking as they cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your hardening nipples through the thin lace of your bra. He squeezed , rolling the peaks until you arched into him with a sharp gasp, the dual assault of his mouth and hands making your cunt clench with raw need.

Diving into the open fly of his jeans, your hand slipped past the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping around the thick, velvety length of his cock. God, he was huge. Hot and heavy in your grip, the foreskin sliding smooth over the swollen head as you gave him a testing stroke.

Excitement surged through you, a fresh gush of wetness soaking your panties. “Fuck, Steve,” you breathed, as you pumped him slowly, feeling the way he throbbed and leaked pre-cum against your palm.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes hazy and uncertain, searching your face for that green light—like a man on the edge, waiting for permission to shatter.

You smiled, thumbing over the flushed tip to smear his slickness down the shaft. “I love uncut men,” you murmured, low and filthy, watching heat flood his cheeks even as his cock twitched harder in your fist.

“Makes ’em feel so damn good… sensitive and real. Yours is perfect, honey. Thick and ready to stretch me wide.” Confident, you stroked him firmer, twisting your wrist at the base where veins pulsed hot under your fingers, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest.

You released him just long enough to hike up your skirt, bunching the fabric around your waist to expose the damp lace clinging to your thighs. Hooking your fingers into the crotch of your panties, you shoved them aside roughly, the cool air kissing your slick folds for a heartbeat before you positioned yourself above him.

His cock stood rigid, flushed and glistening from your touch, the head nudging insistently at your entrance as you hovered there, teasing the tip through your wetness—letting the anticipation build until his hands gripped your hips like iron, urging you down with a plea in his eyes.

Slowly you sank down onto his cock, the thick head parting your slick folds and stretching you inch by agonizing inch. A sharp hiss escaped your lips at the burn of it—uncut skin gliding smooth against your inner walls, every ridge and vein dragging delicious friction as you took him deeper.

You watched him like a predator savoring prey, drinking in the way his jaw clenched, brows furrowing in overwhelmed bliss, those blue eyes fluttering half-shut before snapping back to yours. The power of it surged through you, your pussy clenching around him just to feel him twitch inside, the sight of his restraint cracking making your clit throb with wicked satisfaction.

“That’s it,” you murmured, voice a sultry rasp laced with filth, leaning in close enough for your breath to ghost his ear. “Feel how wet I am for you? Squeezin’ this fat cock like it belongs in me. Tell me how it feels—c’mon, baby, use those words.”

Your hips settled fully, grinding in a lazy circle to seat him to the hilt, his balls pressed snug against your ass, but you held still for a beat, teasing him with the velvet grip of your heat. The rain might as well have been a memory; all you heard was his ragged breathing, the wet sounds of your bodies joined.

Slowly, you started to move—lifting just enough to let half his length slide free before easing back down, the drag pulling a low moan from your throat.

“Take what you want, sugar,” you encouraged, nails digging into his shoulders for leverage, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Grab my ass, my tits—fuck me like you’ve been dreamin’ about. I ain’t fragile; I want it rough, want you to ruin me with this thing.”

He answered in groans at first, deep and guttural, vibrating through his chest as his hips jerked up to meet your descent. “God... so tight,” he murmured, the words tumbling out low and broken, like they were dragged from some hidden place.

“Feels... too good... can’t—” Another thrust from below cut him off, his cock spearing deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His hands roamed hungrily now, one sliding down to grip your thigh, the other tangling in your hair to pull you into a messy kiss, his tongue thrusting in time with his subtle bucks.

The pace quickened as impatience won out; you bounced a little harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down to soak his jeans. Steve’s control frayed further; he shoved your tank top down with a rough yank, the fabric bunching at your waist and dragging your bra along with it.

Your breasts spilled free, heavy and bouncing with each rise, nipples peaked and begging for attention in the humid air. He stared for a split second, awe flickering in his lust-glazed eyes, before his hands were on them—palms cupping the soft weight, thumbs flicking over the sensitive tips.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, voice sweet and polite even in the haze, like a gentleman undone. “These... perfect. So full, so soft—wanna taste ’em, if that’s alright.”

The contrast hit you like lightning, his polite words amid the filth of what you were doing, making your core clench tighter around him. You arched into his touch, moaning as he leaned up to latch onto one nipple, sucking hard while you bounced faster, the dual sensations coiling that heat low and fierce.

The rhythm turned frantic as you picked up speed, hips slamming down harder onto Steve’s cock. Your ass slapped against his thighs, the wet smack mingling with the creak of hay beneath you and the thunder rumbling outside. He thrust up to meet you now, powerful bucks from below that jolted through your core, his body finally surrendering to the instinct you’d been coaxing out.

You reveled in it, a smile splitting your face as you caught him still fixated on your tits—bouncing wildly with each bounce, nipples grazing his chest when you leaned forward, flushed and heaving from the effort.

“Yeah, that’s it baby,” you murmured, voice breathy, threading your fingers through his hair to tug his head back just enough to force his eyes to yours.

“Fuck me back like you mean it—tell me, Stevie, you like poundin’ into me? Like how my pussy milks this cock?” Your words were a filthy prod, urging him past the groans into something more, wanting to hear that polite facade shatter completely.

He groaned louder, the sound raw and desperate, but he managed words this time, spilling them between gritted teeth as his mouth returned to your breast—sucking the peak hard, teeth grazing just enough to sting.

“Love it... shit, love how you take me,” he rasped, voice muffled against your skin, one hand squeezing your ass to pull you down firmer.

“These tits drivin’ me crazy, so damn perfect, bouncin’ like that. And you... tight, hot, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word.” The sweetness laced his filth, his blue eyes locking on yours mid-thrust. It fueled you, that mix of gentlemanly sweetness and primal drive, making your walls flutter around his length as you rode him relentlessly.

Eventually, you reached between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit amid the slick mess where you joined. You rubbed in firm circles, the pressure building fast under your touch, chasing that edge while his cock stretched you full.

“Keep talkin’, sugar,” you gasped, bouncing even more furiously, the pace turning punishing, your juices soaking his balls with every slap. “Tell me what you like about me—my tight little cunt? How I ride you like I own this cock?”

Steve’s response was a guttural curse, his free hand joining yours briefly to press your fingers harder against your clit, like he couldn’t help but take over even there.

“Everything... your fire, the way you squeeze me—god,” he murmured, thrusting up with a force that nearly unseated you, his cock throbbing inside.

The words tipped you over; your orgasm crashed through like lightning, walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses around him, milking his shaft as waves of pleasure ripped cries from your throat. You shuddered through it, grinding down to ride out the bliss, clit pulsing under your touch while your body trembled atop him.

He followed seconds later, the vice of your release undoing him completely. “Shit—cummin’...”

Steve groaned, hips snapping up one last time, burying himself to the root as he erupted. Hot spurts flooded you, his cock jerking with each pulse, filling your spasming heat until it leaked out around him, mixing with your own wetness.

His hands gripped your hips bruisingly, holding you in place as he rode the high, face buried in the crook of your neck, breaths ragged against your skin. The stables seemed to spin for a moment, the rain’s roar returning as your pulses slowed, bodies slick and spent in the humid aftermath.

Steve stayed where he was, like he didn’t quite trust his own limbs yet—face pressed into the warm softness of your chest, breath still uneven against your skin. His hands hadn’t moved either, still anchored at your hips like if he let go too fast you might disappear on him.

You smoothed your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, easing him down from that sharp edge he’d been riding. “Easy, baby… breathe,” you murmured, voice soft, coaxing. “That’s it.”

He let out a shaky exhale, shoulders finally dropping a fraction. The tension in him didn’t vanish, but it softened, melted under your touch instead of snapping tight like it had all morning.

“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, words catching somewhere between guilt and something softer. “I didn’t think I’d… be like that.”

You tipped his chin just enough to look at him, thumb brushing the flush still high on his cheek. “Like what?” you asked gently.

“Needy,” he admitted, quiet. “Rough. Thought I was better at keepin’ things… under control.”

You huffed a quiet little laugh, not mocking, just warm. “Control’s overrated.” Your hand drifted down his arm, tracing the muscle there, feeling the last little tremors still working through him. “Ain’t nothing wrong with wanting somebody. Ain’t nothing wrong with taking what’s given, either.”

His eyes searched yours, still unsure. “Even… like this?”

“Especially like this.” You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re a man, Steve. You feel things. You want things. That don’t make you bad.”

He swallowed, something easing in his expression, though a crease of doubt lingered. “Doesn’t feel like the way I was raised.”

“Maybe the way you were raised ain’t the only way to live.” Your fingers slid back into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, coaxing another quiet exhale from him. “You keep tryin’ to fit yourself into something too tight. No wonder you’re all wound up.”

His grip on your hips loosened, hands shifting instead to rest like he was finally allowing himself to just be there with you instead of bracing for what came next.

“You didn’t look like you thought it was wrong,” you added, a teasing lilt slipping back into your tone, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Not when you took me like a rowdy bull.”

A faint, embarrassed smile tugged at his lips. “No… guess I didn’t.”

“There you go.” You nudged his nose with yours, playful now. “Honest for once.”

He let out a soft breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the sound low and a little disbelieving, like he wasn’t used to feeling this light after something that intense.

Outside, the rain had started to ease—softening from a roar to a steady patter. Inside the stall, the air stayed thick and warm, the kind that made it easy to linger. Steve shifted slightly beneath you, one hand coming up to your back, resting there more confidently now.

“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.

You tilted your head, studying him for a beat, then smiled. “Don’t start getting all polite on me again,” you warned lightly. “We just fixed that problem.”

That earned a small huff from him, the ghost of his usual composure returning, but looser now, less rigid. Your fingers traced idly along his shoulder again, slow, absentminded, like you had all the time in the world.

“Better?” you asked, softer.

Steve nodded, eyes lingering on your face—then dipping, just briefly, before coming back up. There was still heat there, still want, but now it sat easier on him. Less like something to fight. More like something he was starting to understand.

“Yeah,” he said. “Better.”

Rain sheeted against the loft’s tin roof hard enough to rattle the rafters, a steady percussion that should’ve lulled tired muscles to sleep.

Instead, Steve lay flat on the thin mattress pulled beside the couch, eyes fixed on the low slope of the ceiling where moon-gray water stains mapped the wood. The darkness felt thick, scented with damp hay and the copper tang of dying storm, but it was the silence between the two men that really pressed on his ribs.

Across the narrow space Bucky shifted, springs creaking under the old couch cushions. Not asleep. Steve could tell from the rhythm of his breathing; too shallow.

They’d worked the afternoon in tense near-silence, traded a few practical words over supper, then climbed to the loft when Mr. Moreau doused the lanterns downstairs. Since then… nothing.

Steve’s guilt gnawed as loud as the rain. All the righteous bullshit he’d thrown at Bucky that morning felt paper-thin now, ripped by the memory of your thighs bracketing his hips, the slick pull of your body around him. He’d sinned in the very place he’d condemned… maybe deeper. Bucky had broken a promise, sure, but Steve had broken it twice. First by watching, then by taking.

If he spoke first, will it sound like confession or a challenge? He imagined Bucky’s face if he admitted what happened in the stables—those bright blue eyes narrowing, that crooked grin folding into something sharp and hurt. Bucky was reckless, yes, but he was proud; jealousy cut him close to the bone. Steve couldn’t blame him. He felt the same knife when he’d watched Bucky with you, a sick cocktail of envy and desire he still tasted on the back of his tongue.

A board popped in the loft floor; Steve flinched. Bucky exhaled, a quick huff that could’ve been a sigh… or a laugh, it was hard to tell.

“Storm’s loud tonight,” Bucky muttered into the dark.

Steve swallowed. “Yeah.”

Another beat. Rain drummed harder, then softened in waves. Steve could picture the bayou swelling, black water rising under the dock where everything had changed. He tried not to think about how your moans had sounded layered over the water, how his own had answered hours later in a dusty stable.

“You finish that west line tomorrow,” Bucky said finally, voice low, almost casual. “We’ll have Moreau paid up.”

“Almost done,” Steve answered. He wet his lips, searching for something, anything really, to ease the weight in the room. The apology caught behind his teeth.

Bucky shifted again, the couch springs squealed. “Punk, you gonna stew all night?”

Steve closed his eyes. I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to lie either.

Outside, lightning flashed white through the high window slats, illuminating dust motes and the curve of the telescope aimed at dripping darkness. The quick burst etched Bucky’s silhouette; hands behind his head, stare fixed on the rafters, then vanished.

Steve drew a breath, let it out slow. “We should get some sleep,” he managed. “Finish early.”

Bucky’s chuckle was soft, humorless. “Sure.” A pause. “Night, Stevie.”

“Night, Buck.”

The rain settled into a gentle hiss, but sleep stayed distant. Steve lay listening to the space between heartbeats, wondering how long secrets could hang in rafters before they dripped down like stormwater, soaking everything beneath.

Dawn slipped through the loft slats in gauzy stripes, lighting dust motes and the tired curve of two backs turned on one another. Steve sat on the edge of his mattress, boots half-laced, guilt thrumming like an ache in his teeth. Across the aisle, Bucky tugged yesterday’s shirt over his head, humming nothing in particular, almost normal again after a night of storm-soaked silence.

Steve cleared his throat. “Mornin’, Buck.”

Bucky flicked him a sideways grin. “Look who’s talkin’ to me.”

Steve managed a huff of a laugh, tension easing a notch. “Didn’t mean to be a bear yesterday.”

“Figured you were just hungry.” Bucky stretched, joints popping. “Or constipated.”

“Yeah. Something like that.” Steve stood, wiped his palms on his thighs. “Listen—there’s somethin’ I gotta say before we head out.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, but the grin stayed. “Alright, preacher. Floor’s yours.”

For a heartbeat Steve couldn’t find air; the loft felt too small for the words. He ran a hand through his hair, stared at the warped floorboard between them. “Yesterday… after the rain started… I was in the stables.” He forced his gaze up, blue meeting blue. “She came by to give me some lunch and— and things got… outta hand.”

The smile died on Bucky’s mouth, shoulders stiffening under crumpled cotton. “Outta hand how?”

Steve swallowed. “We— I—” The confession lodged, then fell. “I slept with her.”

Silence crashed heavier than the storm. Bucky’s jaw ticked once, twice… his eyes flared a darker shade. “You mean right after you tore me a new one for fucking her?”

Steve winced. “Yeah.”

Bucky laughed. It was short, sharp and no humour in it. “That’s rich, Stevie. Real righteous.”

“I know it’s hypocritical,” Steve said, voice clipped. “But it happened.”

“‘Just respect Mr. Moreau,’” Bucky mocked, pitching his voice higher. “‘We’re guests, Buck.’ Then you go and fuck his daughter in the hay like a damn barn animal.”

“Wasn’t like that.” Heat licked up Steve’s neck. “It wasn’t planned. We—talked, and—”

“And you forgot all about your sermon.” Bucky crossed his arms, biceps bulging. “Tell me, did you watch yourself grunt and moan the way you watched me?”

Steve’s cheeks flamed. “Don’t make this dirtier than it is.”

“Dirtier? Brother, the mud’s already up to our knees.” Bucky stepped closer, anger bright and brittle. “You wouldn’t even let me feel good of what I had with her. Now you want me to swallow this and play nice?”

“I’m not askin’ for forgiveness.” Steve’s voice rose. “But you deserved the truth.”

“Truth is you’re jealous as hell and didn’t want to admit it,” Bucky shot back. “So you took your turn and still wanna be the saint.”

Steve’s fists clenched. “You think this feels right to me? I don’t think I can even look her father in the eye.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll choke on that guilt.” Bucky pivoted, pacing a tight line, boots thumping. He stopped, spun. “Fine. Let’s skip the guilt. Let’s ask her straight out who she wants. Winner keeps the girl, loser keeps their mouth shut.”

“That’s childish,” Steve snapped.

“Better than self-righteous,” Bucky muttered.

They stared each other down, breath quickening with a frustration edged in something hotter. Outside the loft, a rooster crowed. The tension held, buzzing like a live wire between their chests.

Steve exhaled first, the fight draining to weary honesty. “We can’t turn her into a prize, Buck. That ain’t right, and you know it.”

Bucky’s shoulders sagged, but the jealousy still smouldered in his eyes. “Then what? We keep sneakin’ behind each other until Mr. Moreau shoots one of us?”

“I don’t know.” Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “But we finish that fence today. After that—figure it out with her, together. No more secrets.”

Bucky studied him, jaw working. Finally he nodded stiffly. “Finish the fence,” he echoed. “Then we talk.”

The afternoon never quite decided if it was rain or sleet; it just hurled water sideways until the posts sagged in the muck and both men were soaked to the bone. By the time they slogged back to the barn, the sky looked like a dull bruise and the west line was still three rails short. No one said it, but they were glad for the excuse to quit early.

Up in the loft, Steve kicked off his mud-caked boots and dropped onto the couch, hair plastered to his forehead. Bucky lingered at the hatch, stripping and changing out of his drenched shirt, drops tapping the floorboards. He found a rag, swiped at his face, then tossed the cloth aside.

Tense didn’t begin to cover it. They moved around each other the way soldiers do when the truce is thin—careful, eyes sliding away after the briefest glance. Steve rummaged for dry socks, Bucky fished for a cigarette he never lit. Rain pattered on the roof, steady as a clock.

The ladder creaked.

You appeared with a bundle of quilts over one arm, hair damp, skin glowing from kitchen heat. “Thought y’all could use somethin’ dry,” you said, voice gentle, eyes flicking from Steve’s rigid shoulders to Bucky’s tight jaw.

Neither man answered right off, and the hush sharpened until even the rain felt awkward. You crossed to the couch, shaking out a faded patchwork, the cotton smelling of starch and chamomile. Steve took it with a muttered thanks, knuckles brushing yours; his gaze skittered away before it could catch.

“Fence fight back?” you teased, hoping to coax a smile. It earned only a grunt from Bucky and a shrug from Steve.

You laid another quilt over the couch arm, slower this time—testing the air, feeling the edge in it. “Storm’s supposed to clear by dawn,” you offered, smoothing a corner that didn’t need smoothing. “Plenty of time to finish tomorrow before ya’ll leave.”

Still the silence. Bucky’s cigarette twirled restlessly between his fingers; Steve’s fingers dug into quilt batting like he might wring the tension out of the fabric.

You straightened, eyes narrowing just a touch. “The weather ain’t the only thing foul up here,” you said softly, but there was firmness under the honey. “Y’all gonna tell me what’s crawled between you, or am I supposed to guess?”

Neither answered, but their gazes finally met. It was brief, charged… and you felt the spark skip the space between them like summer lightning.

Bucky broke first, voice rough. “Y’know what this is, sweetheart? A game. You’ve been playin’ us—fuckin’ us both and watchin’ which dog growls louder.”

You propped a hip against the couch arm, arms loose across your chest, unbothered. “Playin’? Honey, I just like good company. Can’t a girl enjoy both flavors without pickin’ a favourite?”

Steve’s tone came gentler but no less raw. “Why, though? If you care for either of us, why throw a match on gasoline?”

“Why not?” You lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “World’s big enough for more than one kind of want. I didn’t hear either of you complainin’ at the time.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “’Cause I thought it meant somethin’—til I find out you rode him next like a county fair row-pony.”

You arched a brow. “Meanin’ like you cared about Stevie’s feelin’s when you waited ‘til he was dead asleep to slide into my bayou and make me holler? Glass houses, James.”

The barb hit; he flinched, fingers whitening around the cigarette he still hadn’t lit. Steve opened his mouth, a protest half-formed, and you cut him a sidelong glance. “And you—moral high ground looked real pretty till you let me grind it to dust in the hay. Hypocrite suits you about as tight as those jeans did yesterday.”

Colour scorched Steve’s ears. “I won’t deny it,” he said quietly. “I was jealous. Still am.”

“Same,” Bucky snapped, softer now, wounded pride bleeding through. “Feels like we’re bein’ measured for sport.”

You blew out a breath, voice dropping to something low, coaxing. “I’m measurin’ the way I measure ripe peaches—by taste, not by pit. Didn’t reckon either one of you wanted claim-stakes hammered down.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, restless. “Can’t keep splittin the difference. Not without someone gettin’ cut.”

You let a slow breath roll out, smoothing the air like a hand over rumpled sheets.

“Alright—enough chest-thumping,” you murmured, voice a lazy drawl meant to soothe. You pivoted first to Bucky, stepping in just close enough that the lantern light caught the silver flecks in his eyes.

“Y’know what I like about you, Bucky?” Your fingers brushed the inside of his forearm—just a ghost of touch, but it made his shoulders ease a notch. “It’s that wildfire charm. You see somethin’ you want, and you grab it like life’s too short for second thoughts. Had me tremblin’ on that dock, remember? You move like you own the night, and for a minute I believed you did.”

A faint, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the hurt still smouldering there.

Then you turned to Steve, reaching to smooth a wet lock from his forehead. “And you? Gentleman on the surface, but lord—the heat underneath once you let it out.” Your hand slid to cup his jaw; Steve leaned into it without meaning to, “You made me feel wanted in every sweet, filthy way a woman craves. Like I was worth every ounce of that control you dropped.”

Their gazes flicked to each other, some of the sharpness dulling with your words.

“You boys’ve been best friends forever, ain’t that right?” you asked, stepping back so you could see them both. “Shared bruises, shared bottles… but you never learned to share a woman?”

Bucky’s brows knitted. “Ain’t exactly the way we were taught.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to Bucky, then you. “Not sure how that even works.”

“Works however we want it to,” you said with a shrug. “Could be one night. Could be more. Only rule is nobody’s feelings get shoved in a dark corner.”

They traded another look. This one was longer, uncertainty warring with curiosity. Rain pinged softly on the roof, a gentler rhythm now, like the storm itself was catching its breath.

You smiled. “Me? I’d rather see the two of you side-by-side than at each other’s throats. Twice the fun, half the guilt.”

Silence hovered, but the tension had shifted, no longer a taut wire ready to snap, more a low hum in the rafters. Bucky wet his lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth. Steve exhaled, shoulders softening, as if the idea wasn’t as impossible as it had sounded a minute ago.

Lantern-light flickered across the loft as you stepped between them, storm-tamed curls brushing Steve’s cheek. One hand found the back of his neck, guiding him down; your mouth covered his in a slow, coaxing seal. At first he held himself still, surprised, then his hands rose, steadying at your waist while he answered, tongue sweeping to taste the invitation you offered. The kiss went deep, unhurried, a warm pull that drew a hum from somewhere low in his chest.

Across the narrow space Bucky watched, arms folded but jaw tight, jealousy flashing bright before he masked it. You felt the weight of his stare; when you finally let Steve breathe you kept your gaze on those blue eyes gone hazy, then pivoted without missing a beat.

Your free hand snagged the front of Bucky’s T-shirt, knuckles brushing the hard plane beneath, and you tugged him forward.

“C’mere, hotshot,” you whispered.

He came, like the magnet he’d always been, meeting your mouth with none of Steve’s hesitation. The kiss landed hungry, teeth grazing, his hand sliding to cup the side of your throat. Where Steve’s earlier sweetness lingered, Bucky’s heat sparked bright, and you let both flavors mingle on your tongue a heartbeat longer than strictly fair.

When you broke away the air felt thicker, three sets of breaths stirring the dust motes. Your lips, plush now and tingling, curved into a satisfied smile.

“See?” you murmured, voice lazy as molasses. “Turns out sharing ain’t so hard.”

Steve stood rooted, wide eyes flicking from your mouth to Bucky’s. Bucky’s stare, darker now, drifted to Steve, sharp edge softened by the flush riding both their cheeks. Rain pattered gentle drums on the roof above, the storm’s worst anger spent, leaving only a hush that felt charged rather than tense.

“You pull us in opposite directions long enough,” Bucky said, half-grin creeping back, “might find we land in the same place.”

“Wouldn’t that be a sight,” you answered, giving his shirt a playful tug before smoothing the crumpled cotton flat. You turned, letting your knuckles brush Steve’s knuckles—an invitation to stay right where he was. “The three of us could keep warmer than any blanket in this loft.”

Neither man moved to argue. Steve’s throat bobbed, eyes searching Bucky’s. Bucky’s shoulders shifted, like he was trying on the feel of standing this close without bristling. A tentative thread of curiosity stretched between them stronger than the jealousy that had ruled the morning.

You stepped back just far enough to see them both, palms open. “Fence can wait,” you said. “Weather looks set to keep us indoors.” Outside, thunder rumbled a soft bass note, agreeing.

The air in the loft hung heavy, thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the raw edge of anticipation. You stood between them, Bucky and Steve, their breaths syncing in ragged pulls, eyes locked on you like you’d become the only fixed point in the dim lantern glow.

Your fingers hooked under the hem of your damp shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin from the earlier drizzle. You peeled it up slowly letting the cool air kiss your ribs before it whispered over the swell of your breasts still trapped in lace. Their gazes followed every inch, darkening as you tossed the shirt aside onto the couch.

Then came the bra—clips snapping free with a flick, straps sliding down your shoulders. Your breasts spilled out, full and heavy, nipples tightening into stiff peaks under the weight of their stares. Bucky’s tongue darted over his lips, a low sound rumbling in his throat, while Steve’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping straight to the soft curves, tracing the way they rose with each breath you took.

Not done yet. Your hands moved to the button of your jeans, popping it open with a soft click that echoed in the charged quiet. The zipper rasped down, and you shoved the denim over your hips, hooking your thumbs into your panties and dragging them along for the ride. They pooled at your ankles, and you kicked them free, standing bare before them—skin flushed, thighs slick with the ache building between them.

Bucky’s breath hitched, his cock straining visibly against his jeans, and Steve shifted, a flush creeping up his neck as he drank in the sight of your naked body, every curve and shadow laid out like an offering.

“Who wants to touch first?” you purred, voice husky, letting the words drip like honey over the tension.

It took barely a second—Bucky, of course, moving like he’d been coiled for it. His hand shot out, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, crashing his mouth against yours. His tongue plunged deep, fucking into your throat with a possessive thrust that made your knees weak, tasting of salt and coffee and that unashamed want.

He hauled you flush against him, your bare tits mashing into the rough cotton of his shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric as his free arm banded around your waist, grinding his hard length into your belly through his clothes.

You melted into the kiss, moaning around his invading tongue, but then—hands. Warm, callused palms sliding onto your waist from behind, tentative at first, then firmer as Steve pressed his body against your back. His chest was a solid wall of heat, his cock throbbing hot against the cleft of your ass even through his jeans.

Those hands trailed up, slow and careful, cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasted Bucky’s roughness—thumbs brushing the undersides before squeezing soft, kneading the flesh until your nipples ached under the pressure.

A shiver raced down your spine as his mouth found your throat, lips parting to suckle the pulse there, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks straight to your clit.

Bucky didn’t let up, his kiss turning sloppier, wetter, tongue battling yours while Steve’s breaths fanned hot against your neck, his squeezes growing bolder, rolling your breasts in his palms like he couldn’t get enough of the weight, the give.

The kiss with Bucky lingered like a brand, his tongue retreating with a final, teasing swipe that left your lips swollen and slick. You twisted in his grip, turning your head to capture Steve’s mouth instead, and he met you halfway—eager, almost desperate, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that stole your breath.

His tongue delved deep, exploring with a fervor that matched the way his hands still cradled your tits, thumbs circling your hardened nipples until they throbbed under his touch.

Bucky didn’t yield an inch, his mouth shifting to the curve of your neck, hot and insistent, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin as he sucked a mark into place. One of his hands slid down, palming the swell of your ass with a firm squeeze, fingers digging in to guide your hips forward. You ground against him instinctively, feeling the rigid bulge of his cock press into your belly through the denim, thick and insistent, pulsing with every roll of your body.

Steve’s kiss deepened in response, turning rougher, his free hand tangling in your hair to angle your head just right, devouring your mouth like he needed to erase Bucky’s taste.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Bucky rasped against your throat, his voice a gravelly vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine, his breath fanning over the damp spot he’d left behind.

You hummed into Steve’s kiss, the sound vibrating between your pressed lips.

Steve broke the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, whispering hot against your ear, “You’re perfect... so soft, so sweet,” his affirmations spilling out like confessions, voice thick with awe and need as he nuzzled into your shoulder.

You pushed at their chests, firm but playful, breaking their hold. “I want both of ya’ll to eat my pussy,” you said, eyes flicking between them as you backed toward the small mattress piled with worn blankets on the loft floor.

You sank down onto the makeshift bed, the rough weave scratching your bare skin just enough to heighten the thrill. Spreading your legs wide, you exposed yourself fully—the swollen folds of your cunt glistening with arousal, clit peeking out begging for attention.

Bucky and Steve froze mid-step, their eyes locking onto the sight between your thighs, breaths catching in unison. Bucky’s jaw went slack, that smirk faltering into raw want, while Steve’s flush deepened, his cock tenting his jeans obscenely as he swallowed hard.

Then, like a dam breaking, they lunged,both scrambling forward in a tangle of limbs, shoulders bumping as they vied for position.

“Move over, punk,” Bucky murmured, shoving at Steve’s arm, trying to wedge in closer.

Steve pushed back, his voice a strained mutter, “There’s room—back off a sec.” They bickered like that, half-hearted jabs and elbows, but neither stopped advancing, knees hitting the mattress as they crowded between your open legs.

Their argument dissolved into action, mouths descending on your pussy in a frenzy of heat and hunger. Bucky got there first, his tongue lapping broad and flat up your slit, collecting your wetness with a groan that rumbled against your sensitive flesh. Steve wasn’t far behind, angling in from the side to suckle at your inner thigh before dragging his lips to your clit, enveloping it in wet suction that made your hips buck.

They jostled for space, Bucky’s shoulder knocking Steve’s as he delved deeper, tongue fucking into your entrance with sloppy thrusts, while Steve latched onto your nub, flicking it relentlessly with the tip of his tongue.

The dual assault overwhelmed you—Bucky’s mouth devouring your hole, slurping noisily at the gush of arousal leaking out, his stubble scraping your thighs raw; Steve’s lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard enough to pull whimpers from your throat, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” Bucky mumbled between licks, the words vibrating into you, while Steve hummed agreement, his tongue circling faster, teeth grazing just enough to teeter on the edge of pain.

Their mouths battled over your dripping cunt like starving men, tongues and lips a chaotic symphony of slick heat that had you mesmerized. You watched through half-lidded eyes, pulse hammering in your ears, the way Bucky’s tongue plunged deep into your hole, fucking in and out with obscene wet sounds, only for Steve to shove in closer, latching onto your clit with a fierce suck that made your toes curl.

Their faces were inches apart, cheeks brushing, breaths mingling hot and ragged, and fuck, the sight of it twisted something filthy in your gut. You imagined it—their tongues slipping free from you, tangling together in a messy, saliva-slick kiss, tasting you on each other, and the thought alone shoved you toward the edge.

“God, yes—right there,” you gasped, hips grinding up into their faces, fingers yanking at their hair to hold them in place.

Bucky groaned low, the vibration humming straight through your core, “You like watchin’ us fight over this pretty pussy, huh?” Steve mumbled something incoherent against your thigh, too lost in the feast to form words, but his tongue flicked faster, relentless.

It hit you like a storm surge, that orgasm sneaking up fast and brutal—your walls clenching on nothing, release gushing out in hot waves that soaked their chins. You cried out, back arching off the mattress, thighs quaking as pleasure ripped through you. Bucky and Steve didn’t pull back; if anything, they dove deeper.

“So damn good,” Steve finally rasped, voice muffled as he licked a stripe up your seam, sharing the taste with a quick, accidental brush of his tongue against Bucky’s.

The intensity bordered on too much, sparks of overstimulation prickling like needles as their mouths kept working, tongues still probing and sucking without mercy. “Wait—fuck, too much,” you panted, hands flying to their heads, trying to shove them away, but your pushes were weak, body still humming from the high.

They lingered a second longer, reluctant, before Bucky’s eyes flashed with that predatory glint. In a blur, he shouldered Steve aside, “My turn, Stevie”—the bigger man stumbling back on his knees, jeans strained tight over his erection.

Bucky didn’t waste a beat, fingers fumbling with his belt, the clink of metal echoing in the loft as he yanked it open. His jeans shoved down just enough, his cock sprang free—thick, veined, the flushed head already leaking pre-cum, curving up with a slight leftward tilt.

He gripped the base, stroking once, twice, before dragging the length through your soaked folds, coating himself in your release. The friction teased your entrance, bumping your clit with each pass, and you bit your lip, doing nothing to stop him—hell, you spread your legs wider, inviting the invasion.

“Yeah, just like that,” Bucky muttered, voice rough as gravel, lining up and sinking in slow, inch by torturous inch, your pussy stretching around his girth with a burn that blurred into bliss.

He bottomed out with a guttural groan, balls slapping against your ass as he started thrusting—deep, claiming strokes that rocked your body against the mattress. “Still so tight... takin’ me so good,” he grunted, hands pinning your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the wet slap of skin filling the air, mingling with the rain’s fury outside.

You took it, moaning with each plunge, walls fluttering around him, but your gaze flicked to Steve, who knelt there looking adrift—lips shiny with your juices, chest heaving, cock throbbing untouched in his pants, a mix of uncertainty and need in his blue eyes.

“Aw, c’mere, sugar,” you cooed softly, voice breathy from Bucky’s relentless pace, reaching out a hand to beckon him closer. He hesitated for a split second, then crawled forward, drawn like a moth to flame.

You pulled him down, crashing your lips to his in a messy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Bucky’s thrusts didn’t falter, each one jolting you into Steve’s mouth, making the kiss deeper, hungrier. “Mmm, don’t look so lost,” you murmured against Steve’s lips, nipping at his bottom one before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I want you in my mouth—wanna taste that big cock of yours while he fucks me.”

Steve’s breath hitched, a flush creeping up his neck, but he nodded, fumbling with his zipper as Bucky chuckled, hips snapping harder. “You heard her, pal. Feed her that dick.”

Steve’s fingers trembled on his zipper, the metallic rasp cutting through the humid air as he finally freed himself—his cock springing out, thick and heavy, the head already flushed and glistening with pre-cum. You watched for a beat, heat pooling fresh in your belly, but then impulse hit like lightning. With a hum, you planted your hands on Bucky’s chest and shoved hard. He blinked up at you, confusion flashing in those blue eyes as his cock slipped free from your clenching heat with a wet pop, leaving you achingly empty for just a second.

“What the—” Bucky started, but you didn’t let him finish, pushing him sideways until he toppled onto his back, jeans still bunched around his thighs, legs splayed. The mattress creaked under his weight, and before he could protest, you swung a leg over him, straddling his hips. His dick slapped against your inner thigh, hot and insistent, as you gripped it at the base and sank down in one fluid motion, taking him balls-deep with a satisfied moan.

“Fuck yeah, angel,” Bucky rasped, hands flying to your waist, thumbs digging into your skin as he bucked up once, testing. “Ride me like one of them horses out in the pasture—hard and wild.” His voice was all gravel and hunger, that smirk creeping back as he watched you take control.

You laughed breathlessly, rolling your hips in a slow grind before lifting up and slamming down, “You’ve got a real dirty mouth on you, handsome,” you teased, picking up the pace, bouncing steadily now, the rough denim of his jeans scraping deliciously against your thighs with each drop. The friction added a bite to the bliss, making you hiss through your teeth.

Bucky groaned, head tipping back against the mattress, but his eyes stayed locked on you. “Shit, just like that. Tighter, darlin’, squeeze me.”

Your gaze shifted to Steve, who hovered there, cock in hand, looking equal parts left out and starved. You flashed him a soft, encouraging smile, slowing your rhythm just enough to beckon him with a crook of your finger. “C’mon, honey. I want you right here.”

He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, but he shuffled closer on his knees, positioning himself near Bucky’s head, close enough that the scent of his arousal mixed with the musk of sweat and rain-soaked hay.

You leaned forward without missing a beat, your breasts swaying with the motion, and wrapped your lips around the tip of Steve’s cock. He was pretty—long and girthy, the foreskin peeling back as you sucked gently, tongue swirling over the sensitive head to taste the salty bead of pre-cum. “Mmm,” you hummed around him, the vibration pulling a choked gasp from his throat.

Steve’s hand tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding on as you licked a broad stripe up the underside, tracing the thick vein before taking him deeper, cheeks hollowing with the suction.

“God, your mouth... feels so damn good, beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough and genuine, hips twitching forward instinctively.

Bucky’s thrusts didn’t let up—he drove into you from below, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until it pebbled hard under his touch.

“Look at you, takin’ us both like a champ,” he panted, pinching lightly, sending sparks straight to your core.

But then his rhythm faltered for a split second, eyes darting sideways as your head bobbed right next to his face, the wet sounds of your sucking filling his ears. Steve’s cock glistened with your saliva, inches from Bucky’s cheek, and you caught the way Bucky’s gaze lingered, a flicker of something strange and curious in his expression.

“Hey, eyes on me,” you pulled off Steve with a pop, grinning down at Bucky as you clenched around him on purpose, making him curse under his breath. “Or you wanna join in? Taste him too?”

Bucky chuckled hesitantly, squeezing your other breast in retaliation. “Temptin’, but I’m good buried in this pussy for now.” He bucked harder, the scrape of denim biting into your skin again, urging you back to work.

You obliged, moaning around Steve’s length as you took him to the back of your throat, nose brushing the unkept hair at his base. Steve’s free hand braced on Bucky’s shoulder for balance, the accidental touch making both men tense, breaths syncing in the charged air.

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” Steve warned, fingers tightening in your hair, but you just hummed encouragement, riding Bucky faster.

Bucky’s eyes gaze flicked back up, locking onto the way your lips stretched around Steve’s throbbing dick, slurping and sucking with greedy abandon. Steve’s face was a mask of pure ecstasy; eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in a silent groan, and Bucky couldn’t resist. “Hey, punk, she’s got you leakin’ like a damn faucet.”

Steve’s breath hitched, his hand flexing in your hair, but he shot Bucky a glare through half-lidded eyes. “Shut it, Buck,feels too good to argue.”

You hummed around Steve’s length, the vibration making him buck forward, your free hand cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling them tighten as he teetered on the edge.

Bucky hummed, spreading your ass cheeks wider, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where his cock pistoned in and out. “Nah, saint, you’re blushin’ like a virgin. Gonna blow already?”

“Screw you,” Steve panted, but there was no heat in it, just desperate need as his cock twitched against your tongue. You could feel him swelling, the salty pulse of pre-cum flooding your mouth, he was seconds from exploding.

But you weren’t ready to let him go over yet. With a deliberate pop, you pulled off, your hand still stroking his slick shaft lazily, denying him that final push. Steve’s eyes flew open, pained and pleading, his chest heaving as he stared down at you.

“Please... don’t stop,” he begged, voice cracking, hips jerking futilely into your grip.

You paused your bounces on Bucky, clenching around him to keep him buried deep but holding still, the ache of denial making your thighs quiver. Leaning up slightly, you cupped Steve’s jaw with your free hand, thumb tracing his lower lip as you met his gaze softly. “Shh, pretty boy. I want you to finish inside me… fill me up proper. Not like this.”

Bucky stilled beneath you, his hands loosening on your ass just a fraction, brows knitting in confusion as he glanced between you and Steve. “You kickin’ me out now?”

Steve mirrored the look, his cock bobbing neglected in the air, still rock-hard and dripping. “But... Buck’s already...”

You grinned, sweet and reassuring, “Fellas, I’ve got room for two. Plenty of space in me.”

Your words hung in the humid air like a challenge, that smile still playing on your lips as you picked up the pace, bouncing with renewed vigor, your ass slapping against his thighs, the wet sounds of your pussy devouring him echoing in the dim loft.

Steve shifted behind you, his uncertainty clear in the way his hands trembled slightly on your waist. He was rock-hard, tip leaking and flushed, but his mind raced ahead—assuming you meant something else entirely. With a hesitant nudge, he pressed the head of his cock against your ass, the pressure firm but tentative, like he was testing uncharted waters.

A soft laugh bubbled out of you, light and teasing, cutting through the tension as you twisted your head to glance back at him. “Oh sweetheart, that’s not quite what I had in mind.”

Steve froze, cheeks burning even in the low light, his cock twitching against your skin. “I... thought... shit, sorry. You said—”

Before he could finish fumbling, you reached back with one arm, your fingers wrapping around his thick shaft—hot and pulsing in your palm. You stroked him once, firmly, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips, then guided him downward, angling him right toward your soaked entrance where Bucky was already buried deep.

The tip brushed against your folds, slick with your arousal and Bucky’s pre-cum, nudging insistently at the stretched opening.

Steve’s eyes widened, confusion etching deeper lines on his face as he stared down at the impossible sight. “Wait, but... how the hell—?”

You paused your grinding just enough to lean forward, bracing one hand on Bucky’s chest, nails digging into his skin for leverage. “There’s enough room in this greedy little pussy, honey. Stretch me wide, fill me up until I can’t think straight.”

Your words were a sultry command, eyes fluttering half-shut in anticipation, but you shot Steve a reassuring wink over your shoulder.

Bucky’s head snapped up, his blue eyes meeting Steve’s in a shared look of stunned disbelief. “You serious, darlin’? Both of us... in there? Shit, that’s—”

“Insane,” Steve finished, voice hoarse, but his hips inched forward anyway, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance alongside Bucky’s girth. They exchanged another glance; uncertain, a flicker of worry in Bucky’s eyes and Steve’s furrowed brow. This wasn’t some quick tumble; it was pushing boundaries they’d never imagined.

“Yeah, insane,” Bucky echoed, but his voice dropped an octave, laced with a sliver of excitement as he held still inside you, letting you feel the throb of him. “You sure you can take it, angel?”

“Mm, more than sure,” you murmured, rocking your hips experimentally, which only wedged Steve’s tip a fraction deeper, the dual pressure making your breath catch. “Come on, Stevie—push. I want to feel you both sliding in, rubbing against each other in me.”

Steve swallowed hard, resolve flickering to life in his gaze as he nodded, hands steadying on your hips. “Alright... alright, if that’s what you want, sweetheart.” He started pushing in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the stretch burning sweet and intense as your walls accommodated him.

You breathed in deep, eyes squeezing shut, a shudder rippling through you as you balanced on Bucky’s chest—fingers splaying wide over his pounding heart, grounding yourself in the heat of his skin.

Bucky groaned low, his cock twitching inside you as he felt Steve’s length pressing in against him.

Steve’s breath stuttered, his forehead beading with sweat as he sank deeper, the sensation overwhelming—your pussy clenching around them both, hot and velvety, while Bucky’s cock pulsed right against his own. “It’s—tight as hell. You okay?”

You nodded, biting your lip to stifle a whimper, the fullness bordering on too much but tipping straight into ecstasy. “Keep goin’... just like that. Oh, fuck. Yeah, both of you, right there.”

The stretch was exquisite agony, your body locked in place between them, every nerve ending firing as Bucky and Steve filled you to the brink—two thick cocks wedged deep in your pussy, pulsing hot and insistent against each other through your slick walls.

You could barely shift, let alone move, the overwhelming fullness pinning you like a vice, your thighs quivering from the strain. A hazy fog clouded your mind, cockdrunk and drifting in the haze of sensation, every shallow breath pulling a whimper from your lips.

“F-Fellas,” you gasped, voice slurred with lust, fingers clutching at Bucky’s shoulders for any semblance of control. “I... I can’t—move for me. You gotta fuck me like this.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, a feral glint cutting through the sweat beading on his brow. He nodded once, rough and sure, his hands clamping harder on your hips. “Yeah? You want us to use you, sweet thing? Pound this greedy little hole till she breaks?” His voice was gravel, hips shifting first—tentative at the start, pulling back an inch before slamming upward, the drag of his shaft grinding against Steve’s in the tight confines of your cunt.

Steve mirrored him a beat later, hesitant but hungry, his broad chest heaving as he withdrew slightly, then thrust in—the dual motion sending sparks exploding behind your eyes. “God, it’s... too much,” he groaned, voice cracking on the edge of a moan, his cock sliding against Bucky’s.

They found a rhythm, tentative thrusts syncing into something primal, back and forth like a seesaw of pure heat—Bucky pushing deep as Steve eased out, then reversing, their groans mingling with the wet slap of skin and the creak of the mattress beneath.

You were their plaything now, jolted between them like a ragdoll, body bouncing on the wave of their cocks, the pressure building in your core until it bordered on delirium. Lost in the rhythm, Bucky’s hand snaked up your back, fingers tangling in your hair to yank you down, crashing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss—tongue plunging deep, tasting the salt of your shared sweat, devouring you like he owned every gasp. You melted into it, moaning into his mouth as their cocks speared you harder.

But Steve wasn’t going to be left out anymore. As Bucky released you, Steve’s strong arm hooked around your waist, pulling you upright with a possessive tug, his free hand cupping your jaw to turn your face to him. As he sealed his lips over yours—kissing you slower but no less fierce, tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, drawing out a needy whine as his hips snapped forward, grinding deeper alongside Bucky.

Your mind spun, pleasure dazing you into a stupor, words tumbling out in a breathless haze. “Kiss... kiss each other.”

Bucky faltered for a split second, his blue eyes flicking up to Steve’s, surprise flashing before lust swallowed it whole. “What—darlin’, you—”

You didn’t let him finish, one hand snaking behind Steve’s head, fingers threading through his damp hair and pushing down firmly, guiding him toward Bucky’s waiting mouth. “C’mon, hotshot, kiss your golden boy for me.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, resistance crumbling under the weight of your words and the relentless pump of his hips. They kept moving, cocks buried to the hilt, sliding in tandem as their faces drew closer—lips brushing tentative at first, then crashing together in a passionate lock. Bucky’s tongue darted out, claiming Steve’s mouth with the same hunger he fucked you with, a muffled groan escaping them both as the kiss deepened.

You watched, transfixed, the sight of their mouths fusing; tongues tangling, breaths mingling, pushing you over the edge. The coil in your belly snapped, orgasm ripping through you like lightning, your pussy spasming wildly around them both, walls fluttering and squeezing in rhythmic pulses.

“Fuck—yes, oh god, I’m cumming!” you cried, body arching as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, soaking their cocks in your release.

Their kiss broke on a shared gasp, Bucky pulling back first, eyes wide and wild as he felt the vice-like grip of your climax. “Fuck—baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” Bucky grunted, voice strained, his grip bruising your hips as he drove up into the slick chaos of your pussy, feeling the hot flood of your release coat him. “Gonna make me—”

Steve beat him to it, a choked groan tearing from his throat as his body seized. “Oh shit—can’t hold—”

His cock throbbed wildly inside you, swelling against Bucky’s before unleashing thick ropes of cum, pulsing deep and flooding your core. The warmth spread instantly, mixing with your own juices, the sensation of his load spilling out around their joined shafts pushing Bucky right to the brink.

That was it—the wet heat of Steve’s release seeping through your walls, drenching Bucky’s cock in the messy proof of his friend’s orgasm. Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut, a guttural moan ripping free as he slammed home one last time. His shaft jerked violently, erupting in heavy spurts, pumping load after load into you until it overflowed, the combined seed sloshing with every twitch.

They emptied everything, cocks twitching with brutal oversensitivity, veins pulsing against your fluttering insides. You shuddered between them, body limp and quaking, every nerve raw from the overload.

Bucky’s hands roamed your sweat-slick skin—tracing the curve of your spine, cupping your ass, kneading your thighs—as if grounding himself in the aftermath, his breaths coming in harsh pants against your ear. “Easy, angel... we got you,” he murmured, voice hoarse, fingers digging in just enough to soothe the lingering ache.

Steve, still buried deep, pressed his lips to the pulse at your neck, kissing softly at first, then with more urgency, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin. “So good... you feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispered, nuzzling closer, his chest heaving against your back as he fought to steady the tremors racking his frame.

Steve was the first to stir, reluctance clear in the way his hands lingered on your waist. With a careful shift, he eased back, his softening cock slipping free with a lewd, wet pop. The rush hit immediately—a gush of warmth spilling from you, their mingled cum trickling down in thick rivulets, soaking the denim of Bucky’s jeans beneath.

“Ah—sorry,” Steve muttered, flushed and spent, collapsing onto the mattress beside Bucky, his arm draping loosely over his eyes as if to block out the intensity.

You let out a shaky breath, muscles protesting as you lifted yourself off Bucky next, the drag of his cock pulling a sharp whine from your throat. More seed followed, sliding hot and sticky down your thighs, pooling where you’d been joined. Bucky hissed through his teeth, hips bucking involuntarily at the loss.

“Fuckin’ hell—that’s... messy,” he rasped, a low chuckle rumbling out despite the sensitivity, his hand coming up to swipe at the spill on his jeans.

Exhausted, you collapsed between them, body sinking into the rumpled sheets, limbs twitching with aftershocks. Silence fell, broken only by the trio of heaving breaths syncing in the humid loft air, thick with the musk of heat and raw sex, undercut by the distant patter of rain on the roof and the faint, the sweet trace of your honeysuckle lotion clinging to sweat-damp skin.

Then Bucky’s voice cut through the hush, like he was trying to toss a joke over something that felt too big to stare at.

“Well… guess we learned how to share after all.”

You let out a small huff that might’ve been a laugh if you’d had more air in your lungs, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Your body still felt like it was humming—too warm, too wrung-out, like you’d been shaken up and put back together wrong in the best way.

Steve made a sound that could’ve been a chuckle, “S’pose that’s one way to put it,” he murmured.

Above your head, Steve turned his head towards Bucky. That familiar, easy glance they’d shared a thousand times in their lives, the one that always said you good? and yeah, I’m good, the one that had carried them through worse than a Louisiana storm. Only now it didn’t land the same.

Because now “you good?” had more weight.

Steve’s eyes flicked to Bucky’s mouth, just a fraction too long, and something tightened in his chest, warm and confusing. A flash of it, all over again, the wet press of tongues, the wrongness-turned-rightness of it, the way it had sparked through the whole loft like lightning.

The two of them had spent their whole lives calling it brotherhood because that word was safe. Best friends. End of the line. A story you could tell people without watching them look too closely.

But you had made them look too closely.

Bucky broke eye contact first, like he felt the heat of the thought and didn’t want to stand in it, his gaze dropping to you like he needed somewhere safer to look. His hand came up, fingers warm and careful at your throat, thumb resting at your pulse like he could feel your heartbeat still stuttering there. He tilted your face toward him with a gentleness that didn’t match his normal charm at all.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, and there was no swagger in it, no performance. “One hell of a woman.”

“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” you breathed back, a lazy little smile tugging at your mouth.

He kissed you, slow and lingering, like he was claiming the moment for himself. You let him. Let him have the softness. Let him taste the last traces of you on your own lips without making it a fight.

And you felt Steve’s attention sharpen across your skin.

At first it was just presence. Then it became something else, that ugly twist of jealousy rising in him again, quick and hot, like he’d hated it earlier and still couldn’t stop it now.

Only this time it wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t just Bucky’s kissing you and I’m not.

It was tangled up with the memory of Bucky’s mouth against his, with the fact Steve had felt it… felt how it changed the air, how it changed the shape of his chest when he thought about it too long. It was the unsettling realization that what he wanted wasn’t cleanly separated into categories anymore.

He didn’t want to name that.

So he did what Steve always did when he didn’t want to name something, he acted.

His hand came up, palm warm against your cheek, and he guided your face toward him with a firmness that bordered on petulant—like he couldn’t stand being left out even for a breath anymore.

“Hey,” he muttered, as if the word could justify what he was about to take.

Then he kissed you.

Deeper than Bucky had, because Steve kissed like he was trying to anchor himself, like if he could taste you hard enough, he could drown out every complicated thought trying to rise. His mouth was hot and sure, tongue slipping in with a confidence he hadn’t carried before the stables, before the loft, before you pulled all the polite restraint out of him and taught him what he looked like without it.

You hummed into the kiss, letting it be messy, letting him be greedy.

Bucky watched, jaw tightening, though not angry exactly, not anymore. Just… lit up. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands, his pride, his hunger. Like the sight of Steve taking something he wanted did something ugly and thrilling to him at the same time.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes heavy. Your voice came out soft and unhurried like you weren’t about to let either of them pretend this was simple.

“You boys keep lookin’ at each other like you don’t know what you’re seein’,” you murmured, eyes flicking between them. “Ain’t like you didn’t already cross the line.”

Steve’s throat bobbed. His gaze cut away for half a second, reflex and denial, then returned.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “She’s got a point, punk.”

Steve shot him a look. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m not startin’,” Bucky said, almost too calm. “I’m just… takin’ inventory.”

That made Steve’s brow furrow, something wary and pulled-tight in his expression.

You shifted between them, the movement small but enough to draw both their eyes, enough to remind them you were still the center of gravity here, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

Steve felt it in the quiet seconds after, watching you push yourself upright, stretching like a cat that’d just had its fill. The lamp on the little trunk threw a golden wash over you, catching the curve of your shoulder, the soft hollow at your throat, the confidence in the way you didn’t rush to cover yourself.

And in his head, Steve hated how perfectly Bucky’s pet name fit you now. Angel.

He had always thought angels were meant to guide you back toward the straight path. You were the opposite kind. The kind that smiled sweetly and led you off the road on purpose, deeper into the dark, deeper into want, like sin wasn’t something to fear but something to finally stop lying about.

He should’ve hated that.

Instead it felt… like relief.

It felt like coming home to a part of himself he’d kept locked up tight, because being Steve Rogers meant being good, meant being steady, meant being the one who held the line. Out here… on this farm, in this heat, with your hands on him and your mouth on his—he didn’t have to perform holiness. He could just be a man. Hungry, human and wanted.

And Bucky, reckless, charming and always halfway out the door, had been tempted into stillness for once. Steve could see it. Even now, with Bucky sprawled beside him, breathing slower, eyes heavy, there was a calm in him that didn’t usually last longer than a cigarette.

You’d done that. To both of them.

Then you spoke again, and the words hit like cold water.

“Shame you boys’ll be leavin’ tomorrow.”

You said it so goddamn easy. Like you were talking about weather. Like you hadn’t just cracked something open between them that didn’t fit back the same way.

The warmth in the loft went cold.

Steve’s throat tightened. He glanced at Bucky without meaning to, like he needed confirmation he hadn’t imagined the sting. Bucky’s face had gone still, brows drawn together, mouth set in a line that looked almost… hurt. Just that faint pout of a man who didn’t like realizing he’d started wanting something he couldn’t have.

Steve recognized the expression because it was sitting on his own face too.

Leaving had always been the plan. Finish the fence. Get the gas. Roll out. Keep moving. That was Bucky’s rhythm. That was the only rhythm Steve had been able to follow for months without losing him.

But now, hearing you say it out loud, Steve felt something stubborn rise up in him. Possessive in a quiet way. Not of you exactly… though that was in it. Of the whole thing. The strange little pocket of peace this place had offered. The way his shoulders had stopped riding his ears. The way he’d slept deeper here, even on a hayloft mattress.

He could feel that same resistance in Bucky, of all people.

Steve swallowed, voice coming out quieter than he meant. “Who says we have to leave tomorrow?”

“My daddy’s got you on a job. Fence gets finished, you take your gas, you go,” you said. “That was the arrangement.”

Bucky shifted beside you, shoulder tightening. “Arrangements can change,” he muttered, rougher than necessary.

Steve’s eyes snapped to him, surprised by how fast the words came out of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky didn’t meet his gaze. He stared at the sheets instead, jaw working like he was annoyed at himself for saying anything at all.

Steve felt a tug in his chest.

You tilted your head, studying them both. “Y’all don’t like bein’ told when to leave, huh,” you murmured, almost amused. “Thought drifters lived for the road.”

Bucky’s laugh came out flat. “Usually.”

Steve looked at you, really looked, and he didn’t like what he saw. You didn’t look afraid of losing them. You looked like you knew exactly what it did to men to feel wanted, then be reminded it had an end date.

Steve’s voice dropped, honest without meaning to be. “This place… it’s been good for us.”

Bucky’s fingers flexed against the quilt. “Don’t start getting sentimental,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Only discomfort.

Steve glanced at him again, then back at you. “If we asked, again, would your father consider letting us stay a few more days?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than the rain outside. Bucky finally looked up, and for a second their eyes met again.

You let the silence sit just long enough for it to sting. The lamp warmed your skin into gold again, turning you soft around the edges, almost holy if a person didn’t look too closely. But Steve knew better now. Bucky did too.

Two grown men were lying on either side of you like you were the altar and they were the ones who’d come to kneel.

Your mouth curved. “I’ll talk to Daddy,” you said, voice lazy, sweet as iced tea. “If he’s in a good mood.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, hope and irritation tangled. “And what puts him in a good mood?”

You hummed, rolling a shoulder in a shrug that made Steve’s throat go dry. “Could be the fence looks right. Could be he slept decent. Could be the Lord whispers in his ear.” Your eyes flicked to Steve. “Could be the sun decides to shine.”

Steve felt his chest tighten on a rough breath. He didn’t know whether to laugh or grit his teeth.

Bucky shifted beside you, restless. “So we’re just… waitin’ on weather?”

“Mm-hmm.” You let your lashes lower. “Seems y’all are good at waitin’ when you want somethin’ bad enough.”

Steve had been stuck his whole life being the good one, the noble one, and you’d given him freedom not to be. Bucky had waited his whole life for something to matter enough to make him stay. And now here they were, both acting like it was anything but your hand on the leash.

You didn’t even have to tug it.

You simply settled back down between them, shoulder brushing Steve’s arm, thigh sliding against Bucky’s, casual contact that made both men go quiet. You fit there too easily, like you belonged in the seam between them.

You lay between them like a secret, like a blessing, like a sin dressed up in honeysuckle and honeyed words.

Angel, Steve thought again—then corrected himself. No. Not an angel. A temptation that looked like one.

Your hand drifted lazily up Steve’s chest, fingers splaying over his heartbeat as if counting it. Your other hand found Bucky’s wrist on your waist, thumb stroking once, absentminded.

You sighed, content, as if the question of tomorrow didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that tonight was still yours.

“If the morning’s kind,” you murmured, voice soft as prayer, “maybe I’ll keep you boys a little longer.”

And you didn’t say anything else. You didn’t promise, didn’t explain, didn’t give them the comfort of certainty. You just settled deeper between them, warm and wicked and impossibly at ease, like the devil himself could’ve learned a thing or two from you about patience.

And outside, rain kept whispering its steady sermon against the roof.

a/n | hope ya'll enjoyed my freakiness, tell me what you think, also im thing abt starting a fresh new taglist, so let me know. and i had to a lotttt of research, so i hope my potrayal of New Orleans, Louisianna is the tiniest bit accurate. the title is based on the movie Wild Things, obviously this fic has no relation, except for the very heated sex and erotica

also the barn loft was based on my man, Clark Kent's favourite spot

A man does the work.

A man holds himself over you, keeps his weight off your body, kisses your forehead, tells you, “I got you, sweetheart,” and makes damn sure you feel good before he even thinks about himself.

And honestly, you're not really complaining.

Because Bucky on top of you is a religious experience. Bucky with his hair falling around his face, metal hand braced beside your head, flesh hand curled around your waist, jaw clenched like he’s barely surviving the pleasure is a wonderful thing, 10/10 would recommend finding your own super soldier to do this with.

He loves seeing you under him. He loves when your head tips back, loves when your hands clutch at his shoulders. Loves when your eyes go glassy and unfocused because he’s taking care of you exactly the way he promised he would.

It’s sweet and hot and very gentlemanly in that old-fashioned, “I’ll take care of you, sweetheart, that’s my job” sort of way.

And you love him for it.

But, unfortunately for Bucky and his entire masculine self-concept, you also like being an active participant in bed.

You like touching, teasing, taking. You like making him react. You like not just being adored, but getting to adore him back.

So one night, after he has once again kissed you breathless and settled himself between your thighs, you put a hand on his chest.

He stops immediately.

His eyes snap up to yours, alert and worried. “You okay?”

You almost laugh because he is so serious about your sex life. Still, you push gently at his chest and say, “Lie down.”

Bucky blinks. “What?”

“Lie down,” you repeat, smiling. “Let me take care of you.”

And ohm the look on his face.

It’s not reluctance, exactly. It’s confusion in some very outdated idea of what he is supposed to be. “Sweetheart,” he says, “you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to.” You kiss him once, “I want to.”

That does something to him.

And because Bucky trusts you, he lies back.

And then you climb over him.

And James Buchanan Barnes, six-foot-something super soldier, man with a vibranium arm and a kill count he refuses to talk about, looks up at you like he has just discovered God is real and she’s sitting on his lap.

The first time you ride him, he loses his mind.

There is no dignified way to say it.

His hands go to your hips first. Then his gaze drops, and his eyes nearly roll back because the view is good.

You know the view is good.

You can feel the way he reacts to it, see his throat work when you start moving. Your hands on his chest. Your body over his. The roll of your hips. The way you smile when you realize he’s already fighting for his life.

“Jesus,” he breathes.

And that is when the power starts going to your head.

Because Bucky Barnes under you? Bucky Barnes  breathless beneath you? Bucky Barnes, who can flip cars and tear through reinforced doors and take down guys twice your size without breaking a sweat, looking up at you with parted lips and blown-wide pupils because you have him pinned to the bed with nothing but your thighs and your audacity?

It makes you drunk with lust. Drunk with power. Drunk on the knowledge that you can tame him. That this beautiful nightmare of a man is lying beneath you, moaning your name.

Of course, at first, he tries to help.

Because he’s Bucky and therefore doesn’t know how to simply receive.

You start riding him properly, slow at first, finding the rhythm, enjoying the way his hands flex against your skin, and then his hips snap up hard. 

You laugh, breathless and a little wrecked, and press your hands harder to his chest.

“No.”

Bucky freezes. “No?”

“No,” you say, leaning down until your lips brushes his. “Stop trying to do my job.”

His looks confused, flustered, and turned on beyond belief. “I was just—”

“I know what you were doing.” You kiss the corner of his mouth. “You were trying to take over.”

He swallows.

You sit back up, roll your hips deliberately, and watch his head press back into the pillow. “Let me ride you, Barnes.”

That shuts him up for about three seconds.

Then he makes a growl so deep and broken you feel it everywhere.

And that is how it begins: The glorious corruption of all his old-fashioned little ideas about what a man is supposed to do in bed.

Because once he realizes he is allowed to just lie there and let you want him, let you use him, let you take pleasure from his body while he gets to watch you come undone above him, he becomes addicted to it.

At first, he is almost shy about it.

He still offers to get on top. Still murmurs, “C’mere, sweetheart, let me take care of you,” because that is his default setting. That’s muscle memory. But then you push him back again.

And again.

And again.

And every time, he gives in a little faster.

Until eventually, it takes almost nothing.

All it takes is a hand on his chest and a “Lie back for me, baby.”

And Bucky’s gone.

He’s on his back, pillows messy behind his head, hair spread out, lips parted, eyes dark and dazed and fixed on you.

He is still strong, obviously. You never forget that. You know he could flip you over in a second. 

But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t want to. 

You love it so much it makes you a little insane.

You love watching the terrifying Winter Soldier become your sweet, desperate, ruined man in bed. You love the way his hands hover when you tell him not to touch yet. You love the way he groans when you finally guide them to your waist. You love that he blushes sometimes.

Actually blushes.

This man has survived wars and assassins and brainwashing and aliens, but you tell him he looks pretty like this and he turns pink to the tips of his ears.

“Don’t say that,” he mutters, even though his hands tighten on you.

“Why not?”

His jaw works. “Because.”

“Because you like it?”

He glares at you.

It is not intimidating at all, considering he’s underneath you, panting and letting you set the pace.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he says.

You grin. “Yes.”

You enjoy it too much. You enjoy him too much.

It’s not really just about sex, either. 

It’s about trust.

It’s Bucky letting himself be wanted without earning it through service. It’s him learning that taking care of you doesn’t always mean doing all the work. 

And fuck, does he learn.

He learns a little too well, maybe.

Because now he has preferences.

Now he has the audacity to look at you from the bed with those big, tragic blue eyes and his hair already messy against the pillow. He reaches for you lazily and says, “You coming here or not?”

He knows what it does to you when he lets the metal arm rest above his head, when his shirt rides up, when he looks at you like he’s already waiting to be ruined.

He’s still a gentleman about it.

He says please.

He says thank you against your mouth afterward, which should not be as hot as it is.

He still checks on you, pulls you close and rubs your back and kisses your shoulder and asks if you need water. 

Sometimes, sure, he gets on top when you ask. Sometimes you want him over you, want that old Bucky sweetness, the low murmur of his voice in your ear telling you he’s got you. And he gives it to you instantly. 

But even then, there is a difference now.

Because that’s not his default setting anymore.

His default is now being told to lie down, because he likes being ridden until he forgets how to speak.

Bucky Barnes may have started out convinced he needed to be on top because that was what a man was supposed to do.

But now, more often than not, he is your pillow princess.

And honestly, he has never looked better.

—

A rush of warm summer's air brushed the back of your neck, the bell above the bakery door jingling and alerting you of a new customer.

"I'll be with you in a minute," you exclaimed softly over your shoulder, your hands occupied with wrapping up the order of mixed berry mini tarts for Mrs. Johnson. She had come by the bakery a few days earlier to place a special order for her granddaughters birthday, and made you promise you would bake them and not your father—she swore your baking tasted sweeter than his, that you put in a 'dash of sunshine'.

A deep, raspy voice filled the small bakery. "Take your time, doll. I'm in no rush."

The light yellow ribbon trembled in your grip, your fingers tightening around the fabric for a split second. You swallowed back the annoyed sigh that worked it's way up your throat whenever you heard his voice.

You finished wrapping Mrs. Johnson's order in silence, not bothering with a reply. The less you spoke to him the better your chances were of leaving the bakery in a good mood.

"You're an angel," Mrs. Johnson smiled as you handed her the warm cloth parcel. "Here," she dug into her coin purse and placed a few dimes on the wooden counter between you, "something to thank you for your hard work." She gave you a small wink before making her way to the door, exchanging warm pleasantries with the only other customer in the bakery on her way out.

You grabbed the dimes and put them in the tip jar next to the register, turning back to the small work bench to wipe it down.

"What a big tip, angel. What ya gonna do with all your riches?" Came the deep voice again, layered thick with honey and much closer to you this time.

The sigh finally slipped out of you. "What are you doing here, James?" You asked exasperatedly, keeping your back turned to him.

"What will it take for you to call me Bucky, doll?" You could hear the faux pout in his tone. "I'll get on my hands and knees."

"Your ma didn't place any orders, so I'll ask again: what are you doing here?" You said in response, finally turning to the man who lived to annoy you with his presence.

James was leaning against the counter, his blue eyes bright with a smirk that was quirked to the left—his jaw moving as he chewed on gum.

"I wanted to come say hi to my favourite girl."

You ignored the thrill that his smoky rasp sent down your spine. "I am not your anything," you bit out, crossing your arms over your chest.

His smirk morphed into a shit-eating grin, "who said I was talking 'bout you?" His lips smacked obnoxiously. "Mrs. Johnson's always been a big fan of mine."

You moved from behind the counter, rolling your eyes at his arrogance. You made your way to the display in the window, moving around sweet bags that weren't out of place.

"She know you takin' Dot out dancing tonight?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your lips pressing into a thin line. You weren't supposed to know that.

James appeared at your side, nudging your rib with his elbow. "You keepin' tabs on me, doll?" He sounded ecstatic and your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"No," you scoffed, "she came by yesterday and wouldn't stop gabbin' about it."

The oven timer went off in the kitchen, saving you from James seeing your trembling hands. When did they start shaking?

"Is that jealousy I hear?" He followed behind you, leaning against the small kitchen's doorframe. You busied yourself with taking the bread out of the oven, resisting the urge to look at how his shoulders made the room smaller—since when did he get so broad? "You know I've been askin' you to go dancing for years."

"And what? I just become another bird clinging to the James Buchanan Barnes' arm?" You asked in a sickly sweet, sarcastic tone. "I'd rather pluck my eyes out."

James staggered back dramatically, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "You wound me, sweetheart. I don't know what I did to deserve this kinda treatment." The big grin on his face contradicted his words—he enjoyed this, whatever it was.

"You know what you did," you mumbled, swatting at his chest with a dish towel. “Now, are ya gonna buy something or continue being a pest?”

His hand shot up quickly, grabbing the end of the towel and pulling abruptly. You stumbled forward a few steps, his strength catching you off balance. You braced a hand on his chest on reflex, trying to stabilise yourself. His body was warm beneath your palm and the contact sent sizzling currents of electricity racing up your arm, travelling through your veins and making your heart beat faster.

His scent wrapped around you—minty freshness from his gum, a lingering hint of tobacco, something masculine and uniquely him. You inhaled instinctively, your mind going hazy. You briefly forgot you were meant to hate him.

"As long as I'm your pest."

All prior teasing and flirtation was gone from his voice, leaving behind a vulnerable sincerity you'd never heard from him before. His free hand came up slowly, resting on top of yours—your eyes latching on his thumb stroking the back of your hand softly. Your nerves lit up under his touch, and your breath hitched at how his hand completely swallowed yours.

You made the mistake of looking up at his face, catching his hooded eyes zeroed in on your lips. His head dipped lower, his minty breath caressing your face. The air around you thickened, your heart stuttering in your chest. You could see a faint scar on his nose, your hand hanging at your side twitching with the urge to trace it.

The service door behind you banged open with a loud force, breaking whatever spell James dragged you under. You jumped away from him like you had been burned, just in time to see your father's head pop out from over a stack of crates.

"Bucky, I'll have to put you on the payroll at this rate! Do ya mind helpin' an old man out?"

James was by your father's side before he even finished his question, lifting two crates off the trolley like they weighed nothing. His eyes met yours for a second, soft and open, before his signature smirk took over and one of his eyes twitched in a flirty wink.

Right. You hated James and his stupid, charming, handsome face.

Fifteen Years Earlier

The first thing you noticed was the air was thicker than your old neighbourhood, a hint of sot laced through the Brooklyn winds. The sidewalk was uneven beneath your shoes; a mix of dirt, harsh gravel, and cracked concrete taking your full attention—the last thing you wanted was to return home with a scraped knee after your ma's warning. Your parents were hesitant to let you wander the neighbourhood alone—they were busy unpacking from the move—but the adventurer in you couldn't sit still.

You rounded the corner, following the tinkling sounds of children's laughter. A smile bloomed across your face when you spotted a couple of kids a few houses down, jumping on the sidewalk as they played hopscotch. They looked to be around your age—a scrawny boy with blonde hair and a girl with dark hair pulled into braids. Your footsteps picked up as you eagerly approached the duo, missing the front door to your right opening and boots stomping down the steps.

Before you could greet the kids playing, your head snapped back—a harsh tug pulling at your pigtail and causing your scalp to flash with pain. The force threw you off balance and you fell to the side, your palms and knee hitting the rough ground—small stones embedding themselves in your flesh. You looked at your palms in shock, tiny dots of red surfacing and heating your skin. Your vision blurred as your eyes filled with tears, a small sniffle escaping you; your ma was going to be so disappointed. There was tiny flecks of blood smearing the hem of your dress where your scraped knee was starting to weep.

"I-I'm—" A small voice started behind you, making you whip your head back to your attacker. He was taller than the blonde boy, with floppy hair that was a matching brown to the girl with braids. His bright blue eyes were widened in panic with his pink mouth slightly agape, his hands hovering uselessly near your head. You would've thought he was cute, if he hadn't just injured you in lieu of a greeting.

Your voice was quiet, though laced with a small fire. "Why did you do that?" A silent tear streaked down your cheek, adding more warmth to the heat flushing your skin. You weren't embarrassed—no, you were something far more dangerous. You were angry.

"James Buchanan!" A woman yelled from the front porch on your right, her dress flowing behind her as she rushed down the wooden steps. "What are you doin' to that poor girl?!"

The scent of lavender engulfed you as she reached you two, her firm hands gripping the boy's—James—shoulders and pulling him away from you. She squatted down next to you with a gentle smile, her brows furrowing as she examined your bloody knee and hands. Long brown hair pinned away from her face and light blue eyes confirmed your suspicion—she was your assailants mother.

"Are you okay, sweetie? Can you stand?" She placed soft hands on your elbows, helping you to stand slowly. She moved a hand to your back, rubbing between your shoulders soothingly. "Let's get you cleaned up, that okay with you?" You responded with a small nod.

"M'sorry, ma. I just wanted to talk to her…" James mumbled guiltily. Your gaze snapped to him with a hardened glare. So he could apologise to his ma but not to you?

"Go play with Becca and Steve, I'll deal with you later." His mom said sternly, leading you away from him and to the porch steps. You kept your gaze on him, narrowing your eyes as he lingered next to the gravel now spotted with your blood.

"I won't forget this, James."

When your father first opened his bakery you and your mother didn't have much hope. It was a small store wedged between an abandoned butcher who had gone out of business and a bookstore that got new releases a year late and had rot lining the bookcases. There was hardly any foot traffic, and for the first few weeks after opening the only customers were dockworkers on their lunch break or tourists who had gotten lost.

One day your father decided to go door to door in your neighbourhood with boxes full of his—and your—baking, and the next day there was a line waiting outside the door before you opened. A month after that, your family's bakery had become the go to for Brooklyn's residents—despite your family being 'transplants'. From then on your life routine consisted of school, the bakery, and then home—sometimes the bakery before school, depending on how many special orders your father had.

It didn't take long for you to figure out that bakeries—like coffee shops—had an atmosphere that invited gossip. Something about the smell of caramelised sugar and freshly baked bread, the golden hues of sunlight that trickled through the large windows, the soft droning from the antique radio in the corner—it made people relax and let their guard down. And it made them forget that you were also there, standing behind the counter trying to tamp down your amused smile as you overheard conversations about overbearing mother-in-laws, school crushes, and illegitimate babies.

Unfortunately for you, that meant you heard the name "Bucky Barnes" fall from more girl's lips than you could count. From your fellow classmates giggling over how much of a 'dreamboat' he was, to the women who were lucky enough to go dancing with him, you heard more about him than you ever wanted to.

"He's a really good dancer," the redhead giggled to her friend, a slice of apple and rhubarb pie sitting between them on the window table.

"Oh, I'm sure," The friend replied in a dreamy voice. "You didn't stop at dancing though, did you?" She asked in a singsong tone, wiggling her eyebrows.

You pressed the roller harder into the flattened dough, rolling your eyes at their conversation. You had twenty minutes left before you needed to close shop, which meant you only had to wait ten more minutes before you could politely usher them out the door.

Dot sighed heavily, "we went back to mine and were necking for a bit, and then he just…stopped."

"I bet he was a good kisser, at least," the friend offered.

"Really good, which is why I'm so cheesed off!" Dot let out a huff. "He was even a gentleman as he turned me down, saying that it's nothin' to do with me—that his heart just 'wasn't in the right place'. That there's some special dame he can't get over."

A snort slipped out of you before you could stop it—James, only having eyes for one girl, really? Your hands froze on the roller as their heads whipped to you standing behind the counter.

Dot's eyes narrowed at you, her head tilting like she was trying to put a name to a face. Then the recognition hit her.

"You know him, don't you? You know Bucky?" She asked you, eagerly leaning over the back of her chair.

"Yeah, I guess. He lives 'round the corner from me," you offered with a small shrug. The last thing you wanted was to talk about James with his latest date.

She looked at you expectantly. "Well? Do you know if there is a special girl?"

Ever since his voice dropped in the seventh grade, James has had a new girl on his arm every week. Each week, he got caught playing footsie with a different girl under the school desks, received high fives from his fellow wolves for heavy petting a dilly at the pictures, and on multiple occasions sported a black eye from his attempts at bird-dogging. He was an incorrigible ladies man; there was nothing special about being his girl.

You rubbed a flour covered hand against your temple. "We don't talk 'bout that kinda stuff," you mumbled. "We're not that close."

Dot hummed, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raising on her forehead. "Really? Isn't he here, like, every day?"

Is that why they were still here? Were they waiting for James to turn up?

"I wouldn't say every day," you replied, wiping your hands on your apron. "His ma likes my focaccia and lemon bars." You started to loudly pack up the register and front counter, hoping they would get the hint to move on.

Dot's friend whispered something low to her, both their eyes trailing from the humid mess that was your hair down to the faded loafers on your feet. Your shoulders inched higher under their scrutinising stares, a string of sarcastic remarks loaded on the back of your tongue.

"Pie was good," was all Dot said, standing from her chair and gathering her bag, her friend following suit. They offered you a brief wave as they opened the door, the chime from the bell announcing their departure. The sound was like music to your ears—your shoulders dropping a fraction and a tired sigh leaving your lips.

What the hell was that?

You turned back to the raspberry tart you were working on, trying to immerse yourself in the new recipe you were testing out while the words "special girl" rang out in your head.

The bell sounded again, the jingle causing a sigh to escape you. You should've made sure to lock the door after them.

"Sorry, we're closed." You called out, your eyes not leaving the sticky red mess beneath your hands.

"Sign on the door says otherwise." Came the husky, low voice that haunted your dreams.

"Speak of the devil," you muttered under your breath. You turned your head over your shoulder, seeing James sauntering towards you with that stupid, roguish grin. "If you're looking for Dot, she left a few minutes ago."

"I know."

You squinted your eyes at him. "Did you wait until they left to come in?"

He shrugged sheepishly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "Maybe."

You scoffed, resting a hip against the counter and throwing him a smug look. "Heard that you left her feeling…unsatisfied."

He met your look with an arrogant smile, his eyes flashing with interest."You talkin' about me again, doll?"

"Unwillingly."

He leaned both arms against the wooden counter in front of you, drawing your attention to his exposed forearms. Your eyes followed the line of a vein bulging through his skin, his rolled sleeve cutting off your view of it travelling up his bicep.

"She was just practice."

Your eyes snapped up to his glowing blue eyes, a flush creeping up your spine at being caught staring. The lust searing under your skin churned into disgust at his words. "Practice? That's all these girls are to you?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, "gotta keep my moves fresh for when you finally come to your senses."

You barked out a harsh laugh. "In your dreams, Barnes."

He stood to his full height, rounding the counter and trailing a hand along the wood grain as he stepped closer to you.

He cocked his head to the side. "How'd you know you're all I dream about?"

Your heart leaped into your throat and you scolded your body's reaction, reminding yourself he talks like this to every dame in a thirty mile radius.

"Don't you have anything better to do? Like finding some other girl to harass?" You turned back to the raspberry tart, taking a steadying breath and willing your heartbeat to slow.

"I'm right where I want to be."

His voice was right next to you now, low and raspy in your ear. A hint of smoke clung to his clothes, a smell that normally repulsed you but had you leaning closer to him.

A raspberry burst beneath your pinched fingers, drenching your skin in it's glistening juice.

"Look at the mess you've made, doll."

Before you could grab the rag sitting on the counter, slender fingers wrapped around your wrist. His thumb brushed against your racing pulse, dark eyes meeting yours as he slowly brought your stained fingers towards his mouth. Your breath caught in your throat, all coherent thoughts leaving your brain—everything in your body single-mindedly focused on where his skin was touching yours, on his breath ghosting the tips of your fingers. You watched, entranced, as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, gliding along the plump flesh. You stepped forward instinctively, your body craving his warmth and your mind clouding with desire.

His lips are so pink.

He pressed a soft kiss to the tips of your fingers, a small gasp leaving you at the contact. A hum sounded from his chest, his lips vibrating faintly under your fingertips. A low buzz started to thrum throughout your body, tingles erupting from where your skin pressed against his soft lips.

"Sweet," he whispered low, heavy.

His eyes lifted to yours again, dilated pupils swallowing blue irises. He flashed you a wink before taking a small step back, his free hand grabbing the rag on the counter. He gently wiped the sticky berry off your fingers, taking more care than necessary for the simple task. He put the rag down, his hand moving from your wrist to clasp your fingers delicately. He brushed a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his fingers squeezing yours before he let go.

James' eyes traced over your face almost intricately, like he was committing your flustered expression to memory. His hand lifted slowly, his thumb brushing against your temple in a barely there touch—a light dusting of flour covering his skin once he pulled his hand away.

"Think I want to place a special order," he drawled, pink lips stretching into a lopsided smirk. "That's if you're on the menu, sweetheart."

He turned on his heel, strolling towards the door—pinching a bag of cookies on his way. "Don't miss me too much!" He hollered over his shoulder, flipping the sign on the door to 'closed' and leaving you with the sinking realisation that maybe it really is a thin line between love and hate.

The heels of your pumps clicked on the concrete sidewalk, the sound echoing through the still night air. The neighbourhood was unusually quiet for a Friday night, the impending storm encouraging your neighbours to stay inside and forgo their usual Friday plans. You envied them—staying inside with a glass of wine and your well worn copy of The Hobbit felt far more appealing than the date you had just left.

Your date was a nice enough guy—the son of one of your mom's friends—but he was…boring. Kind, but shy. A gentleman to a fault. The type of guy you wouldn't look twice at if he came into the bakery. You suppose he felt similarly to you, the date ending with not so much as a cheek kiss goodbye—hell, he let you walk home alone from the restaurant. Sure, it was barely a ten minute walk from your place, but it felt wrong. Was his chivalry just an act that he dropped once he realised the date was going nowhere?

The faint sound of deep, husky laughter interrupted your thoughts as you rounded the corner. Your heart rate picked up in anticipation, sweat starting to prickle your palms. Because there he was, the man whose face kept popping into your head—uninvited—all throughout your date. He was lazily strolling towards you, hands stuffed in his pant pockets and head tilted towards the smaller man next to him. Steve was rambling, his hands waving around energetically as he spoke. James threw his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh; the sound sending a rush up your spine, even from twenty metres away. It didn't take a genius to know they had been out drinking, their movements languid and carefree.

Steve noticed you first, raising his hand with a wave and calling out your name in greeting. They were closer to your house than you were so there was no avoiding them—something you weren't even sure you wanted to do. You normally tried to limit your time spent interacting with James, but something had shifted—you felt your body, and mind, yearning to be near him.

James' head jerked towards you quickly, his body visibly stalling as he looked at you. You closed the distance, Steve meeting you halfway with a tipsy smile and a quick hug while James stayed a couple feet behind, looking momentarily stunned.

"Hi Steve," you greeted with a soft smile. You made eye contact with James once he reached you two, giving him a curt nod. "James."

"What, no hug for me, doll?" His signature smirk was back, although looking more like a dopey grin with the alcohol flowing through his system. His eyes were slightly glazed over, trailing from your head down your body to your heels—his gaze getting stuck on the formal dress you were wearing. It was a white dress with small, dainty flowers that you had worn only a handful of times—saved for the very rare occasion you had a date.

You gave him a once over, your sight catching on the chest hair peeking out where he had unbuttoned his shirt. Combined with the veins on his forearm you had admired before, you felt an unfamiliar warmth growing in the pit of your stomach.

You snapped your eyes back to his. "And end up smelling like a distillery? No thanks."

"Oh, Jesus," Steve mumbled, shaking his head. "Not this again."

James ignored both Steve and your jab at him. "You been out dancing? Without me?" His eyes wandered over your dress again, his bottom lip jutting in a pout. A shiver raced across your body as you remembered those inviting lips touching your fingers in the bakery.

You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your chin up in faux confidence. "It's none of your business where I've been."

He took a step closer, tilting his head to the side—his eyes softening under the dim streetlight. You could smell the lingering scent of sweet whiskey and tobacco on him, clouding your head further.

"On the contrary, it is entirely my business." His voice was rough yet smooth, like honey drizzled over gravel.

You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves.

"O-kay," Steve dragged out. "I'm leaving you two to…whatever this is." He brushed past you, walking in the direction of his place—the same path James should be taking.

The both of you ignored him, stuck in a staring match—for what reason, you're not sure of.

You broke contact first, stepping around James and continuing your journey home. He was by your side in a second, humming a tune under his breath as you leisurely walked down the street.

"So, where were you?" All playfulness was gone from his tone, leaving behind genuine curiosity.

"Again, it's none of your business."

"Your safety is my business, doll." He said low, serious. You ignored the way your heart jumped in your chest at his concern.

You sighed, relenting. "If you must know, I was out for dinner."

He stopped abruptly, making you turn to him with raised eyebrows.

"Dinner, as in a date?" He asked, his features pulling down into a frown.

"Shocking, I know," you mumbled, kicking a loose stone with the toe of your shoe.

His head swivelled, looking down the street in the direction you came from. You watched his eyes squint and his jaw clench. "Well, where is he then? Your date?"

You shrugged, turning back to walk towards your place. "I don't know. I walked home from the restaurant."

James jogged to catch up to you, grasping your forearm gently. "Alone? Are you fucking serious?" He seethed through clenched teeth.

You ripped your arm out of his hold, continuing your walk. "Yes. I can take care of myself."

He shook his head at your stubbornness, a humourless laugh escaping him. "I'm pretty sure it's illegal to let a beautiful dame walk home alone at night." You scoffed at him, a flush rising under your skin at him calling you beautiful. "I'm serious, doll. That's no man."

You reached the small path leading to your porch steps, turning to him to say goodnight, finding him already looking at you with a hopeless look in his baby blues. "You're not seeing him again…are you?"

Inexplicably, your heart tugged towards him. Maybe it was due to his tipsy state, but his flirtiness was gone and your usual sass died on your tongue. You told him the truth, for once.

"No, he was boring."

His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. That dopey grin returned and his shoulders dropped, like he had been holding in a breath. "Good." His eyes flicked down to your dress again, his eyes twinkling.

Suddenly, a large hand palmed your waist and another clasped your hand, lifting it above your head before James clumsily spun you around on the uneven sidewalk.

"James! What are you doing?" You squealed as he continued to try dance with you, your free hand instinctively gripping his shoulder.

He spun you around once more, both hands moving to your upper back as he dipped you low. You let out a gasp, your shocked eyes meeting his shining ones. Even while tipsy and slightly uncoordinated, he really was a good dancer.

"There she is, there's that smile." He muttered softly, quietly, tenderly.

You didn't even realise you were grinning up at him.

Your hands rested on his shoulders as he brought you back up slowly, the two of you standing closer than before. The air went still around you, and you swayed closer to his warmth. His hands stayed on your upper back, gentle pressure holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Even with liquor running through his veins, he was a gentleman—his hands never straying and making you uncomfortable.

This wasn't the Bucky you heard stories of, copping a feel any chance he got. No, this was your James—unashamedly flirty but…respectful. And you hated it—hated the stupid flutter in your chest, hated your brain turning to mush. Hated the hitch in your breath as your eyes fell to his parted lips, hated the overwhelming urge to lean forward and finally get a taste of him.

You hated how despite everything, you wanted him. Badly.

"M'sorry," he mumbled low, whisper quiet. "Couldn't help myself, that dress is perfect for dancin'."

His head dipped lower, warm breath ghosting your lips and erupting tingles along the flesh. You held your breath, your eyelids drooping in anticipation. A soft chuckle escaped him, the whiskey laced exhale brushing your face. His lips settled oh so faintly on your right cheek, a tender touch you were not expecting. Your hands clutched his shoulders tighter, one of his thumbs caressing between your shoulder blades in a soothing motion.

He took a step back and your eyes fluttered open, darting around his face in confusion. His usual arrogance was gone, an expression you could only describe as affectionate taking it's place.

He turned his head towards your house, brows furrowing in an instant.

"Are your parents home?" He asked. You imagined it was a question he had asked girls dozens of times before, but this felt different—he sounded concerned, not suggestive.

You shook your head gently, trying to clear the fog he had clouded your mind with. You took a step back from him as your lungs filled with air again.

"Um—no, they're—they went to visit my aunt in Cape Cod." You replied, your voice small and airy.

He raised his eyebrows, a displeased grunt sounding from his chest. "With the incoming storm?" He shook his head, "they won't be back for days."

You walked up the path towards the porch, your legs feeling unsteady. Your house keys trembled in your hands as you grabbed them from your clutch. James followed closely behind you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as you climbed the steps.

"It's fine, we have supplies stocked up." You said with a shrug.

He let out a deep breath. "That's not what I'm worried about, sweetheart." His head whipped back to the street, his eyes scanning the dark neighbourhood. "You never know what beasts are lurking," he muttered, a tense edge to his voice.

You let out a snort as you put the key in the lock. "Yeah, like you're not the most dangerous thing lurking the streets."

His mouth quirked to the side, "you think I'm dangerous?" He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of him wrapping around you. "Do I make your heart race, doll? Get your blood pumping, make you hot under the collar?"

You let out a stuttered breath before you could stop it, your body reacting to his proximity exactly as he suggested. You shouldered the door open with more force than necessary, needing an escape from him and his increasingly irresistible face.

James stepped through the door behind you, causing you to turn to him with your eyebrows raised. "…What are you doing?" You dragged out.

"Keeping you safe."

A shocked laugh sounded in your throat. "You can't stay with me, James, that's—people might get the wrong idea." Your hand clutched the door for support, your body half turned towards the man who you wanted to leave, and wanted to kiss until your lips were bruised.

He shrugged, taking a step back onto the porch. "Fine. I'll stay out here then."

"What? Don't be ridiculous, it's about to start pouring down." You could feel a headache forming at your temple—why must everything be so difficult with him?

"Well, I either get hypothermia or," his lips inched into that infuriating smirk, "our neighbours get the wrong idea." He tipped his head towards you, "it's your choice, doll."

A frustrated breath left you. "…Fine. But you're sleeping on the couch."

He gave you a mock salute. "As you wish."

You turned around, walking to your lounge and turning on the lamp in the corner by the couch—soft lamplight illuminating the room. You heard the front door softly click closed, the sound of James' boots scuffing faintly along the hardwood floors. You stood in the middle of the lounge, suddenly feeling awkward and shy in your own home.

"I'll get you a blanket," you mumbled to him, wringing your fingers together nervously. You went to the linen closet in the hallway, grabbing him a clean blanket and pillow. You took a second to breathe, trying not to focus on the fact that he was going to be in your home. With you. Alone.

You walked back into the lounge, seeing him sitting on the couch and untying his boots. You cleared your throat softly, gently placing the bedding on the cushion next to him. He looked up at you, the soft light making him look younger. You dragged your gaze away before you got caught staring at his lips, before you caved in and did something you'd regret.

"The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the left."

His lips lifted into a soft smile. "I know," he said. "I've been here before."

You let out a small, nervous laugh. "Right."

You turned to walk towards the stairs, towards your room. You stopped with a hand on the doorframe. "I'll see you in the morning, James."

"Good night, doll. Sweet dreams."

You woke to the faint smell of coffee trickling under your door and the soft drumming of rain against your window. For a few minutes you basked in that half awake state, where the world didn't exist outside of your warm sheets and you briefly forgot about everything that was waiting for you outside your door.

The sound of clanging pots stirred you from the dreamy in between, making you drag yourself out of bed with a groan. You threw a cardigan over your silk nightgown, your bare feet padding against the floor as you made your way downstairs.

Your brain was only half functioning as you walked into the kitchen, the memories from the night before only rushing back when you were met with the sight that was James' back covered in a white undershirt. You froze in your path, your wide eyes glued to his muscles shifting beneath the soft cotton. Your eyes trailed over the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, watching his biceps flex as he moved pots around on the stove. Heat blazed beneath your skin, simmering in the pit of your gut.

"Enjoying the show, doll?" His voice rasped out, thick and heavy with sleep. The sound alone had your body erupting in goosebumps.

You opened and closed your mouth like fish out of water. You tore your gaze away from his distracting frame to the kitchen counter where two plates of eggs and toast were sitting.

"Did you…make breakfast?" Disbelief dripped from your tone.

"Mhm. Coffee will be ready soon," he turned then, granting you with the sight of his sleep-ridden face. He nodded towards the kitchen table next to the window. "Sit, I'll bring it over."

You followed his instruction with no argument, feeling dazed. Had you hit your head and woken up in an alternate reality?

He brought the plates over, flashing you a soft smile before going to grab the coffee percolator and a couple of mugs. He poured both your cups of coffee, settling in the chair across from you like this was your normal routine. He dug in to his breakfast and you followed suit, albeit hesitantly—you weren't sure if this was real or if you were still dreaming.

"Sleep okay?" He asked before taking a sip of coffee, soft eyes meeting yours over the lip of his cup.

You nodded slowly. "Yeah, fine…you?

He shrugged lightheartedly, "not the worst couch I've slept on."

You both went back to eating before you couldn't hold your question in any longer. Your fork clanged noisily on the porcelain plate. "What are you doing here, James? Why…why did you make breakfast?"

He shrugged again. "'Cause."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're going to get," he replied, mouth quirking to the side in barely contained amusement.

You let out an annoyed huff, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. James mirrored your posture, his eyes roaming across your face. Your eyes flicked down to his arms, thick biceps bulging against his chest.

"You look beautiful in the morning, doll." His tone was soft, borderline reverent—causing butterflies to unleash havoc in your stomach.

You scoffed. "Bet you say that to all the girls."

"I mean it when I say it to you."

You shot up from your chair, collecting the dirty dishes to give your nervous hands something to do. Your chest was feeling too tight, your skin too warm. You felt like you were going to combust under his gentle stare.

"You can go home now—I'm in no imminent danger." Your voice shook, your plates in your hands trembling as you walked towards the sink.

You heard the scrap of James' chair behind you, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he made his way towards you.

He said your name softly. "Look at me, please."

Placing the dishes next to the sink, you turned towards him—against your better judgement. You rested your hands on the counter behind you, gripping it for support. You watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed, an almost hesitant look crossing his face. Was he…nervous?

He let out a breath, rubbing a hand against his day old stubble.

God, he looked unfairly handsome in the morning.

"Are you ever going to give me a chance?"

There was no teasing in his voice, no playful flirtation. He sounded sincere, and as if in despair.

"…What?"

He stepped forward, his eyes searching yours. "You're all I think about, and it's driving me crazy. It's been driving me crazy for the past fifteen years."

A small gasp escaped you, your hands clutching the counter tighter. "You're—you don't mean that."

He took another small step forward. "I do."

You shook your head, refusing to believe the words coming out of his mouth. "No, you don't. You like the chase, you like that I'm something you can't have."

He let out a breathy chuckle. "I'll admit our back and forth is fun, but it's not the sole reason I want you."

You pushed off the counter, darting past him and into the lounge—needing to put distance between you and the insufferable man who has been a thorn in your side for more than half your life. He didn't mean what he was saying, he was just taking advantage of your early morning vulnerability.

He followed behind you, calling your name out softly. You hated how it sounded falling from his lips.

"Just—listen to me."

You whipped back to him, fire blazing in your eyes. "No! I don't believe you!" You threw your hands up. "What about all the girls you've dated, huh? If you couldn't stop thinking about me like you claim, why have a new girl on your arm every week?"

He looked at you with wide eyes, a hand going up to tug his hair in frustration. "What else was I supposed to do? The girl I liked wouldn't give me the time of day!" He put his hands on his hips, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. "And maybe…maybe I hoped it would make you jealous," he muttered low, sheepish.

You could feel your walls crumbling, your defences falling at the sincerity in his voice and face. In the fifteen years that you had known him, he had never said anything like this to you. Yeah, he was brazenly flirty, but he'd never said something so honest…so vulnerable.

"You never said sorry," you mumbled, staring down at your fidgeting hands.

"What?"

"For hurting me, the day I moved here. You never apologised to me." You hated how meek you sounded, how that day still affected you despite all the time that had passed.

He stepped forward slowly, gently grabbing your hands. You watched, stunned, as he lowered to one knee before you. He looked up at you with soft, pleading eyes. Your heart stumbled in your chest at the sight of him on his knees before you.

"Sweetheart, I am truly sorry for hurting you—for causing you pain at any point in your life." He took a breath, his hands squeezing yours. "This doesn't excuse what I did, but—I was so excited," a lovestruck smile took over his lips, "I just really wanted to talk to the new, pretty girl." He let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess I came off a bit too strong."

Your eyes grew warm, your vision blurring with tears. This man just kept on surprising you, making you feel things for him you didn't think was possible.

"You don't have to forgive me, but please believe me when I say all I want is you." He stood to his full height, one hand dropping yours to cradle your jaw—his thumb brushing against your cheek tenderly. You looked into his eyes, seconds away from drowning in the pools of blue.

You swallowed through the lump in your throat. "But…Dot said, she said there was a special dame."

"For a smart girl, you can be real thick sometimes." His forehead dropped to yours. "You're the special dame, doll. Always have been."

You had gone speechless, not a single coherent thought running through your head. Your eyes darted across his face, scrutinising every flicker—trying to find any inkling that he was lying. All you could see was sincerity, hopefulness, and something frighteningly close to love.

"Bucky," you whispered, leaning your face into his hand.

His eyes flashed, a harsh exhale leaving his nose. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

"You've never called me that before."

Then he was leaning down, his other hand dropping yours to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His lips brushed against yours lightly, giving you the chance to pull away. Your hands came up to his chest, one palm laying flat against his racing heart and the other bunching the fabric of his undershirt. You pulled slightly, encouraging him to press his lips to yours harder.

His lips moved against yours slowly, languidly—like he was trying to savour the moment. He tasted like coffee with a faint hint of mint. You kissed him back eagerly, a small noise vibrating in your throat. The hand cradling your jaw moved down your back before resting on your waist, pulling you closer to his body. The kiss started to grow desperate, his lips sucking your bottom lip with a small nip from this teeth, drawing a gasp from you. You had been kissed before, but never like this—not like you were being consumed whole. His lips were even softer than you imagined.

He tilted his head, running his tongue along your lips. You opened for him willingly, feeling heat build in your core at the first touch of his tongue against yours. A whimper tore from your chest, a hand trailing up from his chest to the back of his head—your fingers tangling in his soft locks. He groaned into your mouth as you gave an experimental tug—the sound sending currents throughout your body. You broke away to gasp for air and his lips travelled along your jaw, his stubble scratching your skin deliciously.

"Kissin' you feels like home."

A breathy moan escaped you as his lips continued their journey, mouthing at your neck and drawing more needy noises from you. He tugged you closer to him, your hips pulled flush against his.

"You sound so sweet, doll." He muttered into your neck, his mouth latching to a spot below your ear and sucking gently. It sent shocks down your body and you gasped at the sensation.

"Taste sweet, too."

Your hips started to roll against his, instinctively seeking friction to quell the desire lighting up from his touch. He responded to your movements eagerly, both hands dripping your hips.

"You…you still owe me for—for the cookies you stole." You gasped out, his mouth on your neck unrelenting.

He pulled back with a wolfish grin, his lips spit slick and glistening. His eyes were dark and hooded as they met yours. "Think I have a few ways I can pay you back."

He spun you quickly, walking backwards until his legs hit the couch and he sat down—pulling you on top of his thighs. Your nightgown bunched around your knees as you straddled his lap, your hands resting atop his shoulders—your fingers digging in to the hard muscle. His mouth met yours again, devouring you like you were his first proper meal in days. His hands on your hips pushed down, encouraging you to settle your weight fully on top of him. His hips bucked up beneath yours, pulling a moan from both your throats.

You slowly rolled your hips back and forth, need clouding your thoughts as you felt a hard bulge press against you. You pulled back from his lips, desperately sucking in air. His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting your skin as moans slipped from his lips. Wetness pooled where your body was rocking against his, and your body started to shake as an unfamiliar pleasure started to build.

James' hands on your hips gripped tighter, stilling your urgent movements. His head lifted to look at you and he looked ruined—eyes glazed over, lips swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly. He pressed a kiss to your lips before moving to your cheek, then nose, then forehead—covering your face in soft pecks that had you giggling in his arms.

"It's 'bout time I took you out dancin', sweetheart."

“Tell me you’re joking,” you said flatly, arms crossed, standing dead still in the middle of the terminal. “Tell me you didn’t leave my jacket at the hotel.”

Bucky looked at you, jaw tense, backpack slung over one shoulder. “I—I thought you packed it.”

“I packed everything else, James.” You threw a hand out toward the chaos of Sydney International. “The least you could’ve remembered was one damn jacket.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the floor like he was doing mental math. “I can go back for it. The hotel’s only—what, ten minutes? If I catch a cab—”

You scoffed. Loudly. “The flight leaves in thirty. You wanna miss it over a jacket?”

“It’s your favorite.”

“No, Bucky, my favorite thing is not missing international flights.”

You didn’t yell, but you didn’t need to. The edge in your voice was sharp enough to draw blood. A Korean couple across from you glanced over before pretending not to notice. You shifted your weight, arms tightening across your chest.

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed. He gave a short, frustrated sigh and looked off toward the windows, where the sun poured onto the tarmac like it had the nerve to be cheerful.

You watched him. He wasn’t mad—not really. Just tired. You saw it in the way his shoulders sat too low, like he was always bracing for something that never came. You used to think it was from the Army—some echo of everything he didn’t talk about. Now, it just felt like a thing between you he wouldn’t fix.

And you were too pissed to fix it either.

“Look,” he muttered finally, “I’ll buy you a new one in L.A.”

You exhaled, not quite laughing. “Oh good. I love buying knockoffs to replace the one jacket I’ve had since college.”

He didn’t reply. Just nodded once, eyes distant, and stepped into the line forming at Gate 23.

You stood there for another few seconds, staring at his back. Then at the screen above the gate. Then at the boarding agent, calling out names with the kind of chipper indifference you wanted to punch.

When you finally stepped up to the counter, the woman smiled like this was a good day.

“Hi there! Just you two?”

You nodded stiffly.

She tapped her keyboard, then frowned.

“Oh—huh. Looks like we had to shift some seat assignments. Maintenance on a row in the middle of the cabin.” She tilted the screen. “Mrs. Barnes, you're now in seat 12B, and your husband is in… 42F.”

You blinked. “We’re not sitting together?”

The gate agent gave a sheepish shrug. “It’s a full flight.”

You blinked. “Right. Of course it is.”

Your tone was short. Not full-volume rude—but enough for the woman’s smile to falter. You could feel that familiar frustration building in your chest, the kind that had nowhere to go.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, not even trying to hide it. “You’d think after paying how much for international flights they could at least keep our seats intact.”

“Hey,” Bucky said low, stepping up behind you, voice cautious. “It’s not her fault, doll. Just… let it go.”

You turned toward him slowly. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not,” he said, hands raised slightly. “I’m just saying, it’s not worth—”

“Don’t tell me what it’s worth,” you snapped, too sharply.

His brows knit together, and your voice dropped just enough be spiteful, “At least I don’t have to see your face for the next twenty hours.”

It was mean. You knew it. You said it anyway.

He stared at you for a second, jaw flexing. Then he looked away, back toward the gate. You thought that was the end of it—until you heard him mumble under his breath.

“Guess everything’s my fault now.”

You didn’t respond.

The gate agent cleared her throat awkwardly and handed over your boarding passes. Bucky took his and walked off without another word. You followed a few steps behind, silent.

Somewhere between the counter and the jet bridge, you swallowed the lump in your throat and told yourself it didn’t matter. You’d be in the air soon. You’d land in LA, get some sleep, and maybe by the time you got back to New York, you wouldn’t hate each other anymore.

That’s what you told yourself.

And you believed it—right up until the sky split open.

────────────────────────

Day 1

You came to with your cheek pressed against something warm and coarse. Sand.

Your ears were ringing.

At first, there was nothing but the sound in your head—like TV static turned all the way up—but then it cracked open: screaming. Somewhere close. Metal groaning. Wind. Fire.

Smoke stung your nose before your eyes even opened. You coughed once, hard, and pain shot down your neck into your chest. Your whole body felt like it had been rattled in a paint can.

You tried to push yourself up, but your arm buckled.

More yelling.

A man’s voice—"We need water!"—someone crying, a child maybe. The sharp hiss of flames. Somewhere behind it all: waves. Close. Rhythmic.

You blinked hard. The light was too bright. Your head throbbed—deep and hot, pulsing behind your left temple.

You reached up and your fingers came back sticky.

Blood. A lot of it.

You turned your head slowly. Your mouth tasted like smoke and sand. Everything around you was blurred at the edges—burning wreckage, people staggering, someone running past with their hands over their face. There was half a plane twenty feet from where you lay, nose-first in the beach like a dropped toy. Smoke poured from the engine. The other half—

Was gone.

You pushed yourself up on shaky hands, coughing again. A scream tore from your throat before you realized it was his name.

“Bucky!”

It came out hoarse and desperate. You looked wildly around. Ash stuck to your skin, your clothes. Your legs didn’t want to work right, but you forced yourself upright.

“Bucky—!”

No answer.

You staggered toward the fuselage, tripping over torn luggage and pieces of seatback. A man passed you shouting for help. Someone else was trying CPR on a limp body near the water.

You grabbed a woman by the shoulder—her face streaked with blood. “Tail section,” you said. “Was he—do you know if it—?”

She just shook her head and kept walking.

“Bucky!”

You shouted again, louder this time, throat burning. Still nothing. Just the fire. Just the wind.

A man rushed past you—dark hair, blazer and button-down shirt streaked with blood and sand. He barely slowed.

“Hey—hey, you need to sit down. You’re bleeding.”

“My husband—he was in the back—”

“I’ll come back to you, okay? Just stay here, press on that cut.” He grabbed your wrist, moved your hand to your temple. “Hold pressure. You’re probably concussed.”

And then he was gone—off to the next screaming voice.

You sat there dazed, hand to your head, heartbeat pounding in your ears. The heat. The noise. The smoke. People yelling. Somewhere, someone was screaming names—none of them his.

You turned slowly, looking back at the wreckage. The tail end wasn’t there. No sign of it. No seats. No Bucky.

You didn’t know what that meant. You couldn’t make yourself think it through.

You just sat there, blinking through the ash, holding your head together with one shaky hand.

────────────────────────

You hadn’t moved from that spot all day.

The sun was setting now—orange bleeding into red, casting long shadows across the beach. Smoke still curled from the engine somewhere behind you, but the noise had quieted. Most of the screaming had stopped. Now there were only quiet sobs, the rustle of wind through palm trees, and the occasional clang of metal being dragged into a pile.

You didn’t feel the cold settling in your skin until someone crouched beside you.

“Hey,” the voice said, calm and careful. “Still with me?”

You turned slowly.

It was the same man from before. Sweat on his brow, sleeves rolled up, shirt even more stained than before. He had a small black case in his hands.

“I’ve been trying to make rounds all day,” he said. “Sorry it took so long.”

You blinked at him, like your eyes were still adjusting. “You… know what you’re doing.”

He glanced up as he opened the kit. “I’m a doctor.”

That made sense. Somehow.

You watched as he pulled out a small suture kit—thread, needle, forceps. All small. Travel-sized. Maybe from one of those plane emergency boxes. His hands were steady, but his eyes were tired.

You flinched when he pressed a wipe to your forehead.

“Concussed, probably. The cut’s deep,” he murmured. “But you’re lucky. Could’ve cracked your skull wide open.”

You didn’t say anything. Just let him work.

After a few seconds, he said, “I’m Jack, by the way.”

You swallowed, then murmured your name under your breath. It came out quieter than you meant.

Jack nodded, threading the needle.

He was quiet for a moment. Then:

“Any dizziness?”

You didn’t answer that.

“My husband,” you said slowly instead. “He was in the tail section.”

Jack paused for half a second—but not long enough to stop.

“He switched seats,” you added, almost to yourself. “Last minute. They moved us.”

He kept working. Slower now.

“Do you… do you know what happened?”

He paused—again—before pulling the thread.

“The tail broke off before we crashed.”

You nodded. Slowly. Like your brain was trying to digest it but hadn’t figured out how.

“But we don’t know where it is,” Jack added quickly. “Could’ve landed somewhere else.”

“Do you think…” You took a shaky breath. “Do you think the people in the tail section are okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Tied off the last stitch. Sat back on his heels.

“I don’t know,” he said softly.

You nodded, like that was enough. Like any answer would’ve felt the same.

────────────────────────

Day 4

You sat about thirty feet from camp.

Close enough to hear them. Far enough to feel like you weren’t part of it.

Someone was arguing over a tarp. Someone else was trying to start a second fire. Voices moved around in low rhythms—half-hopeful, half-bored. Settling in.

You didn’t like how comfortable it sounded.

Your hands were dirty. You’d been digging through sand for the past hour, pulling out scraps—seat cushions, wrappers, a broken pair of sunglasses. Looking for what, you didn’t know. You’d stopped trying to explain it to yourself.

“Hey.”

You looked up. Kate stood a few feet away, holding something wrapped in torn fabric—half a mango, maybe, or papaya. Whatever it was, it looked vaguely edible.

She offered it out with a small nod. “Figured you hadn’t eaten.”

You shook your head. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Just not hungry.”

She crouched a little, still holding the fruit.

“I’m not mad,” you said before she could say anything else. “I’m not having a breakdown. You don’t need to check on me.”

Kate shrugged, casual. “Didn’t say you were. But you’ve been sitting out here for a while.”

You looked back toward the ocean. Still no tail section. Still no rescue boats. Just endless blue and the same ache behind your eyes.

“I’m fine here.”

“Closer to camp’s safer. At night, especially.”

You let out a slow breath. “What’s the point? Everyone already thinks I’m the crazy one.”

She didn’t deny it. Just shifted her weight.

You glanced at her. “They do. I know how they look at me.”

“No one thinks you’re crazy.”

You gave a flat, humorless laugh. “Sure.”

Kate finally set the fruit down beside you. Didn’t push.

You didn’t reach for it.

A minute passed.

You stared at the water, quiet.

“He’s not dead.”

Kate didn’t respond.

You kept your voice low. “I would know. If he was.”

She looked at you for a moment, then nodded like she understood—even if she didn’t. She didn’t say anything for a while, either.

Just sat beside you, close but not too close, legs folded, arms resting loosely over her knees. You both looked out at the water. The waves came in steady. Familiar now.

The silence stretched. But it wasn’t uncomfortable.

You didn’t look at her when you finally spoke. Your voice came out quiet. Careful.

“We were coming back from our honeymoon.”

Kate looked over, but you kept your eyes ahead, fingers absently toying with the ring on your left hand. Turning it, loosening it, pushing it back down.

“Got married two weeks ago. In Vermont. Just the two of us and his best friends, Sam and Steve.” You paused. “Felt like the right kind of quiet.”

Your thumb pushed against the edge of the ring again. You weren’t even thinking about it. Just moving it. Like it would remind you he was still out there.

“We spent the first few days in Sydney. Didn’t see half the stuff we said we would.” You gave a faint shrug. “Mostly just slept in, fought about directions, tried weird food. He hated Vegemite.”

Kate smiled slightly. You didn’t.

“We had a fight. Right before we left the hotel.” You stopped twirling the ring for a second. “Stupid, loud one. One of those fights where you both act like you're winning, but really you're just saying shit to make it sting.”

You scoffed under your breath. “I don’t even remember what it was about. Just… snapped at each other. The airline moved our seats, and I was glad. Didn’t want to sit next to him for twenty hours.”

You shook your head slowly.

“I was so mean to him.”

The burn started behind your eyes first. Then your nose. But you didn’t let the tears fall. You just kept your gaze fixed straight ahead, mouth tight.

“I was pissed about a jacket. That’s the last thing thing we argued about. A damn jacket.”

Kate looked down. Still silent. Letting you have the space.

You wiped your nose with the back of your wrist, angry at yourself for even doing that much. You weren’t going to cry. You’d already decided that. Crying felt too final. Like giving up.

You just kept spinning the ring, gently, like if you stopped, the weight of everything would finally hit.

Two Weeks Ago

The hotel room was nicer than you expected.

You stepped inside first, dragging your carry-on behind you, one hand reaching to flick on the lights. It lit up soft and golden, the kind of warm tone that made everything feel expensive, even though you'd booked it on a discount site three months ago.

“Okay, not bad for something with three and a half stars,” you said, kicking your shoes off immediately.

Bucky stepped in behind you, hauling both your suitcases like a mule. He gave a low whistle as he looked around. “Damn. They even folded the towels into swans. That’s how you know it’s fancy, baby.”

You glanced back at him with a grin. “You sure it’s not because we’re on our honeymoon?”

“Oh, right,” he said dryly. “Guess I should start acting like your husband or somethin’.”

He dropped the suitcases and crossed the room in a few strides, arms wrapping around you from behind. You let out a small yelp as he buried his face in your neck.

“Bucky,” you laughed, “we’ve been in this country for all of two hours—”

“Exactly. Jetlag,” he mumbled against your skin. “Terrible condition. You should probably lie down. Maybe take off some clothes.”

“Right,” you said, turning your head just enough to catch his smirk. “We’ve got a tour scheduled in two hours. Harbor walk. You wanna miss that?”

“You wanna leave this room?” he countered, pressing a kiss just under your jaw. “You wanna go talk to strangers and walk around in the sun and look at birds or bridges or whatever the hell the brochure said?”

You hummed, pretending to think. “Well, when you put it like that…”

He kissed your shoulder. “Exactly.”

You pulled away just enough to turn and face him. His hair was a mess from the flight, his shirt wrinkled, and he still had a paper airline tag stuck to his wrist. You tugged it off and flicked it onto the nightstand.

“Let me guess,” you said, arms around his neck. “You wanna stay in, order food, and have me all to yourself for twelve hours.”

He tilted his head slightly, mock-serious. “Just twelve?”

You raised an eyebrow.

He leaned in, voice low. “Baby, we just got married. I got plans.”

You kissed him before he could get cockier. His hands settled on your waist like he was still surprised he got to hold you at all.

And for the first time in weeks—after the chaos of the wedding, the flights, the packing—it hit you. You were here. Married. With him.

You pulled back, just barely. “This is real, right?”

Bucky’s smile softened. That crooked, lopsided thing you loved.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s real.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time. Like he had nowhere else to be. But he didn’t give you time to get sentimental at all.

One second you were kissing him, the next—his hands were on the backs of your thighs, and with no warning, he lifted you clean off the floor.

You shrieked, laughing as your arms wrapped instinctively around his shoulders.

“Bucky—!”

“Shh,” he grinned. “Mr. Barnes is carrying his blushing bride across the threshold.”

You rolled your eyes. “Pretty sure the ‘threshold’ was back at the elevator, dumbass.”

“Details,” he muttered, and then dropped you onto the bed.

You bounced once with a laugh, hair splaying across the pillows. He followed, toeing off his shoes, then peeling his shirt over his head as he climbed onto the mattress with you.

“God, you’re such a dog,” you said through a grin, breathless.

“Excuse you,” he said, settling over you with a hand braced beside your head. “I am a husband. A respectable, married man now.”

He leaned down and kissed you again, slower this time, hands bracketing your waist like he couldn’t believe you were really there. Like he didn’t know where to touch first.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured against your mouth.

You smiled into the kiss. “Say it again.”

“Mrs. Barnes,” he repeated, dragging his lips down to your neck, voice lower now. “Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes—”

You swatted at him, laughing. “Okay, you can stop.”

“Nope,” he said, grinning against your skin. “You said ‘I do’. You’re stuck with me.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging gently. “Guess I am.”

He looked at you for a second then—really looked—eyes soft and a little awed. You reached up and touched his cheek with the backs of your fingers.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

He just leaned in and kissed you, like he wanted to memorize the shape of you.

And for a little while, the world was small. Just this room, this bed, the sounds of the city tucked far below you. No future to worry about.

Just him. And you.

Day 10

You found him near the edge of the jungle, crouched low beside a makeshift trap.

John Locke.

You didn’t know much about the old man—only that he seemed to know exactly what he was doing out here. More than anyone else. Quiet, strange sometimes, but… useful. Capable. He moved with intention, and people didn’t ask questions when he spoke. You respected that.

He heard you coming, but didn’t look up.

“Need something?” he asked, adjusting something on the snare.

You shoved your hands into your pockets. “Yeah. I wanna help.”

That got his attention.

He looked up, eyes narrowing like he was trying to figure out if you were joking.

“I’m serious,” you added. “I’m not gonna sit around camp watching everyone slowly lose their minds. I’m not good at making polite conversation over papayas.”

His brow lifted slightly. “You want to hunt?”

You shrugged. “I want to not be useless.”

Your gaze drifted past him, toward the beach. The blonde girl—Shannon, you thought her name was—lay flat on a towel someone had fashioned out of a jacket, sunglasses on, limbs stretched like she was poolside in Malibu.

You looked back at him. “Unlike some people.”

Locke followed your gaze, then looked back at you. He didn’t comment.

Instead, he stood slowly, brushing sand from his knees.

“You ever held a knife?” he asked.

“Not the kind that matters.”

He smiled—small, unreadable. “That’s alright. Everyone starts somewhere.”

You nodded once. “So? You gonna teach me or not?”

He handed you one of the smaller knives from his belt. Nothing dramatic. Just a basic handle and a duller edge than you expected. You tested the weight of it in your hand.

“I’ll show you how to track first,” he said, already turning into the trees. “The killing part comes later.”

You followed him without hesitation.

You weren’t thinking about food.

You were thinking about movement. Purpose. Distraction. Something other than the sound of your own voice reminding you, over and over, that Bucky might be dead.

The jungle was quiet, except for the sound of your boots grinding into wet soil and the occasional rustle of leaves ahead.

You’d now been tracking the damn boar for what felt like hours. Maybe more. The sun had shifted position without you noticing, dipping somewhere behind the thick canopy. You hadn’t eaten. Barely drank anything. You didn’t care.

John walked ahead of you, patient but steady, eyes scanning the ground like it was a map only he could read.

“There,” he said quietly, pointing to a disturbance in the dirt. “See that line? Tusk drag.”

You crouched beside him, sweat dripping down the side of your temple. You squinted at the line. “You sure?”

He glanced at you. “It’s not a guess.”

You nodded, jaw tight.

He kept walking, slower now. Careful. You followed, knife gripped loosely in one hand.

“So,” Locke said after a stretch of silence, voice low, “you ever kill anything before?”

“Do bugs count?” you muttered, eyes still on the ground.

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “Spiders?”

“Big ones,” you said. “Real vicious.”

“Guess it’s a start.”

You didn’t smile.

Branches scraped your arms as you ducked under a low-hanging limb. Your body ached—back tight, legs heavy—but you ignored it. You were used to this kind of ache. The kind that settled in when your brain refused to stop moving.

Locke kept talking.

“This isn’t about brute strength. It’s about patience. Precision.”

“Cool,” you said flatly. “I’ve got both. In abundance.”

He glanced back at you, as if to check whether you were being sarcastic. You didn’t offer clarification.

Another set of tracks appeared, deeper this time, fresher. Your breath hitched.

“You see that?” you asked, voice quieter now.

John nodded. “We’re close.”

You tightened your grip on the knife. Not because you thought you’d need it—John was doing all the actual tracking—but because your fingers wouldn’t stop twitching otherwise.

You weren’t thinking about food.

You were thinking about the moment the knife would hit something real. The moment something would give. Flesh, bone, anything.

And maybe, for just a second, you’d feel something else besides this constant, gnawing guilt.

────────────────────────

The sun was gone.

What little light was left filtered through the trees in fading streaks, turning the jungle into a wall of black shapes and rustling sound. The heat hadn’t left with the sun—it hung around like breath on your neck, heavy and damp.

You pushed a branch out of the way and squinted at the ground. Nothing. Just more dirt. More leaves. More nothing.

Behind you, John exhaled.

“That’s it,” he said. “We’re done for tonight.”

You didn’t turn. “No.”

He took a step forward. “We can pick up the trail in the morning. Boar’s not going anywhere.”

You didn’t stop. You kept scanning the ground, eyes darting, breath shallow.

“We’re close,” you muttered.

“We were,” he corrected. “Now it’s too dark to see anything. No tracks. No direction.”

You crouched anyway, brushing your fingers through damp leaves, looking for any hint of a trail. Your hands were shaking a little, but you ignored that.

“We can keep going.”

“No, we can’t.”

“We can find it,” you insisted. “We just have to keep looking.”

Your voice cracked a little at the end, and you hated it. Hated how thin it sounded.

He stepped up beside you now, close enough that you could feel him studying you. Not the way others did, with wariness or pity. This was different.

“You haven’t eaten,” he said quietly. “I offered you water three times today. You’re dehydrated, your hands are shaking, and you’ve nearly tripped over your own feet twice in the last hour.”

You stood slowly, back stiff, shoulders tense. “I said I’m fine.”

He tilted his head, watching you for a second. Quiet. Calculating.

“You’re punishing yourself.”

Your breath caught, barely.

“I don’t know what for,” Locke continued, voice low but steady. “But that’s what this is. You’ve been chasing something that isn’t here. Not tonight. And you’re wearing yourself down because it hurts less than sitting still.”

You didn’t look at him. You stared at the trees instead, fists clenched, jaw locked.

“Whatever it is,” he said, “it won’t get better like this.”

Your lip was raw from where you’d been biting it all day. You tasted blood now, coppery and warm. Your eyes burned, but the tears didn’t fall. You wouldn’t let them.

Your fingers curled tighter around the knife handle. Like maybe if you just held onto something hard enough, it’d hold you together too.

He didn’t move closer. Just stayed where he was, voice softer this time.

“Let’s go back,” John said, quiet now. “We’ll rest. First light tomorrow—we’ll find it.”

You stood there a moment longer.

Then finally—finally—you nodded.

You didn’t speak the whole way back.

And he didn’t make you.

────────────────────────

Day 11

You left before the light had fully cracked the trees.

Camp was still half-asleep—murmurs of movement, someone coughing near the firepit, a pot clinking against stone. No one saw you take the knife.

Locke’s bigger blade had been tucked beneath his gear, under a folded tarp and spare shirt. You knew where to look.

The hunting knife was heavy in your hand as you stepped into the treeline, the camp falling away behind you. The forest swallowed the noise almost immediately. No fire crackling. No Locke's voice. No one telling you to slow down or think it through.

Just breath. And branches.

You moved fast at first, driven by that early surge of clarity—the kind that always came just before you crashed. You didn’t stop to check your direction. Didn’t second-guess if this was the same route you and Locke had taken yesterday. The ground was wet and uneven, littered with tracks that could’ve been anything. You chose the ones that looked right. Even if they weren’t.

Ten minutes in, your body reminded you how long it’d been since you’d actually eaten something real. Your limbs felt lead-heavy. Your head fogged. But you kept moving, boots slipping through mud, hand tight around the knife handle like it grounded you to something.

You tried not to think.

Tried to fix your focus to one thing.

The boar.

Not the guilt. Not the ring on your hand. Not the fact that you hadn’t said goodbye.

Just that damn boar.

You crouched near a patch of overturned leaves, running your fingers through the mess. Something had moved here. Big, fast. It had a path. And it was smarter than you gave it credit for yesterday.

You let out a slow breath.

“Okay,” you muttered to yourself. “You want to play? Let’s play.”

You weren’t a tracker. You weren’t a hunter. For God’s sake, you were a journalist. A city girl with coffee shop habits and terrible knees, who paid for parking and wore boots for fashion, not for this. You hadn’t gone camping since high school, and that trip ended with bug bites and passive-aggressive tears.

And yet—here you were.

Crouched in the jungle like some deranged amateur survivalist, trying to outsmart a wild animal that had been playing you all day yesterday. An animal that didn’t care about your grief or your wedding ring or the fact that you hadn’t slept properly in days.

The boar didn’t care. But you did.

You tracked it for what felt like hours. Doubled back once when you realized it had circled you. Clever bastard. It moved with purpose—pacing, maybe, or leading you. Trying to exhaust you.

You were already there.

Your mouth was dry. Your arms ached from holding the knife, fingers cramping. The heat pressed down on your skin like a blanket soaked in your own sweat. Every sound made your pulse jump—twigs snapping, birds scattering, wind hitting the back of your neck like breath.

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

You started thinking like it. If it was tired, where would it go? Where was cover? Where was water? You remembered things Locke told you—bits and pieces you hadn’t listened to at the time. They came back now in strange flashes.

You saw another set of tracks. Fresh this time. Clear. You crouched low, scanned the clearing ahead.

And there it was.

Just beyond the brush.

Massive. Dark bristled fur. Mud-caked tusks. Snorting into the roots of a tree like it didn’t know—or didn’t care—that you were there.

Your hands trembled around the knife.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You were going to do it. You were going to charge something three times your size with absolutely no plan, because the thought of doing nothing was so much worse.

You inched forward. One foot. Then another.

The boar turned slightly. Still unaware. You could almost—

Snap.

A branch cracked beneath your boot.

It froze. Ears twitching. Head snapping in your direction.

You had half a second to react.

And then it bolted.

One second, the boar was running, all blur and muscle. The next—it clipped you with a tusk on the way through the trees. A quick, sharp pain across your thigh. You went down hard, breath knocked from your lungs, the knife skidding from your hand into the brush.

You stayed on the ground for a second. Just breathing. Letting your vision come back.

The gash wasn’t deep. It didn’t matter. You were already standing again before the sting fully set in, limping slightly as you hobbled toward the knife and picked it up.

You didn’t go back to camp. You didn’t turn around. Instead, you found a clearing and started building.

It was a half-assed trap. You remembered the basics from watching Locke. Bent branches, a pit barely deep enough to hold a body. You sharpened some sticks. You used vines and what little patience you had left.

By the time you finished, the sky was high and hot, and your vest stuck to your back with sweat. Your leg ached. You’d stopped bleeding, mostly. Or maybe you hadn’t looked closely enough.

You crouched in the trees, knife clutched to your chest, and waited.

Waited for the thing that didn’t care about your pain or your memories. Waited for it to come back.

And it did.

It stumbled into the trap sometime in the late afternoon. A loud crack, a screech of surprise and pain—then silence. You ran toward the sound without thinking, heart in your throat, stumbling on shaky legs until you reached the edge and looked down.

There it was.

Breathing heavy. Caught. One leg bloodied. Tusks still twitching. Pinned.

Alive.

The knife felt different in your hand now.

You stood there a long time, staring at it. You could’ve left. You could’ve walked back to camp, told Locke you lost the trail. Let him finish it off tomorrow.

But this was your kill.

This was the thing you had to do. Not because it made sense, but because something in you needed it. Needed to win. Needed to take something down. Make something pay.

You stepped closer. Slid into the pit.

The boar was making a sound—low, pained, somewhere between a growl and a cry. The noise was awful—low, panicked squeals, the kind that didn’t sound real. You didn’t look at its eyes.

All you had to do was kill it.

All you had to do was kill it.

You stood over it, breathing hard, every inch of you sore. You gripped the knife so tight your knuckles turned white.

The boar writhed. It was trapped. It wasn’t going anywhere.

Its eyes were wild, terrified.

And you—you—froze.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just a boar.

It was a thing. Alive. Real. And you’d caught it. You’d won.

And it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

You swallowed, but your throat was too dry. Your body shook from something deeper than fatigue.

The knife wouldn’t move. Your arm wouldn’t move.

It cried out again, that high-pitched, choked squeal—and something in you snapped.

You dropped to your knees and did it. You didn’t know how many times. You didn’t count.

But when it was done, the jungle was silent.

You sat back, blood on your hands, your arms, your top. The boar’s body twitched once, then stilled.

And you waited.

Waited for the feeling. The release. The proof that you’d done something right. That this meant something. That now, now, you could stop punishing yourself.

But there was nothing.

No relief. No pride. No peace.

Just silence. And the slow, hollow crawl of something cold settling in your chest.

You looked at your hands. At the carcass. And suddenly, it was all too clear.

He was gone.

Bucky was gone.

There’d been no sign. No noise. No whisper from the jungle. Just ten days of silence, and now this.

You’d wasted your last moment with him being cruel.

At least I won’t have to look at your face for the next twenty hours.

And now you were never going to see his face again.

The knife slipped from your fingers as your body folded in. First your shoulders, then your spine, collapsing inward like paper in the rain.

You dropped beside the boar, blood cooling on your skin, your hands digging into the earth just to stay grounded.

And you broke.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just—broke.

Like glass under pressure. Like something you didn’t know you’d been holding finally gave out.

Your fingers curled around the dirt.

And for the first time in ten days, you let yourself cry.

You sobbed like it hurt to breathe.

Not loud. Not messy. Just broken. Your forehead pressed to your hands. Shoulders shaking with the effort of trying not to fall apart—and failing.

“I didn’t mean it,” you whispered.

Your voice sounded small. Childish.

“I didn’t mean it.”

But he couldn’t hear you now. And that was the worst part.

You stayed there beside the body, knees in the blood-wet dirt, breath catching again and again. There was no catharsis. No answers. Just you. And silence.

And the unbearable fact that he was gone.

Day 1

Salt water burned the inside of his mouth before he knew he was awake.

He gasped, choked, came up coughing as another wave slammed into him. The roar of the ocean was deafening. His limbs flailed in the current, legs kicking to stay above water as something heavy dragged at his foot—seatbelt? Bag? He didn’t know.

Voices. Screaming.

His ears rang, but it wasn’t just that. It was everything. The rush of waves, the panicked yells, the tearing metal creak of wreckage still sinking nearby.

The tail section.

It was gone—broken off midair. He remembered the drop. The violent jolt. The sound no one should ever hear on a plane.

He spat out seawater, turned, bobbing just enough to get his bearings.

People were drowning.

He could see them—arms thrashing, eyes wide. Some had life vests. Some didn’t. A man was clinging to a floating drink cart. A woman was screaming, her head barely above water.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

He swam.

One hand on the woman’s shoulder, flipping her onto her back. “Breathe,” he said—calm, automatic. “Breathe, you’re okay—hold onto me.”

She clawed at him in panic. He took it. Hooked her arm over his and kicked harder.

Another scream behind him. Closer now.

He turned—saw a boy, maybe ten, slipping under.

Shit.

“Hold on,” he barked at the woman. “Keep floating—keep breathing.” He swam hard toward the kid, just barely catching the arm as it went under.

Pulled him up. Spun him around. “You’re alright, I got you.”

The kid sobbed into his shirt.

Bucky turned again, scanning.

Bodies. Wreckage. Screams. Someone floating face down.

His brain went quiet. Focused.

He didn’t think about the crash. Or where they were. Or the fact that he hadn’t seen you since before takeoff. He couldn’t. That would break him.

So he saved who he could.

One after another. A woman with a gash on her leg. A man too stunned to move. Another kid someone handed off with shaking hands.

He didn’t ask names. He didn’t speak unless he had to.

Just pulled. Held. Kicked. Hauled.

One more. Just one more.

The sun was higher now, casting gold across the water like it had any right to be beautiful.

Bodies floated in it.

Dozens, maybe. Spaced out like debris. Like trash. Some face up, some not. Some with eyes still open.

Bucky was half in the water, half out—arms aching, shirt clinging to him, knees cut open from dragging himself across jagged reef.

His breathing was shallow. Not from panic. Not yet.

Just… catching up.

His muscles were slow now, like they were only just realizing they’d carried too much. His brain kept flashing—woman, kid, crying, gashed leg, another one sinking—and looping back to the ones he didn’t reach in time.

Too many.

He heard the others before he saw them.

A heavy splash. The thud of footsteps in the surf.

Eko.

Bigger than everyone else. Quiet. Calm in that strange, unshakable way. He was already pulling another man from the water, arms locked around the torso like it was second nature.

Bucky moved to help without a word.

One body at a time. Line them up. Check pulses, even if you know. Cover the faces with whatever you can find. Bits of seat fabric. Shirts.

Don’t look too long. Don’t memorize them. And through all of it, his eyes kept scanning.

Not the wreckage. Not the horizon.

The faces.

It wasn’t even conscious at first. Just… instinct. An itch behind his eyes that wouldn’t go away.

He kept thinking he’d spot you. Sitting up somewhere. Wrapped in a life vest. Calling his name.

But you weren’t there.

Another body floated toward shore. A woman. Younger. Not you.

Bucky blinked hard. Refused to let his mind spiral.

Maybe you were on the other side. Maybe the front half of the plane landed somewhere safer. Maybe you made it inland.

He wouldn’t panic. Not until he had a reason to.

He moved to help Eko again, this time with a younger guy—early twenties. Didn’t make it. Didn’t even look hurt. Just gone.

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

He dragged the body onto the sand and wiped his hands on his soaked pants.

Then he looked back out at the ocean.

Still searching. Still hoping.

Still not saying your name.

────────────────────────

He didn’t sleep the first night.

None of them really did.

They built a fire with scraps of wreckage and whatever driftwood they could gather. It didn’t give off much heat, but it lit the beach just enough to make the dark look less infinite.

Bucky sat at the edge of it, soaked through, jaw clenched. Eyes scanning the trees. Back straight. Shoulders set.

He hadn’t changed clothes. He hadn’t eaten. He didn’t even think about either. His hands still smelled like saltwater and blood. His fingers ached from pulling bodies out of the ocean.

Someone was crying behind him. A kid. Someone else pacing, muttering about rescue flights.

He stared into the trees.

Too quiet.

Too still.

He knew that feeling. He’d felt it before. Just before ambushes. Just before landmines.

Movement, barely visible. Between the palms.

Bucky was on his feet before his brain caught up.

Then the screaming started.

The first man went down before he could yell—just a shadow dragging him into the trees.

Then chaos.

Flashlights swinging. Yells. A woman gone from the fire before anyone realized. Someone running, screaming. Another dragged into the jungle.

The camp fractured. People scattered.

Bucky didn’t run.

He moved into the trees.

The first one came at him from the side—fast, silent, knife in hand.

Bucky ducked low, pivoted. Elbow to the throat. Twist. Snap.

No hesitation.

The second grabbed him from behind. He threw them over his shoulder and drove a fist into their jaw hard enough to feel something crack.

Breathing heavy now. Vision sharp.

A third one rushed him with a blade. He stepped into the attack, grabbed the wrist, snapped it, and drove his knee into the guy’s ribs before choking him out cold.

The sounds around him blurred—screams, shouting, leaves rustling, feet pounding.

But he was locked in. Present. Brutal.

Automatic.

By the time they were gone—whoever the hell they were—Bucky was standing at the edge of the jungle, chest heaving, blood on his knuckles.

Three bodies at his feet.

The beach behind him was scattered with broken branches, panic, and silence. People were crying. Eko was checking the wounded. Someone asked if they were safe now.

Bucky didn’t answer.

He just sat back down by the fire, hands resting on his knees, jaw still tight.

He didn't say a word for the rest of the night.

And still—still—his eyes scanned the tree line.

Not for the Others this time.

For you.

────────────────────────

Day 27

Twenty-seven days.

That’s how long they’d been on this godforsaken island.

No rescue. No planes overhead. No signal. No boats.

No front half of the damn plane.

And no sign of you.

Bucky didn’t let himself dwell on it. Not really. There wasn’t time. There wasn’t space. They were always moving—deep into the jungle now, far from the crash site, far from the beach, far from where they started.

It was safer this way. The Others hadn’t found them again. Not yet. But they all knew the drill. Never stay in one place. Never light a fire too big. Take shifts. Watch each other’s backs.

There were six of them left.

Ana Lucia walked ahead, machete in hand, clearing branches with angry swipes. Always angry, always looking for control. It made sense to him.

Eko kept close to the back, silent as ever, a quiet kind of anchor that nobody questioned.

Libby, Bernard and Cindy moved in the middle, quiet but present. Not dead weight. They pulled what they could. Helped when they needed to.

And him.

Bucky.

He walked behind Ana. Always alert. Always scanning.

Not because he expected rescue anymore—but because he expected more violence.

He hadn’t slept a full night since the crash. Ate just enough to keep his legs moving. Water when someone handed it to him. He kept his hands busy, sharpening blades, tying knots, scavenging. Every task served a purpose.

Because when he didn’t have a job, that’s when his mind tried to go places.

Like where you were. Or if you were even alive.

The odds weren’t good. He knew that. He wasn’t stupid.

If the front section was still out there, it would’ve found them by now. Or they’d have found it.

He didn’t know how to sit with that. Didn’t know how to even begin to think about it. About you sinking in the ocean. About your seatbelt stuck. About you calling his name and no one hearing it.

So he didn’t. He just kept walking.

────────────────────────

Day 28

The radio was old. Cracked along the edges. One of the last things they'd salvaged before abandoning what was left of the fuselage.

Bernard had been tinkering with it for days—adjusting wires, re-wrapping it in cloth when it rained. Most of the time it was silent, static and dead air.

Until it wasn’t.

That morning, as the sun bled through the treetops and everyone sat clustered in the dense shade, the radio clicked.

Then a male voice.

”Hello. Hello, anybody out there? Mayday. Mayday.”

Everyone froze.

Bernard fumbled with the frequency, eyes wide. “Is there someone there?“ he said into the mic. “Hello?“

The voice came through again—clear this time, alive with urgency.

”Hello! Hello!“

Bucky was on his feet before he realized it. Everyone had gathered around Bernard now, Eko leaning in, Libby clutching the strap of her bag like it might hold her steady.

And then it came:

”Hello. We’re survivors of the crash of Oceanic flight 815! Please copy!“

The world tipped sideways.

Bucky’s heart stopped. Just for a second.

Bernard’s brow furrowed. “We’re the survivors of flight 815.”

Then Ana Lucia stepped forward, fast and clean, and snapped the radio off.

The silence afterward was louder than the voice had been.

Bucky rounded on her, jaw clenched. “What the hell are you doing?”

Ana didn’t flinch. “It’s them. The Others. It’s a trap.”

“You don’t know that.”

“They’ve been watching us. Picking us off. You really think it’s just some nice group on the other end of that radio?”

Bernard stepped forward, voice stumbling. “No, but—what if—what if it is them? What if there are other survivors?”

Ana looked at him, eyes hard. Tired.

“There are no survivors,” she said. “This is our life now. Get used to it.”

The words hung there. Cold. Final.

Bucky’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak.

He didn’t argue.

He just stood still, the weight of her words settling into his chest like wet cement.

His hands slowly curled into fists.

And that last little thread—the one he’d been holding onto without even realizing—snapped.

He didn’t let it show. Not to them.

But inside, something cracked open and emptied out.

He turned away from the group without a word, walked back into the trees, and sat alone—back pressed against a trunk, eyes fixed on nothing.

And for the first time since the crash, he stopped looking for you.

────────────────────────

Day 45

They found them in the jungle.

Three men. One with a busted arm, one shouting in a language none of them spoke, and the third—lanky, loud, all attitude and blood in his teeth. Said his name was Sawyer. Bucky didn’t know what to make of them yet, but the way they looked—exhausted, scraped up, sunburned to hell—they didn’t read like Others.

Didn’t matter to Ana. She tied them up anyway.

“You see how clean that one's shirt is?“ she muttered, pointing. "They’ve been watching us. Studying us. Now they’re testing us.”

“They’re lost,” Bucky said. “Same as we are.”

“They’re spies.”

“They’re survivors.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” Bucky snapped, voice sharp, “but you don’t either.”

The rest of the group was silent. Eko looked between them but didn’t speak. Bernard stayed close to Libby and Cindy, uneasy.

The guy named Michael had gone hoarse trying to explain—they’d crashed on the same plane. They’d heard the radio. They had people. A camp.

But Ana didn’t want to hear it. She stood like a soldier, arms crossed, already made up her mind.

Bucky stepped closer, jaw tight.

“You think the Others are gonna send three men into our camp, without weapons, limping and half-dead, just to what? Get tied up and beaten?”

She didn’t blink. “It’s what they want us to think.”

“This isn’t war, Ana.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Feels like it.”

Bucky shook his head. “You’re so set on being right, you’d rather tie up your own people than take a risk.”

She stepped forward. “I’d rather keep us alive.”

“And what if they’re telling the truth?” he shot back. “What if they are from the front of the plane? What if we finally found them, and you’re too scared to believe it?”

Silence. Even the jungle went still.

Sawyer looked up from where he was tied, bloody lip curled. “Well, shit,” he muttered. “Didn’t realize we stumbled into the Spanish Inquisition.”

Bucky didn’t laugh. Didn’t even look at him.

He was looking at Ana.

Waiting.

She didn’t say anything. Just turned her back and walked off.

Bucky stood there a moment longer. Then crouched beside the prisoners, reaching to untie the tightest loop around the Korean man's wrists. The man flinched.

“I’m not here to hurt you, guys,” Bucky said quietly. “Just… talk.”

He crouched there for a long time.

Just watching. Listening.

Michael was still trying to explain—something about building a raft, about his son, about how they thought they were the only ones left. Bernard had gone pale when he heard his wife's name. Libby sat down next to him, quietly stunned.

But Bucky… he hadn’t said anything in a while.

He stared at the dirt.

Then, finally, almost too quiet: “Did any of you… when you crashed. Did you meet a woman?”

Sawyer scoffed. “Brother, you’re gonna have to narrow that down.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look up. Just said it.

Said your name.

Michael paused.

Sawyer tilted his head slightly. Then glanced at Michael.

And Bucky saw it. That flash between them. That flicker of recognition.

Sawyer leaned back against the tree, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if this was funny or terrifying.

“Hot chick?” he asked, brow raised. “Sarcastic? Real sharp tongue? Throws a punch like she’s trying to break your jaw?”

Bucky’s head shot up, “You know her?”

Sawyer gave a low whistle. “Damn. You're her husband?”

Michael nodded slowly, eyes still wide. “She’s alive, man. She’s with our people.“

Bucky didn’t breathe.

“If you let us go,” Michael added, voice steadier now, “we can take you back to our camp.”

The knife in Bucky’s hand dropped slightly. His knees locked.

Forty-five days of silence. Of sleeping in dirt. Of burying people. Of listening to the jungle scream at night. Of telling himself hope was dangerous.

And now, in the middle of all that rot and noise—someone finally said it.

You were alive.

Bucky stared at him like he didn’t know how to live with that truth. Like it physically hurt to believe.

But he did. He believed it. And it changed everything.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

He dropped to one knee and started untying the knots around Michael’s wrists.

Ana’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He didn’t answer.

“Bucky,” she snapped. “Stop.”

Then he untied Sawyer, who muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “‘Bout damn time.”

“You can’t trust them—we can’t trust them.”

Libby, Bernard and Cindy stood frozen. Eko watched quietly, like he’d seen this kind of thing before and knew there was no stopping it.

“They’re telling the truth,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “She’s alive.”

“You don’t know that,” she snapped, grabbing his arm. “They’re lying! You think they just know about her by chance? They’ve been spying on us—watching us! That’s how they know her name—”

He shook her off, harder than he meant to. Stood to his full height, knife still in one hand, gaze fixed and cold.

“I’m going to find my wife.”

Ana stared at him like he’d just said he was walking into the ocean.

“We don’t split up,” she said, jaw tight. “All we’ve had, this whole time—was each other.”

Bucky didn’t even blink.

“I didn’t survive this long just to sit here while she’s alive.”

“You don’t know it’s her—”

“I do.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

His tone cut through the noise, final and grounded. It wasn't hope now—it was conviction.

And Ana knew she’d lost him.

Sawyer rubbed his wrists, grinning faintly. “Well, hell. That was kinda romantic.”

“Shut up,” Bucky muttered.

He looked at Michael.

“Lead the way.”

────────────────────────

Day 48

Three days.

It felt longer. Like time had stretched itself thin just to mock him.

They moved slow, carefully, weaving through the jungle—always watching, always listening. No fires. No loud voices. Every snapped branch sounded like a warning.

Michael led, when Ana allowed it. Bucky kept close behind.

He didn’t talk much. Neither did Jin.

Sawyer did, of course, until Bucky snapped at him on day two and the man finally got the message.

The only person he spoke to with any consistency was Eko. Quiet man, strong presence. Didn’t trust easily, but he listened. And when Bucky told him he believed the men were telling the truth, Eko didn’t argue.

“Sometimes you know something,” he said. “Even if it doesn’t make sense.”

Bernard agreed too. But he had his own reasons—his wife. Rose. Bucky watched the way his eyes lit up every time Michael said her name. The way he walked faster. Stood straighter. Like love could pull a man through hell.

Bucky understood it now.

Michael had said you were alive. Safe.

But Bucky couldn’t believe it. Not fully. Not really.

Not until he saw your face.

His hands stayed busy. Always gripping a knife. Checking the edges. Watching Ana.

Because if there was one thing more exhausting than moving through the jungle, it was stopping Ana Lucia from trying to kill someone every time they stopped.

“They’re leading us into a trap,” she muttered more than once. “You’ll see.”

“We’ve been walking in circles,” she accused. “They’re stalling.”

“This ends with us dead, just like the others.”

She said it like she wanted it to be true. Like hope was the real threat.

Bucky didn’t answer her anymore. Didn’t waste the breath. He didn’t care what she thought.

He just kept walking.

Three days of silence, of overgrown brush, of half-rations and soaked clothes.

Three days of fighting down the fear that maybe—just maybe—Michael was lying.

Three days of you at the edge of every thought.

The sound of your voice. The way you used to tug at his sleeve when you wanted his attention without saying anything. Your laugh. That cheeky grin. Your fists balled up in anger. Your legs tangled with his under the sheets.

Three days of imagining all the things he’d forgotten to memorize. By the end of it, Bucky felt like a man stretched too thin to hold himself together.

But he kept walking. Because you were somewhere on this island.

And he wasn’t going to stop until he found you.

────────────────────────

Day 49

The trees thinned.

And then they were there.

The camp.

It didn’t look like anything Bucky expected. It looked… functional. Organized. There were tents—real tents, patched together with tarps and bamboo. A fire pit at the center. Makeshift tables. Clotheslines strung between trees. People laughing. Cooking.

It looked like a community.

He stopped at the edge of the trees for a second, just to stare.

Forty-nine days of dragging bodies, of tying vines into shelter, of sleeping with one eye open—and here these people were, with lean-tos and food and some sense of peace. It didn’t make sense.

And it didn’t matter.

Because as soon as they stepped into the clearing, heads started turning. Voices rose. People ran.

Someone shouted Michael’s name.

A crowd gathered fast, fast, fast.

Sawyer was grinning like a man returning from war. Jin had already been pulled into a woman's arms. Michael was surrounded.

And Bucky?

He was scanning every face. Every movement. Every figure that stepped forward.

You weren’t there.

He stepped closer to Michael, shoulder tense. “Where is she?”

Michael blinked, still breathless from hugs. “What?”

Bucky grabbed his arm, eyes sharp. “Where is she? You said she was here.”

Michael blinked, still catching his breath. “She’s here, I swear—she is…”

Then he turned, scanning the camp. “Hurley!” he called out over the noise.

A big guy in a ratty tank top looked up from where he was stacking something near the fire pit. “Yo!”

“Hey—uh, have you seen…” Michael said your name, barely heard above the noise of the camp.

Hurley blinked, confused. “Oh, uh—yeah. She was over at the beach, dude. Few hours ago. I think she—”

But Bucky didn’t wait to hear the rest.

He was already moving.

Through the crowd, past the tents, through the narrow trail that cut between the trees toward the rocks and sand. Heart pounding. Legs aching. Breathing too hard.

He didn’t care.

He just ran.

Because if you were real—if you were right there—he wasn’t going to waste another second.

────────────────────────

The net was heavier than you expected.

Saltwater soaked through the rope, tugging at your shoulders with every step as you dragged it over the rocks. Your fingers ached from gripping the mesh, skin rough from days of sun and sea.

The tide was low. The sun was sharp. Everything felt normal—or what counted as normal now. You'd done this a dozen times by now. Haul the net. Clean the fish. Bring them back to camp. Maybe argue with Charlie about the seasoning. Maybe steal a mango on the way from Sawyer's old stash.

You didn’t know what was happening back at camp.

Didn’t know what was coming.

You dropped the net near a tide pool and crouched beside it, pulling a stubborn fish free. You were humming something under your breath. Something stupid and old. Bowie maybe. Or something your mom used to play when you were too young to care.

The world was quiet.

Until someone yelled your name.

Sharp. Familiar. Ripped from the chest of someone you hadn’t heard in forty-nine goddamn days.

Your whole body locked. Every muscle, every nerve, frozen. Your hands were still tangled in the net. Your knees dug into the sand. But your ears—

They rang.

Because it wasn’t just anyone shouting.

It was him.

That voice you’d heard in dreams, in half-asleep dazes, in the middle of the night when the wind sounded just close enough to pretend.

And now—here it was.

Real.

You turned slowly.

Breath caught. Eyes wide.

And there he was.

Standing on the rocks, chest rising fast, shirt torn, hair longer, face hardened, sharper—but still him.

Still Bucky.

Your mouth opened. But no sound came out. Because you were staring at a ghost.

And he was staring at you. Like you were the only real thing in the world.

He didn’t wait.

And neither did you.

The second your eyes locked, your feet moved. Faster than your brain could keep up. Faster than your heart could beat.

You sprinted across the rocks, barely feeling the scrape of stone on your feet, barely seeing anything but him. And he was already coming toward you—full speed, wide-eyed, desperate, like the breath had left his body the second he saw your face.

And then—contact.

You hit him like a wave, arms flinging around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist before either of you could think. He caught you without a stutter, without a sound of protest, like his body had been waiting for this weight again. Like he was built to hold you.

His hands locked around you—one splayed across your back, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. His forehead pressed hard to your shoulder as he held you like hell itself wouldn’t tear you away again.

You sobbed into the curve of his neck, breath hitting skin. You couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t even breathe properly.

“You’re alive,” you gasped, voice breaking. “You’re alive—oh my god—”

“I am,” he whispered, over and over. “I am. I’m here.”

“I thought—I thought you died—on the plane—on the water—I thought—”

“I know,” he murmured, arms tightening. “I know. I thought you were gone too.”

And then it hit you.

The last thing you said to him.

The last damn thing.

“I’m sorry,” you choked, the words spilling out of you like a flood. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, Bucky—I didn’t mean what I said—I didn’t mean it—I didn’t—”

“Hey—hey,” he said quickly, firmly, pulling back just enough to cup your face in both hands. “Stop. Don’t. You don’t have to—”

“I do,” you cried. “That fight—that stupid fight—I was so mean—I told you I didn’t want to see your face, and then—then you were gone—”

He kissed you.

Just once.

Quick and desperate, like he needed to shut you up and keep breathing at the same time.

“And now I’m here,” he said, voice cracking, forehead pressed to yours. “I’m here, okay? We made it.”

You gripped the fabric of his shirt like it might vanish if you let go.

He held you like he’d die if he didn’t.

And for the first time in forty-nine days, the ache in your chest stopped growing.

Because he was real.

Your fingers curled in his hair, trembling. You pulled back just enough to see his face—bruised, sunburned, beautiful.

“You found me,” you said, voice breaking all over again.

Bucky looked at you, eyes wet, a half-broken smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t?”

And then he kissed you again—full and sure—like he’d never let you go again.

a/n | lowkey my propaganda for you guys to watch Lost. I'm only on season 3 btw

Anyway to help you guys, and put faces to names, here's the ones I named in the fic:

Jack, Kate & Locke

Michael, Sawyer & Jin

Ana Lucia, Eko & Bernard

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @ozwriterchick

It was always hard to decline the Wilsons every time they invited you over to visit them in Delacroix.

They always made sure to show you a fun time, whether it was something as simple as a boat ride on Paul & Darlene’s — God bless them — shooting water guns with the kids, going fishing, or just grabbing some folding chairs to watch the sun set past the lake line with cold Heinekens in hand.

It was AJ’s—Sarah’s son—birthday this weekend, and Sam had invited you to stay over for a full weekend of nonstop partying and celebration.

How could you possibly resist when you have your very best friends waiting for you across the states with good music and food ready at their doorstep?

You showed up at the top of the steps with a heavy weekender bag slung over your shoulder. When you pushed through the front door, which had been left unlocked, the last person you expected to see was standing right in the middle of the room.

Bucky.

He looked like he had just arrived, too. A simple dark backpack sat squared and centered on the couch—as if he were already claiming his spot.

Bucky slowly turned toward you, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t expected you to arrive either.

“What are you doing—”

“What are you doing—”

You both spoke and stopped at the same time, eyes glaring at one another. Bucky’s shoulders were tense, his discomfort obvious, while your own brows were furrowed and lips scrunched in disdain.

Your first impression of Bucky hadn’t been great—and it still wasn’t.

When you first met him, you walked in on him talking to Sam about his flirting with Sarah. Sam had warned Bucky to back off—that typical overprotective brother routine—but Bucky insisted he was “merely joking around” and “wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

The two of them might have found it funny, but Sarah was your best friend, and you were extremely protective over the people you cared about.

While Sam was busy in New York, you had stuck by her side like glue. You were there for her through the divorce, you were there to watch the kids when Sam wasn’t around, and you were there for every single one of her and the boys’ milestones.

Sarah was a woman who deserved to be taken care of, just as she took care of everyone else.

To Bucky, pursuing her and tossing out flirtatious comments was just a joke.

You knew Sarah was strong, and that maybe she wouldn’t let things get too far with Bucky, but the way she’d chuckle and giggle at his words filled you with doubt.

Bucky wasn’t a man who would take care of her or her kids. He was just like Sam—he’d always be away, too occupied with other things across the country to actually show up for her and her needs. You didn’t want her to get hurt and left in the dust again.

Bucky let out a patient exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Sam invited me to stay the weekend for AJ’s birthday.”

You crossed your arms. “That’s funny. Sam invited me over to stay, too.” You glanced at the couch. “They don’t have a spare bedroom—so that couch is going to have to be mine.”

He huffed an incredulous laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching into a disbelieving smile.

The gentleman in him told him to give up the couch and let you have it, even if he had arrived first. But the petty part of him didn’t want to give in that easily—not with how cold you have been towards him.

“What?” Bucky motioned to the sofa. “You don’t think the couch is big enough for the both of us?”

You didn’t laugh, and he let out a frustrated sigh.

“Look, I—”

“Mom! Uncle Bucky and Auntie are here!” Cass’s voice rang from around the corner. His happy brown eyes, so much like Sarah’s, peered between the two of you. “AJ, come here!”

Bucky’s shoulders eased slightly, his expression softening at the sight of Sam’s nephew.

Cass ran to Bucky first since he was closer, throwing his arms around his waist as he knelt to meet the kid halfway.

“Good to see you again, kid,” Bucky murmured.

Then Cass lunged at you for a hug next, nearly sending you stumbling backward from the impact. You laughed, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing tight. “Hey there, Cass!”

AJ rounded the corner next, his footsteps thudding against the floorboards before he collided head first into Bucky, catching him in a bear hug.

Jealousy started to boil in your blood. It was infuriating how much Bucky had these two kids wrapped around his stupid vibranium finger after knowing them for such a short time. Meanwhile, you have been around forever. You might as well have been their biological aunt, for fuck’s sake.

“Uncle Bucky!” AJ beamed.

Bucky laughed, giving his head a playful ruffle. “Well, if it isn’t the birthday boy. Hey, I got you something—”

“Aren’t you going to say hi to your aunt, AJ?” you cut in, catching the boy’s attention.

AJ’s excitement for whatever gift Bucky had for him faded slightly as he turned his attention to you. He smiled, walking—not running—to greet you with a hug. The polite gesture did nothing to soothe your jealousy or your emotional attachment to these kids.

“It’s nice to see you, Auntie,” AJ said politely.

You forced a smile anyway. “Happy early birthday, AJ. Are you excited for the weekend?”

AJ grinned and nodded, but before he could answer, the sound of Sam’s footsteps approached from down the hall.

“Well, well, well,” Sam said, a hand on his hip and a smirk on his face. “If it isn’t my two favorite people in the world—standing in the same room.”

The little boys glanced at each other, already starting their own silent game of tag before they pushed through the front door and disappeared into the yard.

“Sam,” you greeted, finally dropping your heavy duffel bag on the floor. “There isn’t enough space for Bucky and me to stay.”

Bucky was already reaching for his backpack. “I’ll just let her take the couch. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“What?” Sam huffed, shaking his head. “No, no, no. None of that. I bought an air mattress that we can set up right here.” He motioned to the floor in front of the sofa. “We’ll just move the coffee table. It’s big enough to fit the both of you. No one is sleeping on the floor.”

Big enough to fit the both of you?

“We are not sharing a bed,” you interjected sternly, trying to hide the embarassment on your face.

Bucky glanced at Sam casually. “I’ll just take the couch, then. She’ll take the bed.”

The tension in the room was thicker than the Louisiana humidity. Sam and Bucky traded a knowing look—one that typically meant they were thinking the same thing but didn’t want to say it out loud.

“Where’s Sarah?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. There was too much testosterone in this room.

Sam pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s out back.”

You nodded and walked past the two men, heading for the backyard. Sam and Bucky watched you retreat, waiting until the sound of the screen door clicked shut before Bucky finally let out the breath he had been holding.

“She doesn’t like me much, Sam,” Bucky muttered.

“You think?” Sam mused sarcastically, folding his arms over his chest. “Look, man, it’s my nephew’s birthday. Sarah and I want both of you here this weekend, and I’m going to make sure it stays a good weekend.”

Bucky pressed his lips together, his right hand coming up to tug at the stubble on his chin as if he were trying to calculate a solution.

“Alright, well...” He shrugged. “Guess I’ll just make sure to stay on the opposite side of the room—”

“No,” Sam interrupted, stepping closer. “That’s not how we’re doing things. It’s a celebration, man. I’m not having you two avoid each other like the plague the entire time. My nephews and everyone else around us will catch on.”

Bucky made a face. He knew Sam well enough to know he was already plotting something. “What do you propose we do, then?”

“There are plenty of things to do down at the bayou,” Sam explained. “Not even just the bayou—all over the damn state. Activities you two can do together.”

Bucky was terrible at hiding his expressions. He grimaced immediately at the thought—enduring constant nagging, side-eyes, and petty one liners from you while he just had to sit there and take it for Sam’s sake.

This wasn’t a fun vacation at all.

“I don’t know about this, Sam—”

“We’re supposed to be a family, Buck,” Sam cut him off, raising a hand to silence the protest. “You’re going to spend time with her, and you’re going to enjoy every second of it.”

You were down at the docks, the sun beaming down as sweat began to trickle from your temples. The humidity in Louisiana was suffocating, but the occasional lake breeze, the cold beers, and the company were enough to keep the heat at bay.

Paul & Darlene’s was swaying gently against the waves, looking as rusty as ever.

“Is she ready for a ride?” you asked Sarah, who was currently engrossed in a clipboard. “Are you seriously still working on your son’s birthday weekend?”

Sarah didn’t reply, mumbling to herself as her eyes traced the words on the paper. You sighed, your fingers gently nudging the clipboard down.

“Sarah, enough,” you said gently. You glanced over at AJ and Cass, who were sitting on the benches playing with action figures. “Take the weekend off like the rest of us and spend time with the kids. Take them out on the boat.”

Sarah looked at the boys, her brown eyes filling with guilt. “You know I would, but the boat’s still broken—”

“Stop with the sulking,” Sam’s voice shouted from the end of the dock.

He squinted against the sun as he approached, carrying two boat paddles, while Bucky trailed behind him with a third.

“We still have three perfectly good rowboats we can take the kids on,” Sam grinned, handing you one of the paddles. “Ever rowed a boat before?”

“Of course I have,” you said, taking it. “That sounds like fun.” You smiled, turning toward the boys. “Which one of you lucky boys wants to ride with your super cool aunt?”

Bucky lifted his paddle up to Sarah with a small, stupidly charming smile. “Want to ride with me, Sarah?”

You felt your eyebrow twitch.

“AJ, you’re with me,” Sam called out, cutting Bucky off. “Cass, you’re with your mom.”

“What? No fair!” Cass made a face, throwing his hands up. “I want to ride with someone cool!”

“You better watch your mouth, boy,” Sarah warned, completely ignoring Bucky as she snatched a paddle from Sam’s hand, already heading toward the end of the dock where the boats were tied.

Sam didn’t bother hiding his grin. It was wide, unabashed, and entirely too fucking satisfied as he ushered the boys toward the edge of the dock.

“Alright, move it or lose it! First one to the sandbar gets the first slice of cake on Saturday!” Sam shouted. AJ and Cass scrambled past you, their sneakers slapping loudly against the wooden planks as they raced toward the smaller rowboats, leaving giggles in their wake.

You and Bucky stood frozen, paddles in hand like two statues, blinking as the Wilsons walked off without you.

“Wait, what?” you finally managed to choke out, your head whipping between Sam’s retreating back and the boats. “Sam, hold on. There are only three boats.” You stumbled after them, desperately trying to create space between you and Bucky.

“Yep!” Sam called over his shoulder, not slowing down at all. “One for Sarah and Cass, one for me and the birthday boy…”

He paused to hop into a boat, the wood creaking under him. He looked back at you and Bucky, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

“And one for the two of you. Try not to tip it.”

You turned slowly to look at Bucky. He looked just as dumbfounded as you felt, his vibranium hand gripped tight around the handle of his paddle.

“He’s kidding,” you muttered. “He’s definitely kidding.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, mostly because he knew Sam wasn’t kidding at all. He looked at the third rowboat—a small, weathered piece of wood that bobbed innocently at the end of the line.

It looked incredibly small.

It looked too intimate.

It looked like a disaster waiting to happen.

“Sam!” you yelled, taking a step forward. “This is ridiculous! I can just stay back and help Sarah with the—the decorations! Or the food!”

“Decorations are done! Food isn’t being prepped ‘til tomorrow!” Sarah shouted from her own boat, already pushing off from the dock with Cass sitting across from her.

You couldn’t believe it. You were stranded.

You were stranded with Bucky fucking Barnes.

Bucky let out a long, slow breath through his nose. He glanced at you, taking the way your jaw had hung open as you watched Sam and Sarah float away. A fly could’ve flown in at any moment.

Without a word, Bucky started walking toward the last boat, his heavy boots thumping against the dock. He stepped one foot into the boat to steady it and extended a hand toward you.

“Come on,” he muttered. “I’ll help you down.”

You blinked, snapped out of your disbelief as you looked down at Bucky—propped up like a knight in shining armor helping a fair maiden onto his trusty steed.

“I can help myself just fine, thanks,” you scoffed.

You stepped down into the boat, and it tipped slightly under your weight. The both of you quickly got settled, undid the rope, and assembled the paddles at the sides. Without a single word being exchanged, you both reached for the handles at the same time.

Except Bucky’s hands landed first—and your hands landed right on top of his. You both stared at each other, gazes hard and unwavering.

“Let go,” you said.

Bucky didn’t budge at all. “I grabbed them first.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know how to row a boat, do you?” you immediately countered.

He paused. The only sounds were the cicadas buzzing in your ears and the gentle thrashing of water as the rowboat swayed.

“I do know how to row a boat,” Bucky argued back pridefully.

He didn’t.

He probably had during his Winter Soldier days—and maybe the muscle memory would have come back—but definitely not for a teeny, tiny little rowboat like this.

You grinned, a little taunting chuckle escaping your lips as you silently called his bluff. “Oh, yeah?”

You knew that stung his pride. He mumbled incoherent, grumpy words under his breath as he started to paddle away from the docks and toward the center of the lake, trying to follow Sam and Sarah’s lead.

The two of you sat in an awkward, tense silence as he worked the paddles. The sun was beaming in your face, and you lifted your hand to provide shade—but it was also a discreet method to help shield the way you were staring intently at Bucky’s muscles as he pushed the paddles.

Bucky would grunt occasionally as the blades lapped through the water, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way his muscles bulged and flexed through a shirt that looked ridiculously tight on a big guy like him.

His henley was pulled up to his forearms, the vibranium shimmering against the reflections of the lake and the veins in his right arm catching your eyes with every pushing motion of the paddle.

“You, uh… you come to Louisiana often?” Bucky tried for a conversation.

You huffed a laugh that didn’t sound humorous at all. “Way more than you have, that’s for sure.”

Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something smart. He had to suck it up for Sam’s sake.

“The weather’s nice, isn’t it?”

You couldn’t believe Bucky was trying to talk to you about the weather.

“It’s always hot and swampy in Delacroix,” you said flatly.

You looked around, noticing how the boat was drifting further away from Sam and Sarah. You watched as Cass and AJ shouted to each other from across their boats—how Sarah and Sam were tossing their heads back in laughter.

A frown settled on your lips as you began to feel left out.

“We’re drifting, Bucky,” you said, pointing toward them. “Steer in that direction.”

Bucky adjusted his grip on the paddles and huffed. “Fine.”

He started to dig the right paddle deep into the water while the left one barely grazed the surface. But instead of cutting toward Sam and Sarah, the boat’s nose jerked sharply to the right.

“What are you doing?” you snapped, your patience thinning as the distance between you and the Wilsons grew wider. “We’re not going toward them, Bucky. We’re going…” You frowned. “…nowhere.”

“I’m adjusting,” Bucky said shortly, his vibranium fingers tightening on the paddle. He tried to over-correct, pulling back hard with his left arm, but the only result was the boat beginning to pivot on its axis.

You weren’t moving anywhere. You were spinning.

The same cluster of cypress trees passed by for the third time. Sam and Sarah were becoming distant specks on the horizon, their laughter echoing faintly across the water.

An impatient sigh escaped you as you leaned forward, motioning to the paddles. “Here, move over. Let me take over—”

“I got it,” Bucky insisted, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense in that way that made him look particularly stubborn. “Just give me a second, alright?”

“Bucky, we’ve barely moved from the dock and now you’ve got us—” you motioned to the boat, “—spinning in circles. I’m getting dizzy. Just hand me the damn paddles.”

Your hands found an open space on the handles and you jerked them toward your side of the boat, causing the wood to thrash against the water. Bucky—taken aback by your unexpected strength—was pulled forward. He let out a hiss, immediately yanking the oars back toward him and making you jerk forward instead.

You both glared at each other stubbornly, muttering curses as you continued this back and forth struggle for the paddles.

But unfortunately for you, Bucky was significantly stronger, and every jerk he made sent you nearly flying out of your seat and in his direction.

“Goddammit, Bucky! Just let go!” you hissed, trying to find your balance as the boat thrashed around, water splashing everywhere.

Bucky had told himself he would try to suck up your attitude for Sam—but fuck, you were treading on his nerves every second.

“Christ, woman!” Bucky barked, his fingers tightening on the handles. “Just let me take care of it—alright? I know what I’m doing!”

“Well, clearly you don’t! Because we’re still just spinning in circles!”

The boat rocked violently, tipping precariously every time the two of you fought for the oars. The wood creaked and groaned under the movement, and water began slopping over the gunwales, soaking your sandals.

“Will you stop being such a prideful man and let a woman take over the damn oars already?” you shouted over the splashing water, throwing your entire weight into a massive yank.

The paddles lurched toward you.

“I can’t believe you offered to take Sarah for a ride when you can’t even steer the damn thing!”

Bucky’s brow twitched. He hated feeling incompetent, and every word you hurled was a direct jab to his pride. He had tried so hard to be on his best behavior for you, but his patience had finally worn thin.

“I would’ve done just fine if you hadn’t gotten in the way,” Bucky snapped back in a low growl.

His fingers clamped down so hard on the wood it was a wonder it didn’t snap. Out of sheer, petty spite, he jerked the oars back toward himself.

“Now give me these damn paddles—”

But the force of his movement caught you completely off guard. You let out a sharp yelp as you were catapulted forward, your hands losing their grip on the wood. You had zero time to brace yourself before you collided hard with his chest—it felt like hitting a brick wall wrapped in damp cotton.

With all the weight suddenly slammed onto one side, the boat lurched backward, the stern dipping dangerously low.

Pressed against his chest, you scrambled to get up in a panic. “Jesus, Bucky! Look at what you—”

“Stop squirming! Just… just stay still!”

Bucky’s grip on the oars was long forgotten as his hands found your waist in a desperate attempt to steady you, but it was too late.

With a loud, undignified splash that caught the attention of everyone on the docks, the rowboat flipped.

One moment, the sun was burning your skin, and the next, you were greeted by cold water enveloping you. Everything from above was muffled as you were completely submerged. Keeping your eyes squeezed shut against the murky water, you tried to swim upward, but panic started to flare as your head kept bumping into the underside of the wooden boat.

Suddenly, a strong, vibranium arm wrapped roughly around your waist. He pulled your body tight against his, dragging you toward the surface and back to the shore.

You gasped for air the moment you broke the surface, your skin warming as the sunlight hit your soaked face. People on the docks were smiling and laughing at your predicament, but Bucky paid them no mind. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the water.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low.

Sam’s laughter, joined by the kids’ giggles, filled your ears as their boats drew closer.

“Oh no, what happened to you two?” Sam grinned, spinning his boat around to get a better look at you. “Let me guess—was it the wind?” He motioned to the upside down boat.

Rolling your eyes, you pushed through the water until you reached the edge of the docks, with Bucky swimming close behind. You tried to paddle faster to create some distance, but there was no point—he caught up to you in no time.

When you reached the dock, you tried to hoist yourself up, but Bucky’s hands found your waist again, easily hauling you up and over the wooden floorboards.

You sneered at him the second your feet were steady. “I didn’t need your help.”

Bucky ignored you as he hauled himself up onto the dock, his muscles rippling beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt. Water clung to his skin, dripping from the tips of his short, shaggy hair and trailing down the tanned column of his throat.

You were furious—absolutely livid—but as you watched the way his broad shoulders tensed just underneath the thin fabric, you found yourself swallowing hard.

You hated that, even in the middle of a fucking swamp, he still managed to look like that.

Bucky didn’t notice you staring at him. He stood up, shaking his head like a dog to get the water out of his ears.

“I was doing a fine job,” he bit out roughly, “until you had to butt your head in and try to take over. If you had just sat still, we wouldn’t be soaked right now—”

As Bucky finally lifted his head to glare at you, the breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, his gaze dropping from your drenched head to your chest—and then freezing there.

You were wearing a sheer white blouse—light and airy for the Louisiana heat, of course—but now that it was drenched through, it had turned completely translucent. It clung tight to your skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination and revealing the lace of your bra underneath.

Bucky’s jaw went tight, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t—not even as you continued to yell and point a finger at him.

“What? Are you insinuating that it’s my fault?” you scoffed in disbelief.

Bucky couldn’t concentrate. It felt like his brain had short circuited as he stared shamelessly at the damp lace and the soft curve of your skin.

“And another thing!” you shouted, stepping closer and poking a finger square into the center of his chest. “If you hadn’t been so stubborn about the oars, we would’ve caught up to Sam and Sarah and been having a good time with them!”

Bucky winced, not because of the poke, but because you moving closer only made the view more prominent. He glanced toward the docks, noticing a few of the guys from the neighborhood whistling and laughing at the both of you.

Without thinking, Bucky stepped closer, his large frame shielding you from the view of the men. He reached out, his hands hovering awkwardly near your shoulders as he tried to pull you against him to hide your vulnerable state.

“Hey—? What the hell are you doing?” you snapped, trying to shove him back. “Why are you hugging me? Get off!”

“I’m not hugging you,” Bucky mumbled grumpily as he forced you to stay put, caging you between his big arms.

“It feels a lot like hugging, Barnes! Let go!” You squirmed, but his grip on you was tight. His face flushed as he felt your chest rub up against his.

“Stop moving,” he hissed, his face turning a deep, frustrated red as he looked anywhere but at your chest. He leaned down, his mouth inches away from your ear so only you could hear. “Your damn shirt.”

“My shirt?” You blinked up at him in confusion. “What about my—?”

You looked down, and the realization hit you. Your face got hot with embarrassment once you noticed how the white fabric of your shirt was basically invisible, clinging to every inch of your bra and skin.

Sam and Sarah pulled their boat alongside the dock, the hull bumping gently against the wood. Sam hopped out first, looping the rope around the cleat. He looked up, taking in the sight of the two of you standing so close together.

“Well, would you look at that,” Sam said, a massive grin spreading across his face. “One little dip in the lake and you two finally made up?”

Bucky felt your body tense. Sensing how uncomfortable this was for you, he was just about to step back—until you crossed your arms over your chest and huddled deeper into his shadow.

“You okay?” Bucky murmured quietly, tilting his head down toward you.

After Sarah helped Cass off the boat, she stepped onto the dock and walked straight to you, moving between you and the men. She wrapped an arm around your shoulders and gently pried you away from Bucky, taking over his job of hiding you.

“Come on,” Sarah said softly, her voice full of understanding as she began to lead you away. “Let’s get you fixed up and into some dry clothes.”

You didn’t dare look back at Bucky as you let her lead you away, though you could feel his gaze on your back until you and Sarah rounded the corner, leaving the men out of sight.

Back on the dock, the laughter died down. Bucky stood there dripping wet, looking uncharacteristically flustered.

“I take it the boat ride didn’t go well?” Sam taunted, his eyes still fixed on the corner where you and his sister had disappeared.

Bucky stayed quiet, glaring at Sam as water droplets fell from his hair onto the floorboards of the dock.

“This isn’t going to work, Sam,” Bucky muttered, wringing the hem of his shirt. “She hates me.”

“Don’t be like that, Buck.” Sam patted him on the shoulder. “She doesn’t hate anyone. Besides, we’ve got the whole weekend ahead of us, alright?”

Sam likely said that in hopes of lifting Bucky’s spirits—but it only did the exact opposite.

The sky was dark as you sat on the air mattress, applying lotion to your skin. The thought of sharing a space with Bucky felt daunting.

The rest of the day had been awkward and tense after the disaster on the lake. It didn’t help that Bucky did exactly what Sam told him not to do—which was hovering at the far end of the room, making sure to stand wherever you weren’t.

Bucky was taking his sweet time in the bathroom. As you finished with the lotion, you quickly snuggled into the air mattress, trying to fall asleep before he came back out.

Only a few minutes passed before the light from the bathroom hit your eyes as he pulled the door open. You winced at the sudden brightness but kept your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.

A small sigh—almost a breath of relief—escaped his lips when he noticed you were out, or at least appeared to be.

You heard his heavy footsteps thud toward the couch. He crouched with his back to you, digging through his backpack for something.

Curiosity got the best of you. You peeked one eye open, and your heart nearly leaped out of your chest.

Bucky was shirtless.

You watched as he balanced on the balls of his feet, rummaging through the bag. The moonlight piercing through the window shadowed the deep lines and muscles of his back. His vibranium arm looked just as beautiful under the moon as it had in the sun.

His hair, no longer damp and scruffy like it was at the docks, was still slightly wet and brushed back neatly.

You could smell him all the way from the air mattress. He smelled soft and clean, with the underlying masculine scent of his deodorant. You knew you should have been asleep by now, but your heart wouldn’t stop racing.

Was he really going to sleep shirtless even though you were here?

Despite your heart thumping loudly in your chest, you kept your back turned to him and tried your best to fall asleep.

Hours later, you eventually drifted off, only to be jolted awake by the sound of shuffling, groaning, and mumbled curses coming from across the room.

Lifting your head, you tiredly rubbed your eyes as you glanced in Bucky’s direction.

“Bucky… can you keep it down?”

But as you focused, you realized that whatever he was doing wasn’t intentional.

Bucky’s eyes were squeezed shut, his face scrunched into a grimace as he panted heavily. A thin sheen of sweat covered the column of his neck and chest, and his fingers were digging deep into the cushions of the couch. He kept mumbling incoherent, unfinished sentences that made your heart sink with worry.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped.

“Bucky? Are you okay?” you asked, your voice rising.

“Don’t do this, please—don’t… mph… don't do this...”

“Bucky, listen to me!”

“Stop, stop!” he choked out, his body jerking against the couch.

You scrambled off the air mattress, tossing the blanket aside as you rushed to Bucky’s side at the couch.

“Bucky!” you whispered urgently, reaching out to grab his shoulders. You shook him, your palms warming from the heat radiating off his damp skin. “Bucky, wake up. You’re having a nightmare!”

When he didn’t wake, you shook him harder until he gasped awake so violently he nearly knocked you backward. His eyes snapped open—wide, unfocused, and… terrified.

He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. His vibranium hand clamped onto the edge of the couch so hard the wood underneath groaned.

“I’m—I…” he stammered, his voice heavy with panic.

“Hey... hey, look at me,” you said softly, your hands finding his wet cheeks and forcing his focus onto you. “I’m here. You’re in Louisiana. You’re at Sarah’s.”

You started saying the first things that came to mind. Surely, reminding someone where they were would help in a situation like this, right?

Bucky’s head whipped toward you, his gaze darting around the dark room until it finally landed on your face again. He was still shaking, the tremors racking his broad shoulders as he tried to calm himself in your touch.

You didn’t say anything else—you didn’t really know what to say in a situation like this. But being there, holding him and simply staying in his space, seemed to be enough for now.

Slowly and quietly, he began to catch his breath, and that’s when you noticed he was trying to match his breathing to yours.

In and out. In and out, slowly, until he finally started to calm down.

“Did…” He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your lap—noticing how your oversized shirt hung loosely over your legs. “Did I wake you?”

You nodded gently, deciding to be truthful. “You did.”

Guilt immediately clouded his features. “I’m sorry.”

A solemn frown tugged at your lips as you leaned in closer to get a better look at him. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, pulling away from your touch so suddenly it made your hands feel cold.

He tried to get comfortable on the couch again, but the tension in his shoulders and the stiff way he moved made it clear that settling back into sleep would be impossible.

Your heart ached for him. You felt terrible.

“You can take the air mattress, Bucky,” you said, already rising to your feet. “Here, I’ll move my things—”

As you stepped away, Bucky’s hand immediately clamped around your wrist. “No, stop. Just—just keep the mattress, okay? I’ll be fine,” he insisted, though the wobble in his voice betrayed how he really felt.

Your frown deepened. Even in this vulnerable state, he held onto that same stubborn pride that had clashed with yours earlier at the docks. Except this time, his attitude didn’t piss you off. Standing before him while he looked so broken and tired only made you feel completely useless.

“Is there anything I can do?” you asked quietly, searching his face. “Anything to help?”

Bucky managed a small smile—a forced, tired expression that didn’t reach his eyes. He let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the couch.

“Let’s just get some rest. We’ve got a big birthday party tomorrow. I’m sorry for waking you.”

You stood there for a second, looking at the cramped, uncomfortable couch and then back at the oversized air mattress that looked far too big for just one person.

“You’re really pulling at my heartstrings here, old man.” You reached out, grabbing the hem of his blanket. “Come on. There’s plenty of room. Let’s just share the mattress.”

Bucky froze, his eyes widening as he looked from you to the bed. “S-share…?”

You were already getting settled on your side, your back facing him, hoping the distance would help his flustered state.

“You need sleep, and I’m not going to be able to close my eyes knowing you’re over there miserable on a cramped couch,” you huffed. “Now get over here.”

Bucky knew there was no point in arguing with you further. If he had learned anything from the disaster at the docks, it was that once you set your mind on something, he was better off just letting you have your way.

With a reluctant, heavy sigh, he finally stood up and moved toward the air mattress. The mattress dipped significantly under his body as he shuffled around to get comfortable on his side. He kept a respectable amount of space between the both of you, lying stiffly on the very edge.

You both remained back to back, with only the sound of crickets outside filling the silence.

“Do you get nightmares often?” you suddenly asked.

Bucky hesitated. “Not as much as I used to,” he answered in a gravelly rasp. “But they still come and go.”

There was another pause.

This time, Bucky broke it.

“Do you care if I sleep without a shirt on?”

You couldn’t help the snort that escaped your lips. “Don’t worry,” you chuckled. “I’m not looking.”

The sound of your laughter in this awkward, tense space made his shoulders ease slightly and his heart beat a little slower. You two continued to lay quietly like that for a long moment—side by side, back to back.

There were a million thoughts running through Bucky’s head, and he felt particularly restless.

Finally, he decided to ask the very thing that had been occupying his mind since you two first met.

“Why do you dislike me so much?”

Bucky braced himself for the answer, but it didn’t come.

He waited, wondering if you were pretending not to hear him. He called your name softly and turned over his shoulder to look at you, but he stopped short.

You had already fallen asleep.

The morning light pierced through the front windows, hitting you right in the face. The quiet peace of the night before had been replaced by the chaotic, joyful energy of a house in full celebration mode.

From the kitchen, the clattering of pots and pans and the high pitched laughter of AJ and Cass bounced off the walls, forcing you awake.

You blinked, rubbing the grogginess from your eyes as you realized the air mattress felt much, much lighter. Bucky was already gone. His side of the bed was nearly smoothed over, and his blanket was folded neatly back on the couch—as if he hadn’t slept next to you at all.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” Sarah called out from the kitchen. “I’m so sorry for all this ruckus. We were tryin’ our best to stay quiet, but everyone is just so excited since it’s AJ’s big day today.”

A sleepy, lopsided smile pulled at your lips at the sight of Sarah and the kids gathered in the living room.

“It’s okay,” you said groggily, pulling yourself off the air mattress. “Happy Birthday, AJ.”

You started walking toward Sarah, meeting her in the kitchen. You took note of the trays and various types of produce lying around. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sarah didn’t glance up from the onions she was laying out on the cutting board.

“Oh no, no,” she clicked her tongue. “It’s a warzone in here that only I can handle. You’d only get in my way, and I don’t need two people trippin’ over each other in this kitchen—I can leave that to my kids.”

You frowned, leaning against the wall. “Are you sure? I feel bad just sitting around while you’re doing all this—”

“I’m positive,” Sarah cut you off, pointing her knife at you and then toward the clock on the wall. “The party doesn’t start ‘til five. So you can get outta here and enjoy New Orleans or somethin’ until everything’s ready.”

“But Sarah, that’s an hour drive—”

“Out!” she laughed, shooing you toward the front door with a wave of her knife. “Go breathe some fresh air. Enjoy yourself and the town. I know you miss it.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, just as the sound of Bucky approaching from the backyard—already dressed for the day—met you and Sarah in the kitchen.

“Morning,” he nodded to you curtly, as if last night hadn’t happened at all.

Then he glanced at Sarah with a smile—that stupidly charming smile. He nodded toward the counter. “Let me help—”

Before he could take a step closer, Sarah pointed the knife at him, too. She looked back at you. “And take hunky robot here with you while you’re at it.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at the way she brushed Bucky aside.

Bucky blinked, confused. “Take me where?”

“Sarah, if I’m going out to enjoy the town, I’m doing it by myself—”

You were cut off by the sound of the screen door hitting the wall as Sam hauled a heavy box of supplies into the room. He dropped it onto the floor with a loud thud and wiped the sweat from his forehead, grinning when he saw the three of you standing there.

“Oh, perfect,” Sam panted. “You goin’ to town? Take Bucky with you. Show him around. He’s been following me around like some fly buzzin’ in my ear.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms defensively. “A fly?”

Sam ignored him as he began to unbox. “Seriously, take him. He needs the fresh air, and I need the floor space. Go on, get out of here.”

You were about to protest—to insist on staying and offer your assistance—but Sam and Sarah were already bickering in the kitchen, talking about how Sam had to pick up AJ’s friends and run to the store for last minute groceries.

When you told them that you could be an extra set of hands, they both looked at you and, at the same time, shouted, “Get out!”

Now, you found yourself behind the wheel of Sarah’s run-down but reliable Chevy with Bucky sitting in the passenger seat.

He had offered to drive, but you didn’t allow him to—which, after the incident with the boat, was a smart move on his part.

The radio didn’t work, so you two sat in awkward silence with the windows rolled down, letting the humid breeze pass through as you drove toward New Orleans. Bucky had one arm out the window, his eyes focused on the trees passing by.

“So, where are you taking me?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

“New Orleans,” you answered flatly.

The short burst of warmth that the two of you had shared in the middle of the night seemed to have disappeared completely. Bucky had his body turned slightly away from you, and maybe that was how he wanted it. Perhaps the vulnerability he had shared last night was something he wanted to keep under wraps.

“I know that,” he scoffed. “But what are we going to do there?”

“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” you said, keeping your eyes on the road. “Monty’s.”

Bucky hummed. “That like a breakfast joint or something?”

“It’s a classic diner. They have the best crawfish and cheesesteaks you’ll ever put in your mouth,” you said, your stomach growling just thinking about it. “But the best part are the beignets. They have the best stuffed beignets I’ve ever had.”

Bucky finally glanced at you, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’ve never had a beignet.”

Your eyes went wide, and you looked at him in disbelief. “What? You stay with the Wilsons and you’ve never had a beignet?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Have you ever been to New Orleans?”

He shook his head again. “I’ve only ever stayed in Delacroix with Sam.”

The idea of introducing the city of New Orleans—a place you adored—to someone who had never been filled you with a sudden burst of excitement, even if it was for Bucky.

“Well, we’ve got a lot of time to spare. So we’ll park somewhere and walk to Monty’s, and since the restaurant is near Jackson Square, I’ll show you around.”

While you kept your eyes on the road, Bucky could only stare at you as you went on and on about the beauty of New Orleans.

You explained breathlessly how gorgeous the square was—about how the greenery around the cathedral was breathtaking. You mentioned the French Market a couple of blocks away and went on about the street musicians and talented jazz players on every corner. You told him about the vendors posted all around and how you could even take a trolley around the area.

For the first time since he met you, he had never heard you speak this much in one breath.

For once, you weren’t throwing petty remarks at him. You talked and talked about the things you loved about the city, and Bucky felt like his heart was swelling too large for his chest.

Before long, the two of you made it into the vibrant heart of New Orleans.

The restaurant was already loud—the clinking of silverware, loud laughter, and a jazz band playing down the street hummed in your ears.

Despite the heat, Bucky had kept his jacket on for as long as possible, but eventually, the Louisiana humidity won.

Now, with his sleeves rolled up, the vibranium of his arm caught the light poking through the window with every movement. You saw the way the couple at the table next to you whispered to each other, and how a group of tourists leaned in, pointing in his direction.

Bucky felt it, too. His jaw was clenched, and he kept his left hand tucked partially under the table. He looked like he wanted to disappear. It was no wonder he preferred staying at Sam’s.

Then, the server arrived with a tray that smelled like heaven.

“Here you go,” you said, pushing the plate of powdered goodness toward him. “The legendary stuffed beignets,” you added with a bright smile, hoping to ease his mood.

The pastries were massive, perfectly golden brown and buried under a mountain of powdered sugar. Bucky lifted one and took a careful bite, the crunch of the dough giving way to a rich and creamy center. His eyes widened, and he let out a small, muffled “mm” as he chewed.

“It’s good, right?” you grinned, already halfway through your own beignet.

Bucky nodded, taking an even bigger bite. “Good,” he confirmed mid-chew. “Very fucking good.”

As he pulled the beignet away from his mouth, he was oblivious to the thick coat of white powder smeared across his upper lip like a mustache, with a stray patch sitting right on the tip of his nose. Bucky still had that natural, broody look on his face as he chewed. He reached for his water, and as much as you tried to keep a straight face, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.

“Bucky,” you snickered, shielding your mouth with your hand.

He stopped, glass halfway to his mouth, frowning in confusion. “What?”

“You’ve got…” You pointed to your own face, doubling over as another giggle escaped. “Powder all over your face, old man.”

Bucky reached up with his right hand, wiping his lip only to smear the powder further across his cheek. He realized then how ridiculous he must have looked.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes down as his face flushed with embarrassment. But with the way you were giggling across the table, he couldn’t help but smile, too.

“Here, let me help you.”

To save him from further embarrassment, you reached across the small, wobbly table.

Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, sweeping away the stubborn white powder. Any petty remark Bucky had been about to throw at you died in his throat the second your thumb made contact with his skin.

With the sunlight peering through the window and casting a soft glow on you, you looked… soft.

You looked exactly as you had last night, with the moonlight over your face while you comforted him after his nightmare.

Bucky swallowed hard. “I—”

Suddenly, a waiter rushing by with a loaded tray clipped the corner of your table. The wood jolted, the water glasses sloshing dangerously.

“Sorry, folks! Pardon me,” the man mumbled, already halfway to the next table.

You pulled your hand back quickly, clearing your throat. Bucky sat back, his hand dropping to his lap as he looked toward the door.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice a little lower than usual.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Let’s go.”

The two of you left the restaurant. Stepping out into the warm air, Jackson Square was already vibrant and bustling with a good mix of tourists and locals.

Couples drifted past, fingers intertwined or arms slung over shoulders, soaking in the romance of the city. You and Bucky, however, kept a careful, “friendly” distance, though every time your shoulders brushed in the crowd, you both tensed up.

As you rounded the corner toward the cathedral, the soulful, brass of a trumpet pulled you toward a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.

A jazz quartet was set up near the iron gates. The music was loud and swinging. People were swaying, and some older couples were even dancing in the middle of the pavement, lost in the beat as an elderly man sang, his smooth, gravelly voice beaming through the microphone.

You stopped at the edge of the circle, smiling as you watched a young couple spin each other around.

The music was infectious, and you found yourself tapping your foot against the cobblestones. Bucky stood beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, but his eyes weren’t on the musicians. He was watching the people dancing with a look of quiet, distant longing that made your heart ache just a little.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, grabbing his attention.

Bucky—as if snapped out of his own thoughts—jumped slightly at your question. He looked down at you, a sheepish smile on his lips.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

You motioned to the other dancers. “Do you want to dance?”

He blinked as your question processed in his mind. You were inviting him to dance?

Were you trying to pull his leg?

Bucky sucked in a deep breath, his face flushing and his eyes going wide. “… Dance?”

Before Bucky could deny your offer, the saxophone player stepped forward and got lost in a wild, trilling solo that made the crowd cheer even louder. The man on the microphone let out a joyful laugh, clapping his hands in time with the beat.

“That’s it! That’s it!” he called out. “Don’t just stand there lookin’ pretty, now! Everyone grab a partner and start dancin’ if you haven’t already—life’s way too short to be standin’ still.”

More people spilled into the center of the circle, bumping into you and Bucky. Total strangers were spinning each other around, and it was as if the old cobblestones started to shake with everyone’s footsteps dancing over them.

You looked up at Bucky—his body was tense with the clear desire to bolt in the opposite direction.

“Do you want to leave—”

“C’mon now, you two!” the singer bellowed over the music, drawing the eyes of everyone in the circle as he pointed directly at the two of you with a big grin on his face. “I see you shy young lovebirds over there. Don’t be shy, big man—take the lady’s hand and show us what you got!”

Bucky looked like he wanted to die.

His face was as red as a tomato, and his body was as stiff as a rock. You wanted to laugh at him being called a ‘young lovebird big man,’ but you knew that would only wound his pride even more.

You grabbed his hand, and his body jolted, not expecting the sudden contact.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Come on,” you said, nodding your head toward the middle of the circle. “We’re going to dance.”

“What? Hey—wait—!”

Bucky let himself be dragged to the center of the circle, his feet dragging against the cobblestones.

He couldn’t believe this was happening.

Just twelve hours ago, he had been waking up from a nightmare in a cold sweat, and now he was standing in the middle of Jackson Square with a hundred sets of eyes on him.

This was worse than any nightmare he ever had, probably.

“I can’t,” he hissed, his voice cracking slightly as he looked at the couples spinning around them. “I haven’t danced since... since…”

The Forties.

“Just don’t think about it,” you said, stepping closer into his arms so he was forced to look at you instead of the crowd.

You took his right hand in yours and placed your other hand on his shoulder. His hand found your waist—respectfully. “Just follow my lead.”

You started moving your body to the swing of the rhythm, pulling him into a simple two step move.

At first, Bucky was like a statue—immovable and completely terrified—but then you caught the beat and spun yourself out. Your hand remained intertwined with his before you stepped back into his arms with a little chuckle.

Everyone around you beamed with glee. As the saxophone solo reached its peak, the notes spiraling higher and higher into the humid Louisiana air, Bucky finally started to follow along. His long legs found the rhythm, and he began moving with you.

The man on the microphone threw his head back, laughing in pure delight as Bucky finally found his feet. He pointed at Bucky with a wink before pulling the mic back to his lips.

“There he is! White boy’s got rhythm!” he cheered—and the crowd joined in—before he sung back into a smooth, jazzy verse.

As Bucky spun you around to the music, everything else became a complete blur.

In this moment, it was just you, Bucky, and the beautiful music of New Orleans.

He would occasionally step on your feet, and you would occasionally step on his. You bumped into other dancing couples now and then, but it didn’t matter. You were both laughing, getting lost in the moment and in each other.

It was the first time either of you had seen the other smile like that—completely genuine and unburdened.

After everything that had happened today, it felt like things between you would be different from here on out. There was a soft, gentle side to Bucky that you were slowly starting to notice—a side that made you realize it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he were to… pursue Sarah.

As the song came to an end, Bucky dipped you, holding you up with the strength of his arms alone. The two of you looked at each other breathlessly, his face just inches from yours. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you—just like the other couples were doing, exchanging sweet, quick pecks as the music faded.

But he swallowed hard, hauling you back up and abruptly pulling his hands away from the closeness of your body.

“We should go… so we can make it back in time for the party,” he said, his voice a little strained.

For some reason, the sudden loss of Bucky’s touch hurt you more than you’d like to admit.

“I… sure,” you nodded, straightening your clothes and avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. It’s a long drive. We should go.”

This time, Bucky insisted on driving back to Sarah’s, his excuse being, “You showed me New Orleans, the least I can do is drive us home.”

With how great the day had been and the good mood you were in because of it, you had no problem letting him take the wheel.

“New Orleans is beautiful,” Bucky said, glancing at you with a small smile. “It’s busy and the crowds are loud, but I had a lot of fun—surprisingly so.”

You chuckled, letting the breeze sweep over your face as you looked out the window. “There’s so much more I have to show you. Like the steamboats—oh! And if we’d gone further downtown French Quarter, I could’ve introduced you to my favorite spot for Cajun gumbo—”

Bucky snickered. Here you were again—rambling on about your favorite things. But to Bucky, listening to you talk was, oddly enough, music to his ears.

“That all sounds great,” he said. “Just no swamp boat tours, please. I’ve had enough of those.”

You threw your head back with a hearty laugh. “Fair enough.”

The truck slowly began to lose its momentum, the engine sputtering and making strange sounds—sounds that indicated it wouldn’t survive the over hour long drive back home.

“Uh… Bucky?” you asked, sitting up straighter as you watched the speedometer needle start to dip. “What’s going on?”

Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I… I don’t know.”

“Well, stop slowing down! We’re in the middle of the road!” Panic started to flare as you glanced at the rearview mirror.

“I’m not slowing down,” Bucky snapped back, his voice rising in panic equal to yours. He pressed his foot harder against the gas pedal, but Sarah’s Chevy only groaned in response. “The truck is doing it on its own.”

“Well, fix it!” you shrieked. “Like… shift gears or something!”

“Fix it?” Bucky scoffed at your expectations.

He groaned, steering the truck toward the grassy shoulder. He peered through the windshield, his expression grim as the truck gave one final lurch before going completely dead. He sighed, reaching for the keys.

“Cut the engine and try again,” you urged.

He gave you a snappy look—mostly because that was exactly what he was about to do.

“No shit,” he mumbled, twisting the key to try the ignition again. He grunted, muttering curses as he tried over and over, but the truck wouldn’t budge.

“Great,” Bucky muttered, leaning his head back against the headrest with a thud. “Just great.”

“Oh my god,” you breathed in disbelief.

You had over an hour’s drive ahead of you, and with it already being four o’clock, you were definitely going to be late for AJ’s birthday party.

“You broke Sarah’s truck.”

Bucky’s eyes flew wide as he turned to you, appalled by your audacity. “I broke Sarah’s truck?”

You crossed your arms and stubbornly glared out the window, refusing to look at him. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t Bucky’s fault—the thing was a relic—but with the panic of missing the party bubbling up, you couldn’t help yourself.

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, just stay in the truck, alright? I’ll fix this.”

He pushed the door open and hopped out, but despite his instructions, you were right on his heels.

Bucky popped open the hood, and a fresh cloud of gray smoke billowed out, forcing him to cough and wave his hand to clear the air. He leaned over the engine bay, his vibranium hand resting on the frame as he squinted at the mess of hoses and wires.

“See anything?” you pestered over his shoulder.

“I see a lot of things that shouldn’t be smoking,” he mumbled grumpily.

He reached in, his fingers grazing a radiator hose that looked suspiciously frayed. He tried to tighten a loose bolt, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, but as soon as he touched a connector near the battery, a stray spark flew up.

“It’s the alternator,” he suggested, pulling his hand back and wiping grease onto his jeans. “Or the fuel pump. Or maybe it’s just tired of living.”

“Can you fix it?” you asked, your brows furrowed.

He looked at the smoking engine, then back at the empty road, and finally at you. He let out a long, defeated breath and shook his head.

“There are no tools for me to work with.” He explained, shutting the hood.

“Oh my god,” you repeated, your heart racing. “Oh my god—wait, so what do we do? Do we call someone?”

Bucky already had his phone out—a damned flip phone—and was already dialing Sam’s number.

“What are you doing?” you pestered him, buzzing around him like a fly.

“I’m calling Sam to pick us up,” he answered shortly.

“Oh—okay… good… that’s… good.”

You crossed your arms, your thumb nail caught between your teeth as you started to pace back and forth.

You felt terrible about Sam having to go out of his way to bail you out of this mess on his nephew’s birthday—and you felt even worse about adding a broken truck to the long list of things Sarah already had to take care of.

“Sam, can you hear me? Hello?” Bucky started, raising his voice to be heard over the static. “We’re stranded on—” He looked at you. “Where are we?”

“300 East,” you answered quickly.

“300 East. Sarah’s truck broke down and we need a—hello? Sam, can you hear me?”

Bucky tried again, but the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and sighed, snapping it shut.

“Wait, what happened? Did he pick up?”

“Line went dead,” Bucky said, staring at the useless piece of plastic in his hand.

“But is he coming?” you pressed, stepping closer. “Does he know where we are? Did he hear you?”

“I don’t know.”

Your patience, already worn thin from the humidity and the stress of the entire situation, finally snapped.

“What do you mean you don’t know?!” You threw your hands up in the air, your frustration taking over. “God, maybe if I had driven, we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess—”

Bucky’s head snapped toward you, a scoff leaving his lips as he glared at you. “Excuse me? Why do you always blame things on me?”

“Because you insisted on driving! And you weren’t just driving—you were speeding! You were pushing the truck to its limits and now look at us!” Your voice rose as you stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Look at the mess you got us into!”

Bucky’s face twisted into a sneer so ugly, it nearly made you flinch. He stepped even closer, letting your finger dig into his chest as he loomed over you, as if reminding you of your place.

“You know, I’m starting to get sick and tired of the way you’re treating me,” he growled. “We had a great day—we were finally getting along—and you went and ruined it.”

Your eyes went wide. “I ruined it?”

“Oh, you ruined it the second you opened your mouth!” Bucky barked.

He didn’t even give you a chance to argue back, stepping forward until you were backed up against the hood of the truck.

“I’ve tried my best to be patient with you—goddamnit!” he continued angrily. “I’ve tried to suck up every petty thing you’ve said about me, the way you look at me like I’m nothing but trouble, the way you’ve treated me like a burden on Sarah’s and Sam’s doorstep.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, a smile touching his lips—though it wasn’t a smile that held any happiness at all.

“Hell, I thought today I finally got through to that stubborn little head of yours. I thought maybe we actually enjoyed each other’s company for five minutes. But I guess not, because the second something goes wrong, you go right back to the same old script.”

You felt your bottom lip wobble. You kept your eyes down, refusing to look him in the eye.

You knew he was right—he had no idea how he was actually perceived by you, and your treatment of him was starting to feel completely one-sided and unfair.

Unable to take his yelling any longer, you shoved Bucky out of your way. He stumbled back, surprised by the force of your hand. You started walking away from him toward the truck doors without a word, but his voice followed you, sounding exhausted and completely defeated.

“Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”

The sound of his boots scraping against the gravel caught up to you. Before you could pull away, he put a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm as he urged you to turn around.

“Look at me—”

You wrenched your shoulder out of his grasp, spinning around to face him.

“You want to know why?” you hissed. “It’s because of what you said the first day I met you. I overheard you talking to Sam—laughing about how you were ‘merely joking around’ with Sarah, and how you weren’t looking for anything serious.”

Bucky flinched, his hands dropping to his sides as the anger that clouded his eyes was replaced by a look of sheer confusion.

“Sarah is my best friend. I was the one who sat with her through the divorce. I’m the one who stays when Sam has to leave for months at a time. I’ve seen her work herself to the bone for those boys and this family, and she deserves someone who actually values her. She deserves a real man who means what he says—not someone who uses her as a punchline for a joke with his buddy.”

You stepped even closer, and Bucky looked more and more blindsided.

“You’re ‘just having fun,’ but people like you don’t realize that when you play around with someone like Sarah, you leave a mess behind for people like me to clean up. So yeah, I’ve been hard on you. Because I’m not going to let you come into her life, charm her every time you’re over, and then leave her wondering what she did wrong when men like you get bored.”

Bucky just stood there, taking in every word as they echoed in his mind.

Was this what you had thought of him all this time?

That he was some playboy with nothing but bad intentions for Sam’s—his best friend’s—sister?

“I don’t know what to say,” Bucky finally breathed out.

You crossed your arms, tilting your chin with that same stubborn scrunch of your face you did every time you were sure you were right.

“Of course you don’t,” you bit out.

Bucky huffed a dry laugh, running his tongue over his front teeth as he looked down at you. Despite everything, there it was again—that familiar, infuriating spark of yours.

Here you were, being a brat again, and as much as you got under his skin, he couldn’t ever look away.

“I’m sorry,” he admitted, his voice sincere and gentle. “I didn’t... I didn’t think it would affect her like that. Or you, especially. If I had known it was getting under your skin, I wouldn’t have kept it up.”

“If you knew you weren’t looking for a relationship, Bucky, then you should’ve known to stop. It’s that simple,” you snapped back, refusing to let the sudden softness in his voice throw you off.

“I get it. I’m sorry, alright?” Bucky said, his voice straining between genuine regret and a growing irritation.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. You dismissively rolled your eyes and turned on your heel. Right now, you just needed to get away from him, so you reached for the truck door, intending to climb back into the cab and wait in silence until Sam eventually found you.

But before your hand could even wrap around the handle, Bucky’s vibranium arm shot out, slamming the door shut hard enough to make the Chevy shake.

He didn’t move his hand, pinning you between his body and the truck.

“Jesus Christ,” he growled, leaning down so his face was inches from your ear. “I’m apologizing, and you’re still being a stubborn brat.”

“And you’re being annoying!” you shot back, refusing to shrink away even though you were trapped. Your back pressed against his chest with every shallow breath you took.

“Oh? So not only am I a player, but I’m also annoying?” His eyes darkened as they searched yours, catching your gaze as you tilted your head back to look at him. “I can never win with you, can I?”

Your heart raced as you looked him dead in the eye, trying to ignore the way he loomed over you. “And what exactly are you trying to win out of me, Barnes?” you challenged.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth, tracing the curve of it before snapping back up. He shifted his stance, his thigh brushing firmly against yours and closing the last bit of air between you.

“Your approval,” he murmured. His voice vibrated so low in his chest that you could feel it against your own body. “I just want you to like me.”

“I… do like you,” you admitted, though your voice came out shaky. “You’re a friend of Sam’s—I respect you enough for that.”

“That’s the problem,” Bucky said, the complaint sounding like a painful corak. “You don’t like me. You tolerate me.”

With his vibranium hand still propped up against the truck near your head, his right hand trailed up to play with the ends of your hair. He twirled the strands between his fingers with a careful, almost yearning touch, his fingertips gentle against the locks.

He kept his head down, but even without looking, you could feel the burn of his gaze on the back of your head.

“I want more.”

A short, sharp breath escaped your lungs at his admission. More?

“Bucky,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. “What more could you possibly want from me? If I can tolerate you—isn’t that already enough?”

“No, it’s not,” he groaned. He lowered his head, nuzzling his nose against your hair and breathing you in. “I want the girl who was there for me when I was having a nightmare. I want the girl I was eating beignets with and dancing with in the middle of Jackson Square.”

Your heart was beating so fast you felt like you were running out of air.

He pressed closer, and a small gasp escaped you as you felt his thigh wedge firmly against yours. When your hand scrambled for the side of the truck for support, you gasped as as you felt a twitch coming from between his legs.

“But instead, I’m getting nothing but a real fucking brat,” he hissed into your ear.

He rocked his hips forward, letting you feel his hard erection against your bottom, forcing you to press even deeper against the truck.

You couldn’t believe it—the man you swore you hated was hovering over you, rocking his hips against yours like an animal. You were pinned hard against the truck, helpless to do anything but take it.

The worst part was that even if you tried to protest, you knew he’d see right through you. You were actually enjoying this. You craved the feeling of him, the way Bucky was grinding against you from behind right here on the side of the road, where anyone could drive by and see exactly what he was doing to you.

Despite being caught in such a vulnerable position, you couldn’t help but let that stubborn streak flare up one more time—mostly because you were dying to see how much more you could get out of him.

You tilted your head back until it rested against his shoulder, looking up at him and batting your lashes.

“Is this it then, Barnes?” you teased, rubbing your bottom against his straining, painful bulge. “You think pinning me against a broken truck and acting like a caveman is going to make me like you? You’re even more desperate than I thought.”

A broken, ragged shudder escaped his lips as he watched the curve of you settle perfectly against his cock.

It had been a long time since he had been in contact with a woman like this—much less the one woman who had been driving him absolutely crazy since the moment he stepped foot back in Louisiana.

Bucky’s hands moved from the truck to your waist, giving you a possessive squeeze.

He held you still as he continued to grind into you. A low groan escaped him as the friction of his clothes against his sensitive skin hit just right.

He felt like he was on the verge of losing it. He could have come right there from the dry humping alone.

But he wasn’t about to give in that easily.

“Desperate...” he muttered, breathless, as he continued to hump you like an animal. “Yes—I’m desperate. I’ve been desperate for you this entire fucking time, and you didn’t even know it.”

His fingers tangled into your hair, giving it a sharp tug that forced a gasp from your lips and exposed the long line of your neck to him.

“Every time I come back to Louisiana, I’m always hoping you’d be there—even if your very existence aggravates me.”

He was always looking for you?

Bucky nuzzled his nose against the sensitive skin there, his lips grazing your throat as he continued to talk filth.

“Need to kiss you,” he mumbled against your skin, peppering your neck with sloppy, wet kisses. “Need to stick my tongue down your throat—bet that’ll shut you up for good, won’t it?”

His rough hands roamed relentlessly over your body, bunching the fabric of your top and squeezing your breasts through the thin material. He was possessive, his touch leaving no doubt about who you belonged to in this moment.

You let out a breath as his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, cupping your tits in his palms.

“A lot of talking, but not a lot of action,” you taunted, trying to bite back a moan as he gripped you harder. “Seems very on brand for you, doesn’t it?”

With a snarl, his grip on your hips tightened. He spun you around, nearly slamming your back against the truck. Your yelp of surprise was cut short the second his lips found yours.

The kiss was desperate, almost inexperienced in its hunger, but he moved like a man who had been starving for this very moment with you.

You couldn’t help but lean into him, your hands tangling into his hair with a tug. You moaned into his mouth, and Bucky groaned back, his tongue pushing past your lips to delve deep into the wet warmth of your mouth.

He kept you pinned firmly against the truck, his thigh between yours. You were growing wetter by the second, and you took it upon yourself to start rubbing against him, grinding your dampened cunt against his thick thigh.

Bucky pulled away to rest his forehead against yours, both of you panting for air. He watched, eyes dark and blown out, as you practically fucked yourself against his leg.

A taunting, low laugh left his lips at the filthy sight of it.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “You’re fucking asking for it now.”

Reaching behind you, he yanked the door handle and threw it open.

“Get in the damn truck,” Bucky demanded roughly.

You scrambled inside with a defiant grin, your lips puffy and swollen. You didn’t hesitate to discard your bottoms, leaving yourself in just your panties as you sprawled across the bench seat.

From your spot on the upholstery, you watched with uneven breaths as Bucky began to fumble with his belt.

“Turn around,” Bucky instructed, palming his cock through his jeans as he finally rid himself of the thick fabric. “Face down, ass up.”

Before you could even get into position, Bucky crawled into the truck right after you.

The truck dipped with all the weight shifting to one side, and he slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t even give you time to adjust before his hands found your hips, spinning you around until you were bent over, ass presented to him with your hands planted firmly on the worn leather of the Chevy’s seats.

“God—eager, are you?” you teased.

“Shut up,” Bucky hissed as his flesh hand found the back of your hair, pinning you down so your cheek squished up against the leather.

His fingers hooked the waistband of your cotton panties, giving them a harsh tug and nearly ripping them.

With your face pressed into the seats, you couldn’t make out what he was doing from behind you—only the sounds coming out of his mouth.

“Fuck—look at you,” Bucky groaned, accompanied by the sounds of his jeans and belt being pushed down. “Dripping and completely bare—all just for me.”

Then, you heard the sounds of skin rubbing against skin.

The truck started to shake as deep, breathy little moans escaped Bucky’s mouth. Craning your head to peek at him, your eyes widened at what you saw.

Bucky was admiring the view from behind, his eyes completely glued to the curve of your ass and your wet, puffy cunt—clenching and begging for him. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as his cool, vibranium hand spread your ass wide to get a better view, while the other was stroking his cock hard and fast.

Pre-cum already bubbled at the tip as breathy groans kept leaving his mouth. He was so big—so fucking big—and you weren’t sure he was even going to fit.

Trying to tilt your head to get a better look, Bucky’s hand immediately left his cock and went straight back to your head, pinning you in place against the seat.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

You winced. “What? I can’t even look at you now?”

“You don’t get to make demands of me anymore,” he murmured roughly. He guided his cock up and down against your slit, coating himself and spreading his pre-cum everywhere. “Not when you’re bent over like this. Bent over like a dirty little slut.”

Your pussy immediately pulsed and twitched against Bucky’s tip. He probed and teased the entrance, pushing against the tight heat of your cunt to make you moan, but never quite slipping inside.

It was enough to drive you insane.

Despite everything, you wanted him to fill you right here—right in the truck in the middle of the road, where anyone could see you getting fucked by him.

You started to wiggle your hips, your entrance catching his tip and forcing a broken groan from his throat.

“Still all this talk and no action,” you taunted, wiggling your ass against him. “You just keep proving me more right every day. You’re all talk—”

A yelp broke from your lips as his palm connected with the bare curve of your ass. Your body arched, a sting blooming across your skin and making your toes curl.

“You just don’t know how to keep that mouth shut, do you?” Bucky growled, leaning over you until his breath was hot against your ear.

Without waiting for an answer, he brought his hand down again, forcing another yelp from you as the slap echoed in the small truck.

Your bottom—bare and vulnerable—began to throb with a pulsing heat. Bucky’s right hand smoothed over the warm skin, and he mockingly clicked his tongue when you bucked your hips back for more, seeking friction from his cock despite the pain.

“Christ,” Bucky groaned, his fingers swiping your sensitive slit. “Did you just get wetter?”

“Bucky…” you whined against the leather seat. “... p-please.”

Bucky froze behind you, his eyes widening slightly as the word hung in the air. Then, a devilish little grin tugged at his lips.

Please?

Did you just say ‘please’?

He continued to soothe your burning skin with his palm, his touch gentle and taunting. “Sorry, sweetheart. What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

You groaned, burying your face out of embarrassment. “You know what? Forget it—”

Another gasp escaped you as his hand came down hard against your bottom again, making your body jolt. Before you could pull away, both of his hands clamped down on your hips, dragging you back until you were pushed against him.

You could feel the ridge of his warm, throbbing cock resting right against the curve of your ass.

“Come on, baby. I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you say ‘please.’ Say it again. I know you’ve got a voice.”

When you continued to remain stubbornly silent, he guided his cock toward your entrance, sinking just the tip in.

You arched your back, a needy sound catching in your throat. Bucky groaned, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your tight hole. He wanted to grab your hips and slam you down on his cock—but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make you beg for it.

“Fuck—come on, sweets. Just say please like a good girl,” he coaxed, his own voice breaking. “Come on, I want to hear you say it. Just one more time for me, baby. Say please once and I’ll give it to you good—I promise.”

Just once.

All he needed from you was a simple, breathy little ‘please’— a broken whimper he could hold onto.

He knew he couldn’t make you beg for much longer, mostly because he was just as greedy as you were. He was starving, and he wanted to fuck you right here, right now, until instead of begging him with a ‘please’ you’d be begging with a ‘stop’.

“P-please…”

The word finally broke from your lips—breathless and broken. It was exactly what he wanted to hear.

With his tip buried in your tight entrance, and you pulsing and wet around him, he needed to feel more. That breathy little ‘please’ was the perfect invitation.

“Good girl,” Bucky praised, his grip on your hips tightening as he began to sink into you—slowly, making sure you felt every agonizing inch. “Good fucking girl.”

Your mouth hung wide open, drool surely spilling out and onto the seats as Bucky stretched you wide until you felt completely filled. Your breath hitched, coming in short, panicked bursts.

“God, you’re so small,” Bucky groaned, leaning over you—his chest pressing hard against your back. “Tight enough to break me.”

Even with your lungs feeling squeezed and your head light from the stretch, you couldn’t help the small, muffled huff that left you. You turned your face to glance back at him with a dazed and defiant look.

“Maybe you’re just… hah… out of practice,” you managed to choke out, a weak smirk tugging at your lips. “Forgotten what a real woman feels like?”

Bucky’s eyes went dark, his brow twitching at your words. He didn’t give you the satisfaction of a laugh. His fingers dug into the leather on either side of your head and he began to pull out, agonizingly slow, only to slam back into you completely—filling you in one hard and ruthless thrust. A thrust hard enough to make the truck shake.

“Out of practice?” he hissed. He did it again, a short, hard thrust that knocked the wind out of you. “Since you’ve got such a big mouth, I’ll make sure to fuck that one next.”

Bucky grabbed your hips, his fingers pushing into your flesh and making you gasp as he began to rock his hips back and forth. He withdrew nearly all the way, leaving you cold and aching for a split second, before fucking all the way back into you.

The truck began to rock and creak, the worn leather squeaking beneath your sweaty palms as he fucked you into it.

He made sure you felt every ridge and throb of him, his tip aiming at your softest spots until your vision swam and blurred.

“Still.. got something.. to say?” he grunted between words, his heavy balls slapping against your cunt as he fucked you.

You couldn’t even form a syllable. Your eyes—rolled back—were disoriented as he used your body for his pleasure.

All the noises that filled the small space of the truck were filthy. The wet squelching of your pussy as Bucky’s cock pumped in and out of you. The breathy grunts and groans leaving Bucky’s lips. Your gasps and mewls whimpering in the air.

“I… hah—mph—B-bucky, I—”

“Look at you,” he huffed a deep, condescending laugh. “Can’t even talk now, can you? Just laying there and taking it. God—I’ve dreamed of this so many times, you know? You, pinned underneath me, finally putting this bratty pussy to work. When I fill you up, we’re not nearly done. I’m going to use your mouth next, I’ll make sure of it.”

Every filthy word that left Bucky’s lips only made you clench tighter around him, bringing you closer and closer.

“But fuck, your pussy is so tight—feel like I could be buried here all day,” Bucky groaned.

He reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing with a pressure that sent sparks through your vision. He felt you flutter around him, tightening around his cock almost painfully so.

“Fuck—you gonna cum?” he asked roughly.

“M-mph—mhm—!” you moaned against the leather, nodding your head frantically. “M’gonna cum, Bucky!”

A deep, sexy vibration of a laugh rumbled in Bucky’s chest—and you couldn’t hold back anymore.

Your body shook against the leather as your walls clamped down on him with heavy pulses. A broken, high pitched keen left your throat as you felt yourself come undone all over him, wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure crashing over you while he savored your tightness.

Bucky clenched his teeth, hissing as your pussy—already tight as it was—became restrictive and completely unbearable for him.

But despite the tightness, he didn’t stop—not even for a second.

It was too good not to.

“Shit, I’m gonna cum, baby—” Bucky gasped, his hips moving uncoordinated as his cock pulsed and throbbed. “Fuck, fuck, gonna cum… inside… gonna fill you up—!”

Bucky pushed his hips into yours, bottoming out until there wasn’t a breath of space left between you.

You felt his cock pulse inside you—and then you started to feel even fuller than you already were. His cum began to seep into your tight pussy, pumping into you until you overflowed, the excess dripping out and onto the seats.

He dropped his forehead against the back of your neck, his hot breath tickling your damp skin as he felt himself start to calm down, catching his breath.

His hands roamed over your hips, giving you a gentle rub before he pulled himself out of your abused pussy with a wet squelch. He sat back on the seat, chest heaving as he motioned for you to come closer.

“Come here, baby,” he cooed.

Bucky gently guided you toward his lap, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your sweaty forehead. Then, his vibranium hand found the back of your head, slowly—gently—guiding you down toward his cock, which was still half hard and coated in juices.

“I said I was going to use your mouth next, didn’t I?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered with a shaky laugh.

You were exhausted, your body still trembling from the way he had completely ruined you, yet here he was—demanding more. Bucky didn’t look bothered at all. He just flashed a lopsided, lazy grin.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded softly, his vibranium fingers curling gently into your hair, guiding you back toward his lap.

You rolled your eyes even as you sank down, your tongue slowly dragging up his spent cock. Your tongue danced around the tip—then beneath the head—making him shudder and groan.

He was sensitive, yet he still wanted more. You stretched your mouth open, taking him in as best as you could. He was already thickening back to fullness, responding instantly to the warmth of your throat.

As you bobbed your head lazily on his cock, Bucky tossed his head back against the leather seats with a moan, rutting his hips up gently—just barely—seeking more.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “God—that fucking mouth—”

But the sound of his phone ringing cut through the truck, silencing him instantly. Bucky stiffened, his breath hitching as he felt around the tangled leather seats. He grabbed his phone, glancing at the flip-phone screen with a low curse.

It was Sam.

He answered, pressing the phone to his ear while his other hand stayed tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking your cheek as you continued to work his cock.

“Hey man! I'm halfway there,” Sam’s voice crackled through. “Just hold on for about twenty more minutes, alright?”

Bucky’s head fell back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock. His hips gave a small, involuntary twitch, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out.

“Alright,” Bucky managed to grit out, his voice a strained, gravelly mess. “We’re here… waiting— fuck.”

He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath as you took him deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair as a warning. There was a moment of silence on the other line.

He was sure the connection had died or Sam might’ve hung up.

“Yo, Buck? You sound hurt,” Sam said, his voice rising with concern. “Y’all good? You two aren’t fighting, are you?”

Fighting was one way to put it.

“We’re perfectly fine,” Bucky huffed, growing impatient. “You said twenty minutes, right? Okay. We’ll wait for you. Bye.”

He flipped the phone shut and tossed it somewhere behind him, his attention snapping back to you. You fluttered your eyes to look up at him, your mouth still stuffed with his cock.

“You heard that, baby? You’ve got twenty minutes to make me cum again,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. “Think that’s enough time for you?”

You popped his cock out of your mouth, wiping at the saliva that spilled onto your chin with a smug, little grin.

“Bet I can do it in two.”

“Oh, here you go again.”

i actually had a lot of fun writing this. now i want to book a trip to new orleans.

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

The bell above Moretti’s Candy Shop jingles sharp and bright when Bucky shoulders his way inside, carrying the cold autumn air in with him.

“Trouble,” Mrs. Moretti sighs immediately from behind the counter.

Bucky grins, easy as breathing. “You say that like you ain’t happy to see me.”

“I’d be happier seein’ the ten cents you still owe me, Barnes.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times.”

The shop smells like chocolate and sugar and roasted nuts warming beneath glass lamps. Outside, Brooklyn groans along in its usual rhythm, trolley bells, men hollering across sidewalks, kids sprinting through puddles but in here everything feels softened somehow. Golden. Like the world’s been wrapped in wax paper and tied shut with string.

Bucky leans against the counter, halfway through another smart remark when he notices you.

And just like that, the rest of the room disappears.

You’re standing near the chocolate display case with your gloves folded neatly in your hands, staring through the glass with such genuine wonder it almost knocks the grin off his face.

Not overwhelmed or indecisive, you seem almost enchanted.

Your eyes drift slowly over every row like each candy’s worth considering properly. Caramels. Peppermints. Chocolate turtles. Then your attention catches on the Whoppers display, and stays there.

He almost laughs when he follows your gaze to them.

Cute, he thinks immediately.

Girls usually notice him first. Usually there’s lipstick smiles and fluttering lashes before he’s even crossed the room. He knows what he looks like, knows how his grin lands, knows exactly how long to hold eye contact before women start leaning toward him without realizing it.

But you don’t notice him at all. You’re still staring at the candy like it might hold the secrets of the universe.

Something about that hooks into him immediately as he steps over.

“Those your favorite?”

You blink hard, startled from your thoughts, then turn toward him.

And there it is.

That little pause that every girl gives him, but this one seems different. Not because you recognize him as handsome or because you’re flustered, you just hadn’t realized anyone was speaking to you.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Yes.”

Your voice is gentler than he expected, careful around the edges.

Bucky pushes off the counter and steps closer. “Want a box?”

Your eyes widen instantly. “No, it’s quite alright, I couldn’t possibly.”

“C’mon, doll.” He flashes the smile that usually works without fail. “How could I deny such a sweet girl a sweet treat?”

He expects blushing, maybe a nervous laugh. Instead, you look genuinely conflicted over the idea of him spending money on you.

“Well that’s very kind,” you tell him honestly, “but you really don’t have to.”

Bucky stares at you for half a second, then another.

Well. That’s new.

“Mrs. Moretti,” he calls, unable to stop grinning now, “gimme a box of Whoppers before this sweetheart talks herself outta it.”

Mrs. Moretti snorts loudly but slides the candy across the counter anyway.

“And a cannoli,” Bucky adds quickly.

Your head turns toward him. “Oh, no, truly—”

“Too late.”

He pays before you can protest again, then holds the small paper bag out toward you with exaggerated politeness.

“You really got this for me?” you ask.

“Nah,” he deadpans. “Bought it for the guy behind you.”

You laugh and that sound lands somewhere directly under his ribs. Not loud or practiced. Just soft and surprised, like you hadn’t expected him to be funny.

Bucky suddenly wants to hear it again.

Outside, Brooklyn glows amber beneath the sun. Laundry lines sway overhead between brick buildings. Somewhere down the block, someone’s radio crackles out jazz muffled by static.

You take a careful bite of the cannoli as the two of you step onto the sidewalk, then immediately freeze as cream spills out the other side onto your glove.

“Oh goodness—sorry,” you murmur, horrified. “I made a mess.”

Bucky looks at you.

At the powdered sugar dusting your mouth, the cream threatening to drip onto your sleeve, the embarrassment blooming across your face over something so small.

His brain stops functioning.

“Don’t apologize,” he says immediately, a little too seriously for someone he just met ten minutes ago.

“I just—”

“It’s a cannoli,” he says, clearing his throat. “They’re uh, they're structurally unsound.”

That earns another laugh. And there it is again, that strange feeling settling low in his chest, not lust exactly but something softer than that.

You wipe at your glove carefully, still embarrassed. “I’m making quite the first impression, aren't I.”

“Oh, believe me,” Bucky mutters before he can stop himself, “you are.”

But you don’t seem to catch it. Instead, you just smile politely and continue walking beside him down the sidewalk like this is all perfectly ordinary. Like handsome men buy you candy and pastries every day.

Bucky decides almost immediately that he doesn’t want the conversation to end, so he keeps finding reasons for it not to. He points out the bakery on the corner because “their cheesecake could start a war.” He walks slower whenever you stop to admire storefronts. He offers you his arm when an old woman barrels past with a grocery cart and nearly clips your shoulder.

You take it without hesitation.

“Oh,” you say softly, looping your arm through his. “Thank you.”

Bucky glances down at your hand resting against his sleeve and his heartbeat stumbles oddly.

Usually this part’s easy. Usually flirting feels like muscle memory. Lean closer, smirk a little, call her doll in that lower voice that always works. But you accept every bit of it with such innocent sincerity that it keeps throwing him off balance.

“You always this sweet?” he asks after a while.

You nod thoughtfully. “I do like sugar, yes. But I don't get to eat to very often.”

Bucky chokes on air.

“…Jesus Christ.”

Your brows pull together. “What?”

“Nothin’, doll.”

Because clearly you think he means literal sweetness, and somehow that’s even worse, or better. He can’t tell anymore.

The afternoon stretches unexpectedly around the two of you. You wander through Brooklyn side streets while the sun lowers warm and lazy across the buildings. You stop outside record stores and flower stands and little grocers with apples stacked in wooden crates out front.

And all the while, Bucky keeps trying.

He leans too close while talking and you just look up at him attentively. He calls you doll every other sentence and you smile like you think it’s genuinely affectionate. He flashes smirks sharp enough to cut glass and you return them with polite warmth, entirely unaffected.

“You’re very nice, Mr. Barnes,” you tell him eventually.

Bucky nearly trips over the curb.

“Nice?”

“Well yes.” You glance at him earnestly. “Handsome too, but mostly nice.”

Handsome too. Mostly nice.

Bucky stares at you outright now. Your voice held no teasing lilt, no coyness, you said it like you’re discussing the weather and something inside him short-circuits completely.

Because by now he knows for a fact you have no idea what he’s doing.

“Doll,” he says slowly, “you know I’m layin’ it on thick, right?”

You blink.

“…Laying it on?”

Silence.

Then Bucky laughs so suddenly and loudly a passing couple turns to stare, not in a mocking sense but genuinely delighted. You look confused enough that it only makes him laugh harder.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head, “you really don’t know I've been flirting you?”

“I assumed you were being friendly.”

“I am bein’ friendly.”

“That seems normal.”

“Normal?” He stares at you. “I bought you candy fifteen minutes after meetin’ you.”

“Well… yes.”

“And?”

“You seemed very determined about it.”

Bucky rubs a hand down his jaw, trying unsuccessfully to hide another grin.

This should annoy him. It should. But instead he feels strangely fascinated, like he’s spent his whole life learning one language only to discover you speak something entirely different.

“So no fella’s ever taken you out before?” he asks carefully.

“Not really.”

The answer comes without self-pity, just honesty and Bucky’s chest tightens unexpectedly.

“What d’you mean not really?”

You shrug lightly. “I suppose men don’t usually notice me that way.”

Bucky stops walking altogether, making you turn toward him curiously as he just looks at you in complete disbelief. At your soft mouth faintly lined with your lipstick, at your bright eyes, at the way strangers glance at you as they pass without you ever seeming aware of it.

“That oughta be illegal,” he mutters.

You laugh again, warm and startled and sweet enough to ruin him slowly.

Somewhere between the candy shop and the golden Brooklyn sidewalks and the way your hand still rests trustingly against his arm, Bucky realizes something unsettling, he stopped flirting for sport an hour ago. Now he’s doing it because he genuinely likes the way you smile when he speaks. Because he wants to keep hearing your laugh mingle with the evening traffic. Because watching you move through the world feels a little like standing near candlelight, soft and gentle and impossible not to lean toward.

And Bucky Barnes is not known for leaning toward things gently.

Which is how, sometime after you’ve finished your cannoli and the Whoppers box is tucked safely under your arm like it’s something fragile, you both turn a corner and run straight into trouble in the form of Steve Rogers and the rest of the Commandos.

They’re all there—loud, sprawling across the sidewalk like they own it.

“Barnes!” one of them calls immediately. “Where’ve you been?”

Then Steve sees you and something in his expression shifts instantly into knowing.

“Oh,” Steve says slowly. “Oh, that’s where.”

Bucky groans under his breath. “Don’t start.”

Another one of them whistles low. “Barnes buying candy for a girl? End times.”

Bucky, of course, straightens immediately, protective without thinking.

“Leave him alone,” you add gently, glancing between them. “He’s just being kind to me.”

The group goes quiet for half a beat, then someone mutters, “Kind?”

Steve’s mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Bucky, meanwhile, stops breathing properly, because you said it so simply. Like there was no other explanation, like the idea that he might be doing anything else never even crossed your mind.

He looks at you then and it’s unfair how easy it is to forget everyone else exists when you’re standing that close.

The Commandos keep talking behind him as they walk by, but Bucky doesn’t hear a word of it anymore.

All he hears is the soft cadence of your voice still echoing in his head.

Just being kind to me.

That word lands heavier than anything else today. Kinder than flirtation, kinder than charm, kinder than every practiced thing he’s ever used to get someone to look at him twice. He realizes, with faint shock, that he wants to be that to you. Not some impressive or smooth flirt, just kind.

Eventually Steve clears his throat loudly from behind you. “You walkin’ her home, Barnes, or standin’ there makin’ heart eyes in the middle of the sidewalk?”

“I am absolutely not makin’ heart eyes,” Bucky says automatically.

You glance up at him and his words die immediately.

“…We’re walkin’,” he finishes weakly.

“Good,” Steve says, already grinning. “Try not to break anything on the way.”

Bucky flips him off without looking away from you.

You don’t seem to notice the tension at all. Just adjust your grip on the candy box and smile faintly like this is still just a normal afternoon walk, and somehow that makes everything worse.

The walk to your building takes longer than it should.

Bucky slows down without meaning to and you match him perfectly.

Brooklyn shifts around you in its usual evening rhythm, windows glowing warm, radios humming behind curtains, the smell of dinner drifting out of open doors but between the two of you everything feels strangely contained.

“I had a very nice time today,” you say eventually, glancing up at him.

Bucky swallows. “Yeah?”

“You’re very kind.”

That word again.

It hits him harder this time, right in the center of his chest. He looks away for half a second, jaw tightening slightly like he’s trying to figure out how to respond to something he’s never been called before in a way that mattered.

“Kind,” he repeats quietly, like he's testing whether he deserves it.

You stop in front of your apartment building steps as the streetlamp above flickers softly, casting gold light over your face. For a moment neither of you moves, then Bucky shifts, suddenly more uncertain than he’s been all day.

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Of course,” you answer immediately.

He hesitates, this is the part where he usually knows exactly what to say, instead, he feels seventeen different versions of himself arguing at once. He steps closer without thinking, seemingly too close, making your breath catch faintly.

He notices it immediately, the tiny shift in your posture, the nervousness flickering across your face. You’re not used to this part. The closeness, the intention that comes with it.

“Sorry,” he says softer, almost immediately stepping back half an inch like he’s correcting a mistake he didn’t want to make, “I uh—.”

You exhale quietly, watching as Bucky drags a hand through his hair, looking away for a second like he’s regrouping. Then, carefully he speaks up.

“Can I do this properly?”

You blink. “Properly?”

He looks back at you then, all teasing gone for a moment.

“Can I take you out tomorrow night?”

Your eyes widen slightly.

“…Like a date?”

“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter now. “Like a date.”

You look at him for a long moment, then your smile returns—small, but real.

“I think I’d like that very much.”

Something in Bucky’s chest loosens all at once, like a knot he didn’t know he was holding.

“Yeah?” he asks, almost stupidly.

You nod and that’s it, that’s all it takes. Bucky steps back, already grinning like he’s lost all sense of self-preservation.

“Tomorrow,” he says, pointing at you like he’s making a promise he fully intends to keep, “I’m pickin’ you up at seven.”

“I’ll be ready,” you reply softly.

He turns to leave, walking backwards for a second because he can’t quite make himself stop looking at you. Then he finally turns around properly after you give him a soft wave goodbye, and immediately starts grinning wider.

The Commandos are still waiting down the street when he finds them. Steve takes one look at his face and sighs.

“Oh no.”

Bucky doesn’t even try to hide it. He shoves his hands in his pockets, still smiling like an idiot.

“Fellas,” he says lightly, “I’m in serious trouble.”

Bucky doesn’t sleep much that night, at least not properly.

He lies on his back staring at the ceiling, replaying the day in fragments he can’t seem to organize into anything sensible. Your voice, your laugh. The way you looked at candy like it was something magical. And worse than all of it, powdered sugar on your mouth, cannoli cream on your lips and the way you’d apologized for it like it was a crime.

He turns onto his side, groans into his pillow, then sits up like the bed has personally betrayed him.

“Get it together,” he mutters to himself.

But the problem is… he is together.

That’s the issue. He just isn’t used to what it feels like when someone looks at him like he’s safe instead of interesting. So in the morning, Bucky Barnes does the only thing he can think to do, be a man of his word.

He decides to do it properly.

No shortcuts, no charm tricks, no easy grin and leaned-in confidence.

A real date.

Which is how Steve finds him hunched over a small, slightly chaotic pile of wildflowers behind a Brooklyn fence line.

“Are you pickin’ flowers now?” Steve asks flatly.

Bucky doesn’t look up. “Shut up.”

Steve leans against the fence post, arms crossed. “That for the girl?”

“Yes.”

“You know you could just buy ‘em like a normal person.”

“I don’t have money right now for fancy bouquets.”

“That’s not the point.”

Bucky finally straightens, holding the uneven bundle like it might fall apart if he breathes wrong. “It is to me.”

Steve studies him for a long moment, something softer flickering beneath the teasing.

Then he sighs. “You’re in trouble, pal.”

Bucky huffs. “Yeah. I said that already.”

But he doesn’t feel like running from it, not even a little.

By the time evening rolls around, he’s checked his reflection in every shop window he passes twice. He fixes his tie, adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his hair, then immediately second-guesses it and smooths it back down again. The flowers are wrapped in paper he stole, respectfully stole, from a corner stand. They’re not perfect, a few stems are uneven, one bloom is slightly bent.

He hopes they’re enough.

Outside your building, Bucky pauses as he exhales once. Then knocks.

When the door opens, everything inside him stops. You’re standing there in soft light, hair pinned back neatly, expression shifting the moment you see him. And you light up like it’s involuntary.

Bucky forgets how to breathe for a second.

“Hi,” you say, smiling.

“Hi,” he manages back.

Then he lifts the flowers slightly, suddenly unsure of everything in the universe.

“Those are for me?” you ask, voice soft with surprise.

“Unless your neighbor’s awful pretty,” he says automatically.

You laugh, stepping forward immediately to take them.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmur, already burying your nose in them gently. “Oh… and they smell wonderful.”

Bucky watches you like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else.

“I, uh,” he starts, then clears his throat. “Yeah. Picked ‘em myself.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Your smile softens in a way that makes him feel strangely proud.

“I’ll find a jar,” you say quickly. “Wait just a moment.”

You disappear inside, flowers clutched carefully to your chest like they’re something priceless. Bucky stays standing there in the doorway slightly stunned. He hears movement inside, cabinet doors opening, water running, your quiet little hum as you arrange them.

He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until his cheeks start to hurt.

Before you leave, your sister appears briefly in the hallway. Older, sharper-eyed. The kind of woman who looks like she’s already decided what kind of trouble someone is before they speak.

Her gaze lands on Bucky immediately.

“Bucky Barnes?” she asks.

He straightens instinctively. “Yes, ma’am.”

She looks him over once then turns to you.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

You hesitate. “Of course.”

She pulls you aside just enough that Bucky can’t hear everything, but not enough that he doesn’t feel it. Her voice is lower when she speaks.

“Be careful." She says.

You blink. “What?”

“Boys like him don't settle down. Sure he’s charming and handsome, but he's just a sweet talker.” Her mouth tightens. “He just wants a good time, so don’t go getting your hopes up.”

Bucky can’t hear the exact words, but he sees your expression shift slightly and something in his stomach turns uneasy.

When you return, you’re still smiling—but quieter now, careful in a way you weren’t before.

“Ready?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he says, though his voice comes out softer than he means it to.

Dinner settles into something Bucky doesn’t recognize at first.

It’s quiet.

Not empty, but softened around the edges like the whole world has decided to behave itself for once. Soft jazz drifts from somewhere near the ceiling, curling through candlelight and clinking silverware. The room hums with conversation that never quite reaches your table.

And for the first time all day, Bucky Barnes isn’t scanning anything. His eyes aren't darting around the room looking for exits or other women, something quick to catch his attention.

Just you.

You, sitting across from him with your hands wrapped around a glass of water like it’s something grounding. You, talking in that gentle, thoughtful way of yours that keeps catching him off guard. He realizes halfway through your story about your aunt’s ridiculous attempt at baking bread that he hasn’t looked away once.

Not once. And maybe worse, he doesn’t want to.

You laugh at your own memory, shaking your head slightly. “It was practically a brick. We had to slice it with a knife meant for meat.”

Bucky smiles without thinking. “Sounds dangerous.”

“It was emotionally damaging.”

That makes him laugh for real.

And then you smile back at him, that small, bright, effortless smile and something in his chest shifts again. Because he likes this, not the performance of him, not the usual rhythm of charm and response and winning someone over. He likes this.

You talking, rambling softly when you get comfortable, pausing like you’re thinking too hard before continuing anyway. And every time you say his name, Bucky, like it’s just another word instead of something that usually comes wrapped in attention and expectation he feels it settle somewhere warm and unfamiliar.

Bucky Barnes, who usually knows exactly what he’s doing with people, finds himself doing something far more dangerous, imagining. Not in a loud way. In quiet flashes between bites of food and sips of coffee, a small bouquet of flowers on a table that isn’t a restaurant, you at a kitchen counter, hair slightly messy, laughing at something he said. A door opening at the end of a long day and you looking up like it matters that he came home.

He shifts slightly in his seat, almost like the thought physically disorients him.

Impossible things.

And yet they come anyway.

After dinner, the night pulls the two of you deeper into Brooklyn’s glow. Neon signs flicker awake, streetlamps paint everything gold and blue. Somewhere down the block, music spills out of a club like a living thing.

“You seen the new picture show over on Fulton?” Bucky asks as you walk.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Then you’re goin’.”

You glance up at him. “Is that an order?”

“Absolutely.”

You laugh softly, like you’re still not used to how easily he says things like that. The theater is older with slightly worn velvet seats, the faint smell of popcorn and wood polish, flickering light that makes everything feel softer than it should. Bucky buys the tickets without hesitation, you try to argue but he ignores you in the best way possible.

Inside, you sit close but not touching. Close enough that he’s aware of you constantly, that every small movement you make registers like it matters.

Halfway through the film, something changes on screen, the lights dim all soft and emotional, the kind of scene that doesn’t need words. He feels you go still beside him and when he glances over, your eyes are glossy in the dim light.

You’re trying to be subtle about it. You are not succeeding.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just reaches into his pocket slowly and pulls out his handkerchief and without a word, gently offers it toward you.

You turn toward him and for a moment, neither of you moves. Then you take it carefully, fingers brushing his and in the dark, you smile at him softly. Like he did something important without realizing it. Bucky looks back at the screen, but he doesn’t see it anymore, he just feels the moment settle between you like something fragile and real. And he never wants it to end.

The picture ends on a cliffhanger that has the whole theater groaning as the lights flick back on. Outside, the city opens up again. Cool night air, bright lights reflecting off wet pavement. The distant echo of music from clubs and cafés and street corners all blending into one living rhythm.

You walk beside him slowly, a little quieter now that the night has come to its end.

Bucky notices.

He glances down at you. “You alright?”

You nod. “Yes. It was… very nice.”

“Yeah?”

You smile faintly. “You’re very kind.”

That word again.

Kind.

It lands differently now. He doesn’t know why, maybe it’s the way you say it like it still surprises you, like it still feels new. Bucky opens his mouth to respond, but you stop walking. You've tried to fight it all night, tried to push the words far back into your head. But everything feels like a double edged sword, and if you don't do something now, you'll both get cut.

“I just…” you start softly, then hesitate.

He turns toward you fully.

You look down at your hands. “You really don’t have to pretend with me.”

Bucky blinks. “Pretend?”

You glance up, nervous now. “I know boys like you don’t mean anything by this sort of thing.”

Silence. It drops so fast it almost feels physical.

Bucky stares at you and for the first time all day, his expression isn’t teasing or amused or carefully controlled. It’s hurt, deep, immediate and unmistakably hurt.

“Boys like me?” he repeats slowly.

You realize instantly something is wrong.

“I didn’t mean— I just meant—”

He gestures vaguely between the flowers, the dinner, the theater still glowing behind you both.

“You think I do this with every girl?”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. Because you don’t know, you just assumed, because your sister said he’s Bucky Barnes and people talk about him like they know him before he even speaks.

“Sweetheart,” he says quieter now, but sharper in a different way, “I picked those flowers myself.”

You freeze and he exhales through his nose, looking away for a second like he’s trying to steady something in himself.

“I ain’t ever done this before,” he admits. “Not like this.”

That hits harder than anything else tonight, you stare at him now, like you’re recalibrating something you thought you understood.

“But everyone says—” you start.

“Yeah. I know what everyone says.” Bucky cuts in immediately, voice low. "But I only do this unless I mean it."

The street hums around you both, cars pass by, music drifts on the wind, lights flicker in the distance. But between the two of you, everything feels suddenly suspended. The silence doesn’t leave right away, it just changes shape. It stretches between you and Bucky in the middle of the sidewalk, softened only by passing headlights and the distant laugh of strangers who don’t know they’re walking through something fragile.

Bucky doesn’t look away from you.

I don’t do this unless I mean it.

It should’ve sounded smooth and confident. Instead it just sounds… exposed. Because the truth of it sits heavier now that it’s out in the open. He watches your face carefully, like he’s waiting for you to decide something about him, and for the first time all day, he realizes that matters. Not casually, not in the way flirting usually matters, but in a way that sits deep under his ribs and doesn’t move.

Your expression is quiet, thoughtful in that way you get when you’re trying to understand something honestly. He swallows once, then looks away briefly like the night air might help him think straighter, but it doesn’t.

It only makes everything quieter.

“I don’t like that,” he says finally.

You blink. “What?”

He gestures vaguely, frustration threading through his voice now—not at you, but at something older.

“What they say. About me.”

You don’t interrupt, you just listen and that alone is enough to make his chest tighten. Bucky exhales slowly, because this is new for him too. Saying it, not laughing it off, not playing it into something charming.

“People think they’ve got me figured out,” he says. “Think I just—” he huffs a short laugh without humor, “—go around Brooklyn collecting girls like it’s nothin’.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“And maybe I used to let ‘em think that.”

That lands differently in the air between you.

“But I’m tired of it,” he says quietly.

Bucky continues before he can talk himself out of it.

“Tired of it all blurring together,” he admits. “Tired of it not meaning anything.”

His eyes flick over your face again, more careful now, more intentional.

“And I think…” He hesitates, like the next part is the hardest thing he’s said all night. “I think I’m tired of not being taken seriously.”

That one settles heavier. You don’t speak yet. So he keeps going, because stopping now feels impossible.

“Maybe I don’t wanna be that guy anymore.” His voice drops slightly.

That guy. The one people assume things about, the one who never stays, the one who never gets understood correctly because no one bothers to look twice. The words hang there, raw and unpolished.

You shift slightly on your feet and when you finally speak, your voice is soft.

“What kind of guy do you want to be then?”

Bucky stills.

That question shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, but it does, the way you asked him like you really want to know, the way your eyes never leave his as he looks at you. The city lights catch your face in soft gold and shadow, painting the curve of your cheekbones, the faint red of your lips still slightly brighter from the theater lights, the way you stand there holding his honesty like it’s something you’re willing to carry for a moment without dropping it.

And something inside him clicks. Like a door deciding it’s been open long enough to let something new inside. Bucky takes a slow breath, then another and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter than before.

“The guy,” he says, nodding faintly toward you like the answer has been standing in front of him all night, “that gets to do this with you every night for the rest of my life.”

Silence falls again, but this one is different. It isn’t heavy or tense. It feels like something settling into place that neither of you fully understands yet, but neither of you wants to move away from.

Bucky doesn’t smile, not yet. He just watches you carefully, like he’s waiting to see if he’s gone too far. If he’s said too much, if the version of him he’s choosing now is one you can stand to look at. And for the first time since he met you in that candy shop, James Buchanan Barnes isn’t trying to win anything.

He’s just waiting.

For you.

"I think I'd like that."

Two months don’t feel like two months to Bucky Barnes.

They feel like a rhythm he accidentally fell into and never bothered climbing out of. Mornings start with the same thought: What time can I see her? Evenings end with the same realization: Not long enough. And everything in between just becomes space he has to get through.

He shows up at your apartment more often than he means to. Not in a dramatic way, just like he happened to be nearby. Which is a lie, he crosses half of Brooklyn for it.

“Bucky,” you’d say sometimes, opening the door already smiling, “you live nowhere near here.”

He’d shrug like it doesn’t matter. “Was in the neighborhood.”

“You were in the neighborhood three days in a row?”

“Brooklyn’s a big place, doll.”

You’d just laugh and let him in.

And that’s the problem. You always let him in.

Diners become routine. Milkshakes split between two straws that you pretend not to notice he always lets you have the first sip of. Walks that start with him offering his arm and end with your hand still resting there long after it’s necessary. Movie nights where you lean slightly closer each time you get nervous during a scene, and Bucky pretends he doesn’t notice how carefully you do it. Flowers every week. Sometimes wild. Sometimes bought if he could pinch it. Sometimes just picked from somewhere he absolutely shouldn’t have been picking flowers.

You always put them in a jar immediately. Always smile like they matter. And Bucky changes without noticing, he stops looking at other women entirely, not because he’s forcing himself not to.

Because he just… doesn’t see them the same way anymore. Not when you exist in his world now, softening all the edges.

Steve notices first, then the Commandos, then basically anyone who’s ever known him longer than five minutes.

“You’re smiling more,” Steve says once, watching him across a table.

“I always smile.”

“No,” Steve says, “you don’t.”

Bucky just shrugs. Because what’s he supposed to say? That he likes the way you say his name like it’s something you trust? That he’s started thinking about ridiculous things like whether you’d like a porch someday, or a kitchen with too much sunlight, or a life where he doesn’t leave as often as he does?

He doesn’t say any of it, but it’s there anyway.

Tonight, he’s early.

Which is stupid, because he’s always early now. He’s at the bar having a drink and smoke with the Commandos, but he’s not really with them.

He’s angled toward the door, elbow on the counter, sleeves already adjusted three times, hair smoothed back once, then twice, then abandoned entirely because it keeps falling anyway as Steve watches him with growing disbelief.

“You’re worse than a kid waiting for Christmas,” Steve mutters.

Bucky doesn’t look away from the door. “Shut up.”

“You’ve checked that door eight times in five minutes.”

“It might’ve changed since the last time I looked.”

“Bucky.”

“I’m busy.”

The door opens and he straightens instantly. Not you. His shoulders drop a fraction as he sits back down.

The teasing starts almost immediately.

“Two months huh?” one of them says, grinning. “This one’s got it bad.”

“Must be real good if Barnes is still around.”

“You finally settle down?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s a stupid softness to his mouth that gives him away immediately.

“Knock it off.”

The laughter builds.

“What’s the catch, Barnes?”

“C’mon, what are you gettin’ out of this?”

“Ain’t no way you’re behaving this long without somethin’ in return.”

Bucky exhales, finally turning fully toward them and for once, he doesn’t joke. Not even a little.

“Nothing’s happened between us yet.”

The table goes quiet. A beat. Then howling ensures.

“You’re kiddin’.”

“Celibate Bucky Barnes?”

“I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Someone nearly chokes on their drink.

Bucky shrugs slightly, like it’s not a big deal, but his voice goes quieter when he adds on.

“I like her.”

That shuts them up for half a second longer.

“I don’t wanna mess it up,” he says, “by goin’ in headfirst.”

And just like that, the teasing explodes again.

“Look at him.”

“He’s gone.”

“Man’s fighting for his life.”

“You hear this? Barnes is soft.”

Bucky laughs under his breath despite himself, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah—laugh it up.”

And that’s when it happens, the door opens again, Bucky doesn’t look right away still half-laughing, still mid-protest, then he hears the sound of the room shifting slightly.

Someone going quiet and he turns. You’re standing just inside holding your bag, still in your coat and completely still. Not smiling, not walking toward him. Just listening. For a second, Bucky doesn’t understand then he sees it. Your expression. Something flickering there, uncertainty, confusion, something tightening at the edges of your face like you’ve just heard something you weren’t meant to.

His smile fades immediately.

“Hey,” he starts, already pushing his chair back.

But you don’t come closer. You take one step back instead, then another, quiet and careful.

“Doll—” Bucky stands fully now.

But you’re already turning to leave, the door swings open, and you’re gone. He’s out of the bar so fast it barely feels like a decision. Brooklyn air hits him like a slap, cold, sharp, and real and for a second he just stands there, scanning the sidewalk like the world might give you back if he looks hard enough.

“Doll?” he calls.

Nothing.

“Hi.”

He turns.

You’re a few steps down the sidewalk, hugging your coat tightly around yourself like you’re trying to hold yourself together with it. Streetlight catches your face in soft gold, but it doesn’t soften the expression there.

Not really.

Bucky’s chest tightens immediately.

He crosses the space between you in a few quick steps. “Hey—no, hey, listen to me,” he says, already shaking his head like he can undo whatever just happened inside by sheer force of will. “Don’t listen to those idiots in there. They don’t know when to shut up.”

Your gaze flickers up to him, then away again just as fast.

“It’s alright,” you say softly. “Really.”

But it isn’t alright, not in the way he knows you mean.

Because your arms are wrapped around yourself too tightly. Because your smile is there, but it doesn’t reach anything. Because you look like you’re already somewhere farther away than the sidewalk you’re standing on.

And Bucky notices everything, too much, sometimes.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter now. “You ready to go?”

A pause.

“…Yeah.”

That’s it.

No teasing, no warmth, no easy rhythm. Just agreement, and it scares him more than anything else tonight.

It's all wrong.

That’s the only way Bucky can think to describe it. Brooklyn is still alive around you, windows glowing, distant laughter, the low hum of traffic, but between you and him there’s a silence that feels heavy instead of soft. He walks slower than usual without realizing it. You don’t take his arm, but your hand finds his anyway just barely. Just fingers brushing, then settling.

Bucky holds it like it’s something fragile.

He keeps glancing at you, waiting for you to look back, you don’t. You’re staring down at your joined hands instead, like you’re trying to figure something out in them. And your thoughts, if he could hear them, would be too loud.

Maybe your sister was right.

Maybe this was always going somewhere you don’t belong.

Maybe he’s just being patient because eventually he’ll expect more.

And maybe you’re already disappointing him.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Because something about your silence tells him words might break whatever thread is holding you upright right now. So he just walks you home, step by step, closer than usual and quieter than ever.

By the time your building comes into view, something in you has tightened so much it feels like it might snap.

You stop walking, Bucky stops immediately with you.

“Buck…” your voice is barely above the street noise.

“Yeah?” He turns toward you fully.

You swallow hard. “Maybe… we shouldn’t do this anymore.”

Everything stops. Bucky freezes completely, like the words physically catch him mid-step.

“What?” he says, but it’s not sharp, more confused than anything.

You look down, finally letting go of his hand so slowly, like it costs you something.

“I don’t think I’m good for you,” you say.

That lands harder than anything else tonight. Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to understand a language he thought he already knew.

“Sweetheart,” he says slowly, “where is this comin’ from?”

You shake your head slightly, still not meeting his eyes.

“You deserve someone who can make you happy,” you say. “Someone better.”

Bucky lets out a short breath like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“That’s not—no,” he says immediately, stepping half a step closer before stopping himself. “No, that’s not how this works.”

You finally look up at him and whatever he sees there makes his voice soften instantly. Because you look scared. Not of him but of yourself.

“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, like it should be obvious.

You blink, once, then again. And then it spills out of you before you can stop it.

“I can’t make you happy, Buck,” you say, voice cracking slightly. “I can’t give you what you want, I can’t—I can’t… make you feel good.”

Silence hits again, but this time, Bucky understands exactly where it came from. His expression changes all at once, his frustration disappears, his confusion sharpens into something quieter. Something knowing as the pieces fall into place.

The Commandos. The bar. The teasing.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Babydoll…”

The way he says it now is different.

“I want you,” he says gently. “I’m happy with you just like this. None of that matters to me anymore, okay?”

Your breath shakes slightly but you don’t look convinced. Instead, something inside you finally breaks open.

“Well it matters to me!” you burst out, voice suddenly raw. “I want to, I just—I don’t know how. And I'm scared you're going to leave just because I’ve never—”

You stop but it's too late. Bucky goes completely still and everything clicks into place so fast it almost hurts. Why you flinch sometimes when he gets too close. Why you always hesitate before a kiss even when you want them. Why you look like you’re bracing for something you think you’re supposed to be able to give.

Why you’re standing here right now looking ashamed of something you never should’ve had to explain.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re okay.”

Your eyes are glossy now, but you’re still trying to hold it together. Bucky doesn’t move closer doesn’t rush you. Just stays right where he is so you don’t feel cornered.

“Your parents home?” he asks softly.

You blink, thrown slightly by the question.

“What? Oh… no. They went to my sister’s ballet recital. They won’t be back until later.”

Bucky nods once then gives you a small, warm smile and gently threads his fingers through yours.

“C’mon,” he says quietly, squeezing your hand just once, just enough to ground you. “Let’s go talk inside.”

Inside your apartment, everything feels quieter in a different way.

Not the heavy silence from outside but something softer, contained with warmth between you. You close the door behind Bucky like you’re sealing the world out, then immediately seem to remember yourself again, nervous energy flickering back in.

“Okay,” you say quickly, brushing a hand over your sleeve. “Um—this is the living room. Obviously. And that’s the kitchen, and—”

Bucky just watches you, following your voice like it’s something grounding. You move a little faster now, pointing things out like you need the space filled with words so you don’t have to think too hard about anything else.

“This is my mother’s glass cabinet, don’t touch that one, she’ll know, and—oh.”

You stop because Bucky is already in the kitchen holding two small glasses, and the apple brandy bottle.

He glances over his shoulder innocently. “What?”

You blink. “Bucky.”

He raises a brow. “What?”

“That’s my mother’s.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just—”

“I can,” he says simply, already pouring.

You let out a sound of disbelief. “You are unbelievable.”

He slides one glass toward you. “Relax, doll. I’ll replace it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is tonight.”

You stare at him for a second longer, then sigh, like you’ve decided arguing with him is pointless.

“Fine,” you say. “But you’re explaining this to her if she notices.”

“Deal.”

You hesitate, then take the glass anyway. That alone makes something in his chest ease.

You lead him toward your bedroom after that, slower now, more uncertain at the edges. Not running anymore, just settling. The room is small. Warm and lived in. A book on your bedside table, a folded sweater on the chair, soft lamplight that makes everything feel like it belongs only to you.

Bucky doesn’t sit right away. He just leans against the dresser, watching as you set your glass down carefully like you’re still trying to figure out what this moment is supposed to be.

You take a sip, then another. Waiting until your chest grows warm.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” you say quietly.

Bucky’s expression softens immediately. “What?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass.

“I’ve… never done any of this before.” You glance up at him, cheeks warm now. “I mean—anything like this. Dating. Being… like this with someone.”

Silence stretches gently. Then, more spills out, almost like you need to get it out before you lose courage.

“And you were my first kiss.”

Bucky goes still in a way that isn’t shock, it’s something gentler and more careful. You rush on quickly, as if afraid of what the truth might do in the open air.

“I just thought you should know. In case I’m—awkward. Or—”

“Hey,” he cuts in softly as he pushes off the dresser and steps closer, slow enough that you can stop him if you want to.

You don’t.

“Look at me,” he says gently.

You do and his expression is steady now. No teasing anywhere in it.

"You don't ever have to apologize to me. For anything."

“I like you a lot, Bucky,” you say suddenly, like it’s been sitting in you too long to hold back anymore.

Something in his face shifts immediately, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I like you too, babydoll,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches.

You swallow. “I can’t promise it’ll be any good but—”

Bucky doesn’t let you finish, he leans in and kisses you. It's not rushed or demanding, just soft and gentle. Like he’s waiting for you the entire time, making sure you’re still there with him, still okay, still choosing this. When he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, your eyes are wide.

“Don’t…” he whispers, “don’t say that.”

You pause, slightly stunned by the kiss. “Okay.”

A beat, then, softer:

“Can I kiss you again?”

You hesitate only a second then nod.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s a little less uncertain, still gentle and patient. But warmer now, like something between you is finally starting to trust the moment instead of question it. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push for anything more he just stays close enough that you can decide how much you want.

And eventually, you do loosen up slowly. Like your shoulders finally remember they don’t have to stay tight. You laugh a little under your breath at something he mumbles against your lips, and he smiles against you in response. When you pull back again slightly, breath uneven, he rests his forehead briefly against yours.

“That okay?” he asks softly.

You nod again, then your voice goes quieter.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I do,” he says gently.

You huff a soft laugh. “That’s not really comforting.”

“It should be,” he replies, a hint of warmth returning. “I’m real good at not rushin’ things.”

And he is, he stays exactly where you need him to, no pressure behind his precense. Eventually, you end up sitting on the edge of your bed together, close enough that your shoulders brush. Your glass is forgotten somewhere on the nightstand and Bucky’s hand finds yours again without thinking.

"I want to try…" you can't make the words out with a deep red blush crossing your face. "And I trust you."

"Good." Bucky hums, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "We'll go slow."

When you shift slightly closer, he lets you guide the space between you, like learning something new together instead of taking anything from you. When your nose brushes his, you tug lightly at your sleeve, suddenly self-conscious.

“I feel like I should be… more dressed for this,” you admit quietly. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be wearing.”

Bucky looks at you like the question itself doesn’t make sense then he shakes his head slightly.

“Doll,” he says softly, “you could be wearing a potato sack and it wouldn’t matter.”

You blink at him as he leans in just a little, brushing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Just you,” he says quietly. “That’s all I need.”

You nod as he kisses you again. The kiss started slow, almost hesitant, but the moment Bucky’s hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head just so, it deepened into something more. You'd heard of desire in life, how it can warp the thoughts and actions of even the most resilient. But this, this burning ebb and flow deep within you was something else entirely. It had to be. It was as if a switch flipped inside you, your body felt magnetized to his, pushing closer and closer until there wasn't an inch of space between you.

His lips were warm, insistent, and when he pulled back just enough to murmur against your mouth. "Can I touch you?" 

You could only nod as his fingers traced a slow path down your thigh, the fabric of your dress bunching under his palm as he slid higher, his thumb brushing bare skin. You shivered, arching into him, your hands clutching at his shirt yearning for more.

Bucky smirked, catching your wrist. "Go ahead," he murmurs, guiding your hand down his chest.

Your thumb slipped beneath his shirt, your breath hitching at the hard planes of muscle beneath your fingertips. He was lean but solid, every ridge of his abdomen making your pulse jump.

His lips were still on yours when his fingers returned, teasing the damp fabric of your panties again. “Already this wet for me?” he mutters, voice rough against your mouth. “God, I can feel how hot you are through these.”

You whimper, arching into his touch. “Please, just—”

“Just what, sweetheart?” His thumb presses harder, circling your clit through the silk. “Tell me what you want.”

You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. “Touch me properly—God, Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he growls, hooking his fingers under the waistband, dragging them aside. The first slow stroke of his fingers through your slickness drew a choked moan from your throat.

“Fuck, you’re dripping.” He drags his fingers up, pressing them to your lips. “Taste.”

You sucked them into your mouth, eyes locked on his as you licked them clean, and the groan that ripped from his chest was filthy.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, sliding two fingers back inside you, curling them just right. “Love how tight you are, how you squeeze me.” His thumb circles you clit faster. “Gonna cum already? That quick?”

You couldn’t answer, nails biting into his shoulder as pleasure coiled tighter, sharper.

“That’s it,” he urges, voice dark with praise. “Cum on my fingers, let me feel it babydoll.”

Your hips jerk as you shatter, his name a broken moan on your lips. He didn’t stop, fingers still working you through it until you were gasping, oversensitive and trembling.

He didn’t let you catch your breath just yet, licking his fingers clean before hauling you to the edge of the bed. One leg hooked over his shoulder, his mouth hot and relentless between your thighs, tongue lapping at your oversensitive clit.

“One more,” he murmurs, lips brushing your thigh. “Bet you can take it.”

Bucky wraps an arm around you, splaying his wide hand across your stomach, sinking his tongue into the slit of your cunt, curling it before going back to flick your clit. He groans against you, muffled by your skin as his free hand comes up, the pads of his fingers pressing into you.

"So fucking good babydoll," he groans as he feels you rock against his lips and fingers. "Bein' such a good girl for me."

The pressure coils tight inside you, your chest rapidly rising as your words are reduced into nothing but messy mumbles of 'Bucky' and 'Please'. He doubles down on his efforts, closing his lips around your clit as he arches and scissors his fingers inside you, his eyes locked up on you as he watches you crest over your high. Back arching off the bed as your thighs clench on the sides of his head, trapping him right where he wants to be. He brings you down with a gentle kiss to your pulsing clit, easing his fingers out and licking them clean.

"That was so much better... than I ever thought," you pant, still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Bucky hums against your inner thigh, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue flicks lightly over your oversensitive clit, just enough to make your hips jerk.

"Mm, you thought about this?" His voice is low, rough with amusement. "My sweet girl thinking dirty thoughts? Thinking about what it’s like to be touched, licked, 'nd fucked?"

You whimper as he teases you again, the words alone sending another shudder through you. His fingers stroke slow circles on your thighs, gentle but possessive.

"Tell me," he murmurs. "Tell me what else you imagined."

You barely have time to answer before his mouth is on you again, licking and sucking just right, his fingers curling inside you with practiced ease. The pleasure builds too fast, too much at once and you're cumming all over again, rolling through you in deep, relentless waves.

When it finally eases, you’re boneless, breathless, but still aching for more. A deep and burning need simmering just under the surface of your skin. "Bucky," you plead, voice raw. "Please."

He kisses his way up your body, slow and deliberate, before finally pulling back just enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. The sight of him, all hard muscle and dark hunger makes your pulse jump.

"Condom?" he murmured, fingers tracing the soft curve of your stomach.

You still, then hum to yourself. "Oh. I don’t have any."

"Shit," he breathes, biting his lip. "Do you think your sister has any hidden, or maybe your—"

"We don’t…" Your voice drops, gentle now. "I mean, if you’re okay with it… we don’t have to."

He goes utterly still above you, his pulse hammering under your fingertips. "You sure, doll? Docs say I'm clean as a whistle," he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

"But I don’t wanna rush you into anything."

Your thighs press together instinctively, already aching again, needing more. "I’m sure, Buck. I trust you." You hesitate, then whisper, "And you can… pull out. If you want to."

A slow grin spreads across his face at your shyness, even as the hunger in his eyes burns hotter. "Okay, babydoll."

He kisses you again, deep and slow, one hand cradling your jaw like you’re something precious while the other guides himself between your legs. There’s no rush, just the thick press of him stretching you open inch by inch, his lips never leaving yours until he’s fully sheathed inside.

"Good?" he rasps against your mouth.

You can only nod, nails digging into his shoulders as he starts moving in long, unhurried thrusts that make your back arch off the bed. He licks into your mouth as his hips roll into yours, one hand sliding down to rub tight circles on your clit until you’re gasping, teetering on the edge. Every stroke hitting something deep within you that you didn't even know existed. A quick addiction began inside of you, something you wanted to never end.

Obscene sounds filled the room, the air thick with something sweet and warm and needy. Your hands never left his back, digging half crescents into his skin as you pleaded for more.

Then he stops.

You whimper in protest, but he’s already shifting, pulling out just enough to drag you onto your side. One of your legs hooks over his shoulder as he leans back, changing the angle completely. The first thrust punches a moan from your throat, it's all so much deeper now, his grip tightening on your thigh as he fucks into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips.

"Fuck," he grits out. "You take me so damn good."

Your hips rise to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, and the way your body clenches around him nearly makes Bucky lose it. His rhythm falters, a groan ripping from his throat. 

"Fuck—you get so tight when I fuck you like this." He leans back just enough to let his gaze drop between you, his cock glistening with your slick as he drives into you again.  "Go on, baby, look at it. You see that? Not a virgin anymore. Now you're all mine—you and this sweet pussy."

You're drowning in pleasure, barely coherent, but one word claws its way out of your throat.

"Harder."

Bucky obliges immediately, his thrusts snapping into you, the slap of skin echoing in the room. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in ragged bursts. 

"Mm, wonder how I should give you your first load," he growls, voice thick with lust. "Should I pull out and paint that soft tummy? Or maybe these tits?" 

He palms your breast roughly, thumb flicking over your nipple. "Maybe I should put you on your knees and cum all over your pretty face—"

"No!" You tighten your legs around him, pulling him deeper with a frantic whimper. "Please—"

He chuckles darkly, sinking into you fully with a satisfied groan. "What, you want it inside?" 

His next thrust is punishing, forcing a broken moan from your lips. "Sweet little pussy’s never been fucked before, and now she wants to be filled too?" His hand slides down to grip your ass, tilting your hips just right. "Greedy little thing."

You can only nod helplessly, your body wound tight around him, clenching and begging as Bucky fucks you toward over edge all over again. Even after he spills inside you, Bucky can't stop, won't stop, his hips grinding slow and filthy, milking every last drop deep into your fluttering cunt. His hands slide under your knees, folding you nearly in half, pressing your thighs toward her chest until you're spread obscenely open.

"Fuck, still so tight," he growls, watching where you're joined—his cock still buried to the hilt, your pussy dripping around him. "Touch yourself. Wanna feel you come again while I'm still inside you."

Your fingers shake as you rub frantic circles over your clit, oversensitive and whimpering, but you don't stop, can't stop. Bucky groans at the way your walls ripple around him, his thrusts turning shallow and possessive, forcing his cum to seep even deeper.

"That's it," he rasps, biting the side of your leg. "Make a mess for me."

You practially sob as you cum again, tears rolling down the sides of your face, cream mixing with his spend, leaking down to your ass as your body is overcome with wave after wave of pleasure. Bucky curses when he feels it, hot pulses of you squeezing him and suddenly he's hard again, slamming into you with a snarl as another orgasm rips through him.

Your legs tremble in his grip. Neither of you can move anymore, just wrecked and sticky and full, but Bucky still rocks into you lazily, refusing to pull out just yet.

"Fuckin' perfect," he mutters against your lips as he gently sets your legs down, your mixed spend leaking from your thighs.

The room soon goes quiet in a soft, yet heavy way. You feel your chest loosen with something new, something warm and gooey.

The lamp is still on. It turns everything gentle around the edges—the rumpled sheets, the scattered clothes on the floor, the faint sheen of warmth still clinging to both of you like the night hasn’t fully let go yet.

Bucky moves first, carefully untangling himself from the sticky warmth of your bodies pressed together. He leans over the side of the bed, rummaging blindly until he finds his pants on the floor, tugging them closer with a quiet huff.

“You stay right there,” he murmurs without looking back at you.

You’re already curled slightly into the sheets, watching him with tired eyes that still look soft around the edges, calm in a way that feels new.

He finds his shirt and brings it over to you, then pauses, thinking.

“Water,” he says to himself like it’s a mission.

He disappears into the small kitchen. You hear cabinets open, the faint clink of a glass, water running. When he comes back, he’s got a glass in one hand and something folded in the other.

He sets the water beside you first.

“Here,” he says gently.

You take it without protest, sipping carefully. Then he unfolds the cloth—damp, warm from the sink.

You blink at him. “What’s that?”

“For you,” he says simply.

And then, softer, “Just… stay still a second.”

He cleans your skin with careful hands, unhurried, like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to be this gentle after everything. Like there’s no rush anywhere. Like the whole night has slowed down just for this.

You watch him instead of the ceiling now, he notices.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m doin’ something impressive.”

You smile faintly. “You are.”

That makes him pause for half a second, just long enough to look at you properly again. Then he shakes it off, like he doesn’t trust himself to sit in that feeling too long.

“Stay,” he says again, softer, and gets up.

This time he’s gone longer. When he comes back, there’s a cigarette tucked between his fingers and a lighter in his pocket. He pauses at the edge of the bed like he suddenly remembers something.

“…Can I smoke in here?” he asks, already sounding like he knows the answer.

You tilt your head slightly, thinking. “Probably not.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “That a no?”

“A probably no.”

He nods like he respects that, then immediately does it anyway but not in a careless way. He walks to the window, opens it wide, letting in the cool night air. The city noise spills in—distant traffic, laughter somewhere far below.

He leans out slightly, lights the cigarette, and inhales once before exhaling into the open air. You watch him from the bed, curious despite yourself.

“That smells… strong,” you say.

Bucky glances over his shoulder. “Yeah. That’s the point.”

A pause, then you sit up a little. “Can I try?”

That makes him turn fully now.

“Doll,” he says slowly, like he’s deciding whether to be responsible or curious.

You just look at him expectantly.

He exhales through his nose. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He crosses back to the bed, hands it over carefully. You take it like it’s something delicate as he watches you.

“Just… small inhale,” he instructs gently. “Not like you’re drinkin’ air.”

You try and immediately cough. Bucky laughs softly, not teasing, just amused and leans in quickly, patting your back once.

“Easy,” he says. “Easy, sweetheart.”

You glare at him between coughs. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “It is.”

But you still try again, more carefully this time, and he guides you with quiet patience until you manage it without immediately dissolving into another fit of coughing.

“There you go,” he murmurs, almost proud.

You hand it back to him, shaking your head slightly. He takes another drag, then leans back against the windowsill while you curl into the sheets again, watching him instead of the ceiling now.

After a moment, you let out a small laugh to yourself.

Bucky notices immediately. “What?”

You shake your head, still smiling. “Nothing.”

“That’s never true.”

You glance up at him, amused. “I was just thinking… I’ve had brandy, cigarettes, and lost my virginity all in one night.”

Bucky freezes for half a second, then exhales a laugh, low and disbelieving.

“…Yeah?” he says. “Well. How d'ya feel?”

You nod, still smiling like you can’t quite believe it yourself. “I think I’ve been corrupted by Bucky Barnes.”

That gets him fully now, he turns toward you properly, cigarette forgotten for a moment in his hand.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, a little softer now. “What’s the verdict?”

You look at him for a long beat, not a hint of shyness glinted in your eyes.

“I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Bucky’s expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with charm and everything to do with something deeper settling into place.

He puts the cigarette out and tosses it out the window, crawling across the bed to you, and leans down just enough to catch your face in his hand.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips.

You smile against him. “You were trouble first. I was sweet as can be."

If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes for the definition of ‘insanity,’ he would tell you “Insanity is a severely disordered state of the mind.”

If you were to ask him what the cause of insanity is, he would say “It’s triggered by a combination of many things. For example, if one becomes too fascinated—too fixated—on something to the point that it takes a toll on their mental health. It can shift their reality and potentially drive themselves to the very brink. It is a common denominator, I’ve noticed.”

If you were to ask him if insanity was correlated with craziness in any way, he would reply with “That’s exactly what it is.”

If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes if he was crazy, he would say no.

Bucky never thought he was crazy—as a matter of fact, he was far from it.

From the day he found your corpse and brought you back to life through grueling experimentation, to the long months he kept you tucked away in the shadows of the hospital’s hidden basement laboratory—up until now, as he stood before you with a tray of cold hospital food in his hands.

No, he never thought he was crazy. Not then, and certainly not now.

“Darling? Daddy’s here,” Bucky murmured, knocking gently on the door.

He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting for a sound—that soft, gentle “come in!” he had taught you to say every time he arrived.

There was no sound.

Bucky smiled softly. He figured you were just asleep.

After looking around to ensure the coast was clear, as it always was, he pushed the door open quietly. As it shut softly behind him, a relieved breath escaped his lips at the sight of you.

There you were, lying on the cot on your side with your hands tucked beneath your cheek—sound asleep.

He couldn’t help his smile as he set the tray of food down on the table next to you. He sat at the edge of the cot, running his hand up and down your arm in a hauntingly slow motion. “I brought you dinner,” he whispered.

You only let out a sleepy moan. Bucky ran his hand down your hair, pushing it behind your ear. He frowned at how it felt beneath his fingertips. He had just brushed it this morning, and yet it was already a knotted, tangled mess.

“Come on, baby. Wake up. Your food’s not getting any warmer.”

He nudged you gently, but you still didn’t wake. He was beginning to grow impatient.

“Open your eyes for me,” he commanded, kneeling down as his voice rose.

When you still didn’t stir, his jaw clenched. Both hands found your shoulders, shaking you hard as he yelled in your face, “I told you to wake up!”

You jolted awake with a startled gasp, your eyes hazy with sleep as you stared back at the man in front of you. His grip on your shoulders was so tight it hurt.

He had yelled at you—what had you done wrong? Did you misplace something? Or was it simply because you had slept in?

Your master’s chest was heaving as he glared at you with wide, crazed eyes.

After finally getting your attention, Bucky’s breathing calmed slightly. Your eyes were wide with fear and your body was shaking, curling in on itself as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Your eyes—sunken, swollen, and bruised from his experiments a few days ago—were still prominent, and the sight of them made him feel even worse.

Slowly, he let go of your shoulders. “I… fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, doll. I got ahead of myself.”

Your shoulders eased slightly, though not entirely.

“I just had a bad day,” Bucky went on with a sigh. “These idiots at the facility… they’re working me like a dog. They have me running all these labs, all these data sheets…” He rubbed the crease between his brows. “I’m just so tired. And all I wanted was for you to be waiting at the door to greet me.”

You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had to react carefully—otherwise, Bucky’s mood would only sour further.

“I’m sorry,” you said, pulling yourself off the short cot to meet him on the floor with a hug.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his. Bucky let out a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as his large arms wrapped around you. His hands splayed across your back, pulling you in even closer as his nose nuzzled the side of your head, breathing in your scent.

Rubbing alcohol, acetonitrile, and just a slight hint of lavender. His favorite.

“That’s it,” Bucky cooed into your ear. “You can be so forgetful, but at the end of the day, you always know how to make Daddy happy.”

He pulled away slightly to look you in the face. “Look at you, your hair’s a mess.” His frown deepened again as he tucked the stray hairs away from your eyes. “What did you do all day while I was gone?”

“I’ve been reading—or… trying to read the papers you told me to read.”

Bucky smiled, reaching for the hairbrush on your bedside table. His hands found your hair, dragging the bristles through the tangled heap.

“You mean the books?”

You nodded.

He sighed wistfully. “I wish I could hear you read them out loud to me, but I haven’t had much time these days.”

“I know,” you said, sounding a little more solemn than you’d like.

Bucky heard the disappointment in your voice, and his heart broke. “Turn around for me.”

Still sitting on the floor, you scrambled around until your back faced him. His hand bunched your hair from behind as he did his best to fix the mess you created.

“Tell me more,” he prompted, encouraging you to continue.

“The words make my head hurt,” you explained, staring at the floor. “It’s all just… a jumbled mess of text. I don’t even know what half the words mean.” Your finger traced the cold, laboratory tile. “My head has been hurting a lot, and the books just make me feel worse.”

Bucky’s brush went still for a moment.

Every time the headaches came, you would start pulling and tugging at your hair, crying in frustration. You would roll around on the cot, hit your head against the wall, or yank at your own locks—anything to rid yourself of the pain. But you didn’t know that those things only made it worse. All you knew was to hurt the things that hurt you.

“Sorry, darling,” he said gently. “I need to operate on your brain to help fix this problem. Maybe this next experiment will help you remember words better—help you gain some of that reading memory back. I’ll find the time for it, I promise. I’ve just been so—”

“—busy,” you completed the sentence for him, a bitter bite in your tone. “I know.”

He paused again, and it dragged out longer this time. “Excuse me?”

“I already heard how busy you were the first time,” you mumbled. “I don’t need to hear it again.”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched. He couldn’t believe this was happening. You were talking back to him?

He grabbed your shoulders, roughly spinning you around and making you yelp as you were forced to face him again. Before you could compose yourself, he pressed his face against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks with a hard squeeze.

“Where the fuck did this new attitude come from? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, huh?” he seethed. “Did you forget your place? Did you forget who brought you here? Who took your sad, cold body from the grave and gave you a new life?”

You winced as he squeezed your face even harder.

“I gave you life. I made your heart beat again. I gave your brain a mind and your body a purpose. And if you disrespect me one more time, I can take it all away just as easily.”

That tone of his made your heart start to race. It was like a trauma response buried deep in your nerves he had rewired. Your vision started to blur as tears began to well up, spilling down your face before you even realized you were crying.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it! I—I’m sorry, Bucky.”

You were apologizing profusely now, your hands hovering near his, not daring to touch him. You just wanted the pressure on your face to stop.

Bucky’s expression softened, just barely. He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing over your cheeks to wipe away the tears. He let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of a man burdened by… whatever it was you were to him.

He set the brush on the floor and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you once more.

“I’m sorry, doll,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I had to do that. I hate when I have to talk to you like that, I really do.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “But I have to make sure you understand. How else am I supposed to get through to you? You know I only do it because I love you. I can’t have you forgetting who takes care of you.”

You stayed frozen in his arms, hiccuping between sobs.

When Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, the small gap made you whine. He smiled in satisfaction. Of course—despite everything, you still needed him.

“There’s my girl,” he whispered. “Come here. Give Daddy a kiss.”

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up from the floor just enough to press your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. That was all you wanted, really—just a kind gesture to remind you that Bucky cared for you as much as he claimed.

But then his hands found your face again, locking you in place before you could pull away. His lips began to explore yours hungrily. He pushed his tongue against the entrance, sliding in to dance against yours.

A moan of satisfaction vibrated in his throat, then to his lips where you felt it.

He always kissed you like he was starving. He kissed you until your lips were swollen and wet, until you were panting and your heart was racing. When he was finally satisfied, he pulled away, catching his own breath as he trailed his thumbs over your bottom lip.

“Beautiful,” he praised breathlessly. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Despite how he had treated you just seconds ago, you couldn’t help but smile. Being praised by him always made the pain worth it.

But your salvation didn’t last. Bucky pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He extended a hand to help you up, but you remained where you were on the floor.

“W-where are you going?” you asked softly, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

He checked the watch on his wrist. “It’s getting late, doll. I need to head home and get some sleep. I’ve got a long day tomorrow—gotta be up bright and early for some projects at the facility.”

Your eyes widened. He had left you alone all day, and he was leaving already?

“No,” you protested weakly.

Bucky tilted his head. “No?”

You couldn’t imagine another night of silence. “Please,” you whispered with a voice crack. “Please don’t leave me yet. It’s so quiet and lonely here.”

Bucky’s hand paused halfway through his hair as he let out a sigh. He looked down at you, his eyes looking almost mournful. “You’re breaking my heart, darling,” he murmured. “You know I hate leaving you, but Daddy’s got to work. I do it all for you, remember?”

When he took a step away from you, that’s when panic started to flare in your weak heart and desperation took over completely.

You scrambled across the tile, your fingers digging around the fabric of his trousers as you clutched his leg.

“Don’t go!” you begged, looking up at him through another round of tears. “I’ll be good. I’ll read the books. I’ll do the experiments without crying—just stay. Please, just stay a little longer!”

Bucky froze, eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at your hands wrapped around his leg. A part of him wanted to laugh at this little attempt of yours. You were a just a weak, fragile thing. He could push you off and leave—it’d be so easy.

But instead of doing that, he just stayed put and smiled. He liked this. He liked the way you were anchored to his feet, reduced to a trembling mess at the mere thought of his absence.

Slowly, he sank back down to his knees until he was eye level with you again.

“You really don’t want me to go, do you?” he mused with a taunting purr. He reached out, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at the hunger in his eyes. “You want me to stay here with you? In this cold, dark basement? Keeping you warm?”

You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.

“Tell me then,” he prompted, his thumb tracing your jaw. “How bad do you want it? What are you willing to do to keep me here tonight?”

“Anything,” you admitted desperately. “I’ll do anything.”

“Oh,” Bucky’s smile grew wide. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

You tried to keep a brave face, to hold your ground, but the relief was too great.

Bucky let out a short, amused huff as he reached down, hooking his hands under your arms to haul you up from the floor. “Okay, fine. You win.”

He stood back and reached for his neck, slowly loosening the knot of his tie. You watched, mesmerized and trembling, as he pulled the silk from his collar and draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room. His fingers moved to the top button of his white shirt, then the next, and the next, until they were all unbuttoned.

Then he moved to his belt. The sounds of it making you shiver.

“I’ll stay with you,” he promised, his tone as sweet as honey—designed to make you feel safe, even when you shouldn’t.

He folded the leather belt slowly. Painfully slow, his eyes never leaving yours.

“And before I head to the facility, I’ll do a quick experiment on you tomorrow. We’ll fix those headaches and get your reading memory back on track, okay?”

With one hand still gripping the belt, he stepped closer. His free hand cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Think of it as my way of apologizing for my little outburst earlier,” he murmured against your skin. “I just want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy.”

He wasn’t leaving.

He was going to fix you.

You leaned into his touch as a small, fragile smile broke across your face. The tears you had shed before were no longer born of frustration—they were tears of relief.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whispered.

Bucky’s hand settled behind your head, rubbing gently to soothe you—the way a master might pet a loyal dog. He nodded towards the small cot in the corner.

“Lay down, doll.”

The light in the basement was always the same—artificial and blinding through the fluorescent tubes. After several blinks, you managed to force your eyes open against the piercing white light.

You let out a garbled groan. Your limbs felt extremely heavy, as if you were trying to move through deep water.

“Easy, doll. Easy.”

A deep, gentle voice cooed nearby. The cot creaked slightly as he sat beside you. As your vision cleared, you saw Bucky. He was already back in his professional attire—white sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The room already smelled like he had his morning coffee.

He looked refreshed, while you felt like you had been disassembled and put back together again.

Which… in a way, you had.

Your fingers drifted up to the pain that throbbed in the back of your neck. You shuddered at the feel of the surgical tape and the fresh incision.

“The experiment went perfectly,” he said gently, his fingers replacing yours to check the bandage. “Your reading should be much sharper once the grogginess fades.”

You couldn’t even find the energy to be upset about him drugging you in the middle of the night—even if you should have spent those hours cuddling instead. The only thing that mattered was that he actually stayed.

“You’re still here,” you rasped, your throat scratchy and dry. A weak, hazy smile pulled at your lips.

Bucky smiled. He reached for a glass of water on the tray, holding it to your lips so you didn’t have to lift your head.

“I told you I would stay, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.” He watched you drink, smiling as your dried lips softened from the liquid and the delicate column of your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “I even stayed through the morning to monitor your vitals. I’m going to be a little late to the facility, but for you? My baby? It’s all worth it.”

You leaned your head against his leg with a soft, content sigh. “Thank you for staying with me.”

“Always,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your cheek. “I have to go now—but when I’m gone, I want you to go back to reading your books.”

Disappointment settled in your chest, but the chemically induced state you were in made it too straining to fight back.

“I’ll be back soon with your breakfast.”

You didn’t care about food. All you cared about was Bucky. He was your true sustenance.

“How long?” you rasped, blinking up at him.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Alright?”

He leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. The cot creaked again as he stood up, and the sudden loss of his warmth made your heart clench painfully—more painful than the throb in your head.

“I love you, baby,” Bucky said, grabbing his blazer from the chair and heading for the door. “Be a good girl while I’m gone, okay?”

You nodded, and he offered a handsome smile. Then, he pulled the door open and shut it softly. The click of the lock on the other side finalized his goodbye, leaving you alone once again.

Bucky walked quickly from the hospital’s sub-level entrance, hurrying across the grounds toward the main facility. He looked like any other dedicated researcher running late for a briefing, but every time he left you, his mind remained back in the basement.

His mind was always on you.

His fingers fumbled with the middle button of his blazer as he forced his breathing to level out. He couldn’t afford to look ruffled. He turned a sharp corner near the east wing, head down as he adjusted his cuffs, and bumped squarely into another man.

“Woah, easy there, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice.

“Steve,” Bucky exhaled, finishing the last button on his blazer with a tug. “Didn’t see you there. You’re up early.”

Steve’s gaze focused on the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes. “The shift change was a while ago,” Steve explained quietly. “I tried to page your office, but you weren’t there.”

Bucky waved a hand dismissively, stepping around Steve to keep moving towards his designated workstation. “Dead battery. I stayed late last night—lost track of time in the mounting data sheets—”

Steve extended his hand, landing on Bucky’s shoulder and forcing him to halt.

“You smell like…” Steve scrunched his nose. “Rubbing alcohol? Acetonitrile? That’s some heavy duty solvent for someone just looking at paperwork.”

Bucky’s heart let out a traitorous little thump. He gave Steve a deadpan look. “It’s a research hospital, Steve. What else am I supposed to smell like?”

Steve let go, but the look he gave his friend was anything but convinced. “You look exhausted. You’ve been spending every spare second in the south wing,” he sighed. “You’re my friend—and I worry about you, is all.”

Bucky averted his gaze. He didn’t have time for small talk. He had to review the latest labs and then fetch your breakfast. The longer he stayed out here, the longer you went hungry. Especially after the surgery, you needed to eat to recover properly.

“If there’s anything I can do to help loosen your load, even just a little bit, you know I’m always here.” Steve stepped closer, his voice lowering. “‘Till the end of the line, right?”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “Thanks, Steve. But I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly fine working alone,” he said, moving past him. Without looking back, he added, “I’ll let you know if my projects call for additional assistance.”

A few hours had passed, and ever since that interaction, it felt as though the universe had cursed Bucky with a jinx.

It was supposed to be a brief meeting—a few papers to peer review, perhaps a few charts to sign off on.

Christ, you were probably starving.

He could already picture it—your stomach curling in on itself, groaning and painful. He imagined your fragile arms wrapped around your belly as you cried in hunger. With the desperation that hunger brought, you might be clawing at your own skin. And since your body wasn’t being supplied with the nutrients it needed to recover, the post surgery throbbing in your head must be unbearable.

You could be pulling your hair or banging your head against the wall at this very second—and he wasn’t there to stop you.

He stared at the man sitting across from him. His boss’s frames kept slipping down his nose. His hair had more grease than the fast food joints across the street. His grimy hands shifted through the pages slowly. Painfully slow.

Bucky sat rigid, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He couldn’t dismiss himself—this was his superior, for fuck’s sake. But the longer he sat there, restless and useless, the more his mind spiraled.

His eyes flickered from his boss, to the clock, to the door.

“Is something bothering you, Barnes?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Just… need to use the restroom.”

The man’s eyes rose sluggishly to meet Bucky’s. He paused—a silence long enough for Bucky to have gone and returned already. “Make it quick.”

Bucky pushed himself out of the chair, the legs let out a loud creak. He lunged for the door. He thought about sprinting to the canteen to fetch you something, but it was all the way across the facility. He didn’t have the time.

“Fuck, fuck!” Bucky hissed to himself, pacing the hall just outside the office.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed nearby. Then, salvation appeared.

“Bucky? You doing alright?” Steve asked, glancing up from his papers to find his friend in visible distress.

Bucky froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat. Steve. The very man who had been with him through everything. Before he even came to the facility. Before he even made you. Steve was the one person he could trust with his life.

So why not trust him with yours? Just for the time being?

“Steve,” Bucky started with a frantic voice. The words tumbled out in a breathless ramble. “I need—I need your help. I’m stuck in a meeting with that grease trap Henderson, and she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten before the procedure and I can’t leave, but if she doesn’t get nutrients now, the rejection levels will spike and I’ll lose all progress—”

Steve blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what?” He shook his head. “Who are you talking about? What procedure?”

Bucky stepped closer, grabbing Steve’s forearm with a grip so tight, it made him grunt.

“The south wing, sub-levels. Level four. I have her there, Steve. A woman—” Bucky glanced over his friend’s shoulder, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. “I’ve been… helping her, fixing her. But I have her locked in for her own safety, and I can’t get to the canteen and back without Henderson noticing I’m gone.”

Steve looked at Bucky as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a friend. “Locked in? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? There are no active patients registered in the sub-levels. If you found someone who needs medical attention, we need to report this to the board immediately—”

“No!” Bucky hissed, eyes wide and wild. “No reports, and absolutely no boards. They’ll take her away, Steve. Please. I need you to help me. You said ‘till the end of the line’, didn’t you?”

Steve stood there, frozen with the papers in his hands.

“A woman,” Steve repeated quietly. “In the basement.”

“She’s my everything,” Bucky pleaded with a vulnerability that Steve has never seen before. “Just get a tray. High protein—soft foods. Use your clearance to bypass the canteen line. She’ll try to talk to you—but don’t entertain her. Just… give her her food, make sure she didn’t hurt herself while I was gone, and then leave quietly, okay?”

Steve let out a long breath.

He looked around the hall, checking for witnesses, before turning back to Bucky with a grim, reluctant nod.

“Fine,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get the food. But Bucky… we are talking about this the second you get out of that meeting. All of it.”

“Thank you,” Bucky exhaled, a sob of relief nearly escaping him.

He quickly shoved the keys to your room in Steve’s hand.

“Thank you, Steve. I knew I could trust you.”

It had been hours since Bucky left. You were curled on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped tightly around your growling stomach, trying to breathe through the nausea of starvation.

The grumbling was unbearable. You couldn’t have slept the hunger away even if you wanted to. It felt as though your stomach were eating itself from the inside out. Had Bucky forgotten you? He had broken his promise—but he said he was a man of his word. So where was he?

The sound of keys and the lock being undone sounded like music. Your heart gave a hopeful leap. Bucky always knocked—three soft, gentle taps that signaled he was coming to take care of you.

Unless you were asleep, he always waited for you to call out “come in!” to let him know you were ready to be his good girl again.

But this time, there was only silence before the door creaked open.

You didn’t care about the lack of a knock. You were too desperate, too hungry, and too lonely. You scrambled off the cot, your legs feeling like jelly as you rushed towards the door.

“Bucky! You’re back, I—”

You stopped.

The man standing in the doorway wasn’t Bucky. But he was as tall as Bucky, dressed in a white button up similar to Bucky’s, but it wasn’t him. He held a tray of food, but the stranger’s presence made you too terrified to reach for it.

Your breath hitched, a panicked wheeze leaving your lips as you scrambled backwards. Your heels dragged against the tile floor until your back hit the corner of the wall.

“Who are you!” you gasped, your bandaged hands coming up to shield your face. “Who are you? Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”

The man froze, his blue eyes widening in horror as he took in the sight of you—the surgical tape on your neck, the oversized gown, and the way you were cowering like a wounded animal.

Steve knew he shouldn’t speak to you, that had been Bucky's direct order. But he couldn’t fight his own instincts.

“Hey, hey… easy,” Steve cooed. He stayed by the door, slowly lowering the tray to a nearby table to show his hands were empty. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

Despite the man’s kind and gentle tone, you couldn’t help the panic flaring in your heart.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you sobbed, pressing yourself harder into the corner. “He said… he said I’m not supposed to see anyone. He’s going to be so angry.”

“Bucky sent me,” Steve explained softly, taking a cautious step. “My name is Steve. I’m Bucky’s friend. He’s stuck in a meeting and he was worried about you. He told me you needed to eat.”

You sniffled. “… Worried about me?”

He reached for a piece of bread from the tray and held it out toward you, not moving any closer. “I know you’re scared. And I know you’re hurting. But you need to eat, okay? Then I’ll be on my way.”